Stella Fregelius, H. Rider Haggard [list of e readers .TXT] 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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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.
“‘Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season, or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons?’”
So it went on for a few more verses, till just as the instrument was saying, “‘Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given understanding to the heart?’” the rude door in the brick partition opened, admitting a rush of wind and—Stephen Layard.
The little man sidled up nervously to where Stella was sitting on a camp-stool by the altar.
“How do you do?” said Stella, holding out her hand, and looking surprised.
“How do you do, Miss Fregelius? What—what are you doing in this dreadfully cold place on such a bitter day?”
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:
“‘Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given understanding to the heart?’”
“Good gracious,” said Mr. Layard. “I had no idea that Monk was here; I left him at the Abbey. Where is he?”
“At the Abbey,” answered Stella, as for the second time the voice of Morris rolled out the question from the Book.
“I don’t understand,” said Stephen, beginning to look frightened; “has it anything to do with his electrical experiments?”
Stella nodded. Then, addressing the instrument, said:
“Please stop reading for a while. Mr. Layard is calling here.”
“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.
Mr. Layard, who had heard these words, began a confused explanation till Stella broke in.
“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.”
“You are right there. Why on earth do you sit here so long?”
“To work, Mr. Layard.”
“Why should you work? I thought women hated it, and above all, why for Monk? Does he pay you?”
“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.”
“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?”
“Yes, but Miss Porson is not here; and if she were, perhaps she would not care for this particular work.”
Then came a pause, which, not knowing what this awkward silence might breed, Stella broke.
“I suppose you saw my father,” she said; “how did you find him looking?”
“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.”
“Indeed,” said Stella, looking at him with wondering eyes.
“Yes, and he says that if—it suits us both, he is quite willing; that, in fact, he would be very pleased to see you so well provided for.”
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.
“You know what I mean, don’t you?” he jerked out.
She shook her head.
“I mean—I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this horrid thing was talking about just now—understanding to the heart; yes, that’s it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella? I will make you a good husband, and it isn’t a bad place, and all that, and though your father says he has little to leave you, you will be treated as liberally as though you were a lady in your own right.”
Stella smiled a little.
“Will you marry me?” he asked again.
“I am afraid that I must answer no, Mr. Layard.”
Then the poor man broke out into a rhapsody of bitter disappointment, genuine emotion, and passionate entreaty.
“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.”
“Are you engaged?” he asked.
“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.”
Again he implored,—for at the time this woman really held his heart,—wringing his hands, and, indeed, weeping in the agony of a repulse which was the more dreadful because it was quite unexpected. He had scarcely imagined that this poor clergyman’s daughter, who had little but her looks and a sweet voice, would really refuse the best match for twenty miles round, nor had his conversation with her father suggested to his mind any such idea.
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.
So he begged on piteously enough, till at last Stella was forced to stop him by saying as gently as she could:
“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.”
Then a sudden fury seized him.
“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.”
“Then, Mr. Layard,” said Stella, striving to keep her temper, “you know more than I know myself.”
“Very likely,” he answered. “I never said you knew it, but it’s true, for all that. I feel it here—where you will feel it one day, to your sorrow”—and he placed his hand upon his heart.
A sudden terror took hold of her, but with difficulty she found her mental balance.
“I hoped, Mr. Layard,” she said, “that we might have parted friends; but how can we when you bring such accusations?”
“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.”
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.
Mechanically Stella switched on the instrument, and at once Morris’s voice was heard asking:
“I say, hasn’t he gone?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Thank goodness! Why on earth did you keep him gossiping all that time? Now then—‘Who can number the clouds in wisdom——‘”
“Not Mr. Layard or I,” thought Stella sadly to herself, as she called back the answering verse.
CHAPTER XIII TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“At least without it we should do nothing; besides, please do not pity me, for I have never been happier in my life.”
“I am most grateful,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know what I should have done without you through this critical time, or what I shall——” and he stopped.
“It went beautifully to-day, didn’t it?” she broke in, as though she had not heard his words.
“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.”
“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.”
“And after that?” queried Morris.
“Oh, after that, honour and glory and wealth and power and—the happy ending. Doesn’t it sound nice?”
“Ye—es, in a way. But,” he added with energy, “it won’t come off. No, not the aerophones, they are right enough I believe, but all the rest of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is too much. ‘Happy endings’ don’t come off. The happiness lies in the struggle, you know,—an old saying, but quite true. Afterwards something intervenes.”
“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.”
“I shall leave my work; that is enough for me,” he answered.
For a while they walked in silence; then some thought struck him, and he stopped to ask:
“Why did Layard come to the Dead Church to-day? He said that he was going home, and it isn’t on his road.”
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.
“To call, I suppose; or,” correcting herself, “perhaps from
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