STELLA FREGELIUS

A TALE OF THREE DESTINIES

By H. Rider Haggard

First Published 1904. 

 "Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum Subjecit pedibus; strepitumque Acherontis avari. "

DEDICATION

My Dear John Berwick, When you read her history in MS. You thought well of "Stella Fregelius"and urged her introduction to the world. Therefore I ask you, my severeand accomplished critic, to accept the burden of a book for which youare to some extent responsible. Whatever its fate, at least it haspleased you and therefore has not been written quite in vain. 

H. Rider Haggard. 

Ditchingham, 25th August, 1903. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The author feels that he owes some apology to his readers for hisboldness in offering to them a modest story which is in no sense aromance of the character that perhaps they expect from him; which has, moreover, few exciting incidents and no climax of the accustomed order, since the end of it only indicates its real beginning. 

His excuse must be that, in the first instance, he wrote it purely toplease himself and now publishes it in the hope that it may please someothers. The problem of such a conflict, common enough mayhap did webut know it, between a departed and a present personality, of whichthe battle-ground is a bereaved human heart and the prize its completepossession; between earthly duty and spiritual desire also; was one thathad long attracted him. Finding at length a few months of leisure, hetreated the difficult theme, not indeed as he would have wished to do, but as best he could. 

He may explain further that when he drafted this book, now some fiveyears ago, instruments of the nature of the "aerophone" were not so muchtalked of as they are to-day. In fact this aerophone has little todo with his characters or their history, and the main motive of itsintroduction to his pages was to suggest how powerless are all suchmaterial means to bring within mortal reach the transcendental andunearthly ends which, with their aid, were attempted by Morris Monk. 

These, as that dreamer learned, must be far otherwise obtained, whetherin truth and spirit, or perchance, in visions only. 

1903. 

STELLA FREGELIUS

CHAPTER I

MORRIS, MARY, AND THE AEROPHONE

Above, the sky seemed one vast arc of solemn blue, set here and therewith points of tremulous fire; below, to the shadowy horizon, stretchedthe plain of the soft grey sea, while from the fragrances of night andearth floated a breath of sleep and flowers. 

A man leaned on the low wall that bordered the cliff edge, and lookedat sea beneath and sky above. Then he contemplated the horizon, andmurmured some line heard or learnt in childhood, ending "where earth andheaven meet. "

"But they only seem to meet, " he reflected to himself, idly. "If Isailed to that spot they would be as wide apart as ever. Yes, the starswould be as silent and as far away, and the sea quite as restless andas salt. Yet there must be a place where they do meet. No, Morris, myfriend, there is no such place in this world, material or moral; sostick to facts, and leave fancies alone. "

But that night this speculative man felt in the mood for fancies, forpresently he was staring at one of the constellations, and saying tohimself, "Why not? Well, why not? Granted force can travel throughether, --whatever ether is--why should it stop travelling? Give it timeenough, a few seconds, or a few minutes or a few years, and why shouldit not reach that star? Very likely it does, only there it wastesitself. What would be needed to make it serviceable? Simply this--thaton the star there should dwell an Intelligence armed with one of myinstruments, when I have perfected them, or the secret of them. Thenwho knows what might happen?" and he laughed a little to himself at thevagary. 

From all of which wandering speculations it may be gathered that MorrisMonk was that rather common yet problematical person, an inventor whodreamed dreams. 

An inventor, in truth, he was, although as yet he had never reallyinvented anything. Brought up as an electrical engineer, after a verybrief experience of his profession he had fallen victim to an idea andbecome a physicist. This was his idea, or the main point of it--forits details do not in the least concern our history: that by means ofa certain machine which he had conceived, but not as yet perfected, it would be possible to complete all existing systems of aerialcommunication, and enormously to simplify their action and enlarge theirscope. His instruments, which were wireless telephones--aerophones hecalled them--were to be made in pairs, twins that should talk onlyto each other. They required no high poles, or balloons, or any othercumbrous and expensive appliance; indeed, their size was no larger thanthat of a rather thick despatch box. And he had triumphed; the thing wasdone--in all but one or two details. 

For two long years he had struggled with these, and still they eludedhim. Once he had succeeded--that was the dreadful thing. Once for awhile the instruments had worked, and with a space of several milesbetween them. But--this was the maddening part of it--he had never beenable to repeat the exact conditions; or, rather, to discover preciselywhat they were. On that occasion he had entrusted one of his machines tohis first cousin, Mary Porson, a big girl with her hair still down herback, rather idle in disposition, but very intelligent, when she chose. Mary, for the most part, had been brought up at her father's house, close by. Often, too, she stayed with her uncle for weeks at a stretch, so at that time Morris was as intimate with her as a man of eight andtwenty usually is with a relative in her teens. 

The arrangement on this particular occasion was that she should take themachine--or aerophone, as its inventor had named it--to her home. Thenext morning, at the appointed hour, as Morris had often done before, hetried to effect communication, but without result. On the following day, at the same hour, he tried again, when, to his astonishment, instantlythe answer came back. Yes, as distinctly as though she were standing byhis side, he heard his cousin Mary's voice. 

"Are you there?" he said, quite hopelessly, merely as a matter ofform--of very common form--and well-nigh fell to the ground when hereceived the reply:

"Yes, yes, but I have just been telegraphed for to go to Beaulieu; mymother is very ill. "

"What is the matter with her?" he asked; and she replied:

"Inflammation of the lungs--but I must stop; I can't speak any more. "Then came some sobs and silence. 

That same afternoon, by Mary's direction, the aerophone was brought backto him in a dog-cart, and three days later he heard that her mother, Mrs. Porson, was dead. 

Some months passed, and when they met again, on her return from theRiviera, Morris found his cousin changed. She had parted from him achild, and now, beneath the shadow of the wings of grief, suddenlyshe had become a woman. Moreover, the best and frankest part of theirintimacy seemed to have vanished. There was a veil between them. Marythought of little, and at this time seemed to care for no one excepther mother, who was dead. And Morris, who had loved the child, recoiledsomewhat from the new-born woman. It may be explained that he was afraidof women. Still, with an eye to business, he spoke to her about theaerophone; and, so far as her memory served her, she confirmed all thedetails of their short conversation across the gulf of empty space. 

"You see, " he said, trembling with excitement, "I have got it at last. "

"It looks like it, " she answered, wearily, her thoughts already faraway. "Why shouldn't you? There are so many odd things of the sort. Butone can never be sure; it mightn't work next time. "

"Will you try again?" he asked. 

"If you like, " she answered; "but I don't believe I shall hear anythingnow. Somehow--since that last business--everything seems different tome. "

"Don't be foolish, " he said; "you have nothing to do with the hearing;it is my new receiver. "

"I daresay, " she replied; "but, then, why couldn't you make it work withother people?"

Morris answered nothing. He, too, wondered why. 

Next morning they made the experiment. It failed. Other experimentsfollowed at intervals, most of which were fiascos, although some werepartially successful. Thus, at times Mary could hear what he said. Butexcept for a word or two, and now and then a sentence, he could not hearher whom, when she was still a child and his playmate, once he had heardso clearly. 

"Why is it?" he said, a year or two later, dashing his fist upon thetable in impotent rage. "It has been; why can't it be?"

Mary turned her large blue eyes up to the ceiling, and reflectivelyrubbed her dimpled chin with a very pretty finger. 

"Isn't that the kind of question they used to ask oracles?" she askedlazily--"Oh! no, it was the oracles themselves that were so vague. Well, I suppose because 'was' is as different from 'is' as 'as' is from 'shallbe. ' We are changed, Cousin; that's all. "

He pointed to his patent receiver, and grew angry. 

"Oh, it isn't the receiver, " she said, smoothing her curling hair; "it'sus. You don't understand me a bit--not now--and that's why you can'thear me. Take my advice, Morris"--and she looked at him sharply--"whenyou find a woman whom you can hear on your patent receiver, you hadbetter marry her. It will be a good excuse for keeping her at a distanceafterwards. "

Then he lost his temper; indeed, he raved, and stormed, and nearlysmashed the patent receiver in his fury. To a scientific man, let itbe admitted, it was nothing short of maddening to be told that thesuccessful working of his instrument, to the manufacture of which hehad given eight years of toil and study, depended upon some pre-existentsympathy between the operators of its divided halves. If that were so, what was the use of his wonderful discovery, for who could ensure asympathetic correspondent? And yet the fact remained that when, intheir playmate days, he understood his cousin Mary, and when her quiet, indolent nature had been deeply moved by the shock of the news of hermother's peril, the aerophone had worked. Whereas now, when she hadbecome a grown-up young lady, he did not understand her any longer--he, whose heart was wrapped up in his experiments, and who by nature fearedthe adult members of her sex, and shrank from them; when, too, herplacid calm was no longer stirred, work it would not. 

She laughed at his temper; then grew serious, and said:

"Don't get angry, Morris. After all, there are lots of things that youand I can't understand, and it isn't odd that you should have tumbledacross one of them. If you think of it, nobody understands anything. They know that certain things happen, and how to make them happen; butthey don't know why they happen, or why, as in your case, when theyought to happen, they won't. "

"It is all very well for you to be philosophical, " he answered, turningupon her; "but can't you see, Mary, that the thing there is my life'swork? It is what I have given all my strength and all my brain to make, and if it fails in the end--why, then I fail too, once and forever. AndI have made it talk. It talked perfectly between this place and Seaview, and now you stand there and tell me that it won't work any more becauseI don't understand you. Then what am I to do?"

"Try to understand me, if you think it worth while, which I don't; orgo on experimenting, " she answered. "Try to find some substance which isless exquisitely sensitive, something a little grosser, more in key withthe material world; or to discover someone whom you do understand. Don'tlose heart; don't be beaten after all these years. "

"No, " he answered, "I don't unless I die, " and he turned to go. 

"Morris, " she said, in a softer voice, "I am lazy, I know. Perhapsthat is why I adore people who can work. So, although you don't thinkanything of me, I will do my honest best to get into sympathy with youagain; yes, and to help in any way I can. No; it's not a joke. I wouldgive a great deal to see the thing a success. "

"Why do you say I don't think anything of you, Mary? Of course, it isn'ttrue. Besides, you are my cousin, and we have always been good friendssince you were a little thing. "

She laughed. "Yes, and I suppose that as you had no brothers or sistersthey taught you to pray for your cousin, didn't they? Oh, I know allabout it. It is my unfortunate sex that is to blame; while I was a meretom-boy it was different. No one can serve two masters, can they? Youhave chosen to serve a machine that won't go, and I daresay that you arewise. Yes, I think that it is the better part--until you find someonethat will make it go--and then you would adore her--by aerophone!"

CHAPTER II

THE COLONEL AND SOME REFLECTIONS

Presently Morris heard a step upon the lawn, and turned to see hisfather sauntering towards him. Colonel Monk, C. B. , was an elderly man, over sixty indeed, but still of an upright and soldierly bearing. Hisrecord was rather distinguished. In his youth he had served in theCrimea, and in due course was promoted to the command of a regiment ofGuards. After this, certain diplomatic abilities caused him to be sentto one of the foreign capitals as military attache, and in reward ofthis service, on retiring, he was created a Companion of the Bath. Inappearance he was handsome also; in fact, much better looking than hisson, with his iron-grey hair, his clear-cut features, somewhat marredin effect by a certain shiftiness of the mouth, and his large dark eyes. Morris had those dark eyes also--they redeemed his face from plainness, for otherwise it showed no beauty, the features being too irregular, thebrow too prominent, and the mouth too large. Yet it could boast what, inthe case of a man at any rate, is better than beauty--spirituality, and a certain sympathetic charm. It was not the face which was soattractive, but rather the intelligence, the personality that shonethrough it, as the light shines through the horn panes of some homely, massive lantern. Speculative eyes of the sort that seem to searchhorizons and gather knowledge there, but shrink from the faces of women;a head of brown hair, short cut but untidy, an athletic, manlike form towhich, bizarrely enough, a slight stoop, the stoop of a student, seemedto give distinction, and hands slender and shapely as those of anEastern--such were the characteristics of Morris Monk, or at least thoseof them that the observer was apt to notice. 

