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diff --git a/6051-h/6051-h.htm b/6051-h/6051-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc845e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/6051-h/6051-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14978 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stella Fregelius, by H. Rider Haggard</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stella Fregelius, by H. Rider Haggard</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Stella Fregelius</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: H. Rider Haggard</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 28, 2002 [eBook #6051]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 28, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STELLA FREGELIUS ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>Stella Fregelius</h1> + +<h3>A TALE OF THREE DESTINIES</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by H. Rider Haggard</h2> + +<h3>First Published 1904.</h3> + +<p class="letter"> +“Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,<br/> +Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum<br/> +Subjecit pedibus; strepitumque Acherontis avari.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> DEDICATION </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> AUTHOR’S NOTE </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <big><b>STELLA FREGELIUS</b></big> </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0001">CHAPTER I. MORRIS, MARY, AND THE AEROPHONE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0002">CHAPTER II. THE COLONEL AND SOME REFLECTIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0003">CHAPTER III. “POOR PORSON”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0004">CHAPTER IV. MARY PREACHES AND THE COLONEL PREVAILS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0005">CHAPTER V. A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0006">CHAPTER VI. THE GOOD DAYS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0007">CHAPTER VII. BEAULIEU</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0008">CHAPTER VIII. THE SUNK ROCKS AND THE SINGER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0009">CHAPTER IX. MISS FREGELIUS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0010">CHAPTER X. DAWN AND THE LAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0011">CHAPTER XI. A MORNING SERVICE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0012">CHAPTER XII. MR. LAYARD’S WOOING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0013">CHAPTER XIII. TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0014">CHAPTER XIV. THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0015">CHAPTER XV. THREE INTERVIEWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0016">CHAPTER XVI. A MARRIAGE AND AFTER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0017">CHAPTER XVII. THE RETURN OF MARY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0018">CHAPTER XVIII. TWO EXPLANATIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0019">CHAPTER XIX. MORRIS, THE MARRIED MAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0020">CHAPTER XX. STELLA’S DIARY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0021">CHAPTER XXI. THE END OF STELLA’S DIARY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0022">CHAPTER XXII. THE EVIL GATE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0023">CHAPTER XXIII. STELLA COMES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0024">CHAPTER XXIV. DREAMS AND THE SLEEP</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> +DEDICATION</h2> + +<h3>My Dear John Berwick,</h3> + +<p> +When you read her history in MS. you thought well of “Stella +Fregelius” and urged her introduction to the world. Therefore I ask you, +my severe and accomplished critic, to accept the burden of a book for which you +are to some extent responsible. Whatever its fate, at least it has pleased you +and therefore has not been written quite in vain. +</p> + +<p> +H. Rider Haggard. +</p> + +<p> +Ditchingham, +</p> + +<p> +25th August, 1903. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> +AUTHOR’S NOTE</h2> + +<p> +The author feels that he owes some apology to his readers for his boldness in +offering to them a modest story which is in no sense a romance of the character +that perhaps they expect from him; which has, moreover, few exciting incidents +and no climax of the accustomed order, since the end of it only indicates its +real beginning. +</p> + +<p> +His excuse must be that, in the first instance, he wrote it purely to please +himself and now publishes it in the hope that it may please some others. The +problem of such a conflict, common enough mayhap did we but know it, between a +departed and a present personality, of which the battle-ground is a bereaved +human heart and the prize its complete possession; between earthly duty and +spiritual desire also; was one that had long attracted him. Finding at length a +few months of leisure, he treated the difficult theme, not indeed as he would +have wished to do, but as best he could. +</p> + +<p> +He may explain further that when he drafted this book, now some five years ago, +instruments of the nature of the “aerophone” were not so much +talked of as they are to-day. In fact this aerophone has little to do with his +characters or their history, and the main motive of its introduction to his +pages was to suggest how powerless are all such material means to bring within +mortal reach the transcendental and unearthly ends which, with their aid, were +attempted by Morris Monk. +</p> + +<p> +These, as that dreamer learned, must be far otherwise obtained, whether in +truth and spirit, or perchance, in visions only. +</p> + +<p> +1903. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> +STELLA FREGELIUS</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a> +CHAPTER I.<br/> +MORRIS, MARY, AND THE AEROPHONE</h2> + +<p> +Above, the sky seemed one vast arc of solemn blue, set here and there with +points of tremulous fire; below, to the shadowy horizon, stretched the plain of +the soft grey sea, while from the fragrances of night and earth floated a +breath of sleep and flowers. +</p> + +<p> +A man leaned on the low wall that bordered the cliff edge, and looked at sea +beneath and sky above. Then he contemplated the horizon, and murmured some line +heard or learnt in childhood, ending “where earth and heaven meet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they only seem to meet,” he reflected to himself, idly. +“If I sailed to that spot they would be as wide apart as ever. Yes, the +stars would be as silent and as far away, and the sea quite as restless and as +salt. Yet there must be a place where they do meet. No, Morris, my friend, +there is no such place in this world, material or moral; so stick to facts, and +leave fancies alone.” +</p> + +<p> +But that night this speculative man felt in the mood for fancies, for presently +he was staring at one of the constellations, and saying to himself, “Why +not? Well, why not? Granted force can travel through ether,—whatever +ether is—why should it stop travelling? Give it time enough, a few +seconds, or a few minutes or a few years, and why should it not reach that +star? Very likely it does, only there it wastes itself. What would be needed to +make it serviceable? Simply this—that on the star there should dwell an +Intelligence armed with one of my instruments, when I have perfected them, or +the secret of them. Then who knows what might happen?” and he laughed a +little to himself at the vagary. +</p> + +<p> +From all of which wandering speculations it may be gathered that Morris Monk +was that rather common yet problematical person, an inventor who dreamed +dreams. +</p> + +<p> +An inventor, in truth, he was, although as yet he had never really invented +anything. Brought up as an electrical engineer, after a very brief experience +of his profession he had fallen victim to an idea and become a physicist. This +was his idea, or the main point of it—for its details do not in the least +concern our history: that by means of a certain machine which he had conceived, +but not as yet perfected, it would be possible to complete all existing systems +of aerial communication, and enormously to simplify their action and enlarge +their scope. His instruments, which were wireless telephones—aerophones +he called them—were to be made in pairs, twins that should talk only to +each other. They required no high poles, or balloons, or any other cumbrous and +expensive appliance; indeed, their size was no larger than that of a rather +thick despatch box. And he had triumphed; the thing was done—in all but +one or two details. +</p> + +<p> +For two long years he had struggled with these, and still they eluded him. Once +he had succeeded—that was the dreadful thing. Once for a while the +instruments had worked, and with a space of several miles between them. +But—this was the maddening part of it—he had never been able to +repeat the exact conditions; or, rather, to discover precisely what they were. +On that occasion he had entrusted one of his machines to his first cousin, Mary +Porson, a big girl with her hair still down her back, rather idle in +disposition, but very intelligent, when she chose. Mary, for the most part, had +been brought up at her father’s house, close by. Often, too, she stayed +with her uncle for weeks at a stretch, so at that time Morris was as intimate +with her as a man of eight and twenty usually is with a relative in her teens. +</p> + +<p> +The arrangement on this particular occasion was that she should take the +machine—or aerophone, as its inventor had named it—to her home. The +next morning, at the appointed hour, as Morris had often done before, he tried +to effect communication, but without result. On the following day, at the same +hour, he tried again, when, to his astonishment, instantly the answer came +back. Yes, as distinctly as though she were standing by his side, he heard his +cousin Mary’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you there?” he said, quite hopelessly, merely as a matter of +form—of very common form—and well-nigh fell to the ground when he +received the reply: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, but I have just been telegraphed for to go to Beaulieu; my +mother is very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with her?” he asked; and she replied: +</p> + +<p> +“Inflammation of the lungs—but I must stop; I can’t speak any +more.” Then came some sobs and silence. +</p> + +<p> +That same afternoon, by Mary’s direction, the aerophone was brought back +to him in a dog-cart, and three days later he heard that her mother, Mrs. +Porson, was dead. +</p> + +<p> +Some months passed, and when they met again, on her return from the Riviera, +Morris found his cousin changed. She had parted from him a child, and now, +beneath the shadow of the wings of grief, suddenly she had become a woman. +Moreover, the best and frankest part of their intimacy seemed to have vanished. +There was a veil between them. Mary thought of little, and at this time seemed +to care for no one except her mother, who was dead. And Morris, who had loved +the child, recoiled somewhat from the new-born woman. It may be explained that +he was afraid of women. Still, with an eye to business, he spoke to her about +the aerophone; and, so far as her memory served her, she confirmed all the +details of their short conversation across the gulf of empty space. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” he said, trembling with excitement, “I have got it +at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“It looks like it,” she answered, wearily, her thoughts already far +away. “Why shouldn’t you? There are so many odd things of the sort. +But one can never be sure; it mightn’t work next time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you try again?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“If you like,” she answered; “but I don’t believe I +shall hear anything now. Somehow—since that last +business—everything seems different to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be foolish,” he said; “you have nothing to do +with the hearing; it is my new receiver.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay,” she replied; “but, then, why couldn’t you +make it work with other people?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris answered nothing. He, too, wondered why. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning they made the experiment. It failed. Other experiments followed at +intervals, most of which were fiascos, although some were partially successful. +Thus, at times Mary could hear what he said. But except for a word or two, and +now and then a sentence, he could not hear her whom, when she was still a child +and his playmate, once he had heard so clearly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why is it?” he said, a year or two later, dashing his fist upon +the table in impotent rage. “It has been; why can’t it be?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary turned her large blue eyes up to the ceiling, and reflectively rubbed her +dimpled chin with a very pretty finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t that the kind of question they used to ask oracles?” +she asked lazily—“Oh! no, it was the oracles themselves that were +so vague. Well, I suppose because ‘was’ is as different from +‘is’ as ‘as’ is from ‘shall be.’ We are +changed, Cousin; that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to his patent receiver, and grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it isn’t the receiver,” she said, smoothing her curling +hair; “it’s us. You don’t understand me a bit—not +now—and that’s why you can’t hear me. Take my advice, +Morris”—and she looked at him sharply—“when you find a +woman whom you can hear on your patent receiver, you had better marry her. It +will be a good excuse for keeping her at a distance afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he lost his temper; indeed, he raved, and stormed, and nearly smashed the +patent receiver in his fury. To a scientific man, let it be admitted, it was +nothing short of maddening to be told that the successful working of his +instrument, to the manufacture of which he had given eight years of toil and +study, depended upon some pre-existent sympathy between the operators of its +divided halves. If that were so, what was the use of his wonderful discovery, +for who could ensure a sympathetic correspondent? And yet the fact remained +that when, in their playmate days, he understood his cousin Mary, and when her +quiet, indolent nature had been deeply moved by the shock of the news of her +mother’s peril, the aerophone had worked. Whereas now, when she had +become a grown-up young lady, he did not understand her any longer—he, +whose heart was wrapped up in his experiments, and who by nature feared the +adult members of her sex, and shrank from them; when, too, her placid calm was +no longer stirred, work it would not. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at his temper; then grew serious, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t get angry, Morris. After all, there are lots of things that +you and I can’t understand, and it isn’t odd that you should have +tumbled across one of them. If you think of it, nobody understands anything. +They know that certain things happen, and how to make them happen; but they +don’t know why they happen, or why, as in your case, when they ought to +happen, they won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all very well for you to be philosophical,” he answered, +turning upon her; “but can’t you see, Mary, that the thing there is +my life’s work? It is what I have given all my strength and all my brain +to make, and if it fails in the end—why, then I fail too, once and +forever. And I have made it talk. It talked perfectly between this place and +Seaview, and now you stand there and tell me that it won’t work any more +because I don’t understand you. Then what am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try to understand me, if you think it worth while, which I don’t; +or go on experimenting,” she answered. “Try to find some substance +which is less exquisitely sensitive, something a little grosser, more in key +with the material world; or to discover someone whom you do understand. +Don’t lose heart; don’t be beaten after all these years.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, “I don’t unless I die,” and he +turned to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Morris,” she said, in a softer voice, “I am lazy, I know. +Perhaps that is why I adore people who can work. So, although you don’t +think anything of me, I will do my honest best to get into sympathy with you +again; yes, and to help in any way I can. No; it’s not a joke. I would +give a great deal to see the thing a success.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say I don’t think anything of you, Mary? Of course, it +isn’t true. Besides, you are my cousin, and we have always been good +friends since you were a little thing.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “Yes, and I suppose that as you had no brothers or sisters +they taught you to pray for your cousin, didn’t they? Oh, I know all +about it. It is my unfortunate sex that is to blame; while I was a mere tom-boy +it was different. No one can serve two masters, can they? You have chosen to +serve a machine that won’t go, and I daresay that you are wise. Yes, I +think that it is the better part—until you find someone that will make it +go—and then you would adore her—by aerophone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a> +CHAPTER II.<br/> +THE COLONEL AND SOME REFLECTIONS</h2> + +<p> +Presently Morris heard a step upon the lawn, and turned to see his father +sauntering towards him. Colonel Monk, C.B., was an elderly man, over sixty +indeed, but still of an upright and soldierly bearing. His record was rather +distinguished. In his youth he had served in the Crimea, and in due course was +promoted to the command of a regiment of Guards. After this, certain diplomatic +abilities caused him to be sent to one of the foreign capitals as military +attache, and in reward of this service, on retiring, he was created a Companion +of the Bath. In appearance he was handsome also; in fact, much better looking +than his son, with his iron-grey hair, his clear-cut features, somewhat marred +in effect by a certain shiftiness of the mouth, and his large dark eyes. Morris +had those dark eyes also—they redeemed his face from plainness, for +otherwise it showed no beauty, the features being too irregular, the brow too +prominent, and the mouth too large. Yet it could boast what, in the case of a +man at any rate, is better than beauty—spirituality, and a certain +sympathetic charm. It was not the face which was so attractive, but rather the +intelligence, the personality that shone through it, as the light shines +through the horn panes of some homely, massive lantern. Speculative eyes of the +sort that seem to search horizons and gather knowledge there, but shrink from +the faces of women; a head of brown hair, short cut but untidy, an athletic, +manlike form to which, bizarrely enough, a slight stoop, the stoop of a +student, seemed to give distinction, and hands slender and shapely as those of +an Eastern—such were the characteristics of Morris Monk, or at least +those of them that the observer was apt to notice. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo! Morris, are you star-gazing there?” said Colonel Monk, with +a yawn. “I suppose that I must have fallen asleep after dinner—that +comes of stopping too long at once in the country and drinking port. I notice +you never touch it, and a good thing, too. There, my cigar is out. Now’s +the time for that new electric lighter of yours which I can never make +work.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris fumbled in his pocket and produced the lighter. Then he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, father; but I believe I forgot to charge it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s just like you, if you will forgive my saying so. You +take any amount of trouble to invent and perfect a thing, but when it comes to +making use of it, then you forget,” and with a little gesture of +impatience the Colonel turned aside to light a match from a box which he had +found in the pocket of his cape. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” said Morris, with a sigh, “but I am afraid it +is true. When one’s mind is very fully occupied with one +thing——” and he broke off. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s it, Morris, that’s it,” said the Colonel, +seating himself upon a garden chair; “this hobby-horse of yours is +carrying you—to the devil, and your family with you. I don’t want +to be rough, but it is time that I spoke plain. Let’s see, how long is it +since you left the London firm?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nine years this autumn,” answered Morris, setting his mouth a +little, for he knew what was coming. The port drunk after claret had upset his +father’s digestion and ruffled his temper. This meant that to +him—Morris—Fate had appointed a lecture. +</p> + +<p> +“Nine years, nine wasted years, idled and dreamt away in a village upon +the eastern coast. It is a large slice out of a man’s life, my boy. By +the time that I was your age I had done a good deal,” said his father, +meditatively. When he meant to be disagreeable it was the Colonel’s +custom to become reflective. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t admit that,” answered Morris, in his light, quick +voice—“I mean I can’t admit that my time has either been +idled away or wasted. On the contrary, father, I have worked very hard, as I +did at college, and as I have always done, with results which, without +boasting, I may fairly call glorious—yes, glorious—for when they +are perfected they will change the methods of communication throughout the +whole world.” As he spoke, forgetting the sharp vexation of the moment, +his face was irradiated with light—like some evening cloud on which the +sun strikes suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Watching him out of the corner of his eye, even in that low moonlight, his +father saw those fires of enthusiasm shine and die upon his son’s face, +and the sight vexed him. Enthusiasm, as he conceived, perhaps with justice, had +been the ruin of Morris. Ceasing to be reflective, his tone became cruel. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really think, Morris, that the world wishes to have its methods +of communication revolutionised? Aren’t there enough telephones and +phonograms and aerial telegraphs already? It seems to me that you merely wish +to add a new terror to existence. However, there is no need to pursue an +academical discussion, since this wretched machine of yours, on which you have +wasted so much time, appears to be a miserable failure.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, to throw the non-success of his invention into the teeth of the inventor, +especially when that inventor knows that it is successful really, although just +at present it does not happen to work, is a very deadly insult. Few indeed +could be deadlier, except, perhaps, that of the cruelty which can suggest to a +woman that no man will ever look at her because of her plainness and lack of +attraction; or the coarse taunt which, by shameless implication, unjustly +accuses the soldier of cowardice, the diplomat of having betrayed the secrets +of his country, or the lawyer of having sold his brief. All the more, +therefore, was it to Morris’s credit that he felt the lash sting without +a show of temper. +</p> + +<p> +“I have tried to explain to you, father,” he began, struggling to +free his clear voice from the note of indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you have, Morris; don’t trouble yourself to repeat that +long story. But even if you were successful—which you are +not—er—I cannot see the commercial use of this invention. As a +scientific toy it may be very well, though, personally, I should prefer to +leave it alone, since, if you go firing off your thoughts and words into space, +how do you know who will answer them, or who will hear them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, father, as you understand all about it, it is no use my explaining +any further. It is pretty late; I think I will be turning in.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped,” replied the Colonel, in an aggrieved voice, +“that you might have been able to spare me a few minutes’ +conversation. For some weeks I have been seeking an opportunity to talk to you; +but somehow your arduous occupations never seem to leave you free for ordinary +social intercourse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” replied Morris, “though I don’t quite know +why you should say that. I am always about the place if you want me.” But +in his heart he groaned, guessing what was coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but you are ever working at your chemicals and machinery in the old +chapel; or reading those eternal books; or wandering about rapt in +contemplation of the heavens; so that, in short, I seldom like to trouble you +with my mundane but necessary affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris made no answer; he was a very dutiful son and humble-spirited. Those who +pit their intelligences against the forces of Nature, and try to search out her +secrets, become humble. He could not altogether respect his father; the gulf +between them was too wide and deep. But even at his present age of three and +thirty he considered it a duty to submit himself to him and his vagaries. +Outside of other reasons, his mother had prayed him to do so almost with her +last breath, and, living or dead, Morris loved his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you are not aware,” went on Colonel Monk, after a solemn +pause, “that the affairs of this property are approaching a +crisis.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know something, but no details,” answered Morris. “I have +not liked to interfere,” he added apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +“And I have not liked to trouble you with such sordid matters,” +rejoined his parent, with sarcasm. “I presume, however, that you are +acquainted with the main facts. I succeeded to this estate encumbered with a +mortgage, created by your grandfather, an extravagant and unbusiness-like man. +That mortgage I looked to your mother’s fortune to pay off, but other +calls made this impossible. For instance, the sea-wall here had to be built if +the Abbey was to be saved, and half a mile of sea-walling costs something. Also +very extensive repairs to the house were necessary, and I was forced to take +three farms in hand when I retired from the army fifteen years ago. This has +involved a net loss of about ten thousand pounds, while all the time the +interest had to be paid and the place kept up in a humble fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that my uncle Porson took over the mortgage after my +mother’s death,” interrupted Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“That is so,” answered his father, wincing a little; “but a +creditor remains a creditor, even if he happens to be a relative by marriage. I +have nothing to say against your uncle John, who is an excellent person in his +way, and well-meaning. Of course, he has been justified, perfectly justified, +in using his business abilities—or perhaps I should say instincts, for +they are hereditary—to his own advantage. In fact, however, directly or +indirectly, he has done well out of this property and his connection with our +family—exceedingly well, both financially and socially. In a time of +stress I was forced to sell him the two miles of sea-frontage building-land +between here and Northwold for a mere song. During the last ten years, as you +know, he has cut this up into over five hundred villa sites, which he has sold +upon long lease at ground-rents that to-day bring in annually as much as he +paid for the whole property.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father; but you might have done the same. He advised you to before +he bought the land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I might, but I am not a tradesman; I do not understand these +affairs. And, Morris, I must remind you that in such matters I have had no +assistance. I do not blame you any more than I blame myself—it is not in +your line either—but I repeat that I have had no assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris did not argue the point. “Well, father,” he asked, +“what is the upshot? Are we ruined?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ruined? That is a large word, and an ugly one. No, we are no more ruined +than we have been for the last half-dozen years, for, thank Heaven, I still +have resources and—friends. But, of course, this place is in a way +expensive, and you yourself would be the last to pretend that our burdens have +been lessened by—your having abandoned the very strange profession which +you selected, and devoted yourself to researches which, if interesting, must be +called abstract——” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, father,” interrupted Morris with a ring of indignation +in his voice; “but you must remember that I put you to no expense. In +addition to what I inherited from my mother, which, of course, under the +circumstances I do not ask for, I have my fellowship, out of which I contribute +something towards the cost of my living and experiments, that, by the way, I +keep as low as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, of course,” said the Colonel, who did not wish to +pursue this branch of the subject, but his son went on: +</p> + +<p> +“You know also that it was at your express wish that I came to live here +at Monksland, as for the purposes of my work it would have suited me much +better to take rooms in London or some other scientific centre.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear boy, you should control yourself,” broke in his +father. “That is always the way with recluses; they cannot bear the +slightest criticism. Of course, as you were going to devote yourself to this +line of research it was right and proper that we should live together. Surely +you would not wish at my age that I should be deprived of the comfort of the +society of an only child, especially now that your mother has left us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not, father,” answered Morris, softening, as was his +fashion at the thought of his dead mother. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a pause, and he hoped that the conversation was at end; a vain hope, +as it proved. +</p> + +<p> +“My real object in troubling you, Morris,” continued his father, +presently, “was very different to the unnecessary discussions into which +we have drifted.” +</p> + +<p> +His son looked up, but said nothing. Again he knew what was coming, and it was +worse than anything that had gone before. +</p> + +<p> +“This place seems very solitary with the two of us living in its great +rooms. I, who am getting an old fellow, and you a student and a +recluse—no, don’t deny it, for nowadays I can barely persuade you +to attend even the Bench or a lawn-tennis party. Well, fortunately, we have +power to add to our numbers; or at least you have. I wish you would marry, +Morris.” +</p> + +<p> +His son turned sharply, and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, father, but I have no fancy that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, there’s Jane Rose, or that handsome Eliza Layard,” went +on the Colonel, taking no notice. “I have reason to know that you might +have either of them for the asking, and they are both good women without a +breath against them, and, what in the state of this property is not without +importance, very well to do. Jane gets fifty thousand pounds down on the day of +her marriage, and as much more, together with the place, upon old Lady +Rose’s death; while Miss Layard—if she is not quite to the manner +born—has the interest in that great colliery and a rather sickly brother. +Lastly—and this is strange enough, considering how you treat +them—they admire you, or at least Eliza does, for she told me she thought +you the most interesting man she had ever met.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she indeed!” ejaculated Morris. “Why, I have only spoken +three times to her during the last year.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, my dear boy, that is why she thinks you interesting. To her +you are a mine of splendid possibilities. But I understand that you don’t +like either of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not particularly—especially Eliza Layard, who isn’t a +lady, and has a vicious temper—nor any young woman whom I have ever +met.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me candidly, Morris, that at your age you detest +women?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say that; I only say that I never met one to whom I felt +much attracted, and that I have met a great many by whom I was repelled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Decidedly, Morris, in you the strain of the ancestral fish is too +predominant. It isn’t natural; it really isn’t. You ought to have +been born three centuries ago, when the old monks lived here. You would have +made a first-class abbot, and might have been canonised by now. Am I to +understand, then, that you absolutely decline to marry?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father; I don’t want you to understand anything of the sort. +If I could meet a lady whom I liked, and who wouldn’t expect too much, +and who was foolish enough to wish to take me, of course I should marry her, as +you are so bent upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Morris, and what sort of a woman would fulfil the conditions, to +your notion?” +</p> + +<p> +His son looked about him vaguely, as though he expected to find his ideal in +some nook of the dim garden. +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a woman? Well, somebody like my cousin Mary, I +suppose—an easy-going person of that kind, who always looks pleasant and +cool.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris did not see him, for he had turned his head away; but at the mention of +Mary Porson’s name his father started, as though someone had pricked him +with a pin. But Colonel Monk had not commanded a regiment with some success and +been a military attache for nothing; having filled diplomatic positions, public +and private, in his time, he could keep his countenance, and play his part when +he chose. Indeed, did his simpler-minded son but know it, all that evening he +had been playing a part. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that’s your style, is it?” he said. “Well, at your +age I should have preferred something a little different. But there is no +accounting for tastes; and after all, Mary is a beautiful woman, and clever in +her own way. By Jove! there’s one o’clock striking, and I promised +old Charters that I would always be in bed by half-past eleven. Good night, my +boy. By the way, you remember that your uncle Porson is coming to Seaview +to-morrow from London, and that we are engaged to dine with him at eight. Fancy +a man who could build that pretentious monstrosity and call it Seaview! Well, +it will condemn him to the seventh generation; but in this world one must take +people as one finds them, and their houses, too. Mind you lock the garden door +when you come in. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” thought Colonel Monk to himself as he took off his +dress-shoes and, with military precision, set them side by side beneath a +chair, “it does seem a little hard on me that I should be responsible for +a son who is in love with a damned, unworkable electrical machine. And with his +chances—with his chances! Why he might have been a second secretary in +the Diplomatic Service by now, or anything else to which interest could help +him. And there he sits hour after hour gabbling down a little trumpet and +listening for an answer which never comes—hour after hour, and month +after month, and year after year. Is he a genius, or is he an idiot, or a moral +curiosity, or simply useless? I’m hanged if I know, but that’s a +good idea about Mary; though, of course, there are things against it. Curious +that I should never have considered the matter seriously before—because +of the cousinship, I suppose. Would she have him? It doesn’t seem likely, +but you can never know what a woman will or will not do, and as a child she was +very fond of Morris. At any rate the situation is desperate, and if I can, I +mean to save the old place, for his sake and our family’s, as well as my +own.” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the window, and, lifting a corner of the blind, looked out. +“There he is, still staring at the sea and the sky, and there I daresay +he will be till dawn. I bet he has forgotten all about Mary now, and is +thinking of his electrical machine. What a curiosity! Good heavens; what a +curiosity! Ah, I wonder what they would have made of him in my old mess five +and thirty years ago?” And quite overcome by this reflection, the Colonel +shook his grizzled head, put out the candle, and retired to rest. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +His father was right. The beautiful September dawn was breaking over the placid +sea before Morris brushed the night dew from his hair and cloak, and went in by +the abbot’s door. +</p> + +<p> +What was he thinking of all the time? He scarcely knew. One by one, like little +clouds in the summer sky, fancies arose in his mind to sail slowly across its +depth and vanish upon an inconclusive and shadowy horizon. Of course, he +thought about his instruments; these were never absent from his heart. His +instinct flew back to them as an oasis, as an island of rest in the wilderness +of his father’s thorny and depressing conversation. The instruments were +disappointing, it is true, at present; but, at any rate, they did not dwell +gloomily upon impending ruin or suggest that it was his duty to get married. +They remained silent, distressingly silent indeed. +</p> + +<p> +Well, as the question of marriage had been started, he might as well face it +out; that is, argue it in his mind, reduce it to its principles, follow it to +its issues in a reasonable and scientific manner. What were the facts? His +family, which, by tradition, was reported to be Danish in its origin, had owned +this property for several hundred years, though how they came to own it +remained a matter of dispute. Some said the Abbey and its lands were granted to +a man of the name of Monk by Henry VIII., of course for a consideration. Others +held, and evidence existed in favour of this view, that on the dissolution of +the monastery the abbot of the day, a shrewd man of easy principles, managed to +possess himself of the Chapter House and further extensive hereditaments, of +course with the connivance of the Commissioners, and, providing himself with a +wife, to exchange a spiritual for a temporal dignity. At least this remained +certain, that from the time of Elizabeth onwards Morris’s forefathers had +been settled in the old Abbey house at Monksland; that the first of them about +whom they really knew anything was named Monk, and that Monk was still the +family name. +</p> + +<p> +Now they were all dead and gone, and their history, which was undistinguished, +does not matter. To come to the present day. His father succeeded to a +diminished and encumbered estate; indeed, had it not been for the fortune of +his mother, a Miss Porson and one of a middle class and business, but rather +wealthy family, the property must have been sold years before. That fortune, +however, had long ago been absorbed—or so he gathered—for his +father, a brilliant and fashionable army officer, was not the man to stint +himself or to nurse a crippled property. Indeed, it was wonderful to Morris +how, without any particular change in their style of living, which, if +unpretentious, was not cheap, in these bad times they had managed to keep +afloat at all. +</p> + +<p> +Unworldly as Morris might be, he could easily guess why his father wished that +he should marry, and marry well. It was that he might bolster up the fortunes +of a shattered family. Also—and this touched him, this commanded his +sympathy—he was the last of his race. If he died without issue the +ancient name of Monk became extinct, a consummation from which his father +shrank with something like horror. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel was a selfish man—Morris could not conceal it, even from +himself—one who had always thought of his own comfort and convenience +first. Yet, either from idleness or pride, to advance these he had never +stooped to scheme. Where the welfare of his family was concerned, however, as +his son knew, he was a schemer. That desire was the one real and substantial +thing in a somewhat superficial, egotistic, and finessing character. +</p> + +<p> +Morris saw it all as he leaned there upon the railing, staring at the +mist-draped sea, more clearly, indeed, than he had ever seen it before. He +understood, moreover, what an unsatisfactory son he must be to a man like his +father—if it had tried, Providence could hardly have furnished him with +offspring more unsuitable. The Colonel had wished him to enter the Diplomatic +Service, or the Army, or at least to get himself called to the Bar; but +although a really brilliant University career and his family influence would +have given him advantages in any of these professions, he had declined them +all. So, following his natural bent, he became an electrician, and now, +abandoning the practical side of that modest calling, he was an experimental +physicist, full of deep but unremunerative lore, and—an unsuccessful +inventor. Certainly he owed something to his family, and if his father wished +that he should marry, well, marry he must, as a matter of duty, if for no other +reason. After all, the thing was not pressing; for it it came to the point, +what woman was likely to accept him? All he had done to-night was to settle the +general principles in his own mind. When it became necessary—if +ever—he could deal with the details. +</p> + +<p> +And yet this sort of marriage which was proposed to him, was it not an unholy +business? He cared little for women, having no weakness that way, probably +because the energy which other young men gave to the pursuit of them was in his +case absorbed by intense and brain-exhausting study. Therefore he was not a man +who if left to himself, would marry, as so many do, merely in order to be +married; indeed, the idea to him was almost repulsive. Had he been a +woman-hater, he might have accepted it more easily, for then to him one would +have been as the other. But the trouble was that he knew and felt that a time +might come when in his eyes one woman would be different from all others, a +being who spoke not to his physical nature only, if at all, but to the core +within him. And if that happened, what then? +</p> + +<p> +Look, the sun was rising. On the eastern sky of a sudden two golden doors had +opened in the canopy of night, and in and out of them seemed to pass +glittering, swift-winged things, as souls might tread the Gate of Heaven. Look, +too, at the little clouds that in an unending stream floated out of the +gloom—travellers pressed onwards by a breath of destiny. They were +leaden-hued, all of them, black, indeed, at times, until they caught the +radiance, and for a while became like the pennons of an angel’s wings. +Then one by one the glory overtook and embraced them, and they melted into it +to be seen no more. +</p> + +<p> +What did the sight suggest to him? That it was worth while, perhaps, to be a +mere drift of cloud, storm-driven and rain-laden in the bitter Night of Life, +if the Morning of Deliverance brought such transformation on its wings. That +beyond some such gates as these, gates that at times, greatly daring, he longed +to tread, lay the answer to many a mystery. Amongst other things, perhaps, +there he would learn the meaning of true marriage, and why it is denied to most +dwellers of the earth. Without a union of the spirit was there indeed any +marriage as it should be understood? And who in this world could hope to find +his fellow spirit? +</p> + +<p> +See, the sun had risen, the golden gates were shut. He had been dreaming, and +was chilled to the bone. Wretchedness, mental and bodily, took hold of him. +Well, often enough such is the fate of those who dream; those who turn from +their needful, daily tasks to shape an angel out of this world’s clay, +trusting to some unknown god to give it life and spirit. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a> +CHAPTER III.<br/> +“POOR PORSON”</h2> + +<p> +Upon the morning following his conversation with Morris, Colonel Monk spent two +hours or more in the library. Painfully did he wrestle there with +balance-sheets, adding up bank books; also other financial documents. +</p> + +<p> +“Phew!” he said, when at length the job was done. “It is +worse than I thought, a good deal worse. My credit must be excellent, or +somebody would have been down upon us before now. Well, I must talk things over +with Porson. He understands figures, and so he ought, considering that he kept +the books in his grandfather’s shop.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Colonel went to lunch less downcast than might have been expected, +since he anticipated a not unamusing half-hour with his son. As he knew well, +Morris detested business matters and money calculations. Still, reflected his +parent, it was only right that he should take his share of the family +responsibilities—a fact which he fully intended to explain to him. +</p> + +<p> +But “in vain is the net spread,” etc. As Morris passed the door of +the library on his way to the old chapel of the Abbey, which now served him as +a laboratory, he had seen his father bending over the desk and guessed his +occupation. Knowing, therefore, what he must expect at lunch, Morris determined +to dispense with that meal, and went out, much to the Colonel’s +disappointment and indignation. “I hate,” he explained to his +brother-in-law Porson afterwards, “yes, I hate a fellow who won’t +face disagreeables and shirks his responsibilities.” +</p> + +<p> +Between Monksland and the town of Northwold lay some four miles of cliff, most +of which had been portioned off in building lots, for Northwold was what is +called a “rising watering-place.” About half-way between the Abbey +and this town stood Mr. Porson’s mansion. In fact, it was nothing but a +dwelling like those about it, presenting the familiar seaside gabled roofs of +red tiles, and stucco walls decorated with sham woodwork, with the difference +that the house was exceedingly well built and about four times as large as the +average villa. +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens! what a place!” said the Colonel to himself as he +halted at the private gateway which opened on to the cliff and surveyed it +affronting sea and sky in all its naked horror. “Show me the house and I +will show you the man,” he went on to himself; “but, after all, one +mustn’t judge him too hardly. Poor Porson, he did not arrange his own +up-bringing or his ancestors. Hello! there he is. +</p> + +<p> +“John, John, John!” he shouted at a stout little person clad in a +black alpaca coat, a straw hat, and a pair of spectacles, who was engaged in +sad contemplation of a bed of dying evergreens. +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of that well-known voice the little man jumped as though he had +trodden on a pin, and turned round slowly, muttering to himself, +</p> + +<p> +“Gracious! It’s him!” an ungrammatical sentence which +indicated sufficiently how wide a niche in the temple of his mind was filled +with the image of his brother-in-law, Colonel Monk. +</p> + +<p> +John Porson was a man of about six or eight and fifty, round-faced, bald, with +large blue eyes not unlike those of a china doll, and clean-shaven except for a +pair of sandy-coloured mutton-chop whiskers. In expression he was gentle, even +timid, and in figure short and stout. At this very moment behind a hundred +counters stand a hundred replicas of that good-hearted man and worthy citizen, +John Porson. Can he be described better or more briefly? +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Colonel?” he said, hurrying forward. He had never yet +dared to call his brother-in-law “Monk,” and much less by his +Christian name, so he compromised on “Colonel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty well, thank you, considering my years and botherations. And how +are you, John?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not very grand, not very grand,” said the little man; “my +heart has been troubling me, and it was so dreadfully hot in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why didn’t you come away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really I don’t know. I understood that it had something to do with +a party, but I think the fact is that Mary was too lazy to look after the +servants while they packed up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she had some attraction there,” suggested the Colonel, +with an anxiety which might have been obvious to a more skilled observer. +</p> + +<p> +“Attraction! What do you mean?” asked Porson. +</p> + +<p> +“Mean, you old goose? Why, what should I mean? A young man, of +course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I see. No, I am sure it was nothing of that sort. Mary won’t +be bothered with young men. She is too lazy; she just looks over their heads +till they get tired and go away. I am sure it was the packing, or, perhaps, the +party. But what are you staring at, Colonel? Is there anything wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; only that wonderful window of yours—the one filled with +bottle-glass—which always reminds me of a bull’s-eye lantern +standing on a preserved-beef tin, or the top of a toy lighthouse.” +</p> + +<p> +Porson peered at the offending window through his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, now you mention it, it does look a little odd from +here,” he said; “naked, rather. You said so before, you remember, +and I told them to plant the shrubs; but while I was away they let every one of +the poor things die. I will ask my architect, Jenkins, if he can’t do +anything; it might be pulled down, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better leave it alone,” said the Colonel, with a sniff. “If +I know anything of Jenkins he’d only put up something worse. I tell you, +John, that where bricks and mortar are concerned that man’s a moral +monster.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you don’t like his style,” murmured Porson; +“but won’t you come in, it is so hot out here in the sun?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, yes, but let us go to that place you call your den, not to +the drawing-room. If you can spare it, I want half-an-hour with you. +That’s why I came over in the afternoon, before dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, certainly,” murmured Porson again, as he led the way to +the “den,” but to himself he added: “It’s those +mortgages, I’ll bet. Oh dear! oh dear! when shall I see the last of +them?” +</p> + +<p> +Presently they were established in the den, the Colonel very cool and +comfortable in Mr. Porson’s armchair, and Porson himself perched upon the +edge of a new-looking leather sofa in an attitude of pained expectancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I am at your service, Colonel,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes; well, it is just this. I want you, if you will, to look through +these figures for me,” and he produced and handed to him a portentous +document headed “List of Obligations.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Porson glanced at it, and instantly his round, simple face became clever +and alert. Here he was on his own ground. In five minutes he had mastered the +thing. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, in a quick voice, “this is quite clear, but +there is some mistake in the addition making a difference of £87 3<i>s</i>. +10<i>d</i>. in your favour. Well, where is the schedule of assets?” +</p> + +<p> +“The schedule of assets, my dear John? I wish I knew. I have my pension, +and there are the Abbey and estates, which, as things are, seem to be mortgaged +to their full value. That’s about all, I think. +Unless—unless”—and he laughed, “we throw in +Morris’s patent electrical machine, which won’t work.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ought to be reckoned, perhaps,” replied Mr. Porson gravely; +adding in a kind of burst, with an air of complete conviction: “I believe +in Morris’s machine, or, at least, I believe in Morris. He has the +makings of a great man—no, of a great inventor about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really?” replied the Colonel, much interested. “That +is curious—and encouraging; for, my dear John, where business matters are +concerned, I trust your judgment.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I doubt whether he will make any money out of it,” went on +Porson. “One day the world will benefit; probably he will not +benefit.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel’s interest faded. “Possibly, John; but, if so, perhaps +for present purposes we may leave this mysterious discovery out of the +question.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so, I think so; but what is the point?” +</p> + +<p> +“The point is that I seem to be about at the end of my tether, although, +as yet, I am glad to say, nobody has actually pressed me, and I have come to +you, as a friend and a relative, for advice. What is to be done? I have sold +you all the valuable land, and I am glad to think that you have made a very +good thing of it. Some years ago, also, you took over the two heaviest +mortgages on the Abbey estate, and I am sorry to say that the interest is +considerably in arrear. There remain the floating debts and other charges, +amounting in all to about £7,000, which I have no means of meeting, and +meanwhile, of course, the place must be kept up. Under these circumstances, +John, I ask you as a business man, what is to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“And, as a business man, I say I’m hanged if I know,” said +Porson, with unwonted energy. “All debts, no assets—the position is +impossible. Unless, indeed, something happens.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. That’s it. My only comfort is—that something might +happen,” and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +Porson fidgeted about on the edge of the leather sofa and turned red. In his +heart he was wondering whether he dared offer to pay off the debts. This he was +quite able to do; more, he was willing to do, since to him, good simple man, +the welfare of the ancient house of Monk, of which his only sister had married +the head, was a far more important thing than parting with a certain number of +thousands of pounds. For birth and station, in his plebeian humility, John +Porson had a reverence which was almost superstitious. Moreover, he had loved +his dead sister dearly, and, in his way, he loved her son also. Also he revered +his brother-in-law, the polished and splendid-looking Colonel, although it was +true that sometimes he writhed beneath his military and aristocratic heel. +Particularly, indeed, did he resent, in his secret heart, those continual +sarcasms about his taste in architecture. +</p> + +<p> +Now, although the monetary transactions between them had been many, as luck +would have it—entirely without his own design—they chanced in the +main to have turned to his, Porson’s, advantage. Thus, owing chiefly to +his intelligent development of its possibilities, the land which he bought from +the Monk estate had increased enormously in value; so much so, indeed, that, +even if he lost all the other sums advanced upon mortgage, he would still be +considerably to the good. Therefore, as it happened, the Colonel was really +under no obligations to him. In these circumstances, Mr. Porson did not quite +know how a cold-blooded offer of an advance of cash without security—in +practice a gift—would be received. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you anything definite in your mind?” he hesitated, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel reflected. On his part he was wondering how Porson would receive +the suggestion of a substantial loan. It seemed too much to risk. He was proud, +and did not like to lay himself open to the possibility of rebuff. +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, John. Unless Morris should chance to make a good marriage, +which is unlikely, for, as you know, he is an odd fish, I can see nothing +before us except ruin. Indeed, at my age, it does not greatly matter, but it +seems a pity that the old house should come to an end in such a melancholy and +discreditable fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“A pity! It is more than a pity,” jerked out Porson, with a sudden +wriggle which caused him to rock up and down upon the stiff springs of the new +sofa. +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke there came a knock at the door, and from the further side of it a +slow, rich voice was heard, saying: “May I come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s Mary,” said Mr. Porson. “Yes, come in, dear; +it’s only your uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +The door opened, Mary came in, and, in some curious quiet way, at once her +personality seemed to take possession of and dominate that shaded room. To +begin with, her stature gave an idea of dominion, for, without being at all +coarse, she was tall and full in frame. The face also was somewhat massive, +with a rounded chin and large, blue eyes that had a trick of looking half +asleep, and above a low, broad forehead grew her waving, golden hair, parted +simply in the middle after the old Greek fashion. She wore a white dress, with +a silver girdle that set off the beautiful outlines of her figure to great +advantage, and with her a perfume seemed to pass, perhaps from the roses on her +bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“A beautiful woman,” thought the Colonel to himself, as she came +in, and he was no mean or inexperienced judge. “A beautiful woman, but a +regular lotus-eater.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Uncle Richard?” said Mary, pausing about six feet +away and holding out her hand. “I heard you scolding my poor dad about +his bow-window. In fact, you woke me up; and, do you know, you used exactly the +same words as you did at your visit after we came down from London last +year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, my dear,” said the Colonel, struggling to his feet, and +kissing his niece upon the forehead, “what a memory you have got! It will +get you into trouble some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay—me, or somebody else. But history repeated itself, +uncle, that is all. The same sleepy Me in a lounge-chair, the same hot day, the +same blue-bottle, and the same You scolding the same Daddy about the same +window. Though what on earth dad’s window can matter to anyone except +himself, I can’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay not, my dear; I daresay not. We can none of us know +everything—not even latter day young ladies—but I suggest that a +few hours with Fergussen’s ‘Handbook of Architecture’ might +enlighten you on the point.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary reflected, but the only repartee that she could conjure at the moment was +something about ancient lights which did not seem appropriate. Therefore, as +she thought that she had done enough for honour, and to remind her +awe-inspiring relative that he could not suppress her, suddenly she changed the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +“You are looking very well, uncle,” she said, surveying him calmly; +“and younger than you did last year. How is my cousin Morris? Will the +aerophone talk yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful,” said the Colonel, gallantly. “If even my grey +hairs can provoke a compliment, what homage is sufficient for a Sleeping +Beauty? As for Morris, he is, I believe, much as usual; at least he stood this +morning till daybreak staring at the sea. I understand, however—if he +doesn’t forget to come—that you are to have the pleasure of seeing +him this evening, when you will be able to judge for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, don’t be sarcastic about Morris, uncle; I’d rather you +went on abusing dad’s window.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not, my dear, if it displeases you. But may I ask why he is to +be considered sacred?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she answered, and a genuine note crept into her bantering +voice. “Because he is one of the few men worth anything whom I ever +chanced to meet—except dad there and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Spare me,” cut in the Colonel, with admirable skill, for well he +knew that his name was not upon the lady’s lips. “But would it be +impertinent to inquire what it is that constitutes Morris’s preeminent +excellence in your eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not; only it is three things, not one. First, he works harder +than any man I know, and I think men who work adorable, because I am so lazy +myself. Secondly, he thinks a great deal, and very few people do that to any +purpose. Thirdly, I never feel inclined to go to sleep when he takes me in to +dinner. Oh! you may laugh if you like, but ask dad what happened to me last +month with that wretched old member of the Government, and before the sweets, +too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, please,” put in Mr. Porson, turning pink under pressure of +some painful recollection. “If you have finished sparring with your +uncle, isn’t there any tea, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so,” she said, relapsing into a state of bland +indifference. “I’ll go and see. If I don’t come back, +you’ll know it is there,” and Mary passed through the door with +that indolent, graceful walk which no one could mistake who once had seen her. +</p> + +<p> +Both her father and her uncle looked after her with admiration. Mr. Porson +admired her because the man or woman who dared to meet that domestic tyrant his +brother-in-law in single combat, and could issue unconquered from the doubtful +fray, was indeed worthy to be honoured. Colonel Monk for his part hastened to +do homage to a very pretty and charming young lady, one, moreover, who was not +in the least afraid of him. +</p> + +<p> +Mary had gone, and the air from the offending window, which was so constructed +as to let in a maximum of draught, banged the door behind her. The two men +looked at each other. A thought was in the mind of each; but the Colonel, +trained by long experience, and wise in his generation, waited for Mr. Porson +to speak. Many and many a time in the after days did he find reason to +congratulate himself upon this superb reticence—for there are occasions +when discretion can amount almost to the height of genius. Under their relative +circumstances, if it had been he who first suggested this alliance, he and his +family must have remained at the gravest disadvantage, and as for stipulations, +well, he could have made none. But as it chanced it was from poor +Porson’s lips that the suggestion came. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Porson cleared his throat—once, twice, thrice. At the third rasp, the +Colonel became very attentive. He remembered that his brother-in-law had done +exactly the same thing at the very apex of a long-departed crisis; indeed, just +before he offered spontaneously to take over the mortgages on the Abbey estate. +</p> + +<p> +“You were talking, Colonel,” he began, “when Mary came +in,” and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay,” replied the Colonel indifferently, fixing a +contemptuous glance upon some stone mullions of atrocious design. +</p> + +<p> +“About Morris marrying?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, so I was! Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—she seems to like him. I know she does indeed. She never +talks of any other young man.” +</p> + +<p> +“She? Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“My daughter, Mary; and—so—why shouldn’t they—you +know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, John, I must ask you to be a little more explicit. It’s no +good your addressing me in your business ciphers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I mean—why shouldn’t he marry her? Morris marry +Mary? Is that plain enough?” he asked in desperation. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment a mist gathered before the Colonel’s eyes. Here was +salvation indeed, if only it could be brought about. Oh! if only it could be +brought about. +</p> + +<p> +But the dark eyes never changed, nor did a muscle move upon that pale, +commanding countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Morris marry Mary,” he repeated, dwelling on the alliterative +words as though to convince himself that he had heard them aright. “That +is a very strange proposition, my dear John, and sudden, too. Why, they are +first cousins, and for that reason, I suppose, the thing never occurred to +me—till last night,” he added to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know, Colonel; but I am not certain that this first cousin +business isn’t a bit exaggerated. The returns of the asylums seem to show +it, and I know my doctor, Sir Henry Andrews, says it’s nonsense. +You’ll admit that he is an authority. Also, it happened in my own family, +my father and mother were cousins, and we are none the worse.” +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion the Colonel might have been inclined to comment on this +statement—of course, most politely. Now, however, he let it pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, John,” he said, “putting aside the cousinship, let me +hear what your idea is of the advantages of such a union, should the parties +concerned change to consider it suitable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, quite so, that’s business,” said Mr. Porson, +brightening up at once. “From my point of view, these would be the +advantages. As you know, Colonel, so far as I am concerned my origin, for the +time I have been able to trace it—that’s four generations from old +John Porson, the Quaker sugar merchant, who came from nobody knows +where—although honest, is humble, and until my father’s day all in +the line of retail trade. But then my dear wife came in. She was a governess +when I married her, as you may have heard, and of a very good Scotch family, +one of the Camerons, so Mary isn’t all of our cut—any more,” +he added with a smile, “than Morris is all of yours. Still for her to +marry a Monk would be a lift up—a considerable lift up, and looked at +from a business point of view, worth a deal of money. +</p> + +<p> +“Also, I like my nephew Morris, and I am sure that Mary likes him, and +I’d wish the two of them to inherit what I have got. They wouldn’t +have very long to wait for it, Colonel, for those doctors may say what they +will, but I tell you,” he added, pathetically, tapping himself over the +heart—“though you don’t mention it to Mary—I know +better. Oh! yes, I know better. That’s about all, except, of course, that +I should wish to see her settled before I’m gone. A man dies happier, you +understand, if he is certain whom his only child is going to marry; for when he +is dead I suppose that he will know nothing of what happens to her. Or, +perhaps,” he added, as though by an afterthought, “he may know too +much, and not be able to help; which would be painful, very painful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t get into those speculations, John,” said the Colonel, +waving his hand. “They are unpleasant, and lead nowhere—sufficient +to the day is the evil thereof.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, quite so. Life is a queer game of blind-man’s buff, +isn’t it; played in a mist on a mountain top, and the players keep +dropping over the precipices. But nobody heeds, because there are always plenty +more, and the game goes on forever. Well, that’s my side of the case. Do +you wish me to put yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to hear your view of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, it is this. Here’s a nice girl, no one can deny that, +and a nice man, although he’s odd—you will admit as much. +He’s got name, and he will have fame, or I am much mistaken. But, as it +chances, through no fault of his, he wants money, or will want it, for without +money the old place can’t go on, and without a wife the old race +can’t go on. Now, Mary will have lots of money, for, to tell the truth, +it keeps piling up until I am sick of it. I’ve been lucky in that way, +Colonel, because I don’t care much about it, I suppose. I don’t +think that I ever yet made a really bad investment. Just look. Two years ago, +to oblige an old friend who was in the shop with me when I was young, I put +£5,000 into an Australian mine, never thinking to see it again. Yesterday I +sold that stock for £50,000.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifty thousand pounds!” ejaculated the Colonel, astonished into +admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, or to be accurate, £49,375, 3<i>s</i>., 10<i>d</i>., +and—that’s where the jar comes in—I don’t care. I never +thought of it again since I got the broker’s note till this minute. I +have been thinking all day about my heart, which is uneasy, and about what will +happen to Mary when I am gone. What’s the good of this dirty money to a +dying man? I’d give it all to have my wife and the boy I lost back for a +year or two; yes, I would go into a shop again and sell sugar like my +grandfather, and live on the profits from the till and the counter. +There’s Mary calling. We must tell a fib, we must say that we thought she +was to come to fetch us; don’t you forget. Well, there it is, perhaps +you’ll think it over at your leisure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, John,” replied the Colonel, solemnly; “certainly I will +think it over. Of course, there are pros and cons, but, on the whole, speaking +offhand, I don’t see why the young people should not make a match. Also +you have always been a good relative, and, what is better, a good friend to me, +so, of course, if possible I should like to fall in with your wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Porson, who was advancing towards the door, wheeled round quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Colonel,” he said, “I appreciate your sentiments; +but don’t you make any mistake. It isn’t my wishes that have to be +fallen in with—or your wishes. It’s the wishes of your son, Morris, +and my daughter, Mary. If they are agreeable I’d like it well; if not, +all the money in the world, nor all the families in the world, wouldn’t +make me have anything to do with the job, or you either. Whatever our failings, +we are honest men—both of us, who would not sell our flesh and blood for +such trash as that.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a> +CHAPTER IV.<br/> +MARY PREACHES AND THE COLONEL PREVAILS</h2> + +<p> +A fortnight had gone by, and during this time Morris was a frequent visitor at +Seaview. Also his Cousin Mary had come over twice or thrice to lunch, with her +father or without him. Once, indeed, she had stopped all the afternoon, +spending most of it in the workshop with Morris. This workshop, it may be +remembered, was the old chapel of the Abbey, a very beautiful and still perfect +building, finished in early Tudor times, in which, by good fortune, the rich +stained glass of the east window still remained. It made a noble and spacious +laboratory, with its wide nave and lovely roof of chestnut wood, whereof the +corbels were seraphs, white-robed and golden-winged. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not afraid to desecrate such a place with your horrid +vices—I mean the iron things—and furnace and litter?” asked +Mary. She had sunk down upon an anvil, on which lay a newspaper, the first seat +that she could find, and thence surveyed the strange, incongruous scene. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you ask, I don’t like it,” answered Morris. +“But there is no other place that I can have, for my father is afraid of +the forge in the house, and I can’t afford to build a workshop +outside.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ought to be restored,” said Mary, “with a beautiful organ +in a carved case and a lovely alabaster altar and one of those perpetual lamps +of silver—the French call them ‘veilleuses’, don’t +they?—and the Stations of the Cross in carved oak, and all the rest of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary, it may be explained, had a tendency to admire the outward adornments of +ritualism if not its doctrines. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” answered Morris, smiling. “When I have from five +to seven thousand to spare I will set about the job, and hire a high-church +chaplain with a fine voice to come and say Mass for your benefit. By the way, +would you like a confessional also? You omitted it from the list.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not. Besides, what on earth should I confess, except being +always late for prayers through oversleeping myself in the morning, and general +uselessness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I daresay you might find something if you tried,” suggested +Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak for yourself, please, Morris. To begin with your own account, +there is the crime of sacrilege in using a chapel as a workshop. Look, those +are all tombstones of abbots and other holy people, and under each tombstone +one of them is asleep. Yet there you are, using strong language and whistling +and making a horrible noise with hammers just above their heads. I wonder they +don’t haunt you; I would if I were they.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps they do,” said Morris, “only I don’t see +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then they can’t be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Because things are invisible and intangible it does not follow +that they don’t exist, as I ought to know as much as anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; but I am sure that if there were anything of that sort about +you would soon be in touch with it. With me it is different; I could sleep +sweetly with ghosts sitting on my bed in rows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that—about me, I mean?” asked Morris, in a +more earnest voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know. Go and look at your own eyes in the +glass—but I daresay you do often enough. Look here, Morris, you think me +very silly—almost foolish—don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, if you want +to know, I think you a young woman rather more idle than most, and with a +perfect passion for burying your talent in very white napkins.