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

Mary. “I have heard nothing; you must remember that I have been in a convent where one does not see the English papers.”

“The death of Stella Fregelius,” said the Colonel sadly.

“What! the daughter of the new rector—the young lady whom Morris took off the wreck, and whom I have been longing to ask him about, only I forgot last night? Do you mean to say that she is dead?”

“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.”

“How awful!” said Mary. “Tell me about it; how did it happen?”

“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.”

“Perfectly,” said Mary in a quiet voice, “if Eliza was concerned in it; but please go on with the story.”

“Well, the gossip came to my ears——”

“Through Eliza?” queried Mary.

“Through Eliza—who said——” and he told her about the incident of the ulster and the dog-cart, adding that he believed it to be entirely untrue.

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.”

“She seems to have been a very attractive young woman,” said Mary, in the same quiet, contemplative voice.

“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.”

“I remember,” broke in Mary, “that old Mr. Tomley, after he returned from inspecting the Northumberland living, spoke about Miss Fregelius’s wonderful eyes—at the dinner-party, you know, on the night when Morris proposed to me,” and she shivered a little as though she had turned suddenly cold.

“Well, let me go on with my story. After she had told me this, and I had promised to help her with introductions—exactly why or how I forget—but I asked her flat out if she was in love with Morris. Thereon—I assure you, my dear Mary, it was the most painful scene in all my long experience—the poor thing turned white as a sheet, and would have fallen if I had not caught hold of her. When she came to herself a little, she admitted frankly that this was her case, but added—of which, of course, one may believe as much as one likes, that she had never known it until I asked the question.”

“I think that quite possible,” said Mary; “and really, uncle, to me your cross-examination seems to have been slightly indiscreet.”

“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?”

“If you please.”

“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.”

“Did she commit suicide?” asked Mary.

“It is said not; it is suggested that after Morris’s interview with her in the Dead Church—for I gather there was an interview though nobody knows about it, and that’s where they met—she fell asleep, which sounds an odd thing to do in the midst of such a gale as was raging on Christmas Eve, and so was overwhelmed. But who can say? Impressionable and unhappy women have done such deeds before now, especially if they imagine themselves to have become the object of gossip. Of course, also, the mere possibility of such a thing having happened on his account would be, and indeed has been, enough to drive a man like Morris crazy with grief and remorse.”

“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.”

“I imagine—very little, if anything. At least, I know this, that when I spoke to him about the matter after my talk with her, I gathered from what he said that there was absolutely nothing between them. To be quite frank, however, as I have tried to be with you, my dear, throughout this conversation, I also gathered that this young lady had produced a certain effect upon his mind, or at least that the knowledge that she had avowed herself to be attached to him—which I am afraid I let out, for I was in a great rage—produced some such effect. Well, afterwards I believe, although I have asked no questions and am not sure of it, he went and said good-bye to her in this church, at her request. Then this dreadful tragedy happened, and there is an end of her and her story.”

“Have you any object in telling it to me, uncle?”

“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.”

“Severity was never my strong point,” interrupted Mary.

“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.”

Mary made no answer.

“Didn’t you say you had some documents you wanted me to sign?” she asked presently.

“Oh, yes; here is the thing,” and he pulled a paper out of his pocket; “the lawyers write that it need not be witnessed.”

Mary glanced at it. “Couldn’t Morris have brought this?—he is your co-executor, isn’t he?—and saved you the trouble?”

“Undoubtedly he could; but——”

“But what?”

“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.”

“What am I to understand by that, uncle?” she said, looking at him shrewdly. “Do you mean that he is—not quite well?”

“Yes, Mary, I mean that—he is not quite well; that is, if my observation goes for anything. I mean,” he went on with quiet vehemence, “I mean that—just at present, of course, he has been so upset by this miserable affair that for my part I wouldn’t put any confidence in what he says about it, or about anything else. The thing has got upon his nerves and rendered him temporarily unfit for the business of ordinary life. You know that at the best of times he is a very peculiar man and not quite like other people.

“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.”

“Yes, uncle; and thank you for taking so much trouble.”

When the door had closed behind him Mary reflected awhile. Then she said to herself:

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

Morris obeyed. “My father has been lunching with you, has he not?” he said somewhat nervously.

“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.”

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.

“Mary,” he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, “I have a confession to make to you, and I must make it—about this dead woman, I mean. I will not sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and then judge.”

“Dear me,” she answered; “this sounds dreadfully tragic. But I may as well tell you at once that I have already heard some gossip.”

“I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was known only to me and her.”

Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary’s eyes.

“What am I to understand?” she said in a low voice—and she looked a question.

“Oh, no!” he answered with a