"Hullo! Morris, are you star-gazing there?" said Colonel Monk, with ayawn. "I suppose that I must have fallen asleep after dinner--that comesof stopping too long at once in the country and drinking port. I noticeyou never touch it, and a good thing, too. There, my cigar is out. Now'sthe time for that new electric lighter of yours which I can never makework. "

Morris fumbled in his pocket and produced the lighter. Then he said:

"I am sorry, father; but I believe I forgot to charge it. "

"Ah! that's just like you, if you will forgive my saying so. You takeany amount of trouble to invent and perfect a thing, but when it comesto making use of it, then you forget, " and with a little gesture ofimpatience the Colonel turned aside to light a match from a box which hehad found in the pocket of his cape. 

"I am sorry, " said Morris, with a sigh, "but I am afraid it is true. When one's mind is very fully occupied with one thing----" and he brokeoff. 

"Ah! that's it, Morris, that's it, " said the Colonel, seating himselfupon a garden chair; "this hobby-horse of yours is carrying you--to thedevil, and your family with you. I don't want to be rough, but it istime that I spoke plain. Let's see, how long is it since you left theLondon firm?"

"Nine years this autumn, " answered Morris, setting his mouth a little, for he knew what was coming. The port drunk after claret had upsethis father's digestion and ruffled his temper. This meant that tohim--Morris--Fate had appointed a lecture. 

"Nine years, nine wasted years, idled and dreamt away in a village uponthe eastern coast. It is a large slice out of a man's life, my boy. Bythe time that I was your age I had done a good deal, " said his father, meditatively. When he meant to be disagreeable it was the Colonel'scustom to become reflective. 

"I can't admit that, " answered Morris, in his light, quick voice--"Imean I can't admit that my time has either been idled away or wasted. Onthe contrary, father, I have worked very hard, as I did at college, and as I have always done, with results which, without boasting, I mayfairly call glorious--yes, glorious--for when they are perfected theywill change the methods of communication throughout the whole world. "As he spoke, forgetting the sharp vexation of the moment, his face wasirradiated with light--like some evening cloud on which the sun strikessuddenly. 

Watching him out of the corner of his eye, even in that low moonlight, his father saw those fires of enthusiasm shine and die upon his son'sface, and the sight vexed him. Enthusiasm, as he conceived, perhaps withjustice, had been the ruin of Morris. Ceasing to be reflective, his tonebecame cruel. 

"Do you really think, Morris, that the world wishes to have its methodsof communication revolutionised? Aren't there enough telephones andphonograms and aerial telegraphs already? It seems to me that you merelywish to add a new terror to existence. However, there is no need topursue an academical discussion, since this wretched machine of yours, on which you have wasted so much time, appears to be a miserablefailure. "

Now, to throw the non-success of his invention into the teeth of theinventor, especially when that inventor knows that it is successfulreally, although just at present it does not happen to work, is a verydeadly insult. Few indeed could be deadlier, except, perhaps, that ofthe cruelty which can suggest to a woman that no man will ever look ather because of her plainness and lack of attraction; or the coarsetaunt which, by shameless implication, unjustly accuses the soldier ofcowardice, the diplomat of having betrayed the secrets of his country, or the lawyer of having sold his brief. All the more, therefore, was itto Morris's credit that he felt the lash sting without a show of temper. 

"I have tried to explain to you, father, " he began, struggling to freehis clear voice from the note of indignation. 

"Of course you have, Morris; don't trouble yourself to repeat that longstory. But even if you were successful--which you are not--er--I cannotsee the commercial use of this invention. As a scientific toy it may bevery well, though, personally, I should prefer to leave it alone, since, if you go firing off your thoughts and words into space, how do you knowwho will answer them, or who will hear them?"

"Well, father, as you understand all about it, it is no use myexplaining any further. It is pretty late; I think I will be turningin. "

"I had hoped, " replied the Colonel, in an aggrieved voice, "that youmight have been able to spare me a few minutes' conversation. For someweeks I have been seeking an opportunity to talk to you; but somehowyour arduous occupations never seem to leave you free for ordinarysocial intercourse. "

"Certainly, " replied Morris, "though I don't quite know why you shouldsay that. I am always about the place if you want me. " But in his hearthe groaned, guessing what was coming. 

"Yes; but you are ever working at your chemicals and machinery in theold chapel; or reading those eternal books; or wandering about raptin contemplation of the heavens; so that, in short, I seldom like totrouble you with my mundane but necessary affairs. "

Morris made no answer; he was a very dutiful son and humble-spirited. Those who pit their intelligences against the forces of Nature, andtry to search out her secrets, become humble. He could not altogetherrespect his father; the gulf between them was too wide and deep. Buteven at his present age of three and thirty he considered it a duty tosubmit himself to him and his vagaries. Outside of other reasons, hismother had prayed him to do so almost with her last breath, and, livingor dead, Morris loved his mother. 

"Perhaps you are not aware, " went on Colonel Monk, after a solemn pause, "that the affairs of this property are approaching a crisis. "

"I know something, but no details, " answered Morris. "I have not likedto interfere, " he added apologetically. 

"And I have not not liked to trouble you with such sordid matters, "rejoined his parent, with sarcasm. "I presume, however, that you areacquainted with the main facts. I succeeded to this estate encumberedwith a mortgage, created by your grandfather, an extravagant andunbusiness-like man. That mortgage I looked to your mother's fortuneto pay off, but other calls made this impossible. For instance, thesea-wall here had to be built if the Abbey was to be saved, and half amile of sea-walling costs something. Also very extensive repairs to thehouse were necessary, and I was forced to take three farms in hand whenI retired from the army fifteen years ago. This has involved a net lossof about ten thousand pounds, while all the time the interest had to bepaid and the place kept up in a humble fashion. "

"I thought that my uncle Porson took over the mortgage after my mother'sdeath, " interrupted Morris. 

"That is so, " answered his father, wincing a little; "but a creditorremains a creditor, even if he happens to be a relative by marriage. Ihave nothing to say against your uncle John, who is an excellentperson in his way, and well-meaning. Of course, he has been justified, perfectly justified, in using his business abilities--or perhaps Ishould say instincts, for they are hereditary--to his own advantage. In fact, however, directly or indirectly, he has done well out of thisproperty and his connection with our family--exceedingly well, bothfinancially and socially. In a time of stress I was forced to sell himthe two miles of sea-frontage building-land between here and Northwoldfor a mere song. During the last ten years, as you know, he has cut thisup into over five hundred villa sites, which he has sold upon long leaseat ground-rents that to-day bring in annually as much as he paid for thewhole property. "

"Yes, father; but you might have done the same. He advised you to beforehe bought the land. "

"Perhaps I might, but I am not a tradesman; I do not understand theseaffairs. And, Morris, I must remind you that in such matters I have hadno assistance. I do not blame you any more than I blame myself--it isnot in your line either--but I repeat that I have had no assistance. "

Morris did not argue the point. "Well, father, " he asked, "what is theupshot? Are we ruined?"

"Ruined? That is a large word, and an ugly one. No, we are no moreruined than we have been for the last half-dozen years, for, thankHeaven, I still have resources and--friends. But, of course, this placeis in a way expensive, and you yourself would be the last to pretendthat our burdens have been lessened by--your having abandoned thevery strange profession which you selected, and devoted yourself toresearches which, if interesting, must be called abstract----"

"Forgive me, father, " interrupted Morris with a ring of indignationin his voice; "but you must remember that I put you to no expense. Inaddition to what I inherited from my mother, which, of course, underthe circumstances I do not ask for, I have my fellowship, out of whichI contribute something towards the cost of my living and experiments, that, by the way, I keep as low as possible. "

"Of course, of course, " said the Colonel, who did not wish to pursuethis branch of the subject, but his son went on:

"You know also that it was at your express wish that I came to live hereat Monksland, as for the purposes of my work it would have suited memuch better to take rooms in London or some other scientific centre. "

"Really, my dear boy, you should control yourself, " broke in his father. "That is always the way with recluses; they cannot bear the slightestcriticism. Of course, as you were going to devote yourself to this lineof research it was right and proper that we should live together. Surelyyou would not wish at my age that I should be deprived of the comfort ofthe society of an only child, especially now that your mother has leftus?"

"Certainly not, father, " answered Morris, softening, as was his fashionat the thought of his dead mother. 

Then came a pause, and he hoped that the conversation was at end; a vainhope, as it proved. 

"My real object in troubling you, Morris, " continued his father, presently, "was very different to the unnecessary discussions into whichwe have drifted. "

His son looked up, but said nothing. Again he knew what was coming, andit was worse than anything that had gone before. 

"This place seems very solitary with the two of us living in itsgreat rooms. I, who am getting an old fellow, and you a student and arecluse--no, don't deny it, for nowadays I can barely persuade you toattend even the Bench or a lawn-tennis party. Well, fortunately, wehave power to add to our numbers; or at least you have. I wish you wouldmarry, Morris. "

His son turned sharply, and answered:

"Thank you, father, but I have no fancy that way. "

"Now, there's Jane Rose, or that handsome Eliza Layard, " went on theColonel, taking no notice. "I have reason to know that you might haveeither of them for the asking, and they are both good women withouta breath against them, and, what in the state of this property is notwithout importance, very well to do. Jane gets fifty thousand poundsdown on the day of her marriage, and as much more, together with theplace, upon old Lady Rose's death; while Miss Layard--if she is notquite to the manner born--has the interest in that great colliery and arather sickly brother. Lastly--and this is strange enough, consideringhow you treat them--they admire you, or at least Eliza does, for shetold me she thought you the most interesting man she had ever met. "

"Did she indeed!" ejaculated Morris. "Why, I have only spoken threetimes to her during the last year. "

"No doubt, my dear boy, that is why she thinks you interesting. To heryou are a mine of splendid possibilities. But I understand that youdon't like either of them. "

"No, not particularly--especially Eliza Layard, who isn't a lady, andhas a vicious temper--nor any young woman whom I have ever met. "

"Do you mean to tell me candidly, Morris, that at your age you detestwomen?"

"I don't say that; I only say that I never met one to whom I felt muchattracted, and that I have met a great many by whom I was repelled. "

"Decidedly, Morris, in you the strain of the ancestral fish is toopredominant. It isn't natural; it really isn't. You ought to have beenborn three centuries ago, when the old monks lived here. You would havemade a first-class abbot, and might have been canonised by now. Am I tounderstand, then, that you absolutely decline to marry?"

"No, father; I don't want you to understand anything of the sort. If Icould meet a lady whom I liked, and who wouldn't expect too much, andwho was foolish enough to wish to take me, of course I should marry her, as you are so bent upon it. "

"Well, Morris, and what sort of a woman would fulfil the conditions, toyour notion?"

His son looked about him vaguely, as though he expected to find hisideal in some nook of the dim garden. 

"What sort of a woman? Well, somebody like my cousin Mary, I suppose--aneasy-going person of that kind, who always looks pleasant and cool. "

Morris did not see him, for he had turned his head away; but at themention of Mary Porson's name his father started, as though someone hadpricked him with a pin. But Colonel Monk had not commanded a regimentwith some success and been a military attache for nothing; having filleddiplomatic positions, public and private, in his time, he could keephis countenance, and play his part when he chose. Indeed, did hissimpler-minded son but know it, all that evening he had been playing apart. 