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it all comes to the same thing, for there isn’t much +difference between fool-born and fool-manufactured. Sometimes I wake up, +however, and have moments of wisdom—as when I made you hear that thing, +you know, thereby proving that it is all right, only +useless—haven’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay; but come to the point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be in a hurry. It is rather hard to express myself. What I +mean is that you had better give up staring.” +</p> + +<p> +“Staring? I never stared at you or anyone else, in my life!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stupid Morris! By staring I mean star-gazing, and by star-gazing I mean +trying to get away from the earth—in your mind, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris ran his fingers through his untidy hair and opened his lips to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t contradict me,” she interrupted in a full steady +voice. “That’s what you are thinking of half the day, and dreaming +about all the night.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” he ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she answered, with a sudden access of +indifference. “Do you know yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am waiting for instruction,” said Morris, sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, then, I’ll try. I mean that you are not satisfied with +this world and those of us who live here. You keep trying to fashion +another—oh! yes, you have been at it from a boy, you see I have got a +good memory, I remember all your ‘vision stories’—and then +you try to imagine its inhabitants.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Morris, with the sullen air of a convicted criminal, +“without admitting one word of this nonsense, what if I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only that you had better look out that you don’t <i>find</i> +whatever it is you seek. It’s a horrible mistake to be so spiritual, at +least in that kind of way. You should eat and drink, and sleep ten hours as I +do, and not go craving for vision till you can see, and praying for power until +you can create.” +</p> + +<p> +“See! Create! Who? What?” +</p> + +<p> +“The inhabitant, or inhabitants. Just think, you may have been building +her up all this time, imagination by imagination, and thought by thought. Then +her day might come, and all that you have put out piecemeal will return at +once. Yes, she may appear, and take you, and possess you, and lead +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“She? Why she? and where?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the devil, I imagine,” answered Mary composedly, “and as +you are a man one can guess the guide’s sex. It’s getting dark, let +us go out. This is such a creepy place in the dark that it actually makes me +understand what people mean by nerves. And, Morris, of course you understand +that I have only been talking rubbish. I always liked inventing fairy tales; +you taught me; only this one is too grown up—disagreeable. What I really +mean is that I do think it might be a good thing if you wouldn’t live +quite so much alone, and would go out a bit more. You are getting quite an odd +look on your face; you are indeed, not like other men at all. I believe that it +comes from your worrying about this wretched invention until you are half crazy +over the thing. Any change there?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “No, I can’t find the right alloy—not one +that can be relied upon. I begin to doubt whether it exists.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you give it up—for a while at any rate?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have. I made a novel kind of electrical hand-saw this spring, and sold +the patent for £100 and a royalty. There’s commercial success for you, +and now I am at work on a new lamp of which I have the idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am uncommonly glad to hear it,” said Mary with energy. +“And, I say, Morris, you are not offended at my silly parables, are you? +You know what I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit. I think it is very kind of you to worry your head about an +impossible fellow like me. And look here, Mary, I have done some dreaming in my +time, it is true, for so far the world has been a place of tribulation to me, +and it is sick hearts that dream. But I mean to give it up, for I know as well +as you do that there is only one end to all these systems of mysticism.” +Mary looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” he went on, correcting himself, “to the mad attempt +unduly and prematurely to cultivate our spiritual natures that we may live to +and for them, and not to and for our natural bodies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly my argument, put into long words,” said Mary. “There +will be plenty of time for that when we get down among those old gentlemen +yonder—a year or two hence, you know. Meanwhile, let us take the world as +we find it. It isn’t a bad place, after all, at times, and there are +several things worth doing for those who are not too lazy. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, I must be off; my bicycle is there against the railings. Oh, +how I hate that machine! Now, listen, Morris; do you want to do something +really useful, and earn the blessings of an affectionate relative? Then invent +a really reliable electrical bike, that would look nice and do all the work, so +that I could sit on it comfortably and get to a place without my legs aching as +though I had broken them, and a red face, and no breath left in my body.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will think about it,” he said; “indeed, I have thought of +it already but the accumulators are the trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go on thinking, there’s an angel; think hard and continually +until you evolve that blessed instrument of progression. I say, I haven’t +a lamp.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll lend you mine,” suggested Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“No; other people’s lamps always go out with me, and so do my own, +for that matter. I’ll risk it; I know the policeman, and if we meet I +will argue with him. Good-bye; don’t forget we are coming to dinner +to-morrow night. It’s a party, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a bore, I must unpack my London dresses. Well, good-bye +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, dear,” answered Morris, and she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dear,’” thought Mary to herself; “he +hasn’t called me that since I was sixteen. I wonder why he does it now? +Because I have been scolding him, I suppose; that generally makes men +affectionate.” +</p> + +<p> +For a while she glided forward through the grey twilight, and then began to +think again, muttering to herself: +</p> + +<p> +“You idiot, Mary, why should you be pleased because he called you +‘dear’? He doesn’t really care two-pence about you; his blood +goes no quicker when you pass by and no slower when you stay away. Why do you +bother about him? and what made you talk all that stuff this afternoon? Because +you think he is in a queer way, and that if he goes on giving himself up to his +fancies he will become mad—yes, mad—because—Oh! what’s +the use of making excuses—because you are fond of him, and always have +been fond of him from a child, and can’t help it. What a fate! To be fond +of a man who hasn’t the heart to care for you or for any other woman. +Perhaps, however, that’s only because he hasn’t found the right +one, as he might do at any time, and then——” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going to, and where’s your light?” shouted a +hoarse voice from the pathway on which she was unlawfully riding. +</p> + +<p> +“My good man, I wish I knew,” answered Mary, blandly. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Morris, for whom the day never seemed long enough, was a person who breakfasted +punctually at half-past eight, whereas Colonel Monk, to whom—at any rate +at Monksland—the day was often too long, generally breakfasted at ten. To +his astonishment, however, on entering the dining-room upon the morrow of his +interview in the workshop with Mary, he found his father seated at the head of +the table. +</p> + +<p> +“This means a ‘few words’ with me about something +disagreeable,” thought Morris to himself as he dabbed viciously at an +evasive sausage. He was not fond of these domestic conversations. Nor was he in +the least reassured by his father’s airy and informed comments upon the +contents of the “Globe,” which always arrived by post, and the +marvel of its daily “turnover” article, whereof the perpetual +variety throughout the decades constituted, the Colonel was wont to say, the +eighth wonder of the world. Instinct, instructed by experience, assured him +that these were but the first moves in the game. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the end of the meal he attempted retreat, pretending that he wanted to +fetch something, but the Colonel, who was watching him over the top of the pink +page of the “Globe,” intervened promptly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you have a few minutes to spare, my dear boy, I should like to have a +chat with you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, father,” answered the dutiful Morris; “I am at +your service.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good; then I will light my cigar, and we might take a stroll on the +beach, that is, after I have seen the cook about the dinner to-night. Perhaps I +shall find you presently by the steps.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will wait for you there,” answered Morris. And wait he did, for +a considerable while, for the interview with the cook proved lengthy. Moreover, +the Colonel was not a punctual person, or one who set an undue value upon his +own or other people’s time. At length, just as Morris was growing weary +of the pristine but enticing occupation of making ducks and drakes with flat +pebbles, his father appeared. After “salutations,” as they say in +the East, he wasted ten more minutes in abusing the cook, ending up with a +direct appeal for his son’s estimate of her capacities. +</p> + +<p> +“She might be better and she might be worse,” answered Morris, +judicially. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” replied the Colonel, drily; “the remark is sound +and applies to most things. At present, however, I think that she is worse; +also I hate the sight of her fat red face. But bother the cook, why do you +think so much about her; I have something else to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think,” said Morris. “She doesn’t excite +me one way or the other, except when she is late with my breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as he expected, after the cook came the crisis. +</p> + +<p> +“You will remember, my dear boy,” began the Colonel, +affectionately, “a little talk we had a while ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which one, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“The last of any importance, I believe. I refer to the occasion when you +stopped out all night contemplating the sea; an incident which impressed it +upon my memory.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at him. Why was the old gentleman so inconveniently observant? +</p> + +<p> +“And doubtless you remember the subject?” +</p> + +<p> +“There were a good many subjects, father; they ranged from mortgages to +matrimony.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, to matrimony. Well, have you thought any more about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not particularly, father. Why should I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound it, Morris,” exclaimed the Colonel, losing patience; +“don’t chop logic like a petty sessions lawyer. Let’s come to +the point.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my desire,” answered Morris; and quite clearly there rose +up before him an inconsequent picture of his mother teaching him the Catechism +many, many years ago. Thereat, as was customary with his mind when any memory +of her touched it, his temper softened like iron beneath the influence of fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, then what do you think of Mary as a wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“How should I know under the circumstances?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel fumed, and Morris added, “I beg your pardon, I understand +what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +Then his father came to the charge. +</p> + +<p> +“To be brief, will you marry her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will she marry me?” asked Morris. “Isn’t she too +sensible?” +</p> + +<p> +His father’s eye twinkled, but he restrained himself. This, he felt, was +not an occasion upon which to indulge his powers of sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, if you want my opinion, I believe she will; but you have +to ask her first. Look here, my boy, be advised by me, and do it as soon as +possible. The notion is rather new to me, I admit; but, taking her all round, +where would you find a better woman? You and I don’t always agree about +things; we are of a different generation, and look at the world from different +standpoints. But I think that at the bottom we respect each other, and I am +sure,” he added with a touch of restrained dignity, “that we are +naturally and properly attached to each other. Under these circumstances, and +taking everything else into consideration, I am convinced also that you will +give weight to my advice. I assure you that I do not offer it lightly. It is +that you should marry your cousin Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is her side of the case to be considered,” suggested Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless, and she is a very shrewd and sensible young woman under all +her ‘dolce far niente’ air, who is quite capable of +consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not worthy of her,” his son broke in passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“That is for her to decide. I ask you to give her an opportunity of +expressing an opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at the sea and sky, then he looked at his father standing before +him in an attitude that was almost suppliant, with head bowed, hands clasped, +and on his clear-cut face an air of real sincerity. What right had he to resist +this appeal? He was heart-whole, without any kind of complication, and for his +cousin Mary he had true affection and respect. Moreover, they had been brought +up together. She understood him, and in the midst of so much that was uncertain +and bewildering she seemed something genuine and solid, something to which a +man could cling. It may not have been a right spirit in which to approach this +question of marriage, but in the case of a young man like Morris, who was +driven forward by no passion, by no scheme even of personal advancement, this +substitution of reason for impulse and instinct was perhaps natural. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I will,” he answered; “but if she is wise, she +won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +His father turned his head away and sighed softly, and that sigh seemed to lift +a ton’s weight off his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it,” he answered simply, “the rest must +settle itself. By the way, if you are going up to the house, tell the cook that +I have changed my mind, we will have the soles fried with lemon; she always +makes a mess of them ‘au maitre d’hotel.’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a> +CHAPTER V.<br/> +A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE</h2> + +<p> +Although it consisted of but a dozen people, the dinner-party at the Abbey that +night was something of a function. To begin with, the old refectory, with its +stone columns and arches still standing as they were in the pre-Reformation +days, lit with cunningly-arranged and shaded electric lights designed and set +up by Morris, was an absolutely ideal place in which to dine. Then, although +the Monk family were impoverished, they still retained the store of plate +accumulated by past generations. Much of this silver was old and very +beautiful, and when set out upon the great side-boards produced an effect well +suited to that chamber and its accessories. The company also was pleasant and +presentable. There were the local baronet and his wife; the two beauties of the +neighbourhood, Miss Jane Rose and Miss Eliza Layard, with their respective +belongings; the clergyman of the parish, a Mr. Tomley, who was leaving the +county for the north of England on account of his wife’s health; and a +clever and rising young doctor from the county town. These, with Mr. Porson and +his daughter, made up the number who upon this particular night with every +intention of enjoying themselves, sat down to that rather rare entertainment in +Monksland, a dinner-party. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Monk had himself very carefully placed the guests. As a result, Morris, +to whose lot it had fallen to take in the wealthy Miss Layard, a young lady of +handsome but somewhat ill-tempered countenance, found himself at the foot of +the oblong table with his partner on one side and his cousin on the other. +Mary, who was conducted to her seat by Mr. Layard, the delicate brother, an +insignificant, pallid-looking specimen of humanity, for reasons of her own, not +unconnected perhaps with the expected presence of the Misses Layard and Rose, +had determined to look and dress her best that night. She wore a robe of some +rich white silk, tight fitting and cut rather low, and upon her neck a single +row of magnificent diamonds. The general effect of her sheeny dress, snow-like +skin, and golden, waving hair, as she glided into the shaded room, suggested to +Morris’s mind a great white lily floating down the quiet water of some +dark stream, and, when presently the light fell on her, a vision of a silver, +mist-laden star lying low upon the ocean at the break of dawn. Later, after she +became acquainted with these poetical imaginings, Mary congratulated herself +and her maid very warmly on the fact that she had actually summoned sufficient +energy to telegraph to town for this particular dress. +</p> + +<p> +Of the other ladies present, Miss Layard was arrayed in a hot-looking red +garment, which she imagined would suit her dark eyes and complexion. Miss Rose, +on the contrary, had come out in the virginal style of muslin and blue bows, +whereof the effect, unhappily, was somewhat marred by a fiery complexion, +acquired as the result of three days’ violent play at a tennis +tournament. To this unfortunate circumstance Miss Layard, who had her own views +of Miss Rose, was not slow in calling attention. +</p> + +<p> +“What has happened to poor Jane?” she said, addressing Mary. +“She looks as though she had been red-ochred down to her +shoulders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is poor Jane?” asked that young lady languidly. “Oh! you +mean Miss Rose. I know, she has been playing in that tennis tournament +at—what’s the name of the place? Dad would drive me there this +afternoon, and it made me quite hot to look at her, jumping and running and +hitting for hour after hour. But she’s awfully good at it; she won the +prize. Don’t you envy anybody who can win a prize at a tennis tournament, +Miss Layard?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered sharply, for Miss Layard did not shine at +tennis. “I dislike women who go about what my brother calls +‘pot-hunting’ just as if they were professionals.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, do you? I admire them. It must be so nice to be able to do anything +well, even if it’s only lawn tennis. It’s the poor failures like +myself for whom I am so sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t admire anybody who can come to out to a dinner party with +a head and neck like that,” retorted Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? You can’t burn, and that should make you more charitable. +And I tie myself up in veils and umbrellas, which is absurd. Besides, what does +it matter? You see, it is different with most of us; Miss Rose is so +good-looking that she can afford herself these little luxuries.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Miss Layard. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I don’t think so; at least, the opinion is all one way. +Don’t you think Miss Rose beautiful, Mr. Layard?” she said, turning +to her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Ripping,” said that gentleman, with emphasis. “But I wish +she wouldn’t beat one at tennis; it is an insult to the stronger +sex.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at him reflectively. His sister looked at him also. +</p> + +<p> +“And I am sure that you think her beautiful, don’t you, +Morris?” went on the imperturbable Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, of course; lovely,” he replied, with a vacuous stare at +the elderly wife of the baronet. +</p> + +<p> +“There, Miss Layard, now you collect the opinions of the gentlemen all +along your side.” And Mary turned away, ostensibly to talk to her +cavalier; but really to find out what could possibly interest Morris so deeply +in the person or conversation of Lady Jones. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Jones was talking across the table to Mr. Tomley, the departing rector, a +benevolent-looking person, with a broad forehead adorned like that of Father +Time by a single lock of snowy hair. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you are really going to the far coast of Northumberland, Mr. +Tomley, to exchange livings with the gentleman with the odd name? How brave of +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tomley smiled assent, adding: “You can imagine what a blow it is to +me, Lady Jones, to separate myself from my dear parishioners and +friends”—here he eyed the Colonel, with whom he had waged a +continual war during his five years of residence in the parish, and added: +“But we must all give way to the cause of duty and the necessities of +health. Mrs. Tomley says that this part of the country does not agree with her, +and is quite convinced that unless she is taken back to her native +Northumberland air the worst may be expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy that it has arrived in that poor man’s case,” +thought Mary to herself. Lady Jones, who also knew Mrs. Tomley and the power of +her tongue, nodded her head sympathetically and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, of course. A wife’s health must be the first +consideration of every good man. But isn’t it rather lonely up there, Mr. +Tomley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lonely, Lady Jones?” the clergyman replied with energy, and +shaking his white lock. “I assure you that the place is a howling desert; +a great moor behind, and the great sea in front, and some rocks and the church +between the two. That’s about all, but my wife likes it because she used +to stay at the rectory when she was a little girl. Her uncle was the incumbent +there. She declares that she has never been well since she left the +parish.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you say is the name of the present inhabitant of this +earthly paradise, the man with whom you have exchanged?” interrupted the +Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“Fregelius—the Reverend Peter Fregelius.” +</p> + +<p> +“What an exceedingly odd name! Is he an Englishman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but I think that his father was a Dane, and he married a Danish +lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Is she living?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no. She died a great many years ago. The old gentleman has only one +child left—a girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is her name?” asked someone idly, in a break of the general +conversation, so that everybody paused to listen to his reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Stella—Stella Fregelius; a very unusual girl.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the conversation broke out again with renewed vigour, and all that those +at Morris’s end of the table could catch were snatches such as: +“Wonderful eyes”; “Independent young person”; +“Well read and musical”; “Oh, yes! poor as church mice, +that’s why he accepted my offer.” +</p> + +<p> +At this point the Doctor began a rather vehement argument with Mr. Porson as to +the advisability of countervailing duties to force foreign nations to abandon +the sugar bounties, and no more was heard of Mr. Tomley and his plans. +</p> + +<p> +On the whole, Mary enjoyed that dinner-party. Miss Layard, somewhat sore after +her first encounter, attempted to retaliate later. +</p> + +<p> +But by this time Mary’s argumentative energy had evaporated. Therefore, +adroitly appealing to Mr. Layard to take her part, she retired from the fray +till, seeing that it grew acrimonious, for this brother and sister did not love +each other, she pretended to hear no more. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been stopping out all night again and staring at the sea, +Morris?” she inquired; “because I understand it is a habit of +yours. You seem so sleepy. I know that I must have looked just like you when +that old political gentleman took me in to dinner, and I made an exhibition of +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was that?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +So she told him the story of her unlawful slumbers, and so amusingly that he +burst out laughing and remained in an excellent mood for the rest of the feast, +or at any rate until the ladies had departed. After this event once more he +became somewhat silent and distant. +</p> + +<p> +It was not wonderful. To most men, except the very experienced, proposals are +terrifying ordeals, and Morris had made up his mind, if he could find a chance, +to propose to Mary that night. The thing was to be done, so the sooner he did +it the better. +</p> + +<p> +Then it would be over, one way or the other. Besides, and this was strange and +opportune enough, never had he felt so deeply and truly attracted to Mary. +Whether it was because her soft, indolent beauty showed at its best this +evening in that gown and setting, or because her conversation, with its +sub-acid tinge of kindly humour amused him, or—and this seemed more +probable—because her whole attitude towards himself was so gentle and so +full of sweet benevolence, he could not say. At any rate, this remained true, +she attracted him more than any woman he had ever met, and sincerely he hoped +and prayed that when he asked her to be his wife she might find it in her heart +to say Yes. +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the entertainment resembled that of most country dinner-parties. +Conducted to the piano by the Colonel, who understood music very well, the +talented ladies of the party, including Miss Rose, sang songs with more or less +success, while Miss Layard criticised, Mary was appreciative, and the men +talked. At length the local baronet’s wife looked at the local baronet, +who thereupon asked leave to order the carriage. This example the rest of the +company followed in quick succession until all were gone except Mr. Porson and +his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Porson, “I suppose that we had +better be off too, or you won’t get your customary nine hours.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary yawned slightly and assented, asserting that she had utterly exhausted +herself in defending Miss Rose from the attacks of her rival, Miss Layard. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” broke in the Colonel, “come and have a smoke first, +John. I’ve got that old map of the property unrolled on purpose to show +you, and I don’t want to keep it about, for it fills up the whole place. +Morris will look after Mary for half an hour, I daresay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Morris, but the heart within him sank to the +level of his dress-shoes. Here was the opportunity for which he had wished, but +as he could not be called a forward, or even a pushing lover, he was alarmed at +its very prompt arrival. This answer to his prayers was somewhat too swift and +thorough. There is a story of an enormously fat old Boer who was seated on the +veld with his horse at his side, when suddenly a band of armed natives rushed +to attack him. “Oh, God, help!” he cried in his native <i>taal</i>, +as he prepared to heave his huge form into the saddle. Having thus invoked +divine assistance, this Dutch Falstaff went at the task with such a will that +in a trice he found himself not on the horse, but over it, lying upon his back, +indeed, among the grasses. “O God!” that deluded burgher exclaimed, +reproachfully, as the Kaffirs came up and speared him, “Thou hast helped +a great deal too much!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Morris felt very much like this stout but simple dweller in the +wilderness. He would have preferred to coquet with the enemy for a while from +the safety of his saddle. But Providence willed it otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come out, Mary?” he said, with the courage which +inspires men in desperate situations. He felt that it would be impossible to +say those words with the electric lights looking at him like so many eyes. The +thought of it, even, made him warm all over. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; it depends. Is there anything comfortable to sit +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“The deck chair,” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds nice. I have slumbered for hours in deck chairs. Look, +there’s a fur rug on that sofa, and here’s my white cape; now you +get your coat, and I’ll come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, no; I don’t want any coat; I am hot enough +already.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary turned and looked him up and down with her wondering blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really think it safe,” she said, “to expose yourself +to all sorts of unknown dangers in this unprotected condition?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” he answered. “I am not afraid of the night air +even in October.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, very well, Morris,” she went on, and there was meaning +in her voice; “then whatever happens don’t blame me. It’s so +easy to be rash and thoughtless and catch a chill, and then you may become an +invalid for life, or die, you know. One can’t get rid of it +again—at least, not often.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at her with a puzzled air, and stepped through the window which +he had opened, on to the lawn, whither, with a quaint little shrug of her +shoulders, Mary followed him, muttering to herself: +</p> + +<p> +“Now if he takes cold, it won’t be <i>my</i> fault.” Then she +stopped, clasped her hands, and said, “Oh! what a lovely night. I am glad +that we came out here.” +</p> + +<p> +She was right, it was indeed lovely. High in the heavens floated a bright +half-moon, across whose face the little white-edged clouds drifted in quick +succession, throwing their gigantic shadows to the world beneath. All silver +was the sleeping sea where the moonlight fell upon it, and when this was +eclipsed, then it was all jet. To the right and left, up to the very borders of +the cliff, lay the soft wreaths of roke or land-fog, covering the earth as with +a cloak of down, but pierced here and there by the dim and towering shapes of +trees. Yet although these curling wreaths of mist hung on the edges of the +cliff like white water about to fall, they never fell, since clear to the +sight, though separated from them by a gulf of translucent blackness, lay the +yellow belt of sand up which, inch by inch, the tide was creeping. +</p> + +<p> +And the air—no wind stirred it, though the wind was at work +aloft—it was still and bright as crystal, and crisp and cold as new-iced +wine, for the first autumn frost was falling. +</p> + +<p> +They stood for a few moments looking at all these wonderful beauties of the +mysterious night—which dwellers in the country so rarely appreciate, +because to them they are common, daily things—and listening to the soft, +long-drawn murmuring of the sea upon the shingle. Then they went forward to the +edge of the cliff, but although Morris threw the fur rug over it Mary did not +seat herself in the comfortable-looking deck chair. Her desire for repose had +departed. She preferred to lean upon the low grey wall in whose crannies grew +lichens, tiny ferns, and, in their season, harebells and wallflowers. Morris +came and leant at her side; for a while they both stared at the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, are you making up poetry?” she inquired at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask such silly questions?” he answered, not without +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you keep muttering to yourself, and I thought that you were +trying to get the lines to scan. Also the sea, and the sky, and the night +suggest poetry, don’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris turned his head and looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> suggest it,” he said, with desperate earnestness, +“in all that shining white, especially when the moon goes in. Then you +look like a beautiful spirit new lit upon the edge of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +At first Mary was pleased, the compliment was obvious, and, coming from Morris, +great. She had never heard him say so much as that before. Then she thought an +instant, and the echo of the word “spirit” came back to her mind, +and jarred upon it with a little sudden shock. Even when he had a lovely woman +at his side must his fancy be wandering to these unearthly denizens and +similes. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Morris,” she said almost sharply, “do not compare me +to a spirit. I am a woman, nothing more, and if it is not enough that I should +be a woman, then——” she paused, to add, “I beg your +pardon, I know you meant to be nice, but once I had a friend who went in for +spirits—table-turning ones I mean—with very bad results, and I +detest the name of them.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris took this rebuff better than might have been expected. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you object if one ventured to call you an angel?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if the word was used in a terrestrial sense. It excites a vision of +possibilities, and the fib is so big that anyone must pardon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then; I call you that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I should be delighted to return the compliment. Can you think +of any celestial definition appropriate to a young gentleman with dark +eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Mary, please stop making fun of me,” said Morris, with +something like a groan. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked innocently. “Besides I wasn’t making +fun. It’s only my way of carrying on conversation; they taught it me at +school, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris made no answer; in fact, he did not know what on earth to say, or rather +how to find the fitting words. After all, it was an accident and not his own +intelligence that freed him from his difficulty. Mary moved a little, causing +the white cloak, which was unfastened, to slip from her shoulders. Morris put +out his hand to catch it, and met her hand. In another instant he had thrown +his arm round her, drawn her to him, and kissed her on the lips. Then, abashed +at what he had done, he let her go and picked up the cloak. +</p> + +<p> +“Might I ask?” began Mary in her usual sweet, low tones. Then her +voice broke, and her blue eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon; I am a brute,” began Morris, utterly abased by +the sight of these tears, which glimmered like pearls in the moonlight, +“but, of course, you know what I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary shook her head vacantly. Apparently she could not trust herself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, will you take me?” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer; only, after pausing for some few seconds as though lost in +thought, with a little action more eloquent than any speech, she leant herself +ever so slightly towards him. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, words came to him readily enough: +</p> + +<p> +“I am not worth your having,” he said. “I know I am an odd +fellow, not like other men; my very failings have not been the same as other +men’s. For instance—before heaven it is true—you are the +first woman whom I ever kissed, as I swear to you that you shall be the last. +Then, what else am I? A failure in the very work that I have chosen, and the +heir to a bankrupt property! Oh! it is not fair; I have no right to ask +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it quite fair, and here I am the judge, Morris.” Then, +sentence by sentence, she went on, not all at once, but with breaks and pauses. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me just now if I loved you, and I told you—Yes. But you +did not ask me when I began to love you. I will tell you all the same. I +can’t remember a time when I didn’t; no, not since I was a little +girl. It was you who grew away from me, not me from you, when you took to +studying mysticism and aerophones, and were repelled by all women, myself +included.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, I know,” he said. “Don’t remind me of my dead +follies. Some things are born in the blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, and they remain in the bone. I understand. Morris, unless you +maltreat me wilfully—which I am sure you would never do—I shall +always understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you afraid of?” he asked in a shaken voice. “I feel +that you are afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, one or two things; that you might overwork yourself, for instance. +Or, lest you should find that after all you are more human than you imagine, +and be taken possession of by some strange Stella coming out of nowhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, and why do you use that name?” he said amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“What I say, dear. As for that name, I heard it accidentally at table +to-night, and it came to my lips—of itself. It seemed to typify what I +meant, and to suggest a wandering star—such as men like you are fond of +following.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour,” said Morris, “I will do none of these +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you can help it, you will do none of them. I know it well enough. I +hope and believe that there will never be a shadow between us while we live. +But, Morris, I take you, risks and all, because it has been my chance to love +you and nobody else. Otherwise, I should think twice; but love doesn’t +stop at risks.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have I done to deserve this?” groaned Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot see. I should very much like to know,” replied Mary, with +a touch of her old humour. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this moment that Colonel Monk, happening to come round the corner of +the house, walking on the grass, and followed by Mr. Porson, saw a sight which +interested him. With one hand he pointed it out to Porson, at the same moment +motioning him to silence with the other. Then, taking his brother-in-law by the +arm, he dragged him back round the corner of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“They make a pretty picture there in the moonlight, don’t they, +John, my boy?” he said. “Come, we had better go back into the study +and talk over matters till they have done. Even the warmth of their emotions +won’t keep out the night air for ever.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a> +CHAPTER VI.<br/> +THE GOOD DAYS</h2> + +<p> +For the next month, or, to be accurate, the next five weeks, everything went +merrily at Monk’s Abbey. It was as though some cloud had been lifted off +the place and those who dwelt therein. No longer did the Colonel look solemn +when he came down in the morning, and no longer was he cross after he had read +his letters. Now his interviews with the steward in the study were neither +prolonged nor anxious; indeed, that functionary emerged thence on Saturday +mornings with a shining countenance, drying the necessary cheque, heretofore so +difficult to extract, by waving it ostentatiously in the air. Lastly, the +Colonel did not seem to be called upon to make such frequent visits to his man +of business, and to tarry at the office of the bank manager in Northwold. Once +there was a meeting, but, contrary to the general custom, the lawyer and the +banker came to see him in company, and stopped to luncheon. At this meal, +moreover, the three of them appeared to be in the best of spirits. +</p> + +<p> +Morris noted all these things in his quiet, observant way, and from them drew +certain conclusions of his own. But he shrank from making inquiries, nor did +the Colonel offer any confidences. After all, why should he, who had never +meddled with his father’s business, choose this moment to explore it, +especially as he knew from previous experience that such investigations would +not be well received? It was one of the Colonel’s peculiarities to keep +his affairs to himself until they grew so bad that circumstances forced him to +seek the counsel or the aid of others. Still, Morris could well guess from what +mine the money was digged that caused so comfortable a change in their +circumstances, and the solution of this mystery gave him little joy. Cash in +consideration of an unconcluded marriage; that was how it read. To his +sensitive nature the transaction seemed one of doubtful worth. +</p> + +<p> +However, no one else appeared to be troubled, if, indeed, these things existed +elsewhere than in his own imagination. This, Morris admitted, was possible, for +their access of prosperity might, after all, be no more than a resurrection of +credit, vivified by the news of his engagement with the only child of a man +known to be wealthy. His uncle Porson, with a solemnity that was almost +touching, had bestowed upon Mary and himself a jerky but earnest blessing +before he drove home on the night of the dinner-party. He went so far, indeed, +as to kiss them both; an example which the Colonel followed with a more +finished but equally heartfelt grace. +</p> + +<p> +Now his uncle John beamed upon him daily like the noonday sun. Also he began to +take him into his confidence, and consult him as to the erection of houses, +affairs of business, and investments. In the course of these interviews Morris +was astonished, not to say dismayed, to discover how large were the sums of +money as to the disposal of which he was expected to express opinions. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, it will all be yours, my boy,” said Mr. Porson one day, +in explanation; “so it is best that you should know something of these +affairs. Yes, it will all be yours, before very long,” and he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust that I shall have nothing to do with it for many years,” +blurted out Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Say months, say months,” answered his uncle, stretching out his +hands as though to push something from him. Then, to all appearances overcome +by a sudden anguish, physical or mental, he turned and hurried from the room. +</p> + +<p> +Taking them all together, those five weeks were the happiest that Morris had +ever known. No longer was he profoundly dissatisfied with things in general, no +longer ravaged by that desire of the moth for the star which in some natures is +almost a disease. His outlook upon the world was healthier and more hopeful; +for the first time he saw its wholesome, joyous side. Had he failed to do so, +indeed, he must have been a very strange man, for he had much to make the +poorest heart rejoice. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Mary, always a charming woman, since her engagement had become absolutely +delightful; wittier, more wideawake, more beautiful. Morris could look forward +to the years to be spent in her company not only without misgiving, but with a +confidence that a while ago he would have thought impossible. Moreover, as good +fortunes never come singly, his were destined to be multiplied. It was in those +days after so many years of search and unfruitful labour that at last he +discovered a clue which in the end resulted in the perfection of the instrument +that was the parent of the aerophone of commerce, and gave him a name among the +inventors of the century which will not easily be forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Strangely enough it was Morris’s good genius, Mary, who suggested the +substance, or, rather, the mixture of substances, whereof that portion of the +aerophone was finally constructed which is still known as the Monk Sound Waves +Receiver. Whether, as she alleged, she made this discovery by pure accident, or +whether, as seems possible, she had thought the problem out in her own feminine +fashion with results that proved excellent, does not matter in the least. The +issue remains the same. An apparatus which before would work only on rare +occasions—and then without any certitude—between people in the +highest state of sympathy or nervous excitement, has now been brought to such a +stage of perfection that by its means anybody can talk to anybody, even if +their interests are antagonistic, or their personal enmity bitter. +</p> + +<p> +After the first few experiments with this new material Morris was not slow to +discover that although it would need long and careful testing and elaboration, +for him it meant, in the main, the realisation of his great dream, and success +after years of failure. And—that was the strange part of it—this +realisation and success he owed to no effort of his own, but to some chance +suggestion made by Mary. He told her this, and thanked her as a man thanks one +through whom he has found salvation. In answer she merely laughed, saying that +she was nothing but the wire along which a happy inspiration had reached his +brain, and that more than this she neither wished, nor hoped, nor was capable +of being. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly on this happy, tranquil atmosphere which wrapped them +about—like the sound of a passing bell at a child’s +feast—floated the first note of impending doom and death. +</p> + +<p> +The autumn held fine and mild, and Mary, who had been lunching at the Abbey, +was playing croquet with Morris upon the side lawn. This game was the only one +for which she chanced to care, perhaps because it did not involve much +exertion. Morris, who engaged in the pastime with the same earnestness that he +gave to every other pursuit in which he happened to be interested, was, as +might be expected, getting the best of the encounter. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you take a couple of bisques, dear?” he asked +affectionately, after a while. “I don’t like always beating you by +such a lot.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d die first,” she answered; “bisques are the badge +of advertised inferiority and a mark of the giver’s contempt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff!” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff, indeed! As though it wasn’t bad enough to be beaten at all; +but to be beaten with bisques!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s another argument,” said Morris. “First you say +you are too proud to accept them, and next that you won’t accept them +because it is worse to be defeated with points than without them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway, if you had the commonest feelings of humanity you wouldn’t +beat me,” replied Mary, adroitly shifting her ground for the third time. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I help it if you won’t have the bisques?” +</p> + +<p> +“How? By pretending that you were doing your best, and letting me win all +the same, of course; though if I caught you at it I should be furious. But +what’s the use of trying to teach a blunt creature like you tact? My dear +Morris, I assure you I do not believe that your efforts at deception would take +in the simplest-minded cow. Why, even Dad sees through you, and the person who +can’t impose upon my Dad——. Oh!” she added, suddenly, +in a changed voice, “there is George coming through the gate. Something +has happened to my father. Look at his face, Morris; look at his face!” +</p> + +<p> +In another moment the footman stood before them. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, miss, the master,” he began, and hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Not dead?” said Mary, in a slow, quiet voice. “Do not say +that he is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss, but he has had a stroke of the heart or something, and the +doctor thought you had better be fetched, so I have brought the +carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me, Morris,” she said, as, dropping the croquet mallet, +she flew rather than ran to the brougham. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later they were at Seaview. In the hall they met Mr. Charters, the +doctor. Why was he leaving? Because—— +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said, answering their looks; “the danger is +past. He seems almost as well as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” stammered Mary. Then a thought struck her, and she +looked up sharply and asked, “Will it come back again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” was his straightforward answer. +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +“From time to time, at irregular periods. But in its fatal shape, as I +hope, not for some years.” +</p> + +<p> +“The verdict might have been worse, dear,” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, but to think that <i>it</i> has passed so near to him, and he +quite alone at the time. Morris,” she went on, turning to him with an +energy that was almost fierce, “if you won’t have my father to live +with us, I won’t marry you. Do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly, dear, you leave no room for misconception. By all means let +him live with us—if he can get on with my father,” he added +meaningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she replied, “I never thought of that. Also I should +not have spoken so roughly, but I have had such a shock that I feel inclined to +treat you like—like—a toad under a harrow. So please be +sympathetic, and don’t misunderstand me, or I don’t know what I +shall say.” Then by way of making amends, Mary put her arms round his +neck and gave him a kiss “all of her own accord,” saying, +“Morris, I am afraid—I am afraid. I feel as if our good time was +done.” +</p> + +<p> +After this the servant came to say that she might go up to her father’s +room, and that scene of our drama was at an end. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Porson owned a villa at Beaulieu, in the south of France, which he had +built many years before as a winter house for his wife, whose chest was weak. +Here he was in the habit of spending the spring months, more, perhaps, because +of the associations which the place possessed for him than of any affection for +foreign lands. Now, however, after this last attack, three doctors in +consultation announced that it would be well for him to escape from the fogs +and damp of England. So to Beaulieu he was ordered. +</p> + +<p> +This decree caused consternation in various quarters. Mr. Porson did not wish +to go; Mary and Morris were cast down for simple and elementary reasons; and +Colonel Monk found this change of plan—it had been arranged that the +Porsons should stop at Seaview till the New Year, which was to be the day of +the marriage—inconvenient, and, indeed, disturbing. Once those young +people were parted, reflected the Colonel in his wisdom, who could tell what +might or might not happen? +</p> + +<p> +In this difficulty he found an inspiration. Why should not the wedding take +place at once? Very diplomatically he sounded his brother-in-law, to find that +he had no opposition to fear in this quarter provided that Mary and her husband +would join him at Beaulieu after a week or two of honeymoon. Then he spoke to +Morris, who was delighted with the idea. For Morris had come to the conclusion +that the marriage state would be better and more satisfactory than one of +prolonged engagement. +</p> + +<p> +It only remained, therefore, to obtain the consent of Mary, which would +perhaps, have been given without much difficulty had her uncle been content to +leave his son or Mr. Porson to ask it of her. As it chanced, this he was not +willing to do. Porson, he was sure, would at once give way should his daughter +raise any objection, and in Morris’s tact and persuasive powers the +Colonel had no faith. +</p> + +<p> +In the issue, confident in his own diplomatic abilities, he determined to +manage the affair himself and to speak to his niece. The mistake was grave, for +whereas she was as wax to her father or her lover, something in her +uncle’s manner, or it may have been his very personality, always aroused +in Mary a spirit of opposition. On this occasion, too, that manner was not +fortunate, for he put the proposal before her as a thing already agreed upon by +all concerned, and one to which her consent was asked as a mere matter of form. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly Mary became antagonistic. She pretended not to understand; she asked +for reasons and explanations. Finally, she announced in idle words, beneath +which ran a current of determination, that neither her father nor Morris could +really wish this hurried marriage, since had they done so one or other of them +would have spoken to her on the subject. When pressed, she intimated very +politely, but in language whereof the meaning could hardly be mistaken, that +she held this fixing of the date to be peculiarly her own privilege; and when +still further pressed said plainly that she considered her father too ill for +her to think of being married at present. +</p> + +<p> +“But they both desire it,” expostulated the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“They have not told me so,” Mary answered, setting her red lips. +</p> + +<p> +“If that is all, they will tell you so soon enough, my dear girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, uncle, after they have been directed to do so, but that is not +quite the same thing.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel saw that he had made a mistake, and too late changed his tactics. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Mary, your father’s state of health is precarious; he +might grow worse.” +</p> + +<p> +She tapped her foot upon the ground. Of these allusions to the possible, and, +indeed, the certain end of her beloved father’s illness, she had a kind +of horror. +</p> + +<p> +“In that event, that dreadful event,” she answered, “he will +need me, my whole time and care to nurse him. These I might not be able to give +if I were already married. I love Morris very dearly. I am his for whatever I +may be worth; but I was my father’s before Morris came into my life, and +he has the first claim upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, then, do you propose?” asked the Colonel curtly, for +opposition and argument bred no meekness in his somewhat arbitrary breast. +</p> + +<p> +“To be married on New Year’s Day, wherever we are, if Morris wishes +it and the state of my father’s health makes it convenient. If not, Uncle +Richard, to wait till a more fitting season.” Then she rose—for +this conversation took place at Seaview—saying that it was time she +should give her father his medicine. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the project of an early marriage fell through; for, having once been +driven into announcing her decision in terms so open and unmistakable, Mary +would not go back on her word. +</p> + +<p> +Morris, who was much disappointed, pleaded with her. Her father also spoke upon +the subject, but though the voice was the voice of Mr. Porson, the arguments, +she perceived, were the arguments of Colonel Monk. Therefore she hardened her +heart and put the matter by, refusing, indeed, to discuss it at any length. +Yet—and it is not the first time that a woman has allowed her whims to +prevail over her secret wishes—in truth she desired nothing more than to +be married to Morris so soon as it was his will to take her. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, a compromise was arranged. There was to be no wedding at present, but +the whole party were to go together to Beaulieu, there to await the development +of events. It was arranged, moreover, by all concerned, that unless something +unforeseen occurred to prevent it, the marriage should be celebrated upon or +about New Year’s Day. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a> +CHAPTER VII.<br/> +BEAULIEU</h2> + +<p> +Beautiful as it might be and fashionable as it might be, Morris did not find +Beaulieu very entertaining; indeed, in an unguarded moment he confessed to Mary +that he “hated the hole.” Even the steam launch in which they went +for picnics did not console him, fond though he was of the sea; while as for +Monte Carlo, after his third visit he was heard to declare that if they wanted +to take him there again it must be in his coffin. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel did not share these views. He was out for a holiday, and he meant +to enjoy himself. To begin with, there was the club at Nice, where he fell in +with several old comrades and friends. Then, whom should he meet but Lady +Rawlins: once, for a little while in the distant past, they had been engaged; +until suddenly the young lady, a beauty in her day, jilted him in favour of a +wealthy banker of Hebraic origin. Now, many years after, the banker was aged, +violent, and uncomely, habitually exceeded in his cups, and abused his wife +before the servants. So it came about that to the poor woman the +Colonel’s courteous, if somewhat sarcastic, consolations were really very +welcome. It pleased him also to offer them. The jilting he had long ago +forgiven; indeed, he blessed her nightly for having taken that view of her +obligations, seeing that Jane Millet, as she was then, however pretty her face +may once have been, had neither fortune nor connections. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear Jane,” he said to her confidentially one afternoon, +“I assure you I often admire your foresight. Now, if you had done the +other thing, where should we have been to-day? In the workhouse, I +imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” answered Lady Rawlins, meekly, and suppressing a +sigh, since for the courtly and distinguished Colonel she cherished a +sentimental admiration which actually increased with age; “but you +didn’t always think like that, Richard.” Then she glanced out of +the window, and added: “Oh, there is Jonah coming home, and he looks so +cross,” and the poor lady shivered. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel put up his eyeglass and contemplated Jonah through the window. He +was not a pleasing spectacle. A rather low-class Hebrew who calls himself a +Christian, of unpleasant appearance and sinister temper, suffering from the +effects of lunch, is not an object to be loved. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I see,” said the Colonel. “Yes, Sir Jonah ages, +doesn’t he? as, indeed, we do all of us,” and he glanced at the +lady’s spreading proportions. Then he went on. “You really should +persuade him to be tidier in his costume, Jane; his ancestral namesake could +scarcely have looked more dishevelled after his sojourn with the whale. Well, +it is a small failing; one can’t have everything, and on the whole, with +your wealth and the rest, you have been a very fortunate woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Richard, how can you say so?” murmured the wretched Lady +Rawlins, as she took the hand outstretched in farewell. For Jonah in large +doses was more than the Colonel could stomach. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, as the door closed behind him she wiped away a tear, whispering to +herself: “And to think that I threw over dear Richard in order to marry +that—that—yes, I will say it—that horror!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, as he strolled down the street, beautifully dressed, and still +looking very upright and handsome—for he had never lost his +figure—the Colonel was saying to himself: +</p> + +<p> +“Silly old woman! Well, I hope that by now she knows the difference +between a gentleman and a half-Christianised, money-hunting, wine-bibbing Jew. +However, she’s got the fortune, which was what she wanted, although she +forgets it now, and he’s got a lachrymose, stout, old party. But how +beautiful she used to be! My word, how beautiful she used to be! To go to see +her now is better than any sermon; it is an admirable moral exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +To Lady Rawlins also the Colonel’s visits proved excellent moral +exercises tinged with chastenings. Whenever he went away he left behind him +some aphorism or reflection filled with a wholesome bitter. But still she +sought his society and, in secret, adored him. +</p> + +<p> +In addition to the club and Lady Rawlins there were the tables at Monte Carlo, +with their motley company, which to a man of the world could not fail to be +amusing. Besides, the Colonel had one weakness—sometimes he did a little +gambling, and when he played he liked to play fairly high. Morris accompanied +him once to the “Salles de jeu,” and—that was enough. What +passed there exactly, could never be got out of him, even by Mary, whose sense +of humour was more than satisfied with the little comedies in progress about +her, no single point of which did she ever miss. +</p> + +<p> +Only, funny as she might be in her general feebleness, and badly as she might +have behaved in some distant past, for Lady Rawlins she felt sorry. Her kind +heart told Mary that this unhappy person also possessed a heart, although she +was now stout and on the wrong side of middle age. She was aware, too, that the +Colonel knew as much, and his scientific pin-pricks and searings of that +guileless and unprotected organ struck her as little short of cruel. None the +less so, indeed, because the victim at the stake imagined that they were +inflicted in kindness by the hand of a still tender and devoted friend. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that I shan’t quarrel with my father-in-law,” +reflected Mary to herself, after one of the best of these exhibitions; +“he’s got an uncommonly long memory, and likes to come even. +However, I never shall, because he’s afraid of me and knows that I see +through him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary was right. A very sincere respect for her martial powers when roused +ensured perfect peace between her and the Colonel. With his son, however, it +was otherwise. Even in this age of the Triumph of the Offspring parents do +exist who take advantage of their sons’ strict observance of the Fifth +Commandment. It is easy to turn a man into a moral bolster and sit upon him if +you know that an exaggerated sense of filial duty will prevent him from +stuffing himself with pins. So it came about that Morris was sometimes sat +upon, especially when the Colonel was suffering from a bad evening at the +tables; well out of sight and hearing of Mary, be it understood, who on such +occasions was apt to develop a quite formidable temper. +</p> + +<p> +It is over this question of the tables that one of these domestic differences +arose which in its results brought about the return of the Monks to Monksland. +Upon a certain afternoon the Colonel asked his son to accompany him to Monte +Carlo. Morris refused, rather curtly, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied the Colonel in his grandest manner. “I +am sure I do not wish for an unwilling companion, and doubtless your attention +is claimed by affairs more important than the according of your company to a +father.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Morris, with his accustomed truthfulness; “I am +going out sea-fishing, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. Allow me then to wish good luck to your fishing. Does Mary +accompany you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not; she says the boat makes her sick, and she can’t +bear eels.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better, as I can ask for the pleasure of her society this +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you can ask,” said Morris, suddenly turning angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you imply, Morris, that the request will be refused?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, father; if I have anything to do with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And might I inquire why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I won’t have Mary taken to that place to mix with the +people who frequent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. This is exclusiveness with a vengeance. Perhaps you consider that +those unholy doors should be shut to me also.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no right to express an opinion as to where my father should or +should not go; but if you ask me, I think that, under all the circumstances, +you would do best to keep away.” +</p> + +<p> +“The circumstances! What circumstances?” +</p> + +<p> +“Those of our poverty, which leaves us no money to risk in +gambling.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Colonel lost all control of his temper, as sometimes happened to him, +and became exceedingly violent and unpleasant. What he said does not matter; +let it suffice that the remarks were of a character which even headstrong men +are accustomed to reserve for the benefit of their women-folk and other +intimate relations. +</p> + +<p> +Attracted by the noise, which was considerable, Mary came in to find her uncle +marching up and down the room vituperating Morris, who, with quite a new +expression upon his face—a quiet, dogged kind of expression—was +leaning upon the mantel-piece and watching him. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” began Mary, “would you mind being a little quieter? +My father is asleep upstairs, and I am afraid that you will wake him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, my dear, very sorry, but there are some insults that no man +with self-respect can submit to, even from a son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Insults! insults!” Mary repeated, opening her blue eyes; then, +looking at him with a pained air: “Morris, why do you insult your +father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Insult?” he replied. “Then I will tell you how. My father +wanted to take you to play with him at Monte Carlo this afternoon and I said +that you shouldn’t go. That’s the insult.” +</p> + +<p> +“You observe, my dear,” broke in the Colonel, “that already +he treats you as one having authority.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mary, “and why shouldn’t he? Now that my +father is so weak who am I to obey if not Morris?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, well,” said the Colonel, diplomatically beginning to +cool, for he could control his temper when he liked. “Everyone to their +taste; but some matters are so delicate that I prefer not to discuss +them,” and he looked round for his hat. +</p> + +<p> +By this time, however, the cyclonic condition of things had affected Mary also, +and she determined that he should not escape so easily. +</p> + +<p> +“Before you go,” she went on in her slow voice, “I should +like to say, uncle, that I quite agree with Morris. I don’t think those +tables are quite the place to take young ladies to, especially if the gentleman +with them is much engaged in play.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, indeed; then you are both of a mind, which is quite as it should +be. Of course, too, upon such matters of conduct and etiquette we must all bow +to the taste and the experience of the young—even those of us who have +mixed with the world for forty years. Might I ask, my dear Mary, if you have +any further word of advice for me before I go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, uncle,” replied Mary quite calmly. “I advise you not to +lose so much of—of your money, or to sit up so late at night, which, you +know, never agrees with you. Also, I wish you wouldn’t abuse Morris for +nothing, because he doesn’t deserve it, and I don’t like it; and if +we are all to live together after I am married, it will be so much more +comfortable if we can come to an understanding first.” +</p> + +<p> +Then muttering something beneath his breath about ladies in general and this +young lady in particular, the Colonel departed with speed. +</p> + +<p> +Mary sat down in an armchair, and fanned herself with a pocket-handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“Thinking of the right thing to say always makes me hot,” she +remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if by the right thing you mean the strong thing, you certainly +discovered it,” replied Morris, looking at her with affectionate +admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“I know; but it had to be done, dear. He’s losing a lot of money, +which is mere waste”—here Morris groaned, but asked no +questions—“besides,” and her voice became earnest, “I +will not have him talking to you like that. The fact that one man is the father +of another man doesn’t give him the right to abuse him like a pickpocket. +Also, if you are so good that you put up with it, I have myself to +consider—that is, if we are all to live as a happy family. Do you +understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly,” said Morris. “I daresay you are right, but I +hate rows.” +</p> + +<p> +“So do I, and that is why I have accepted one or two challenges to single +combat quite at the beginning of things. You mark my words, he will be like a +lamb at breakfast to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of my father; at any rate, to +me,” suggested the old-fashioned Morris, rather mildly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear, and when I have learnt to respect him I promise you that I +won’t. There, don’t be vexed with me; but my uncle Richard makes me +cross, and then I scratch. As he said the other day, all women are like cats, +you know. When they are young they play, when they get old they use their +claws—I quote uncle Richard—and although I am not old yet, I +can’t help showing the claws. Dad is ill, that is the fact of it, Morris, +and it gets upon my nerves.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought he was better, love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is better; he may live for years; I hope and believe that he +will, but it is terribly uncertain. And now, look here, Morris, why don’t +you go home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to get rid of me, love?” he asked, looking up. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t. You know that, I am sure. But what is the use of your +stopping here? There is nothing for you to do, and I feel that you are wasting +your time and that you hate it. Tell the truth. Don’t you long to be back +at Monksland, working at that aerophone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be glad to get on with my experiments, but I don’t like +leaving you,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“But you had better leave me for a while. It is not comfortable for you +idling here, particularly when your father is in this uncertain temper. If all +be well, in another couple of months or so we shall come together for good, and +be able to make our own arrangements, according to circumstances. Till then, if +I were you, I should go home, especially as I find that I can get on with my +uncle much better when you are not here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what is to happen after we marry, and I can’t be sent +away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows? But if we are not comfortable at Monk’s Abbey, we can +always set up for ourselves—with Dad at Seaview, for instance. He’s +peaceable enough; besides, he must be looked after; and, to be frank, my uncle +hectors him, poor dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will think it over,” said Morris. “And now come for a walk +on the beach, and we will forget all these worries.” +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the Colonel appeared at breakfast in a perfectly angelic frame of +mind, having to all appearance utterly forgotten the “contretemps” +of the previous afternoon. Perhaps this was policy, or perhaps the fact of his +having won several hundred pounds the night before mollified his mood. At least +it had become genial, and he proved a most excellent companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, old fellow,” he said to Morris, throwing him a letter +across the table; “if you have nothing to do for a week or so, I wish you +would save an aged parent a journey and settle up this job with +Simpkins.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris read the letter. It had to do with the complete reerection of a set of +buildings on the Abbey farm, and the putting up of a certain drainage mill. +Over this question differences had arisen between the agent Simpkins and the +rural authorities, who alleged that the said mill would interfere with an +established right of way. Indeed, things had come to such a point that if a +lawsuit was to be avoided the presence of a principal was necessary. +</p> + +<p> +“Simpkins is a quarrelsome ass,” explained the Colonel, “and +somebody will have to smooth those fellows down. Will you go? because if you +won’t I must, and I don’t want to break into the first pleasant +holiday I have had for five years—thanks to your kindness, my dear +John.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I will go, if necessary,” answered Morris. “But I +thought you told me a few months ago that it was quite impossible to execute +those alterations, on account of the expense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; but I have consulted with your uncle here, and the matter has +been arranged. Hasn’t it, John?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Porson was seated at the end of the table, and Morris, looking at him, +noticed with a shock how old he had suddenly become. His plump, cheerful face +had fallen in; the cheeks were quite hollow now; his jaws seemed to protrude, +and the skin upon his bald head to be drawn quite tight like the parchment on a +drum. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, of course, Colonel,” he answered, lifting his chin from +his breast, upon which it was resting, “arranged, quite satisfactorily +arranged.” Then he looked about rather vacantly, for his mind, it was +clear, was far away, and added, “Do you want: I mean, were you talking +about the new drainage mill for the salt marshes?” Mary interrupted and +explained. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I am afraid I am getting a little deaf, and +this air makes me so sleepy in the morning. Now, just tell me again, what is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary explained further. +</p> + +<p> +“Morris to go and see about it. Well, why shouldn’t he? It +doesn’t take long to get home nowadays. Not but that we shall be sorry to +lose you, my dear boy; or, at least, one of us will be sorry,” and he +tried to wink in his old jovial fashion, and chuckled feebly. +</p> + +<p> +Mary saw and sighed; while the Colonel shook his head portentously. Nobody +could play the part of Job’s comforter to greater perfection. +</p> + +<p> +The end of it was that, after a certain space of hesitation, Morris agreed to +go. This “ménage” at Beaulieu oppressed him, and he hated the +place. Besides, Mary, seeing that he was worried, almost insisted on his +departure. +</p> + +<p> +“If I want you back I will send for you,” she said. “Go to +your work, dear; you will be happier.” +</p> + +<p> +So he kissed her fondly and went—as he was fated to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, my dear son,” said Mr. Porson—sometimes he called +him his son, now. “I hope that I shall see you again soon, and if I +don’t, you will be kind to my daughter Mary, won’t you? You +understand, everybody else is dead—my wife is dead, my boy is dead, and +soon I shall be dead. So naturally I think a good deal about her. You will be +kind to her, won’t you? Good-bye, my son, and don’t trouble about +money; there’s plenty.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a> +CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +THE SUNK ROCKS AND THE SINGER</h2> + +<p> +Morris arrived home in safety, and speedily settled the question of the +drainage mill to the satisfaction of all concerned. But he did not return to +Beaulieu. To begin with, although the rural authorities ceased to trouble them, +his father was most urgent that he should stay and supervise the putting up of +the new farm buildings, and wrote to him nearly every day to this effect. It +occurred to his son that under the circumstances he might have come to look +after the buildings himself; also, that perhaps he found the villa at Beaulieu +more comfortable without his presence; a conjecture in which he was perfectly +correct. +</p> + +<p> +Upon the first point, also, letters from Mary soon enlightened him. It appeared +that shortly after his departure Sir Jonah, in a violent fit of rage, brought +on by drink and a remark of his wife’s that had she married Colonel Monk +she “would have been a happy woman,” burst a small blood-vessel in +his head, with the strange result that from a raging animal of a man he had +been turned into an amiable and perfectly harmless imbecile. Under so trying a +domestic blow, naturally, Mary explained, Colonel Monk felt it to be his duty +to support and comfort his old friend to the best of his ability. +“This,” added Mary, “he does for about three hours every day. +I believe, indeed, that a place is always laid for him at meals, while poor Sir +Jonah, for whom I feel quite sorry, although he was such a horrid man, sits in +an armchair and smiles at him continually.” +</p> + +<p> +So Morris determined to take the advice which Mary gave him very plainly, and +abandoned all idea of returning to Beaulieu, at any rate, on this side of +Christmas. His plans settled, he went to work with a will, and was soon deeply +absorbed in the manufacture of experimental receivers made from the new +substance. So completely, indeed, did these possess his mind that, as Mary at +last complained, his letters to her might with equal fitness have been +addressed to an electrical journal, since from them even diagrams were not +lacking. +</p> + +<p> +So things went on until the event occurred which was destined profoundly and +mysteriously to affect the lives of Morris and his affianced wife. That event +was the shipwreck of the steam tramp, Trondhjem, upon the well-known Sunk Rocks +outside the Sands which run parallel to the coast at a distance of about five +knots from the Monksland cliff. In this year of our story, about the middle of +November, the weather set in very mild and misty. It was the third of these +“roky” nights, and the sea-fog poured along the land like vapour +from an opened jar of chemicals. Morris was experimenting at the forge in his +workshop very late—or, rather early, for it was near to two o’clock +in the morning—when of a sudden through the open window, rising from the +quiet sea beneath, he heard the rattle of oars in rowlocks. Wondering what a +boat could be doing so near inshore at a season when there was no night +fishing, he went to the window to listen. Presently he caught the sound of +voices shouting in a tongue with which he was unacquainted, followed by another +sound, that of a boat being beached upon the shingle immediately below the +Abbey. Now guessing that something unusual must have happened, Morris took his +hat and coat, and, unlocking the Abbot’s door, lit a lantern, and +descended the cement steps to the beach. Here he found himself in the midst of +ten or twelve men, most of them tall and bearded, who were gathered about a +ship’s boat which they had dragged up high and dry. One of these men, who +from his uniform he judged to be the captain, approached and addressed him in a +language that he did not understand, but imagined must be Danish or Norwegian. +</p> + +<p> +Morris shook his head to convey the blankness of his ignorance, whereupon other +men addressed him, also in northern tongues. Then, as he still shook his head, +a lad of about nineteen came forward and spoke in broken and barbarous French. +</p> + +<p> +“Naufragé la bas,” he said; “bateau à vapeur, naufragé sur +les rochers—brouillard. Nous échappé.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tous?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +The young man shrugged his shoulders as though he were doubtful on the point, +then added, pointing to the boat: +</p> + +<p> +“Homme beaucoup blessé, pasteur anglais.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris went to the cutter, and, holding up the lantern, looked down, to find an +oldish man with sharp features, dark eyes, and grizzled beard, lying under a +tarpaulin in the bottom of the boat. He was clothed only in a dressing gown and +a blood-stained nightshirt, groaning and semi-unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +“Jambe cassé, beaucoup mal cassé,” explained the French scholar. +</p> + +<p> +“Apportez-le vite après moi,” said Morris. This order having been +translated by the youth, several stalwart sailors lifted up the injured man, +and, placing the tarpaulin beneath him, took hold of it by the sides and +corners. Then, following Morris, they bore him as gently as they could up the +steps into the Abbey to a large bedroom upon the first floor, where they laid +him upon the bed. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, by the industrious ringing of bells as they went, Morris had +succeeded in rousing a groom, a page-boy, and the cook. The first of these he +sent off post haste for Dr. Charters. Next, having directed the cook to give +the foreign sailormen some food and beer, he told the page-boy to conduct them +to the Sailors’ Home, a place of refuge provided, as is common upon this +stormy coast, for the accommodation of distressed and shipwrecked mariners. As +he could extract nothing further, it seemed useless to detain them at the +Abbey. Then, pending the arrival of the doctor, with the assistance of the old +housekeeper, he set to work to examine the patient. This did not take long, for +his injuries were obvious. The right thigh was broken and badly bruised, and he +bled from a contusion upon the forehead. This wound upon his head seemed also +to have affected his brain; at any rate, he was unable to speak coherently or +to do more than mutter something about “shipwreck” and +“steamer Trondhjem,” and to ask for water. +</p> + +<p> +Thinking that at least it could do no harm, Morris gave him a cup of soup, +which had been hastily prepared. Just as the patient finished drinking it, +which he did eagerly, the doctor arrived, and after a swift examination +administered some anaesthetic, and got to work to set the broken limb. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a bad smash—very bad,” he explained to Morris; +“something must have fallen on him, I think. If it had been an inch or +two higher, he’d have lost his leg, or his life, or both, as perhaps he +will now. At the best it means a couple of months or so on his back. No, I +think the cut on his head isn’t serious, although it has knocked him +silly for a while.” +</p> + +<p> +At length the horrid work was done, and the doctor, who had to return to a +confinement case in the village, departed. Before he went he told Morris that +he hoped to be back by five o’clock. He promised also that before his +return he would call in at the Sailor’s Home to see that the crew were +comfortable, and discover what he could of the details of the catastrophe. +Meanwhile for his part, Morris undertook to watch in the sick-room. +</p> + +<p> +For nearly three hours, while the drug retained its grip of him, the patient +remained comatose. All this while Morris sat at his bedside wondering who he +might be, and what curious circumstance could have brought him into the company +of these rough Northmen sailors. To his profession he had a clue, although no +sure one, for round his neck the man wore a silver cross suspended by a chain. +This suggested that he might be a clergyman, and went far to confirm the broken +talk of the French-speaking sailor. Clearly, also, he was a person of some +breeding and position, the refinement of his face and the delicacy of his hands +showed as much. While Morris was watching and wondering, suddenly the man +awoke, and began to talk in a confused fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“At Monksland,” answered Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right, that’s where I should be, but the ship, +the ship”—then a pause and a cry: “Stella, Stella!” +</p> + +<p> +Morris pricked his ears. “Where is Stella?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“On the rocks. She struck, then darkness, all darkness. Stella, come +here, Stella!” +</p> + +<p> +A memory awoke in the mind of Morris, and he leant over the patient, who again +had sunk into delirium. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean Stella Fregelius?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The man turned his flushed face and opened his dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, Stella Fregelius—who else? There is only one +Stella,” and again he became incoherent. +</p> + +<p> +For a while Morris plied him with further questions; but as he could obtain no +coherent answer, he gave him his medicine and left him quiet. Then for another +half-hour or so he sat and watched, while a certain theory took shape in his +mind. This gentleman must be the new rector. It seemed as though, probably +accompanied by his daughter, he had taken passage in a Danish tramp boat bound +for Northwold, which had touched at some Northumbrian port. Morris knew that +the incoming clergyman had a daughter, for, now that he thought of it, he had +heard Mr. Tomley mention the fact at the dinner-party on the night when he +became engaged. Yes, and certainly she was named Stella. But there was no woman +among those who had come to land, and he understood the injured man to suggest +that his daughter had been left upon the steamer which was said to have gone +ashore upon some rocks; or, perhaps, upon the Sunk Rocks themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the only rocks within twenty miles of them were these famous Sunk Rocks, +about six knots away. Even within his own lifetime four vessels had been lost +there, either because they had missed, or mistaken, the lightship signal +further out to sea, as sometimes happened in a fog such as prevailed this +night, or through false reckonings. The fate of all these vessels had been +identical; they had struck upon the reef, rebounded or slid off, and foundered +in deep water. Probably in this case the same thing had happened. At least, the +facts, so far as he knew them, pointed to that conclusion. Evidently the escape +of the crew had been very hurried, for they had saved nothing. He judged also +that the clergyman, Mr. Fregelius, having rushed on deck, had been injured by +the fall of some spar or block consequent upon the violence of the impact of +the vessel upon the reef, and in this hurt condition had been thrown into the +boat by the sailors. +</p> + +<p> +Then where was the daughter Stella? Was she killed in the same fashion or +drowned? Probably one or the other. But there was a third bare possibility, +which did no credit to the crew, that she had been forgotten in the panic and +hurry, and left behind on the sinking ship. +</p> + +<p> +At first Morris thought of rousing the captain of the lifeboat. On reflection, +however, he abandoned this idea, for really what had he to go on beyond the +scanty and disjointed ravings of a delirious man? Very possibly the girl Stella +was not upon the ship at all. Probably, also, hours ago that vessel had +vanished from the eyes of men for ever. To send out the lifeboat upon such a +wild-goose chase would be to turn himself into a laughing-stock. +</p> + +<p> +Still something drew his thoughts to that hidden line of reef, and the ship +which might still be hanging on it, and the woman who might still be living in +the ship. +</p> + +<p> +It was a painful vision from which he could not free his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Then there came to him an idea. Why should he not go to the Sunk Rocks and +look? There was a light breeze off land, and with the help of the page-boy, who +was sitting up, as the tide was nearing its full he could manage to launch his +small sailing-boat, which by good fortune was still berthed near the beach +steps. It was a curious chance that this should be so, seeing that in most +seasons she would have been by now removed to the shed a mile away, to be out +of reach of possible damage from the furious winter gales. As it happened, +however, the weather remaining so open, this had not been done. Further, the +codlings having begun to run in unusual numbers, as is common upon this coast +in late autumn, Morris that very morning had taken the boat out to fish for +them, an amusement which he proposed to resume on the morrow in the hope of +better sport. Therefore the boat had her sails on board, and was in every way +ready for sea. +</p> + +<p> +Why should he not go? For one reason only that he could suggest. There was a +certain amount of risk in sailing about the Sunk Rocks in a fog, even for a +tiny craft like his, for here the currents were very sharp; also, in many +places the points of the rocks were only just beneath the surface of the water. +But he knew the dangerous places well enough if he could see them, as he ought +to be able to do, for the dawn should break before he arrived. And, after all, +what was a risk more or less in life? He would go. He felt +impelled—strangely impelled—to go, though of course it was all +nonsense, and probably he would be back by nine o’clock, having seen +nothing at all. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the injured Mr. Fregelius had sunk into sleep or stupor, doubtless +beneath the influence of the second draught which he had administered to him in +obedience to the doctor’s orders. On his account, therefore, Morris had +no anxiety, since the cook, a steady, middle-aged woman, could watch by him for +the present. +</p> + +<p> +He called her and gave her instructions, bidding her tell the doctor when he +came that he had gone to see if he could make out anything more about the +wreck, and that he would be back soon. Then, ordering the page-boy, a stout +lad, to accompany him, he descended the steps, and together, with some +difficulty, they succeeded in launching the boat. Now for a moment Morris +hesitated, wondering whether he should take the young man with him; but +remembering that this journey was not without its dangers, finally he decided +to go alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I am just going to have a sail round, Thomas, to look if I can make out +anything about that ship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” remarked Thomas, doubtfully. “But it is rather a +queer time to hunt for her, and in this sea-haze too, especially round the Sunk +Rocks. Shall I leave the lunch basket in the locker, sir, or take it up to the +house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave it; it wasn’t touched to-day, and I might be glad of some +breakfast,” Morris answered. Then, having hoisted his sail, he sat +himself in the stern, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other. +Instantly the water began to lap gently against the bow, and in another minute +he glided away from the sight of the doubting Thomas, vanishing like some +sea-ghost into the haze and that chill darkness which precedes the dawn. +</p> + +<p> +It was very dark, and the mist was very damp, and the wind, what there was of +it, very cold, especially as in his hurry he had forgotten to bring a thick +ulster, and had nothing but a covert coat and a thin oil-skin to wear. +Moreover, he could not see in the least where he was going, or do more than lay +his course for the Sunk Rocks by means of the boat’s compass, which he +consulted from time to time by the help of a bull’s-eye lantern. +</p> + +<p> +This went on for nearly an hour, by the end of which Morris began to wonder why +he had started upon such a fool’s errand. Also, he was growing alarmed. +He knew that by now he should be in the neighbourhood of the reef, and fancied, +indeed, that he could hear the water lapping against its rocks. Accordingly, as +this reef was ill company in the dark, Morris hauled down his sail, and in case +he should have reached the shallows, threw out his little anchor, which was +attached to six fathoms of chain. At first it swung loose, but four or five +minutes later, the boat having been carried onward into fleeter water by the +swift current that was one of the terrors of the Sunk Rocks, it touched bottom, +dragged a little, and held fast. +</p> + +<p> +Morris gave a sigh of relief, for that blind journey among unknown dangers was +neither safe nor pleasant. Now, at least, in this quiet weather he could lie +where he was till light came, praying that a wind might not come first. Already +the cold November dawn was breaking in the east; he was able to see the +reflection of it upon the fog, and the surface of the water, black and +oily-looking, became visible as it swept past the sides of his boat. Now, too, +he was sure that the rocks must be close at hand, for he could hear the running +tide distinctly as it washed against them and through the dense growth of +seaweed that clung to their crests and ridges. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, too, he heard something else, which at first caused him to rub his +eyes in the belief that he must have fallen asleep and dreamt; nothing less, +indeed, than the sound of a woman’s voice. He began to reason with +himself. What was there strange in this? He was told, or had inferred, that a +woman had been left upon a ship. Doubtless this was she, upon some rock or +raft, perhaps. Only then she would have been crying for help, and this voice +was singing, and in a strange tongue, more sweetly than he had heard woman sing +before. +</p> + +<p> +It was incredible, it was impossible. What woman would sing in a winter +daybreak upon the Sunk Rocks—sing like the siren of old fable? Yet, +there, quite close to him, over the quiet sea rose the song, strong, clear, and +thrilling. Once it ceased, then began again in a deeper, more triumphant note, +such as a Valkyrie might have sung as she led some Norn-doomed host to their +last battle. +</p> + +<p> +Morris sat and listened with parted lips and eyes staring at the fleecy mist. +He did not move or call out, because he was certain that he must be the victim +of some hallucination, bred of fog, or of fatigue, or of cold; and, as it was +very strange and moving, he had no desire to break in upon its charm. +</p> + +<p> +So there he sat while the triumphant, splendid song rolled and thrilled above +him, and by degrees the grey light of morning grew to right and left. To right +and left it grew, but, strangely enough, although he never noted it at the +time, he and his boat lay steeped in shadow. Then of a sudden there was a +change. +</p> + +<p> +A puff of wind from the north seemed to catch the fog and roll it up like a +curtain, so that instantly all the sea became visible, broken here and there by +round-headed, weed-draped rocks. Out of the east also poured a flood of light +from the huge ball of the rising sun, and now it was that Morris learned why +the gloom had been so thick about him, for his boat lay anchored full in the +shadow of the lost ship Trondhjem. There, not thirty yards away, rose her great +prow; the cutwater, which stood up almost clear, showing that she had forced +herself on to a ridge of rock. There, too, poised at the extreme point of the +sloping forecastle, and supporting herself with one hand by a wire rope that +ran thence to the foremast, was the woman to whose siren-like song he had been +listening. +</p> + +<p> +At that distance he could see little of her face; but the new-wakened wind blew +the long dark hair about her head, while round her, falling almost to her naked +feet, was wrapped a full red cloak. Had Morris wished to draw the picture of a +Viking’s daughter guiding her father’s ship into the fray, there, +down to the red cloak, bare feet, and flying tresses, stood its perfect model. +</p> + +<p> +The wild scene gripped his heart. Whoever saw the like of it? This girl who +sang in the teeth of death, the desolate grey face of ocean, the brown and +hungry rocks, the huge, abandoned ship, and over all the angry rays of a winter +sunrise. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, out of the darkness of the winter night, out of the bewildering white +mists of the morning, did this woman arise upon his sight, this strange new +star begin to shine upon his life and direct his destiny. +</p> + +<p> +At the moment that he saw her she seemed to see him. At any rate, she ceased +her ringing, defiant song, and, leaning over the netting rail, stared +downwards. +</p> + +<p> +Morris began to haul at his anchor; but, though he was a strong man, at first +he could not lift it. Just as he was thinking of slipping the cable, however, +the little flukes came loose from the sand or weeds in which they were +embedded, and with toil and trouble he got it shipped. Then he took a pair of +sculls and rowed until he was nearly under the prow of the Trondhjem. It was +he, too, who spoke first. +</p> + +<p> +“You must come to me,” he called. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” the woman answered, leaning over the rail; “I will +come, but how? Shall I jump into the water?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “it is too dangerous. You might strike against +a rock or be taken by the current. The companion ladder seems to be down on the +starboard side. Go aft to it, I will row round the ship and meet you +there.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded her head, and Morris started on his journey. It proved perilous. To +begin with, there were rocks all about. Also, here the tide or the current, or +both, ran with the speed of a mill-race, so that in places the sea bubbled and +swirled like a boiling kettle. However skilled and strong he might be, it was +hard for one man to deal with such difficulties and escape disaster. Still +following the port side of the ship, since owing to the presence of certain +rocks he dared not attempt the direct starboard passage, he came at last to her +stern. Then he saw how imminent was the danger, for the poop of the vessel, +which seemed to be of about a thousand tons burden, was awash and water-logged, +but rolling and lifting beneath the pressure of the tide as it drew on to +flood. +</p> + +<p> +To Morris, who had lived all his life by the sea, and understood such matters, +it was plain that presently she would float, or be torn off the point of the +rock on which she hung, broken-backed, and sink in the hundred-fathom-deep +water which lay beyond the reef. There was no time to spare, and he laboured at +his oars fiercely, till at length, partly by skill and partly by good fortune, +he reached the companion ladder and fastened to it with a boat-hook. +</p> + +<p> +Now no woman was to be seen; she had vanished. Morris called and called, but +could get no answer, while the great dead carcass of the ship rolled and +laboured above, its towering mass of iron threatening to fall and crush him and +his tiny craft to nothingness. He shouted and shouted again; then in despair +lashed his boat to the companion, and ran up the ladder. +</p> + +<p> +Where could she have gone? He hurried forward along the heaving, jerking deck +to the main hatchway. Here he hesitated for a moment; then, knowing that, if +anywhere, she must be below, set his teeth and descended. The saloon was a foot +deep in water, which washed from side to side with a heavy, sickening splash, +and there, carrying a bag in one hand, holding up her garments with the other, +and wading towards him from the dry upper part of the cabin, at last he found +the lady whom he sought. +</p> + +<p> +“Be quick!” he shouted; “for God’s sake, be quick! The +ship is coming off the rock.” +</p> + +<p> +She splashed towards him; now he had her by the hand; now they were on the +deck, and now he was dragging her after him down the companion ladder. They +reached the boat, and just as the ship gave a great roll towards them, Morris +seized the oars and rowed like a madman. +</p> + +<p> +“Help me!” he gasped; “the current is against us.” And, +sitting opposite to him, she placed her hands upon his hands, pressing forward +as he pulled. Her slight strength made a difference, and the boat forged +ahead—thirty, forty, seventy yards—till they reached a rock to +which, exhausted, he grappled with a hook, bidding her hold on to the floating +seaweed. Thus they rested for thirty seconds, perhaps, when she spoke for the +first time: +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke the steamer slid and lifted off the reef. For a few moments she +wallowed; then suddenly her stern settled, her prow rose slowly in the air till +it stood up straight, fifty or sixty feet of it. Then, with a majestic, but +hideous rush, down went the Trondhjem and vanished for ever. +</p> + +<p> +All round about her the sea boiled and foamed, while in the great hollow which +she made on the face of the waters black lumps of wreckage appeared and +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Tight! hold tight!” he cried, “or she will suck us after +her.” +</p> + +<p> +Suck she did, till the water poured over the gunwale. Then, the worst passed, +and the boat rose again. The foam bubbles burst or floated away in little snowy +heaps; the sea resumed its level, and, save for the floating debris, became as +it had been for thousands of years before the lost Trondhjem rushed downward to +its depths. +</p> + +<p> +Now, for the first time, knowing the immediate peril past, Morris looked at the +face of his companion. It was a fine face, and beautiful in its way. Dark eyes, +very large and perfect, whereof the pupils seemed to expand and contract in +answer to every impulse of the thoughts within. Above the eyes long curving +lashes and delicately pencilled, arched eyebrows, and above them again a +forehead low and broad. The chin rounded; the lips full, rich, and sensitive; +the complexion of a clear and beautiful pallor; the ears tiny; the hands +delicate; the figure slim, of medium height, and alive with grace; the general +effect most uncommon, and, without being lovely, breathing a curious power and +personality. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the woman whom he had saved from death. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how splendid!” she said in her deep voice, and clasping her +hands. “What a death! For ship or man, what a death! And after it the +great calm sea, taking and ready to take for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank Heaven that it did not take you,” answered Morris +wrathfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you are still alive, who by now would have been dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems that it was not fated this time,” she answered, adding: +“The next it may be different.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said reflectively; “the next it may be different, +Miss Fregelius.” +</p> + +<p> +She started. “How do you know my name?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“From your father’s lips. He is ashore at my house. The sailors +must have seen the light in my workshop and steered for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father?” she gasped. “He is still alive? But, oh, how is +that possible? He would never have left me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he lives, but with a broken thigh and his head cut open. He was +brought ashore senseless, so you need not be ashamed of him. Those sailors are +the cowards.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed, as though in deep relief. “I am very glad. I had made up my +mind that he must be dead, for of course I knew that he would never have left +me otherwise. It did not occur to me that he might be carried away senseless. +Is he—” and she paused, then added: “tell me the +worst—quick.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; the doctor thinks in no danger at present; only a break of the thigh +and a scalp wound. Of course, he could not help himself, for he can have known +no more than a corpse of what was passing,” he went on. “It is +those sailors who are to blame—for leaving you on the ship, I +mean.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“The sailors! From such rough men one does not expect much. They had +little time, and thought of themselves, not of a passenger, whom they had +scarcely seen. Thank God they did not leave my father behind also.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not thank God for yourself,” said Morris curiously, as he +prepared to hoist the sail, for his mind harked back to his old wonderment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do, but it was not His will that I should die last night. I have +told you that it was not fated,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. That is evident now; but were I in your case this really +remarkable escape would make me wonder what is fated.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it does a little; but not too much, for you see I shall learn in +time. You might as well wonder how it happened that you arrived to save me, and +to what end.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris hesitated, for this was a new view of the case, before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“That your life should be saved, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why should it happen that your boat should come to save me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; chance, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither do I; but I don’t believe in chance. Everything has its +meaning and purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only one so seldom finds it out. Life is too short, I suppose,” +replied Morris. +</p> + +<p> +By now the sail was up, the boat was drawing ahead, and he was seated at her +side holding the tiller. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you go down into the saloon, Miss Fregelius?” he asked +presently. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at herself, and now, for the first time, he noticed that she wore a +dress beneath her red cloak, and that there were slippers on her feet, which +had been bare. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not come into the boat as I was,” she explained, dropping +her eyes. “The costume which is good enough to be drowned in is not +fitted for company. My cabin was well forward, and I guessed that by wading I +could reach it. Also, I had some trinkets and one or two books I did not wish +to lose,” and she nodded at the hand-bag which she had thrown into the +boat. +</p> + +<p> +Morris smiled. “It is very nice of you to pay so much respect to +appearances,” he said; “but I suppose you forgot that the vessel +might come off the rocks at any moment and crush me, who was waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” she answered; “I thought of it. I have always been +accustomed to the sea, and know about such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“And still you went for your dress and your trinkets?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, because I was certain that it wouldn’t happen and that no +harm would come to either of us by waiting a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, and who told you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, but from the moment that I saw you in the boat I was +certain that the danger was done with—at least, the immediate +danger,” she added. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a> +CHAPTER IX.<br/> +MISS FREGELIUS</h2> + +<p> +While Miss Fregelius was speaking, Morris had been staring at the sail, which, +after drawing for a time in an indifferent fashion, had begun to flap +aimlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” asked his companion. “Has the wind +veered again?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “Dead from the west, now, and rising fast. I hope that your +spirit of prophecy still speaks smooth things, for, upon my word, I believe we +are both of us in a worse mess than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t we row ashore? It is only a few miles, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“We can try, but I am afraid we are in for a regular tearer. We get them +sometimes on this coast after a spell of calm weather.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please give me an oar,” she said. “I am used to +rowing—of a sort.” +</p> + +<p> +So he let down the sail, and they began to row. For ten minutes or so they +struggled against the ever-rising gale. Then Morris called to her to ship oars. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use exhausting ourselves, Miss Fregelius,” he said, +“for now the tide is on the ebb, and dead against us, as well as the +wind.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Morris glanced back to where a mile behind them the sea was beginning to foam +ominously over the Sunk Rocks, here and there throwing up isolated jets of +spray, like those caused by the blowing of a whale. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to try to clear them,” he said, “and then run +before it. Perhaps we might make the Far Lightship five and twenty miles away. +Help me to pull up the sail. So, that’s enough; she can’t stand too +much. Now hold the sheet, and if I bid you, let go that instant. I’ll +steer.” +</p> + +<p> +A few seconds later the boat’s head had come round, and she was rushing +through the water at great speed, parallel with the line of the Sunk Rocks, but +being momentarily driven nearer to them. The girl, Stella Fregelius, stared at +the farthest point of foam which marked the end of the reef. +</p> + +<p> +“You must hold her up if you want to clear it,” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t do any more in this wind,” he answered. “You +seem to know about boats; you will understand.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded, and on they rushed, the ever-freshening gale on their beam. +</p> + +<p> +“This boat sails well,” said Stella, as a little water trickled +over the gunwale. +</p> + +<p> +Morris made no answer, his eyes were fixed upon the point of rock; only bidding +his companion hold the tiller, he did something to the sail. Now they were not +more than five hundred yards away. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be a very near thing,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very,” he answered, “and I don’t want to be officious, +but I suggest that you might do well to say your prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, and bowed her head for a minute or so. Then suddenly she +lifted it again and stared at the terror ahead of them with wide, unflinching +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +On sped the boat while more and more did tide and gale turn her prow into the +reef. At the end of it a large, humpbacked rock showed now and again through +the surf, like the fin of a black whale. That was the rock which they must +clear if they would live. Morris took the boat-hook and laid it by his side. +They were very near now. They would clear it; no, the wash sucked them in like +a magnet. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” said Morris instinctively, but Stella answered nothing. +</p> + +<p> +The wave that lifted them broke upon the rock in a cloud of spray wherein for +some few instants their boat seemed to vanish. They were against it; the boat +touched, and Stella felt a long ribbon of seaweed cut her like a whip across +the face. Kneeling down, Morris thrust madly with the boat-hook, and thus for +an instant—just one—held her off. His arms doubled beneath the +strain, and then came the back-wash. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, heaven! it had swept them clear. The rock was behind, the sail drew, and +swiftly they fled away from the death that had seemed certain. +</p> + +<p> +Stella sighed aloud, while Morris wiped the water from his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we clear?” she asked presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Of the Sunk Rocks? Yes, we are round them. But the North Sea is in front +of us, and what looks like the worst gale that has blown this autumn is rising +behind.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is a good sea-boat, and on the open water I think perhaps that we +ought to weather it,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, as Morris +stowed the sail, for in that wind they wanted no canvas. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish we had something to eat,” she added presently; “I am +so hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +“By good luck I can help you there,” he answered. “Yesterday +I was out fishing and took lunch for myself and the boatman; but the fish +wouldn’t bite, so we came back without eating it, and it is still in the +locker. Shift a little, please, I will get the basket.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed, and there was the food sure enough, plenty of it. A thick packet of +sandwiches, and two boiled eggs, a loaf, and a large lump of cheese for the +boatman, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of beer, another of water, and two of +soda. They ate up the sandwiches and the eggs, Morris drinking the beer and +Stella the soda water, for whiskey as yet she would not touch. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” she said, “we are still provisioned for twenty-four +hours with the bread and cheese, the water and the soda which is left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “if we don’t sink or die of cold we +shall not starve. I never thought that sandwiches were so good before;” +and he looked hungrily at the loaf. +</p> + +<p> +“You had better put it away; you may want it later,” she suggested. +And he put it away. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, if you don’t mind,” he asked, for the food and the +lightening of the strain upon his nerves had made him conversational, +“what is that song which you sang upon the ship, and why did you sing +it?” +</p> + +<p> +She coloured a little, and smiled, a sweet smile that seemed to begin in her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an old Norse chant which my mother taught me; she was a Dane, as +my father is also by descent. It has come down in her family for many, many +generations, and the legend is that the women of her race always sang it or +repeated it while the men were fighting, and, if they had the strength, in the +hour of their own death. I believe that is true, for she died whispering it +herself; yes, it grew fainter and fainter until it ceased with her breath. So, +when I thought that my hour had come, I sang it also, for the first time, for I +tried to be brave, and wished to go as my forefathers went. It is a foolish old +custom, but I like old customs. I am ashamed that you should have heard it. I +thought myself alone. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a very strange young lady,” said Morris, staring at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Strange?” she answered, laughing. “Not at all; only I wanted +to show those scores of dead people that their traditions and spirit still +lived on in me, their poor modern child. Think how glad they must have been to +hear the old chant as they swept by in the wind just now, waiting to give me +welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris stared still harder. Was this beautiful girl mad? He knew something of +the old Norse literature and myths. A fantastic vision rose up in his mind of +her forebears, scores and hundreds of them gathered at some ghostly Walhalla +feast, listening to the familiar paean as it poured from her fearless heart, +and waiting to rise and greet her, the last newcomer of their blood, with +“<i>Skoll</i>, daughter, <i>skoll!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +She watched him as though she read his thought. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, they would have been pleased; it is only natural,” she +said; “and I have a great respect for the opinion of my ancestors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are sure they still exist in some shape or form, and are +conscious?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed again. “Of course I am sure. The world of spirits, as I +think, is the real world. The rest is a nightmare; at least, it seems like a +nightmare, because we don’t know the beginning or the end of the +dream.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old Egyptians thought something like that,” said Morris +reflectively. “They only lived to die.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we,” she answered, “should only die to live, and that is +why I try not to be afraid. I daresay, however, I mean the same as they did, +only you do not seem to have put their thought quite clearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right; I meant that for them death was but a door.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is better, I think,” she said. “That was their thought, +and that is my thought; and,” she added, searching his face, +“perhaps your thought also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “though somehow you concentrate it; I +have never seen things, or, rather, this thing, quite so sharply.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you have never been in a position to see them; they have not +been brought home to you. Or your mind may have wanted an interpreter. Perhaps +I am that interpreter—for the moment.” Then she added: “Were +you afraid just now? Don’t tell me if you had rather not, only I should +like to compare sensations. I was—more than on the ship. I admit +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered; “I suppose that I was too excited.” +</p> + +<p> +“What were you thinking of when we bumped against the rocks?” she +asked again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now that you mention it,” he replied, rubbing his forehead +with his left hand like a man newly awakened, “I could think of nothing +but that song of yours, which you sang upon the vessel. Everything grew dark +for an instant, and through the darkness I remembered the song.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you married?” she asked, as though speaking to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I am engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, why——” and she stopped, confused. +</p> + +<p> +Morris guessed what had been in her mind, and of a sudden felt terribly +ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +“Because of that witch-song of yours,” he answered, with a flash of +anger, “which made me forget everything.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled and answered. “It wasn’t the song; it was the excitement +and struggle which blotted out the rest. One does not really think at all at +such moments, or so I believe. I know that I didn’t, not just when we +bumped against the rock. But it is odd that you should believe that you +remembered my song, for, according to tradition, that is just what the chant +should do, and what it always did. Its ancient name means ‘The +Over-Lord,’ because those who sang it and those who heard it were said to +remember nothing else, and to fear nothing, not even Death our lord. It is the +welcome that they give to death.” +</p> + +<p> +“What egregious nonsense!” he blurted out. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay; but then, why do you understand my nonsense so well? Tell me, +if you will, of what blood are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Danish, I believe, in the beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, laughing, “no doubt that accounts for it. +Some forefather of yours may have heard the song of the Over-Lord, perhaps from +the lips of some foremother of mine. So, of course, you remembered and +understood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such a thing will scarcely bear argument, will it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it won’t. I have only been joking all the time, though I +do half believe in this old song, as my ancestors did before me. I mean, that +as I thought I had to die, I liked to keep up the ancient custom and sing it +first. It encouraged my spirits. But where are we going?” +</p> + +<p> +“To where our spirits will need no more encouragement,” he answered +grimly; “or, at least, I fear it may be so. Miss Fregelius, to drop +jests, it is blowing very hard off land; the sea is getting up, and this is but +a small boat. We are doing pretty well now, but sooner or later, I fear, and I +think it right to tell you, that a wave may poop us and +then——” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be an end,” said Stella. “Is there anything to be +done? Have you any plan?” +</p> + +<p> +“None, except to make the Far Lightship, as I told you; but even if we +succeed, I don’t know whether it will be possible to get aboard of her +unless the sea moderates.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t the lifeboat come out to look for you?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “How could they find one tiny sail upon the great +ocean? Moreover, it will be supposed either that I have foundered or made some +port along the coast. There is the worst of it. I fear that it may be +telegraphed everywhere,” and he sighed deeply. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked. “Are you a very important person that they +should bother to do that? You see,” she added in explanation, “I +don’t even know your name or where you come from, only that you told me +you worked in a shop which,” she added reflectively, looking at him, +“seems odd.” +</p> + +<p> +Even then and there Morris could not help a smile; really this young lady was +very original. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, “I am not at all important, and I work in +a shop because I am an inventor—or try to be—in the electrical +line. My name is Morris Monk, and I am the son of Colonel Monk, and live at the +Abbey House, Monksland. Now you know all about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! of course I do, Mr. Monk,” she said in some confusion, +“how foolish of me not to guess. You are my father’s principal new +parishioner, of whom Mr. Tomley gave us a full description.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he indeed? What did he say?” he asked idly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really want to know, Mr. Monk?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if it is amusing. Just now I shall be grateful for anything that +can divert my thoughts.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will promise not to bear malice against Mr. Tomley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, especially as he has gone away, and I don’t expect to +see him any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he described your father, Colonel Monk, as a handsome and +distinguished elderly gentleman of very good birth, and manners, too, when he +chose, who intensely disliked growing old. He said that he thought of himself +more than of anybody else in the world, and next of the welfare of his family, +and that if we wished to get on with him we must be careful not to offend his +dignity, as then he would be quarrelsome.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true enough, or most of it,” answered Morris, +“a good picture of my father’s weak side. And what was his +definition of myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said that you were in his opinion one of the most interesting people +that he had ever met; that you were a dreamer and a mystic; that you cared for +few of the things which usually attract young men, and that you were in +practice almost a misogynist. He added that, although heretofore you had not +succeeded, he thought that you possessed real genius in certain lines, but that +you had not your father’s ‘courtly air,’ that was his term. +Of course, I am only repeating, so you must not be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Morris, “I asked for candour and I have got it. +Without admitting the accuracy of his definitions, I must say that I never +thought that pompous old Tomley had so much observation.” Then he added +quickly, to change the subject, since the possible discussion of his own +attributes, physical or mental, alarmed him, “Miss Fregelius, you have +not told me how you came to be left aboard the ship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Mr. Monk, I don’t know. I heard a confused noise in my +sleep, and when I woke up it was to find myself alone, and the saloon half full +of water. I suppose that after the vessel struck, the sailors, thinking that +she was going down, got off at once, taking my father, who had been injured and +made insensible in some way, with them as he happened to be on deck, leaving me +to my chance. You know, we were the only passengers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you not frightened when you found yourself all alone like +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, at first, dreadfully; then I was so distressed about my father, +whom I thought dead, and angry with them for deserting me, that I forgot to be +frightened, and afterwards—well, I was too proud. Besides, we must die +alone, every one of us, so we may as well get accustomed to the idea.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris shrugged his shoulders impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“You think that I need not talk so much about our mortal end. Well, +perhaps under all the circumstances, we may as well keep our thoughts on this +world—while it lasts. You have not told me, Mr. Monk, how you came to be +sailing about alone this morning. Did you come out to look at the wreck?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that I am mad?” he asked, not without indignation. +“Should I make a journey at night, in a November fog, with every chance +of a gale coming up, to the Sunk Rocks in this cockle-shell, and alone, merely +to look at the place where, as I understood rather vaguely, a foreign tramp +steamer had gone down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it does seem rather odd. But why else did you come? Were you +fishing? Men will risk a great deal for fishing, I know, I have seen that in +Norway.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you pretend not to understand, Miss Fregelius? You must know +perfectly well that I came to look for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” she answered candidly, “I knew nothing of the sort. +How did you find out that I was still on the ship, or that the ship was still +above water? And even if you knew both, why should you risk your life just on +the faint chance of rescuing a girl whom you never saw?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t quite tell you; but your father in his delirium muttered +some words which made me suspect the truth, and a sailor who could speak a +little bad French said that the Trondhjem was lost upon some rocks. Well, these +are the only rocks about here; and as the whole story was too vague to carry to +the lifeboat people I thought that I would come to look. So you see it is +perfectly simple.” +</p> + +<p> +“So simple, Mr. Monk, that I do not understand it in the least. You must +have known the risks, for you asked no one to share them—the risks that +are so near and real;” and, shivering visibly, she looked at the grey +combers seething past them, and the wind-torn horizon beyond. “Yet, +you—you who have ties, faced all this on the chance of saving a +stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, please,” broke in Morris. “At any rate, you see, it +was a happy inspiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for me, perhaps—but for you! Oh, if it should end in your +being taken away from the world before your time, from the world and the lady +who—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris winced; then he said: “God’s will be done. But although we +may be in danger, we are not dead yet; not by a long way.” +</p> + +<p> +“She would hate me whose evil fortune it was to draw you to death, and in +life or out of it I should never forgive myself—never! never!” and +she covered her eyes with her cold, wet hand and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you grieve over what you cannot help?” asked Morris +gently. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot quite explain to you,” she answered; “but the +thought of it seems so sad.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a> +CHAPTER X.<br/> +DAWN AND THE LAND</h2> + +<p> +A day, a whole day, spent upon that sullen, sunless waste of water, with the +great waves bearing them onwards in one eternal, monotonous procession, till at +length they grew dizzy with looking at them, and the ceaseless gale piping in +their ears. Long ago they had lost sight of land; even the tall church towers +built by our ancestors as beacons on this stormy coast had vanished utterly. +Twice they sighted ships scudding along under their few rags of canvas, and +once a steamer passed, the smoke from her funnels blowing out like long black +pennons. But all of these were too far off, or too much engaged with their own +affairs to see the little craft tossing hither and thither like a used-up +herring basket upon the endless area of ocean. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, from his youth Morris had been accustomed to the management of +boats in all sorts of weather, the occupation of sailing alone upon the waters +being one well suited to his solitary and reflective disposition. Thus it came +about that they survived, when others, less skilful, might have drowned. +Sometimes they ran before the seas; sometimes they got up a few square feet of +sail, and, taking advantage of a veer in the wind, tried to tack, and once, +when it blew its hardest, fearing lest they should be pooped, for over an hour +they contrived to keep head on to the waves. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, diversified by some necessary bailing, passed the short November day, +long enough for them, till once more the darkness began to gather. They had +still some food and drink left; indeed, had it not been for these they would +have perished. Most happily, also, with the sun the wind dropped, although for +hours the sea remained dangerously high. Now wet and cold were their enemies, +worse than any that they had been called upon to face. Long ago the driving +spray had soaked them to the skin, and there upon the sea the winter night was +very chill. +</p> + +<p> +While the wind, fortunately for them, by comparison a warm one, still blew from +the west, and the sea remained tempestuous, they found some shelter by wrapping +themselves in a corner of the sail. Towards midnight, however, it got round to +the northeast, enough of it to moderate the sea considerably, and to enable +them to put the boat about and go before it with a closely reefed sail. Now, +indeed, they were bitterly cold, and longed even for the shelter of the wet +canvas. Still Morris felt, and Stella was of the same mind, that before utter +exhaustion overtook them their best chance for life lay in trying to make the +shore, which was, they knew not how far away. +</p> + +<p> +There, then, for hours they cowered in the stern of the boat, huddled together +to protect themselves as best they might from the weather, and plunging forward +beneath their little stretch of sail. Sleep they could not, for that icy breath +bit into their marrow, and of this Morris was glad, since he did not dare relax +his watch for an instant. So sometimes they sat silent, and sometimes by fits +and starts they talked, their lips close to each other’s face, as though +they were whispering to one another. +</p> + +<p> +To while away the weary time, Morris told his companion about his invention, +the aerophone. Then she in turn told him something of her previous +life—Stella was now a woman of four and twenty. It seemed that her mother +had died when she was fourteen at the rectory in Northumberland, where she was +born. After that, with short intervals, she had spent five years in Denmark, +whither her father came to visit her every summer. Most of this time she passed +at a school in Copenhagen, going for her holidays to stay with her grandmother, +who was the widow of a small landowner of noble family, and lived in an +ancient, dilapidated house in some remote village. At length the grandmother +died, leaving to Stella the trifle she possessed, after which, her education +being completed, she returned to Northumberland to keep house for her father. +Here, too, it would seem that her life was very lonely, for the place was but +an unvisited coast village, and they were not rich enough to mix much with the +few county families who lived anywhere within reach. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no brothers or sisters?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +Even then, numb as was her flesh with cold, he felt her wince at the question. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered, “none now—at least, none here. +I have—I mean I had—a sister, my twin, but she died when we were +seventeen. This was the most dreadful thing that ever happened to me, the thing +which made me what I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite understand. What are you, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, something very unsatisfactory, I am afraid, quite different from +other people. What Mr. Tomley said <i>you</i> were, Mr. Monk, a mystic and a +dreamer of dreams; a lover of the dead; one who dwells in the past, +and—in the future.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris did not pursue the subject; even under their strange circumstances, +favourable as they were to intimacy and confidences, it seemed impertinent to +him to pry into the mysteries of his companion’s life. Only he asked, at +hazard almost: +</p> + +<p> +“How did you spend your time up there in Northumberland?” +</p> + +<p> +“In drawing a little, in collecting eggs, moths, and flowers a great +deal; in practising with my violin playing and singing; and during the long +winters in making translations in my spare time of Norse sagas, which no one +will publish.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to read them; I am fond of the sagas,” he said, and +after this, under pressure of their physical misery, the conversation died +away. +</p> + +<p> +Hour succeeded to hour, and the weather moderated so much that now they were in +little danger of being swamped. This, indeed, was fortunate, since in the event +of a squall or other emergency, in their numbed condition it was doubtful +whether they could have found enough strength to do what might be necessary to +save themselves. They drank what remained of the whiskey, which put life into +their veins for a while, but soon its effects passed off, leaving them, if +possible, more frozen than before. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the time?” asked Stella, after a long silence. +</p> + +<p> +“It should be daybreak in about two hours,” he said, in a voice +that attempted cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +Then a squall of sleet burst upon them, and after this new misery a torpor +overcame Stella; at least, her shiverings grew less violent, and her head sank +upon his shoulder. Morris put one arm round her waist to save her from slipping +into the water at the bottom of the boat, making shift to steer with the other. +Thus, for a while they ploughed forward—whither he knew not, across the +inky sea, for there was no moon, and the stars were hidden, driven on slowly by +the biting breath of the winter wind. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she awoke, lifted her head, and spoke, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“We can’t last much longer in this cold and wet. You are not +afraid, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not exactly afraid, only sorry; it is hard to go with so much to be +done, and—to leave behind.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t think like that,” she answered, “for +what we leave must follow. She will suffer, but soon she will be with you +again, where everything is understood. Only you ought to have died with her, +and not with me, a stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fate settles these things,” he muttered, “and if it comes to +that, maybe God will give her strength. But the dawn is near, and by it we may +see land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,”—now her voice had sunk to a +whisper,—“the dawn is always near, and by it we shall see +land.” +</p> + +<p> +Then again Stella’s head sank upon his shoulder, and she slept heavily; +nor, although he knew that such slumbers are dangerous, did he think it worth +while to disturb her. +</p> + +<p> +The invisible seas hissed past; the sharp wind bit his bones, and over him, +too, that fatal slumber began to creep. But, although he seldom exercised it, +Morris was a man of strong will, and while any strength was left he refused to +give way. Would this dreadful darkness never end? For the fiftieth time he +glanced back over his shoulder, and now, he was sure of it, the east grew +ashen. He waited awhile, for the November dawn is slow in breaking, then looked +again. Heaven be thanked! the cold wind had driven away the clouds, and there, +upon the edge of the horizon, peeped up the fiery circle of the sun, throwing +long rays of sickly yellow across the grey, troubled surface of the waters. In +front of him lay a dense bank of fog, which, from its character, as Morris knew +well, must emanate from the reeking face of earth. They were near shore, it +could not be doubted; still, he did not wake his companion. Perhaps he might be +in error, and sleep, even a death-sleep, is better than the cheatings of +disappointed hope. +</p> + +<p> +What was that dim object in front of him? Surely it must be the ruin a mile or +so to the north of Monksland, that was known as the Death Church? Once a +village stood here, but the sea had taken most of it; indeed, all that remained +to-day was this old, deserted fane, which, having been built upon a breast of +rising ground, still remained, awaiting its destruction by the slow sap of the +advancing ocean. Even now, at times of very high tide, the sea closed in +behind, cutting the fabric off from the mainland, where it looked like a +forsaken lighthouse rather than the tower and chancel of a church. But there, +not much more than a mile away, yes, there it was, and Morris felt proud to +think how straight he had steered homewards through that stormy darkness. +</p> + +<p> +The sea was still wild and high, but he was familiar with every inch of the +coast, and knew well that there was a spot to the south of the Dead Church, +just where the last rood of graveyard met the sand, upon which he could beach +the boat safely even in worse weather. For this nook Morris headed with a new +energy; the fires of life and hope burnt up in him, giving him back his +strength and judgment. +</p> + +<p> +At last they were opposite to the place, and, watching his chance, he put the +helm down and ran in upon the crest of a wave, till the boat grounded in the +soft sand, and began to wallow there like a dying thing. Fearing lest the +back-wash should suck them off into the surf again, he rolled himself into the +water, for jump he could not; indeed, it was as much as he could do to stand. +With a last effort of his strength he seized Stella in his arms and struggled +with her to the sandy shore, where he sank down exhausted. Then she woke. +“Oh, I dreamed, I dreamed!” she said, staring round her wildly. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That it was all over; and afterwards, that I——” and +she broke off suddenly, adding: “But it was all a dream, for we are safe +on shore, are we not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank Heaven!” said Morris. “Sit still, and I will make +the boat secure. She has served us a good turn, and I do not want to lose her +after all.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded, and wading into the water, with numbed hands he managed to lift the +little anchor and carry it ashore in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said, “the tide is ebbing, and she’ll hold +fast enough until I can send to fetch her; or, if not, it can’t be +helped. Come on, Miss Fregelius, before you grow too stiff to walk;” and, +bending down, he helped her to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +Their road ran past the nave of the church, which was ruined and unroofed. At +some time during the last two generations, however, although the parishioners +saw that it was useless to go to the cost of repairing the nave, they had +bricked in the chancel, and to within the last twenty years continued to use it +as a place of worship. Indeed, the old oak door taken from the porch still +swung on rusty hinges in the partition wall of red brick. Stella looked up and +saw it. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to look in there,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t it do another time?” The moment did not strike +Morris as appropriate for the examination of ruined churches. +</p> + +<p> +“No; if you don’t mind I should like to look now, while I remember, +just for one instant.” +</p> + +<p> +So he shrugged his shoulders, and they limped forward up the roofless nave and +through the door. She stared at the plain stone altar, at the eastern window, +of which part was filled with ancient coloured glass and part with cheap glazed +panes; at the oak choir benches, mouldy and broken; at the few wall-slabs and +decaying monuments, and at the roof still strong and massive. +</p> + +<p> +“I dreamed of a place very like this,” she said, nodding her head. +“I thought that I was standing in such a spot in a fearful gale, and that +the sea got under the foundations and washed the dead out of their +graves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Miss Fregelius,” he said, with some irritation, for the +surroundings of the scene and his companion’s talk were uncanny, +“do you think this an occasion to explore ruins and relate +nightmares?” Then he added, “I beg your pardon, but I think that +the cold and wet have affected your nerves; for my part, I have none +left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps; at least forgive me, I did so want to look,” she answered +humbly as, arm-in-arm, for she needed support, they passed from the altar to +the door. +</p> + +<p> +A grotesque imagination entered the numbed mind of Morris. Their slow and +miserable march turned itself to a vision of a bridal procession from the +altar. Wet, dishevelled, half-frozen, they two were the bride-groom and the +bride, and the bride was a seer of visions, and the bridegroom was a dreamer of +dreams. Yes, and they came up together out of the bitter sea and the darkness, +and they journeyed together to a vault of the dead—— +</p> + +<p> +Thank Heaven! they were out of the place, and above was the sun shining, and, +to the right and left, the grey ocean and the purple plough-lands, +cold-looking, suggesting dangers and labour, but wholesome all of them, and +good to the eye of man. Only why did this woman see visions, and why did he +dream dreams? And what was the meaning of their strange meeting upon the sea? +And what—— +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we going?” asked Stella after a while and very faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Home; to the Abbey, I mean, where your father lies. Now it is not much +more than a mile away.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed; her strength was failing her. +</p> + +<p> +“You had better try to walk, it will warm you,” he urged, and she +struggled on. +</p> + +<p> +It was a miserable journey, but they reached the house at length, passing first +through a street of the village in which no one seemed to be awake. A +wretched-looking couple, they stumbled up the steps into the porch, where +Morris rang the bell, for the door was locked. The time seemed an age, but at +last steps were heard, the door was unbarred, and there appeared a vision of +the lad Thomas, yawning, and clad in a nightshirt and a pair of trousers, with +braces attached which dangled to the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord!” he said when he saw them, and his jaw dropped. +</p> + +<p> +“Get out of the way, you young idiot,” said Morris, “and call +the cook.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was half-past seven in the evening, that is, dinner time, and Morris stood +in the study waiting for Stella, who had announced through the housemaid that +she was coming down. +</p> + +<p> +After telling the servants to send for the doctor and attend to his companion, +who had insisted upon being led straight to her father’s room, +Morris’s first act that morning on reaching home was to take a bath as +hot as he could bear. Then he drank several cups of coffee with brandy in it, +and as the office would soon be open, wrote a telegram to Mary, which ran thus: +</p> + +<p> +“If you hear that I have been drowned, don’t believe it. Have +arrived safe home after a night at sea.” +</p> + +<p> +This done, for he guessed that all sorts of rumours would be abroad, he +inquired after Mr. Fregelius and Stella. Having learned that they were both +going on well and sent off his telegram, Morris went to bed and slept for ten +hours. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Morris looked round the comfortable sitting-room with its recessed Tudor +windows, its tall bookcases and open hearth, where burned a bright fire of old +ship’s timbers supported on steel dogs, and thought to himself that he +was fortunate to be there. Then the door opened, he heard the housemaid’s +voice say, “This way please, Miss,” and Stella came in. She wore a +plain white dress that seemed to fit her very well, though where she got it +from he never discovered, and her luxuriant hair was twisted up into a simple +knot. On the bosom of her dress was fixed a spray of brilliant ampelopsis +leaves; it was her only ornament, but none could have been more striking. For +the rest, although she limped and still looked dark and weary about the eyes, +to all appearances she was not much the worse for their terrible adventure. +</p> + +<p> +Morris glanced at her. Could this dignified and lovely young lady be that +red-cloaked, loose-haired Valkyrie whom he had seen singing at daybreak upon +the prow of the sinking ship, or the piteous bedraggled person whom he had +supported from the altar in the Dead Church? +</p> + +<p> +She guessed his thought—from the beginning Stella had this curious power +of discovering his mind—and said with a smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Fine feathers make fine birds, and even Cleopatra would have looked +dreadful after a November night in an open boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you recovered?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Monk; that is, I don’t think I am going to have +inflammation of the lungs or anything horrid of the sort. The remedies and that +walk stopped it. But my feet are peeling from being soaked so long in salt +water, and my hands are not much better. See,” and she held them towards +him. +</p> + +<p> +Then dinner was announced, and for the second time that day they walked +arm-in-arm. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems a little strange, doesn’t it?” suggested Morris as +he surveyed the great refectory in which they two, seated at the central table, +looked so lone and small. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered; “but so it should, anything quite usual +would have been out of place to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he asked her how her father was going on, and heard what he had already +learned from the doctor, that he was doing as well as could be expected. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Mr. Monk,” she added; “if you can spare a few +minutes after dinner, and are not too tired, he would so much like to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” answered Morris a little nervously, for he scented a +display of fervent gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +After this they dropped into desultory conversation, curiously different from +the intimate talk which passed between them in the boat. Then they had been in +danger, and at times in the very shadow of Death; a condition that favours +confidences since those who stand beneath his wings no longer care to hide +their hearts. The reserves which so largely direct our lives are lifted, their +necessity is past, and in the face of the last act of Nature, Nature asserts +herself. Who cares to continue to play a part when the audience has dispersed, +the curtain is falling, and the pay-box has put up its shutters? Now, very +unexpectedly these two were on the stage again, and each assumed the allotted +role. +</p> + +<p> +Stella admired the room; whereon Morris set to work to explain its +characteristics, to find, to his astonishment, that Miss Fregelius had more +knowledge of architecture than he could boast. He pointed out certain details, +alleging them to be Elizabethan work, to which age they had been credited for +generations, whereon she suggested and, indeed, proved, that some of them dated +from the earlier years of Henry VIII., and that some were late Jacobean. While +Morris was wondering how he could combat this revolutionary opinion, the +servant brought in a telegram. It was from Mary, at Beaulieu, and ran: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Had not heard that you were drowned, but am deeply thankful that you are +saved. Why did you pass a night at sea in this weather? Is it a riddle? Grieved +to say my father not so well. Best love, and please keep on shore. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +M<small>ARY</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +At first Morris was angry with this rather flippant message; then he laughed. +As he had already discovered, in fact, his anxieties had been quite groundless. +The page-boy, Thomas, it appeared, when questioned, had given the inquirers to +understand that his master had gone out to fish, taking his breakfast with him. +Later, on his non-appearance, he amended this statement, suggesting out of the +depths of a fertile imagination, that he had sailed down to Northwold, where he +meant to pass the night. Therefore, although the cook, a far-seeing woman who +knew her Thomas and hated him, had experienced pangs of doubt, nobody else +troubled the least, and even the small community of Monksland remained +profoundly undisturbed as to the fate of one of its principal inhabitants. +</p> + +<p> +So little is an unsympathetic world concerned in our greatest and most +particular adventures! A birth, a marriage, an inquest, a scandal—these +move it superficially, for the rest it has no enthusiasm to spare. This cold +neglect of events which had seemed to him so important reacted upon Morris, +who, now that he had got over his chill and fatigue, saw them in their proper +proportions. A little adventure in an open boat at sea which had ended without +any mishap, was not remarkable, and might even be made to appear ridiculous. So +the less said about it, especially to Mary, whose wit he feared, the better. +</p> + +<p> +When dinner was finished Stella left the room, passing down its shadowed +recesses with a peculiar grace of which even her limp could not rob her. Ten +minutes later, while Morris sat sipping a glass of claret, the nurse came down +to tell him that Mr. Fregelius would like to see him if he were disengaged. +Reflecting that he might as well get the interview over, Morris followed her at +once to the Abbot’s chamber, where the sick man lay. +</p> + +<p> +Except for a single lamp near the bed, the place was unlighted, but by the +fire, its glow falling on her white-draped form and pale, uncommon face, sat +Stella. As he entered she rose, and, coming forward, accompanied him to the +bedside, saying, in an earnest voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Father, here is our host, Mr. Monk, the gentleman who saved my life at +the risk of his own.” +</p> + +<p> +The patient raised his bandaged head and stretched out a long thin hand; he +could stir nothing else, for his right thigh was in splints beneath a +coffer-like erection designed to keep the pressure of the blankets from his +injured limb. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I thank you,” he said in a dry, staccato voice; “all +the humanity that is lacking from the hearts of those rude wretches, the crew +of the Trondhjem, must have found its home in you.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at the dark, quiet eyes that seemed to express much which the +thin and impassive face refused to reveal; at the grey pointed beard and the +yellowish skin of the outstretched arm. Here before him, he felt, lay a man +whose personality it was not easy to define, one who might be foolish, or might +be able, but of whose character the leading note was reticence, inherent or +acquired. Then he took the hand, and said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, say no more about it. I acted on an impulse and some wandering +words of yours, with results for which I could not hope. There is nothing to +thank me for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir, I thank God, who inspired you with that impulse, and may +every blessing reward your bravery.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella looked up as though to speak, but changed her mind and returned to her +seat by the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“What is there to reward?” said Morris impatiently; “that +your daughter is still alive is my reward. How are you to-night, Mr. +Fregelius?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a> +CHAPTER XI.<br/> +A MORNING SERVICE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius replied he was as well as could be expected; that the doctor said +no complications were likely to ensue, but that here upon this very bed he must +lie for at least two months. “That,” he added, “is a sad +thing to have to say to a man into whose house you have drifted like a log into +a pool of the rocks.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not my house, but my father’s, who is at present in +France,” answered Morris. “But I can only say on his behalf that +both you and your daughter are most welcome until you are well enough to move +to the Rectory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not go there at once?” interrupted Stella. “I +could come each day and see my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, certainly not,” said Morris. “How could you live +alone in that great, empty house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid of being alone,” she answered, smiling; “but +let it be as you like, Mr. Monk—at any rate, until you grow tired of us, +and change your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Mr. Fregelius told Morris what he had not yet heard—that when it +became known that they had deserted Stella, leaving her to drown in the sinking +ship, the attentions of the inhabitants of Monksland to the cowardly foreign +sailors became so marked that their consul at Northwold had thought it wise to +get them out of the place as quickly as possible. While this story was in +progress Stella left the room to speak to the nurse who had been engaged to +look after her father at night. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards, at the request of Mr. Fregelius, Morris told the tale of his +daughter’s rescue. In the course of it he mentioned how he found her +standing on the deck of the sinking ship and singing a Norse song, which she +had informed him was an ancient death-dirge. +</p> + +<p> +The old clergyman turned his head and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, Mr. Monk; only that song is unlucky in my family, and I hoped +that she had forgotten it.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at him blankly. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t understand—how should you? But, Mr. Monk, there +are strange things and strange people in this world, and I think that my +daughter Stella is one of the strangest of them. Fey like the rest—only a +fey Norse woman would sing in such a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Morris looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is an old northern term, and means foreseeing, and foredoomed. To +my knowledge her grandmother, her mother, and her sister, all three of them, +sang or repeated that song when in some imminent danger to their lives, and all +three of them were dead within the year. The coincidence is unpleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said Morris, with a smile, “you who are a +clergyman, can scarcely believe in such superstition?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not superstitious, and I don’t believe in it; but the +thing recalls unhappy memories. They have been death-lovers, all of them. I +never heard of a case of one of that family who showed the slightest fear at +the approach of death; and some have greeted it with eagerness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Morris, “would not that mean only that their +spiritual sight is a little clearer than ours, and their faith a little +stronger? Theoretically, we should all of us wish to die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, yet we are human, and don’t. But she is safe, thanks to +you, who but for you would now be gone. My head is still weak from that +blow—you must pay no attention to me. I think that I hear Stella coming; +you will say nothing to her—about that song, I mean—will you? We +never talk of it in my family.” +</p> + +<p> +When, still stiff and sore from his adventure in the open boat, Morris went to +bed, it was clear to his mind after careful consideration that fortune had made +him the host of an exceedingly strange couple. Of Mr. Fregelius he was soon +able to form an estimate distinct enough, although, for aught he knew, it might +be erroneous. The clergyman struck him as a person of some abilities who had +been doomed to much disappointment and suffered from many sorrows. Doubtless +his talents had not proved to be of a nature to advance him in the world. +Probably, indeed—and here Morris’s hazard was correct—he was +a scholar and a bookworm without individuality, to whom fate had assigned minor +positions in a profession, which, however sincere his faith, he was scarcely +fitted to adorn. +</p> + +<p> +The work of a clergyman in a country parish if it is to succeed, should be +essentially practical, and this man was not practical. Clearly, thought Morris, +he was one of those who beat their wings against the bars with the common +result; it was the wings that suffered, the bars only grew a trifle brighter. +Then it seemed that he had lost a wife to whom he was attached, and the child +who remained to him, although he loved her and clung to her, he did not +altogether understand. So it came about, perhaps, that he had fallen under the +curses of loneliness and continual apprehension; and in this shadow where he +was doomed to walk, flourished forebodings and regrets, drawing their strength +from his starved nature like fungi from a tree outgrown and fallen in the +forest. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius, so thought Morris, was timid and reticent, because he dared not +discover his heart, that had been so sorely trampled by Fate and Fortune. Yet +he had a heart which, if he could find a confessor whom he could trust, he +longed to ease in confidence. For the rest, the man’s physical frame, not +too robust at any time, was shattered, and with it his nerve—sudden +shipwreck, painful accident, the fierce alternatives of hope and fear; then at +last a delirium of joy at the recovery of one whom he thought dead, had done +their work with him; and in this broken state some ancient, secret superstition +became dominant, and, strive as he would to suppress it, even in the presence +of a stranger, had burst from his lips in hints of unsubstantial folly. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the father, or such he appeared to Morris, but of the daughter what +could be said? Without doubt she was a woman of strange and impressive power. +At this very moment her sweet voice, touched with that continual note of +pleading, still echoed in his brain. And the dark, quiet eyes that now slept, +and now shone large, as her thoughts fled through them, like some mysterious +sky at night in which the summer lightning pulses intermittently! Who might +forget those eyes that once had seen them? Already he wished to be rid of their +haunting and could not. Then her beauty—how unusual it was, yet how rich +and satisfying to the eye and sense; in some ways almost Eastern +notwithstanding her Norse blood! +</p> + +<p> +Often Morris had read or heard of the bewildering power of women, which for his +part hitherto he had been inclined to attribute to shallow and very common +causes, such as underlie all animate nature. Yet that of Stella—for +undoubtedly she had power—suggested another interpretation to his mind. +Or was it, after all, nothing but a variant, one of the Protean shapes of the +ancient, life-compelling mystery? And her strange chant, the song of which her +father made light, but feared so much; her quick insight into the workings of +his own thought; her courage in the face of danger and sharp physical miseries; +her charm, her mastery. What was he to make of them? Lastly, why did he think +so much about her? It was not his habit where strangers were concerned. And why +had she awakened in his somewhat solitary and secluded mind a sympathy so +unusual that it seemed to him that he had known her for years and not for +hours? +</p> + +<p> +Pondering these things and the fact that perhaps within the coming weeks he +would find out their meaning, Morris went to sleep. When he awoke next morning +his mood had changed. Somewhat vaguely he remembered his perturbations of the +previous night indeed, but now they only moved him to a smile. Their reasons +were so obvious. Such exaggerated estimates and thoughts follow strange +adventures—and in all its details this adventure was very +strange—as naturally as nightmares follow indigestion. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Thomas came to call him, and brought up his letters, among them one +from Mary containing nothing in particular, for, of course, it had been +despatched before her telegram, but written in her usual humorous style, which +made him laugh aloud. +</p> + +<p> +There was a postscript to the letter screwed into the unoccupied space between +the date line and the “Dearest Morris” at its commencement. It ran: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“How would you like to spend our honeymoon? In a yacht in the +Mediterranean? I think that would do. There is nothing like solitude in a +wretched little boat to promote mutual understanding. If your devotion could +stand the strain of a dishevelled and seasick spouse, our matrimonial future +has no terrors for your loving +</p> + +<p class="right"> +M<small>ARY</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +As Morris read he ceased to laugh. “Yes,” he thought to himself, +“‘solitude in a wretched little boat’ does promote mutual +understanding. I am not certain that it does not promote it too much.” +Then, with an access of irritation, “Bother the people! I wish I could be +rid of them; the whole thing seems likely to become a worry.” +</p> + +<p> +Next he took up a letter from his father, which, when perused, did not +entertain him in the least. There was nothing about Lady Rawlins in it, of whom +he longed to hear, or thought that he did; nothing about that entrancing +personality, the bibulous and violent Sir Jonah, now so meek and lamblike, but +plenty, whole pages indeed, as to details connected with the estate. Also it +contained a goodly sprinkling of sarcasms and grumblings at his, +Morris’s, bad management of various little matters which the Colonel +considered important. Most of all, however, was his parent indignant at his +neglect to furnish him with details sufficiently ample of the progress of the +new buildings. Lastly, he desired, by return of post, a verbatim report of the +quarrel that, as he was informed, had occurred on the school board when a +prominent Roman Catholic threatened to throw an inkstand at a dissenting +minister who, <i>coram populo</i>, called him the son of “a Babylonian +woman.” +</p> + +<p> +By the time that Morris had finished this epistle, and two others which +accompanied it, he was in no mood for further reflections of an unpractical or +dreamy nature. Who can wonder when it is stated that they contained, +respectively, a summary demand for the amount of a considerable bill which he +imagined he had paid, and a request that he would read a paper before a +“Science Institute” upon the possibilities of aerial telephones, +made by a very unpleasing lady whom he had once met at a lawn-tennis party? +Indeed it would not be too much to say that if anyone had given him the +opportunity he would have welcomed a chance to quarrel, especially with the +lady of the local Institute. Thus, cured of all moral distempers, and every +tendency to speculate on feminine charms, hidden or overt, did he descend to +the Sabbath breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +That morning Morris accompanied Stella to church, where the services were still +being performed by a stop-gap left by Mr. Tomley. Here, again, Stella was a +surprise to him, for now her demeanour, and at a little distance her appearance +also, were just such as mark ninety-eight out of every hundred +clergyman’s daughters in the country. So quiet and reserved was she that +anyone meeting her that morning might have imagined that she was hurrying from +the accustomed Bible-class to sit among her pupils in the church. This +impression indeed was, as it were, certificated by an old-fashioned silk fichu +that she had been obliged to borrow, which in bygone years had been worn by +Morris’s mother. +</p> + +<p> +Once in church, however, matters changed. To begin with, finding it warm, +Stella threw off the fichu, greatly to the gain of her personal appearance. +Next, it became evident that the beauties of the ancient building appealed to +her, which was not wonderful; for these old, seaside, eastern counties +churches, relics of long past wealth and piety, are some of them among the most +beautiful in the world. Then came the “Venite,” of which here and +there she sang a line or so, just one or two rich notes like those that a +thrush utters before he bursts into full song. Rare as they might be, however, +they caused those about her in the church to look at the strange singer +wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +After this, in the absence of his father, Morris read the lessons, and +although, being blessed with a good voice, this was a duty which he performed +creditably enough, that day he went through it with a certain sense of +nervousness. Why he was nervous at first he did not guess; till, chancing to +glance up, he became aware that Miss Fregelius was looking at him out of her +half-closed eyes. What is more, she was listening critically, and with much +intenseness, whereupon, instantly, he made a mistake and put a false accent on +a name. +</p> + +<p> +In due course, the lessons done with, they reached the first hymn, which was +one that scarcely seemed to please his companion; at any rate, she shut the +book and would not sing. In the case of the second hymn, however, matters were +different. This time she did not even open the book. It was evident that she +knew the words, perhaps among the most beautiful in the whole collection, by +heart. The reader will probably be acquainted with them. They begin: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And now, O Father, mindful of the love<br/> +That bought us, once for all, on Calvary’s tree.” +</p> + +<p> +At first Stella sang quite low, as though she wished to repress her powers. +Now, as it happened, at Monksland the choir was feeble, but inoffensive; +whereas the organ was a good, if a worn and neglected instrument, suited to the +great but sparsely peopled church, and the organist, a man who had music in his +soul. Low as she was singing, he caught the sound of Stella’s voice, and +knew at once that before him was a woman who in a supreme degree possessed the +divinest gift, perhaps, with which Nature can crown her sex, the power and gift +of song. Forgetting his wretched choir, he began to play to her. She seemed to +note the invitation, and at once answered to it. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Look, Father, look on His anointed face,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +swelled from her throat in deep contralto notes, rich as those the organ +echoed. +</p> + +<p> +But the full glory of the thing, that surpassing music which set Monksland +talking for a week, was not reached till she came to the third verse. Perhaps +the pure passion and abounding humanity of its spirit moved her. Perhaps by +this time she was the thrall of her own song. Perhaps she had caught the look +of wonder and admiration on the face of Morris, and was determined to show him +that she had other music at command besides that of pagan death-chants. At +least, she sang up and out, till her notes dominated those of the choir, which +seemed to be but an accompaniment to them; till they beat against the ancient +roof and down the depth of the long nave, to be echoed back as though from the +golden trumpets of the angels that stood above the tower screen; till even the +village children ceased from whispers and playing to listen open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And then for those, our dearest and best,<br/> +By this prevailing Presence we appeal;<br/> +O! fold them closer to Thy mercy’s breast,<br/> +O! do Thine utmost, for their souls’ true weal;<br/> +From tainting mischief keep them white and clear,<br/> +And crown Thy gifts with strength to persevere.” +</p> + +<p> +It was as her voice lingered upon the deep tones of these last words that +suddenly Stella seemed to become aware that practically she was singing a solo; +that at any rate no one else in the congregation was contributing a note. Then +she was vexed, or perhaps a panic took her; at least, not another word of that +hymn passed her lips. In vain the organist paused and looked round indignantly; +the little boys, the clerk, and the stout coach-builder were left to finish it +by themselves, with results that by contrast were painful. +</p> + +<p> +When Stella came out of church, redraped in the antique and unbecoming fichu, +she found herself the object of considerable attention. Indeed, upon one +pretext and another nearly all the congregation seemed to be lingering about +the porch and pathway to stare at the new parson’s shipwrecked daughter +when she appeared. Among them was Miss Layard, and with her the delicate +brother. They were staying to lunch with the Stop-gap’s meek little wife. +Indeed, this self-satisfied and somewhat acrimonious lady, Miss Layard, engaged +Morris in conversation, and pointedly asked him to introduce her to Miss +Fregelius. +</p> + +<p> +“We are to be neighbours, you know,” she explained, “for we +live at the Hall in the next parish, not more than a mile away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” answered Stella, who did not seem much impressed. +</p> + +<p> +“My brother and I hope to call upon Mr. Fregelius and yourself as soon as +possible, but I thought I would not wait for that to have the pleasure of +making your acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind indeed,” said Stella simply. “At present, +I am afraid, it is not much use calling upon my father, as he is in bed with a +broken thigh; also, we are not at the Rectory. Until he can be moved we are +only guests at the Abbey,” and she looked at Morris, who added rather +grumpily, by way of explanation: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, Miss Layard, you have heard about the wreck of the Trondhjem, +and how those foreign sailors saw the light in my workshop and brought Mr. +Fregelius to the Abbey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, Mr. Monk, and how they left Miss Fregelius behind, and you went +to fetch her, and all sorts of strange things happened to you. We think it +quite wonderful and romantic. I am writing to dear Miss Porson to tell her +about it, because I am sure that you are too modest to sing your own +praises.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris grew angry. At the best of times he disliked Miss Layard. Now he began +to detest her, and to long for the presence of Mary, who understood how to deal +with that not too well-bred young person. +</p> + +<p> +“You really needn’t have troubled,” he answered. “I +have already written.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then my epistle will prove a useful commentary. If I were engaged to a +modern hero I am sure I could not hear too much about him, and,” fixing +her eyes upon the black silk fichu, “the heroine of the adventure.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Stella was being engaged by the brother, who surveyed her with pale, +admiring eyes which did not confine their attentions to the fichu. +</p> + +<p> +“Monk is always an awfully lucky fellow,” he said. “Just +fancy his getting the chance of doing all that, and finding you waiting on the +ship at the end of it,” he added, with desperate and emphatic gallantry. +“There’s to be a whole column about it in the ‘Northwold +Times’ to-morrow. I wish the thing had come my way, that’s +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unless you understand how to manage a boat in a heavy sea, and the winds +and tides of this coast thoroughly, I don’t think that you should wish +that, Mr. Layard,” said Stella. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” he asked sharply. As a matter of fact the little man was +a miserable sailor and suspected her of poking fun at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you would have been drowned, Mr. Layard, and lying at the bottom +of the North Sea among the dogfish and conger-eels this morning instead of +sitting comfortably in church.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Layard started and stared at her. Evidently this lady’s imagination +was as vivid as it was suggestive. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Miss Fregelius,” he said, “you don’t put things +very pleasantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am afraid not, but then drowning isn’t pleasant. I have been +near it very lately, and I thought a great deal about those conger-eels. And +sudden death isn’t pleasant, and perhaps—unless you are very, very +good, as I daresay you are—what comes after it may not be quite pleasant. +All of which has to be thought of before one goes to sea in an open boat in +winter, on the remotest chance of saving a stranger’s +life—hasn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Somehow Mr. Layard felt distinctly smaller. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay one wouldn’t mind it at a pinch,” he muttered; +“Monk isn’t the only plucky fellow in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure you would not, Mr. Layard,” replied Stella in a gentler +voice, “still these things must be considered upon such occasions and a +good many others.” +</p> + +<p> +“A brave man doesn’t think, he acts,” persisted Mr. Layard. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Stella, “a foolish man doesn’t think, a +brave man thinks and sees, and still acts—at least, that is how it +strikes me, although perhaps I have no right to an opinion. But Mr. Monk is +going on, so I must say good-morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are many of the ladies about here so inquisitive, and the young +gentlemen so?”—“decided” she was going to say, but +changed the word to “kind”—asked Stella of Morris as they +walked homeward. +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies!” snapped Morris. “Miss Layard isn’t a lady, +and never will be; she has neither birth nor breeding, only good looks of a +sort and money. I should like,” he added, viciously—“I should +like to shut her into her own coal mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella laughed, which was a rare thing with her—usually she only +smiled—as she answered: +</p> + +<p> +“I had no idea you were so vindictive, Mr. Monk. And what would you like +to do with Mr. Layard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I—never thought much about him. He is an ignorant, uneducated +little fellow, but worth two of his sister, all the same. After all, he’s +got a heart. I have known him do kind things, but she has nothing but a +temper.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, at the luncheon table of the Stop-gap the new and mysterious +arrival, Miss Fregelius, was the subject of fierce debate. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty! I don’t call her pretty,” said Miss Layard; +“she has fine eyes, that is all, and they do not look quite right. What +an extraordinary garment she had on, too; it might have come out of +Noah’s Ark.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy,” suggested the hostess, a mild little woman, “that +it came out of the wardrobe of the late Mrs. Monk. You know, Miss Fregelius +lost all her things in that ship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then if I were she I should have stopped at home until I got some new +ones,” snapped Miss Layard. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps everybody doesn’t think so much about clothes as you do, +Eliza,” suggested her brother Stephen, seeing an opportunity which he was +loth to lose. Eliza, in the privacy of domestic life, was not a person to be +assailed with a light heart, but in company, when to some extent she must keep +her temper under control, more might be dared. +</p> + +<p> +She shifted her chair a little, with her a familiar sign of war, and while +searching for a repartee which would be sufficiently crushing, cast on Stephen +a glance that might have turned wine into vinegar. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhat tremulously, for unless the fire could be damped before it got full +hold, she knew what they might expect, the little hostess broke in with— +</p> + +<p> +“What a beautiful singing voice she has, hasn’t she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” asked Eliza, pretending not to understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Miss Fregelius, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, that is a matter of opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang it all, Eliza!” said her brother, “there can’t be +two opinions about it, she sings like an angel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so, Stephen? I should have said she sings like an opera +dancer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Always understood that their gifts lay in their legs and not in their +throats. But perhaps you mean a prima donna,” remarked Stephen +reflectively. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t. Prima donnas are not in the habit of screeching at +the top of their voices, and then stopping suddenly to make an effect and +attract attention.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly she has attracted my attention, and I only wish I could hear +such screeching every day; it would be a great change.” It may be +explained that the Layards were musical, and that each detested the music of +the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Stephen,” rejoined Eliza, with sarcasm as awkward as it +was meant to be crushing, “I shall have to tell Jane Rose that she is +dethroned, poor dear—beaten out of the field by a hymn-tune, a pair of +brown eyes, and—a black silk fichu.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a venomous stab, since for a distance of ten miles round everyone with +ears to hear knew that Stephen’s admiration of Miss Rose had not ended +prosperously for Stephen. The poisoned knife sank deep, and its smart drove the +little pale-eyed man to fury. +</p> + +<p> +“You can tell her what you like, Eliza,” he replied, for his +self-control was utterly gone; “but it won’t be much use, for +she’ll know what you mean. She’ll know that you are jealous of Miss +Fregelius because she’s so good looking; just as you are jealous of her, +and of Mary Porson, and of anybody else who dares to be pretty and,” with +crushing meaning, “to look at Morris Monk.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza gasped, then said in a tragic whisper, “Stephen, you insult me. Oh! +if only we were at home, I would tell you——” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt you would—you often do; but I’m not going +home at present. I am going to the Northwold hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” broke in their hostess, almost wringing her hands, +“this is Sunday, Mr. Layard; remember this is Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not likely to forget it,” replied the maddened Stephen; but +over the rest of this edifying scene we will drop a veil. +</p> + +<p> +Thus did the advent of Stella bring with it surprises, rumours, and family +dissensions. What else it brought remains to be told. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a> +CHAPTER XII.<br/> +MR. LAYARD’S WOOING</h2> + +<p> +The days went by with an uneventful swiftness at the Abbey, and after he had +once accustomed himself to the strangeness of what was, in effect, solitude in +the house with an unmarried guest of the other sex, it may be admitted, very +pleasantly to Morris. At first that rather remarkable young lady, Stella, had +alarmed him somewhat, so that he convinced himself that the duties of this +novel hospitality would prove irksome. As a matter of fact, however, in +forty-eight hours the irksomeness was all gone, to be replaced within twice +that period by an atmosphere of complete understanding, which was comforting to +his fearful soul. +</p> + +<p> +The young lady was never in the way. Now that she had procured some suitable +clothes the young lady was distinctly good looking; she was remarkably +intelligent and well-read; she sang, as Stephen Layard had said, “like an +angel”; she took a most enlightened interest in aerophones and their +possibilities; she proved a very useful assistant in various experiments; and +made one or two valuable suggestions. While Mary and the rest of them were away +the place would really be dull without her, and somehow he could not be as +sorry as he ought when Dr. Charters told him that old Mr. Fregelius’s +bones were uniting with exceeding slowness. +</p> + +<p> +Such were the conclusions which one by one took shape in the mind of that +ill-starred man, Morris Monk. As yet, however, let the student of his history +understand, they were not tinged with the slightest +“arrière-pensée.” He did not guess even that such relations as +already existed between Stella and himself might lead to grievous trouble; that +at least they were scarcely wise in the case of a man engaged. +</p> + +<p> +All he felt, all he knew, was that he had found a charming companion, a woman +whose thought, if deeper, or at any rate different to his and not altogether to +be followed, was in tune with his. He could not always catch her meaning, and +yet that unrealised meaning would appeal to him. Himself a very spiritual man, +and a humble seeker after truth, his nature did intuitive reverence to one who +appeared to be still more spiritual, who, as he conjectured, at times at any +rate, had discovered some portion of the truth. He believed it, although she +had never told him so. Indeed that semi-mystical side of Stella, whereof at +first she had shown him glimpses, seemed to be quite in abeyance; she dreamed +no more dreams, she saw no more visions, or if she did she kept them to +herself. Yet to him this woman seemed to be in touch with that unseen which he +found it so difficult to weigh and appreciate. Instinctively he felt that her +best thoughts, her most noble and permanent desires, were there and not here. +</p> + +<p> +As he had said to her in the boat, the old Egyptians lived to die. In life a +clay hut was for them a sufficient lodging; in death they sought a costly, +sculptured tomb, hewn from the living rock. With them these things were +symbolical, since that great people believed, with a wonderful certainty, that +the true life lay beyond. They believed, too, that on the earth they did but +linger in its gateway, passing their time with such joy as they could summon, +baring their heads undismayed to the rain of sorrow, because they knew that +very soon they would be crowned with eternal joys, whereof each of these +sorrows was but an earthly root. +</p> + +<p> +Stella Fregelius reminded Morris of these old Egyptians. Indeed, had he wished +to carry the comparison from her spiritual to her physical attributes it still +might have been considered apt, for in face she was somewhat Eastern. Let the +reader examine the portrait bust of the great Queen Taia, clothed with its +mysterious smile, which adorns the museum in Cairo, and, given fair instead of +dusky skin, with certain other minor differences, he will behold no mean +likeness to Stella Fregelius. However this may be, for if Morris saw the +resemblance there were others who could not agree with him; doubtless although +not an Eastern, ancient or modern, she was tinged with the fatalism of the +East, mingled with a certain contempt of death inherited perhaps from her +northern ancestors, and an active, pervading spirituality that was all her own. +Yet her manners were not gloomy, nor her air tragic, for he found her an +excellent companion, fond of children and flowers, and at times merry in her +own fashion. But this gaiety of hers always reminded Morris of that which is +said to have prevailed in the days of the Terror among those destined to the +guillotine. Never for one hour did she seem to forget the end. +“‘Vanity of vanities,’ saith the Preacher”; and that +lesson was her watchword. +</p> + +<p> +One evening they were walking together upon the cliff. In the west the sun had +sunk, leaving a pale, lemon-coloured glow upon the sky. Then far away over the +quiet sea, showing bright and large in that frosty air, sprang out a single +star. Stella halted in her walk, and looked first at the sunset heaven, next at +the solemn sea, and last at that bright, particular star set like a diadem of +power upon the brow of advancing night. Morris, watching her, saw the blood +mantle to her pale face, while the dark eyes grew large and luminous, proud, +too, and full of secret strength. At length his curiosity got the better of +him. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you thinking of?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish me to tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will laugh at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—as I laugh at that sky, and sea, and star.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I was thinking of the old, eternal difference between the +present and the future.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean between life and death?” queried Morris, and she nodded, +answering: +</p> + +<p> +“Between life and death, and how little people see or think of it. They +just live and forget that beneath them lie their fathers’ bones. They +forget that in some few days—perhaps more, perhaps less—other +unknown creatures will be standing above <i>their</i> forgotten bones, as +blind, as self-seeking, as puffed up with the pride of the brief moment, and +filled with the despair of their failure, the glory of their success, as they +are to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” suggested Morris, “they say that while they are in +the world it is well to be of the world; that when they belong to the next it +will be time to consider it. I am not sure that they are not right. I have +heard that view,” he added, remembering a certain conversation with Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t think that!” she answered, almost imploringly; +“for it is not true, really it is not true. Of course, the next world +belongs to all, but our lot in it does not come to us by right, that must be +earned.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old doctrine of our Faith,” suggested Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but, as I believe, there is more behind, more which we are not +told; that we must find out for ourselves with ‘groanings which cannot be +uttered; by hope we are saved.’ Did not St. Paul hint at it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that as our spirit sows, so shall it reap; as it imagines and +desires, so shall it inherit. It is here that the soul must grow, not there. As +the child comes into the world with a nature already formed, and its blood +filled with gifts of strength or weakness, so shall the spirit come into its +world wearing the garment that it has woven and which it cannot change.” +</p> + +<p> +“The garment which it has woven,” said Morris. “That means +free will, and how does free will chime in with your fatalism, Miss +Fregelius?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly; the material given us to weave with, that is Fate; the time +which is allotted for the task, that is Fate again; but the pattern is our own. +Here are brushes, here is pigment, so much of it, of such and such colours, and +here is light to work by. ‘Now paint your picture,’ says the +Master; ‘paint swiftly, with such skill as you can, not knowing how long +is allotted for the task.’ And so we weave, and so we paint, every one of +us—every one of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your picture, Miss Fregelius? Tell me, if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, and drew herself up. “Mine, oh! it is large. It is to reign +like that star. It is to labour forward from age to age at the great tasks that +God shall set me; to return and bow before His throne crying, ‘It is +done. Behold, is the work good?’ For the hour that they endure it is +still to be with those whom I have loved on earth, although they cannot see me; +to soothe their sorrows, to support their weakness, to lull their fears. It is +that the empty longing and daily prayer may be filled, and filled, and filled +again, like a cup from a stream which never ceases.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is that daily prayer?” asked Morris, looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“O! God, touch me with Thy light, and give me understanding—yes, +understanding—the word encloses all I seek,” she replied, then, +checking herself, added in a changed voice, “Come, let us go home; it is +foolish to talk long of such things.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Shortly after this curious conversation, which was never renewed between them, +or, at least, but once, a new element entered into the drama, the necessary +semi-comic element without which everything would be so dull. This fresh factor +was the infatuation, which possibly the reader may have foreseen, of the +susceptible, impulsive little man, Stephen Layard, for Stella Fregelius, the +lady whose singing he had admired, and who had been a cause of war between him +and his sister. Like many weak men, Stephen Layard was obstinate, also from +boyhood up he had suffered much at the hands of Eliza, who was not, in fact, +quite so young as she looked. Hence there arose in his breast a very natural +desire for retaliation. Eliza had taken a violent dislike to Miss Fregelius, +whom he thought charming. This circumstance in their strained relations was +reason enough to induce Stephen to pay court to her, even if his natural +inclination had not made the adventure very congenial. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, on the first opportunity he called at the Abbey to ask after the +rector, to be, as he had hoped, received by Stella. Finding his visit +exceedingly agreeable, after a day or two he repeated it, and this time was +conducted to the old clergyman’s bedroom, upon whom his civility made a +good impression. +</p> + +<p> +Now, as it happened, although he did not live in Monksland, Mr. Layard was one +of the largest property owners in the parish, a circumstance which he did not +fail to impress upon the new rector. Being by nature and training a +hard-working man who wished to do his best for his cure even while he lay +helpless, Mr. Fregelius welcomed the advances of this wealthy young gentleman +with enthusiasm, especially when he found that he was no niggard. A piece of +land was wanted for the cemetery. Mr. Layard offered to present an acre. Money +was lacking to pay off a debt upon the reading-room. Mr. Layard headed the +subscription list with a handsome sum. And so forth. +</p> + +<p> +Now the details of these various arrangements could not conveniently be settled +without many interviews, and thus very soon it came about that scarcely a day +went by upon which Mr. Layard’s dog-cart did not pass through the Abbey +gates. Generally he came in the morning and stopped to lunch; or he came in the +afternoon and stopped to tea. In fact, or thus it seemed to Morris, he always +stopped to something, so much so that although not lacking in hospitality, at +times Morris found his presence wearisome, for in truth the two men had nothing +in common. +</p> + +<p> +“He must have turned over a new leaf with a vengeance, for he never would +give a sixpence to anything during old Tomley’s time,” remarked +Morris to Stella. “I suppose that he has taken a great fancy to your +father, which is a good thing for the parish, as those Layards are richer than +Croesus.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Stella with a curious little smile. +</p> + +<p> +But to herself she did not smile; for, if Morris found his visitor a bore, to +Stella he was nothing short of an infliction, increased rather than mitigated +by numerous presents of hot-house fruit and flowers offered to herself, and +entailing, each of them, an expression of thanks verbal or written. At first +she treated the thing as a joke, till it grew evident that her admirer was as +much in earnest as his nature would permit. Thereon, foreseeing eventualities, +she became alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +Unless some means could be found to stop him it was now clear to Stella that +Mr. Layard meant to propose to her, and as she had not the slightest intention +of accepting him this was an honour which she did not seek. But she could find +no sufficient means; hints, and even snubs, only seemed to add fuel to the +fire, and of a perpetual game of hide and seek she grew weary. +</p> + +<p> +So it came about that at last she shrugged her shoulders and left things to +take their chance, finding some consolation for her discomfort in the knowledge +that Miss Layard, convinced that the rector’s daughter was luring her +inexperienced brother into an evil matrimonial net, could in no wise restrain +her rage and indignation. So openly did this lady express her views, indeed, +that at length a report of them reached even Morris’s inattentive ears, +whereon he was at first very angry and then burst out laughing. That a man like +Stephen Layard should hope to marry a woman like Stella Fregelius seemed to him +so absurd as to be almost unnatural. Yet when he came to think it over quietly +he was constrained to admit to himself that the match would have many +advantages for the young lady, whereof the first and foremost were that Stephen +was very rich, and although slangy and without education in its better sense, +at heart by no means a bad little fellow. So Morris shrugged his shoulders, +shut his eyes, continued to dispense luncheons and afternoon teas, and though +with an uneasy mind, like Stella herself, allowed things to take their chance. +</p> + +<p> +All this while, however, his own friendship with Stella grew apace, enhanced as +it was in no small degree by the fact that now her help in his scientific +operations had become most valuable. Indeed, it appeared that he was destined +to owe the final success of his instrument to the assistance of women who, at +the beginning, at any rate, knew little of its principles. Mary, it may be +remembered, by some fortunate chance, made the suggestion as to the substance +of the receiver, which turned the aerophone from a great idea into a practical +reality. Now to complete the work it was Stella, not by accident, but after +careful study of its problem who gave the thought that led to the removal of +the one remaining obstacle to its general and successful establishment. +</p> + +<p> +To test this new development of the famous sound deflector and perfect its +details, scores of experiments were needed, most of which he and she carried +out together. This was their plan. One of them established him or herself in +the ruined building known as the Dead Church, while the other took up a +position in the Abbey workshop. From these respective points, a distance of +about two miles, they tested the machines with results that day by day grew +better and clearer, till at length, under these conditions they were almost +perfect. +</p> + +<p> +Strange was the experience and great the triumph when at last Morris, seated in +the Abbey with his apparatus before him, unconnected with its twin by any +visible medium, was able without interruption for a whole morning to converse +with Stella established in the Dead Church. +</p> + +<p> +“It is done,” he cried in unusual exultation. “Now, if I die +to-morrow it does not matter.” +</p> + +<p> +Instantly came the answer in Stella’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very happy. If I do nothing else I have helped a man to +fame.” +</p> + +<p> +Then a hitch arose, the inevitable hitch; it was found that, in certain states +of the atmosphere, and sometimes at fixed hours of the day, the sounds coming +from the receiver were almost inaudible. At other times again the motive force +seemed to be so extraordinarily active that, the sound deflector +notwithstanding, the instrument captured and transmitted a thousand noises +which are not to be heard by the unobservant listener, or in some cases by any +human ear. +</p> + +<p> +Weird enough these noises were at times. Like great sighs they came, like the +moan of the breeze brought from an infinite distance, like mutterings and +groanings arisen from the very bowels of the earth. Then there were the splash +or boom of the waves, the piping of the sea-wind, the cry of curlew, or +black-backed gulls, all mingled in one great and tangled skein of sound that +choked the voice of the speaker, and in their aggregate, bewildered him who +hearkened. +</p> + +<p> +These, and others which need not be detailed, were problems that had to be met, +necessitating many more experiments. Thus it came about that through most of +the short hours of winter daylight Morris and Stella found themselves at their +respective positions, corresponding, or trying to correspond, through the +aerophones. If the weather was very bad, or very cold, Morris went to the dead +Church, otherwise that post was allotted to Stella, both because it was more +convenient that Morris should stay in his laboratory, and by her own choice. +</p> + +<p> +Two principal reasons caused her to prefer to pass as much of her time as was +possible in this desolate and unvisited spot. First, because Mr. Layard was +less likely to find her when he called, and secondly, that for her it had a +strange fascination. Indeed, she loved the place, clothed as it was with a +thousand memories of those who had been human like herself, but now—were +not. She would read the inscriptions upon the chancel stones and study the +coats-of-arms and names of those departed, trying to give to each lost man and +woman a shape and character, till at length she knew all the monuments by +appearance as well as by the names inscribed upon them. +</p> + +<p> +One of these dead, oddly enough, had been named Stella Ethel Smythe, daughter +of Sir Thomas Smythe, whose family lived at the old hall now in the possession +of the Layards. This Stella had died at the age of twenty-five in the year +1741, and her tombstone recorded that in mind she was clean and sweet, and in +body beautiful. Also at the foot of it was a doggerel couplet, written probably +by her bereaved father, which ran: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Though here my Star seems set,<br/> +I know ‘twill light me yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella, the live Stella, thought these simple words very touching, and pointed +them out to Morris. He agreed with her, and tried in the records of the parish +and elsewhere to discover some details about the dead girl’s life, but +quite without avail. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all that’s left,” he said one day, nodding his +head at the tombstone. “The star is quite set.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘I know ‘twill light me yet,’” murmured his +companion, as she turned away to the work in hand. “Sometimes,” she +went on, “as I sit here at dusk listening to all the strange sounds which +come from that receiver, I fancy that I can hear Stella and her poor father +talking while they watch me; only I cannot understand their language.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Morris, “if that were right we should have found a +means of communication from the dead and with the unseen world at large.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” asked Stella. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, I have thought of it,” he answered, and the +subject dropped. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon Stella, wrapped in thick cloaks, was seated in the chancel of the +Dead Church attending to the instrument which stood upon the stone altar. +Morris had not wished her to go that morning, for the weather was very coarse, +and snow threatened; but, anticipating a visit from Mr. Layard, she insisted, +saying that she should enjoy the walk. Now the experiments were in progress, +and going beautifully. In order to test the aerophones fully in this rough +weather, Morris and Stella had agreed to read to each other alternate verses +from the Book of Job, beginning at the thirty-eighth chapter. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the +bands of Orion?’” read Stella presently in her rich, clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly from two miles away came the next verse, the sound of those splendid +words rolling down the old church like echoes of some lesson read generations +since. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season, or canst thou +guide Arcturus with his sons?’” +</p> + +<p> +So it went on for a few more verses, till just as the instrument was saying, +“‘Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given +understanding to the heart?’” the rude door in the brick partition +opened, admitting a rush of wind and—Stephen Layard. +</p> + +<p> +The little man sidled up nervously to where Stella was sitting on a camp-stool +by the altar. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do?” said Stella, holding out her hand, and looking +surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Miss Fregelius? What—what are you doing in this +dreadfully cold place on such a bitter day?” +</p> + +<p> +Before she could answer the voice of Morris, anxious and irritated, for as the +next verse did not follow he concluded that something had gone wrong with the +apparatus, rang through the church asking: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given +understanding to the heart?’” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious,” said Mr. Layard. “I had no idea that Monk +was here; I left him at the Abbey. Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the Abbey,” answered Stella, as for the second time the voice +of Morris rolled out the question from the Book. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” said Stephen, beginning to look +frightened; “has it anything to do with his electrical +experiments?” +</p> + +<p> +Stella nodded. Then, addressing the instrument, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Please stop reading for a while. Mr. Layard is calling here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound him,” came the swift answer. “Let me know when he +is gone. He said he was going home,” whereon Stella switched off before +worse things happened. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Layard, who had heard these words, began a confused explanation till Stella +broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t apologise. You changed your mind, and we all do that; +but I am afraid this is a cold place to come to.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right there. Why on earth do you sit here so long?” +</p> + +<p> +“To work, Mr. Layard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you work? I thought women hated it, and above all, why for +Monk? Does he pay you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I work because I like work, and shall go on working till I die, and +afterwards I hope; also, these experiments interest me very much. Mr. Monk does +not pay me. I have never asked him to do so. Indeed, it is I who am in his debt +for all the kindness he has shown to my father and myself. To any little +assistance that I can give him he is welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said Mr. Layard; “but I should have thought that was +Mary Porson’s job. You know he is engaged to her, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but Miss Porson is not here; and if she were, perhaps she would not +care for this particular work.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a pause, which, not knowing what this awkward silence might breed, +Stella broke. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you saw my father,” she said; “how did you find +him looking?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! better, I thought; but that leg of his still seems very bad.” +Then, with a gasp and a great effort, he went on: “I have been speaking +to him about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Stella, looking at him with wondering eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and he says that if—it suits us both, he is quite willing; +that, in fact, he would be very pleased to see you so well provided for.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella could not say that she did not understand, the falsehood was too +obvious. So she merely went on looking, a circumstance from which Mr. Layard +drew false auguries. +</p> + +<p> +“You know what I mean, don’t you?” he jerked out. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean—I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this +horrid thing was talking about just now—understanding to the heart; yes, +that’s it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella? I will +make you a good husband, and it isn’t a bad place, and all that, and +though your father says he has little to leave you, you will be treated as +liberally as though you were a lady in your own right.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella smiled a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you marry me?” he asked again. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that I must answer no, Mr. Layard.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the poor man broke out into a rhapsody of bitter disappointment, genuine +emotion, and passionate entreaty. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use, Mr. Layard,” said Stella at last. “Indeed, I +am much obliged to you. You have paid me a great compliment, but it is not +possible that I should become your wife, and the sooner that is clear the +better for us both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you engaged?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Layard; and probably I never shall be. I have my own ideas about +matrimony, and the conditions under which I would undertake it are not at all +likely ever to be within my reach.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he implored,—for at the time this woman really held his +heart,—wringing his hands, and, indeed, weeping in the agony of a repulse +which was the more dreadful because it was quite unexpected. He had scarcely +imagined that this poor clergyman’s daughter, who had little but her +looks and a sweet voice, would really refuse the best match for twenty miles +round, nor had his conversation with her father suggested to his mind any such +idea. +</p> + +<p> +It was true that Mr. Fregelius had given him no absolute encouragement; he had +said that personally the marriage would be very pleasing to himself, but that +it was a matter of which Stella must judge; and when asked whether he would +speak to his daughter, he had emphatically declined. Still, Stephen Layard had +taken this to be all a part of the paternal formula, and rejoiced, thinking the +matter as good as settled. Dreadful indeed, then, was it to him when he found +that he was called upon to contemplate the dull obverse of his shield of faith, +and not its bright and shining face, in which he had seen mirrored so clear a +picture of perfect happiness. +</p> + +<p> +So he begged on piteously enough, till at last Stella was forced to stop him by +saying as gently as she could: +</p> + +<p> +“Please spare us both, Mr. Layard; I have given my answer, and I am sorry +to say that it is impossible for me to go back upon my word.” +</p> + +<p> +Then a sudden fury seized him. +</p> + +<p> +“You are in love with somebody else,” he said; “you are in +love with Morris Monk; and he is a villain, when he is engaged, to go taking +you too. I know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Mr. Layard,” said Stella, striving to keep her temper, +“you know more than I know myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely,” he answered. “I never said you knew it, but +it’s true, for all that. I feel it here—where you will feel it one +day, to your sorrow”—and he placed his hand upon his heart. +</p> + +<p> +A sudden terror took hold of her, but with difficulty she found her mental +balance. +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped, Mr. Layard,” she said, “that we might have parted +friends; but how can we when you bring such accusations?” +</p> + +<p> +“I retract them,” broke in the distracted man. “You +mustn’t think anything of what I said; it is only the pain that has made +me mad. For God’s sake, at least let us part friends, for then, perhaps, +some day we may come together again.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella shook her head sadly, and gave him her hand, which he covered with +kisses. Then, reeling in his gait like one drunken, the unhappy suitor departed +into the falling snow. +</p> + +<p> +Mechanically Stella switched on the instrument, and at once Morris’s +voice was heard asking: +</p> + +<p> +“I say, hasn’t he gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank goodness! Why on earth did you keep him gossiping all that time? +Now then—‘Who can number the clouds in +wisdom——‘” +</p> + +<p> +“Not Mr. Layard or I,” thought Stella sadly to herself, as she +called back the answering verse. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a> +CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER</h2> + +<p> +At length the light began to fade, and for that day their experiments were +over. In token of their conclusion twice Stella rang the electric warning bell +which was attached to the aerophone, and in some mysterious manner caused the +bell of its twin instrument to ring also. Then she packed the apparatus in its +box, for, with its batteries, it was too heavy and too delicate to be carried +conveniently, locking it up, and left the church, which she also locked behind +her. Outside it was still snowing fast, but softly, for the wind had dropped, +and a sharp frost was setting in, causing the fallen snow to scrunch beneath +her feet. About half-way along the bleak line of deserted cliff which stretched +from the Dead Church to the first houses of Monksland, she saw the figure of a +man walking swiftly towards her, and knew from the bent head and broad, +slightly stooping shoulders that it was Morris coming to escort her home. +Presently they met. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not wait for me?” he asked in an irritated voice, +“I told you I was coming, and you know that I do not like you to be +tramping about these lonely cliffs at this hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very kind of you,” she answered, smiling that slow, soft +smile which was characteristic of her when she was pleased, a smile that seemed +to be born in her beautiful eyes and thence to irradiate her whole face; +“but it was growing dreary and cold there, so I thought that I would +start.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “I forgot, and, what is more, it is very +selfish of me to keep you cooped up in such a place upon a winter’s day. +Enthusiasm makes one forget everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“At least without it we should do nothing; besides, please do not pity +me, for I have never been happier in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am most grateful,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know +what I should have done without you through this critical time, or what I +shall——” and he stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“It went beautifully to-day, didn’t it?” she broke in, as +though she had not heard his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “beyond all expectations. We must +experiment over a greater distance, and then if the thing still works I shall +be able to speak with my critics in the gate. You know I have kept everything +as dark as possible up to the present, for it is foolish to talk first and fail +afterwards. I prefer to succeed first and talk afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a triumph it will be!” said Stella. “All those clever +scientists will arrive prepared to mock, then think they are taken in, and at +last go away astonished to write columns upon columns in the papers.” +</p> + +<p> +“And after that?” queried Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, after that, honour and glory and wealth and power and—the +happy ending. Doesn’t it sound nice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye—es, in a way. But,” he added with energy, “it +won’t come off. No, not the aerophones, they are right enough I believe, +but all the rest of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is too much. ‘Happy endings’ don’t come +off. The happiness lies in the struggle, you know,—an old saying, but +quite true. Afterwards something intervenes.” +</p> + +<p> +“To have struggled happily and successfully is happiness in itself. +Whatever comes afterwards nothing can take that away. ‘I have done +something; it is good; it cannot be changed; it is a stone built for ever in +the pyramid of beauty, or knowledge, or advancement.’ What can man hope +to say more at the last, and how few live to say it, to say it truly? You will +leave a great name behind you, Mr. Monk.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall leave my work; that is enough for me,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +For a while they walked in silence; then some thought struck him, and he +stopped to ask: +</p> + +<p> +“Why did Layard come to the Dead Church to-day? He said that he was going +home, and it isn’t on his road.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella turned her head, but, even in that faint light, not quickly enough to +prevent him seeing a sudden flush change the pallor of her face to the rich +colour of her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“To call, I suppose; or,” correcting herself, “perhaps from +curiosity.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he talk about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the aerophone, I think; I don’t remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“That must be a story,” he said, laughing. “I always remember +Layard’s conversation for longer than I want; it has a knack of +impressing itself upon me. What was it? Cemetery land, church debts, the new +drainage scheme, or something equally entrancing and confidential?” +</p> + +<p> +Under this cross-examination Stella grew desperate, unnecessarily, perhaps, and +said in a voice that was almost cross: +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you; please let’s talk of something else.” +</p> + +<p> +Then of a sudden Morris understood, and, like a foolish man, at once jumped to +a conclusion far other than the truth. Doubtless Layard had gone to the church +to propose to Stella, and she had accepted him, or half accepted him; the +confusion of her manner told its own tale. A new and strange sensation took +possession of Morris. He felt unwell; he felt angry; if the aerophone refused +to work at all to-morrow, he would care nothing. He could not see quite +clearly, and was not altogether sure where he was walking. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” he said in a cold voice, as he recovered +himself; “it was most impertinent of me.” He was going to add, +“pray accept my congratulations,” but fortunately, or +unfortunately, stopped himself in time. +</p> + +<p> +Stella divined something of what was passing in his mind; not all, indeed, for +to her the full measure of his folly would have been incomprehensible. For a +moment she contemplated an explanation, then abandoned the idea because she +could find no words; because, also, this was another person’s secret, and +she had no right to involve an honest man, who had paid her a great compliment, +in her confidences. So she said nothing. To Morris, for the moment at any rate, +a conclusive proof of his worst suspicions. +</p> + +<p> +The rest of that walk was marked by unbroken silence. Both of them were very +glad when it was finished. +</p> + +<p> +It was five o’clock when they reached the Abbey, so that there were two +hours to be spent before it was time to dress for dinner. When she had taken +off her things Stella went straight to her father’s room to give him his +tea. By now Mr. Fregelius was much better, although the nature of his injuries +made it imperative that he should still stay in bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Stella?” he said, in his high, nervous voice, and, +although she could not see them in the shadow of the curtain, she knew that his +quick eyes were watching her face eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father, I have brought you your tea. Are you ready for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my dear. Have you been at that place—what do you call +it?—the Dead Church, all day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the experiments went beautifully.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did they, did they indeed?” commented her father in an +uninterested voice. The fate of the experiments did not move him. +“Isn’t it very lonely up there in that old church?” +</p> + +<p> +“I prefer to be alone—generally.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, I know. Forgive me; but you are a very odd woman, my +dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, father; but not more so than those before me, am I? Most of +them were a little different from other people, I have been told.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, Stella; they were all odd women, but I think that you are +quite the oddest of the family.” Then, as though the subject were +disagreeable to him, he added suddenly: “Mr. Layard came to see me +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he told me,” answered Stella. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you have met him. I remember; he said he should call in at the Dead +Church, as he had something to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella determined to get the conversation over, so she forced the pace. She was +a person who liked to have disagreeable things behind her. Drawing herself up, +she answered steadily: +</p> + +<p> +“He did call in, and—he said it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, my dear, what?” asked Mr. Fregelius innocently. +</p> + +<p> +“He asked me to marry him, father; I think he told me with your +consent.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius, auguring the very best from this openness, answered in tones +which he could not prevent from betraying an unseemly joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true, Stella; I told him to go on and prosper; and really I hope +he has prospered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Stella reflectively. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my dear love, am I to understand that you are engaged to +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Engaged to him! Certainly not,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” snapped out her justly indignant parent, “how in the +name of Heaven has he prospered?” +</p> + +<p> +“By my refusing him, of course. We should never have suited each other at +all; he would have been miserable if I had married him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius groaned in bitterness of spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Stella, Stella,” he cried, “what a +disappointment!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you be disappointed, father dear?” she asked gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? You stand there and ask why, when I hear that my daughter, who will +scarcely have a sixpence—or at least very few of them—has refused a +young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds a +year—that’s his exact income, for he told me himself, a most +estimable churchman, who would have been a pillar of strength to me, a man whom +I should have chosen out of ten thousand as a son-in-law——” +and he ceased, overwhelmed. +</p> + +<p> +“Father, I am sorry that you are sorry, but it is strange you should +understand me so little after all these years, that you could for one moment +think that I should marry Mr. Layard.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not, pray? Are you better born——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” interrupted Stella, whose one pride was that of her ancient +lineage. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean that. I meant better bred and generally superior to +him? You talk as though you were of a different clay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the clay is the same,” said Stella, “but the mind is +not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there it is again, spiritual and intellectual pride, which causes +you to set yourself above your fellows, and in the end will be your ruin. It +has made a lonely woman of you for years, and it will do worse than that. It +will turn you into an old maid—if you live,” he added, as though +shaken by some sudden memory. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” said Stella, “I am not frightened at the prospect. +I daresay that I shall have a little money and at the worst I can always earn a +living; my voice would help me to it, if nothing else does. Father, dear, you +mustn’t be vexed with me; and pray—pray do understand that no +earthly thing would make me marry a man whom I dislike rather than otherwise; +who, at least, is not a mate for me, merely because he could give me a fine +house to live in, and treat me luxuriously. What would be the good of such +things to me if I knew that I had tarnished myself and violated my +instincts?” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk like a book—you talk like a book,” muttered the old +gentleman. “But I know that the end of it will be wretchedness for +everybody. People who go on as you do about instincts, and fine feelings, and +all that stuff, are just the ones who get into some dreadful mess at last. I +tell you that such ideas are some of the devil’s best baits.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella began to grow indignant. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think, father, that you ought to talk to me quite like +that?” she asked. “Don’t you know me well enough to be sure +that I should never get into what you call a mess—at least, not in the +way I suppose you mean? My heart and thought are my own, and I shall be +prepared to render account of them; for the rest, you need not be +afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean that—I didn’t mean anything of the +sort——” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it,” broke in Stella. “It would scarcely +have been kind, especially as I am no longer a child who needs to be warned +against the dangers of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“What I did mean is that you are an enigma; that I am frightened about +you; that you are no companion; because your thoughts—yes, and at times +your face, too—seem unnatural, unearthly, and separate you from others, +as they have separated you from this poor young man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am what I was made,” answered Stella with a little smile, +“and I seek company where I can find it. Some love the natural, some the +spiritual, and each receive from them their good. Why should they blame one +another?