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<html>

<h1>

    STELLA FREGELIUS

</h1>

<h2>

A TALE OF THREE DESTINIES

</h2><br />

<br />
</html>


By [[H. Rider Haggard]]

<html>
<h3>

First Published 1904.

</h3><br />

<br />



<pre>

                        "Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,

                         Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum

                         Subjecit pedibus; strepitumque Acherontis avari."

</pre>









<br />

<br />

<hr>

<br />

<br />



<blockquote>

<p class="toc"><big><b>CONTENTS</b></big></p><br />



<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001">

DEDICATION

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0002">

AUTHOR'S NOTE

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003">

<big><b>STELLA FREGELIUS</b></big>

</a></p>

<br />





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0001">

CHAPTER I

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0002">

CHAPTER II

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0003">

CHAPTER III

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0004">

CHAPTER IV

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0005">

CHAPTER V

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0006">

CHAPTER VI

</a></p>





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0007">

CHAPTER VII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0008">

CHAPTER VIII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0009">

CHAPTER IX

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0010">

CHAPTER X

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0011">

CHAPTER XI

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0012">

CHAPTER XII

</a></p>





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0013">

CHAPTER XIII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0014">

CHAPTER XIV

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0015">

CHAPTER XV

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0016">

CHAPTER XVI

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0017">

CHAPTER XVII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0018">

CHAPTER XVIII

</a></p>





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0019">

CHAPTER XIX

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0020">

CHAPTER XX

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0021">

CHAPTER XXI

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0022">

CHAPTER XXII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0023">

CHAPTER XXIII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0024">

CHAPTER XXIV

</a></p>

</blockquote>





<br />

<br />

<hr>



<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<br />

<br />





<h2>

    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>

<a name="2H_4_0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    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>

<center>

1903.

</center>

<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    STELLA FREGELIUS

</h2>

<a name="2HCH0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER I

</h2>

<h3>

    MORRIS, MARY, AND THE AEROPHONE

</h3>

<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,&mdash;whatever ether is&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;aerophones he

called them&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that was the dreadful thing. Once for a

while the instruments had worked, and with a space of several miles

between them. But&mdash;this was the maddening part of it&mdash;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&mdash;or aerophone, as its inventor had named it&mdash;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&mdash;of very common form&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;since that last business&mdash;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&mdash;"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&mdash;not now&mdash;and that's why you can't

hear me. Take my advice, Morris"&mdash;and she looked at him sharply&mdash;"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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;until you find someone

that will make it go&mdash;and then you would adore her&mdash;by aerophone!"

</p>

<a name="2HCH0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER II

</h2>

<h3>

    THE COLONEL AND SOME REFLECTIONS

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;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&mdash;Morris&mdash;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&mdash;"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&mdash;yes, glorious&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;which you are not&mdash;er&mdash;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 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&mdash;or perhaps I

should say instincts, for they are hereditary&mdash;to his own advantage.

In fact, however, directly or indirectly, he has done well out of this

property and his connection with our family&mdash;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&mdash;it is

not in your line either&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;your having abandoned the

very strange profession which you selected, and devoted yourself to

researches which, if interesting, must be called abstract&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;if she is not

quite to the manner born&mdash;has the interest in that great colliery and a

rather sickly brother. Lastly&mdash;and this is strange enough, considering

how you treat them&mdash;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&mdash;especially Eliza Layard, who isn't a lady, and

has a vicious temper&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

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 this 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&mdash;or

so he gathered&mdash;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&mdash;and this touched

him, this commanded his sympathy&mdash;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&mdash;Morris could not conceal it, even from

himself&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;if

ever&mdash;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 of 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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER III

</h2>

<h3>

    "POOR PORSON"

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;the one filled with

bottle-glass&mdash;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 pounds 3s. 10d.

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&mdash;unless"&mdash;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&mdash;no, of a great inventor about him."

</p>

<p>

"Do you really?" replied the Colonel, much interested. "That is

curious&mdash;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 pounds, 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&mdash;the position is impossible.

Unless, indeed, something happens."

</p>

<p>

"Quite so. That's it. My only comfort is&mdash;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&mdash;entirely without his own design&mdash;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&mdash;in practice a gift&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;not even latter day young ladies&mdash;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&mdash;if he

doesn't forget to come&mdash;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&mdash;except dad there and&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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 this throat&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;so&mdash;why shouldn't they&mdash;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&mdash;I mean&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that's four generations from old John Porson,

the Quaker sugar merchant, who came from nobody knows where&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;"though you don't mention it to Mary&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 pounds

into an Australian mine, never thinking to see it again. Yesterday I

sold that stock for 50,000 pounds."