"Oh! that's your style, is it?" he said. "Well, at your age I shouldhave preferred something a little different. But there is no accountingfor tastes; and after all, Mary is a beautiful woman, and clever inher own way. By Jove! there's one o'clock striking, and I promised oldCharters that I would always be in bed by half-past eleven. Good night, my boy. By the way, you remember that your uncle Porson is coming toSeaview to-morrow from London, and that we are engaged to dine with himat eight. Fancy a man who could build that pretentious monstrosity andcall it Seaview! Well, it will condemn him to the seventh generation;but in this world one must take people as one finds them, and theirhouses, too. Mind you lock the garden door when you come in. Goodnight. "

"Really, " thought Colonel Monk to himself as he took off his dress-shoesand, with military precision, set them side by side beneath a chair, "itdoes seem a little hard on me that I should be responsible for a son whois in love with a damned, unworkable electrical machine. And with hischances--with his chances! Why he might have been a second secretary inthe Diplomatic Service by now, or anything else to which interest couldhelp him. And there he sits hour after hour gabbling down a littletrumpet and listening for an answer which never comes--hour after hour, and month after month, and year after year. Is he a genius, or is he anidiot, or a moral curiosity, or simply useless? I'm hanged if I know, but that's a good idea about Mary; though, of course, there are thingsagainst it. Curious that I should never have considered the matterseriously before--because of the cousinship, I suppose. Would she havehim? It doesn't seem likely, but you can never know what a woman will orwill not do, and as a child she was very fond of Morris. At any rate thesituation is desperate, and if I can, I mean to save the old place, forhis sake and our family's, as well as my own. "

He went to the window, and, lifting a corner of the blind, looked out. "There he is, still staring at the sea and the sky, and there I daresayhe will be till dawn. I bet he has forgotten all about Mary now, and isthinking of his electrical machine. What a curiosity! Good heavens; whata curiosity! Ah, I wonder what they would have made of him in my oldmess five and thirty years ago?" And quite overcome by this reflection, the Colonel shook his grizzled head, put out the candle, and retired torest. 

His father was right. The beautiful September dawn was breaking over theplacid sea before Morris brushed the night dew from his hair and cloak, and went in by the abbot's door. 

What was he thinking of all the time? He scarcely knew. One by one, like little clouds in the summer sky, fancies arose in his mind to sailslowly across its depth and vanish upon an inconclusive and shadowyhorizon. Of course, he thought about his instruments; these were neverabsent from his heart. His instinct flew back to them as an oasis, as anisland of rest in the wilderness of this father's thorny and depressingconversation. The instruments were disappointing, it is true, atpresent; but, at any rate, they did not dwell gloomily upon impendingruin or suggest that it was his duty to get married. They remainedsilent, distressingly silent indeed. 

Well, as the question of marriage had been started, he might as wellface it out; that is, argue it in his mind, reduce it to its principles, follow it to its issues in a reasonable and scientific manner. What werethe facts? His family, which, by tradition, was reported to be Danishin its origin, had owned this property for several hundred years, thoughhow they came to own it remained a matter of dispute. Some said theAbbey and its lands were granted to a man of the name of Monk by HenryVIII. , of course for a consideration. Others held, and evidence existedin favour of this view, that on the dissolution of the monastery theabbot of the day, a shrewd man of easy principles, managed to possesshimself of the Chapter House and further extensive hereditaments, ofcourse with the connivance of the Commissioners, and, providing himselfwith a wife, to exchange a spiritual for a temporal dignity. At leastthis remained certain, that from the time of Elizabeth onwards Morris'sforefathers had been settled in the old Abbey house at Monksland; thatthe first of them about whom they really knew anything was named Monk, and that Monk was still the family name. 

Now they were all dead and gone, and their history, which wasundistinguished, does not matter. To come to the present day. His fathersucceeded to a diminished and encumbered estate; indeed, had it not beenfor the fortune of his mother, a Miss Porson and one of a middle classand business, but rather wealthy family, the property must have beensold years before. That fortune, however, had long ago been absorbed--orso he gathered--for his father, a brilliant and fashionable armyofficer, was not the man to stint himself or to nurse a crippledproperty. Indeed, it was wonderful to Morris how, without any particularchange in their style of living, which, if unpretentious, was not cheap, in these bad times they had managed to keep afloat at all. 

Unworldly as Morris might be, he could easily guess why his fatherwished that he should marry, and marry well. It was that he mightbolster up the fortunes of a shattered family. Also--and this touchedhim, this commanded his sympathy--he was the last of his race. Ifhe died without issue the ancient name of Monk became extinct, aconsummation from which his father shrank with something like horror. 

The Colonel was a selfish man--Morris could not conceal it, even fromhimself--one who had always thought of his own comfort and conveniencefirst. Yet, either from idleness or pride, to advance these he hadnever stooped to scheme. Where the welfare of his family was concerned, however, as his son knew, he was a schemer. That desire was the onereal and substantial thing in a somewhat superficial, egotistic, andfinessing character. 

Morris saw it all as he leaned there upon the railing, staring at themist-draped sea, more clearly, indeed, than he had ever seen it before. He understood, moreover, what an unsatisfactory son he must be to a manlike his father--if it had tried, Providence could hardly have furnishedhim with offspring more unsuitable. The Colonel had wished him to enterthe Diplomatic Service, or the Army, or at least to get himself calledto the Bar; but although a really brilliant University career andhis family influence would have given him advantages in any of theseprofessions, he had declined them all. So, following his natural bent, he became an electrician, and now, abandoning the practical side ofthat modest calling, he was an experimental physicist, full of deep butunremunerative lore, and--an unsuccessful inventor. Certainly he owedsomething to his family, and if his father wished that he should marry, well, marry he must, as a matter of duty, if for no other reason. Afterall, the thing was not pressing; for it it came to the point, what womanwas likely to accept him? All he had done to-night was to settlethe general principles in his own mind. When it became necessary--ifever--he could deal with the details. 

And yet this sort of marriage which was proposed to him, was it not anunholy business? He cared little for women, having no weakness that way, probably because of the energy which other young men gave to the pursuitof them was in his case absorbed by intense and brain-exhausting study. Therefore he was not a man who if left to himself, would marry, as somany do, merely in order to be married; indeed, the idea to him wasalmost repulsive. Had he been a woman-hater, he might have accepted itmore easily, for then to him one would have been as the other. But thetrouble was that he knew and felt that a time might come when in hiseyes one woman would be different from all others, a being who spoke notto his physical nature only, if at all, but to the core within him. Andif that happened, what then?

Look, the sun was rising. On the eastern sky of a sudden two goldendoors had opened in the canopy of night, and in and out of them seemedto pass glittering, swift-winged things, as souls might tread the Gateof Heaven. Look, too, at the little clouds that in an unending streamfloated out of the gloom--travellers pressed onwards by a breath ofdestiny. They were leaden-hued, all of them, black, indeed, at times, until they caught the radiance, and for a while became like the pennonsof an angel's wings. Then one by one the glory overtook and embracedthem, and they melted into it to be seen no more. 

What did the sight suggest to him? That it was worth while, perhaps, to be a mere drift of cloud, storm-driven and rain-laden in the bitterNight of Life, if the Morning of Deliverance brought such transformationon its wings. That beyond some such gates as these, gates that at times, greatly daring, he longed to tread, lay the answer to many a mystery. Amongst other things, perhaps, there he would learn the meaning of truemarriage, and why it is denied to most dwellers of the earth. Withouta union of the spirit was there indeed any marriage as it should beunderstood? And who in this world could hope to find his fellow spirit?

See, the sun had risen, the golden gates were shut. He had beendreaming, and was chilled to the bone. Wretchedness, mental and bodily, took hold of him. Well, often enough such is the fate of those whodream; those who turn from their needful, daily tasks to shape an angelout of this world's clay, trusting to some unknown god to give it lifeand spirit. 

CHAPTER III

"POOR PORSON"

Upon the morning following his conversation with Morris, Colonel Monkspent two hours or more in the library. Painfully did he wrestlethere with balance-sheets, adding up bank books; also other financialdocuments. 

"Phew!" he said, when at length the job was done. "It is worse than Ithought, a good deal worse. My credit must be excellent, or somebodywould have been down upon us before now. Well, I must talk things overwith Porson. He understands figures, and so he ought, considering thathe kept the books in his grandfather's shop. "

Then the Colonel went to lunch less downcast than might have beenexpected, since he anticipated a not unamusing half-hour with hisson. As he knew well, Morris detested business matters and moneycalculations. Still, reflected his parent, it was only right that heshould take his share of the family responsibilities--a fact which hefully intended to explain to him. 

But "in vain is the net spread, " etc. As Morris passed the door of thelibrary on his way to the old chapel of the Abbey, which now servedhim as a laboratory, he had seen his father bending over the desk andguessed his occupation. Knowing, therefore, what he must expect atlunch, Morris determined to dispense with that meal, and went out, muchto the Colonel's disappointment and indignation. "I hate, " he explainedto his brother-in-law Porson afterwards, "yes, I hate a fellow who won'tface disagreeables and shirks his responsibilities. "

Between Monksland and the town of Northwold lay some four miles ofcliff, most of which had been portioned off in building lots, forNorthwold was what is called a "rising watering-place. " About half-waybetween the Abbey and this town stood Mr. Porson's mansion. In fact, itwas nothing but a dwelling like those about it, presenting the familiarseaside gabled roofs of red tiles, and stucco walls decorated with shamwoodwork, with the difference that the house was exceedingly well builtand about four times as large as the average villa. 

"Great heavens! what a place!" said the Colonel to himself as he haltedat the private gateway which opened on to the cliff and surveyed itaffronting sea and sky in all its naked horror. "Show me the house andI will show you the man, " he went on to himself; "but, after all, onemustn't judge him too hardly. Poor Porson, he did not arrange his ownup-bringing or his ancestors. Hello! there he is. 

"John, John, John!" he shouted at a stout little person clad in a blackalpaca coat, a straw hat, and a pair of spectacles, who was engaged insad contemplation of a bed of dying evergreens. 

At the sound of that well-known voice the little man jumped as though hehad trodden on a pin, and turned round slowly, muttering to himself, "Gracious! It's him!" an ungrammatical sentence which indicatedsufficiently how wide a niche in the temple of his mind was filled withthe image of his brother-in-law, Colonel Monk. 

John Porson was a man of about six or eight and fifty, round-faced, bald, with large blue eyes not unlike those of a china doll, andclean-shaven except for a pair of sandy-coloured mutton-chop whiskers. In expression he was gentle, even timid, and in figure short and stout. At this very moment behind a hundred counters stand a hundred replicasof that good-hearted man and worthy citizen, John Porson. Can he bedescribed better or more briefly?

"How are you Colonel?" he said, hurrying forward. He had never yet daredto call his brother-in-law "Monk, " and much less by his Christian name, so he compromised on "Colonel. "

"Pretty well, thank you, considering my years and botherations. And howare you, John?"

"Not very grand, not very grand, " said the little man; "my heart hasbeen troubling me, and it was so dreadfully hot in London. "

"Then why didn't you come away?"

"Really I don't know. I understood that it had something to do with aparty, but I think the fact is that Mary was too lazy to look after theservants while they packed up. "

"Perhaps she had some attraction there, " suggested the Colonel, with ananxiety which might have been obvious to a more skilled observer. 

"Attraction! What do you mean?" asked Porson. 

"Mean, you old goose? Why, what should I mean? A young man, of course. "

"Oh! I see. No, I am sure it was nothing of that sort. Mary won't bebothered with young men. She is too lazy; she just looks over theirheads till they get tired and go away. I am sure it was the packing, or, perhaps, the party. But what are you staring at, Colonel? Is thereanything wrong?"

"No, no; only that wonderful window of yours--the one filled withbottle-glass--which always reminds me of a bull's-eye lantern standingon a preserved-beef tin, or the top of a toy lighthouse. "

Porson peered at the offending window through his spectacles. 