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mad,” muttered her father to himself as she left the room. +“Mad as she is charming and beautiful; or, if not mad, at least quite +impracticable and unfitted for the world. What a disappointment to +me—what a bitter disappointment! Well, I should be used to them by +now.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Morris was in his workshop in the old chapel entering up his record +of the day’s experiments, which done, he drew his chair to the stove and +fell into thought. Somehow the idea of the engagement of Miss Fregelius to +Stephen Layard was not agreeable to him; probably because he did not care about +the young man. Yet, now that he came to think of it quietly, in all her +circumstances it would be an admirable arrangement, and the offer undoubtedly +was one which she had been wise to accept. On the whole, such a marriage would +be as happy as marriages generally are. The man was honest, the man was young +and rich, and very soon the man would be completely at the disposal of his +brilliant and beautiful wife. +</p> + +<p> +Personally he, Morris, would lose a friend, since a woman cannot marry and +remain the friend of another man. That, however, would probably have happened +in any case, and to object on this account, even in his secret heart, would be +abominably selfish. Indeed, what right had he even to consider the matter? The +young lady had come into his life very strangely, and made a curious impression +upon him; she was now going out of it by ordinary channels, and soon nothing +but the impression would remain. It was proper, natural, and the way of the +world; there was nothing more to be said. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow he was in a dreary mood, and everything bored him. He fetched +Mary’s last letter. There was nothing in it but some chit-chat, except +the postscript, which was rather longer than the letter, and ran: +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“I am glad to hear the young lady whom you fished up out of the sea is +such an assistance to you in your experiments. I gather from what I +hear—although you haven’t mentioned the fact—that she is as +beautiful as she is charming, and that she sings wonderfully. She must be +something remarkable, I am sure, because Eliza Layard evidently detests her, +and says that she is trying to ensnare the affections of that squire of dames, +her brother Stephen, now temporarily homeless after a visit to Jane Rose. What +will you do when you have to get on without her? I am afraid you must accustom +yourself to the idea, unless she would like to make a third in the honeymoon +party. Joking apart, I am exceedingly grateful to her for all the help she has +given you, and, dear, dear Morris, more delighted than I can tell you to learn +that after all your years of patient labour you believe success to be +absolutely within sight. +</p> + +<p> +“My father, I am sorry to say, is no better; indeed, although the doctors +deny it, I believe he is worse, and I see no prospect of our getting away from +here at present. However, don’t let that bother you, and above all, +don’t think of coming out to this place which makes you miserable, and +where you can’t work. What a queer ménage you must be at the Abbey now! +You and the Star who has risen from the ocean—she ought to have been +called Venus—tête-à -tête, and the, I gather, rather feeble and +uninteresting old gentleman in bed upstairs. I should like to see you when you +didn’t know. Why don’t you invent a machine to enable people at a +distance to see as well as to hear each other? It would be very popular and +bring Society to utter wreck. Does the Northern star—she is Danish, +isn’t she?—make good coffee, and how, oh! how does she get on with +the cook?” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Morris put down the letter and laughed aloud. Mary was as amusing as ever, and +he longed to see her again, especially as he was convinced that she was really +bored out there at Beaulieu, with Mr. Porson sick, and his father very much +occupied with his own affairs. In a moment he made up his mind; he would go out +and see her. Of course, he could ill spare the time, but for the present the +more pressing of his experiments were completed, and he could write up his +“data” there. Anyway, he would put in a fortnight at Beaulieu, and, +what is more, start to-morrow if it could be arranged. +</p> + +<p> +He went to the table and began a letter to Mary announcing that she might +expect to see him sometime on the day that it reached her. When he had got so +far as this he remembered that the dressing bell had already rung some minutes, +and ran upstairs to change his clothes. As he fastened his tie he thought to +himself sadly that this would be his last dinner with Stella Fregelius, and as +he brushed his hair he determined that unless she had other wishes, it should +be as happy as it could be made. He would like this final meal to be the +pleasantest of all their meals, and although, of course, he had no right to +form an opinion on the matter, he thought that perhaps she might like it, too. +They were going to part, to enter on different walks of life—for now, be +it said, he had quite convinced himself that she was engaged—so let their +parting memories of each other be as agreeable as possible. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Stella also had her reflections. Her conversation with her father +had troubled her, more, perhaps, than her remarks might have suggested. There +was little between this pair except the bond of blood, which sometimes seems to +be so curiously accidental, so absolutely devoid of influence in promoting +mutual sympathies, or in opening the door to any deep and real affection. +Still, notwithstanding this lack of true intimacy, Stella loved her father as +she felt that he loved her, and it gave her pain to be forced to cross his +wishes. She knew with what a fierce desire, although he was ashamed to express +all its intensity, he desired that she should accept this, the first chance of +wealthy and successful marriage that had come her way, and the anguish which +her absolute refusal must have entailed upon his heart. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, it was very worldly of him, and therefore reprehensible; yet to a +great extent she could sympathise with his disappointment. At bottom he was a +proud man, although he repressed his pride and kept it secret. He was an +ambitious man, also, and his lot had been confined to humble tasks, absolutely +unrecognised beyond his parish, of a remotely-placed country parson. Moreover, +his family had been rich; he had been brought up to believe that he himself +would be rich, and then, owing to certain circumstances, was doomed to pass his +days in comparative poverty. +</p> + +<p> +Even death had laid a heavy hand on him; she was the last of her race, and she +knew he earnestly desired that she should marry and bear children so that it +might not become extinct. And now this chance, this princely chance, which, +from his point of view, seemed to fill every possible condition, had come +unawares, like a messenger from Heaven, and she refused its entertainment. +Looked at through his eyes the position was indeed cruel. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, deeply as she sympathised with him in his disappointment, Stella never for +one moment wavered in her determination. Marry Mr. Layard! Her blood shrank +back to her heart at the very thought, and then rushed to her neck and bosom in +a flood of shame. No, she was sorry, but that was impossible, a thing which no +woman should be asked to do against her will. +</p> + +<p> +The subject wearied her, but as brooding on it could not mend matters, she +dismissed it from her mind, and turned her thoughts to Morris. Why, she did not +know, but something had come between them; he was vexed with her, and what was +more, disappointed; she could feel it well enough, and—she found his +displeasure painful. What had she done wrong, how had she offended him? Surely +it could not be—and once again that red blush spread itself over face and +bosom. He could not believe that she had accepted the man! He could never have +so grossly misunderstood her, her nature, her ideas, everything about her! And +yet who knew what he would or would not believe? In some ways, as she had +already discovered, Mr. Monk was curiously simple. How could she tell him the +truth without using words which she did not desire to speak? Here instinct came +to her aid. It might be done by making herself as agreeable to him as possible, +for surely he must know that no girl would do her best to please one man when +she had just promised herself to another. So it came about that quite +innocently Stella determined to allay her host’s misgivings by this +doubtful and dangerous expedient. +</p> + +<p> +To begin with, she put on her best dress—a low bodice of black silk +relieved with white and a single scarlet rose from the hothouse. Round her neck +also, fastened by a thin chain, she wore a large blood-red carbuncle shaped +like a heart, and about her slender waist a quaint girdle of ancient Danish +silver, two of the ornaments which she had saved from the shipwreck. Her dark +and waving hair she parted in the middle after a new fashion, tying its masses +in a heavy knot at the back of her head, and thus adorned descended to the +library where Morris was awaiting her. +</p> + +<p> +He stood leaning over the fire with his back towards her, but hearing the sweep +of a skirt turned round, and as his eyes fell upon her, started a little. Never +till he saw her thus had he known how beautiful Stella was at times. Quite +without design his eyes betrayed his thought, but with his lips he said merely +as he offered her his arm,— +</p> + +<p> +“What a pretty dress! Did it come out of Northwold?” +</p> + +<p> +“The material did; I made it up, and I am glad that you think it +nice.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a propitious beginning, and the dinner that followed did not belie its +promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagas that Stella had +translated, for which Morris had promised to try to find a publisher. Then +abandoning the silence and reserve which were habitual to him he began to talk, +asking her about her work and her past. She answered him freely enough, telling +him of her school days in Denmark, of her long holiday visits to the old Danish +grandmother, whose memory stretched back through three generations, and whose +mind was stored with traditions of men and days now long forgotten. This +particular saga, she said, had, for instance, never been written in its +entirety till she took it down from the old dame’s lips, much as in the +fifteenth century the Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson and +others. Even the traditional music of the songs as they were sung centuries ago +she had received from her with their violin accompaniments. +</p> + +<p> +“I have one in the house,” broke in Morris, “a +violin—rather a good instrument; I used to play a little when I was +young. I wish, if you don’t mind, that you would sing them to me after +dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try if you like,” she answered, “but I don’t +know how I shall get on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went +to the bottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You know we +came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end of our economy. +Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were not ready, and +escaped.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not call it unlucky,” said Morris with grave courtesy, +“since it gave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say +of your friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, looking pleased; “certainly you may say +of my friendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it +not,—with a great deal more that I can never pay?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t speak of it,” he said. “That midnight sail was +my one happy inspiration, my one piece of real good luck.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” and she sighed, “that is, for me, though who can +tell? I have often wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fate, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think it must be what we call fate—if it troubles itself +about so small a thing as the life of one woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland moors and +mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence among them, till at +length it was time to leave the table. This they did together, for even then +Morris drank very little wine. +</p> + +<p> +“May I get you the violin, and will you sing?” he asked eagerly, +when they reached the library. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish it I will try.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put away +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced the violin from +the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a very good instrument,” said Stella, her eyes shining, +“you don’t know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the +violin is my pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I +wanted it, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can’t +afford to buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full moon +shining on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and the stars, +too; they glitter like great diamonds.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the frost,” answered Morris. “Yes, everything is +beautiful to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up the strings to +her liking. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really wish me to sing, Mr. Monk?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; more than I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, will you think me very odd if I ask you to turn out the electric +lamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can see my +audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light I +want.” +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed, and now she was but an ethereal figure, with a patch of red at her +heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdle beneath her +breast, on whose pale face the moonbeams poured sweetly. For a while she stood +thus, and the silence was heavy in that beautiful, dismantled place of prayer. +Then she lifted the violin, and from the first touch of the bow Morris knew +that he was in the presence of a mistress of one of the most entrancing of the +arts. Slow and sweet came the plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to +pass into his heart and thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now +they almost died away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time, +she began to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand the +words, but their burden was clear enough; they were a lament, the lament of +some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient and forgotten grief +thus embalmed in heavenly music. +</p> + +<p> +It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted and died +among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighed aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I thank you?” he said. “I knew that you were a +musician, but not that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel +very humble.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves credit, +although, of course, it can be improved.” +</p> + +<p> +“If so, what of the accompaniment?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you know +that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time was one of +the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often played for five and +sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thing drop; it has been +the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonely life. So, by this time, I +ought to understand my art, although there remains much to be learnt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage.” +</p> + +<p> +“A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. I daresay +that some time I shall drift there—for the living—not because I +like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that I had +far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are pleased, than +be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I—oh, I cannot explain! Sing on, sing all you can, for +to-morrow I must go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away!” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am here +to listen.” +</p> + +<p> +The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it—why, she knew not. For a +moment she felt helpless, as though she could neither sing nor play. She did +not wish him to go; she did not wish him to go. Her intellect came to her aid. +Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and this man could feel its +weight. Would it not suffice to keep him from going? She would try; she would +play and sing as she had never done before; sing till his heart was soft, play +till his feet had no strength to wander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her +art could summon from this instrument of strings and wood. +</p> + +<p> +So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to time letting +the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemed by nature to +fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey fall drop by drop from the +calyx of some perfect flower. How long did she play and sing those sad, +mysterious siren songs? They never knew. The moon travelled on its appointed +course, and as its beams passed away gradually that divine musician grew dimmer +to his sight. Now only the stars threw their faint light about her, but still +she played on, and on, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient +wars, “where all day long the noise of battle rolled”; it rose +shrill and high, and in it rang the scream of the Valkyries preparing the feast +of Odin. It was low, and sad, and tender, the voice of women mourning for their +dead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as those might +use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became rich and soft and +far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heard sighs and the broken +words of love, that slowly fell away and melted as into the nothingness of some +happy sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; her voice grew +faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flicker of the fire and +the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returned from heaven to earth. +Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair. +</p> + +<p> +Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosen home of +Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into his heart with a +chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to him at least the most +beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had promised herself in marriage to +Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her mind, her music—all that made her +the Stella Fregelius whom he knew—were the actual property of Stephen +Layard. Could it be true? Was it not possible that he had made some mistake? +that he had misunderstood? A burning desire came upon him to know, to know +before he went, and upon the forceful impulse of that moment he did what at any +other time would have filled him with horror. He asked her; the words broke +from his lips; he could not help them. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true,” he said, with something like a groan, “can it +be true that you—<i>you</i> are really going to marry that man?” +</p> + +<p> +Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made no +pretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know to whom he +referred. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you mad to ask me such a thing?” she asked, with a strange +break in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” he began. +</p> + +<p> +She stamped her foot upon the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, “it hurts me, it hurts—from my father I +understood, but that you should think it possible that I would sell +myself—I tell you that it hurts,” and as she spoke two large tears +began to roll from her lovely pleading eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you mean that you refused him?” +</p> + +<p> +“What else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Of course, I have no right to interfere, but forgive me if I +say that I cannot help feeling glad. Even if it is taken on the ground of +wealth you can easily make as much money as you want without him,” and he +glanced at the violin which lay beside her. +</p> + +<p> +She made no reply, the subject seemed to have passed from her mind. But +presently she lifted her head again, and in her turn asked a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not say that you are going away to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +Then something happened to the heart and brain and tongue of Morris Monk so +that he could not speak the thing he wished. He meant to answer a monosyllable +“Yes,” but in its place he replied with a whole sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of doing so; but after all I do not know that it will be +necessary; especially in the middle of our experiments.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella said nothing, not a single word. Only she found her handkerchief, and +without in the least attempting to hide them, there before his eyes wiped the +two tears off her face, first one and then the other. +</p> + +<p> +This done she held out her hand to him and left the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a> +CHAPTER XIV.<br/> +THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL</h2> + +<p> +Next morning Morris and Stella met at breakfast as usual, but as though by +mutual consent neither of them alluded to the events of the previous evening. +Thus the name of Mr. Layard was “taboo,” nor were any more +questions asked, or statements volunteered as to that journey, the toils of +which Morris had suddenly discovered he was after all able to avoid. This +morning, as it chanced, no experiments were carried on, principally because it +was necessary for Stella to spend the day in the village doing various things +on behalf of her father, and lunching with the wife of Dr. Charters, who was +one of the churchwardens. +</p> + +<p> +By the second post, which arrived about three o’clock, Morris received +two letters, one from his father and one from Mary. There was something about +the aspect of these letters that held his eye. That from his father was +addressed with unusual neatness, the bold letters being written with all the +care of a candidate in a calligraphic competition. The stamps also were affixed +very evenly, and the envelope was beautifully sealed with the full Monk coat +done in black wax. These, as experience told him, were signs that his father +had something important to communicate, since otherwise everything connected +with his letters was much more casual. Further, to speak at hazard, he should +judge that this matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable +to the writer. +</p> + +<p> +Mary’s letter also had its peculiarities. She always wrote in a large, +loose scrawl, running the words into one another after the idle fashion which +was an index to her character. In this instance, however, the fault had been +carried to such an extreme that the address was almost illegible; indeed, +Morris wondered that the letter had not been delayed. The stamps, too, were +affixed anyhow, and the envelope barely closed. +</p> + +<p> +“Something has happened,” he thought to himself. Then he opened +Mary’s letter. It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“D<small>EAREST</small>,—My father is dead, my poor old father, and +now I have nobody but you left in the world. Thank God, at the last he was +without pain and, they thought, insensible; but I know he wasn’t, because +he squeezed my hand. Some of his last words that could be understood were, +‘Give my love to Morris.’ Oh! I feel as though my heart would +break. After my mother’s death till you came into my life, he was +everything to me—everything, everything. I can’t write any more. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your loving<br/> +“M<small>ARY</small>.” +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“P.S. Don’t trouble to come out here. It is no good. He is to be +buried to-morrow, and next day I am going ‘en retraite’ for a +month, as I must have time to get over this—to accustom myself to not +seeing him every morning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French +friend, Gabrielle d’Estrée? Well; she is a nun now, a sub-something or +other in a convent near here where they take in people for a payment. Somehow +she heard my father was dead, and came to see me, and offered to put me up at +the convent, which has a beautiful large garden, for I have been there. So I +said yes, for I shan’t feel lonely with her, and it will be a rest for a +month. I shall write to you sometimes, and you needn’t be afraid, they +won’t make me a Roman Catholic. Your father objected at first, but now he +quite approves; indeed, I told him at last that I meant to go whether he +approved or not. It seems it doesn’t matter from a business point of +view, as you and he are left executors of my father’s will. When the +month is up I will come to England, and we will settle about getting married. +This is the address of the convent as nearly as I can remember it. Letters will +reach me there.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been truly attached to +his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood and appreciated. Then he +opened his father’s letter, which began in an imposing manner: +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> S<small>ON</small> (usually he +called him Morris),—It is with the deepest grief that I must tell you +that poor John Porson, your uncle, passed away this morning about ten +o’clock. I was present at the time, and did my best to soothe his last +moments with such consolations as can be offered by a relative who is not a +clergyman. I wished to wire the sad event to you, but Mary, in whom natural +grief develops a self-will that perhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused +to allow it, alleging that it was useless to alarm you and waste money on +telegrams (how like a woman to think of money at such a moment) when it was +quite impossible that you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he +wouldn’t be brought home), which, under these queer foreign regulations, +must take place to-morrow. Also she announced, to my surprise, and, I must +admit, somewhat to my pain, that she intended to immure herself for a month in +a convent, after the fashion of the Roman faith, so that it was no use your +coming, as men are not admitted into these places. It never seems to have +occurred to her that under this blow I should have liked the consolation of her +presence, or that I might wish to see you, my son. Still, you must not think +too much of all this, although I have felt bound to bring it to your notice, +since women under such circumstances are naturally emotional, rebellious +against the decrees of Providence, and consequently somewhat selfish. +</p> + +<p> +“To turn to another subject. I am glad to be able to inform you—you +will please accept this as an official notice of the fact—that on reading +a copy of your uncle’s will, which by his directions was handed to me +after his death, I find that he has died much better off even than I expected. +The net personalty will amount to quite £100,000, and there is large realty, of +which at present I do not know the value. All this is left to Mary with the +fullest possible powers of disposal. You and I are appointed executors with a +complimentary legacy of £500 to you, and but £100 to me. However, the testator +‘in consideration of the forthcoming marriage between his son Morris and +my daughter Mary, remits all debts and obligations that may be due to his +estate by the said Richard Monk, Lieutenant-Colonel, Companion of the Bath, and +an executor of this will.’ This amounts to something, of course, but I +will not trouble you with details at the moment. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, now that I come to think of it, it is as well that you should +not leave home at present, as there will be plenty of executor’s business +to keep you on the spot. No doubt you will hear from your late uncle’s +lawyers, Thomas and Thomas, and as soon as you do so you had better go over to +Seaview and take formal possession of it and its contents as an executor of the +will. I have no time to write more at present, as the undertaker is waiting to +see me about the last arrangements for the interment, which takes place at the +English cemetery here. The poor man has gone, but at least we may reflect that +he can be no more troubled by sickness, etc., and it is a consolation to know +that he has made arrangements so eminently proper under the circumstances. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your affectionate father,<br/> +“R<small>ICHARD</small> M<small>ONK</small>. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“P.S. I shall remain here for a little while so as to be near Mary in +case she wishes to see me, and afterwards work homewards via Paris. I expect to +turn up at the Abbey in a fortnight’s time or so.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Quite in his best style,” reflected Morris to himself. +“‘Remits all debts and obligations that may be due to his estate by +the said Richard Monk.’ I should be surprised if they don’t amount +to a good lot. No wonder my father is going to return via Paris; he must feel +quite rich again.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he sat down to write to Mary. +</p> + +<p> +Under the pressure of this sudden blow—for the fact that Mr. Porson had +been for some time in failing health, and the knowledge that his life might +terminate at any time, did not seem to make it less sudden—a cloud of +depression settled on the Abbey household. Before dinner Morris visited Mr. +Fregelius, and told him of what had happened; whereon that pious and kindly, +but somewhat inefficient man, bestowed upon him a well-meant lecture of +consolation. Appreciating his motives, Morris thanked him sincerely, and was +rising to depart, when the clergyman added: +</p> + +<p> +“It is most grievous to me, Mr. Monk, that in these sad hours of mourning +you should be forced to occupy your mind with the details of an hospitality +which has been forced upon you by circumstances. For the present I fear this +cannot be altered——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not wish it altered,” interrupted Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“It is indeed kind of you to say so, but I am happy to state the doctor +tells me if I continue to progress as well as at present, I shall be able to +leave your roof——” +</p> + +<p> +“My father’s roof,” broke in Morris again. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg pardon—your father’s roof—in about a +fortnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear it, sir; and please clear your mind of the idea that +you have ceased to be welcome. Your presence and that of Miss Fregelius will +lessen, not increase, my trouble. I should be lonely in this great place with +no company but that of my own thoughts.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear you say so. Whether you feel it or not you are kind, +very kind.” +</p> + +<p> +And so for the while they parted. When she came in that afternoon, Mr. +Fregelius told Stella the news; but, as it happened, she did not see Morris +until she met him at dinner time. +</p> + +<p> +“You have heard?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” she answered; “and I am sorry, so sorry. I do not +know what more to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing to be said,” answered Morris; “my poor +uncle had lived out his life—he was sixty-eight, you know, and there is +an end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you fond of him? Forgive me for asking, but people are not always +fond—really fond—of those who happen to be their relations.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I was very fond of him. He was a good man, though simple and +self-made; very kind to everybody; especially to myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then do not grieve for him, his pains are over, and some day you will +meet him again, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so; but in the presence of death faith falters.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know; but I think that is when it should be strongest and clearest, +that is when we should feel that whatever else is unreal and false, this is +certain and true.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris bowed his head in assent, and there was silence for a while. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that Miss Porson must feel this very much,” Stella +said presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she seems quite crushed. She was his only living child, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not going to join her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I cannot; she has gone into a convent for a month, near Beaulieu, +and I am afraid the Sisters would not let me through their gates.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she a Catholic?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, but an old friend of hers holds some high position in the +place, and she has taken a fancy to be quiet there for a while.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very natural,” answered Stella, and nothing more was said +upon the subject. +</p> + +<p> +Stella neither played the violin nor sang that night, nor, indeed, again while +she remained alone with Morris at the Abbey. Both of them felt that under the +circumstances this form of pleasure would be out of place, if not unfeeling, +and it was never suggested. For the rest, however, their life went on as usual. +On two or three occasions when the weather was suitable some further +experiments were carried out with the aerophone, but on most days Stella was +engaged in preparing the Rectory, a square, red-brick house, dating from the +time of George III., to receive them as soon as her father could be moved. Very +fortunately, as has been said, their journey in the steamer Trondhjem had been +decided upon so hurriedly that there was no time to allow them to ship their +heavy baggage and furniture, which were left to follow, and thus escaped +destruction. Now at length these had arrived, and the unpacking and arrangement +gave her constant thought and occupation, in which Morris occasionally +assisted. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, indeed, he stayed in the Rectory with her, helping to hang some +pictures till about half-past six o’clock, when they started for the +Abbey. As it chanced, a heavy gale was blowing that night, one of the furious +winter storms which are common on this coast, and its worst gusts beat upon +Stella so fiercely that she could scarcely stand, and was glad to accept the +support of Morris’s arm. As they struggled along the high road thus, a +particularly savage blast tore the hood of Stella’s ulster from her head, +whereupon, leaning over her in such a position that his face was necessarily +quite close to her own, with some difficulty he managed to replace the hood. +</p> + +<p> +It was while Morris was so engaged that a dog-cart, which because of the roar +of the wind he did not hear, and because of his position he could not see until +it was almost passing them, came slowly down the road. +</p> + +<p> +Then catching the gleam of the lamps he looked up and started back, thinking +that they were being run into, to perceive that the occupants of the dog-cart +were Stephen and Eliza Layard. +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment Stephen recognised them, as indeed he could scarcely help +doing with the light of the powerful lamp shining full upon their faces. He +shouted something to his sister, who also stared coldly at the pair. Then a +kind of fury seemed to seize the little man; at any rate, he shook his clenched +fist in a menacing fashion, and brought down the whip with a savage cut upon +the horse. As the animal sprang forward, moreover, Morris could almost have +sworn that he heard the words “kissing her,” spoken in +Stephen’s voice, followed by a laugh from Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +Then the dog-cart vanished into the darkness, and the incident was closed. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Morris stood angry and astonished, but reflecting that in this +wind his ears might have deceived him, and that, at any rate, Stella had heard +nothing through her thick frieze hood, he once more offered his arm and walked +forward. +</p> + +<p> +The next day was Sunday, when, as usual, he escorted Stella to church. The +Layards were there also, but he noticed that, somewhat ostentatiously, they +hurried from the building immediately on the conclusion of the service, and it +struck him that this demonstration might have some meaning. Eliza, whom he +afterwards observed, engaged apparently in eager conversation with a knot of +people on the roadway, was, as he knew well, no friend to him, for reasons +which he could guess. Nor, as he had heard from various quarters, was she any +friend of Stella Fregelius, any more than she had been to Jane Rose. It struck +him that even now she might be employed in sowing scandal about them both, and +for Stella’s sake the thought made him furious. But even if it were so he +did not see what he could do; therefore he tried to think he was mistaken, and +to dismiss the matter from his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Monk had written to say that he was coming home on the Wednesday, but +he did not, in fact, put in an appearance till the half-past six train on the +following Saturday evening, when he arrived beautifully dressed in the most +irreproachable black, and in a very good temper. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Morris, old fellow,” he said, “I am very pleased to see +you again. After all, there is no place like home, and at my time of life +nothing to equal quiet. I can’t tell you how sick I got of that French +hole. If it hadn’t been for Mary, and my old friend, Lady Rawlins, who, +as usual, was in trouble with that wretched husband of hers—he is an +imbecile now, you know—I should have been back long before. Well, how are +you getting on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, pretty well, thank you, father,” Morris answered, in that +rather restrained voice which was natural to him when conversing with his +parent. “I think, I really think I have nearly perfected my +aerophone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you? Well, then, I hope you will make something out of it after all +these years; not that it much matters now, however,” he added +contentedly. “By the way, that reminds me, how are our two guests, the +new parson and his daughter? That was a queer story about your finding her on +the wreck. Are they still here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but the old gentleman is out of bed now, and he expects to be able +to move into the Rectory on Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he? Well, they must have given you some company while you were +alone. There is no time like the present. I will go up and see him before I +dress for dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly Morris conducted his father to the Abbot’s chamber, and +introduced him to the clergyman. Mr. Fregelius was seated in his arm-chair, +with a crutch by his side, and on learning who his visitor was, made a futile +effort to rise. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, pray, sir,” said the Colonel, “keep seated, or you +will certainly hurt your leg again.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I should be obliged to inflict myself upon you for another five or +six weeks,” replied Mr. Fregelius. +</p> + +<p> +“In that case, sir,” said the Colonel, with his most courteous bow, +“and for that reason only I should consider the accident +fortunate,” by these happy words making of his guest a devoted friend for +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how to thank you; I really don’t know how to +thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then pray, Mr. Fregelius, leave the thanks unspoken. What would you have +had us—or, rather, my son—do? Turn a senseless, shattered man from +his door, and that man his future spiritual pastor and master?” +</p> + +<p> +“But there was more. He, Mr. Monk, I mean, saved my daughter +Stella’s life. You know, a block or a spar fell on me immediately after +the ship struck. Then those cowardly dogs of sailors, thinking that she must +founder instantly, threw me into the boat and rowed away, leaving her to her +fate in the cabin; whereon your son, acting on some words which I spoke in my +delirium, sailed out alone at night and rescued her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I heard something, but Morris is not too communicative. The odd +thing about the whole affair, so far as I can gather, is that he should have +discovered that there was anybody left on board. But he is a curious fellow, +Morris; those things which one would expect him to know he never does know; and +the things that nobody else has ever heard of he seems to have at his +fingers’ ends by instinct, or second sight, or something. Well, it has +all turned out for the best, hasn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” answered Mr. Fregelius, glancing at his +injured leg. “At any rate, we are both alive and have not lost many of +our belongings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so; and under the circumstances you should be uncommonly thankful. +But I need not tell a parson that. Well, I can only say that I am delighted to +have such a good opportunity of making your acquaintance, which I am sure will +lead to our pulling together in parish affairs like a pair of matched horses. +Now I must go and dress. But I tell you what, I’ll come and smoke a cigar +with you afterwards, and put you au fait with all our various concerns. +You’ll find them a nice lot in this parish, I can tell you, a nice lot. +Old Tomley just gave them up as a bad job.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I shan’t do that,” replied Mr. Fregelius, after his +retreating form. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel was down to dinner first, and standing warming himself at the +library fire when Stella, once more in honour of his arrival arrayed in her +best dress, entered the room. The Colonel put up his eyeglass and looked at her +as she came down its length. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” he thought to himself, “I didn’t know that +the clergyman’s daughter was like this; nobody ever said so. After all, +that fellow Morris can’t be half such a fool as he looks, for he kept it +dark.” Then he stepped forward with outstretched hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You must allow me to introduce myself, Miss Fregelius,” he said +with an old-fashioned and courtly bow, “and to explain that I have the +honour to be my son’s father.” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed and answered: “Yes, I think I should have known that from the +likeness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hum!” said the Colonel. “Even at my age I am not certain +that I am altogether flattered. Morris is an excellent fellow, and very clever +at electrical machines; but I have never considered him remarkable for personal +beauty—not exactly an Adonis, or an Apollo, or a Narcissus, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should doubt whether any of them had such a nice face,” replied +Stella with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“My word! Now, that is what I call a compliment worth having. But I hear +the gentleman himself coming. Shall I repeat it to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, please don’t, Colonel Monk. I did not mean it for compliment, +only for an answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your wish is a command; but may I make an exception in favour of Miss +Porson, who prospectively owns the nice face in question? She would be +delighted to know it so highly rated;” and he glanced at her sharply, the +look of a man of the world who is trying to read a woman’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +“By all means,” answered Stella, in an indifferent voice, but +recognising in the Colonel one who, as friend or foe, must be taken into +account. Then Morris came in, and they went to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +Here also Colonel Monk was very pleasant. He made Stella tell the story of the +shipwreck and of her rescue, and generally tried to draw her out in every +possible way. But all the while he was watching and taking note of many things. +Before they had been together for five minutes he observed that this couple, +his son and their visitor, were on terms of extreme intimacy—intimacy so +extreme and genuine that in two instances, at least, each anticipated what the +other was going to say, without waiting for any words to be spoken. Thus Stella +deliberately answered a question that Morris had not put, and he accepted the +answer and continued the argument quite as a matter of course. Also, they +seemed mysteriously to understand each other’s wants, and, worst of all, +he noted that when speaking they never addressed each other by name. Evidently +just then each of them had but one “you” in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the Colonel had not passed through very varied experiences and studied +many sides and conditions of life for nothing; indeed, he would himself explain +that he was able to see as far into a brick wall as other folk. +</p> + +<p> +The upshot of all this was that first he thought Morris a very lucky fellow to +be an object of undoubted admiration to those beautiful eyes. (It may be +explained that the Colonel throughout life had been an advocate of taking such +goods as the gods provided; something of a worshipper, too, at the shrine of +lovely Thais.) His second reflection was that under all the circumstances it +seemed quite time that he returned home to look after him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Miss Fregelius,” he said, as she rose to leave the table, +“when Morris and I have had a glass of wine, and ten minutes to chat over +matters connected with his poor uncle’s death, I am going to ask you to +do me a favour before I go up to smoke a cigar with your father. It is that you +will play me a tune on the violin and sing me a song.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr. Monk tell you that I played and sang?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he did not. Indeed, Mr. Monk has told me nothing whatsoever about +you. His, as you may have observed, is not a very communicative nature. The +information came from a much less interesting, though, for aught I know, from a +more impartial source—the fat page-boy, Thomas, who is first tenor in the +Wesleyan chapel, and therefore imagines that he understands music.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how could Thomas——” began Morris, when his father +cut him short and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll tell you, quite simply. I had it from the interesting +youth’s own lips as he unpacked my clothes. It seems that the day before +the news of your uncle’s death reached this place, Thomas was aroused +from his slumbers by hearing what he was pleased to call ‘hangels +a-’arping and singing.’ As soon as he convinced himself that he +still lingered on the earth, drawn by the sweetness of the sounds, ‘just +in his jacket and breeches,’ he followed them, until he was sure that +they proceeded from your workshop, the chapel. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, as you know, on the upstair passage there still is that queer slit +through which the old abbots used to watch the monks at their devotions. +Finding the shutter unlocked, the astute Thomas followed their example, as well +as he could, for he says there was no light in the chapel except that of the +fire, by which presently he made out your figure, Miss Fregelius, sometimes +playing the violin, and sometimes singing, and that of Morris—again I +must quote—‘a-sitting in a chair by the fire with his ‘ands +at the back of ‘is ‘ead, a-staring at the floor and rocking +‘imself as though he felt right down bad.’ No, don’t +interrupt me, Morris; I must tell my story. It’s very amusing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss Fregelius, he says—and, mind you, this is a great +compliment—that you sang and played till he felt as though he would cry +when at last you sank down quite exhausted in a chair. Then, suddenly realising +that he was very cold, and hearing the stable clock strike two, he went back to +bed, and that’s the end of the tale. Now you will understand why I have +asked you this favour. I don’t see why Morris and Thomas should keep it +all to themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be delighted,” answered Stella, who, although her cheeks +were burning, and she knew that the merciless Colonel was taking note of the +fact, on the whole had gone through the ordeal remarkably well. Then she left +the room. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the door closed Morris turned upon his father angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my dear boy,” the Colonel said, “please do not begin to +explain. I know it’s all perfectly right, and there is nothing to +explain. Why shouldn’t you get an uncommonly pretty girl with a good +voice to sing to you—while you are still in a position to listen? But if +you care to take my advice, next time you will see that the shutter of that +hagioscope, or whatever they call it, is locked, as such elevated delights +‘à deux’ are apt to be misinterpreted by the vulgar. And now, +there’s enough of this chaff and nonsense. I want to speak to you about +the executorship and matters connected with the property generally.” +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later, when the Colonel appeared in the drawing-room, the violin +was fetched, and Stella played it and sang afterwards to a piano-forte +accompaniment. The performance was not of the same standard, by any means, as +that which had delighted Thomas, for Stella did not feel the surroundings quite +propitious. Still, with her voice and touch she could not fail, and the result +was that before she had done the Colonel grew truly enthusiastic. +</p> + +<p> +“I know a little of music,” he said, “and I have heard most +of the best singers and violinists during the last forty years; but in the face +of all those memories I hope you will allow me to congratulate you, Miss +Fregelius. There are some notes in your voice which really reduce me to the +condition of peeping Thomas, and, hardened old fellow that I am, almost make me +feel inclined to cry.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a> +CHAPTER XV.<br/> +THREE INTERVIEWS</h2> + +<p> +The next day was a Sunday, and the Colonel went to church, wearing a hat-band +four inches deep. Morris, however, declined to accompany him, saying that he +had a letter to write to Mary; whereon his father, who at first was inclined to +be vexed, replied that he could not be better employed, and that he was to give +her his love. Then he asked if Miss Fregelius was coming, but somewhat to his +disappointment, was informed that she wished to stay with her father. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” thought the Colonel to himself as he strolled to the +church, now and again acknowledging greetings or stopping to chat with one of +the villagers—“I wonder if they are going to have a little sacred +music together in the chapel. If so, upon my soul, I should like to make the +congregation. And that pious fellow Morris, too—the blameless +Morris—to go philandering about in this fashion. I hope it won’t +come to Mary’s ears; but if it does, luckily, with all her temper, she is +a sensible woman, and knows that even Jove nods at times.” +</p> + +<p> +After the service the Colonel spoke to various friends, accepted their +condolences upon the death of Mr. Porson, and finally walked down the road with +Eliza Layard. +</p> + +<p> +“You must have found that all sorts of strange things have happened at +the Abbey since you have been away, Colonel Monk,” she said presently in +a sprightly voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes; at least I don’t know. I understand that Morris has +improved that blessed apparatus of his, and the new parson and his daughter +have floated to our doors like driftwood. By the way, have you seen Miss +Fregelius?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seen her? Yes, I have seen her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a wonderfully captivating girl, isn’t she? So unusual, with +those great eyes of hers that seem to vary with the light——” +</p> + +<p> +“Like a cat’s,” snapped Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“The light within—I was going to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I thought you meant the light without. Well, she may be +fascinating—to men, but as I am only a woman, I cannot be expected to +appreciate that. You see we look more to other things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah. Well, so far as I am a judge she seemed to me to be pretty well set +up in them also. She has a marvellous voice, is certainly a first-class +violinist, and I should say extremely well-read, especially in Norse +literature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I daresay she is a genius as well as a beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +“I gather,” said the Colonel with a smile, “that you do not +like Miss Fregelius. As my acquaintance with her is limited, would you think me +rude if I asked why?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I be expected to like her, seeing——” and she +paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Seeing what, Miss Layard?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, haven’t you heard? I thought it was common property.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “I have heard nothing. Go on, pray, this is quite +interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“That she led on that silly brother of mine until he proposed to +her—yes, proposed to her!—and then refused him. Stephen has been +like a crazy creature ever since, moaning, and groaning, and moping till I +think that he will go off his head, instead of returning thanks to Providence +for a merciful escape.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel set his lips as though to whistle, then checked himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Under the circumstances, presuming them to be accurately stated, I am +not prepared to say who is to be congratulated or who should thank Providence. +These things are so individual, are they not? But if one thing is clear, +whatever else she is or is not, Miss Fregelius cannot be a fortune-hunter, +although she must want money.” +</p> + +<p> +“She may want other things more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. But I am very stupid, I am afraid I do not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men, for instance,” suggested Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! that sounds almost carnivorous. I am afraid that there are not +many about here to satisfy her appetite. Your brother, Morris, the curate at +Morton, and myself, if at my age I may creep into that honourable company, are +the only single creatures within four miles, and from these Stephen and Morris +must apparently be eliminated.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should Morris be eliminated?” +</p> + +<p> +“A reason may occur to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean because he is engaged? What on earth does that +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—in the East—but, rightly or wrongly, we have decided +upon a monogamous system; a man can’t marry two wives, Miss +Layard.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he can throw over one girl to marry another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suggest that Morris is contemplating this experiment?” +</p> + +<p> +“I? I suggest nothing; all I know is——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, what do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish me to tell you, as perhaps I ought, I know this, Colonel +Monk, that the other night, when I was driving along the Rectory road, I saw +your son, Mr. Monk, kissing this wonderful Miss Fregelius; that is all, and +Stephen saw it also, you ask him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; I think I would rather not. But what an odd place for him to +choose for this interchange of early Christian courtesies! Also—if you +are not mistaken—how well it illustrates that line in the hymn this +morning: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘How many a spot defiles the robe that wraps an earthly +saint.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Such adventures seem scarcely in Morris’s line, and I should have thought +that even an inexperienced saint would have been more discreet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men always jest at serious things,” said Eliza severely. +</p> + +<p> +“Which do you mean—the saints or the kissing? Both are serious +enough, but the two in combination——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you believe me?” asked Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. But could you give me a few details?” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza could and did—with amplifications. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what do you say, Colonel Monk?” she asked triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I say that I think you have made an awkward mistake, Miss Layard. It +seems to me that all you saw is quite consistent with the theory that he was +buttoning or arranging the young lady’s hood. I understand that the wind +was very high that night.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza started; this was a new and unpleasant interpretation which she hastened +to repudiate. “Arranging her hood, indeed——” +</p> + +<p> +“When he might have been kissing her? You cannot understand such +moderation. Still, it is possible, and he ought to have the benefit of the +doubt. Witnesses to character would be valuable in such a case, and +his—not to mention the lady’s—is curiously immaculate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you are entitled to your own opinion, but I have mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the Colonel changed his bantering, satirical tone, and became stern +and withering. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Layard,” he said, “does it occur to you that on +evidence which would not suffice to convict a bicyclist of riding on a +footpath, you are circulating a scandal of which the issue might be very grave +to both the parties concerned?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not circulating anything. I was telling you privately;” +replied Eliza, still trying to be bold. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it. I understand that neither you nor your brother +have spoken of this extraordinary tale, and I am quite certain that you will +not speak of it in the future.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot answer for my brother,” she said sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but in his own interest and in yours I trust that you will make him +understand that if I hear a word of this I shall hold him to account. Also, +that his propagation of such a slander will react upon you, who were with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” asked Eliza, now thoroughly frightened, for when he chose +the Colonel could be very crushing. +</p> + +<p> +“Thus: Your brother’s evidence is that of an interested person +which no one will accept; and of yours, Miss Layard, it might be inferred that +it was actuated by jealousy of a charming and quite innocent girl; or, perhaps, +by other motives even worse, which I would rather you did not ask me to +suggest.” +</p> + +<p> +Eliza did not ask him. She was too wise. As she knew well, when roused the +Colonel was a man with a bitter tongue and a good memory. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I am the last person who would wish to do mischief,” she +said in a humble voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, I know that, I know that. Well, now we understand each other, +so I must be turning home. Thank you so much for having been quite candid with +me. Good morning, Miss Layard; remember me to Stephen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Phew!” reflected the Colonel to himself, “that battle is +won—after a fashion—but just about forty-eight hours too late. By +this time that vixen of a woman has put the story all over the place. Oh, +Morris, you egregious ass, if you wanted to take to kissing like a schoolboy, +why the deuce did you select the high road for the purpose? This must be put a +stop to. I must take steps, and at once. They mustn’t be seen together +again, or there will be trouble with Mary. But how to do it? how to do it? That +is the question, and one to which I must find an answer within the next two +hours. What a kettle of fish! What a pretty kettle of fish!” +</p> + +<p> +In due course, and after diligent search, he found the answer to this question. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +At lunch time the Colonel remarked casually that he had walked a little way +with Miss Layard, who mentioned that she had seen them—i.e., his son and +Miss Fregelius—struggling through the gale the other night. Then he +watched the effect of this shot. Morris moved his chair and looked +uncomfortable; clearly he was a most transparent sinner. But on Stella it took +no effect. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual,” reflected the Colonel, “the lady has the most +control. Or perhaps he tried to kiss her and she wouldn’t let him, and a +consciousness of virtue gives her strength.” +</p> + +<p> +After luncheon the Colonel paid a visit to Mr. Fregelius, ostensibly to talk to +him about the proposed restoration of the chancel, for which he, as holder of +the great tithes, was jointly liable with the rector, a responsibility that, in +the altered circumstances of the family, he now felt himself able to face. When +this subject was exhausted, which did not take long, as Mr. Fregelius refused +to express any positive opinion until he had inspected the church, the +Colonel’s manner grew portentously solemn. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir,” he said, “there is another matter, a somewhat +grave one, upon which, for both our sakes and the sakes of those immediately +concerned, I feel bound to say a few words.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius, who was a timid man, looked very much alarmed. A conviction that +the “grave matter” had something to do with Stella flashed into his +mind, but all he said was: +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I don’t understand, Colonel Monk.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; indeed, how should you? Well, to come to the point, it has to do +with that very charming daughter of yours and my son Morris.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feared as much,” groaned the clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! I thought you said you did not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I guessed; wherever Stella goes things seem to happen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly; well, things have happened here. To be brief, I mean that a lot +of silly women have got up a scandal about them—no, scandal is too strong +a word—gossip.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is alleged?” asked Mr. Fregelius faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that your daughter threw over that young ass, Stephen Layard, +because—the story seems to me incredible, I admit—she had fallen +violently in love with Morris. Further that she and the said Morris were seen +embracing at night on the Rectory road, which I don’t believe, as the +witnesses are Layard, who is prejudiced, and his sister, who is the most +ill-bred, bitter, and disappointed woman in the county. Lastly, and this is no +doubt true, that they are generally on terms of great intimacy, and we all know +where that leads to between a man and woman—‘Plato, thy confounded +fantasies,’ etc. You see, when people sit up singing to each other alone +till two in the morning—I don’t mean that Morris sings, he has no +more voice than a crow; he does the appreciative audience—well, other +people will talk, won’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so, the world being what it is,” sighed Mr. Fregelius. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly; the world being what it is, and men and women what they are, a +most unregenerate lot and ‘au fond’ very primitive, as I daresay +you may have observed.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, under other circumstances, I should have said, Nothing at all +except congratulate them most heartily, more especially my son. But in this +case there are reasons which make such a course impossible. As you know, Morris +is engaged to be married to my niece, Miss Porson, and it is a contract which, +even if he wished it, honour would forbid him to break, for family as well as +for personal reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, quite so; it is not to be thought of. But again I +ask—What is to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that not rather a question for you to consider? I suggest that you +had better speak to your daughter; just a hint, you know, just a hint.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, I’d rather not. Stella can be +so—decided—at times, and we never seem quite to understand each +other. I did speak to her the other day when Mr. Layard wished to marry her, a +match I was naturally anxious for, but the results were not +satisfactory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, I think you might try.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I will try; and, Colonel Monk, I cannot tell you how grieved +I am to have brought all this trouble on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” answered the Colonel cheerfully. “I am an old +student of human nature, and I rather enjoy it; it’s like watching the +puppets on a stage. Only we mustn’t let the comedy grow into a +tragedy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s what I am afraid of, some tragedy. Stella is a woman +who takes things hard, and if any affection really has sprung +up——” +</p> + +<p> +“——It will no doubt evaporate with the usual hysterics and +morning headache. Bless me! I have known dozens of them, and felt some myself +in my time—the headaches, I mean, not the other things. Don’t be +alarmed if she gets angry, Mr. Fregelius, but just appeal to her reason; she +will see the force of it afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour or so later the Colonel started for a walk on the beach to look at some +damage which a high tide had done to the cliff. As he was nearing the Abbey +steps on his return he saw the figure of a woman standing quite still upon the +sands. An inspection through his eyeglass revealed that it was Stella, and +instinct told him her errand. +</p> + +<p> +“This is rather awkward,” he thought, as he braced himself to +battle, “especially as I like that girl and don’t want to hurt her +feelings. Hullo! Miss Fregelius, are you taking the air? You should walk, or +you will catch cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Colonel Monk, I was waiting for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waiting for me? Me! This is indeed an honour, and one which age +appreciates.” +</p> + +<p> +She waved aside his two-edged badinage. “You have been speaking to my +father,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly the Colonel assumed a serious manner, not the most serious, such as +he wore at funerals, but still one suited to a grave occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember all that you said?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Miss Fregelius; and I assume that for the purposes of this +conversation it need not be repeated.” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head, and replied, “I have come to explain and to tell you +three things. First, that all these stories are false except that about the +singing. Secondly, that whoever is responsible for them has made it impossible +that I should live in Monksland, so I am going to London to earn my own living +there. And, thirdly, that I hope you will excuse my absence from dinner as I +think the more I keep to myself until we go to-morrow, the better; though I +reserve to myself the right to speak to Mr. Monk on this subject and to say +good-bye to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“She <i>is</i> taking it hard and she <i>is</i> fond of him—deuced +fond of him, poor girl,” thought the Colonel; but aloud he said, +“My dear Miss Fregelius, I never believed the stories. As for the +principal one, common sense rebels against it. All I said to your father was +that there appears to be a lot of talk about the place, and, under the +circumstances of my son’s engagement, that he might perhaps give you a +friendly hint.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! indeed; he did not put it quite like that. He gave me to understand +that you had told him—that I was—so—so much in love with Mr. +Monk that on this account I had—rejected Mr. Layard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please keep walking,” said the Colonel, “or you +<i>really</i> will catch cold.” Then suddenly he stopped, looked her +sharply in the face, much as he had done to Eliza, and said, “Well, and +are you not in love with him?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Stella stared at him indignantly. Then suddenly he saw a blush +spread upon her face to be followed by an intense pallor, while the pupils of +the lovely eyes enlarged themselves and grew soft. Next instant she put her +hand to her heart, tottered on her feet, and had he not caught her would +perhaps have fallen. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I need trouble you to answer my question, which, indeed, +now that I think of it, was one I had no right to put,” he said as she +recovered herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God!” moaned Stella, wringing her hands; “I never +knew it till this moment. You have brought it home to me; you, yes, you!” +and she burst out weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“Here are the hysterics,” thought the Colonel, “and I am +afraid that the headache will be bad to-morrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +To her, however, he said very tenderly, “My dear girl, my dear girl, pray +do not distress yourself. These little accidents will happen in the best +regulated hearts, and believe me, you will get over it in a month or +two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Accident!” she said. “It is no accident; it is Fate!—I +see it all now—and I shall never get over it. However, that is my own +affair, and I have no right to trouble you with my misfortunes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! but you will indeed, and though you may think the advice hard, I +will tell you the best way.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up in inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“Change your mind and marry Stephen Layard. He is not at all a bad +fellow, and—there are obvious advantages.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the Colonel’s first really false move, as he himself felt before +the last word had left his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel Monk,” she said, “because I am unfortunate is it any +reason that you should insult me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Fregelius, to my knowledge I have never insulted any woman; and +certainly I should not wish to begin with one who has just honoured me with her +confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not an insult,” she answered with a sort of sob, “when +a woman to her shame and sorrow has confessed—what I have—to bid +her console herself by marriage with another man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now that you put it thus, I confess that perhaps some minds might so +interpret an intention which did not exist. It seemed to me that, after a +while, in marriage you would most easily forget a trouble which my son so +unworthily has brought on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t blame him for he does not deserve it. If anybody is to blame +it is I; but in truth all those stories are false; we have neither of us done +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not press the point, Miss Fregelius; I believe you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have neither of us done anything,” she repeated; “and, +what is more, if you had not interfered, I do not think that I should have +found out the truth; or, at least, not yet—till I saw him married, +perhaps, when it would have been no matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you see a man walking in his sleep you do your best to stop +him,” said the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“And so cause him to fall over the precipice and be dashed to bits. Oh! +you should have let me finish my journey. Then I should have come back to the +bed that I have made to lie on, and waked to find myself alone, and nobody +would have been hurt except myself who caused the evil.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel could not continue this branch of the conversation. Even to him, a +hardened vessel, as he had defined himself, it was too painful. +</p> + +<p> +“You said you mean to earn a living in London. How?” +</p> + +<p> +“By my voice and violin, if one can sing and play with a sore heart. I +have an old aunt, a sister of my father’s, who is a music mistress, with +whom I daresay I can arrange to live, and who may be able to get me some +introductions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that I can help you there, and I will to the best of my ability; +indeed, if necessary, I will go to town and see about things. Allow me to add +this, Miss Fregelius, that I think you are doing a very brave thing, and, what +is more, a very wise one; and I believe that before long we shall hear of you +as the great new contralto.