</p>

<p>

"Fifty thousand pounds!" ejaculated the Colonel, astonished into

admiration.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, or to be accurate, 49,375 pounds, 3s., 10d., and&mdash;that's where the

jar comes in&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;both of us, who would not sell our flesh and blood

for such trash as that."

</p>

<a name="2HCH0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER IV

</h2>

<h3>

    MARY PREACHES AND THE COLONEL PREVAILS

</h3>

<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&mdash;I

mean the iron things&mdash;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&mdash;the French call them 'veilleuses', don't they?&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;but

I daresay you do often enough. Look here, Morris, you think me very

silly&mdash;almost foolish&mdash;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&mdash;as when I made you hear that thing, you

know, thereby proving that it is all right, only useless&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;oh! yes, you have been at it from a boy, you see I have got a

good memory, I remember all your 'vision stories'&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;not one that can

be relied upon. I begin to doubt whether it exists."

</p>

<p>

"Why don't you give it up&mdash;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 pounds 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&mdash;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&mdash;yes, mad&mdash;because&mdash;Oh!

what's the use of making excuses&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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>

Morris, for whom the day never seemed long enough, was a person who

breakfasted punctually at half-past eight, whereas Colonel Monk, to

whom&mdash;at any rate at Monksland&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER V

</h2>

<h3>

    A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE

</h3>

<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 affect 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&mdash;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"&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;and this seemed more probable&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;no wind stirred it, though the wind was at work aloft&mdash;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&mdash;which dwellers in the country so rarely

appreciate, because to them they are common, daily things&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;table-turning ones I mean&mdash;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&mdash;before heaven it is true&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;which I am sure you would never do&mdash;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&mdash;of itself. It seemed to typify what I

meant, and to suggest a wandering star&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VI

</h2>

<h3>

    THE GOOD OLD DAYS

</h3>

<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; witter, 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&mdash;and

then without any certitude&mdash;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&mdash;that was the

strange part of it&mdash;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&mdash;like the sound of a passing bell at a child's feast&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;. 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&mdash;&mdash;

</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&mdash;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&mdash;like&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;it had been

arranged that the Porsons should stop at Seaview till the New Year,

which was to be the day of the marriage&mdash;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&mdash;for this

conversation took place at Seaview&mdash;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&mdash;and it is not the first time

that a woman has allowed her whims to prevail over her secret wishes&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VII

</h2>

<h3>

    BEAULIEU

</h3>

<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&mdash;that&mdash;yes, I will say it&mdash;that horror!"

</p>

<p>

Meanwhile, as he strolled down the street, beautifully dressed, and

still looking very upright and handsome&mdash;for he had never lost his

figure&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;a quiet, dogged kind of expression&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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"&mdash;here Morris groaned, but asked no questions&mdash;"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&mdash;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&mdash;I quote uncle Richard&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 "menage" 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&mdash;as he was fated to go.

</p>

<p>

"Good-bye, my dear son," said Mr. Porson&mdash;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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VIII

</h2>

<h3>

    THE SUNK ROCKS AND THE SINGER

</h3>

<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&mdash;or,

rather early, for it was near to two o'clock in the morning&mdash;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>

"Naufrage la bas," he said; "bateau a vapeur, naufrage sur les

rochers&mdash;brouillard. Nouse echappe."

</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 blesse, 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 casse, beaucoup mal casse," explained the French scholar.

</p>

<p>

"Apportez-le vite apres 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&mdash;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 his 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"&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;strangely impelled&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;thirty, forty, seventy yards&mdash;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&mdash;" and she paused, then added: "tell me the

worst&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;at least, the immediate danger,"

she added.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER IX

</h2>

<h3>

    MISS FREGELIUS

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;just one&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;or try to be&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER X

</h2>

<h3>

    DAWN AND THE LAND

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;at least, none here. I have&mdash;I mean

I had&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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,"&mdash;now her voice had sunk to a whisper,&mdash;"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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;&mdash;

</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&mdash;&mdash;

</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>

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>

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&mdash;from the beginning Stella had this curious

power of discovering his mind&mdash;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>

"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. MARY."