"Certainly, now you mention it, it does look a little odd from here, " hesaid; "naked, rather. You said so before, you remember, and I told themto plant the shrubs; but while I was away they let every one of the poorthings die. I will ask my architect, Jenkins, if he can't do anything;it might be pulled down, perhaps. "

"Better leave it alone, " said the Colonel, with a sniff. "If I knowanything of Jenkins he'd only put up something worse. I tell you, John, that where bricks and mortar are concerned that man's a moral monster. "

"I know you don't like his style, " murmured Porson; "but won't you comein, it is so hot out here in the sun?"

"Thank you, yes, but let us go to that place you call your den, not tothe drawing-room. If you can spare it, I want half-an-hour with you. That's why I came over in the afternoon, before dinner. "

"Certainly, certainly, " murmured Porson again, as he led the way tothe "den, " but to himself he added: "It's those mortgages, I'll bet. Ohdear! oh dear! when shall I see the last of them?"

Presently they were established in the den, the Colonel very cool andcomfortable in Mr. Porson's armchair, and Porson himself perchedupon the edge of a new-looking leather sofa in an attitude of painedexpectancy. 

"Now I am at your service, Colonel, " he said. 

"Oh! yes; well, it is just this. I want you, if you will, to lookthrough these figures for me, " and he produced and handed to him aportentous document headed "List of Obligations. "

Mr. Porson glanced at it, and instantly his round, simple face becameclever and alert. Here he was on his own ground. In five minutes he hadmastered the thing. 

"Yes, " he said, in a quick voice, "this is quite clear, but there issome mistake in the addition making a difference of 87 pounds 3s. 10d. In your favour. Well, where is the schedule of assets?"

"The schedule of assets, my dear John? I wish I knew. I have my pension, and there are the Abbey and estates, which, as things are, seem tobe mortgaged to their full value. That's about all, I think. Unless--unless"--and he laughed, "we throw in Morris's patent electricalmachine, which won't work. "

"It ought to be reckoned, perhaps, " replied Mr. Porson gravely; addingin a kind of burst, with an air of complete conviction: "I believe inMorris's machine, or, at least, I believe in Morris. He has the makingsof a great man--no, of a great inventor about him. "

"Do you really?" replied the Colonel, much interested. "That iscurious--and encouraging; for, my dear John, where business matters areconcerned, I trust your judgment. "

"But I doubt whether he will make any money out of it, " went on Porson. "One day the world will benefit; probably he will not benefit. "

The Colonel's interest faded. "Possibly, John; but, if so, perhapsfor present purposes we may leave this mysterious discovery out of thequestion. "

"I think so, I think so; but what is the point?"

"The point is that I seem to be about at the end of my tether, although, as yet, I am glad to say, nobody has actually pressed me, and I havecome to you, as a friend and a relative, for advice. What is to be done?I have sold you all the valuable land, and I am glad to think that youhave made a very good thing of it. Some years ago, also, you took overthe two heaviest mortgages on the Abbey estate, and I am sorry to saythat the interest is considerably in arrear. There remain the floatingdebts and other charges, amounting in all to about 7, 000 pounds, whichI have no means of meeting, and meanwhile, of course, the place must bekept up. Under these circumstances, John, I ask you as a business man, what is to be done?"

"And, as a business man, I say I'm hanged if I know, " said Porson, withunwonted energy. "All debts, no assets--the position is impossible. Unless, indeed, something happens. "

"Quite so. That's it. My only comfort is--that something might happen, "and he paused. 

Porson fidgeted about on the edge of the leather sofa and turned red. Inhis heart he was wondering whether he dared offer to pay off the debts. This he was quite able to do; more, he was willing to do, since to him, good simple man, the welfare of the ancient house of Monk, of which hisonly sister had married the head, was a far more important thing thanparting with a certain number of thousands of pounds. For birth andstation, in his plebeian humility, John Porson had a reverence whichwas almost superstitious. Moreover, he had loved his dead sisterdearly, and, in his way, he loved her son also. Also he revered hisbrother-in-law, the polished and splendid-looking Colonel, although itwas true that sometimes he writhed beneath his military and aristocraticheel. Particularly, indeed, did he resent, in his secret heart, thosecontinual sarcasms about his taste in architecture. 

Now, although the monetary transactions between them had been many, asluck would have it--entirely without his own design--they chanced in themain to have turned to his, Porson's, advantage. Thus, owing chieflyto his intelligent development of its possibilities, the land which hebought from the Monk estate had increased enormously in value; so muchso, indeed, that, even if he lost all the other sums advanced uponmortgage, he would still be considerably to the good. Therefore, as ithappened, the Colonel was really under no obligations to him. In thesecircumstances, Mr. Porson did not quite know how a cold-blooded offerof an advance of cash without security--in practice a gift--would bereceived. 

"Have you anything definite in your mind?" he hesitated, timidly. 

The Colonel reflected. On his part he was wondering how Porson wouldreceive the suggestion of a substantial loan. It seemed too muchto risk. He was proud, and did not like to lay himself open to thepossibility of rebuff. 

"I think not, John. Unless Morris should chance to make a good marriage, which is unlikely, for, as you know, he is an odd fish, I can seenothing before us except ruin. Indeed, at my age, it does not greatlymatter, but it seems a pity that the old house should come to an end insuch a melancholy and discreditable fashion. "

"A pity! It is more than a pity, " jerked out Porson, with a suddenwriggle which caused him to rock up and down upon the stiff springs ofthe new sofa. 

As he spoke there came a knock at the door, and from the further side ofit a slow, rich voice was heard, saying: "May I come in?"

"That's Mary, " said Mr. Porson. "Yes, come in, dear; it's only youruncle. "

The door opened, Mary came in, and, in some curious quiet way, at onceher personality seemed to take possession of and dominate that shadedroom. To begin with, her stature gave an idea of dominion, for, withoutbeing at all coarse, she was tall and full in frame. The face also wassomewhat massive, with a rounded chin and large, blue eyes that had atrick of looking half asleep, and above a low, broad forehead grew herwaving, golden hair, parted simply in the middle after the old Greekfashion. She wore a white dress, with a silver girdle that set off thebeautiful outlines of her figure to great advantage, and with her aperfume seemed to pass, perhaps from the roses on her bosom. 

"A beautiful woman, " thought the Colonel to himself, as she came in, andhe was no mean or inexperienced judge. "A beautiful woman, but a regularlotus-eater. "

"How do you do, Uncle Richard?" said Mary, pausing about six feet awayand holding out her hand. "I heard you scolding my poor dad about hisbow-window. In fact, you woke me up; and, do you know, you used exactlythe same words as you did at your visit after we came down from Londonlast year. "

"Bless me, my dear, " said the Colonel, struggling to his feet, andkissing his niece upon the forehead, "what a memory you have got! Itwill get you into trouble some day. "

"I daresay--me, or somebody else. But history repeated itself, uncle, that is all. The same sleepy Me in a lounge-chair, the same hot day, the same blue-bottle, and the same You scolding the same Daddy aboutthe same window. Though what on earth dad's window can matter to anyoneexcept himself, I can't understand. "

"I daresay not, my dear; I daresay not. We can none of us knoweverything--not even latter day young ladies--but I suggest that a fewhours with Fergussen's 'Handbook of Architecture' might enlighten you onthe point. "

Mary reflected, but the only repartee that she could conjure atthe moment was something about ancient lights which did not seemappropriate. Therefore, as she thought that she had done enough forhonour, and to remind her awe-inspiring relative that he could notsuppress her, suddenly she changed the subject. 

"You are looking very well, uncle, " she said, surveying him calmly;"and younger than you did last year. How is my cousin Morris? Will theaerophone talk yet?"

"Be careful, " said the Colonel, gallantly. "If even my grey hairs canprovoke a compliment, what homage is sufficient for a Sleeping Beauty?As for Morris, he is, I believe, much as usual; at least he stood thismorning till daybreak staring at the sea. I understand, however--if hedoesn't forget to come--that you are to have the pleasure of seeing himthis evening, when you will be able to judge for yourself. "

"Now, don't be sarcastic about Morris, uncle; I'd rather you went onabusing dad's window. "

"Certainly not, my dear, if it displeases you. But may I ask why he isto be considered sacred?"

"Why?" she answered, and a genuine note crept into her bantering voice. "Because he is one of the few men worth anything whom I ever chanced tomeet--except dad there and----"

"Spare me, " cut in the Colonel, with admirable skill, for well he knewthat his name was not upon the lady's lips. "But would it be impertinentto inquire what it is that constitutes Morris's preeminent excellence inyour eyes?"

"Of course not; only it is three things, not one. First, he works harderthan any man I know, and I think men who work adorable, because I am solazy myself. Secondly, he thinks a great deal, and very few people dothat to any purpose. Thirdly, I never feel inclined to go to sleep whenhe takes me in to dinner. Oh! you may laugh if you like, but ask dadwhat happened to me last month with that wretched old member of theGovernment, and before the sweets, too!"

"Please, please, " put in Mr. Porson, turning pink under pressure of somepainful recollection. "If you have finished sparring with your uncle, isn't there any tea, Mary?"

"I believe so, " she said, relapsing into a state of bland indifference. "I'll go and see. If I don't come back, you'll know it is there, " andMary passed through the door with that indolent, graceful walk which noone could mistake who once had seen her. 

Both her father and her uncle looked after her with admiration. Mr. Porson admired her because the man or woman who dared to meet thatdomestic tyrant his brother-in-law in single combat, and could issueunconquered from the doubtful fray, was indeed worthy to be honoured. Colonel Monk for his part hastened to do homage to a very pretty andcharming young lady, one, moreover, who was not in the least afraid ofhim. 

Mary had gone, and the air from the offending window, which was soconstructed as to let in a maximum of draught, banged the door behindher. The two men looked at each other. A thought was in the mind ofeach; but the Colonel, trained by long experience, and wise in hisgeneration, waited for Mr. Porson to speak. Many and many a time in theafter days did he find reason to congratulate himself upon this superbreticence--for there are occasions when discretion can amount almost tothe height of genius. Under their relative circumstances, if it hadbeen he who first suggested this alliance, he and his family must haveremained at the gravest disadvantage, and as for stipulations, well, hecould have made none. But as it chanced it was from poor Porson's lipsthat the suggestion came. 

Mr. Porson cleared this throat--once, twice, thrice. At the third rasp, the Colonel became very attentive. He remembered that his brother-in-lawhad done exactly the same thing at the very apex of a long-departedcrisis; indeed, just before he offered spontaneously to take over themortgages on the Abbey estate. 

"You were talking, Colonel, " he began, "when Mary came in, " and hepaused. 

"I daresay, " replied the Colonel indifferently, fixing a contemptuousglance upon some stone mullions of atrocious design. 

"About Morris marrying?"

"Oh, yes, so I was! Well?"

"Well--she seems to like him. I know she does indeed. She never talks ofany other young man. "

"She? Who?"

"My daughter, Mary; and--so--why shouldn't they--you know?"

"Really, John, I must ask you to be a little more explicit. It's no goodyour addressing me in your business ciphers. "

"Well--I mean--why shouldn't he marry her? Morris marry Mary? Is thatplain enough?" he asked in desperation. 

For a moment a mist gathered before the Colonel's eyes. Here wassalvation indeed, if only it could be brought about. Oh! if only itcould be brought about. 

But the dark eyes never changed, nor did a muscle move upon that pale, commanding countenance. 

"Morris marry Mary, " he repeated, dwelling on the alliterative wordsas though to convince himself that he had heard them aright. "That is avery strange proposition, my dear John, and sudden, too. Why, they arefirst cousins, and for that reason, I suppose, the thing never occurredto me--till last night, " he added to himself. 

"Yes, I know, Colonel; but I am not certain that this first cousinbusiness isn't a bit exaggerated. The returns of the asylums seem toshow it, and I know my doctor, Sir Henry Andrews, says it's nonsense. You'll admit that he is an authority. Also, it happened in my ownfamily, my father and mother were cousins, and we are none the worse. "

On another occasion the Colonel might have been inclined to comment onthis statement--of course, most politely. Now, however, he let it pass. 

