Well, well, the dark days were at hand when Phemie could have nothing but recollection; when the picture hung in the innermost chamber would be all she might ever hope to see more; when the man’s memory would be encircled with a halo of mystery; when a sad and tender interest would surround the last hours of Basil Stondon’s life, giving to his fate that sad and pathetic interest which was alone needed to fill Phemie’s cup of love and sorrow full unto overflowing.
The ship sailed, and the ship came, but Basil Stondon did not arrive with her; neither did the next Indian mail bring any explanation of his absence. Captain Stondon wrote to the owners, who stated, in reply, that they knew a Mr. Stondon had sailed in the Lahore; but as the vessel had been laid up for repairs, and the captain and mates and most of the crew had shipped in a new merchantman belonging to the same firm for China, till the return of the mates or captain they (Messrs. Hunter, Marks, Son, and Co.) would be unable to obtain further information. Meanwhile, they remained Captain Stondon’s obedient servants.
After that there ensued a pause, during which Captain Stondon wrote to General Hurlford, requesting tidings of Basil. Before any reply could be looked for to this communication the news of the Indian mutiny arrived in England, and throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain there arose such a cry of distress and terror as drowned the sound of any single grief—of any individual’s solitary sorrow.
Straightway down to Marshlands came Mrs. Montague Stondon—came demanding her son as though Captain Stondon hid him there in durance.
“You know, now, what has happened to him,” she said. “He saw what was approaching, and would not desert his post. You see for yourself.” And she thrust the “Times” into Captain Stondon’s face. “General Hurlford is killed; and Thilling, and Osmonde, and hundreds of others whose names are not mentioned; and my boy is dead too—murdered—butchered, and by you.”
Marshlands never witnessed such scenes previously as were enacted within its walls for a fortnight after that. Mrs. Montague would not stay in the house of her “son’s murderer,” but remained at Disley, where she made descents on Captain Stondon, whose life she almost harassed out of him by entreating that he would obtain accurate information for her.
“If I could but know where he was buried, it would comfort me,” she said. And then she relapsed into violent hysterics at the idea that perhaps he was not buried at all. “First my husband—now my son. And it was your doing, his going out there,” she would remark to Captain Stondon, Phemie, and Miss Derno. “You were all against him—all. Because he was next heir you hated him. You sold him into captivity as Joseph’s brethren sold him; and now he is dead, and I shall see his face no more.”
“One ought not to speak ill of the dead,” remarked Miss Derno. “But sure am I that whatever has happened to Basil, he never of his own free will, got into the middle of that mutiny; and it is perfectly unreasonable for you to insist on anything of the kind.”
“Where is he, then?” demanded Mrs. Montague.
“That I am quite unable to tell you,” answered Miss Derno. “If only for Captain Stondon’s satisfaction, I wish I knew. But my belief is that Basil is not dead at all.”