</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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XI

</h2>

<h3>

    A MORNING SERVICE

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;you must pay no attention to me. I think that I hear Stella

coming; you will say nothing to her&mdash;about that song, I mean&mdash;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&mdash;and here Morris's hazard was correct&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for undoubtedly she had power&mdash;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&mdash;and in all its details

this adventure was very strange&mdash;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>

"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 Mary."

</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>

<pre>

     "And now, O Father, mindful of the love

     That bought us, once for all, on Calvary's tree."

</pre>

<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>

<pre>

     "Look, Father, look on His anointed face,"

</pre>

<p>

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>

<pre>

     "And then for those, our dearest and best,

     By this prevailing Presence we appeal;

     O! fold them closer to Thy mercy's breast,

     O! do Thine utmost, for their souls' true weal;

     From tainting mischief keep them white and clear,

     And crown Thy gifts with strength to persevere."

</pre>

<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&mdash;unless you are very,

very good, as I daresay you are&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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?"&mdash;"decided" she was going to say, but changed the word to

"kind"&mdash;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&mdash;"I should like to shut her into her

own coal mine."

</p>

<p>

Stella laughed, which was a rare thing with her&mdash;usually she only

smiled&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;

</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&mdash;beaten out of the field by a hymn-tune, a pair of

brown eyes, and&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"I have no doubt you would&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XII

</h2>

<h3>

    MR. LAYARD'S WOOING

</h3>

<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

"arriere-pensee." 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&mdash;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&mdash;perhaps more, perhaps less&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;yes,

understanding&mdash;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>

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&mdash;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>

<pre>

     "Though here my Star seems set,

     I know 'twill light me yet."

</pre>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this horrid

thing was talking about just now&mdash;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,&mdash;for at the time this woman really held his

heart,&mdash;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&mdash;where you will feel it one day, to your

sorrow"&mdash;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&mdash;'Who can number the clouds in wisdom&mdash;&mdash;'"

</p>

<p>

"Not Mr. Layard or I," thought Stella sadly to herself, as she called

back the answering verse.

</p>

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<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XIII

</h2>

<h3>

    TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER

</h3>

<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&mdash;&mdash;"

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&mdash;the happy

ending. Doesn't it sound nice?"

</p>

<p>

"Ye&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;what do you call

it?&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;or at least very few of them&mdash;has refused

a young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds a

year&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;I didn't mean anything of the sort&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;yes, and at times

your face, too&mdash;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&mdash;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>

"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&mdash;although you haven't mentioned the fact&mdash;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 menage you must be at

the Abbey now! You and the Star who has risen from the ocean&mdash;she ought

to have been called Venus&mdash;tete-a-tete, 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&mdash;she is Danish, isn't she?&mdash;make good coffee, and how, oh! how does

she get on with the cook?"

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;for now, be it

said, he had quite convinced himself that she was engaged&mdash;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&mdash;she found his displeasure painful. What had she done wrong, how had

she offended him? Surely it could not be&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;

</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&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for the living&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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. Now 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&mdash;all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he knew&mdash;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&mdash;<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&mdash;from my father I understood, but

that you should think it possible that I would sell myself&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XIV

</h2>

<h3>

    THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL

</h3>

<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>

"Dearest,&mdash;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&mdash;everything, everything. I can't write any more.

</p>

<p>

"Your loving "Mary."

</p>

<p>

"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&mdash;to accustom myself to not seeing him every

morning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French friend,

Gabrielle d'Estree? 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>

"My Dear Son (usually he called him Morris),&mdash;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&mdash;you

will please accept this as an official notice of the fact&mdash;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 pounds, 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

pounds to you, and but 100 pounds 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>

"Your affectionate father,

</p>

<p>

"Richard Monk.

</p>

<p>

"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>

"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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"My father's roof," broke in Morris again.

</p>

<p>

"I beg pardon&mdash;your father's roof&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;really fond&mdash;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&mdash;he is an imbecile

now, you know&mdash;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&mdash;or, rather, my son&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;again I must quote&mdash;'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&mdash;and, mind you, this is a great

compliment&mdash;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&mdash;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 'a 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>

<a name="2HCH0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XV

</h2>

<h3>

    THREE INTERVIEWS

</h3>

<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&mdash;"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&mdash;the blameless

Morris&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Like a cat's," snapped Eliza.

</p>

<p>

"The light within&mdash;I was going to say."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! I thought you meant the light without. Well, she may be

fascinating&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;yes, proposed to her!&mdash;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&mdash;in the East&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;if you

are not mistaken&mdash;how well it illustrates that line in the hymn this

morning:

</p>

<p>

"'How many a spot defiles the robe that wraps an earthly saint.'