"Well, John, " he said, "putting aside the cousinship, let me hear whatyour idea is of the advantages of such a union, should the partiesconcerned change to consider it suitable. "

"Quite so, quite so, that's business, " said Mr. Porson, brightening upat once. "From my point of view, these would be the advantages. As youknow, Colonel, so far as I am concerned my origin, for the time I havebeen able to trace it--that's four generations from old John Porson, the Quaker sugar merchant, who came from nobody knows where--althoughhonest, is humble, and until my father's day all in the line of retailtrade. But then my dear wife came in. She was a governess when I marriedher, as you may have heard, and of a very good Scotch family, one ofthe Camerons, so Mary isn't all of our cut--any more, " he added with asmile, "than Morris is all of yours. Still for her to marry a Monk wouldbe a lift up--a considerable lift up, and looked at from a businesspoint of view, worth a deal of money. 

"Also, I like my nephew Morris, and I am sure that Mary likes him, andI'd wish the two of them to inherit what I have got. They wouldn't havevery long to wait for it, Colonel, for those doctors may say what theywill, but I tell you, " he added, pathetically, tapping himself over theheart--"though you don't mention it to Mary--I know better. Oh! yes, Iknow better. That's about all, except, of course, that I should wish tosee her settled before I'm gone. A man dies happier, you understand, ifhe is certain whom his only child is going to marry; for when he isdead I suppose that he will know nothing of what happens to her. Or, perhaps, " he added, as though by an afterthought, "he may know too much, and not be able to help; which would be painful, very painful. "

"Don't get into those speculations, John, " said the Colonel, waving hishand. "They are unpleasant, and lead nowhere--sufficient to the day isthe evil thereof. "

"Quite so, quite so. Life is a queer game of blind-man's buff, isn't it;played in a mist on a mountain top, and the players keep dropping overthe precipices. But nobody heeds, because there are always plenty more, and the game goes on forever. Well, that's my side of the case. Do youwish me to put yours?"

"I should like to hear your view of it. "

"Very good, it is this. Here's a nice girl, no one can deny that, and anice man, although he's odd--you will admit as much. He's got name, andhe will have fame, or I am much mistaken. But, as it chances, through nofault of his, he wants money, or will want it, for without money theold place can't go on, and without a wife the old race can't go on. Now, Mary will have lots of money, for, to tell the truth, it keeps piling upuntil I am sick of it. I've been lucky in that way, Colonel, because Idon't care much about it, I suppose. I don't think that I ever yet madea really bad investment. Just look. Two years ago, to oblige an oldfriend who was in the shop with me when I was young, I put 5, 000 poundsinto an Australian mine, never thinking to see it again. Yesterday Isold that stock for 50, 000 pounds. "

"Fifty thousand pounds!" ejaculated the Colonel, astonished intoadmiration. 

"Yes, or to be accurate, 49, 375 pounds, 3s. , 10d. , and--that's where thejar comes in--I don't care. I never thought of it again since I got thebroker's note till this minute. I have been thinking all day about myheart, which is uneasy, and about what will happen to Mary when I amgone. What's the good of this dirty money to a dying man? I'd give itall to have my wife and the boy I lost back for a year or two; yes, Iwould go into a shop again and sell sugar like my grandfather, and liveon the profits from the till and the counter. There's Mary calling. Wemust tell a fib, we must say that we thought she was to come to fetchus; don't you forget. Well, there it is, perhaps you'll think it over atyour leisure. "

"Yes, John, " replied the Colonel, solemnly; "certainly I will think itover. Of course, there are pros and cons, but, on the whole, speakingoffhand, I don't see why the young people should not make a match. Alsoyou have always been a good relative, and, what is better, a good friendto me, so, of course, if possible I should like to fall in with yourwishes. "

Mr. Porson, who was advancing towards the door, wheeled round quickly. 

"Thank you, Colonel, " he said, "I appreciate your sentiments; but don'tyou make any mistake. It isn't my wishes that have to be fallen inwith--or your wishes. It's the wishes of your son, Morris, and mydaughter, Mary. If they are agreeable I'd like it well; if not, all themoney in the world, nor all the families in the world, wouldn't make mehave anything to do with the job, or you either. Whatever our failings, we are honest men--both of us, who would not sell our flesh and bloodfor such trash as that. "

CHAPTER IV

MARY PREACHES AND THE COLONEL PREVAILS

A fortnight had gone by, and during this time Morris was a frequentvisitor at Seaview. Also his Cousin Mary had come over twice or thriceto lunch, with her father or without him. Once, indeed, she had stoppedall the afternoon, spending most of it in the workshop with Morris. Thisworkshop, it may be remembered, was the old chapel of the Abbey, a verybeautiful and still perfect building, finished in early Tudor times, inwhich, by good fortune, the rich stained glass of the east window stillremained. It made a noble and spacious laboratory, with its wide naveand lovely roof of chestnut wood, whereof the corbels were seraphs, white-robed and golden-winged. 

"Are you not afraid to desecrate such a place with your horrid vices--Imean the iron things--and furnace and litter?" asked Mary. She had sunkdown upon an anvil, on which lay a newspaper, the first seat that shecould find, and thence surveyed the strange, incongruous scene. 

"Well, if you ask, I don't like it, " answered Morris. "But there is noother place that I can have, for my father is afraid of the forge in thehouse, and I can't afford to build a workshop outside. "

"It ought to be restored, " said Mary, "with a beautiful organ in acarved case and a lovely alabaster altar and one of those perpetuallamps of silver--the French call them 'veilleuses', don't they?--and theStations of the Cross in carved oak, and all the rest of it. "

Mary, it may be explained, had a tendency to admire the outwardadornments of ritualism if not its doctrines. 

"Quite so, " answered Morris, smiling. "When I have from five to seventhousand to spare I will set about the job, and hire a high-churchchaplain with a fine voice to come and say Mass for your benefit. By theway, would you like a confessional also? You omitted it from the list. "

"I think not. Besides, what on earth should I confess, except beingalways late for prayers through oversleeping myself in the morning, andgeneral uselessness?"

"Oh, I daresay you might find something if you tried, " suggested Morris. 

"Speak for yourself, please, Morris. To begin with your own account, there is the crime of sacrilege in using a chapel as a workshop. Look, those are all tombstones of abbots and other holy people, and undereach tombstone one of them is asleep. Yet there you are, using stronglanguage and whistling and making a horrible noise with hammers justabove their heads. I wonder they don't haunt you; I would if I werethey. "

"Perhaps they do, " said Morris, "only I don't see them. "

"Then they can't be there. "

"Why not? Because things are invisible and intangible it does not followthat they don't exist, as I ought to know as much as anyone. "

"Of course; but I am sure that if there were anything of that sort aboutyou would soon be in touch with it. With me it is different; I couldsleep sweetly with ghosts sitting on my bed in rows. "

"Why do you say that--about me, I mean?" asked Morris, in a more earnestvoice. 

"Oh, I don't know. Go and look at your own eyes in the glass--butI daresay you do often enough. Look here, Morris, you think me verysilly--almost foolish--don't you?"

"I never thought anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, if you wantto know, I think you a young woman rather more idle than most, and witha perfect passion for burying your talent in very white napkins. "

"Well, it all comes to the same thing, for there isn't much differencebetween fool-born and fool-manufactured. Sometimes I wake up, however, and have moments of wisdom--as when I made you hear that thing, youknow, thereby proving that it is all right, only useless--haven't I?"

"I daresay; but come to the point. "

"Don't be in a hurry. It is rather hard to express myself. What I meanis that you had better give up staring. "

"Staring? I never stared at you or anyone else, in my life!"

"Stupid Morris! By staring I mean star-gazing, and by star-gazing I meantrying to get away from the earth--in your mind, you know. "

Morris ran his fingers through his untidy hair and opened his lips toanswer. 

"Don't contradict me, " she interrupted in a full steady voice. "That'swhat you are thinking of half the day, and dreaming about all thenight. "

"What's that?" he ejaculated. 

"I don't know, " she answered, with a sudden access of indifference. "Doyou know yourself?"

"I am waiting for instruction, " said Morris, sarcastically. 

"All right, then, I'll try. I mean that you are not satisfied withthis world and those of us who live here. You keep trying to fashionanother--oh! yes, you have been at it from a boy, you see I have got agood memory, I remember all your 'vision stories'--and then you try toimagine its inhabitants. "

"Well, " said Morris, with the sullen air of a convicted criminal, "without admitting one word of this nonsense, what if I do?"

"Only that you had better look out that you don't _find_ whatever it isyou seek. It's a horrible mistake to be so spiritual, at least in thatkind of way. You should eat and drink, and sleep ten hours as I do, andnot go craving for vision till you can see, and praying for power untilyou can create. "

"See! Create! Who? What?"

"The inhabitant, or inhabitants. Just think, you may have been buildingher up all this time, imagination by imagination, and thought bythought. Then her day might come, and all that you have put outpiecemeal will return at once. Yes, she may appear, and take you, andpossess you, and lead you----"

"She? Why she? and where?"

"To the devil, I imagine, " answered Mary composedly, "and as you area man one can guess the guide's sex. It's getting dark, let us goout. This is such a creepy place in the dark that it actually makesme understand what people mean by nerves. And, Morris, of courseyou understand that I have only been talking rubbish. I always likedinventing fairy tales; you taught me; only this one is too grownup--disagreeable. What I really mean is that I do think it might be agood thing if you wouldn't live quite so much alone, and would go outa bit more. You are getting quite an odd look on your face; you areindeed, not like other men at all. I believe that it comes from yourworrying about this wretched invention until you are half crazy over thething. Any change there?"

He shook his head. "No, I can't find the right alloy--not one that canbe relied upon. I begin to doubt whether it exists. "

"Why don't you give it up--for a while at any rate?"

"I have. I made a novel kind of electrical hand-saw this spring, andsold the patent for 100 pounds and a royalty. There's commercial successfor you, and now I am at work on a new lamp of which I have the idea. "

"I am uncommonly glad to hear it, " said Mary with energy. "And, I say, Morris, you are not offended at my silly parables, are you? You knowwhat I mean. "

"Not a bit. I think it is very kind of you to worry your head aboutan impossible fellow like me. And look here, Mary, I have done somedreaming in my time, it is true, for so far the world has been a placeof tribulation to me, and it is sick hearts that dream. But I mean togive it up, for I know as well as you do that there is only one end toall these systems of mysticism. " Mary looked up. 

"I mean, " he went on, correcting himself, "to the mad attempt unduly andprematurely to cultivate our spiritual natures that we may live to andfor them, and not to and for our natural bodies. "

"Exactly my argument, put into long words, " said Mary. "There willbe plenty of time for that when we get down among those old gentlemenyonder--a year or two hence, you know. Meanwhile, let us take the worldas we find it. It isn't a bad place, after all, at times, and there areseveral things worth doing for those who are not too lazy. 

"Good-bye, I must be off; my bicycle is there against the railings. Oh, how I hate that machine! Now, listen, Morris; do you want to dosomething really useful, and earn the blessings of an affectionaterelative? Then invent a really reliable electrical bike, that would looknice and do all the work, so that I could sit on it comfortably and getto a place without my legs aching as though I had broken them, and a redface, and no breath left in my body. "

"I will think about it, " he said; "indeed, I have thought of it alreadybut the accumulators are the trouble. "

"Then go on thinking, there's an angel; think hard and continually untilyou evolve that blessed instrument of progression. I say, I haven't alamp. "

"I'll lend you mine, " suggested Morris. 

"No; other people's lamps always go out with me, and so do my own, forthat matter. I'll risk it; I know the policeman, and if we meet I willargue with him. Good-bye; don't forget we are coming to dinner to-morrownight. It's a party, isn't it?"

"I believe so. "

"What a bore, I must unpack my London dresses. Well, good-bye again. "

"Good-bye, dear, " answered Morris, and she was gone. 