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders. “It may be; I don’t care. Good-bye. By +the way, I wish to see Mr. Monk once more before I go; it would be better for +us all. I suppose that you don’t object to that, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Fregelius, my son is a man advancing towards middle age. It is +entirely a point for you and him to decide, and I will only say that I have +every confidence in you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she answered, and turning, walked rapidly down the +lonely beach till her figure melted into the gathering gloom of the +winter’s night. Once, however, when she thought that she was out of +eyeshot, he saw her stop with her face towards the vast and bitter sea, and saw +also that she was wringing her hands in an agony of the uttermost despair. +</p> + +<p> +“She looks like a ghost,” said the Colonel aloud with a little +shiver, “like a helpless, homeless ghost, with the world behind her and +the infinite in front, and nothing to stand on but a patch of shifting sand, +wet with her own tears.” +</p> + +<p> +When the Colonel grew thus figurative and poetical it may be surmised by anyone +who has taken the trouble to study his mixed and somewhat worldly character +that he was deeply moved. And he was moved; more so, indeed, than he had been +since the death of his wife. Why? He would have found it hard to explain. On +the face of it, the story was of a trivial order, and in some of its aspects +rather absurd. Two young people who happened to be congenial, but one of whom +was engaged, chance to be thrown together for a couple of months in a country +house. Although there is some gossip, nothing at all occurs between them beyond +a little perfectly natural flirtation. The young man’s father, hearing +the gossip, speaks to the young lady in order that she may take steps to +protect herself and his son against surmise and misinterpretation. Thereupon a +sudden flood of light breaks upon her soul, by which she sees that she is +really attached to the young man, and being a woman of unusual character, or +perhaps absurdly averse to lying even upon such a subject, in answer to a +question admits that this is so, and that she very properly intends to go away. +</p> + +<p> +Could anything be more commonplace, more in the natural order of events? Why, +then, was he moved? Oh! it was that woman’s face and eyes. Old as he +might be, he felt jealous of his son; jealous to think that for him such a +woman could wear this countenance of wonderful and thrilling woe. What was +there in Morris that it should have called forth this depth of passion +undefiled? Now, if there were no Mary—but there was a Mary, it was folly +to pursue such a line of thought. +</p> + +<p> +From sympathy for Stella, which was deep and genuine, to anger with his son +proved to the Colonel an easy step. Morris was that worst of sinners, a +hypocrite. Morris, being engaged to one woman, had taken advantage of her +absence deliberately to involve the affections of another, or, at any rate, +caused her considerable inconvenience. He was wroth with Morris, and what was +more, before he grew an hour older he would let him have a piece of his mind. +</p> + +<p> +He found the sinner in his workshop, the chapel, making mathematical +calculations, the very sight of which added to his father’s indignation. +The man, he reflected to himself, who under these circumstances could indulge +an abnormal talent for mathematics, especially on Sunday, must be a +cold-blooded brute. He entered the place slamming the door behind him; and +Morris looking up noted with alarm, for he hated rows, that there was war in +his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you take a chair, father?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you; I would rather say what I have to say standing.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“The matter is, sir, that I find that by your attentions you have made +that poor girl, Miss Fregelius, while she was a guest in my house, the object +of slander and scandal to every ill-natured gossip in the three +parishes.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris’s quiet, thoughtful eyes flashed in an ominous and unusual manner. +</p> + +<p> +“If you were not my father,” he said, “I should ask you to +change your tone in speaking to me on such a subject; but as things are I +suppose that I must submit to it, unless you choose otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“The facts, Morris,” answered his father, “justify any +language that I can use.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you get these facts from Stephen Layard and Miss Layard? Ah! I +guessed as much. Well, the story is a lie; I was merely arranging her hood +which she could not do herself, as the wind forced her to use her hand to hold +her dress down.” +</p> + +<p> +The thought of his own ingenuity in hitting on the right solution of the story +mollified the Colonel not a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw,” he said, “I knew that. Do you suppose that I +believed you fool enough to kiss a girl on the open road when you had every +opportunity of kissing her at home? I know, too, that you have never kissed her +at all; or, ostensibly at any rate, done anything that you shouldn’t +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is my offence, then?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Your offence is that you have got her talked about; that you have made +her in love with you—don’t deny it; I have it from her own lips. +That you have driven her out of this place to earn a living in London as best +she may, and that, being yourself an engaged man”—here once more +the Colonel drew a bow at a venture—“you are what is called in love +with her yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +These two were easy victims to the skill of so experienced an archer. The shaft +went home between the joints of his son’s harness, and Morris sank back +in his chair and turned white. Generosity, or perhaps the fear of exciting more +unpleasant consequences, prevented the Colonel from following up this head of +his advantage. +</p> + +<p> +“There is more, a great deal more, behind,” he went on. “For +instance, all this will probably come to Mary’s ears.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly it will; I shall tell her of it myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which will be tantamount to breaking your engagement. May I ask if that +is your intention?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but supposing that all you say were true, and that it <i>was</i> my +intention, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir, to my old-fashioned ideas you would be a dishonourable +fellow, to cast away the woman who has only you to look to in the world, that +you may put another woman who has taken your fancy in her place.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris bit his lip. +</p> + +<p> +“Still speaking on that supposition,” he replied, “would it +not be more dishonourable to marry her; would it not be kinder, shameful as it +may be, to tell her all the truth and let her seek some worthier man?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t split hairs,” he +said, “or enter on an argument of sentimental casuistry. But I tell you +this, Morris, although you are my only son, and the last of our name, that +rather than do such a thing, under all the circumstances, it would be better +that you should take a pistol and blow your brains out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very probably,” answered Morris, “but would you mind telling +me also what are the exact circumstances which would in your opinion so +aggravate this particular case?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a copy of your uncle Porson’s will in that drawer; give +it me.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris obeyed, and his father searched for, and read the following sentence: +“In consideration of the forthcoming marriage between his son Morris and +my daughter Mary, the said testator remits all debts and obligations that may +be due to his estate by the said Richard Monk, Lieutenant Colonel, Companion of +the Bath, and an executor of this will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” replied the Colonel coolly, “those debts in all +amounted to £19,543. No wonder you seem astonished, but they have been +accumulating for a score of years. There’s the fact, any way, so +discussion is no use. Now do you understand? ‘In consideration of the +forthcoming marriage,’ remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be rich some day; that machine you laugh at will make me rich; +already I have been approached. I might repay this money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and you might not; such hopes and expectations have a way of coming +to nothing. Besides, hang it all, Morris, you know that there is more than +money in the question.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris hid his face in his hands for a moment; when he removed them it was +ashen. “Yes,” he said, “things are unfortunate. You remember +that you were very anxious that I should engage myself, and Mary was so good as +to accept me. Perhaps, I cannot say, I should have done better to have waited +till I felt some real impulse towards marriage. However, that is all gone by, +and, father, you need not be in the least afraid; there is not the slightest +fear that I shall attempt to do anything of which you would disapprove.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure you wouldn’t, old fellow,” answered the Colonel +in a friendly tone, “not when you came to think. Matters seem to have got +into a bit of a tangle, don’t they? Most unfortunate that charming young +lady being brought to this house in such a fashion. Really, it looks like a +spite of what she called Fate. However, I have no doubt that it will all +straighten itself somehow. By the way, she told me that she should wish to see +you once to say good-bye before she went. Don’t be vexed with me if, +should she do so, I suggest to you to be very careful. Your position will be +exceedingly painful and exceedingly dangerous, and in a moment all your fine +resolutions may come to nothing; though I am sure that she does not wish any +such thing, poor dear. Unless she really seeks this interview, I think, indeed, +it would be best avoided.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris made no answer, and the Colonel went away somewhat weary and sorrowful. +For once he had seen too much of his puppet-show. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a> +CHAPTER XVI.<br/> +A MARRIAGE AND AFTER</h2> + +<p> +Stella did not appear at dinner that night, or at breakfast next day. In the +course of the morning, growing impatient, for he had explanations to make, +Morris sent her a note worded thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Can I see you?—M. M.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +to which came the following answer: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Not to-day. Meet me to-morrow at the Dead Church at three +o’clock.—S<small>TELLA</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the only letter that he ever received from her. +</p> + +<p> +That afternoon, December 23, Mr. Fregelius and his daughter moved to the +Rectory in a fly that had been especially prepared to convey the invalid +without shaking him. Morris did not witness their departure, as the Colonel, +either by accident or design, had arranged to go with him on this day to +inspect the new buildings which had been erected on the Abbey Farm. Nor, +indeed, were the names of the departed guests so much as mentioned at dinner +that night. The incident of their long stay at the Abbey, with all its curious +complications, was closed, and both father and son, by tacit agreement, +determined to avoid all reference to it; at any rate for the present. +</p> + +<p> +The Christmas Eve of that year will long be remembered in Monksland and all +that stretch of coast as the day of the “great gale” which wrought +so much damage on its shores. The winter’s dawn was of extraordinary +beauty, for all the eastern sky might have been compared to one vast flower, +with a heart of burnished gold, and sepals and petals of many coloured fires. +Slowly from a central point it opened, slowly its splendours spread across the +heavens; then suddenly it seemed to wither and die, till where it had been was +nothing but masses of grey vapour that arose, gathered, and coalesced into an +ashen pall hanging low above the surface of the ashen sea. The coastguard, +watching the glass, hoisted their warning cone, although as yet there was no +breath of wind, and old sailormen hanging about in knots on the cliff and beach +went to haul up their boats as high as they could drag them, knowing that it +would blow hard by night. +</p> + +<p> +About mid-day the sea began to be troubled, as though its waves were being +pushed on by some force as yet unseen, and before two o’clock gusts of +cold air from the nor’east travelled landwards off the ocean with a low +moaning sound, which was very strange to hear. +</p> + +<p> +As Morris trudged along towards the Dead Church he noticed, as we do notice +such things when our minds are much preoccupied and oppressed, that these gusts +were coming quicker and quicker, although still separated from each other by +periods of aerial calm. Then he remembered that a great gale had been +prophesied in the weather reports, and thought to himself that they portended +its arrival. +</p> + +<p> +He reached the church by the narrow spit of sand and shingle which still +connected it with the shore, passed through the door in the rough brick wall, +closing it behind him, and paused to look. Already under that heavy sky the +light which struggled through the brine-encrusted eastern window was dim and +grey. Presently, however, he discovered the figure of Stella seated in her +accustomed place by the desolate-looking stone altar, whereon stood the box +containing the aerophone that they had used in their experiments. She was +dressed in her dark-coloured ulster, of which the hood was still drawn over her +head, giving her the appearance of some cloaked nun, lingering, out of time and +place, in the ruined habitations of her worship. +</p> + +<p> +As he advanced she rose and pushed back the hood, revealing the masses of her +waving hair, to which it had served as a sole covering. In silence Stella +stretched out her hand, and in silence Morris took it; for neither of them +seemed to find any words. At length she spoke, fixing her sad eyes upon his +face, and saying: +</p> + +<p> +“You understand that we meet to part. I am going to London to-morrow; my +father has consented.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is Christmas Day,” he faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but there is an early train, the same that runs on Sundays.” +</p> + +<p> +Then there was another pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to ask your pardon,” he said, “for all the trouble +that I have brought upon you.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. “I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard of +these stories?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my father spoke to me; he told me of his conversation with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“All of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know; I suppose so,” and he hung his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she broke out in a kind of cry, “if he told you +all——” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not blame him,” he interrupted. “He was very angry +with me. He considered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do +not think that he weighed his words.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannot +help things, and the truth will out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, quite simply; “we love each other, so we may +as well admit it before we part.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; “I know +now—we love each other.” +</p> + +<p> +These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this, their +declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions of men and women, +and not the less so because neither of them seemed to think its fashion +strange. +</p> + +<p> +“It must always have been so,” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Always,” she answered, “from the beginning; from the time +you saved my life and we were together in the boat and—perhaps, who can +say?—before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our minds +we did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should have found it +out, for having been brought together nothing could ever have really kept us +asunder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing but death,” he answered heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith,” she +replied, with one of her bright smiles. “Death will unite us beyond the +possibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly—to me, not to +you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean the life of my +body, but the real life, that within.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there is nothing +to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” she answered eagerly; “nothing. Do you suppose +that I wished to suggest such a treachery?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you are too pure and good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good I am not—who is?—but I believe that I am pure.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is bitter,” groaned Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because I +know that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would have been +bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how and where it comes +about? To-day we part—for ever in the flesh. You will not look upon this +mortal face of mine again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I feel that it is true.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced up hastily, and she answered the question in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No—indeed—not that—I never thought of such a thing. I +think it a crime. We are bid to endure the burden of our day. I shall go on +weaving my web and painting my picture till, soon or late, God says, +‘Hold,’ and then I shall die gladly, yes, very gladly, because the +real beginning is at hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that I had your perfect faith,” groaned Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if you love me, learn it from me. Should I, of all people, tell +you what is not true? It is the truth—I swear it is the truth. I am not +deceived. I know, I know, I <i>know</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know—about us?” +</p> + +<p> +“That, when it is over, we shall meet again where there is no marriage, +where there is nothing gross, where love perfect and immortal reigns and +passion is forgotten. There that we love each other will make no heart sore, +not even hers whom here, perhaps, we have wronged; there will be no jealousies, +since each and all, themselves happy in their own way and according to their +own destinies, will rejoice in the happiness of others. There, too, our life +will be one life, our work one work, our thought one thought—nothing more +shall separate us at all in that place where there is no change or shadow of +turning. Therefore,” and she clasped her hands and looked upwards, her +face shining like a saint’s, although the tears ran down it, +“therefore, ‘O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy +victory?’” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk like one upon the verge of it, who hears the beating of +Death’s wings. It frightens me, Stella.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of that; it may be to-night, or fifty years +hence—we are always on the verge, and those Wings I have heard from +childhood. Fifty, even seventy years, and after them—all the Infinite; +one tiny grain of sand compared to the bed of the great sea, that sea from +which it was washed at dawn to be blown back again at nightfall.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the dead forget—in that land all things are forgotten. Were +you to die I should call to you and you would not answer; and when my time +came, I might look for you and never find you.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you say it? If I die, search, and you shall see. No; do +<i>not</i> search, wait. At your death I will be with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever happens in life or death—here or hereafter—swear +that you will not forget me, and that you will love me only. Swear it, +Stella.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come to this altar,” she said, when she had thought a moment, +“and give me your hand—so. Now, before my Maker and the Presences +who surround us, I marry you, Morris Monk. Not in the flesh—with your +flesh I have nothing to do—but in the spirit. I take your soul to mine, I +give my soul to yours; yours it was from its birth’s day, yours it is, +and when it ceases to be yours, let it perish everlastingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“So be it to both of us, for ever and for ever,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +This, then, was their marriage, and as they walked hand in hand away from the +ancient altar, which surely had never seen so strange a rite, there returned to +Morris an idle fantasy which had entered his mind at this very spot when they +landed one morning half-frozen after that night in the open boat. But he said +nothing of it; for with the memory came a recollection of certain wandering +words which that same day fell from Stella’s lips, words at the thought +of which his spirit thrilled and his flesh shuddered. What if she were near it, +or he were near it, or both of them? What if this solemn ceremony of marriage +mocked, yet made divine, had taken place upon the very threshold of its +immortal consummation? She read his thought and answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Remember always, far and near, it is the same thing; time is nothing; +this oath of ours cannot be touched by time or earthly change.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will remember,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +What more did they say? He never could be sure, nor does it matter, for what is +written bears its gist. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away first,” she said presently; “I promised your father +that I would bring no further trouble on you, so we must not be seen together. +Go now, for the gale is rising fast and the darkness grows.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is hard to bear,” he muttered, setting his teeth. “Are +you sure that we shall not meet again in after years?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure. You look your last upon me, on the earthly Stella whom you know +and love.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must be done,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be done,” she echoed. “Good-bye, husband, till that +appointed hour of meeting when I may call you so without shame,” and she +held out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He took and pressed it; speak he could not. Then, like a man stricken in years, +he passed down the church with bent head and shambling feet. At the door he +turned to look at her. She was standing erect and proud as a conqueror, her +hand resting upon the altar. Even at that distance their eyes met, and in hers, +lit with a wild and sudden ray from the sinking sun, he could see a strange +light shine. Then he went out of the door and dragged it to behind him, to +battle his way homeward through the roaring gale that stung and buffeted him +like all the gathered spites and hammerings of Destiny. +</p> + +<p> +This, then, was their parting, a parting pure and stern and high, unsolaced by +one soft word, unsweetened by a single kiss. Yet it seems fitting that those +who hope to meet in the light of the spirit should make their last farewells on +earth beneath such solemn shadows. +</p> + +<p> +And Stella? After all she was but a woman, a woman with a very human heart. She +knew the truth indeed, to whom it was given to see before the due determined +time of vision, but still she was troubled with that human heart, and weighed +down by the flesh over which she triumphed. Now that he was gone, pride and +strength seemed both to leave her, and with a low cry, like the cry of a +wounded sea-bird, she cast herself down there upon the cold stones before the +altar, and wept till her senses left her. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +A great gale roared and howled. The waters, driven onwards by its furious +breath, beat upon the eastern cliffs till these melted like snow beneath them, +taking away field and church, town and protecting wall, and in return casting +up the wrecks of ships and the bodies of dead men. +</p> + +<p> +Morris could not sleep. Who could sleep in such an awful tempest? Who could +sleep that had passed through such a parting? Oh! his heart ached, and he was +as one sick to death, and with him continually was the thought of Stella, and +before him came the vision of her eyes. He could not sleep, so rising, he +dressed himself and went to the window. High in the heavens swept clean of +clouds by the furious blasts floated a wandering moon, throwing her ghastly +light upon the swirling, furious sea. Shorewards rushed the great rollers in +unending lines, there to break in thunder and seethe across the shingle till +the sea-wall stopped them and sent the spray flying upwards in thin, white +clouds. +</p> + +<p> +“God help those in the power of the sea to-night,” thought Morris, +“for many of them will not keep Christmas here.” +</p> + +<p> +Then it seemed to his mind, excited by storm and sorrow, as though some power +were drawing him, as though some voice were telling him that there was that +which he must hear. Aimlessly, half-unconsciously he wandered to his workshop +in the old chapel, turned on one of the lamps, and stood at the window watching +the majestic progress of the storm, and thinking, thinking, thinking. +</p> + +<p> +While he remained thus, suddenly, thrilling his nerves as though with a quick +shock of pain, sharp and clear even in that roar and turmoil, rang out the +sound of an electric bell. He started round and looked. Yes; as he thought in +all the laboratory there was only one bell that could ring, none other had its +batteries charged, and that bell was attached to the aerophone whereof the twin +stood upon the altar in the Dead Church. The instrument was one of the pair +with which he had carried out his experiments of the last two months. +</p> + +<p> +His heart stood still. “Great God! What could have caused that bell to +ring?” It could not ring; it was a physical impossibility unless somebody +were handling the sister instrument, and at four o’clock in the morning, +who could be there, and except one, who would know its working? With a bound he +was by the aerophone and had given the answering signal. Then instantly, as +though she were standing at his side in the room, for this machine does not +blur the voice or heighten its tone, he heard Stella speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you who answer me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” he said, “but where are you at this hour of the +night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where you left me, in the Dead Church,” floated back the quick +reply through the raving breadths of storm. “Listen: After you went my +strength gave out and I suppose that I fainted; at least, a little while ago I +woke up from a deep sleep to find myself lying before the altar here. I was +frightened, for I knew that it must be far into the night, and an awful gale is +blowing which shakes the whole church. I went to the door and opened it, and by +the light of the moon I saw that between me and the shore lies a raging sea +hundreds of yards wide. Then I came back and threw out my mind to you, and +tried to wake you, if you slept; tried to make you understand that I wished you +to go to the aerophone and hear me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will get help at once,” broke in Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg you,” came back the voice, “I beg you, do not stir. +The time is very short; already the waves are dashing against the walls of the +chancel, and I hear the water rumbling in the vaults beneath my feet. +Listen!” her voice ceased, and in place of it there swelled the shriek of +the storm which beat about the Dead Church, the rush, too, of the water in the +hollow vaults and the crashing of old coffins as they were washed from their +niches. Another instant, and Stella had cut off these sounds and was speaking +again. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless to think of help, no boat, nothing could live upon that +fearful sea; moreover, within five minutes this church must fall and +vanish.” +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God!” wailed Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not grieve; it is a waste of precious time, and do not stir till the +end. I want you to know that I did not seek this death. I never dreamed of such +a thing. You must tell my father so, and bid him not to mourn for me. It was my +intention to leave the church within ten minutes of yourself. This cup is given +to me by the hand of Fate. I did not fill it. Do you hear and +understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear and understand,” answered Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you see,” she went on, “that our talk to-day was almost +inspired. My web is woven, my picture is painted, and to me Heaven says, +‘Hold.’ The thought that it might be so was in your mind, was it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I answered your thought, telling you that time is nothing. This I +tell you again for your comfort in the days that remain to you of life. Oh! I +bless God; I bless God Who has dealt so mercifully to me. Where are now the +long years of lonely suffering that I feared—I who stand upon the +threshold of the Eternal? . . . I can talk no more, the water is rising in the +church—already it is about my knees; but remember every word which I have +said to you; remember that we are wed—truly wed, that I go to wait for +you, and that even if you do not see me I will, if I may, be near you +always—till you die, and afterwards will be with you +always—always.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay,” cried Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to say? Be swift, the water rises and the walls are +cracking.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I love you now and for ever and for ever; that I will remember +everything; and that I know beyond a doubt that you have seen, and speak the +truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for those blessed words, and for this life fare you +well.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment there was silence, or at least Stella’s voice was silent, +while Morris stood over the aerophone, the sweat running from his face, rocking +like a drunken man in his agony and waiting for the end. Then suddenly loud, +clear, and triumphant, broke upon his ears the sound of that song which he had +heard her sing upon the sinking ship when her death seemed near; the ancient +song of the Over-Lord. Once more at the last mortal ebb, while the water rose +about her breast, Stella’s instincts and blood had asserted themselves, +and forgetting aught else, she was dying as her pagan forefathers had died, +with the secret ancient chant upon her lips. Yes, she sang as Skarphedinn the +hero sang while the flame ate out his life. +</p> + +<p> +The song swelled on, and the great waters boomed an accompaniment. Then came a +sound of crashing walls, and for a moment it ceased, only to rise again still +clearer and more triumphant. Again a crash—a seething hiss—and the +instrument was silent, for its twin was shattered. Shattered also was the fair +shape that held the spirit of Stella. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Again and again Morris spoke eagerly, entreatingly, but the aerophone was dumb. +So he ceased at length, and even then well nigh laughed when he thought that in +this useless piece of mechanism he saw a symbol of his own soul, which also had +lost its mate and could hold true converse with no other. +</p> + +<p> +Then he started up, and just as he was, ran out into the raving night. +</p> + +<p> +Three hours later, when the sun rose upon Christmas Day, if any had been there +to note him they might have seen a dishevelled man standing alone upon the +lonely shore. There he stood, the back-wash of the mighty combers hissing about +his knees as he looked seaward beneath the hollow of his hand at a spot some +two hundred yards away, where one by one their long lines were broken into a +churning yeast of foam. +</p> + +<p> +Morris knew well what broke them—the fallen ruins of the church that was +now Stella’s sepulchre, and, oh! in that dark hour, he would have been +glad to seek her where she lay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a> +CHAPTER XVII.<br/> +THE RETURN OF MARY</h2> + +<p> +Curiously enough, indirectly, but in fact, it was the circumstance of +Stella’s sudden and mysterious death that made Morris a rich and famous +man, and caused his invention of the aerophone to come into common use. Very +early on the following morning, but not before, she was missed from the Rectory +and sought far and wide. One of the first places visited by those who searched +was the Abbey, whither they met Morris returning through the gale, wild-eyed, +flying-haired, and altogether strange to see. They asked him if he knew what +had become of Miss Fregelius. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied, “she has been crushed or drowned in the +ruins of the Dead Church, which was swept away by the gale last night.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they stared and asked how he knew this. He answered that, being unable to +sleep that night on account of the storm, he had gone into his workshop when +his attention was suddenly attracted by the bell of the aerophone, by means of +which he learned that Miss Fregelius had been cut off from the shore in the +church. He added that he ran as hard as he could to the spot, only to find at +dawn that the building had entirely vanished in the gale, and that the sea had +encroached upon the land by at least two hundred paces. +</p> + +<p> +Of course these statements concerning the aerophone and its capabilities were +reported all over the world and much criticised—very roughly in some +quarters. Thereupon Morris offered to demonstrate the truth of what he had +said. The controversy proved sharp; but of this he was glad; it was a solace to +him, perhaps even it prevented him from plunging headlong into madness. At +first he was stunned; he did not feel very much. Then the first effects of the +blow passed; a sense of the swiftness and inevitableness of this awful +consummation seemed to sink down into his heart and crush him. The completeness +of the tragedy, its Greek-play qualities, were overwhelming. Question and +answer, seed and fruit—there was no space for thought or growth between +them. The curtain was down upon the Temporal, and lo! almost before its folds +had shaken to their place, it had risen upon the Eternal. His nature reeled +beneath this knowledge and his loss. Had it not been for those suspicions and +attacks it might have fallen. +</p> + +<p> +The details of the struggle need not be entered into, as they have little to do +with the life-story of Morris Monk. It is enough to say that in the end he more +than carried out his promises under the severest conditions, and in the +presence of various scientific bodies and other experts. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards came the natural results; the great aerophone company was floated, +in which Morris as vendor received half the shares—he would take no +cash—which shares, by the way, soon stood at five and a quarter. Also he +found himself a noted man; was asked to deliver an address before the British +Association; was nominated on the council of a leading scientific society, and +in due course after a year or two received one of the greatest compliments that +can be paid to an Englishman, that of being elected to its fellowship, as a +distinguished person, by the committee of a famous Club. Thus did Morris +prosper greatly—very greatly, and in many different ways; but with all +this part of his life we are scarcely concerned. +</p> + +<p> +On the day of his daughter’s death Morris visited Mr. Fregelius, for whom +he had a message. He found the old man utterly crushed and broken. +</p> + +<p> +“The last of the blood, Mr. Monk,” he moaned, when Morris, +hoarse-voiced and slow-worded, had convinced him of the details of the dreadful +fact, “the last of the blood; and I left childless. At least you will +feel for me and with me. <i>You</i> will understand.” +</p> + +<p> +It will be seen that although outside of some loose talk in the village, which +indirectly had produced results so terrible, no one had ever suggested such a +thing, curiously enough, by some intuitive process, Mr. Fregelius who, to a +certain extent, at any rate, guessed his daughter’s mind, took it for +granted that she had been in love with Morris. He seemed to know also by the +same deductive process that he was attached to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, indeed,” said Morris, with a sad smile, thinking that if +only the clergyman could look into his heart he would perhaps be somewhat +astonished at the depth of that understanding sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you,” went on Mr. Fregelius, “and you laughed at me, +that it was most unlucky her having sung that hateful Norse song, the +‘Greeting to Death,’ when you found her upon the steamer +Trondhjem.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything has been unlucky, Mr. Fregelius—or lucky,” he +added beneath his breath. “But you will like to know that she died +singing it. The aerophone told me that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Monk,” the old man said, catching his arm, “my daughter +was a strange woman, a very strange woman, and since I heard this dreadful news +I have been afraid that perhaps she was—unhappy. She was leaving her +home, on your account—yes, on your account, it’s no use pretending +otherwise, although no one ever told me so—and—that she knew the +church was going to be washed away.” +</p> + +<p> +“She thought you might think so,” answered Morris, and he gave him +Stella’s last message. Moreover, he told him more of the real +circumstances than he revealed to anybody else. He told him what nobody else +ever knew, for on that lonely coast none had seen him enter or leave the place, +how he had met her in the church—about the removal of the instruments, as +he left it to be inferred—and at her wish had come home alone because of +the gossip which had arisen. He explained also that according to her own story, +from some unexplained cause she had fallen asleep in the church after his +departure, and awakened to find herself surrounded by the waters with all hope +gone. +</p> + +<p> +“And now she is dead, now she is dead,” groaned Mr. Fregelius, +“and I am alone in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry for you,” said Morris simply, “but there it is. +It is no use looking backward, we must look forward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, look forward, both of us, since she is hidden from both. You see, +almost from the first I knew you were fond of her,” added the clergyman +simply. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “I am fond of her, though of that the +less said the better, and because our case is the same I hope that we shall +always be friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind; I shall need a friend now. I am alone now, quite +alone, and my heart is broken.” +</p> + +<p> +Here it may be added that Morris was even better than his word. Out of the +wealth that came to him in such plenty, for instance, he was careful to augment +the old man’s resources without offending his feelings, by adding +permanently and largely to the endowment of the living. Also, he attended to +his wants in many other ways which need not be enumerated, and not least by +constantly visiting him. Many were the odd hours and the evenings that shall be +told of later, which they spent together smoking their pipes in the Rectory +study, and talking of her who had gone, and whose lost life was the strongest +link between them. Otherwise and elsewhere, except upon a few extraordinary +occasions, her name rarely passed the lips of Morris. +</p> + +<p> +Yet within himself he mourned and mourned, although even in the first +bitterness not as one without hope. He knew that she had spoken truth; that she +was not dead, but only for a while out of his sight and hearing. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Ten days had passed, and for Morris ten weary, almost sleepless, nights. The +tragedy of the destruction of the new rector’s daughter in the ruins of +the Dead Church no longer occupied the tongues of men and paragraphs in papers. +One day the sea gave up the hood of her brown ulster, the same that Morris had +been seen arranging by Stephen and Eliza Layard; it was found upon the beach. +After this even the local police admitted that the conjectures as to her end +must be true, and, since for the lack of anything to hold it on there could be +no inquest, the excitement dwindled and died. Nor indeed, as her father +announced that he was quite satisfied as to the circumstances of his +daughter’s death, was any formal inquiry held concerning them. A few +people, however, still believed that she was not really drowned but had gone +away secretly for unknown private reasons. The world remembers few people, even +if they be distinguished, for ten whole days. It has not time for such +long-continued recollection of the dead, this world of the living who hurry on +to join them. +</p> + +<p> +If this is the case with the illustrious, the wealthy and the powerful, how +much more must it be so in the instance of an almost unknown girl, a stranger +in the land? Morris and her father remembered her, for she was part of their +lives and lived on with their lives. Stephen Layard mourned for the woman whom +he had wished to marry—fiercely at first, with the sharp pain of +disappointed passion; then intermittently; and at last, after he was +comfortably wedded to somebody else, with a mild and sentimental regret three +or four times a year. Eliza, too, when once convinced that she was +“really dead,” was “much shocked,” and talked vaguely +of the judgments and dispensations of Providence, as though this victim were +pre-eminently deserving of its most stern decrees. It was rumoured, however, +among the observant that her Christian sorrow was, perhaps, tempered by a +secret relief at the absence of a rival, who, as she now admitted, sang +extremely well and had beautiful eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel also thought of the guest whom the sea had given and taken away, +and with a real regret, for this girl’s force, talents, and loveliness +had touched and impressed him who had sufficient intellect and experience to +know that she was a person cast in a rare and noble mould. But to Morris he +never mentioned her name. No further confidence had passed between them on the +matter. Yet he knew that to his son this name was holy. Therefore, being in +some ways a wise man, he thought it well to keep his lips shut and to let the +dead bury their dead. +</p> + +<p> +By all the rest Stella Fregelius was soon as much forgotten as though she had +never walked the world or breathed its air. That gale had done much damage and +taken away many lives—all down the coast was heard the voice of mourning; +hers chanced to be one of them, and there was nothing to be said. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +On the morning of the eleventh day came a telegram from Mary addressed to +Morris, and dated from London. It was brief and to the point. “Come to +dinner with me at Seaview, and bring your father.—Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +When Morris drove to Seaview that evening he was as a man is in a dream. Sorrow +had done its work on him, agonising his nerves, till at length they seemed to +be blunted as with a very excess of pain, much as the nerves of the victims of +the Inquisition were sometimes blunted, till at length they could scarcely feel +the pincers bite or the irons burn. Always abstemious, also, for this last +twelve days he had scarcely swallowed enough food to support him, with the +result that his body weakened and suffered with his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was a third trouble to contend with,—the dull and gnawing +sense of shame which seemed to eat into his heart. In actual fact, he had been +faithful enough to Mary, but in mind he was most unfaithful. How could he come +to her, the woman who was to be his wife, the woman who had dealt so well by +him, with the memory of that spiritual marriage at the altar of the Dead Church +still burning in his brain—that marriage which now was consecrated and +immortalised by death? What had he to give her that was worth her taking? he, +who if the truth were known, shrank from all idea of union with any earthly +woman; who longed only to be allowed to live out his time in a solitude as +complete as he could find or fashion? It was monstrous; it was shameful; and +then and there he determined that before ever he stood in Monksland church by +the side of Mary Porson, at least he would tell her the truth, and give her +leave to choose. To his other sins against her deceit should not be added. +</p> + +<p> +“Might I suggest, Morris,” said the Colonel, who as they drove, had +been watching his son’s face furtively by the light of the brougham +lamp—“might I suggest that, under all the circumstances, Mary would +perhaps appreciate an air a little less reminiscent of funerals? You may +recollect that several months have passed since you parted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Morris, “and a great deal has happened in that +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, her father is dead.” The Colonel alluded to no other +death. “Poor Porson! How painfully that beastly window in the dining-room +will remind me of him! Come, here we are; pull yourself together, old +fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris obeyed as best he could, and presently found himself following the +Colonel into the drawing-room, for once in his life, as he reflected, heartily +glad to have the advantage of his parent’s society. He could scarcely be +expected to be very demonstrative and lover-like under the fire of that +observant eyeglass. +</p> + +<p> +As they entered the drawing-room by one door, Mary, looking very handsome and +imposing in a low black dress, which became her fair beauty admirably, appeared +at the other. Catching sight of Morris, she ran, or rather glided, forward with +the graceful gait that was one of her distinctions, and caught him by both +hands, bending her face towards him in open and unmistakable invitation. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment it was over somehow, and she was saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Morris, how thin you look, and there are great black lines under your +eyes! Uncle, what have you been doing to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“When I have had the pleasure of saying, How-do-you-do to you, my +dear,” he replied in a somewhat offended voice—for the Colonel was +not fond of being overlooked, even in favour of an interesting +son—“I shall be happy to do my best to answer your question.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am so sorry,” she said, advancing her forehead to be kissed; +“but we saw each other the other day, didn’t we, and one +can’t embrace two people at once, and of course one must begin somewhere. +But, why have you made him so thin?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel surveyed Morris critically with his eyeglass. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear Mary,” he replied, “I am not responsible for +the variations in my son’s habit of body.” Then, as Morris turned +away irritably, he added in a stage whisper, “He’s been a bit +upset, poor fellow! He felt your father’s death dreadfully.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary winced a little, then, recovering her vivacity, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, at any rate, uncle, I am glad to see that nothing of the sort has +affected your health; I never saw you looking better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear, as we grow older we learn resignation——” +</p> + +<p> +“And how to look after ourselves,” thought Mary. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment dinner was announced, and she went in on Morris’s arm, the +Colonel gallantly insisting that it should be so. After this things progressed +a good deal better. The first plunge was over, and the cool refreshing waters +of Mary’s conversation seemed to give back to Morris’s system some +of the tone that it had lost. Also, when he thought fit to use it, he had a +strong will, and he thought fit this night. Lastly, like many a man in a +quandary before him, he discovered the strange advantages of a scientific but +liberal absorption of champagne. Mary noticed this as she noticed everything, +and said presently with her eyes wide open: +</p> + +<p> +“Might I ask, my dear, if you are—ill? You are eating next to +nothing, and that’s your fourth large glass of champagne—you who +never drank more than two. Don’t you remember how it used to vex my poor +dad, because he said that it always meant half a bottle wasted, and a +temptation to the cook?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris laughed—he was able to laugh by now—and replied, as it +happened, with perfect truth, that he had an awful toothache. +</p> + +<p> +“Then everything is explained,” said Mary. “Did you ever see +me with a toothache? Well, I should advise you not, for it would be our last +interview. I will paint it for you after dinner with pure carbolic acid; +it’s splendid, that is if you don’t drop any on the patient’s +tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris answered that he would stick to champagne. Then Mary began to narrate +her experiences in the convent in a fashion so funny that the Colonel could +scarcely control his laughter, and even Morris, toothache, heartache, and all, +was genuinely amused. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine, my dear Morris,” she said, “you know the time I get +down to breakfast. Or perhaps you don’t. It’s one of those things +which I have been careful to conceal from you, but you will one day, and I +believe that over it our matrimonial happiness may be wrecked. Well, at what +hour do you think I found myself expected to be up in that convent?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven,” suggested Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“At seven! At a quarter to five, if you please! At a quarter to five +every morning did some wretched person come and ring a dinner-bell outside my +door. And it was no use going to sleep again, not the least, for at half-past +five two hideous old lay-sisters arrived with buckets of water—they have +a perfect passion for cleanliness—and began to scrub out the cell whether +you were in bed or whether you weren’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she rattled on to other experiences, trivial enough in themselves, but so +entertaining when touched and lightened with her native humour, that very soon +the evening had worn itself pleasantly away without a single sad or untoward +word. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night, dear!” said Mary to Morris, who this time managed to +embrace her with becoming warmth; “you will come and see me to-morrow, +won’t you—no, not in the morning. Remember I have been getting up +at a quarter to five for a month, and I am trying to equalise matters; but +after luncheon. Then we will sit before a good fire, and have a talk, for the +weather is so delightfully bad that I am sure I shan’t be forced to take +exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, at three o’clock,” said Morris, when the Colonel, +who had been reflecting to himself, broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, my dear, you must be down to lunch, or if you are not you +ought to be; so, as I want to have a chat with you about some of your poor +father’s affairs, and am engaged for the rest of the day, I will come +over then if you will allow me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, uncle, if you like; but wouldn’t Morris do +instead—as representing me, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered; “when you are married he will do +perfectly well, but until that happy event I am afraid that I must take your +personal opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! very well,” said Mary with a sigh; “I will expect you at +a quarter past one.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a> +CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> +TWO EXPLANATIONS</h2> + +<p> +Accordingly, at a quarter past one on the following day the Colonel arrived at +Seaview, went in to lunch with Mary, and made himself very amusing and +agreeable about the domestic complications of his old friend, Lady Rawlins and +her objectionable husband, and other kindred topics. Then, adroitly enough, he +changed the conversation to the subject of the great gale, and when he talked +of it awhile, said suddenly: +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you have heard of the dreadful thing that happened +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“What dreadful thing?” asked Mary. “I have heard nothing; you +must remember that I have been in a convent where one does not see the English +papers.” +</p> + +<p> +“The death of Stella Fregelius,” said the Colonel sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“What! the daughter of the new rector—the young lady whom Morris +took off the wreck, and whom I have been longing to ask him about, only I +forgot last night? Do you mean to say that she is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead as the sea can make her. She was in the old church yonder when it +was swept away, and now lies beneath its ruins in four fathoms of water.” +</p> + +<p> +“How awful!” said Mary. “Tell me about it; how did it +happen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, through Morris, poor fellow, so far as I can make out, and that is +why he is so dreadfully cut up. You see she helped him to carry on his +experiments with that machine, she sitting in the church and he at home in the +Abbey, with a couple of miles of coast and water between them. Well, you are a +woman of the world, my dear, and you must know that all this sort of thing +means a great deal more intimacy than is desirable. How far that intimacy went +I do not know, and I do not care to inquire, though for my part I believe that +it was a very little way indeed. Still, Eliza Layard got hold of some cock and +bull tale, and you can guess the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly,” said Mary in a quiet voice, “if Eliza was +concerned in it; but please go on with the story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the gossip came to my ears——” +</p> + +<p> +“Through Eliza?” queried Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Through Eliza—who said——” and he told her about +the incident of the ulster and the dog-cart, adding that he believed it to be +entirely untrue. +</p> + +<p> +As Mary made no comment he went on: “I forgot to say that Miss Fregelius +seems to have refused to marry Stephen Layard, who fell violently in love with +her, which, to my mind, accounts for some of this gossip. Still, I thought it +my duty, and the best thing I could do, to give a friendly hint to the old +clergyman, Stella’s father, a funny, withered-up old boy by the way. He +seems to have spoken to his daughter rather indiscreetly, whereon she waylaid +me as I was walking on the sands and informed me that she had made up her mind +to leave this place for London, where she intended to earn her own living by +singing and playing on the violin. I must tell you that she played splendidly, +and, in my opinion, had one of the most glorious contralto voices that I ever +heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“She seems to have been a very attractive young woman,” said Mary, +in the same quiet, contemplative voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” went on the Colonel, “take her all in all, she was +about the most attractive young woman that ever I saw, poor thing. Upon my +word, dear, old as I am, I fell half in love with her myself, and so would you +if you had seen those eyes of hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember,” broke in Mary, “that old Mr. Tomley, after he +returned from inspecting the Northumberland living, spoke about Miss +Fregelius’s wonderful eyes—at the dinner-party, you know, on the +night when Morris proposed to me,” and she shivered a little as though +she had turned suddenly cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let me go on with my story. After she had told me this, and I had +promised to help her with introductions—exactly why or how I +forget—but I asked her flat out if she was in love with Morris. +Thereon—I assure you, my dear Mary, it was the most painful scene in all +my long experience—the poor thing turned white as a sheet, and would have +fallen if I had not caught hold of her. When she came to herself a little, she +admitted frankly that this was her case, but added—of which, of course, +one may believe as much as one likes, that she had never known it until I asked +the question.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that quite possible,” said Mary; “and really, uncle, +to me your cross-examination seems to have been slightly indiscreet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly, my dear, very possibly; even Solomon might be excused for +occasionally making a mistake where the mysterious articles which young ladies +call their hearts are concerned. I tell what happened, that is all. Shall I go +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, after this she announced that she meant to see Morris once to say +good-bye to him before she went to London, and left me. Practically the next +thing I heard about her was that she was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she commit suicide?” asked Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“It is said not; it is suggested that after Morris’s interview with +her in the Dead Church—for I gather there was an interview though nobody +knows about it, and that’s where they met—she fell asleep, which +sounds an odd thing to do in the midst of such a gale as was raging on +Christmas Eve, and so was overwhelmed. But who can say? Impressionable and +unhappy women have done such deeds before now, especially if they imagine +themselves to have become the object of gossip. Of course, also, the mere +possibility of such a thing having happened on his account would be, and indeed +has been, enough to drive a man like Morris crazy with grief and +remorse.” +</p> + +<p> +“What had he to be remorseful for?” asked Mary. “If a young +woman chanced to fall in love with him, why should he be blamed, or blame +himself for that? After all, people’s affections are in their own +keeping.” +</p> + +<p> +“I imagine—very little, if anything. At least, I know this, that +when I spoke to him about the matter after my talk with her, I gathered from +what he said that there was absolutely nothing between them. To be quite frank, +however, as I have tried to be with you, my dear, throughout this conversation, +I also gathered that this young lady had produced a certain effect upon his +mind, or at least that the knowledge that she had avowed herself to be attached +to him—which I am afraid I let out, for I was in a great +rage—produced some such effect. Well, afterwards I believe, although I +have asked no questions and am not sure of it, he went and said good-bye to her +in this church, at her request. Then this dreadful tragedy happened, and there +is an end of her and her story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any object in telling it to me, uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear, I have. I wished you to know the real facts before they +reached you in whatever distorted version Morris’s fancy or imagination, +or exaggerated candour, may induce him to present them to you. Also, my dear, +even if you find, or think you find that you have cause of complaint against +him, I hope that you will see your way to being lenient and shutting your eyes +a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Severity was never my strong point,” interrupted Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“For this reason,” went on the Colonel; “the young woman +concerned was a very remarkable person; if you could have heard her sing, for +instance, you would have said so yourself. It is a humiliating confession, but +I doubt whether one young man out of a hundred, single, engaged, or married, +could have resisted being attracted by her to just such an extent as she +pleased, especially if he were flattered by the knowledge that she was +genuinely attracted by himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you say you had some documents you wanted me to +sign?” she asked presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; here is the thing,” and he pulled a paper out of his +pocket; “the lawyers write that it need not be witnessed.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary glanced at it. “Couldn’t Morris have brought this?—he is +your co-executor, isn’t he?—and saved you the trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly he could; but——” +</p> + +<p> +“But what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you want to know, my dear,” said the Colonel, with a +grave countenance, “just now Morris is in a state in which I do not care +to leave more of this important business in his hands than is necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to understand by that, uncle?” she said, looking at him +shrewdly. “Do you mean that he is—not quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mary, I mean that—he is not quite well; that is, if my +observation goes for anything. I mean,” he went on with quiet vehemence, +“I mean that—just at present, of course, he has been so upset by +this miserable affair that for my part I wouldn’t put any confidence in +what he says about it, or about anything else. The thing has got upon his +nerves and rendered him temporarily unfit for the business of ordinary life. +You know that at the best of times he is a very peculiar man and not quite like +other people. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, have you signed that? Thank you, my dear. By Jove! I must be off; +I shall be late as it is. I may rely upon your discretion as to what we have +been talking about, may I not? but I thought it as well to let you know how the +land lay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, uncle; and thank you for taking so much trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +When the door had closed behind him Mary reflected awhile. Then she said to +herself: +</p> + +<p> +“He thinks Morris is a little off his head, and has come here to warn me. +I should not be surprised, and I daresay that he is right. Any way, a new +trouble has risen up between us, the shadow of another woman, poor thing. Well, +shadows melt, and the dead do not come back. She seems to have been very +charming and clever, and I daresay that she fascinated him for a while, but +with kindness and patience it will all come right. Only I do hope that he will +not insist upon making me too many confidences.” +</p> + +<p> +So thought Mary, who by nature was forgiving, gentle, and an optimist; not +guessing how sorely her patience as an affianced wife, and her charity as a +woman of the world, would be tried within the hour. +</p> + +<p> +From all of which it will be seen that for once the diplomacy of the Colonel +had prospered somewhat beyond its deserts. The departed cannot explain or +defend themselves, and Morris’s possible indiscretions already stood +discounted in the only quarter where they might do harm. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later Mary, sitting beside the fire with her toes upon the grate +and her face to the window, perceived Morris on the gravel drive, wearing a +preoccupied and rather wretched air. She noted, moreover, that before he rang +the bell he paused for a moment as though to shake himself together. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are at last,” she said, cheerfully, as he bent down to +kiss her, “seven whole minutes before your time, which is very nice of +you. Now, sit down there and get warm, and we will have a good, long +talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris obeyed. “My father has been lunching with you, has he not?” +he said somewhat nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, and telling me all the news, and a sad budget it seems to be; +about the dreadful disasters of the great gale and the death of that poor girl +who was staying with you, Miss Fregelius.” +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of this name Morris’s face contorted itself, as the face +of a man might do who was seized with a sudden pang of sharp and unexpected +agony. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, “I have a +confession to make to you, and I must make it—about this dead woman, I +mean. I will not sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and +then judge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me,” she answered; “this sounds dreadfully tragic. But +I may as well tell you at once that I have already heard some gossip.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was known +only to me and her.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary’s +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to understand?” she said in a low voice—and she +looked a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” he answered with a faint smile; “nothing at +all——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that you have been embracing her, for instance? That, I understand, +is Eliza Layard’s story.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; I never did such a thing in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +A little sigh of relief broke from Mary’s lips. At the worst this was but +an affair of sentiment. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, dear,” she said in her ordinary slow voice, “that +you had better set out the trouble in your own words, with as few details as +possible, or none at all. Such things are painful, are they +not—especially where the dead are concerned?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris bowed his head and began: “You know I found her on the ship, +singing as she only could sing, and she was a very strange and beautiful +woman—perhaps beautiful is not the word—” +</p> + +<p> +“It will do,” interrupted Mary; “at any rate, you thought her +beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then afterwards we grew intimate, very intimate, without knowing it, +almost—indeed, I am not sure that we should ever have known it had it not +been for the mischief-making of Eliza Layard——” +</p> + +<p> +“May she be rewarded,” ejaculated Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and after she—that is, Eliza Layard—had spoken to my +father, he attacked Mr. Fregelius, his daughter, and myself, and it seems that +she confessed to my father that she was—was——” +</p> + +<p> +“In love with you—not altogether unnatural, perhaps, from my point +of view; though, of course, she oughtn’t to have been so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and said that she was going away and—on Christmas Eve we met +there in the Dead Church. Then somehow—for I had no intention of such a +thing—all the truth came out, and I found that I was no longer master of +myself, and—God forgive me! and you, Mary, forgive me, too—that I +loved her also.” +</p> + +<p> +“And afterwards?” said Mary, moving her skirts a little. +</p> + +<p> +“And afterwards—oh! it will sound strange to you—we made some +kind of compact for the next world, a sort of spiritual marriage; I can call it +nothing else. Then I shook hands with her and went away, and in a few hours she +was dead—dead. But the compact stands, Mary; yes, that compact stands for +ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“A compact of a spiritual marriage in a place where there is no marriage. +Do you mean, Morris, that you wish this strange proceeding to destroy your +physical and earthly engagement to myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; nor did she wish it; she said so. But you must judge. I feel +that I have done you a dreadful wrong, and I was determined that you should +know the worst.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was very good of you,” Mary said, reflectively, “for +really there is no reason why you should have told me this peculiar story. +Morris, you have been working pretty hard lately, have you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied, absently, “I suppose I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was this young lady what is called a mystic?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. Danish people often are. At any rate, she saw things more +clearly than most. I mean that the future was nearer to her mind; and in a +sense, the past also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed. You must have found her a congenial companion. I suppose that +you talked a good deal of these things?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes we did.” +</p> + +<p> +“And discovered that your views were curiously alike? For when one mystic +meets another mystic, and the other mystic has beautiful eyes and sings +divinely, the spiritual marriage will follow almost as a matter of course. What +else is to be expected? But I am glad that you were faithful to your +principles, both of you, and clung fast to the ethereal side of things.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris writhed beneath this satire, but finding no convenient answer to it, +made none. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember, my dear?” went on Mary, “the conversation +we had one day in your workshop before we were engaged—that’s years +ago, isn’t it—about star-gazing considered as a fine art?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember something,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“That I told you, for instance, that it might be better if you paid a +little more attention to matters physical, lest otherwise you should go on +praying for vision till you could see, and for power until you could +create?” +</p> + +<p> +Morris nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I think I said—didn’t I? that if you insisted upon +following these spiritual exercises, the result might be that they would return +upon you in some concrete shape, and take possession of you, and lead you into +company and surroundings which most of us think it wholesome to avoid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you said something like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wasn’t a bad bit of prophecy, was it?” went on Mary, +rubbing her chin reflectively, “and you see his Satanic Majesty knew very +well how to bring about its fulfilment. Mystical, lovely, and a wonderful +mistress of music, which you adore; really, one would think that the bait must +have been specially selected.” +</p> + +<p> +Crushed though he was, Morris’s temper began to rise beneath the lash of +Mary’s sarcasm. He knew, however, that it was her method of showing +jealousy and displeasure, both of them perfectly natural, and did his best to +restrain himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you,” he said. “Also, you are +unjust to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. I daresay that in herself she was what you think her, a +perfect angel; indeed, the descriptions that I have heard from your father and +yourself leave no doubt of it in my mind. But even angels have been put to bad +purposes; perhaps their innocence makes it possible to take advantage of +them——” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his lips to speak, but she held up her hand and went on: +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t think me unsympathetic because I put things as they +appear to my very mundane mind. Look here, Morris, it just comes to this: If +this exceedingly attractive young lady had made love to you, or had induced you +to make love to her, so that you ran away with her, or anything else, of course +you would have behaved badly and cruelly to me, but at least your conduct would +be natural, and to be explained. We all know that men do this kind of thing, +and women too, for the matter of that, under the influence of passion—and +are often very sorry for it afterwards. But she didn’t do this; she took +you on your weak side, which she understood thoroughly—probably because +it was her own weak side—and out-Heroded Herod, or, rather, +out-mysticised the mystic, finishing up with some spiritual marriage, which, if +it is anything at all, is impious. What right have we to make bargains for the +Beyond, about which we know nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“She did know something,” said Morris, with a sullen conviction. +</p> + +<p> +“You think she did because you were reduced to a state of mind in which, +if she had told you that the sun goes round the earth, you would quite readily +have believed her. My dearest Morris, that way madness lies. Perhaps you +understand now what I have been driving at, and the best proof of the absurdity +of the whole thing is that I, stupid as I am, from my intimate knowledge of +your character since childhood, was able to predict that something of this sort +would certainly happen to you. You will admit that is a little odd, won’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s odd; or, perhaps, it shows that you have more of the +inner sight than you know. But there were circumstances about the story which +you would find difficult to explain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least. In your own answer lies the explanation—your +tendency to twist things. I prophesy certain developments from my knowledge of +your character, whereupon you at once credit me with second sight, which is +absurd.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see the analogy,” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you? I do. All this soul business is just a love affair gone +wrong. If circumstances had been a little different—if, for instance, +there had been no Mary Porson—I doubt whether anybody would have heard +much about spiritual marriages. Somehow I think that things would have settled +down into a more usual groove.