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;the saints or the kissing? Both are serious enough,

but the two in combination&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;not to mention the lady's&mdash;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&mdash;after a

fashion&mdash;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>

At lunch time the Colonel remarked casually that he had walked a little

way with Miss Layard, who mentioned that she had seen them&mdash;i.e., his

son and Miss Fregelius&mdash;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&mdash;no, scandal is too

strong a word&mdash;gossip."

</p>

<p>

"What is alleged?" asked Mr. Fregelius faintly.

</p>

<p>

"Well, that your daughter threw over that young ass, Stephen Layard,

because&mdash;the story seems to me incredible, I admit&mdash;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&mdash;'Plato, thy confounded fantasies,' etc. You see, when people sit

up singing to each other alone till two in the morning&mdash;I don't mean

that Morris sings, he has no more voice than a crow; he does the

appreciative audience&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;decided&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"&mdash;&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that I was&mdash;so&mdash;so much in love with Mr. Monk

that on this account I had&mdash;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!&mdash;I see it all

now&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;what I have&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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"&mdash;here once more the

Colonel drew a bow at a venture&mdash;"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 pounds. 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>

<a name="2HCH0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XVI

</h2>

<h3>

    A MARRIAGE AND AFTER

</h3>

<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>

"Can I see you?&mdash;M. M."

</p>

<p>

to which came the following answer:

</p>

<p>

"Not to-day. Meet me to-morrow at the Dead Church at three o'clock.

&mdash;Stella."

</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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;perhaps, who can

say?&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;who is?&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;indeed&mdash;not that&mdash;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&mdash;I swear it is the truth. I am not

deceived. I know, I know, I <i>know</i>."

</p>

<p>

"What do you know&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;we

are always on the verge, and those Wings I have heard from childhood.

Fifty, even seventy years, and after them&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;here or hereafter&mdash;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&mdash;so. Now, before my Maker and the Presences who surround

us, I marry you, Morris Monk. Not in the flesh&mdash;with your flesh I have

nothing to do&mdash;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>

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 alter

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&mdash;I who stand

upon the threshold of the Eternal? . . . I can talk no more, the water

is rising in the church&mdash;already it is about my knees; but remember

every word which I have said to you; remember that we are wed&mdash;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&mdash;till you die, and afterwards will be

with you always&mdash;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&mdash;a seething

hiss&mdash;and the instrument was silent, for its twin was shattered.

Shattered also was the fair shape that held the spirit of Stella.

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XVII

</h2>

<h3>

    THE RETURN OF MARY

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;he would

take no cash&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;unhappy. She was leaving

her home, on your account&mdash;yes, on your account, it's no use pretending

otherwise, although no one ever told me so&mdash;and&mdash;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&mdash;about the removal of

the instruments, as he left it to be inferred&mdash;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>

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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

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.&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;"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&mdash;for the Colonel was not fond

of being overlooked, even in favour of an interesting son&mdash;"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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;ill? You are eating next to nothing,

and that's your fourth large glass of champagne&mdash;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&mdash;he was able to laugh by now&mdash;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&mdash;they have a perfect passion for cleanliness&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XVIII

</h2>

<h3>

    TWO EXPLANATIONS

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Through Eliza?" queried Mary.

</p>

<p>

"Through Eliza&mdash;who said&mdash;&mdash;" 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&mdash;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&mdash;exactly why or how I

forget&mdash;but I asked her flat out if she was in love with Morris.

Thereon&mdash;I assure you, my dear Mary, it was the most painful scene in

all my long experience&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for I gather there was an interview though nobody

knows about it, and that's where they met&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;which I am afraid I let out,

for I was in a great rage&mdash;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?&mdash;he is your

co-executor, isn't he?&mdash;and saved you the trouble?"

</p>

<p>

"Undoubtedly he could; but&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;not quite well?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Mary, I mean that&mdash;he is not quite well; that is, if my

observation goes for anything. I mean," he went on with quiet vehemence,

"I mean that&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;and she looked a

question.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, no!" he answered with a faint smile; "nothing at all&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;perhaps beautiful is not the word&mdash;"

</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&mdash;indeed, I am not sure that we should ever have known it had it

not been for the mischief-making of Eliza Layard&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"May she be rewarded," ejaculated Mary.