"'Dear, '" thought Mary to herself; "he hasn't called me that since I wassixteen. I wonder why he does it now? Because I have been scolding him, I suppose; that generally makes men affectionate. "

For a while she glided forward through the grey twilight, and then beganto think again, muttering to herself:

"You idiot, Mary, why should you be pleased because he called you'dear'? He doesn't really care two-pence about you; his blood goes noquicker when you pass by and no slower when you stay away. Why do youbother about him? and what made you talk all that stuff this afternoon?Because you think he is in a queer way, and that if he goes on givinghimself up to his fancies he will become mad--yes, mad--because--Oh!what's the use of making excuses--because you are fond of him, andalways have been fond of him from a child, and can't help it. What afate! To be fond of a man who hasn't the heart to care for you or forany other woman. Perhaps, however, that's only because he hasn't foundthe right one, as he might do at any time, and then----"

"Where are you going to, and where's your light?" shouted a hoarse voicefrom the pathway on which she was unlawfully riding. 

"My good man, I wish I knew, " answered Mary, blandly. 

Morris, for whom the day never seemed long enough, was a person whobreakfasted punctually at half-past eight, whereas Colonel Monk, towhom--at any rate at Monksland--the day was often too long, generallybreakfasted at ten. To his astonishment, however, on entering thedining-room upon the morrow of his interview in the workshop with Mary, he found his father seated at the head of the table. 

"This means a 'few words' with me about something disagreeable, " thoughtMorris to himself as he dabbed viciously at an evasive sausage. Hewas not fond of these domestic conversations. Nor was he in the leastreassured by his father's airy and informed comments upon the contentsof the "Globe, " which always arrived by post, and the marvel of itsdaily "turnover" article, whereof the perpetual variety throughout thedecades constituted, the Colonel was wont to say, the eighth wonder ofthe world. Instinct, instructed by experience, assured him that thesewere but the first moves in the game. 

Towards the end of the meal he attempted retreat, pretending that hewanted to fetch something, but the Colonel, who was watching him overthe top of the pink page of the "Globe, " intervened promptly. 

"If you have a few minutes to spare, my dear boy, I should like to havea chat with you, " he said. 

"Certainly, father, " answered the dutiful Morris; "I am at yourservice. "

"Very good; then I will light my cigar, and we might take a strollon the beach, that is, after I have seen the cook about the dinnerto-night. Perhaps I shall find you presently by the steps. "

"I will wait for you there, " answered Morris. And wait he did, for aconsiderable while, for the interview with the cook proved lengthy. Moreover, the Colonel was not a punctual person, or one who set an unduevalue upon his own or other people's time. At length, just as Morris wasgrowing weary of the pristine but enticing occupation of making ducksand drakes with flat pebbles, his father appeared. After "salutations, "as they say in the East, he wasted ten more minutes in abusing the cook, ending up with a direct appeal for his son's estimate of her capacities. 

"She might be better and she might be worse, " answered Morris, judicially. 

"Quite so, " replied the Colonel, drily; "the remark is sound and appliesto most things. At present, however, I think that she is worse; alsoI hate the sight of her fat red face. But bother the cook, why do youthink so much about her; I have something else to say. "

"I don't think, " said Morris. "She doesn't excite me one way or theother, except when she is late with my breakfast. "

Then, as he expected, after the cook came the crisis. 

"You will remember, my dear boy, " began the Colonel, affectionately, "alittle talk we had a while ago. "

"Which one, father?"

"The last of any importance, I believe. I refer to the occasion when youstopped out all night contemplating the sea; an incident which impressedit upon my memory. "

Morris looked at him. Why was the old gentleman so inconvenientlyobservant?

"And doubtless you remember the subject?"

"There were a good many subjects, father; they ranged from mortgages tomatrimony. "

"Quite so, to matrimony. Well, have you thought any more about it?"

"Not particularly, father. Why should I?"

"Confound it, Morris, " exclaimed the Colonel, losing patience; "don'tchop logic like a petty sessions lawyer. Let's come to the point. "

"That is my desire, " answered Morris; and quite clearly there roseup before him an inconsequent picture of his mother teaching him theCatechism many, many years ago. Thereat, as was customary with his mindwhen any memory of her touched it, his temper softened like iron beneaththe influence of fire. 

"Very good, then what do you think of Mary as a wife?"

"How should I know under the circumstances?"

The Colonel fumed, and Morris added, "I beg your pardon, I understandwhat you mean. "

Then his father came to the charge. 

"To be brief, will you marry her?"

"Will she marry me?" asked Morris. "Isn't she too sensible?"

His father's eye twinkled, but he restrained himself. This, he felt, wasnot an occasion upon which to indulge his powers of sarcasm. 

"Upon my word, if you want my opinion, I believe she will; but you haveto ask her first. Look here, my boy, be advised by me, and do it as soonas possible. The notion is rather new to me, I admit; but, taking herall round, where would you find a better woman? You and I don't alwaysagree about things; we are of a different generation, and look at theworld from different standpoints. But I think that at the bottom werespect each other, and I am sure, " he added with a touch of restraineddignity, "that we are naturally and properly attached to eachother. Under these circumstances, and taking everything else intoconsideration, I am convinced also that you will give weight to myadvice. I assure you that I do not offer it lightly. It is that youshould marry your cousin Mary. "

"There is her side of the case to be considered, " suggested Morris. 

"Doubtless, and she is a very shrewd and sensible young woman under allher 'dolce far niente' air, who is quite capable of consideration. "

"I am not worthy of her, " his son broke in passionately. 

"That is for her to decide. I ask you to give her an opportunity ofexpressing an opinion. "

Morris looked at the sea and sky, then he looked at his father standingbefore him in an attitude that was almost suppliant, with head bowed, hands clasped, and on his clear-cut face an air of real sincerity. Whatright had he to resist this appeal? He was heart-whole, without anykind of complication, and for his cousin Mary he had true affection andrespect. Moreover, they had been brought up together. She understoodhim, and in the midst of so much that was uncertain and bewilderingshe seemed something genuine and solid, something to which a man couldcling. It may not have been a right spirit in which to approach thisquestion of marriage, but in the case of a young man like Morris, who was driven forward by no passion, by no scheme even of personaladvancement, this substitution of reason for impulse and instinct wasperhaps natural. 

"Very well, I will, " he answered; "but if she is wise, she won't. "

His father turned his head away and sighed softly, and that sigh seemedto lift a ton's weight off his heart. 

"I am glad to hear it, " he answered simply, "the rest must settleitself. By the way, if you are going up to the house, tell the cook thatI have changed my mind, we will have the soles fried with lemon; shealways makes a mess of them 'au maitre d'hotel. '"

CHAPTER V

A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE

Although it consisted of but a dozen people, the dinner-party at theAbbey that night was something of a function. To begin with, the oldrefectory, with its stone columns and arches still standing as theywere in the pre-Reformation days, lit with cunningly-arranged and shadedelectric lights designed and set up by Morris, was an absolutelyideal place in which to dine. Then, although the Monk family wereimpoverished, they still retained the store of plate accumulated by pastgenerations. Much of this silver was old and very beautiful, and whenset out upon the great side-boards produced an affect well suited tothat chamber and its accessories. The company also was pleasant andpresentable. There were the local baronet and his wife; the two beautiesof the neighbourhood, Miss Jane Rose and Miss Eliza Layard, with theirrespective belongings; the clergyman of the parish, a Mr. Tomley, whowas leaving the county for the north of England on account of his wife'shealth; and a clever and rising young doctor from the county town. These, with Mr. Porson and his daughter, made up the number who uponthis particular night with every intention of enjoying themselves, satdown 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, foundhimself at the foot of the oblong table with his partner on one sideand his cousin on the other. Mary, who was conducted to her seat by Mr. Layard, the delicate brother, an insignificant, pallid-looking specimenof humanity, for reasons of her own, not unconnected perhaps with theexpected presence of the Misses Layard and Rose, had determined to lookand 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 ofmagnificent diamonds. The general effect of her sheeny dress, snow-likeskin, and golden, waving hair, as she glided into the shaded room, suggested to Morris's mind a great white lily floating down the quietwater 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 thebreak of dawn. Later, after she became acquainted with these poeticalimaginings, Mary congratulated herself and her maid very warmly on thefact that she had actually summoned sufficient energy to telegraph totown for this particular dress. 

Of the other ladies present, Miss Layard was arrayed in a hot-lookingred garment, which she imagined would suit her dark eyes and complexion. Miss Rose, on the contrary, had come out in the virginal style of muslinand blue bows, whereof the effect, unhappily, was somewhat marred by afiery complexion, acquired as the result of three days' violent play ata tennis tournament. To this unfortunate circumstance Miss Layard, whohad her own views of Miss Rose, was not slow in calling attention. 

"What has happened to poor Jane?" she said, addressing Mary. "She looksas though she had been red-ochred down to her shoulders. "

"Who is poor Jane?" asked that young lady languidly. "Oh! you mean MissRose. I know, she has been playing in that tennis tournament at--what'sthe name of the place? Dad would drive me there this afternoon, and itmade me quite hot to look at her, jumping and running and hitting forhour 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, MissLayard?"

"No, " she answered sharply, for Miss Layard did not shine at Tennis. "Idislike women who go about what my brother calls 'pot-hunting' just asif they were professionals. "

"Oh, do you? I admire them. It must be so nice to be able to do anythingwell, even if it's only lawn tennis. It's the poor failures like myselffor whom I am so sorry. "

"I don't admire anybody who can come to out to a dinner party with ahead and neck like that, " retorted Eliza. 

"Why not? You can't burn, and that should make you more charitable. AndI tie myself up in veils and umbrellas, which is absurd. Besides, whatdoes it matter? You see, it is different with most of us; Miss Rose isso 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'tyou think Miss Rose beautiful, Mr. Layard?" she said, turning to hercompanion. 

"Ripping, " said that gentleman, with emphasis. "But I wish she wouldn'tbeat 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 onthe imperturbable Mary. 

"Certainly, of course; lovely, " he replied, with a vacuous stare at theelderly wife of the baronet. 

"There, Miss Layard, now you collect the opinions of the gentlemenall along your side. " And Mary turned away, ostensibly to talk to hercavalier; but really to find out what could possibly interest Morris sodeeply in the person or conversation of Lady Jones. 

Lady Jones was talking across the table to Mr. Tomley, the departingrector, a benevolent-looking person, with a broad forehead adorned likethat 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? Howbrave of you!"

Mr. Tomley smiled assent, adding: "You can imagine what a blow it isto me, Lady Jones, to separate myself from my dear parishioners andfriends"--here he eyed the Colonel, with whom he had waged a continualwar during his five years of residence in the parish, and added: "Butwe 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 withher, and is quite convinced that unless she is taken back to her nativeNorthumberland air the worst may be expected. "

"I fancy that it has arrived in that poor man's case, " thought Maryto herself. Lady Jones, who also knew Mrs. Tomley and the power of hertongue, nodded her head sympathetically and said:

"Of course, of course. A wife's health must be the first considerationof every good man. But isn't it rather lonely up there, Mr. Tomley?"

"Lonely, Lady Jones?" the clergyman replied with energy, and shaking hiswhite lock. "I assure you that the place is a howling desert; a greatmoor behind, and the great sea in front, and some rocks and the churchbetween the two. That's about all, but my wife likes it because she usedto stay at the rectory when she was a little girl. Her uncle was theincumbent there. She declares that she has never been well since sheleft the parish. "

"And what did you say is the name of the present inhabitant of thisearthly paradise, the man with whom you have exchanged?" interrupted theColonel. 

"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 Danishlady. "

"Indeed! Is she living?"

