Stella Fregelius, H. Rider Haggard [list of e readers .TXT] 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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Morris’s quiet, thoughtful eyes flashed in an ominous and unusual manner.
“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.”
“The facts, Morris,” answered his father, “justify any language that I can use.”
“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.”
The thought of his own ingenuity in hitting on the right solution of the story mollified the Colonel not a little.
“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.”
“What is my offence, then?” asked Morris.
“Your offence is that you have got her talked about; that you have made her in love with you—don’t deny it; I have it from her own lips. That you have driven her out of this place to earn a living in London as best she may, and that, being yourself an engaged man”—here once more the Colonel drew a bow at a venture—“you are what is called in love with her yourself.”
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.
“There is more, a great deal more, behind,” he went on. “For instance, all this will probably come to Mary’s ears.”
“Certainly it will; I shall tell her of it myself.”
“Which will be tantamount to breaking your engagement. May I ask if that is your intention?”
“No; but supposing that all you say were true, and that it was my intention, what then?”
“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.”
Morris bit his lip.
“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?”
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.”
“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?”
“You have a copy of your uncle Porson’s will in that drawer; give it me.”
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.”
“Well,” said Morris.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
Morris made no answer, and the Colonel went away somewhat weary and sorrowful. For once he had seen too much of his puppet-show.
CHAPTER XVI A MARRIAGE AND AFTER
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:
“Can I see you?—M. M.”
to which came the following answer:
“Not to-day. Meet me to-morrow at the Dead Church at three o’clock. —Stella.”
It was the only letter that he ever received from her.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
“You understand that we meet to part. I am going to London to-morrow; my father has consented.”
“That is Christmas Day,” he faltered.
“Yes, but there is an early train, the same that runs on Sundays.”
Then there was another pause.
“I wish to ask your pardon,” he said, “for all the trouble that I have brought upon you.”
She smiled. “I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard of these stories?”
“Yes, my father spoke to me; he told me of his conversation with you.”
“All of it?”
“I do not know; I suppose so,” and he hung his head.
“Oh!” she broke out in a kind of cry, “if he told you all——”
“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.”
“I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannot help things, and the truth will out.”
“Yes,” he said, quite simply; “we love each other, so we may as well admit it before we part.”
“Yes,” she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; “I know now—we love each other.”
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.
“It must always have been so,” said Morris.
“Always,” she answered, “from the beginning; from the time you saved my life and we were together in the boat and—perhaps, who can say?—before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our minds we did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should have found it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever have really kept us asunder.”
“Nothing but death,” he answered heavily.
“That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith,” she replied, with one of her bright smiles.
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