Stella Fregelius, H. Rider Haggard [list of e readers .TXT] 📗

“And what did he talk about?”

“Oh, the aerophone, I think; I don’t remember.”

“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?”

Under this cross-examination Stella grew desperate, unnecessarily, perhaps, and said in a voice that was almost cross:

“I cannot tell you; please let’s talk of something else.”

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.

“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.

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.

The rest of that walk was marked by unbroken silence. Both of them were very glad when it was finished.

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.

“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.

“Yes, father, I have brought you your tea. Are you ready for it?”

“Thank you, my dear. Have you been at that place—what do you call it?—the Dead Church, all day?”

“Yes, and the experiments went beautifully.”

“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?”

“I prefer to be alone—generally.”

“I know, I know. Forgive me; but you are a very odd woman, my dear.”

“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.”

“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.”

“So he told me,” answered Stella.

“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.”

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:

“He did call in, and—he said it.”

“What, my dear, what?” asked Mr. Fregelius innocently.

“He asked me to marry him, father; I think he told me with your consent.”

Mr. Fregelius, auguring the very best from this openness, answered in tones which he could not prevent from betraying an unseemly joy.

“Quite true, Stella; I told him to go on and prosper; and really I hope he has prospered.”

“Yes,” said Stella reflectively.

“Then, my dear love, am I to understand that you are engaged to him?”

“Engaged to him! Certainly not,” she answered.

“Then,” snapped out her justly indignant parent, “how in the name of Heaven has he prospered?”

“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.”

Mr. Fregelius groaned in bitterness of spirit.

“Oh, Stella, Stella,” he cried, “what a disappointment!”

“Why should you be disappointed, father dear?” she asked gently.

“Why? You stand there and ask why, when I hear that my daughter, who will scarcely have a sixpence—or at least very few of them—has refused a young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds a year—that’s his exact income, for he told me himself, a most estimable churchman, who would have been a pillar of strength to me, a man whom I should have chosen out of ten thousand as a son-in-law——” and he ceased, overwhelmed.

“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.”

“And why not, pray? Are you better born——”

“Yes,” interrupted Stella, whose one pride was that of her ancient lineage.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant better bred and generally superior to him? You talk as though you were of a different clay.”

“Perhaps the clay is the same,” said Stella, “but the mind is not.”

“Oh, there it is again, spiritual and intellectual pride, which causes you to set yourself above your fellows, and in the end will be your ruin. It has made a lonely woman of you for years, and it will do worse than that. It will turn you into an old maid—if you live,” he added, as though shaken by some sudden memory.

“Perhaps,” said Stella, “I am not frightened at the prospect. I daresay that I shall have a little money and at the worst I can always earn a living; my voice would help me to it, if nothing else does. Father, dear, you mustn’t be vexed with me; and pray—pray do understand that no earthly thing would make me marry a man whom I dislike rather than otherwise; who, at least, is not a mate for me, merely because he could give me a fine house to live in, and treat me luxuriously. What would be the good of such things to me if I knew that I had tarnished myself and violated my instincts?”

“You talk like a book—you talk like a book,” muttered the old gentleman. “But I know that the end of it will be wretchedness for everybody. People who go on as you do about instincts, and fine feelings, and all that stuff, are just the ones who get into some dreadful mess at last. I tell you that such ideas are some of the devil’s best baits.”

Stella began to grow indignant.

“Do you think, father, that you ought to talk to me quite like that?” she asked. “Don’t you know me well enough to be sure that I should never get into what you call a mess—at least, not in the way I suppose you mean? My heart and thought are my own, and I shall be prepared to render account of them; for the rest, you need not be afraid.”

“I didn’t mean that—I didn’t mean anything of the sort——”

“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.”

“What I did mean is that you are an enigma; that I am frightened about you; that you are no companion; because your thoughts—yes, and at times your face, too—seem unnatural, unearthly, and separate you from others, as they have separated you from this poor young man.”

“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?”

“Mad,” muttered her father to himself as she left the room. “Mad as she is charming and beautiful; or, if not mad, at least quite impracticable and unfitted for the world. What a disappointment to me—what a bitter disappointment! Well, I should be used to them by now.”

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.

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.

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:

“I am glad to hear the young lady whom you fished up out of the sea is such an assistance to you in your experiments. I gather from what I hear—although you haven’t mentioned the fact—that she is as beautiful as she is charming, and that she sings wonderfully. She must be something remarkable, I am sure, because Eliza Layard evidently detests her, and says that she is trying to ensnare the affections of that squire of dames, her brother Stephen, now temporarily homeless after a visit to Jane Rose. What will you do when you have to get on without her? I am afraid you must accustom yourself to the idea, unless she would like to make a third in the honeymoon party. Joking apart, I am exceedingly grateful to her for all the help she has given you, and, dear, dear Morris, more delighted than I can tell you to learn that after all your years of patient labour you believe success to be absolutely within sight.

“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—she ought to have been called Venus—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.