"Oh, no. She died a great many years ago. The old gentleman has only onechild left--a girl. "

"What is her name?" asked someone idly, in a break of the generalconversation, 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 thatthose 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 foreignnations 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 soreafter 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 thefray till, seeing that it grew acrimonious, for this brother and sisterdid 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. Youseem so sleepy. I know that I must have looked just like you when thatold political gentleman took me in to dinner, and I made an exhibitionof myself. "

"What was that?" asked Morris. 

So she told him the story of her unlawful slumbers, and so amusinglythat he burst out laughing and remained in an excellent mood for therest of the feast, or at any rate until the ladies had departed. Afterthis 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 hecould find a chance, to propose to Mary that night. The thing was to bedone, so the sooner he did it the better. 

Then it would be over, one way or the other. Besides, and this wasstrange and opportune enough, never had he felt so deeply and trulyattracted to Mary. Whether it was because her soft, indolent beautyshowed at its best this evening in that gown and setting, or becauseher conversation, with its sub-acid tinge of kindly humour amused him, or--and this seemed more probable--because her whole attitude towardshimself was so gentle and so full of sweet benevolence, he could notsay. At any rate, this remained true, she attracted him more than anywoman he had ever met, and sincerely he hoped and prayed that when heasked her to be his wife she might find it in her heart to say Yes. 

The rest of the entertainment resembled that of most countrydinner-parties. Conducted to the piano by the Colonel, who understoodmusic very well, the talented ladies of the party, including Miss Rose, sang songs with more or less success, while Miss Layard criticised, Marywas appreciative, and the men talked. At length the local baronet'swife looked at the local baronet, who thereupon asked leave to orderthe carriage. This example the rest of the company followed in quicksuccession until all were gone except Mr. Porson and his daughter. 

"Well, my dear, " said Mr. Porson, "I suppose that we had better be offtoo, or you won't get your customary nine hours. "

Mary yawned slightly and assented, asserting that she had utterlyexhausted 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'vegot that old map of the property unrolled on purpose to show you, andI don't want to keep it about, for it fills up the whole place. Morriswill look after Mary for half an hour, I daresay. "

"Certainly, " said Morris, but the heart within him sank to the level ofhis dress-shoes. Here was the opportunity for which he had wished, butas he could not be called a forward, or even a pushing lover, he wasalarmed at its very prompt arrival. This answer to his prayers wassomewhat too swift and thorough. There is a story of an enormously fatold Boer who was seated on the veld with his horse at his side, whensuddenly a band of armed natives rushed to attack him. "Oh, God, help!"he cried in his native _taal_, as he prepared to heave his huge forminto the saddle. Having thus invoked divine assistance, this DutchFalstaff went at the task with such a will that in a trice he foundhimself not on the horse, but over it, lying upon his back, indeed, among the grasses. "O God!" that deluded burgher exclaimed, reproachfully, as the Kaffirs came up and speared him, "Thou hast helpeda great deal too much!"

At this moment Morris felt very much like this stout but simple dwellerin the wilderness. He would have preferred to coquet with the enemyfor a while from the safety of his saddle. But Providence willed itotherwise. 

"Won't you come out, Mary?" he said, with the courage which inspiresmen in desperate situations. He felt that it would be impossible to saythose words with the electric lights looking at him like so many eyes. The thought of it, even, made him warm all over. 

"I don't know; it depends. Is there anything comfortable to sit on?"

"The deck chair, " he suggested. 

"That sounds nice. I have slumbered for hours in deck chairs. Look, there's a fur rug on that sofa, and here's my white cape; now you getyour coat, and I'll come. "

"Thank you, no; I don't want any coat; I am hot enough already. "

Mary turned and looked him up and down with her wondering blue eyes. 

"Do you really think it safe, " she said, "to expose yourself to allsorts of unknown dangers in this unprotected condition?"

"Of course, " he answered. "I am not afraid of the night air even inOctober. "

"Very well, very well, Morris, " she went on, and there was meaning inher voice; "then whatever happens don't blame me. It's so easy to berash and thoughtless and catch a chill, and then you may become aninvalid for life, or die, you know. One can't get rid of it again--atleast, not often. "

Morris looked at her with a puzzled air, and stepped through the windowwhich he had opened, on to the lawn, whither, with a quaint little shrugof her shoulders, Mary followed him, muttering to herself:

"Now if he takes cold, it won't be _my_ fault. " Then she stopped, clasped her hands, and said, "Oh! what a lovely night. I am glad that wecame out here. "

She was right, it was indeed lovely. High in the heavens floated abright half-moon, across whose face the little white-edged cloudsdrifted in quick succession, throwing their gigantic shadows to theworld beneath. All silver was the sleeping sea where the moonlight fellupon it, and when this was eclipsed, then it was all jet. To the rightand left, up to the very borders of the cliff, lay the soft wreathsof roke or land-fog, covering the earth as with a cloak of down, butpierced here and there by the dim and towering shapes of trees. Yetalthough these curling wreaths of mist hung on the edges of the clifflike white water about to fall, they never fell, since clear to thesight, though separated from them by a gulf of translucent blackness, lay the yellow belt of sand up which, inch by inch, the tide wascreeping. 

And the air--no wind stirred it, though the wind was at work aloft--itwas still and bright as crystal, and crisp and cold as new-iced wine, for the first autumn frost was falling. 

They stood for a few moments looking at all these wonderful beautiesof the mysterious night--which dwellers in the country so rarelyappreciate, because to them they are common, daily things--and listeningto the soft, long-drawn murmuring of the sea upon the shingle. Then theywent forward to the edge of the cliff, but although Morris threw the furrug over it Mary did not seat herself in the comfortable-looking deckchair. Her desire for repose had departed. She preferred to lean uponthe low grey wall in whose crannies grew lichens, tiny ferns, and, intheir season, harebells and wallflowers. Morris came and leant at herside; for a while they both stared at the sea. 

"Pray, are you making up poetry?" she inquired at last. 

"Why do you ask such silly questions?" he answered, not withoutindignation. 

"Because you keep muttering to yourself, and I thought that you weretrying to get the lines to scan. Also the sea, and the sky, and thenight suggest poetry, don't they?"

Morris turned his head and looked at her. 

"_You_ suggest it, " he said, with desperate earnestness, "in all thatshining white, especially when the moon goes in. Then you look like abeautiful spirit new lit upon the edge of the world. "

At first Mary was pleased, the compliment was obvious, and, coming fromMorris, great. She had never heard him say so much as that before. Thenshe thought an instant, and the echo of the word "spirit" came back toher mind, and jarred upon it with a little sudden shock. Even when hehad a lovely woman at his side must his fancy be wandering to theseunearthly denizens and similes. 

"Please, Morris, " she said almost sharply, "do not compare me to aspirit. I am a woman, nothing more, and if it is not enough that Ishould be a woman, then----" she paused, to add, "I beg your pardon, I know you meant to be nice, but once I had a friend who went in forspirits--table-turning ones I mean--with very bad results, and I detestthe name of them. "

Morris took this rebuff better than might have been expected. 

"Would you object if one ventured to call you an angel?" he asked. 

"Not if the word was used in a terrestrial sense. It excites a vision ofpossibilities, and the fib is so big that anyone must pardon it. "

"Very well, then; I call you that. "

"Thank you, I should be delighted to return the compliment. Can youthink of any celestial definition appropriate to a young gentleman withdark eyes?"

"Oh! Mary, please stop making fun of me, " said Morris, with somethinglike a groan. 

"Why?" she asked innocently. "Besides I wasn't making fun. It's only myway of carrying on conversation; they taught it me at school, you know. "

Morris made no answer; in fact, he did not know what on earth to say, orrather how to find the fitting words. After all, it was an accident andnot his own intelligence that freed him from his difficulty. Mary moveda little, causing the white cloak, which was unfastened, to slip fromher shoulders. Morris put out his hand to catch it, and met her hand. Inanother instant he had thrown his arm round her, drawn her to him, andkissed her on the lips. Then, abashed at what he had done, he let her goand picked up the cloak. 

"Might I ask?" began Mary in her usual sweet, low tones. Then her voicebroke, and her blue eyes filled with tears. 

"I beg your pardon; I am a brute, " began Morris, utterly abased by thesight of these tears, which glimmered like pearls in the moonlight, "but, of course, you know what I mean. "

Mary shook her head vacantly. Apparently she could not trust herself tospeak. 

"Dear, will you take me?"

She made no answer; only, after pausing for some few seconds as thoughlost in thought, with a little action more eloquent than any speech, sheleant herself ever so slightly towards him. 

Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, words came to him readily enough:

"I am not worth your having, " he said. "I know I am an odd fellow, notlike other men; my very failings have not been the same as other men's. For instance--before heaven it is true--you are the first woman whom Iever kissed, as I swear to you that you shall be the last. Then, whatelse am I? A failure in the very work that I have chosen, and the heirto a bankrupt property! Oh! it is not fair; I have no right to ask you!"

"I think it quite fair, and here I am the judge, Morris. " Then, sentenceby sentence, she went on, not all at once, but with breaks and pauses. 

"You asked me just now if I loved you, and I told you--Yes. But you didnot ask me when I began to love you. I will tell you all the same. Ican't remember a time when I didn't; no, not since I was a little girl. It was you who grew away from me, not me from you, when you took tostudying mysticism and aerophones, and were repelled by all women, myself included. "

"I know, I know, " he said. "Don't remind me of my dead follies. Somethings are born in the blood. "

"Quite so, and they remain in the bone. I understand. Morris, unless youmaltreat me wilfully--which I am sure you would never do--I shall alwaysunderstand. "

"What are you afraid of?" he asked in a shaken voice. "I feel that youare afraid. "

"Oh, one or two things; that you might overwork yourself, for instance. Or, lest you should find that after all you are more human than youimagine, and be taken possession of by some strange Stella coming out ofnowhere. "

"What do you mean, and why do you use that name?" he said amazed. 

"What I say, dear. As for that name, I heard it accidentally at tableto-night, and it came to my lips--of itself. It seemed to typify what Imeant, and to suggest a wandering star--such as men like you are fond offollowing. "

"Upon my honour, " said Morris, "I will do none of these things. "

"If you can help it, you will do none of them. I know it well enough. Ihope and believe that there will never be a shadow between us while welive. But, Morris, I take you, risks and all, because it has been mychance to love you and nobody else. Otherwise, I should think twice; butlove doesn't stop at risks. "

"What have I done to deserve this?" groaned Morris. 

"I cannot see. I should very much like to know, " replied Mary, with atouch of her old humour. 

It was at this moment that Colonel Monk, happening to come round thecorner of the house, walking on the grass, and followed by Mr. Porson, saw a sight which interested him. With one hand he pointed it out toPorson, at the same moment motioning him to silence with the other. Then, taking his brother-in-law by the arm, he dragged him back roundthe corner of the house. 

"They make a pretty picture there in the moonlight, don't they, John, myboy?" he said. "Come, we had better go back into the study and talk overmatters till they have done. Even the warmth of their emotions won'tkeep out the night air for ever. "

CHAPTER VI

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

For the next month, or, to be accurate, the next five weeks, everythingwent merrily at Monk's Abbey. It was as though some cloud had beenlifted off the place and those who dwelt therein. No longer did theColonel look solemn when he came down in the morning, and no longerwas he cross after he had read his letters. Now his interviews with thesteward in the study were neither prolonged nor anxious; indeed, that functionary emerged thence on Saturday mornings with a shiningcountenance, drying the necessary cheque, heretofore so difficult toextract, by waving it ostentatiously in the air. Lastly, the Colonel didnot seem to be called upon to make such frequent visits to his man ofbusiness, and to tarry at the office of the bank manager in Northwold. Once there was a meeting, but, contrary to the general custom, thelawyer and the banker came to see him in company, and stopped toluncheon. At this meal, moreover, the three of them appeared to be inthe best of spirits. 