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris did not attempt to answer. He felt that Mary held all the cards, and, +not unnaturally, was in a mood to play them. Moreover, it was desecration to +him to discuss Stella’s most secret beliefs with any other woman, and +especially with Mary. Their points of view were absolutely and radically +different. The conflict was a conflict between the natural and the spiritual +law; or, in other words, between hard, brutal facts and theories as impalpable +as the perfume of a flower, or the sound waves that stirred his aerophone. +Moreover, he could see clearly that Mary’s interpretation of this story +was simple; namely, that he had fallen into temptation, and that the shock of +his parting from the lady concerned, followed by her sudden and violent death, +had bred illusions in his mind. In short, that he was slightly crazy; +therefore, to be well scolded, pitied, and looked after rather than sincerely +blamed. The position was scarcely heroic, or one that any man would choose to +fill; still, he felt that it had its conveniences; that, at any rate, it must +be accepted. +</p> + +<p> +“All these questions are very much a matter of opinion,” he said; +then added, unconsciously reflecting one of Stella’s sayings, “and +I daresay that the truth is for each of us exactly what each of us imagines it +to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was always taught that the truth is the truth, quite irrespective of +our vague and often silly imaginings; the difficulty being to find out exactly +what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” answered Morris, declining argument which is always +useless between people are are determined not to sympathise with each +other’s views. “I knew that you would think my story foolish. I +should never have troubled you with it, had I not felt it to be my duty, for +naturally the telling of such a tale puts a man in a ridiculous light.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you ridiculous, Morris; I think that you are +suffering slightly from shock, that is all. What I say is that I detest all +this spiritual hocus-pocus to which you have always had a leaning. I fear and +hate it instinctively, as some people hate cats, because I know that it breeds +mischief, and that, as I said before, people who go on trying to see, do see, +or fancy that they do. While we are in the world let the world and its +limitations be enough for us. When we go out of the world, then the +supernatural may become the natural, and cease to be hurtful and +alarming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Morris, “those are very good rules. Well, Mary, I +have told you the history of this sad adventure of which the book is now closed +by death, and I can only say that I am humiliated. If anybody had said to me +six months ago that I should have to come to you with such a confession, I +should have answered that he was a liar. But now you see——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” repeated Mary, “I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then will you give me your answer? For you must judge; I have told you +that you must judge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” answered Mary. “Who am I +that I should pass sentence on your failings? Goodness knows that I have plenty +of my own; if you don’t believe me, go and ask the nuns at that convent. +Whatever were the rights and wrongs of it, the thing is finished and done with, +and nobody can be more sorry for that unfortunate girl than I am. Also I think +that you have behaved very well in coming to tell me about your trouble; but +then that is like you, Morris, for you couldn’t be deceitful, however +hard you might try. +</p> + +<p> +“So, dear, with your leave, we will say no more about Stella Fregelius +and her spiritual views. When I engaged myself to you, as I told you at the +time, I did so with my eyes open, for better or for worse, and unless you tell +me right out that you don’t want me, I have no intention of changing my +mind, especially as you need looking after, and are not likely to come across +another Stella. +</p> + +<p> +“There, I haven’t talked so much for months; I am quite tired, and +wish to forget about all these disagreeables. I am afraid I have spoken +sharply, but if so you must make allowances, for such stories are apt to sour +the sweetest-tempered women—for half an hour. If I have seemed bitter and +cross, dear, it is because I love you better than any creature in the world, +and can’t bear to think——So you must forgive me. Do you, +Morris?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive! <i>I</i> forgive!” he stammered overwhelmed. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” she said again, very softly, stretching out her arms, +“come and give me a kiss, and let us change the subject once and for +ever. I want to tell you about my poor father; he left some messages for you, +Morris.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a> +CHAPTER XIX.<br/> +MORRIS, THE MARRIED MAN</h2> + +<p> +More than three years had gone by. Within twelve weeks of the date of the +conversation recorded in the last chapter Morris and Mary were married in +Monksland church. Although the wedding was what is called “quiet” +on account of the recent death of the bride’s father, the Colonel, who +gave her away, was careful that it should be distinguished by a certain stamp +of modest dignity, which he considered to be fitting to the station and fortune +of the parties. To him, indeed, this union was the cause of heartfelt and +earnest rejoicings, which is not strange, seeing that it meant nothing less +than a new lease of life to an ancient family that was on the verge of +disappearance. Had Morris not married the race would have become extinct, at +any rate in the direct line; and had he married where there was no money, it +might, as his father thought, become bankrupt, which in his view was almost +worse. +</p> + +<p> +The one terror which had haunted the Colonel for years like a persistent +nightmare was that a day seemed to be at hand when the Monks would be driven +from Monksland, where, from sire to son, they had sat for so many generations. +That day had nearly come when he was a young man; indeed, it was only averted +by his marriage with the somewhat humbly born Miss Porson, who brought with her +sufficient dowry to enable him to pay off the major portion of the mortgages +which then crippled the estate. But at that time agriculture flourished, and +the rents from the property were considerable; moreover, the Colonel was never +of a frugal turn of mind. So it came about that every farthing was spent. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards followed a period of falling revenues and unlet farms. But still the +expenses went on, with the result, as the reader knows, that at the opening of +this history things were worse than they had ever been, and indeed, without the +help received from Mr. Porson, must ere that have reached their natural end. +Now the marriage of his son with a wealthy heiress set a period to all such +anxiety, and unless the couple should be disappointed of issue, made it as +certain as anything can be in this mutable world, that for some generations to +come, at any rate, the name of Monk of Monksland would still appear in the +handbooks of county families. +</p> + +<p> +In the event these fears proved to be groundless, since by an unexpected turn +of the wheel of chance Morris became a rich man in reward of his own exertions, +and was thus made quite independent of his wife’s large fortune. This, +however, was a circumstance which the Colonel could not be expected to foresee, +for how could he believe that an electrical invention which he looked upon as a +mere scientific toy would ultimately bring its author not only fame, but an +income of many thousands per annum? Yet this happened. +</p> + +<p> +Other things happened also which, under the circumstances, were quite as +satisfactory, seeing that within two years of his marriage Morris was the +father of a son and daughter, so that the old Abbey, where, by the especial +request of the Colonel, they had established themselves, once more echoed to +the voices of little children. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +In those days, if anyone among his acquaintances had been asked to point out an +individual as prosperous and happy as, under the most favoured circumstances, +it is given to a mortal to be, he would unhesitatingly have named Morris Monk. +</p> + +<p> +What was there lacking to this man? He had lineage that in his own +neighbourhood gave him standing better than that of many an upstart baronet or +knight, and with it health and wealth. He had a wife who was acknowledged +universally to be one of the most beautiful, charming, and witty women in the +county, whose devotion to himself was so marked and open that it became a +public jest; who had, moreover, presented him with healthy and promising +offspring. In addition to all these good things he had suddenly become in his +own line one of the most famous persons in the world, so that, wherever +civilized man was to be found, there his name was known as “Monk, who +invented that marvellous machine, the aerophone.” Lastly, there was no +more need for him, as for most of us, to stagger down his road beneath a never +lessening burden of daily labour. His work was done; a great conception +completed after half a score of years of toil and experiment had crowned it +with unquestionable success. Now he could sit at ease and watch the struggles +of others less fortunate. +</p> + +<p> +There are, however, few men on the right side of sixty whose souls grow +healthier in idleness. Although nature often recoils from it, man was made to +work, and he who will not work calls down upon himself some curse, visible or +invisible, as he who works, although the toil seem wasted, wakes up one day to +find the arid wilderness where he wanders strown with a manna of blessing. This +should be the prayer of all of understanding, that whatever else it may please +Heaven to take away, there may be left to them the power and the will to work, +through disappointment, through rebuffs, through utter failure even, still to +work. Many things for which they are or are not wholly responsible are counted +to men as sins. Surely, however, few will press more heavily upon the beam of +the balance, when at length we are commanded to unfold the talents which we +have been given and earned, than those fateful words: “Lord, mine lies +buried in its napkin,” or worse still: “Lord, I have spent mine on +the idle pleasures which my body loved.” +</p> + +<p> +Therefore it was not to the true welfare of Morris when through lack of further +ambition, or rather of the sting of that spur of necessity which drives most +men on, he rested upon his oars, and in practice abandoned his labours, +drifting down the tide. No man of high intelligence and acquisitive brain can +toil arduously for a period of years and suddenly cease from troubling to find +himself, as he expects, at rest. For then into the swept and garnished chambers +of that empty mind enter seven or more blue devils. Depression marks him for +its own; melancholy forebodings haunt him; remorse for past misdeeds long +repented of is his daily companion. With these Erinnyes, more felt perhaps than +any of them, comes the devastating sense that he is thwarting the best instinct +of his own nature and the divine command to labour while there is still light, +because the night draws on apace in which no man can labour. +</p> + +<p> +Mary was fond of society, in which she liked to be accompanied by her husband, +so Morris, whose one great anxiety was to please his wife and fall in with her +every wish, went to a great many parties which he hated. Mary liked change +also, so it came about that three months in the season were spent in London, +where they had purchased a house in Green Street that was much frequented by +the Colonel, and another two, or sometimes three, months at the villa on the +Riviera, which Mary was very fond of on account of its associations with her +parents. +</p> + +<p> +Also in the summer and shooting seasons, when they were at home, the old Abbey +was kept full of guests; for we may be sure that people so rich and +distinguished did not lack for friends, and Mary made the very best of +hostesses. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it happened that except at the seasons when his wife retired under the +pressure of domestic occurrences, Morris found that he had but little time left +in which to be quiet; that his life in short was no longer the life of a +worker, but that of a commonplace country gentleman of wealth and fashion. +</p> + +<p> +Now it was Mary who had brought these things about, and by design; for she was +not a woman to act without reasons and an object. It is true that she liked a +gay and pleasant life, for gaiety and pleasure were agreeable to her easy and +somewhat indolent mind, also they gave her opportunities of exercising her +faculties of observation, which were considerable. +</p> + +<p> +But Mary was far fonder of her husband than of those and other vanities; +indeed, her affection for him shone the guiding star of her existence. From her +childhood she had been devoted to this cousin, who, since her earliest days, +had been her playmate, and at heart had wished to marry him, and no one else. +Then he began his experiments, and drifted quite away from her. Afterwards +things changed, and they became engaged. Again the experiments were carried on, +with the aid of another woman, and again he drifted away from her; also the +drifting in this instance was attended by serious and painful complications. +</p> + +<p> +Now the complications had ceased to exist; they threatened her happiness no +more. Indeed, had they been much worse than they were she would have overlooked +them, being altogether convinced of the truth of the old adage which points out +the folly of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face. Whatever +his failings or shortcomings, Morris was her joy, the human being in whose +company she delighted; without whom, indeed, her life would be flat, stale, and +unprofitable. The stronger then was her determination that he should not slip +back into his former courses; those courses which in the end had always brought +about estrangement from herself. +</p> + +<p> +Inventions, the details of which she could not understand, meant, as she knew +well, long days and weeks of solitary brooding; therefore inventions, and, +indeed, all unnecessary work, were in his case to be discouraged. Such solitary +brooding also drew from the mind of Morris a vague mist of thought about +matters esoteric which, to Mary’s belief, had the properties of a miasma +that crept like poison through his being. She wished for no more star-gazing, +no more mysticism, and, above all, no more memories of the interloping woman +who, in his company, had studied its doubtful and dangerous delights. +</p> + +<p> +Although since the day of Morris’s confession Mary had never even +mentioned the name of Stella to him, she by no means forgot that such a person +once existed. Indeed, carelessly and without seeming to be anxious on the +subject, she informed herself about her down to the last possible detail; so +that within a few months of the death of Miss Fregelius she knew, as she +thought, everything that could be known of her life at Monksland. Moreover, she +saw three different pictures of her: one a somewhat prim photograph which Mr. +Fregelius, her father, possessed, taken when she was about twenty; another, a +coloured drawing made by Morris—who was rather clever at catching +likenesses—of her as she appeared singing in the chapel on the night when +she had drawn the page-boy, Thomas, from his slumbers; and the third, also a +photograph, taken by some local amateur, of her and Morris standing together on +the beach and engaged evidently in eager discussion. +</p> + +<p> +From these three pictures, and especially from Morris’s sketch, which +showed the spiritual light shining in her eyes, and her face rapt, as it were, +in a very ecstasy of music, Mary was able to fashion with some certainty the +likeness of the living woman. The more she studied this the more she found it +formidable, and the more she understood how it came about that her husband had +fallen into folly. Also, she learned to understand that there might be greater +weight and meaning in his confession than she had been inclined to allow to it +at the time; that, at any rate, its extravagances ought not to be set down +entirely, as her father-in-law had suggested with such extreme cleverness, to +the vagaries of a mind suffering from sudden shock and alarm. +</p> + +<p> +All these conclusions made Mary anxious, by wrapping her husband round with +common domestic cares and a web of daily, social incident, to bury the memory +of this Stella beneath ever-thickening strata of forgetfulness; not that in +themselves these reminiscences, however hallowed, could do her any further +actual harm; but because the train of thought evoked thereby was, as she +conceived, morbid, and dangerous to the balance of his mind. +</p> + +<p> +The plan seemed wise and good, and, in the case of most men, probably would +have succeeded. Yet in Morris’s instance from the commencement it was a +failure. She had begun by making his story and ideas, absurd enough on the face +of them, an object of somewhat acute sarcasm, if not of ridicule. This was a +mistake, since thereby she caused him to suppress every outward evidence of +them; to lock them away in the most secret recesses of his heart. If the lid of +a caldron full of fluid is screwed down while a fire continues to burn beneath +it, the steam which otherwise would have passed away harmlessly, gathers and +struggles till the moment of inevitable catastrophe. The fact that for a while +the caldron remains inert and the steam invisible is no indication of safety. +To attain safety in such a case either the fire must be raked out or the fluid +tapped. Mary had screwed down the lid of her domestic caldron, but the flame +still burned beneath, and the water still boiled within. +</p> + +<p> +This was her first error, and the second proved almost as mischievous. She +thought to divert Morris from a central idea by a multitude of petty +counter-attractions; she believed that by stopping him from the scientific +labours and esoteric speculation connected with this idea, that it would be +deadened and in time obliterated. +</p> + +<p> +As a matter of fact, by thus emptying his mind of its serious and accustomed +occupations, Mary made room for the very development she dreaded to flourish +like an upas tree. For although he breathed no word of it, although he showed +no sign of it, to Morris the memory of the dead was a constant companion. Time +heals all things, that is the common saying; but would it be possible to +formulate any fallacy more complete? There are many wounds that time does not +heal, and often enough against the dead it has no power at all—for how +can time compete against the eternity of which they have become a part? The +love of them where they have been truly loved, remains quite unaltered; in some +instances, indeed, it is emdued with a power of terrible and amazing growth. +</p> + +<p> +On earth, very probably, that deep affection would have become subject to the +natural influences of weakening and decay; and, in the instance of a man and +woman, the soul-possessing passion might have passed, to be replaced by a more +moderate, custom-worn affection. But the dead are beyond the reach of those +mouldering fingers. There they stand, perfect and unalterable, with arms which +never cease from beckoning, with a smile that never grows less sweet. Come +storm, come shine, nothing can tarnish the pure and gleaming robes in which our +vision clothes them. We know the worst of them; their faults and failings +cannot vex us afresh, their errors are all forgiven. It is their best part only +that remains unrealised and unread, their purest aspirations which we follow +with leaden wings, their deepest thoughts that we still strive to plumb with +the short line of our imagination or experience, and to weigh in our imperfect +balances. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, there they stand, and smile, and beckon, while ever more radiant grow +their brows, and more to be desired the knowledge of their perfect majesty. +There is no human passion like this passion for the dead; none so awful, none +so holy, none so changeless. For they have become eternal, and our desire for +them is sealed with the stamp of their eternity, and strengthens in the shadow +of its wings till the shadows flee away and we pass to greet them in the dawn +of the immortal morning. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, within the secret breast of Morris the flame of memory still burned, and +still seethed those bitter waters of desire for the dead. There was nothing +carnal about this desire, since the passions of the flesh perish with the +flesh. Nor was there anything of what a man may feel when he sees the woman +whom he loves and who loves him, forced to another fate, for to those he robs +death has this advantage over the case of other successful rivals: his embrace +purifies, and of it we are not jealous. The longing was spiritual, and for this +reason it did not weaken, but, indeed, became a part of him, to grow with the +spirit from which it took its birth. Still, had it not been for a chance +occurrence, there, in the spirit, it might have remained buried, in due course +to pass away with it and seek its expression in unknown conditions and regions +unexplored. +</p> + +<p> +In a certain fashion Morris was happy enough. He was very fond of his wife, and +he adored his little children as men of tender nature do adore those that are +helpless, and for whose existence they are responsible. He appreciated his +public reputation, his wealth, and the luxury that lapped him round, and above +all he was glad to have been the means of restoring, and, indeed, of advancing +the fortunes of his family. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, as has been said, above all things he desired to please Mary, the +lovely, amiable woman who had complimented him with her unvarying affection; +and—when he went astray—who, with scarcely a reproach, had led him +back into its gentle fold. Least of all, therefore, was it his will to flaunt +before her eyes the spectre from a past which she wished to forget, or even to +let her guess that such a past still permeated his present. Therefore, on this +subject settled the silence of the dead, till at length Mary, observant as she +was, became well-nigh convinced that Stella Fregelius was forgotten, and that +her fantastic promises were disproved. Yet no mistake could have been more +profound. +</p> + +<p> +It was Morris’s habit, whenever he could secure an evening to himself, +which was not very often, to walk to the Rectory and smoke his pipe in the +company of Mr. Fregelius. Had Mary chanced to be invisibly present, or to +peruse a stenographic report of what passed at one of these evening +calls—whereof, for reasons which she suppressed, she did not entirely +approve—she might have found sufficient cause to vary her opinion. On +these occasions ostensibly Morris went to talk about parish affairs, and, +indeed, to a certain extent he did talk about them. For instance, Stella who +had been so fond of music, once described to him the organ which she would like +to have in the fine old parish church of Monksland. Now that renovated +instrument stood there, and was the admiration of the country-side, as it well +might be in view of the fact that it had cost over four thousand pounds. +</p> + +<p> +Again, Mr. Fregelius wished to erect a monument to his daughter, which, as her +body never had been found, could properly be placed in the chancel of the +church. Morris entered heartily into the idea and undertook to spend the +hundred pounds which the old gentleman had saved for this purpose on his +account and to the best advantage. In effect he did spend it to excellent +advantage, as Mr. Fregelius admitted when the monument arrived. +</p> + +<p> +It was a lovely thing, executed by one of the first sculptors of the day, in +white marble upon a black stone bed, and represented the mortal shape of +Stella. There she lay to the very life, wrapped in a white robe, portrayed as a +sleeper awakening from the last sleep of death, her eyes wide and wondering, +and on her face that rapt look which Morris had caught in his sketch of her, +singing in the chapel. At the edge of the base of this remarkable effigy, set +flush on the black marble in letters of plain copper was her name—Stella +Fregelius—with the date of her death. On one side appeared the text that +she had quoted, “O death, where is thy sting?” and on the other its +continuation, “O grave, where is thy victory?” and at the foot part +of a verse from the forty-second psalm: “Deep calleth unto deep. . . . +All Thy waves and storms have gone over me.” +</p> + +<p> +Like the organ, this monument, which stood in the chancel, was much admired by +everybody, except Mary, who found it rather theatrical; and, indeed, when +nobody was looking, surveyed it with a gloomy and a doubtful eye. +</p> + +<p> +That Morris had something to do with the thing she was quite certain, since she +knew well that Mr. Fregelius would never have invented any memorial so +beautiful and full of symbolism; also she doubted his ability to pay for a +piece of statuary which must have cost many hundreds of pounds. A third reason, +which seemed to her conclusive, was that the face on the statue was the very +face of Morris’s drawing, although, of course, it was possible that Mr. +Fregelius might have borrowed the sketch for the use of the sculptor. But of +all this, although it disturbed her, occurring as it did just when she hoped +that Stella was beginning to be forgotten, she spoke not a word to Morris. +“Least said, soonest mended,” is a good if a homely motto, or so +thought Mary. +</p> + +<p> +The monument had been in place a year, but whenever he was at home +Morris’s visits to Mr. Fregelius did not grow fewer. Indeed, his wife +noticed that, if anything, they increased in number, which, as the organ was +now finished down to the last allegorical carvings of its case, seemed +remarkable and unnecessary. Of course, the fact was that on these occasions the +conversation invariably centred on one subject, and that subject, Stella. +Considered in certain aspects, it must have been a piteous thing to see and +hear these two men, each of them bereaved of one who to them above all others +had been the nearest and dearest, trying to assuage their grief by mutual +consolations. Morris had never told Mr. Fregelius all the depth of his +attachment to his daughter, at least, not in actual, unmistakable words, +although, as has been said, from the first her father took it for granted, and +Morris, tacitly at any rate, had accepted the conclusion. Indeed, very soon he +found that no other subject had such charms for his guest; that of Stella he +might talk for ever without the least fear that Morris would be weary. +</p> + +<p> +So the poor, childless, unfriended old man put aside the reserve and timidity +which clothed him like a garment, and talked on into those sympathetic ears, +knowing well, however—for the freemasonry of their common love taught it +to him—that in the presence of a third person her name, no allusion to +her, even, must pass his lips. In short, these conversations grew at length +into a kind of seance or solemn rite; a joint offering to the dead of the best +that they had to give, their tenderest thoughts and memories, made in solemn +secrecy and with uplifted hearts and minds. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius was an historian, and possessed some interesting records, upon +which it was his habit to descant. Amongst other things he instructed Morris in +the annals of Stella’s ancestry upon both sides, which, as it happened, +could be traced back for many generations. In these discourses it grew plain to +his listener whence had sprung certain of her qualities, such as her fearless +attitude towards death, and her tendency towards mysticism. Here in these musty +chronicles, far back in the times when those of whom they kept record were +half, if not wholly, heathen, these same qualities could be discovered among +her forbears. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, there was one woman of whom the saga told, a certain ancestress named +Saevuna, whereof it is written “that she was of all women the very +fairest, and that she drew the hearts of men with her wonderful eyes as the +moon draws mists from a marsh,” who, in some ways, might have been Stella +herself, Stella unchristianized and savage. +</p> + +<p> +This Saevuna’s husband rebelled against the king of his country, and, +being captured, was doomed to a shameful death by hanging as a traitor. +Thereon, under pretence of bidding him farewell, she administered poison to +him, partaking of the same herself; “and,” continues the saga, +“they both of them, until their pains overcame them, died singing a +certain ancient song which had descended in the family of one of them, and is +called the Song of the Over-Lord, or the Offering to Death. This song, while +strength and voice remained to them, it is the duty of this family to say or +sing, or so they hold it, in the hour of their death. But if they sing it, +except by way of learning its words and music from their mothers, and escape +death, it will not be for very long, seeing that when once the offering is laid +upon his altar, the Over-Lord considers it his own, and, after the fashion of +gods and men, takes it as soon as he can. So sweet and strange was the singing +of this Saevuna until she choked that the king and his nobles came out to hear +it, and all men thought it a great marvel that a woman should sing thus in the +very pains of death. Moreover, they declared, many of them, that while the song +went on they could think of nothing else, and that strange and wonderful +visions passed before their eyes. But of this nobody can know the truth for +certain, as the woman and her husband died long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” said Mr. Fregelius, when he had finished translating the +passage aloud, “it is not wonderful that I thought it unlucky when I +heard that you had found Stella singing this same song upon the ship, much as +centuries ago her ancestress, Saevuna, sang it while she and her husband +died.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, the omen fulfilled itself,” answered Morris, with a +sigh, “and she, too, died with the song upon her lips, though I do not +think that it had anything to do with these things, which were fated to +befall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the clergyman, “the fate is fulfilled now, and +the song will never be sung again. She was the last of her race, and it was a +law among them that neither words nor music should ever be written down.” +</p> + +<p> +When such old tales and legends were exhausted, and, outside the immediate +object of their search, some of them were of great interest to a man who, like +Morris, had knowledge of Norse literature, and was delighted to discover in Mr. +Fregelius a scholar acquainted with the original tongues in which they were +written, these companions fell back upon other matters. But all of them had to +do with Stella. One night the clergyman read some letters written by her as a +child from Denmark. On another he produced certain dolls which she had dressed +at the same period of her life in the costume of the peasants of that country. +On a third he repeated a piece of rather indifferent poetry composed by her +when she was a girl of sixteen. Its strange title was, “The Resurrection +of Dead Roses.” It told how in its author’s fancy the flowers which +were cut and cast away on earth bloomed again in heaven, never to wither more; +a pretty allegory, but treated in a childish fashion. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, then, from time to time, as occasion offered, did this strange pair +celebrate the rites they thought so harmless, and upon the altar of memory make +offerings to their dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a> +CHAPTER XX.<br/> +STELLA’S DIARY</h2> + +<p> +It seems to be a law of life that nothing can stand completely still and +changeless. All must vary, must progress or retrograde; the very rocks in the +bowels of the earth undergo organic alterations, while the eternal hills that +cover them increase or are worn away. Much more is this obvious in the case of +ephemeral man, of his thoughts, his works, and everything wherewith he has to +do, he who within the period of a few short years is doomed to appear, wax, +wane, and vanish. +</p> + +<p> +Even the conversations of Mr. Fregelius and Morris were subject to the working +of this universal rule; and in obedience to it must travel towards a climax, +either of fruition, however unexpected, or, their purpose served, whatever it +may have been, to decay and death, for lack of food upon which to live and +flourish. The tiniest groups of impulses or incidents have their goal as sure +and as appointed as that of the cluster of vast globes which form a +constellation. Between them the principal distinction seems to be one of size, +and at present we are not in a position to say which may be the most important, +the issue of the smallest of unrecorded causes, or of the travelling of the +great worlds. The destiny of a single human soul shaped or directed by the one, +for aught we know, may be of more weight and value than that of a multitude of +hoary universes naked of life and spirit. Or perhaps to the Eye that sees and +judges the difference is nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Thus even these semi-secret interviews when two men met to talk over the +details of a lost life with which, however profoundly it may have influenced +them in the past, they appeared, so far as this world is concerned, to have +nothing more to do, were destined to affect the future of one of them in a +fashion that could scarcely have been foreseen. This became apparent, or put +itself in the way of becoming apparent, when on a certain evening Morris found +Mr. Fregelius seated in the rectory dining-room, and by his side a little pile +of manuscript volumes bound in shabby cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“What are those?” asked Morris. “Her translation of the Saga +of the Cave Outlaws?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Morris,” answered Mr. Fregelius—he called him Morris +when they were alone—“of course not. Don’t you remember that +they were bound in red?” he added reproachfully, “and that we did +them up to send to the publisher last week?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, of course; he wrote to me yesterday to say that he would be +glad to bring out the book”—Morris did not add, “at my +risk.”—“But what are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are,” replied Mr. Fregelius, “her journals, which she +appears to have kept ever since she was fourteen years of age. You remember she +was going to London on the day that she was drowned—that Christmas Day? +Well, before she went out to the old church she packed her belongings into two +boxes, and there those boxes have lain for three years and more, because I +could never find the heart to meddle with them. But, a few nights ago I +wasn’t able to sleep—I rest very badly now—so I went and +undid them, lifting out all the things which her hands had put there. At the +bottom of one of the boxes I found these volumes, except the last of them, in +which she was writing till the day of her death. That was at the top. I was +aware that she kept a diary, for I have seen her making the entries; but of its +contents I knew nothing. In fact, until last night I had forgotten its +existence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read it now?” asked Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“I have looked into it; it seems to be a history of her thoughts and +theories. Facts are very briefly noted. It occurred to me that you might like +to read it. Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, very much,” answered Morris eagerly. “That is, if +you think she will not mind. You see, it is private.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fregelius took no notice of the tense of which Morris made use, for the +reason that it seemed natural to him that he should employ it. Their strange +habit was to talk of Stella, not as we speak of one dead, but as a living +individuality with whom they chanced for a while to be unable to communicate. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that she will mind,” he answered slowly; +“quite the reverse, indeed. It is a record of a phase and period of her +existence which, I believe, she might wish those who are—interested in +her—to study, especially as she had no secrets that she could desire to +conceal. From first to last I believe her life to have been as clear as the +sky, and as pure as running water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” answered Morris, “if I come across any passage +that I think I ought not to read, I will skip.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can find nothing of the sort, or I would not give it to you,” +said Mr. Fregelius. “But, of course, I have not read the volumes through +as yet. There has been no time for that. I have sampled them here and there, +that is all.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +That night Morris took those shabby note-books home with him. Mary, who +according to her custom went to bed early, being by this time fast asleep, he +retired to his laboratory in the old chapel, where it was his habit to sit, +especially when, as at the present time, his father was away from home. Here, +without wasting a moment, he began his study of them. +</p> + +<p> +It was with very strange sensations, such as he had never before experienced, +that he opened the first of the volumes, written some thirteen years earlier, +that is, about ten years before Stella’s death. Their actual acquaintance +had been but brief. Now he was about to complete his knowledge of her, to learn +many things which he had found no time, or had forgotten to inquire into, to +discover the explanation of various phases of her character hitherto but +half-revealed; perhaps to trace to its source the energy of that real, but +mystic, faith with which it was informed. This diary that had come—or +perhaps been sent to him—in so unexpected a fashion, was the key whereby +he hoped to open the most hidden chambers of the heart of the woman whom he +loved, and who loved him with all her strength and soul. +</p> + +<p> +Little wonder, then, that he trembled upon the threshold of such a search. He +was like the neophyte of some veiled religion, who, after long years of arduous +labour and painful preparation, is at length conducted to the doors of its holy +of holies, and left to enter there alone. What will he find beyond them? The +secret he longed to learn, the seal and confirmation of his hard-won faith, or +empty, baulking nothingness? Would the goddess herself, the unveiled Isis, wait +to bless her votary within those doors? Or would that hall be tenanted but by a +painted and bedizened idol, a thing fine with ivory and gold, but dead and +soulless? +</p> + +<p> +Might it not be better indeed to turn back while there was yet time, to be +content to dwell on in the wide outer courts of the imagination, where faith is +always possible, rather than to hazard all? No; it would, Morris felt, be best +to learn the whole truth, especially as he was sure that it could not prove +other than satisfying and beautiful. Blind must he have been indeed, and +utterly without intuition if with every veil that was withdrawn from it the +soul of Stella did not shine more bright. +</p> + +<p> +Another question remained. Was it well that he should read these diaries? Was +not his mind already full enough of Stella? If once he began to read, might it +not be overladen? In short, Mary had dealt well by him; when those books were +open in his hand, would he be dealing well by Mary? Answers—excellent +answers—to these queries sprang up in his mind by dozens. +</p> + +<p> +Stella was dead. “But you are sworn to her in death,” commented the +voice of Conscience. “Would you rob the living of your allegiance before +the time?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no possible harm in reading the records of the life and thoughts of a +friend, or even of a love departed. “Yet,” suggested the voice of +Conscience, “are you so sure that this life <i>is</i> departed? Have you +not at whiles felt its presence, that mysterious presence of the dead, so +sweet, so heavy, and so unmistakable, with which at some time or other in their +lives many have made acquaintance? Will not the study of this life cause that +life to draw near? the absorption of those thoughts bring about the visits of +other and greater thoughts, whereof they may have been, as it were, the +seed?” +</p> + +<p> +Anyone who knew its author would be interested to read this human document, the +product of an intelligence singularly bright and clear; of a vision whose point +of outlook was one of the highest and most spiritual peaks in the range of our +human imaginings. “Quite so,” agreed the voice of Conscience. +“For instance, Mary would be delighted. Why not begin with her? In fact, +why not peruse these pages together—it would lead to some interesting +arguments? Why pore over them in this selfish manner all alone and at the dead +of night when no one can possibly disturb you, or, since you have blocked the +hagioscope, even see you? And why does the door of that safe stand open? +Because of the risk of fire if anyone should chance to come in with a candle, I +suppose. No, of course it would not be right to leave such books about; +especially as they do not belong to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then enraged, or at least seriously irritated, by these impertinent comments of +his inner self upon himself, Morris bade Conscience to be gone to its own +place. Next, after contemplating it for a while as Eve might have contemplated +the apple, unmindful of a certain petition in the Lord’s Prayer, he took +up the volume marked I, and began to read the well-remembered hand-writing with +its quaint mediaeval-looking contractions. Even at the age when its author had +opened her diary, he noted that this writing was so tiny and neat that many of +the pages might have been taken from a monkish missal. Also there were few +corrections; what she set down was already determined in her mind. +</p> + +<p> +From that time forward Morris sat up even later than usual, nor did he waste +those precious solitary hours. But the diary covered ten full years of a +woman’s life, during all of which time certainly never a week passed +without her making entries in it, some of them of considerable length. Thus it +came about—for he skipped no word—that a full month had gone by +before Morris closed the last volume and slipped it away into its hiding-place +in the safe. +</p> + +<p> +As Mr. Fregelius had said, the history was a history of thoughts and theories, +rather than of facts, but notwithstanding this, perhaps on account of it, +indeed, it was certainly a work which would have struck the severest and least +interested critic as very remarkable. The prevailing note was that of +vividness. What the writer had felt, what she had imagined, what she had +desired, was all set out, frequently in but few words, with such crystal +clearness, such incisive point, that it came home to the reader’s thought +as a flash of sudden light might come home to his eye. In a pre-eminent degree +Stella possessed the gift of expression. Even her most abstruse self-communings +and speculations were portrayed so sharply that their meaning could not +possibly be mistaken. This it was that gave the book much of its value. Her +thoughts were not vague, she could define them in her own consciousness, and, +what is more rare, on paper. +</p> + +<p> +So much for the form of the journal, its matter is not so easy to describe. At +first, as might be expected from her years, it was somewhat childish in +character, but not on that account the less sweet and fragrant of a +child’s poor heart. Here with stern accuracy were recorded her little +faults of omission and commission—how she had answered crossly; how she +had not done her duty; varied occasionally with short poems, some copied, some +of her own composition, and prayers also of her making, one or two of them very +touching and beautiful. From time to time, too—indeed this habit clung to +her to the last—she introduced into her diary descriptions of scenery, +generally short and detached, but set there evidently because she wished to +preserve a sketch in words of some sight that had moved her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a brief example describing a scene in Norway, where she was visiting, +as it appeared to her upon some evening in late autumn: “This afternoon I +went out to gather cranberries on the edge of the fir-belt below the Stead. +Beneath me stretched the great moss-swamp, so wide that I could not discern its +borders, and grey as the sea in winter. The wind blew and in the west the sun +was setting, a big, red sun which glowed like the copper-covered cathedral dome +that we saw last week. All about in the moss stood pools of black, stagnant +water with little straggling bushes growing round them. Under the clouds they +were ink, but in the path of the red light, there they were blood. A man with a +large basket on his back and a long staff in his hand, was walking across the +moss from west to east. The wind tossed his cloak and bent his grey beard as he +threaded his way among the pools. The red light fell upon him also, and he +looked as though he were on fire. Before him, gathering thicker as the sun +sank, were shadows and blackness. He seemed to walk into the blackness like a +man wading into the sea. It swallowed him up; he must have felt very lonely +with no one near him in that immense grey place. Now he was all gone, except +his head that wore a halo of the red light. He looked like a saint struggling +across the world into the Black Gates. For a minute he stood still, as though +he were frightened. Then a sudden gust seemed to sweep him on again, right into +the Gates, and I lost sight of that man whom I shall never see any more. I +wonder whether he was a saint or a sinner, and what he will find beyond the +Gates. A curlew flew past me, borne out of the darkness, and its cry made me +feel sad and shiver. It might have been the man’s soul which wished to +look upon the light again. Then the sun sank, and there was no light, only the +wind moaning, and far, far away the sad cry of the curlew.” +</p> + +<p> +This description was simple and unpolished as it was short. Yet it impressed +the mind of Morris, and its curious allegorical note appealed to his +imagination. The grey moss broken by stagnant pools, lonesome and primeval; the +dreary pipe of the wildfowl, the red and angry sun fronting the gloom of +advancing, oblivious night; the solitary traveller, wind-buffeted, way-worn, +aged, heavy-laden, fulfilling the last stage of his appointed journey to a +realm of sleep and shadow. All these sprang into vision as he read, till the +landscape, concentrated, and expressing itself in its tiny central point of +human interest, grew more real in memory and meaning than many with which he +was himself familiar. +</p> + +<p> +Yet that description was written by an untrained girl not yet seventeen years +of age. But with such from first to last, and this was by no means the best of +them, he found her pages studded. +</p> + +<p> +Then, jotted down from day to day, came the account of the illness and death of +her twin sister, Gudrun, a pitiful tale to read. Hopes, prayers, agonies of +despair, all were here recorded; the last scene also was set out with a plain +and noble dignity, written by the bed of death in the presence of death. Now +under the hand of suffering the child had become a woman, and, as was fitting, +her full soul found relief in deeper notes. “Good-bye, Gudrun,” she +ended, “my heart is broken; but I will mourn for you no more. God has +called you, and we give you back to God. Wait for me, my sister, for I am +coming also, and I will not linger. I will walk quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +It was from this sad day of her only sister’s death that the first real +developments of the mystical side of Stella’s character must be dated. +The sudden vanishing in Gudrun in the bloom of youth and beauty brought home to +her the lesson which all must learn, in such a fashion that henceforth her +whole soul was tinged to its sad hue. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I understand it all,” she wrote after returning from the +funeral. “We do not live to die, we die to live. As a grain of sand to +the whole shore, as a drop of water to the whole sea, so is what we call our +life to the real life. Of course one has always been taught that in church, but +I never really comprehended it before. Henceforth this thought shall be a part +of me! Every morning when I wake I will remember that I am one night nearer to +the great dawn, every night when I lie down to sleep I will thank God that +another day of waiting has ended with the sunset. Yes, and I will try to live +so that after my last sunset I may meet the end as did Gudrun; without a single +doubt or fear, for if I have nothing to reproach myself with, why should I be +reproached? If I have longed for light and lived towards the light, however +imperfect I may be, why should I be allotted to the darkness?” +</p> + +<p> +Almost on the next page appeared a prayer “For the welfare and greater +glory” of her who was dead, and for the mourner who was left alive, with +this quaint note appended: “My father would not approve of this, as it is +against the rubric, but all the same I mean to go on praying for the dead. Why +should I not? If my poor petitions cannot help them who are above the need for +help, at least they may show that they are not forgotten. Oh! that must be the +bitter part; to live on full of love and memory and watch forgetfulness +creeping into the hearts of the loved and the remembered. The priests never +thought of it, but there lies the real purgatory.” +</p> + +<p> +The diary showed it to be a little more than a year after this that spiritual +doubts began to possess the soul of Stella. After all, was she not mistaken? +Was there any world beyond the physical? Were we not mere accidents, born of +the will or the chance of the flesh, and shaped by the pressure of centuries of +circumstance? Were not all religions different forms of a gigantic fraud played +by his own imagination upon blind, believing man? And so on to the end of the +long list of those questions which are as old as thought. +</p> + +<p> +“I look,” she wrote under the influence of this mood, “but +everywhere is blackness; blackness without a single star. I cry aloud, but the +only answer is the echo of my own voice beating back upon me from the deaf +heavens. I pray for faith, yet faith fades and leaves me. I ask for signs, and +there is no sign. The argument? So far as I have read and heard, it seems the +other way. And yet I do not believe their proofs. I do not believe that so many +generations of good men would have fed full upon a husk of lies and have lain +down to sleep at last as though satisfied with meat. My heart rises at the +thought. I am immortal. I know that I am immortal. I am a spirit. In days to +come, unchained by matter, time, or space, I shall stand before the throne of +the Father of all spirits, receiving of His wisdom and fulfilling His +commandments. Yet, O God, help Thou my unbelief. O God, draw and deliver me +from this abyss.” +</p> + +<p> +From this time forward here and there in the diary were to be found passages, +or rather sentences, that Morris did not understand. They alluded to some +secret and persistent effort which the writer had been making, and after one of +them came these words, “I have failed again, but she was near me; I am +sure that she was very near me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then at last came this entry, which, as the writing showed, was written with a +shaking hand. “I have seen her beyond the possibility of a doubt. She +appeared, and was with me quite a while; and, oh! the rapture! It has left me +weak and faint after all that long, long preparation. It is of the casting +forth of spirits that it is said, ‘This kind goeth not out but by prayer +and fasting,’ but it is also true of the drawing of them down. To see a +spirit one must grow akin to spirits, which is not good for us who are still in +the flesh. I am satisfied. I have seen, and I <i>know</i>. Now I shall call her +back no more lest the thing should get the mastery of me, and I become unfitted +for my work on earth. This morning I could scarcely hold the bow of the violin, +and its sweetest notes sounded harsh to me; I heard discords among their +harmonies. Also I had no voice to sing, and after all the money and time that +have been spent upon them, I must keep up my playing and singing, since, +perhaps, in the future if my father’s health should fail, as it often +threatens to do, they may be our only means of livelihood. NO, I shall try no +more; I will stop while there is yet time, while I am still my own mistress and +have the strength to deny me this awful joy. But I have seen! I have seen, and +I am thankful, who shall never doubt again. Yet the world, and those who tread +it, can never more be quite the same to me, and that is not wholesome. This is +the price which must be paid for vision of that which we were not meant to +touch, to taste, to handle.” +</p> + +<p> +After this, for some years—until it was decided, indeed, that they should +move to Monksland—there was little of startling interest in the diary. It +recorded descriptions of the wild moorland scenery, of birds, and ferns, and +flowers. Also there were sketches of the peasantry and of the gentlefolk with +whom the writer came in contact; very shrewd and clever, some of them, but with +this peculiarity—that they were absolutely free from unkindness of +thought or words, though sometimes their author allowed herself the license of +a mitigated satire. Such things, with notes of domestic and parish matters, and +of the progress made in her arduous and continual study of vocal and +instrumental music, made up the sum of these years of the diary. Then at +length, at the beginning of the last volume, came this entry: +</p> + +<p> +“The unexpected has happened, somebody has actually been found in whose +eyes this cure of souls is desirable—namely, a certain Mr. Tomley, the +rector of a village called Monksland, upon the East Coast of England. I will +sum up the history of the thing. For some years I have been getting tired of +this place, although, in a way, I love it too. It is so lonely here, +and—I confess my weakness—playing and singing as I do now, I should +like, occasionally, to have a better audience than a few old, half-deaf +clergymen, their preoccupied and commonplace wives, some yeomen farmers, and a +curate or two. +</p> + +<p> +“It was last year, though I find that I didn’t put it down at the +time, that at the concert in aid of the rebuilding of Pankford church I played +Tartini’s ‘Il Trillo del Diavolo,’ to me one of the weirdest +and most wonderful bits of violin music in the world. I know that I was almost +crying when I finished it. But next day I saw in the report in the local paper, +written by ‘Our Musical Man,’ that ‘Miss Fregelius then +relieved the proceedings with a comic interlude on the violin, which was much +appreciated by the audience.’ It was that, I confess it—yes, the +idiotic remark of ‘Our Musical Man,’ which made me determine if it +was in any way possible that I would shake the dust of this village off my +feet. Then, so far as my father is concerned, the stipend is wretched and +decreasing. Also he has never really got on here; he is too shy, too reserved, +perhaps, in a way, too well read and educated, for these rough-and-ready +people. Even his foreign name goes against him. The curates about here call him +‘Frigid Fregelius.’ It is the local idea of a joke. +</p> + +<p> +“So I persuaded him to advertise for an exchange, although he said it was +a mere waste of money, as nobody in his senses would look at this parish. Then +came the wonderful thing. After the very first advertisement—yes, the +very first—arrived a letter from Mr. Tomley, rector of Monksland, where +the stipend is £100 a year better than this, saying that he would wish to +inquire into the matter. He has inquired, he has been, a pompous old gentleman +with a slow voice and a single lock of white hair above his forehead; he says +that it is satisfactory, and that, subject to the consent of the bishop, etc., +he thinks that he will be glad to effect the exchange. Afterwards I found him +in front of the house staring at the moorland behind, the sea in front, and the +church in the middle, and looking very wretched. I asked him why he wanted to +do it—the words popped out of my mouth, I couldn’t help them; it +was all so odd. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I found out the reason. Mr. Tomley has a wife who is, or thinks she +is—I am not sure which—an invalid, and who, I gather, speaks to Mr. +Tomley with no uncertain sound. Mr. Tomley’s wife was the niece of a +long-departed rector who was inducted in 1815, and reigned here for forty-five +years. He was rich, a bachelor, and rebuilt the church. (Is it not all written +in the fly-leaf of the last register?) Mrs. Tomley inherited her uncle’s +landed property in this neighbourhood, and says that she is only well in the +air of Northumberland. So Mr. Tomley has to come up here, which he +doesn’t at all like, although I gather that he is glad to escape from his +present squire, who seems to be a distinguished but arbitrary old gentleman, an +ex-Colonel of the Guards; rather quarrelsome, too, with a habit of making fun +of Mrs. Tomley. There’s the explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“So just because of the silly criticism of ‘Our Musical Man’ +we are going to move several hundred miles. But is that really the cause? Are +these things done of our own desire, or do we do them because we must, as our +forefathers believed? Beneath our shouts and chattering they have always heard +the slow thunder of the waves of Fate. Through the flare of our straw fires and +the dust of our hurrying feet, they could always see the shadow of his black +banners and the sheen of his advancing spears, and for them every wayside +sign-post was painted with his finger. +</p> + +<p> +“I think like that, too, perhaps because I am all, nearly all, Norse, and +we do not shake off the strong and ancient shackle of our blood in the space of +a few generations of Christian freedom and enlightenment. Yes, I see the finger +of Fate upon this sign-post of an advertisement in a Church paper. His flag is +represented to me by Mr. Tomley’s white and cherished lock. Assuredly our +migration is decreed of the Norns, therefore I accept it without question; but +I should like to know what kind of a web of destiny they are weaving for us +yonder in the place called Monksland.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a> +CHAPTER XXI.<br/> +THE END OF STELLA’S DIARY</h2> + +<p> +A month or two later in the diary came the account of the shipwreck of the +Trondhjem and of the writer’s rescue from imminent death. “My first +great adventure,” the pages were headed. They told how her father, with +whom ready-money was a scarce commodity, and who had a passion for small and +uncomfortable economies, suddenly determined to save two or three pounds by +taking a passage in a Norwegian tramp steamboat named the Trondhjem. This +vessel, laden with a miscellaneous cargo, had put in at a Northumbrian port, +and carried freight consisting of ready-made windows, door-frames, and other +wooden house-fittings suited to the requirements of the builders of seaside +villas, to be delivered at the rising watering-place of Northwold, upon her way +to London. Then followed a description of the voyage, the dirt of the ship, the +surpassing nastiness of the food, and the roughness of the crew, whose +sailor-like qualities inspired the writer with no confidence. +</p> + +<p> +Next, the diary which now had been written up by Stella in the Abbey where +Morris read it, went on to tell of how she had gone to her berth one night in +the cabin next to that occupied by her father, and being tired by a long day in +the strong sea air had fallen instantly into a heavy sleep, which was disturbed +by a nightmare-like dream of shock and noise. This imagined pandemonium, it +said, was followed by a great quiet, in the midst of which she awoke to miss +the sound of the thumping screw and of the captain shouting his orders from the +bridge. +</p> + +<p> +For a while, the writing told, she lay still, till a sense that something was +wrong awoke her thoroughly, when she lit the candle which she kept by her +berth, and, rising, peeped out into the saloon to see that water was washing +along its floor. Presently she made another discovery, that she was alone, +utterly alone, even her father’s cabin being untenanted. +</p> + +<p> +The rest need not be repeated in detail. Throwing on some garments, and a red +cloak of North-country frieze, she made her way to the deck to find that the +ship was abandoned by every living soul, including her own father; why, or +under what circumstances, remained a mystery. She retreated into the +captain’s cabin, which was on deck, being afraid to go below again in the +darkness, and sheltered there until the light came. Then she went out, and +through the dim, mist-laden dawn crept forward to the forecastle, and staring +over the side discovered that the prow of the ship was fixed upon a rock, while +her stern and waist, which floated clear, heaved and rolled with every sea. As +she stood thus the vessel slipped back along the reef three feet or more, +throwing her to the deck, and thrilling her from head to foot with the most +sickening sensation she had ever experienced. Then the Trondhjem caught and +hung again, but Stella, so she wrote, knew that the end must be near, as the +ship would lift off with the full tide and founder, and for the first time felt +afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not fear what might come after death,” went on the diary, +“but I did fear the act of death. I was so lonely, and the dim waters +looked so cold; the brown shoulders of the rocks which showed now and again +through the surges, so cruel. To be dashed by those cold waters upon those iron +rocks till the life was slowly ground out of my body! And my father—the +thought of him tormented my mind. Was he dead, or had he deserted me? The last +seemed quite impossible, for it would have supposed him a coward, and I was +sure that he would rather die than leave me; therefore, as I feared, the first +must be true. I was afraid, and I was wretched, and I said my prayers and cried +a little, while the cold struck me through the red cloak, and the damp mist +made me shiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Then suddenly I remembered that it had not been the custom of my +ancestors and countrywomen of the old time to die weeping, and with the thought +some of my courage came back. I rose from the deck and stood upon the prow of +the ship, supporting myself by a rope, as many a dead woman of my race has done +before me in the hour of battle and shipwreck. As I stood thus, believing that +I was about to die, there floated into my mind a memory of the old Norse song +that my mother had taught me as she learned it from her mother. It is called +the ‘Song of the Overlord,’ and for generations without count on +their death-beds has been sung, or if they were too weak to sing, whispered, by +the women of my family. Even my mother murmured it upon the day she died, +although to all appearances she had become an Englishwoman; and the first line +of it, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Hail to thee, Sky King! Hail to thee, Earth King!’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +were the last words that the gentlest creature whom I ever knew, my sister +Gudrun, muttered before she became unconscious. This song it has always been +held unlucky to sing except upon the actual approach of death, since otherwise, +so goes the old saying, ‘it draws the arrow whose flight was wide,’ +and Death, being invoked, comes soon. Still, for me I believed there was no +escape, for I was quite sure from her movements that the steamer would soon +come off the rocks, and I had made my confession and said my prayers. So I +began to sing, and sang my loudest, pleasing myself with the empty, foolish +thought that in some such circumstance as this many a Danish sea-king’s +daughter had sung that song before me. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, as I sang, a wind began to blow, and suddenly the mist was driven +before it like puffs of smoke, and in the east behind me rose the red ball of +the sun. Its light fell upon the rocks and upon the waters beyond them, and +there to my amazement, appearing and disappearing upon the ridges and hollows +of the swell, I saw a man alone in a sailing-boat, which rode at anchor within +thirty yards of me. At first I thought that it must be my father, then the man +caught sight of me, and I saw his face as he looked up, for the sun shone upon +his dark eyes, and knew that he was a stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“He lifted his anchor and called to me to come to the companion ladder, +and his voice told me that he was a gentleman. I could not meet him as I was, +with my hair loose, and bare-footed like some Norse Viking girl. So I took the +risk, for now, although I cannot tell why, I felt sure that no harm would come +to him or me, and ran to the cabin, where also was this volume of my diary and +my mother’s jewels that I did not wish to lose. When at last I was ready +after a fashion, I came out with my bag, and there, splashing through the water +of the saloon, ran the stranger, shouting angrily to me to be quick, as the +ship was lifting off the rock, which made me think how brave it was of him to +come aboard to look for me. In an instant he caught me by the hand, and was +dragging me up the stairs and down the companion, so that in another minute we +were together in the boat, and he had told me that my father was on +shore—thank God!—though with a broken thigh.” +</p> + +<p> +Then some pages of the diary were taken up with the description of the +twenty-four hours which she had spent on the open sea with himself, of their +landing, dazed and exhausted, at the Dead Church, and her strange desire to +explore it, their arrival at the Abbey, and her meeting with her father. After +these came a passage that may be quoted:— +</p> + +<p> +“He is not handsome—I call him plain—with his projecting +brow, large mouth, and untidy brown hair. But notwithstanding his stoop and his +thin hands, he looks a fine man, and, when they light up, his eyes are +beautiful. It was brave of him, too, very brave, although he thinks nothing of +it, to come out alone to look for me like that. I wonder what brought him? I +wonder if anything told his mind that I, a girl whom he had never seen, was +really on the ship and in danger? Perhaps—at any rate, he came, and the +odd thing is that from the moment I saw him, and especially from the moment I +heard his voice, I felt as though I had known him all my life. Probably he +would think me mad if I were to say so; indeed, I am by no means sure that he +does not pay me that compliment already, with some excuse, perhaps, in view of +the ‘Song of the Overlord’ and all my wild talk. Well, after such a +night as I had spent anyone might be excused for talking foolishly. It is the +reaction from never expecting to talk again at all. The chief advantage of a +diary is that one may indulge in the luxury of telling the actual truth. So I +will say that I feel as though I had known him always; always—and as +though I understood him as one understands a person one has watched for years. +What is more, I think that he understands me more than most people do; not that +this is wonderful, seeing how few I know. At any rate, he guesses more or less +what I am thinking about, and can see that there is something in the ideas +which others consider foolish, as perhaps they are. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very odd that I, who had made sure that I was gone, should be +still alive in this pleasant house, and saved from death by this pleasant +companion, to find my father, whom I feared was dead, also living. And all this +after I had sung the ‘Song of the Overlord!’ So much for its +ill-luck. But, all the same, my father was rather upset when he heard that I +had been found singing it. He is very superstitious, my dear old father; that +is one of the few Norse characteristics which he has left in him. I told him +that there was no use in being disturbed, since, in the end, things must go as +they are fated. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Monk is engaged to a Miss Porson. He told me that in the boat. I +asked him what he was thinking of when we nearly over-set against that dreadful +rock. He answered that he could only think of the song he had heard me singing +on the ship, which I considered a great compliment to my voice, quite the +nicest I ever had. But he ought to have been thinking about the lady to whom he +is engaged, and he understood that I thought so, which I daresay I should not +have allowed him to do. However, when people believe that they are going to be +drowned they grow confidential, and expose their minds freely. He exposed his +when he told me that he thought I was talking egregious nonsense, and I am +afraid that I laughed at him. I don’t think that he really can love +her—that is, as engaged people are supposed to love each other. If he did +he would not have grown so angry—with himself—and then turned upon +me because the recollection of my old death song had interfered with the +reflections which he ought to have offered upon her altar. That is what struck +me as odd; not his neglecting to remember her in a moment of danger, since then +we often forget everything except some triviality of the hour. But, of course, +this is all nonsense, which I oughtn’t to write here even, as most people +have their own ways of being fond of each other. Also, it is no affair of mine. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen Miss Porson’s photograph, a large one of her in Court +dress, which stands in Mr. Monk’s laboratory (such a lovely place, it was +an old chapel). She is a beautiful woman; large and soft and regal-looking, a +very woman; it would be difficult to imagine a better specimen of ‘the +eternal feminine.’ Also, they say, that is, the nurse who is looking +after my father says, that she is very rich and devoted to ‘Mr. +Morris.’ So Mr. Morris is a lucky man. I wonder why he didn’t save +her from a shipwreck instead of me. It would have given an appropriate touch of +romance to the affair, which is now entirely wasted upon a young person, if I +may still call myself so, with whom it has no concern. +</p> + +<p> +“What interests me more than our host’s matrimonial engagements, +however, are his experiments with aerophones. That is a wonderful invention if +only it can be made to work without fail upon all occasions. I do wish that I +could help him there. It would be some return for his great kindness, for it +must be a dreadful nuisance to have an old clergyman with a broken leg and his +inconvenient daughter suddenly quartered upon you for an unlimited period of +time.” +</p> + +<p> +The record of the following weeks was very full, but almost entirely +concerned—brief mention of other things, such as her father’s +health excepted—with full and accurate notes and descriptions of the +aerophone experiments. To Morris reading them it was wonderful, especially as +Stella had received no training in the science of electricity, that she could +have grasped the subject thus thoroughly in so short a time. Evidently she must +have had a considerable aptitude for its theory and practice, as might be seen +by the study that she gave to the literature which he lent her, including some +manuscript volumes of his own notes. Also there were other entries. Thus: +</p> + +<p> +“To-day Mr. Stephen Layard proposed to me in the Dead Church. I had seen +it coming for the last three weeks and wished to avoid it, but he would not +take a hint. I am most sorry, as I really think he cares about me—for the +while—which is very kind of him. But it is out of the question, and I had +to say no. Indeed, he repels me. I do not even like being in the same room with +him, although no doubt this is very fastidious and wrong of me. I hope that he +will get over it soon; in fact, although he seemed distressed, I am not vain +enough to suppose that it will be otherwise. . . . +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, my father is angry, for reasons which I need not set down. +This I expected, but he said some things which I wish he had left unsaid, for +they made me answer him as I ought not to have done. Fathers and daughters look +at marriage from such different standpoints; what is excellent in their eyes +may be as bad as death, or in some cases worse to the woman who of course must +pay the price. . . . +</p> + +<p> +“I sang and played my best last night, my very, very best; indeed, I +don’t think I ever did so well before, and perhaps never shall again. He +was moved—more moved than I meant him to be, and I was moved myself. I +suppose that it was the surroundings; that old chapel—how well those +monks understood acoustic properties—the moonlight, the upset to my +nerves this afternoon, my fear that he believed that I had accepted Mr. L. +(imagine his believing that! I thought better of him, and he <i>did</i> believe +it)—everything put together. +</p> + +<p> +“While I was singing he told me that he was going away—to see Miss +Porson at Beaulieu, I suppose. When I had finished—oh! how tired I was +after the effort was over—he asked me straight out if I intended to marry +Mr. Layard, and I asked him if he was mad! Then I put another question, I +don’t know why; I never meant to do it, but it came up from my +heart—whether he had not said that he was going away? In answer he +explained that he was thinking of so doing, but had changed his mind. Oh! I was +pleased when I heard that. I was never so pleased in my life before. After all, +the gift of music is of some use. +</p> + +<p> +“But why should I have been pleased? Mr. Monk’s comings or goings +are nothing to me; I have no right to interfere with them, even indirectly, or +to concern myself about them. Yet I cried when I heard those words, but I +suppose it was the music that made me cry; it has that inconvenient effect +sometimes. Well, I have no doubt that he will see plenty of Miss Porson, and it +would have been a great pity to break off the experiments just now.” +</p> + +<p> +One more extract from the very last entry in the series of books. It was +written at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, just before Stella started out to meet +Morris at the Dead Church: +</p> + +<p> +“He—Colonel M.