That was the story the weary eyes tried to tell Phemie as they followed her about the room; that was the assurance he tried to convey when he clasped her soft hand—when by sign and gesture he kept the dear, pale, changed face near to his own; when he looked at the white cheek, white and worn; when he strove to return the remorseful kisses she laid upon his lips.
Summer came—summer with its sunshine, its roses, its mirthful gladness, its wealth of beauty and of perfume—summer came and shone down on the sweet valley of Tordale once again.
Twelve years previously, Captain Stondon, seated in the church porch, shaded from the mid-day sun, wearied with his walk from Grassenfel, had speculated vaguely upon death; and now, lying in his bed at Marshlands, with the windows flung wide to admit both air and sunshine, tired with his long walk through life, he thought about death once more.
After all, when it comes to this with any person, no existence seems to have lasted for years, and years, and years. There has been a sunrise and a noontide and a sunset; the day is done, the night draws on, the task is finished, the labourer hies him homeward from the last hour’s work he shall ever be called upon to perform.
What more—what more! Oh, friends, the longest life ends with some work, to our thinking, left unfinished—some seventh unresolved—some lesson unlearnt; but who amongst us can tell the why and the wherefore of this mystery? Who can explain the meaning of this universal law? We can write the story up to a certain point, but there our knowledge ceases.
When mortal sickness comes to put a finish to the life-history, what can any one say further? The man has lived, the man has died, the day is ended, the night has closed in. Draw we the curtains, and leave the room—there is nothing further to be written; sleep has come to the tired eyelids—ease to the worn-out frame; there is great peace where there was much suffering. The heat has been borne, the burden is laid aside; the wayfarer has reached his long home; the unquiet heart is still; in the shadows of evening man ceases from his work and from his labour, and sinks to his long rest.
What more? Nothing, my readers; that is, nothing of the stranger whom we met so long ago gazing in the summer sunshine upon Tordale. Captain Stondon was dead, and Phemie—a widow! and there was no direct heir to Marshlands.
CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER.
When trouble came upon her, Phemie was not left alone to bear it. Kind hearts and loving sympathised with her—friendly hands clasped hers—true men and women were near to give what comfort they could, or, at all events, to share in her distress.
Mr. Aggland and Duncan, and Helen and Miss Derno, were all with Phemie when the end came. Norfolk was importunate in its inquiries—Norfolk, professing to feel very sorry about Captain Stondon’s death, wondered who would succeed to the property, and whom Phemie would marry.