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

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.

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.

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.

“What has happened to poor Jane?” she said, addressing Mary. “She looks as though she had been red-ochred down to her shoulders.”

“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—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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“I don’t admire anybody who can come to out to a dinner party with a head and neck like that,” retorted Eliza.

“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.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Miss Layard.

“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.

“Ripping,” said that gentleman, with emphasis. “But I wish she wouldn’t beat one at tennis; it is an insult to the stronger sex.”

Mary looked at him reflectively. His sister looked at him also.

“And I am sure that you think her beautiful, don’t you, Morris?” went on the imperturbable Mary.

“Certainly, of course; lovely,” he replied, with a vacuous stare at the elderly wife of the baronet.

“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.

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.

“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!”

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”—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.”

“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:

“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?”

“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.”

“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.

“Fregelius—the Reverend Peter Fregelius.”

“What an exceedingly odd name! Is he an Englishman?”

“Yes; but I think that his father was a Dane, and he married a Danish lady.”

“Indeed! Is she living?”

“Oh, no. She died a great many years ago. The old gentleman has only one child left—a girl.”

“What is her name?” asked someone idly, in a break of the general conversation, so that everybody paused to listen to his reply.

“Stella—Stella Fregelius; a very unusual girl.”

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.”

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.

On the whole, Mary enjoyed that dinner-party. Miss Layard, somewhat sore after her first encounter, attempted to retaliate later.

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.

“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.”

“What was that?” asked Morris.

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.

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.

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—and this seemed more probable—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.

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.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Porson, “I suppose that we had better be off too, or you won’t get your customary nine hours.”

Mary yawned slightly and assented, asserting that she had utterly exhausted herself in defending Miss Rose from the attacks of her rival, Miss Layard.

“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