—asked me and I told him the truth straight +out. I could not help myself; it burst from my lips, although the strange thing +is that until he put it into my mind with the question, I knew <i>nothing</i>. +Then of a sudden, in an instant; in a flash; I understood and I knew that my +whole being belonged to this man, his son Morris. What is love? Once I remember +hearing a clever cynic argue that between men and women no such thing exists. +He called their affection by other names, and said that for true love to be +present the influence of sex must be absent. This he proved by declaring that +this marvellous passion of love about which people talk and write is never +heard of where its object is old or deformed, or even very ugly, although such +accidents of chance and time are no bar to the true love of—let us +say—the child and the parent, or the friend and the friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the argument seemed difficult to answer, although at the time I +knew that it must be wrong, but how could I, who was utterly without +experience, talk of such a hard matter? Now I understand that love; the real +love between a man and a woman, if it be real, embraces all the other sorts of +love. More—whether the key be physical or spiritual, it unlocks a window +in our hearts through which we see a different world from the world that we +have known. Also with this new vision come memories and foresights. This man +whom I love—three months ago I had never seen his face—and now I +feel as though I had known him not only all my life, but from the beginning of +time—as though we never could be parted any more. +</p> + +<p> +“And I talk thus about one who has never said a tender word to me. Why? +Because my thought, is his thought, and my mind his mind. How am I sure of +that? Because it came upon me at the moment when I learned the truth about +myself. He and I are one, therefore I learned the truth about him also. +</p> + +<p> +“I was like Eve when she left the Tree; knowledge was mine, only I had +eaten of the fruit of Life. Yet the taste of it must be bitter in my mouth. +What have I done? I have given my spirit into the keeping of a man who is +pledged to another woman, and, as I think, have taken his from her keeping to +my own. What then? Is this other woman, who is so good and kind, to be robbed +of all that is left to her in the world? Am I to take from her him who is +almost her husband? Never. If his heart has come to me I cannot help +it—for the rest, no. So what is left to me? His spirit and all the future +when the flesh is done with; that is heritage enough. How the philosopher who +argued about the love of men and women would laugh and mock if he could see +these words. Supposing that he could say, ‘Stella Fregelius, I am in a +position to offer you a choice. Will you have this man for your husband and +live out your natural lives upon the strict stipulation that your relationship +ends absolutely and forever with your last breaths? Or will you let him go to +the other woman for their natural lives with the prospect of that heritage +which your imagination has fashioned; that dim eternity of double joy where, +hand in hand, twain and yet one, you will fulfil the secret purpose of your +destinies?’ +</p> + +<p> +“What should I answer then? +</p> + +<p> +“Before Heaven I would answer that I would not sell myself to the devil +of the flesh and of this present world. What! Barter my birthright of +immortality for the mess of pottage of a few brief years of union? Pay out my +high hopes to their last bright coin for this dinner of mingled herbs? Drain +the well of faith dug with so many prayers and labours, that its waters may +suffice to nourish a rose planted in the sand, whose blooms must die at the +first touch of creeping earthly frost? +</p> + +<p> +“The philosopher would say that I was mad; that the linnet in the hand is +better than all the birds of paradise which ever flew in fabled tropic seas. +</p> + +<p> +“I reply that I am content to wait till upon some glorious morning my +ship breaks into the silence of those seas, and, watching from her battered +bulwarks, I behold the islands of the Blest and catch the scent of heavenly +flowers, and see the jewelled birds, whereof I dream floating from palm to +palm. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But if there are no such isles?’ he would answer; +‘If, with their magic birds and flowers, they are indeed but the baseless +fabric of a dream? If your ship, amidst the ravings of the storm and the +darkness of the tortured night, should founder once and for ever in the dark +strait which leads to the gateways of that Dawn—those gateways through +which no traveller returns to lay his fellows’ course for the harbours of +your perfect sea; what then?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then I would say, let me forswear God Who has suffered me to be deceived +with false spirits, and sink to depths where no light breaks, where no memories +stir, where no hopes torment. Yes, then let me deny Him and die, who am of all +women the most miserable. But it is not so, for to me a messenger has +<i>come</i>; at my prayer once the Gates were opened, and now I know quite +surely that it was permitted to me to see within them that I might find +strength in this the bitter hour of my trial. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within me? +Oh! the road which my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and heavy the +cross that I must bear. I go now, in a few minutes’ time, to bid him +farewell. If I can help it I shall never see him again. No, not even after many +years, since it is better not. Also, perhaps this is weakness, but I should +wish him to remember me wearing such beauty as I have and still young, before +time and grief and labour have marked me with their ugly scars. It is the +Stella whom he found singing at the daybreak on the ship which brought her to +him, for whom I desire that he should seek in the hour of a different dawn. +</p> + +<p> +“I go presently, to my marriage, as it were; a cold and pitiful feast, +many would think it—these nuptials of life-long renunciation. The +philosopher would say, Why renounce? You have some advantages, some powers, use +them. The man loves you, play upon his natural weakness. Help yourself to the +thing that chances to be desirable in your eyes. Three years hence who will +blame you, who will even remember? His father? Well, he likes you already, and +in time a man of the world accepts accomplished facts, especially if things go +well, as they will do, for that invention must succeed. No one else? Yes; three +others. He would remember, however much he loved me, for I should have brought +him to do a shameful act. And she would remember, whom I had robbed of her +husband, coming into his life after he had promised himself to her. Last of +all—most of all, perhaps—I myself should remember, day by day, and +hour by hour, that I was nothing more than one of the family of thieves. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I will have none of such philosophy; at least I, Stella Fregelius, +will live and die among the upright. So I go to my cold marriage, such as it +is; so I bend my back to the burden, so I bow my head to the storm; and +throughout it all I thank God for what he has been pleased to send me. I may +seem poor, but how rich I am who have been dowered with a love that I know to +be eternal as my eternal soul. I go, and my husband shall receive me, not with +a lover’s kiss and tenderness, but with words few and sad, with greetings +that, almost before their echoes die, must fade into farewells. I wrap no veil +about my head, he will set no ring upon my hand, perchance we shall plight no +troth. So be it; our hour of harvest is not yet. +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday was very sharp and bleak, with scuds of sleet and snow driven +by the wind, but as I drove here with my father I saw a man and a woman in the +midst of an empty, lifeless field, planting some winter seed. Who, looking at +them, who that did not know, could foretell the fruits of their miserable, +unhopeful labour? Yet the summer will come and the sweet smell of the flowering +beans, and the song of the nesting birds, and the plentiful reward of the year +crowned with fatness. It is a symbol of this marriage of mine. To-day we sow +the seed; next, after a space of raving rains and winds, will follow the long, +white winter of death, then some dim, sweet spring of awakening, and beyond it +the fulness of all joy. +</p> + +<p> +“What is there about me that it would make me ashamed that he should +know; this husband to whom I must tell nothing? I cannot think. No other man +has been anything to me. I can remember no great sin. I have worked, making the +best of such gifts as I possess. I have tried to do my duty, and I will do it +to the end. Surely my heart is whole and my hands are clean. Perhaps it is a +sin that I should have learned to love him; that I should look to a far future +where I may be with him. If so, am I to blame, who ask nothing here? Can I +conquer destiny who am its child? Can I read or shape the purpose of my Maker? +</p> + +<p> +“And so I go. O God, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, give me strength to bear +my temptations and my trials; and to him, also, give every strength and +blessing. O Father, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, shorten these the days of my +tribulation upon earth. Accept and sanctify this my sacrifice of denial; grant +me pardon here, and hereafter through all the abyss of time in Thy knowledge +and presence, that perfect peace which I desire with him to whom I am +appointed. Amen.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a> +CHAPTER XXII.<br/> +THE EVIL GATE</h2> + +<p> +Such was the end of the diary of Stella. +</p> + +<p> +Morris shut the book with something like a sob. Then he rose and began to tramp +up and down the length of the long, lonely room, while thoughts, crowded, +confused, and overwhelming, pressed in upon his mind. What a woman was this +whom he had lost! Who had known another so pure, so spiritual? Surely she did +not belong to this world, and therefore her last prayer was so quickly +answered, therefore Heaven took her. Many reading those final pages might have +said with the philosopher she imagined that the shock of love and the sorrow of +separation had turned her brain, and that she was mad. For who, so such might +argue, would think that person otherwise than mad who dared to translate into +action, and on earth to set up as a ruling star, that faith which day by day +their lips professed. +</p> + +<p> +Yet it would seem after all that this “dreamer and mystic” Stella +believed in nothing which our religion, accepted by millions without cavil, +does not promise to its votaries. Its revelations and rewards marked the +extremest limits of her fantasy; immortality of the personal soul, its +foundation stone, was the rock on which she built. A heaven where there is no +earthly marriage, but where each may consort with the souls most loved and most +desired; where all sorrows are forgotten, all tears are wiped away, all +purposes made clear, reserved for those who deny themselves, do their duty, and +seek forgiveness of their sins—this heaven conceived by Stella, is it not +vowed to us in the pages of the Gospel? Is it not vowed again and again, +sometimes with more detail, sometimes with less; sometimes in open, simple +words, sometimes wrapped in the mystic allegory of the visions of St. John; but +everywhere and continually held before us as our crown and great reward? And +the rest, such things as her belief in guardian angels, and that it had been +given to her mortal eyes to behold and commune with a beloved ghost, is there +not ample warrant for them in those inspired writings? Were not the dead seen +of many in Jerusalem on the night of fear, and are we not told of +“ministering spirits sent forth to do service for the sake of them that +shall inherit salvation?” and of the guardian angels, who look +continually upon the Father? +</p> + +<p> +Now it all grew clear to Morris. In Stella he beheld an example of the +doctrines of Christianity really inspiring the daily life of the believer. If +her strong faith animated all those who served under that banner, then in like +circumstances they would act as she had acted. They would have no doubts; their +fears would vanish; their griefs be comforted, and, to a great extent, even the +promptings and passions of their mortality would be trodden under foot. With +Stella they would be ready to neglect the temporary in their certainty of the +eternal, and even to welcome death, to them in truth, and not in mere +convention, the Gate of Life. +</p> + +<p> +Many things are promised to those who can achieve faith. Stella achieved it and +became endued with some portion of the promise. Spiritual faith, not inherited, +nor accepted, but hard-won by personal struggle and experience; that was the +key-note to her character and the explanation of her actions. Yet that faith, +when examined into, was nothing exotic; no combination of mysticism and +mummery, but one founded upon the daily creed of the English and its fellow +churches, and understood and applied to the circumstances of a life which was +as brief as it seemed to be unfortunate. This was Morris’s discovery, +open and obvious enough, and yet at first until he grew accustomed to it, a +thing marvellous in his eyes; one, moreover, in which he found comfort; since +surely that straight but simple path was such as his feet might follow. +</p> + +<p> +And she loved him. Oh! how she had loved him. There could be no doubt; there +were her words written in that book, not hastily spoken beneath the pressure of +some sudden wind of feeling, but set down in black and white, thought over, +reasoned out, and recorded. And then their purport. They were a paean of +passion, but the dirge of its denial. They dwelt upon the natural hopes of +woman only to put them by. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within me? +Oh! the road that my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and heavy the +cross that I must bear. . . . So I go to my marriage, such as it is, so I bend +my back to the burden, so I bow my head to the storm, and through it all I +thank God for what He has been pleased to send me. I may seem poor, but how +rich I am who have been dowered with a love that I know to be eternal as my +eternal soul.” +</p> + +<p> +That was her creed, those were the teachings of her philosophy. And this was +the woman who had loved him, who died loving him. Her very words came back, +spoken but a few seconds before the end:—“Remember every word which +I have said to you. Remember that we are wed—truly wed; that I go to wait +for you, and that even if you do not see me, I will, if I may, be near you +always.” +</p> + +<p> +“I go to wait for you. I will be near you always.” Here was another +inspiration. For three years or more he had been thinking of her as dead. Or +rather he had thought of her in that nebulous, undefined fashion in which we +consider the dead; the slumberous people who forget everything, who see +nothing; who, if they exist at all, are like stones upon the beach rolled to +and fro blind and senseless, not of their own desire, but by the waves of a +fearful fate that itself is driven on with the strength of a secret storm of +Will. And this fate some call the Breath of God, and some the working of a +soulless force that compels the universe, past, present, and to be. +</p> + +<p> +But was this view as real as it is common? If Stella were right, if our +religion were right, it must be most wrong. That religion told us that the +Master of mankind descended into Hades to preach to the souls of men. Did he +preach to dumb, ocean-driven stones, to frozen forms and fossils who had once +been men, or to spirits, changed, but active and existent? +</p> + +<p> +Stella, too, had walked in the valley of doubt, by the path which all who think +must tread; it was written large in the book of her life. But she had not +fainted there; she had lived through its thunder-rains, its arid blasts of +withering dust, its quivering quicksands, and its mirage-like meadows gay with +deceitful, poisonous flowers. At last she had reached the mountain slopes of +Truth to travel up them higher—ever higher, till she won their topmost +peak, where the sun shone undimmed and the pure air blew; whence the world +seemed far away and heaven very near. Yes, and from that heaven she had called +down the spirit of her lost sister, and thenceforward was content and sure. +</p> + +<p> +She had called down the spirit of her sister. Was it not written in the pages +which she thought that no eye but hers would see? +</p> + +<p> +Well, if such spirits were, hers—Stella’s—must be also. And +if they could be made apparent, why should not hers share their qualities? +</p> + +<p> +Morris paused in his swift walk and trembled: “I will be near you +always.” For aught he knew she was near him now—present, perhaps, +in this very room. While she was still in life, what were her aspirations? This +was one of them, he remembered, as it fell from her lips: “Still to be +with those whom I have loved on earth, although they cannot see me; to soothe +their sorrows, to support their weakness, to lull their fears.” And if +this were so; if any power were given her to fulfil her will, whom would she +sooner visit than himself? +</p> + +<p> +Stay! That was her wish on earth, while she was a woman. But would she still +wish it afterwards? The spirit was not the flesh, the spirit could see and be +sure, while the flesh must be content with deductions and hazardings. If she +could see, she would know him as he was; every failing, every secret infirmity, +every infidelity of heart, might be an open writing to her eyes. And then would +she not close that book in horror? +</p> + +<p> +A great writer has said in effect that no man would dare to affront the ears of +his fellows—men much worse than himself perhaps—with the true +details of his hidden history. Knowing all the truth, they would shrink from +him. How much more then at such sights and sounds would a pure spirit, washed +clean of every taint of earth, fly from his soiled presence, wailing and +aghast? Nay, men are hypocrites, who, in greater or less degree, themselves +practice the very sins that shock them, but spirits, knowing all, would forgive +all. They are above hypocrisy. If the Lord of spirits can weigh the “dust +whereof we are made” and still be merciful, shall his bright messengers +trample it in scorn and hate? Will they not also consider the longings of the +heart and its uprightness, and be pitiful towards the failings of the flesh? +Would Stella hate him because he remained as he was made—as herself she +might once have been? Because having no wings with which to rule the air he +must still tramp onwards through the foetid, clinging mud of earth? +</p> + +<p> +Oh! how he longed to see her, that he might win her faith; win it beyond all +doubt by the evidence of his earthly eyes and senses. “If I die, search +and you shall see,” she had once said to him, and then added, “No, +do not search, but wait.” Wait! How could he wait? “At your death I +will be with you.” Why he might live another fifty years! That book of +her recorded thoughts had aroused in him such a desire for the sight, or at +least the actual knowledge of her continued being, that his blood was aflame as +with a madness. And yet how should he search? +</p> + +<p> +“Stella,” he whispered, “come to me, Stella!” But no +Stella came; no wings rustled, no breath stirred; the empty room was as the +room had been. Its silence seemed to mock him. Those who slept beneath its +marble floor were not more silent. +</p> + +<p> +Was he mad that he should claim the power to work this miracle—to charm +the dead back through the Gates of Death as Orpheus charmed Eurydice? Yet +Stella did this thing—but how? He turned to the volume and page of her +diary which dealt with the drawing down of Gudrun. Yes, here she spoke of +continual efforts and of “that long, long preparation”—of +prayer and fasting also. Here, too, was the whole secret summed up in a dozen +words: “To see a spirit one must grow akin to spirits.” Well, it +could be done, and he would do it. But look further on where she said: “I +shall call her back no more, lest the thing should get the mastery of me, and I +become unfitted for my work on earth. . . . I will stop while there is yet +time, while I am still mistress of my mind, and have the strength to deny +myself this awful joy.” +</p> + +<p> +Was there not a warning in these words, and in those other words: “No, do +not search, but wait.” Surely they told of risk to him who, being yet on +earth, dared to lift a corner of the veil which separates flesh and spirit. +“Should get the mastery of me.” If he saw her once would he be able +to do as Stella did, and by an effort of his will separate himself from a +communion so fearful yet so sweet? “Unfitted for my work.” +Supposing that it did get the mastery of him, would he not also be unfitted for +his work on earth? +</p> + +<p> +His work? What work had he now? It seemed to be done; for attending scientific +meetings, receiving dividends, playing the country squire’s only son and +the wealthy host whilst awaiting the title which Mary wished for—these +things are not work, and somehow his days were so arranged that he was never +allowed to go beyond them. All further researches and experiments were +discouraged. What did it matter if he were unfitted for that which he could no +longer do? His work was finished. There it stood before him in that box, +stamped “Monk’s aerophone. The Twin. No. 3412.” +</p> + +<p> +No; he had but one ambition left. To pierce the curtain of thick night and +behold her who was lost to him; her who loved him as man had been seldom loved. +</p> + +<p> +The fierce temptation struck him as a sudden squall strikes a ship with all her +canvas spread. For a moment mast and rigging stood the strain, then they went +by the board. He would do it if it killed him; but the task must be undertaken +properly, deliberately, and above all in secret. To-morrow he would begin. When +he had satisfied himself; when he had seen; then he could always stop. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Morris stood beside his wife’s bed. There she lay, in +the first perfection of young motherhood and beauty, a lovely, white-wrapped +vision with straying golden hair; her sweet, rounded face pink with the flush +of sleep, and the long lashes lying like little shadows on her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked at her, and his doubts returned. What would Stella say? he +thought to himself. It almost seemed to him that he could hear her voice, +bidding him forbear; bidding him render unto his wife those things which were +his wife’s: all honour, loyalty, and devotion. If he entered on this +course could he still render them? Was there not such a thing as moral +infidelity, and did not such exercises as he proposed partake of its nature? +Perhaps, perhaps. On the whole it might be well to put all this behind him. +</p> + +<p> +It was three o’clock, he was tired out, and must sleep. The morning would +be a more fitting time to ponder such weighty questions of the unwritten +matrimonial law. +</p> + +<p> +In due course, the morning came—indeed, it was not far off—and with +it wiser counsels. Mary woke early and talked about the baby, which was +teething; indeed, so soon as the nurse was up she sent for it that the three of +them might hold a consultation over a swollen gum. Also she discussed the date +of their departure to Beaulieu, for again Christmas was near at hand; adding, +however, somewhat to Morris’s relief, that unless the baby’s teeth +went on better she really did not think that they could go, as it would be most +unwise to take her out of the care of Dr. Charters and trust her to the tender +mercies of foreign leeches. Morris agreed that it might be risky, and mentioned +that in a letter which he had received from the concierge at Beaulieu a few +days before, that functionary said that the place was overrun with measles and +scarlatina. +</p> + +<p> +“Morris!” ejaculated Mary, sitting bolt upright in bed, “and +you never told me! What is more, had it not been for baby’s teeth, which +brought it to your mind, I believe you never would have told me, and I might +have taken those unprotected little angels and—Oh! goodness, I +can’t bear to think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Morris muttered some apologies, whereon Mary, looking at him suspiciously +through her falling hair, asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you forget to show me the letter? Did you suppress it because +you wanted to go to Beaulieu?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Morris with energy; “I hate Beaulieu. I +forgot, that is all; because I have so much to think about, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much? I thought that things were arranged now so that you had nothing +at all to think about except how to spend your money and be happy with me, and +adore the dear angels—Yes, I think that perhaps the nurse had better take +her away. Touch the bell, will you? There, she’s gone. Keep her well +wrapped up, and mind the draught, nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“No, don’t get up yet, Morris; I want to talk to you. You have been +very gloomy of late, just like you used to be before you married, mooning about +and staring at nothing. And what on earth do you do sitting up to all hours of +the morning in that ghosty old chapel, where I wouldn’t be alone at +twelve o’clock for a hundred pounds?” +</p> + +<p> +“I read,” said Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Read? Read what? Novels?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes,” answered Morris. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how can you tell such fibs? Why, that last book by Lady +What’s-her-name which came in the Mudie box—the one they say is so +improper—has been lying on your table for over two months, and you +can’t tell me yet what it was the heroine did wrong. Morris, you are not +inventing anything more, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +Here was an inspiration. “I admit that I am thinking of a little +thing,” he said with diffidence, as though he were a budding poet with a +sonnet on his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“A little thing? What little thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a new kind of aerophone designed to work uninfluenced by its +twin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and why shouldn’t it? Everything can’t have a +twin—only I suppose there would be nothing to hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just the point,” replied Morris in his old +professional manner. “I think there would be plenty to hear if only I +could make the machine sensitive to the sounds and capable of reproducing +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sounds?” asked Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if, for instance, one could successfully insulate it from the +earth noises, the sounds which permeate space, and even those that have their +origin upon the surfaces of the planets and perhaps of the more distant +stars.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” exclaimed Mary, “imagine a man who can want +to let loose upon our poor little world every horrible noise that happens in +the stars. Why, what under heaven would be the use of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, one might communicate with them. Conceivably even one might hear +the speech of their inhabitants, if they have any; always presuming that such +an instrument could be made, and that it can be successfully insulated.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear the speech of their inhabitants! That is your old idea, but you +will never succeed, that’s one blessing. Morris, I suspect you; you want +to stop at home here to work at this horrible new machine; to work for years, +and years, and years without the slightest result. I suppose that you +didn’t invent that about the measles and the scarlatina, did you? The two +of them together sound rather clumsy, as though you might have done so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit, upon my honour,” answered Morris. “I will go and +get the letter,” and, not sorry to escape from further examination, he +went. +</p> + +<p> +Whether the cause were Mary’s doubts and reproaches, or the +infant’s gums, or the working of his own conscience,—he felt that a +man with a teething baby has no right to cultivate the occult. For quite a long +period, a whole fortnight, indeed, Morris steadily refrained from any attempt +to fulfil his dangerous ambition to “pierce the curtain of thick +night.” Only he read and re-read Stella’s diary—that secret, +fascinating work which in effect was building a wall between him and the +healthy, common instincts of the world—till he knew whole pages of it by +heart. Also he began a series of experiments whereof the object was to produce +an improved and more sensitive aerophone. +</p> + +<p> +That any instrument which the intellect of man could produce would really +succeed in conveying sounds which, if they exist at all, are born in the vast +cosmic areas that envelope our earth and its atmosphere, he believed to be most +improbable. Still, such a thing was possible, for what is not? Moreover, the +world itself as it rushes on its fearful journey across the depths of space has +doubtless many voices that have not yet been heard by the ears of men, some of +which he might be able to discover and record. At the least he stood upon the +threshold of a new knowledge, and now a great desire arose in him to pass its +doors, if so he might, for who could tell what he would learn or see behind +them? And by degrees, as he worked, always with one ulterior object in his +mind, his scruples vanished or were mastered by the growth of his longing, till +this became his ruling passion—to behold the spirit of Stella. Now he no +longer reasoned with himself, but openly, nakedly, in his own heart gave his +will over to the achievement of this monstrous and unnatural end. +</p> + +<p> +How was it to be done? That was now the sole dilemma which tormented +him—as the possible methods of obtaining the drink he craves, or the drug +that gives him peace and radiant visions, torment the dipsomaniac or the +morphia victim in his guarded prison. He thought of his instruments, those +magic machines with the working of which Stella had been familiar in her life. +He even poured petitions into them in the hope that these might be delivered +far beyond the ken of man, only to learn that he was travelling a road which +led to a wall impassable; the wall that, for the lack of a better name, we call +Death, which bars the natural from the spiritual. +</p> + +<p> +Wonderful as were his electrical appliances, innumerable as might be their +impalpable emanations, insoluble as seemed the mystery of their power of +catching and transmitting sounds by the agency of ether, they were still +physical appliances producing physical effects in obedience to the laws of +nature. But what he sought lay beyond nature and was subject to some rule of +which he did not even know the elements, and much less the axioms. Herein his +instruments, or indeed, any that man could make, were as futile and as useless +as would be the prayers of an archbishop addressed to a Mumbo-jumbo in a fetish +house. The link was wanting; there was, and could be, no communication between +the two. The invisible ether which he had subdued to his purposes was still a +constituent part of the world of matter; he must discover the spiritual ether, +and discover also the animating force by which it might be influenced. +</p> + +<p> +Now he formed a new plan—to reach the dead by his petitions, by the +invocation of his own spirit. “Seek me and you shall find me,” she +had said. So he sought and called in bitterness and concentration of heart, but +still he did not find. Stella did not come. +</p> + +<p> +He was in despair. She had promised, and her promise seemed to be broken. Then +it was that in turning the pages of her diary he came across a passage that had +escaped him, or which he had forgotten. It ran thus: +</p> + +<p> +“In the result I have learned this, that we cannot compel the departed to +appear. Even if they hear us they will not, or are not suffered to obey. If we +would behold them we must create the power of vision in our own natures. They +are about us always, only we cannot see or feel their presence; our senses are +too gross. To succeed we must refine our senses until they acquire an aptitude +beyond the natural. Then without any will or any intervention on their parts, +we may triumph, perhaps even when <i>they</i> do not know that we have +triumphed.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a> +CHAPTER XXIII.<br/> +STELLA COMES</h2> + +<p> +Now, by such arts as are known to those who have studied mysticism in any of +its protean forms, Morris set himself to attempt communication with the unseen. +In their practice these arts are as superlatively unwholesome as in their +result, successful or not, they are unnatural. Also, they are very ancient. The +Chaldeans knew them, and the magicians who stood before Pharaoh knew them. To +the early Christian anchorites and to the gnostics they were familiar. In one +shape or another, ancient wonder-workers, Scandinavian and mediaeval seers, +modern Spiritualists, classical interpreters of oracles, Indian fakirs, savage +witch-doctors and medicine men, all submitted or submit themselves to the yoke +of the same rule in the hope of attaining an end which, however it may vary in +its manifestations, is identical in essence. +</p> + +<p> +This is the rule: to beat down the flesh and its instincts and nurture the +spirit, its aspirations and powers. And this is the end—to escape before +the time, if only partially and at intervals, into an atmosphere of vision true +or false, where human feet were meant to find no road, and the trammelled minds +of men no point of outlook. That such an atmosphere exists even materialists +would hesitate to deny, for it is proved by the whole history of the moral +world, and especially by that of the religions of the world, their founders, +their prophets and their exponents, many of whom have breathed its ether, and +pronounced it the very breath of life. Their feet have walked the difficult +path; standing on those forbidden peaks they have scanned the dim plains and +valleys of the unseen, and made report of the dreams and shapes that haunt +them. Then the busy hordes of men beneath for a moment pause to listen and are +satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +“Lo, here is Truth,” they cry, “now we may cease from +troubling.” So for a while they rest till others answer, “Nay, +<i>this</i> is Truth; our teacher told it us from yonder mountain, the only +Holy Hill.” And yet others fall upon them and slay them, shouting, +“Neither of these is Truth. She dwells not among the precipices, but in +the valley; there we have heard her accents.” +</p> + +<p> +And still from cliff to cliff and along the secret vales echoes the voice of +Truth; and still upon the snow-wreathed peaks and across the space of rolling +ocean, and even among the populous streets of men, veiled, mysterious, and +changeful, her shape is seen by those who have trained themselves or been +inspired to watch and hear. But no two see the same shape, and no two hear the +same voice, since to each she wears a different countenance, and speaks with +another tongue. For Truth is as the sand of the shore for number, and as the +infinite hues of the rainbow for variety. Yet the sand is ground out of one +mother rock, and all the colours of earth and air are born of a single sun. +</p> + +<p> +So, practising the ancient rites and mysteries, and bowing himself to the +ancient law whose primeval principles every man and woman may find graven upon +the tablets of their solitary heart, Morris set himself to find that truth, +which for him was hid in the invisible soul of Stella, the soul which he +desired to behold and handle, even if the touch and sight should slay him. +</p> + +<p> +Day by day he worked, for as many hours as he could make his own, at the +details of his new experiments. These in themselves were interesting, and +promised even to be fruitful; but that was not his object, or, at any rate, his +principal object in pursuing them with such an eager passion of research. The +talk and hazardings which had passed between himself and Stella +notwithstanding, both reason and experience had taught him already that all +instruments made by the hand of man were useless to break a way into the +dwellings of the departed. A day might come when they would enable the +inhabitants of the earth to converse with the living denizens of the most +distant stars; but never, never with the dead. He laboured because of the frame +of thought his toil brought with it, but still more that he might be alone: +that he might be able to point to his soiled hands, the shabby clothes which he +wore when working with chemicals or at the forge, the sheets of paper covered +with half-finished and maddening calculations, as an excuse why he should not +be taken out, or, worse still, dragged from his home to stay for nights, or +perhaps whole weeks, in other places. Even his wife, he felt, would relent at +the sight of those figures, and would fly from the odour of chemicals. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Mary did both, for she hated what she called “smells,” and +a place strewn with hot irons and bottles of acids, which, as she discovered, +if disturbed burnt both dress and fingers. The sight also of algebraic +characters pursuing each other across quires of paper, like the grotesque +forces of some broken, impish army, filled her indolent mind with a wondering +admiration that was akin to fear. The man, she reflected, who could force those +cabalistic symbols to reveal anything worth knowing must indeed be a genius, +and one who deserved not to be disturbed, even for a tea party. +</p> + +<p> +Although she disapproved deeply of these renewed studies, such was Mary’s +secret thought. Whether it would have sufficed alone to persuade her to permit +them is another matter, since her instinct, keen and subtle as any of +Morris’s appliances, warned her that in them lay danger to her home and +happiness. But just then, as it happened, there were other matters to occupy +her mind. The baby became seriously ill over its teething, and, other infantile +complications following, for some weeks it was doubtful whether she would +survive. +</p> + +<p> +Now Mary belonged to the class of woman which is generally known as +“motherly,” and adored her offspring almost to excess. Consequently +for those weeks she found plenty to think about without troubling herself +over-much as to Morris and his experiments. For these same reasons, perhaps, +she scarcely noticed, seated as she was some distance away at the further end +of the long table, how very ethereal her husband’s appetite had become, +or that, although he took wine as usual, it was a mere pretence, since he never +emptied his glass. The most loving of women can scarcely be expected to +consider a man’s appetite when that of a baby is in question, or, while +the child wastes, to take note whether or no its father is losing flesh. +Lastly, as regards the hours at which he came to bed, being herself a sound +sleeper Mary had long since ceased to interest herself about them, on the wise +principle that so long as she was not expected to sit up it was no affair of +hers. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it happened that Morris worked and meditated by day, and by +night—ah! who that has not tried to climb this difficult and endless +Jacob’s ladder resting upon the earth and losing itself far, far away in +the blue of heaven above, can understand what he did by night? But those who +have stood even on its lowest rung will guess, and—for the rest it does +not matter. +</p> + +<p> +He advanced; he knew that he advanced, that the gross wall of sense was wearing +thin beneath the attacks of his out-thrown soul; that even if they were not +drawn, from time to time the black curtains swung aside in the swift, pure +breath of his continual prayers. Moreover, the dead drew near to him at +moments, or he drew near the dead. Even in his earthly brain he could feel +their awful presence as wave by wave soft, sweet pulses of impression beat upon +him and passed through him. Through and through him they passed till his brow +ached, and every nerve of his body tingled, as though it had become the +receiver of some mysterious current that stirred his blood with what was not +akin to it, and summoned to his mind strange memories and foresights. Visions +came also that he could not define, to slip from his frantic grasp like wet +sand through the fingers of a drowning man. More and more frequently, and with +an ever increasing completeness, did this unearthly air, blowing from a shore +no human foot has trod, breathe through his being and possess him, much as some +faint wind which we cannot feel may be seen to possess an aspen tree so that it +turns white and shivers when every other natural thing is still. And as that +aspen turns white and shivers in this thin, impalpable air, so did his spirit +blanch and quiver with joy and dread mingled mysteriously in the cup of his +expectant soul. +</p> + +<p> +Again and again those sweet, yet sickening waves flowed over him, to leave him +shaken and unnerved. At first they were rare visitors, single clouds floating +across his calm, coming he knew not whence and vanishing he knew not whither. +Now they drove in upon him like some scud, ample yet broken, before the wind, +till at whiles, as it were, he could not see the face of the friendly, human +sun. Then he was like a traveller lost in the mist upon a mountain top, sure of +nothing, feeling precipices about him, hearing voices calling him, seeing white +arms stretched out to lead him, yet running forward gladly because amid so many +perils a fate was in his feet. +</p> + +<p> +Now, too, they came with an actual sense of wind. He would wake up at night +even by his wife’s side and feel this unholy breath blowing ice-cold on +his brow and upon the backs of his outstretched hands. Yet if he lit a candle +it had no power to stir its flame; yes, while it still blew sharp upon him the +flame of the candle did not move. Then the wind would cease, and within him the +intangible, imponderable power would arise, and the voices would speak like the +far, far murmur of a stream, and the thoughts which he could not weigh or +interpret would soak into his being like some strange dew, and, soft, soft as +falling snow, invisible feet would tread the air about him, till of a sudden a +door in his brain seemed to shut, and he woke to the world again. +</p> + +<p> +Every force is subject to laws. Even if they were but the emanations of an +incipient madness which like all else have their origins, destinies, and forms, +these possessing vapours were a force, which in time Morris, whose mind from a +lifelong training was scientific and methodical, accustomed, moreover, to +struggle for dominion over elements unknown or imperfectly appreciated, learned +to regulate if not entirely to control. Their visits were pleasant to him, a +delight even; but to experience this joy to the utmost he discovered that their +power must be concentrated; that if the full effect was to be produced this +moral morphia must be taken in strong doses, and at stated intervals, +sufficient space being allowed between them to give his mental being time to +recuperate. Science has proved that even the molecules of a wire can grow +fatigued by the constant passage of electricity, or the edge of a razor by too +frequent stropping. Both of them, to be effective, to do their utmost service, +must have periods of rest. +</p> + +<p> +Here, then, his will came to his aid, for he found that by its strong, +concentrated exertion he was enabled both to shut off the sensations or to +excite them. Another thing he found also—that after a while it was +impossible to do without them. For a period the anticipation of their next +visit would buoy him up; but if it were baulked too long, then reaction set in, +and with it the horrors of the Pit. +</p> + +<p> +This was the first stage of his insanity—or of his vision. +</p> + +<p> +Dear as such manifestations might be to him, in time he wearied of them; these +hints which but awakened his imagination, these fantastic spiced meats which, +without staying it, only sharpened his spiritual appetite. More than ever he +longed to see and to know, to make acquaintance with the actual presence, +whereof they were but the forerunners, the cold blasts that go before the +storm, the vague, mystical draperies which veiled the unearthly goddess at +whose shrine he was a worshipper. He desired the full fierce fury of the +tempest, the blinding flash of the lightning, the heavy hiss of the rain, the +rush of the winds bursting on him from the four horizons; he desired the naked +face of his goddess. +</p> + +<p> +And she came—or he acquired the power to see her, whichever it might be. +She came suddenly, unexpectedly, completely, as a goddess should. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was on Christmas Eve, at night, the anniversary of Stella’s death four +years before. Morris and his wife were alone at the Abbey, as the Colonel had +gone for a fortnight or so to Beaulieu, just to keep the house aired, as he +explained. Also Lady Rawlins was there with her husband, the evil-tempered man +who by a single stroke of sickness had been converted into a babbling imbecile, +harmless as a babe, and amused for the most part with such toys as are given to +babes. She, so Morris understood, had intimated that Sir Jonah was failing, +really failing quickly, and that in her friendlessness at a foreign place, +especially at Christmas time, she would be thankful to have the comfort of an +old friend’s presence. This the old friend, who, having been back from +town for a whole month, was getting rather bored with Monksland and the sick +baby, determined to vouchsafe, explaining that he knew that young married +people liked to be left to each other now and again, especially when they were +worried with domestic troubles. Lady Rawlins was foolish and fat, but, as the +Colonel remembered, she was fond. Where, indeed, could another woman be found +who would endure so much scientific discipline and yet be thankful? Also, +within a few weeks, after the expected demise of Jonah, she would be wondrous +wealthy—that he knew. Therefore it seemed that the matter was worth +consideration—and a journey to Beaulieu. +</p> + +<p> +So the Colonel went, and Morris, more and more possessed by his monomania, was +glad that he had gone. His absence gave him greater opportunities of +loneliness; it was now no longer necessary that he should sit at night smoking +with his father, or, rather, watching him smoke at the expense of so many +precious hours when he should be up and doing. +</p> + +<p> +Morris and Mary dined tête-à -tête that evening, but almost immediately after +dinner she had gone to the nurseries. The baby was now threatened with +convulsions, and a trained nurse had been installed. But, as Mary did not in +the least trust the nurse, who, according to her account, was quite +unaccustomed to children, she insisted upon dogging that functionary’s +footsteps. Therefore, Morris saw little of her. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was one o’clock on Christmas morning, or more. Hours ago Morris had +gone though his rites, the ritual that he had invented or discovered—in +its essence, simple and pathetic enough—whereby he strove to bring +himself to the notice of the dead, and to fit himself to see or hear the dead. +Such tentative mysticism as served his turn need not be written down, but its +substance can be imagined by many. Then, through an exercise of his will, he +had invoked the strange, trance-like state which has been described. The soft +waves flowing from an unknown source had beat upon his brain, and with them +came the accustomed phenomena; the sense of some presence near, impending, yet +impotent; suggesting by analogy and effect the misdirected efforts of a blind +person seeking something in a room, or the painful attempt of one almost deaf, +striving to sift out words from a confused murmur of sounds. The personality of +Stella seemed to pervade him, yet he could see nothing, could hear nothing. The +impression might be from within, not from without. Perhaps, after all, it was +nothing but a dream, a miasma, a mirage, drawn by his own burning thought from +the wastes and marshes of his mind peopled with illusive hopes and waterlogged +by memories. Or it might be true and real; as yet he could not be certain of +its origin. +</p> + +<p> +The fit passed, delightful in its overpowering emptiness, but unsatisfying as +all that had gone before it, and left him weak. For a while Morris crouched by +the fire, for he had grown cold, and could not think accurately. Then his +vital, human strength returned, and, as seemed to him to be fitting upon this +night of all nights, he began one by one to recall the events of that day four +years ago, when Stella was still a living woman. +</p> + +<p> +The scene in the Dead Church, the agonies of farewell; he summoned them detail +by detail, word by word; her looks, the changes of her expression, the +movements of her hands and eyes and lips; he counted and pictured each precious +souvenir. The sound of her last sentences also, as the blind, senseless +aerophone had rendered them just before the end, one by one they were repeated +in his brain. There stood the very instrument; but, alas! it was silent now, +its twin lay buried in the sea with her who had worked it. +</p> + +<p> +Morris grew weary, the effort of memory was exhausting, and after it he was +glad to think of nothing. The fire flickered, the clear light of the electric +lamps shone upon the hard, sixteenth-century faces of the painted angels in the +ancient roof; without the wind soughed, and through it rose the constant, +sullen roar of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +Tired, disappointed, unhappy, and full of self-reproaches, for when the madness +was not on him he knew his sin, Morris sank into a doze. Now music crept softly +into his sleep; sweet, thrilling music, causing him to open his eyes and smile. +It was Christmas Eve, and doubtless he heard the village waifs. +</p> + +<p> +Morris looked up arousing himself to listen, and lo! there before him, +unexpected and ineffable, was Stella; Stella as she appeared that night on +which she had sung to him, just as she finished singing, indeed, when he stood +for a while in the faint moonlight, the flame of inspiration still flickering +in those dark eyes and the sweet lips drawn down a little as though she were +about to weep. +</p> + +<p> +The sight did not astonish him, at the moment he never imagined even then that +this could be her spirit, that his long labours in a soil no man was meant to +till had issued into harvest. Surely it was a dream, nothing but a dream. He +felt no tremors, no cold wind stirred his hair; his heart did not stand still, +nor his breath come short. Why should a man fear so beautiful a dream? Yet, +vaguely enough, he wished that it might last forever, for it was sweet to see +her so—as she had been. As she had been—yet, was she ever thus? +Surely some wand of change had touched her. She was beautiful, but had she worn +that beauty? And those eyes! Could any such have shone in the face of woman? +</p> + +<p> +“Stella,” he whispered, and from roof and walls crept back the echo +of his voice. He rose and went towards her. She had vanished. He returned, and +there she was. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak!” he muttered; “speak!” But no word came, only +the lovely changeless eyes shone on and watched him. +</p> + +<p> +Listen! Music seemed to float about the room, such music as he had never +heard—even Stella could not make the like. The air was full of it, the +night without was full of it, millions of voices took up the chant, and from +far away, note by note, mighty organs and silver trumpets told its melody. +</p> + +<p> +His brain reeled. In the ocean of those unimagined harmonies it was tossed like +a straw upon a swirling river, tossed and overwhelmed. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, very slowly, as the straw might be sucked into the heart of a +whirlpool, his soul was drawn down into blackness. It shuddered, it was afraid; +this vision of a whirlpool haunted him. He could see the narrow funnel of its +waters, smooth, shining like jet, unspecked by foam, solid to all appearances; +but, as he was aware, alive, every atom of them, instinct with some frightful +energy, the very face of force—and in the teeth of it, less than a dead +leaf, himself. +</p> + +<p> +Down he went, down, and still above him shone the beautiful, pitying, +changeless eyes; and still round him echoed that strange, searching music. The +eyes receded, the music became faint, and then—blackness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a> +CHAPTER XXIV.<br/> +DREAMS AND THE SLEEP</h2> + +<p> +The Christmas Day which followed this strange night proved the happiest that +Morris could ever remember to have spent since his childhood. In his worldly +circumstances of course he was oppressed by none of the everyday worries which +at this season are the lot of most—no duns came to trouble him, nor +through lack of means was he forced to turn any beggar from his door. Also the +baby was much better, and Mary’s spirits were consequently radiant. +Never, indeed, had she been more lovely and charming than when that morning she +presented him with a splendid gold chronometer to take the place of the old +silver watch which was his mother’s as a girl, and that he had worn all +his life. Secretly he sorrowed over parting with that familiar companion in +favour of its new eighty-guinea rival, although it was true that it always lost +ten minutes a day, and sometimes stopped altogether. But there was no help for +it; so he kissed Mary and was grateful. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, the day was beautiful. In the morning they walked to church through +the Abbey plantations, which run for nearly half a mile along the edge of the +cliff. The rime lay thick upon the pines and firs—every little needle had +its separate coat of white whereon the sun’s rays glistened. The quiet +sea, too, shone like some gigantic emerald, and in the sweet stillness the song +of a robin perched upon the bending bough of a young poplar sounded pure and +clear. +</p> + +<p> +Yet it was not this calm and plenty, this glittering ocean flecked with white +sails, and barred by delicate lines of smoke, this blue and happy sky, nor all +the other good things that were given to him in such abundance, which steeped +his heart in Sabbath rest. Although he sought no inspiration from such drugs, +and, indeed, was a stranger to them, rather was his joy the joy of the +opium-eater while the poison works; the joy of him who after suffering long +nights of pain has found their antidote, and perhaps for the first time +appreciates the worth of peace, however empty. His troubled heart had ceased +its striving, his wrecked nerves were still, his questionings had been +answered, his ends were attained; he had drunk of the divine cup which he +desired, and its wine flowed through him. The dead had visited him, and he had +tasted of the delight which lies hid in death. On that day he felt as though +nothing could hurt him any more, nothing could even move him. The angry voices, +the wars, the struggles, the questionings—all the things which torment +mankind; what did they matter? He had forced the lock and broken the bar; if +only for a little while, the door had opened, and he had seen that which he +desired to see and sought with all his soul, and with the wondrous harvest of +this pure, inhuman passion, that owes nothing to sex, or time, or earth, he was +satisfied at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you look so strange in church?” asked Mary as they walked +home, and her voice echoed in the spaces of his void mind as words echo in an +empty hall. +</p> + +<p> +His thoughts were wandering far, and with difficulty he drew them back, as +birds tied by the foot are drawn back and, still fluttering to be free, brought +home to the familiar cage. +</p> + +<p> +“Strange, dear?” he answered; “did I look strange?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; like a man in a dream or the face of a saint being comfortably +martyred in a picture. Morris, I believe that you are not well. I will speak to +the doctor. He must give you a tonic, or something for your liver. Really, to +see you and that old mummy Mr. Fregelius staring at each other while he +murmured away about the delights of the world to come, and how happy we ought +to be at the thought of getting there, made me quite uncomfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Why, dear?” asked Morris, vacantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Because the old man with his pale face and big eyes looked more +like an astral body than a healthy human being; if I met him in his surplice at +night, I should think he was a ghost, and upon my word, you are catching the +same expression. That comes of your being so much together. Do be a little more +human and healthy. Lose your temper; swear at the cook like your father; admire +Jane Rose’s pretty bonnet, or her pretty face; take to horse-racing, do +anything that is natural, even if it is wicked. Anything that doesn’t +make one think of graves, and stars, and infinities, and souls who died last +night; of all of which no doubt we shall have plenty in due season.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, dear,” answered Morris, with a fine access of forced +cheerfulness, “we will have some champagne for dinner and play picquet +after it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Champagne! What’s the use of champagne when you only pretend to +drink it and fill up the glass with soda-water? Picquet! You hate it, and so do +I; and it is silly losing large sums of money to each other which we never mean +to pay. That isn’t the real thing, there’s no life in that. Oh, +Morris, if you love me, do cultivate some human error. It is terrible to have a +husband in whom there is nothing to reform.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try, love,” said Morris, earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied, with a gloomy shake of the head, “but you +won’t succeed. When Mrs. Roberts told me the other day that she was +afraid her husband was taking to drink because he went out walking too often +with that pretty widow from North Cove—the one with the black and gold +bonnet whom they say things about—I answered that I quite envied her, and +she didn’t in the least understand what I meant. But I understand, +although I can’t express myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I give up the drink,” said Morris; “it disagrees; but +perhaps you might introduce me to the widow. She seems rather +attractive.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” answered Mary, stamping her foot. “She’s a +horrid, vulgar little thing; but I’ll ask her to tea, or to stay, and +anything, if she can only make you look rather less disembodied.” +</p> + +<p> +That night the champagne appeared, and, feeling his wife’s eyes upon him, +Morris swallowed two whole glasses, and in consequence was quite cheerful, for +he had eaten little—circumstances under which champagne +exhilarates—for a little while. Then they went into the drawing-room and +talked themselves into silence about nothing in particular, after which Morris +began to wander round the room and contemplate the furniture as though he had +never seen it before. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you fidgeting about?” asked Mary. “Morris, you +remind me of somebody who wants to slip away to an assignation, which in your +case is absurd. I wish your father were back, I really do; I should be glad to +listen to his worst and longest story. It isn’t often that I sit with +you, so it would be kinder if you didn’t look so bored. I’m cross; +I’m going to bed. I hope you will spend a pleasant night in the chapel +with your thoughts and your instruments and the ghosts of the old Abbots. But +please come into my room quietly; I don’t like being woke up after three +in the morning, as I was yesterday.” And she went, slamming the door +behind her. +</p> + +<p> +Morris went also with hanging head and guilty step to his accustomed haunt in +the old chapel. He knew that he was doing wrong; he could sympathise with +Mary’s indignation. Yet he was unable to resist, he must see again, must +drink once more of that heavenly cup. +</p> + +<p> +And he failed. Was it the champagne? Was it Mary’s sharp words which had +ruffled him? Was it that he had not allowed enough time for the energy which +came from him enabling her to appear before his mortal eyes, to gather afresh +in the life-springs of his own nature? Or was she also angry with him? +</p> + +<p> +At least he failed. The waves came indeed, and the cold wind blew, but there +was no sound of music, and no vision. Again and again he strove to call it +up—to fancy that he saw. It was useless, and at last, weary, broken, but +filled with a mad irritation such as might be felt by a hungry man who sees +food which he cannot touch, or by a jealous lover who beholds her that should +have been his bride take another husband before his eyes, he crept away to such +rest as he could win. +</p> + +<p> +He awoke, ill, wretched, and unsatisfied, but wisdom had come to him with +sleep. He must not fail again, it was too wearing; he must prepare himself +according to the rules which he had laid down. Also he must conciliate his +wife, so that she did not speak angrily to him, and thus disturb his calm of +mind. Broken waters mirror nothing; if his soul was to be the glass in which +that beloved spirit might appear, it must be still and undisturbed. If? Then +was she built up in his imagination, or did he really see her with his eyes? He +could not tell, and after all it mattered little so long as he did see her. +</p> + +<p> +He grew cunning—in such circumstances a common symptom—affecting a +“bonhomie,” a joviality of demeanour, indeed, which was rather +overdone. He suggested that Mary should ask some people to tea, and twice he +went out shooting, a sport which he had almost abandoned. Only when she wanted +to invite certain guests to stay, he demurred a little, on account of the baby, +but so cleverly that she never suspected him of being insincere. In short, as +he could attain his unholy end in no other way, Morris entered on a career of +mild deception, designed to prevent his wife from suspecting him of she knew +not what. His conduct was that of a man engaged in an intrigue. In his case, +however, the possible end of his ill-doing was not the divorce-court, but an +asylum, or so some observers would have anticipated. Yet did man ever adore a +mistress so fatal and destroying as this poor shadow of the dead which he +desired? +</p> + +<p> +It was not until New Year’s Eve that Stella came again. Once more +enervated and exhausted by the waves, Morris sank into a doze whence, as +before, he was awakened by the sound of heavenly music to which, on this night, +was added the scent of perfume. Then he opened his eyes—to behold Stella. +As she had been at first, so she was now, only more lovely—a hundred +times lovelier than the imagination can paint, or the pen can tell. Here was +nothing pale or deathlike, no sheeted, melancholy spectre, but a radiant being +whose garment was the light, and whose eyes glowed like the heart of some deep +jewel. About her rolled a vision of many colours, such hues as the rainbow has +fell upon her face and about her hair. And yet it was the same Stella that he +had known made perfect and spiritual and, beyond all imagining, divine. +</p> + +<p> +Once more he addressed—implored her, and once more no answer came; nor +did her face change, or that wondrous smile pass from her lips into the gravity +of her eyes. This, at least, was sure; either that she no longer had any +understanding knowledge of his earthly tongue, or that its demonstration was to +her a thing forbidden. What was she then? That double of the body which the +Egyptians called the <i>Ka</i>, or the soul itself, the +πνεῦμα, no eidolon, but the immortal <i>ego</i>, +clothed in human semblance made divine? +</p> + +<p> +Why was there no answer? Because his speech was too gross for her to hearken +to? Why did she not speak? Because his ears were deaf? Was this an illusion? +No! a thousand times. When he approached she vanished, but what of it? He was +mortal, she a spirit; they might not mix. +</p> + +<p> +Yet in her own method she did speak, spoke to his soul, bidding the scales fall +from its eyes so that it might see. And it saw what human imagination could not +fashion. Behold those gardens, those groves that hang upon the measureless +mountain face, and the white flowers which droop in tresses from the dark bough +of yonder towering poplar tree, and the jewelled serpent nestling at its root. +</p> + +<p> +Oh! they are gone, and when the flame-eyed Figure smote, the vast, barring, +precipices fall apart and the road is smooth and open. +</p> + +<p> +How far? A million miles? No, twenty thousand millions. Look, yonder shines the +destined Star; now come! So, it is reached. Nay, do not stop to stare. Look +again! out through utter space to where the low light glows. So, come once +more. The suns float past like windblown golden dust—like the countless +lamps of boats upon the bosom of a summer sea. There, beneath, lies the very +home of Power. Those springing sparks of light? They are the ineffable Decrees +passing outward through infinity. That sound? It is the voice of worlds which +worship. +</p> + +<p> +Look now! Out yonder see the flaming gases gather and cohere. They burn out and +the great globe blackens. Cool mists wrap it, rains fall, seas collect, +continents arise. There is life, behold it, various and infinite. And hearken +to the whisper of this great universe, one tiny note in that song of praise you +heard but now. Yes, the life dies, the ball grows black again; it is the +carcase of a world. How long have you watched it? For an hour, a breath; but, +as you judge time, some ten thousand million years. Sleep now, you are weary; +later you shall understand. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the wraith of Stella spoke to his soul in visions. Presently, with +drumming ears and eyes before which strange lights seemed to play, Morris +staggered from the place, so weak, indeed, that he could scarcely thrust one +foot before the other. Yet his heart was filled with a mad joy, and his brain +was drunken with the deep cup of a delight and a knowledge that have seldom +been given to man. +</p> + +<p> +On other nights the visions were different. Thus he saw the spirits of men +going out and returning, and among them his own slumbering spirit that a vast +and shadowy Stella bore in her arms as a mother bears a babe. +</p> + +<p> +He saw also the Vision of Numbers. All the infinite inhabitants of all the +infinite worlds passed before him, marching through the ages to some end +unknown. Once, too, his mind was opened, and he understood the explanation of +Evil and the Reason of Things. He shouted at their glorious +simplicity—shouted for joy; but lo! before he rose from his chair they +were forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Other visions there were without count. Also they would mix and fall into new +patterns, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. There was no end to them, +and each was lovelier, or grander, or fraught with a more sweet entrancement, +than the last. And still she who brought them, she who opened his eyes, who +caused his ears to hear and his soul to see; she whom he worshipped; his +heart’s twin, she who had sworn herself to him on earth, and was there +waiting to fulfil the oath to all eternity; the woman who had become a spirit, +that spirit that had taken the shape of a woman—there she stood and +smiled and changed, and yet was changeless. And oh! what did it matter if his +life was draining from him, and oh! to die at those glittering feet, with that +perfumed breath stirring in his hair! What did he seek more when Death would be +the great immortal waking, when from twilight he passed out to light? What more +when in that dawn, awful yet smiling, she should be his and he hers, and they +twain would be one, with thought that answered thought, since it was the same +thought? +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +There is much that might be told—enough to fill many pages. It would be +easy, for instance, to set out long lists of the entrancing dreams which were +the soul speech of the spirit of Stella, and to some extent, to picture them. +Also the progress of the possession of Morris might be described and the +student of his history shown, step by step, how the consummation that in her +life days Stella had feared, overtook him; how “the thing got the mastery +of him,” and he became “unfitted for his work on earth!” How, +too, his body wasted and his spiritual part developed, till every physical +sight and deed became a cause of irritation to his new nature, and at times +even a source of active suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Thus an evil odour, the spectacle of pain, the cry of grief, the sight of the +carcases of dead animals, to take a few examples out of very many, were agonies +to his abnormal, exasperated nerves. Nor did it stop there, since the +misfortune which threatened Stella when at length she had succeeded in becoming +bodily conscious of the presence of the eidolon of her sister, and “heard +discords among the harmonies” of the rich music of her violin, overtook +him also. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, for instance, in the scent of the sweetest rose at times Morris would +discover something frightful; even the guise of tender childhood ceased to be +lovely in his eyes, for now he could see and feel the budding human brute +beneath. Worse still, his beautiful companion, Mary, fair and gracious as she +was, became almost repulsive to him, so that he shrank from her as in common +life some delicate-nurtured man might shrink from a full-bodied, coarse-tongued +young fishwife. Even her daily need of food, which was healthy though not +excessive, disgusted him to witness,—he who was out of touch with all +wholesome appetites of earth, whose distorted nature sought an alien rest and +solace. +</p> + +<p> +Of Mary herself, also, it might be narrated how, after first mocking at the +thought and next thrusting it away, by degrees she grew to appreciate the +reality of the mysterious foreign influence which reigned in her home. It might +be told how in that spiritual atmosphere, shedding its sleepy indolence, her +own spirit awoke and grew conscious and far-seeing, till impressions and hints +which in the old days she would have set aside as idle, became for her pregnant +with light and meaning. Then at last her eyes were opened, and understanding +much and guessing more she began to watch. The attitude of the Colonel also +could be studied, and how he grew first suspicious, then sarcastic, and at last +thoroughly alarmed, even to his ultimate evacuation of the Abbey House, +detailed at length. +</p> + +<p> +But to the chronicler of these doings and of their unusual issues at any rate, +it appears best to resist a natural temptation; to deny the desire to paint +such closing scenes in petto. Much more does this certainty hold of their +explanation. Enough has been said to enable those in whom the spark of +understanding may burn, to discover by its light how much is left unsaid. +Enough has been hinted at to teach how much there is still to guess. At least +few will deny that some things are best abandoned to the imagination. To +attempt to drag the last veil from the face of Truth in any of her thousand +shapes is surely a folly predoomed to failure. From the beginning she has been +a veiled divinity, and veiled, however thinly, she must and will remain. Also, +even were it possible thus to rob her, would not her bared eyes frighten us? +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was late, very late, and there, pale and haggard in the low light of the +fire, once again Morris stood pleading with the radiant image which his heart +revealed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, speak! speak!” he moaned aloud. “I weary of those +pictures. They are too vast; they crush me. I grow weak. I have no strength +left to fight against the power of this fearful life that is discovered. I +cannot bear this calm everlasting life. It sucks out my mortality as mists are +sucked up by the sun. Become human. Speak. Let me touch your hand. Or be angry. +Only cease smiling that awful smile, and take those solemn eyes out of my +heart. Oh, my darling, my darling! remember that I am still a man. In pity +answer me before I die.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Then a low and awful cry, and Morris turned to behold Mary his wife. At last +she had seen and heard, and read his naked heart. At last she knew +him—mad, and in his madness, most unfaithful—a man who loved one +dead and dragged her down to earth for company. +</p> + +<p> +Look! there in his charmed and secret sight stood the spirit, and there, over +against her, the mortal woman, and he—wavering—he lost between the +two. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Certainly he had been sick a long while, since the sun-ray touched the face of +the old abbot carved in that corner of the room to support the hammer beam. +This, as he had known from a child, only chanced at mid-summer. Mary was +bending over him, but he was astonished to find that he could sit up and move. +Surely, then, his mind must have been more ill than his body. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” she said, “drink this, dear, and go to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a week after, and Morris had told her all, the kind and gentle wife who +was so good to him, who understood and could even smile as he explained, in +faltering, shame-heavy words. And he had sworn for her sake and his +children’s sake, that he would put away this awful traffic, and seek such +fellowship no more. +</p> + +<p> +Nor for six months did he seek it; not till the winter returned. Then, when his +body was strong again, the ravening hunger of his soul overcame him, and, lest +he should go mad or die of longing, Morris broke his oath—as she was sure +he would. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +One night Mary missed her husband from her side, and creeping down in the grey +of the morning, she found him sitting in his chair in the chapel workshop, +smiling strangely, but cold and dead. Then her heart seemed to break, for she +loved him. Yet, remembering her promises, and the dust whereof he was made, and +the fate to which he had been appointed, she forgave him all. +</p> + +<p> +The search renewed, or the fruit of some fresh discovery—what he sought +or what he saw, who knows?—had killed him. +</p> + +<p> +Or perhaps Stella had seemed to speak at last and the word he heard her say was +<i>Come!</i> +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +This, then, is the end of the story of Stella Fregelius upon earth, and this +the writing on a leaf torn from the book of three human destinies. Remember, +only one leaf. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STELLA FREGELIUS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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