</p>

<p>

"Well, and after she&mdash;that is, Eliza Layard&mdash;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&mdash;was&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"In love with you&mdash;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&mdash;on Christmas Eve we met

there in the Dead Church. Then somehow&mdash;for I had no intention of such

a thing&mdash;all the truth came out, and I found that I was no longer master

of myself, and&mdash;God forgive me! and you, Mary, forgive me, too&mdash;that I

loved her also."

</p>

<p>

"And afterwards?" said Mary, moving her skirts a little.

</p>

<p>

"And afterwards&mdash;oh! it will sound strange to you&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that's years ago, isn't

it&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;probably because it was her own weak

side&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;if, for instance,

there had been no Mary Porson&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;"

</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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XIX

</h2>

<h3>

    MORRIS, THE MARRIED MAN

</h3>

<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>

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&mdash;who was rather clever at catching likenesses&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;when he went astray&mdash;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&mdash;whereof, for reasons which she suppressed, she did not

entirely approve&mdash;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 affect 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&mdash;Stella Fregelius&mdash;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&mdash;for the freemasonry of their

common love taught it to him&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XX

</h2>

<h3>

    STELLA'S DIARY

</h3>

<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&mdash;he called him Morris when they

were alone&mdash;"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"&mdash;Morris did not add, "at my risk."&mdash;"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&mdash;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&mdash;I rest very badly now&mdash;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&mdash;interested in her&mdash;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>

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&mdash;or perhaps been sent

to him&mdash;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&mdash;excellent answers&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for he skipped no word&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;indeed this habit clung to her to the last&mdash;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&mdash;until it was decided, indeed, that they

should move to Monksland&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;I confess my weakness&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;yes, the very first&mdash;arrived a letter from Mr. Tomley,

rector of Monksland, where the stipend is 100 pounds 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&mdash;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&mdash;I am not sure which&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XXI

</h2>

<h3>

    THE END OF STELLA'S DIARY

</h3>

<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 though 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&mdash;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>

"'Hail to thee, Sky King! Hail to thee, Earth King!'

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;thank God!&mdash;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:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"He is not handsome&mdash;I call him plain&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that

is, as engaged people are supposed to love each other. If he did he

would not have grown so angry&mdash;with himself&mdash;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&mdash;brief mention of other things, such as her father's health

excepted&mdash;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&mdash;for the while&mdash;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&mdash;more moved than I meant him to be, and I was moved myself.

I suppose that it was the surroundings; that old chapel&mdash;how well those

monks understood acoustic properties&mdash;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)&mdash;everything put together.

</p>

<p>

"While I was singing he told me that he was going away&mdash;to see Miss

Porson at Beaulieu, I suppose. When I had finished&mdash;oh! how tired I was

after the effort was over&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;Colonel M.&mdash;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&mdash;let us say&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;three months ago I had

never seen his face&mdash;and now I feel as though I had known him not only

all my life, but from the beginning of time&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;most of all, perhaps&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XXII

</h2>

<h3>

    THE EVIL GATE

</h3>

<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 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&mdash;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:&mdash;"Remember every

word which I have said to you. Remember that we are wed&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;Stella's&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;men much worse than himself perhaps&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;to charm

the dead back through the Gates of Death as Orpheus charmed Eurydice?

Yet Stella did this thing&mdash;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"&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;indeed, it was not far off&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the one they say is so

improper&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;that secret,

fascinating work which in effect was building a wall between him and the

healthy, common instincts of the world&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

<a name="2HCH0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XXIII

</h2>

<h3>

    STELLA COMES

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;or he acquired the power to see her, whichever it might

be. She came suddenly, unexpectedly, completely, as a goddess should.

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;that he knew.

Therefore it seemed that the matter was worth consideration&mdash;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 tete-a-tete 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>

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&mdash;in

its essence, simple and pathetic enough&mdash;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&mdash;as she had been.

As she had been&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;blackness.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER XXIV

</h2>

<h3>

    DREAMS AND THE SLEEP

</h3>

<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the one with the black and gold

bonnet whom they say things about&mdash;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&mdash;circumstances under which champagne

exhilarates&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;in such circumstances a common symptom&mdash;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&mdash;to

behold Stella. As she had been at first, so she was now, only more

lovely&mdash;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&mdash;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 {preuma}, 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>

There is much that might be told&mdash;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,&mdash;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>

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>

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&mdash;mad, and in his madness, most unfaithful&mdash;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&mdash;wavering&mdash;he lost between

the two.

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;as she was sure he would.

</p>

<p>

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&mdash;what he sought

or what he saw, who knows?&mdash;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>

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>

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