Morris noted all these things in his quiet, observant way, and fromthem drew certain conclusions of his own. But he shrank from makinginquiries, nor did the Colonel offer any confidences. After all, whyshould he, who had never meddled with his father's business, choose thismoment to explore it, especially as he knew from previous experiencethat such investigations would not be well received? It was one of theColonel's peculiarities to keep his affairs to himself until they grewso bad that circumstances forced him to seek the counsel or the aidof others. Still, Morris could well guess from what mine the money wasdigged that caused so comfortable a change in their circumstances, andthe solution of this mystery gave him little joy. Cash in considerationof an unconcluded marriage; that was how it read. To his sensitivenature the transaction seemed one of doubtful worth. 

However, no one else appeared to be troubled, if, indeed, these thingsexisted elsewhere than in his own imagination. This, Morris admitted, was possible, for their access of prosperity might, after all, beno more than a resurrection of credit, vivified by the news of hisengagement with the only child of a man known to be wealthy. His unclePorson, with a solemnity that was almost touching, had bestowed uponMary and himself a jerky but earnest blessing before he drove home onthe night of the dinner-party. He went so far, indeed, as to kiss themboth; an example which the Colonel followed with a more finished butequally heartfelt grace. 

Now his uncle John beamed upon him daily like the noonday sun. Alsohe began to take him into his confidence, and consult him as to theerection of houses, affairs of business, and investments. In the courseof these interviews Morris was astonished, not to say dismayed, todiscover how large were the sums of money as to the disposal of which hewas expected to express opinions. 

"You see, it will all be yours, my boy, " said Mr. Porson one day, inexplanation; "so it is best that you should know something of theseaffairs. Yes, it will all be yours, before very long, " and he sighed. 

"I trust that I shall have nothing to do with it for many years, "blurted out Morris. 

"Say months, say months, " answered his uncle, stretching out his handsas though to push something from him. Then, to all appearances overcomeby a sudden anguish, physical or mental, he turned and hurried from theroom. 

Taking them all together, those five weeks were the happiest that Morrishad ever known. No longer was he profoundly dissatisfied with things ingeneral, no longer ravaged by that desire of the moth for the star whichin some natures is almost a disease. His outlook upon the world washealthier and more hopeful; for the first time he saw its wholesome, joyous side. Had he failed to do so, indeed, he must have been a verystrange man, for he had much to make the poorest heart rejoice. 

Thus Mary, always a charming woman, since her engagement had becomeabsolutely delightful; witter, more wideawake, more beautiful. Morriscould look forward to the years to be spent in her company not onlywithout misgiving, but with a confidence that a while ago he would havethought impossible. Moreover, as good fortunes never come singly, hiswere destined to be multiplied. It was in those days after so many yearsof search and unfruitful labour that at last he discovered a clue whichin the end resulted in the perfection of the instrument that was theparent of the aerophone of commerce, and gave him a name among theinventors of the century which will not easily be forgotten. 

Strangely enough it was Morris's good genius, Mary, who suggested thesubstance, or, rather, the mixture of substances, whereof that portionof the aerophone was finally constructed which is still known as theMonk Sound Waves Receiver. Whether, as she alleged, she made thisdiscovery by pure accident, or whether, as seems possible, she hadthought the problem out in her own feminine fashion with results thatproved excellent, does not matter in the least. The issue remains thesame. An apparatus which before would work only on rare occasions--andthen without any certitude--between people in the highest state ofsympathy or nervous excitement, has now been brought to such a stage ofperfection that by its means anybody can talk to anybody, even if theirinterests are antagonistic, or their personal enmity bitter. 

After the first few experiments with this new material Morris was notslow to discover that although it would need long and careful testingand elaboration, for him it meant, in the main, the realisation ofhis great dream, and success after years of failure. And--that was thestrange part of it--this realisation and success he owed to no effort ofhis own, but to some chance suggestion made by Mary. He told her this, and thanked her as a man thanks one through whom he has found salvation. In answer she merely laughed, saying that she was nothing but the wirealong which a happy inspiration had reached his brain, and that morethan this she neither wished, nor hoped, nor was capable of being. 

Then suddenly on this happy, tranquil atmosphere which wrapped themabout--like the sound of a passing bell at a child's feast--floated thefirst note of impending doom and death. 

The autumn held fine and mild, and Mary, who had been lunching at theAbbey, was playing croquet with Morris upon the side lawn. This game wasthe only one for which she chanced to care, perhaps because it did notinvolve much exertion. Morris, who engaged in the pastime with the sameearnestness that he gave to every other pursuit in which he happenedto be interested, was, as might be expected, getting the best of theencounter. 

"Won't you take a couple of bisques, dear?" he asked affectionately, after a while. "I don't like always beating you by such a lot. "

"I'd die first, " she answered; "bisques are the badge of advertisedinferiority and a mark of the giver's contempt. "

"Stuff!" said Morris. 

"Stuff, indeed! As though it wasn't bad enough to be beaten at all; butto be beaten with bisques!"

"That's another argument, " said Morris. "First you say you are too proudto accept them, and next that you won't accept them because it is worseto be defeated with points than without them. "

"Anyway, if you had the commonest feelings of humanity you wouldn't beatme, " replied Mary, adroitly shifting her ground for the third time. 

"How can I help it if you won't have the bisques?"

"How? By pretending that you were doing your best, and letting mewin all the same, of course; though if I caught you at it I should befurious. But what's the use of trying to teach a blunt creature like youtact? My dear Morris, I assure you I do not believe that your effortsat deception would take in the simplest-minded cow. Why, even Dad seesthrough you, and the person who can't impose upon my Dad----. Oh!" sheadded, suddenly, in a changed voice, "there is George coming throughthe gate. Something has happened to my father. Look at his face, Morris;look at his face!"

In another moment the footman stood before them. 

"Please, miss, the master, " he began, and hesitated. 

"Not dead?" said Mary, in a slow, quiet voice. "Do not say that he isdead!"

"No, miss, but he has had a stroke of the heart or something, andthe doctor thought you had better be fetched, so I have brought thecarriage. "

"Come with me, Morris, " she said, as, dropping the croquet mallet, sheflew rather than ran to the brougham. 

Ten minutes later they were at Seaview. In the hall they met Mr. Charters, the doctor. Why was he leaving? Because----

"No, no, " he said, answering their looks; "the danger is past. He seemsalmost as well as ever. "

"Thank God!" stammered Mary. Then a thought struck her, and she lookedup sharply and asked, "Will it come back again?"

"Yes, " was his straightforward answer. 

"When?"

"From time to time, at irregular periods. But in its fatal shape, as Ihope, not for some years. "

"The verdict might have been worse, dear, " said Morris. 

"Yes, yes, but to think that _it_ has passed so near to him, and hequite alone at the time. Morris, " she went on, turning to him with anenergy that was almost fierce, "if you won't have my father to live withus, I won't marry you. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, dear, you leave no room for misconception. By all means lethim live with us--if he can get on with my father, " he added meaningly. 

"Ah!" she replied, "I never thought of that. Also I should not havespoken so roughly, but I have had such a shock that I feel inclined totreat you like--like--a toad under a harrow. So please be sympathetic, and don't misunderstand me, or I don't know what I shall say. " Then byway of making amends, Mary put her arms round his neck and gave him akiss "all of her own accord, " saying, "Morris, I am afraid--I am afraid. I feel as if our good time was done. "

After this the servant came to say that she might go up to her father'sroom, and that scene of our drama was at an end. 

Mr. Porson owned a villa at Beaulieu, in the south of France, which hehad built many years before as a winter house for his wife, whose chestwas weak. Here he was in the habit of spending the spring months, more, perhaps, because of the associations which the place possessed for himthan of any affection for foreign lands. Now, however, after this lastattack, three doctors in consultation announced that it would be wellfor him to escape from the fogs and damp of England. So to Beaulieu hewas ordered. 

This decree caused consternation in various quarters. Mr. Porson didnot wish to go; Mary and Morris were cast down for simple and elementaryreasons; and Colonel Monk found this change of plan--it had beenarranged that the Porsons should stop at Seaview till the New Year, which was to be the day of the marriage--inconvenient, and, indeed, disturbing. Once those young people were parted, reflected the Colonelin his wisdom, who could tell what might or might not happen?

In this difficulty he found an inspiration. Why should not the weddingtake place at once? Very diplomatically he sounded his brother-in-law, to find that he had no opposition to fear in this quarter provided thatMary and her husband would join him at Beaulieu after a week or two ofhoneymoon. Then he spoke to Morris, who was delighted with the idea. For Morris had come to the conclusion that the marriage state would bebetter and more satisfactory than one of prolonged engagement. 

It only remained, therefore, to obtain the consent of Mary, which wouldperhaps, have been given without much difficulty had her uncle beencontent to leave his son or Mr. Porson to ask it of her. As it chanced, this he was not willing to do. Porson, he was sure, would at once giveway should his daughter raise any objection, and in Morris's tact andpersuasive powers the Colonel had no faith. 

In the issue, confident in his own diplomatic abilities, he determinedto manage the affair himself and to speak to his niece. The mistake wasgrave, for whereas she was as wax to her father or her lover, somethingin her uncle's manner, or it may have been his very personality, alwaysaroused in Mary a spirit of opposition. On this occasion, too, thatmanner was not fortunate, for he put the proposal before her as a thingalready agreed upon by all concerned, and one to which her consent wasasked as a mere matter of form. 

Instantly Mary became antagonistic. She pretended not to understand;she asked for reasons and explanations. Finally, she announced in idlewords, beneath which ran a current of determination, that neither herfather nor Morris could really wish this hurried marriage, since hadthey done so one or other of them would have spoken to her on thesubject. When pressed, she intimated very politely, but in languagewhereof the meaning could hardly be mistaken, that she held this fixingof the date to be peculiarly her own privilege; and when still furtherpressed said plainly that she considered her father too ill for her tothink of being married at present. 

"But they both desire it, " expostulated the Colonel. 

"They have not told me so, " Mary answered, setting her red lips. 

"If that is all, they will tell you so soon enough, my dear girl. "

"Perhaps, uncle, after they have been directed to do so, but that is notquite the same thing. "

The Colonel saw that he had made a mistake, and too late changed histactics. 

"You see, Mary, your father's state of health is precarious; he mightgrow worse. "

She tapped her foot upon the ground. Of these allusions to the possible, and, indeed, the certain end of her beloved father's illness, she had akind of horror. 

"In that event, that dreadful event, " she answered, "he will need me, mywhole time and care to nurse him. These I might not be able to give if Iwere already married. I love Morris very dearly. I am his for whatever Imay be worth; but I was my father's before Morris came into my life, andhe has the first claim upon me. "

"What, then, do you propose?" asked the Colonel curtly, for oppositionand argument bred no meekness in his somewhat arbitrary breast. 

"To be married on New Year's Day, wherever we are, if Morris wishes itand the state of my father's health makes it convenient. If not, UncleRichard, to wait till a more fitting season. " Then she rose--for thisconversation took place at Seaview--saying that it was time she shouldgive her father his medicine. 

Thus the project of an early marriage fell through; for, havingonce been driven into announcing her decision in terms so open andunmistakable, Mary would not go back on her word. 

Morris, who was much disappointed, pleaded with her. Her father alsospoke upon the subject, but though the voice was the voice of Mr. Porson, the arguments, she perceived, were the arguments of ColonelMonk. Therefore she hardened her heart and put the matter by, refusing, indeed, to discuss it at any length. Yet--and it is not the first timethat a woman has allowed her whims to prevail over her secret wishes--intruth she desired nothing more than to be married to Morris so soon asit was his will to take her. 

Finally, a compromise was arranged. There was to be no wedding atpresent, but the whole party were to go together to Beaulieu, thereto await the development of events. It was arranged, moreover, by allconcerned, that unless something unforeseen occurred to prevent it, themarriage should be celebrated upon or about New Year's Day. 

CHAPTER VII

BEAULIEU

Beautiful as it might be and fashionable as it might be, Morris didnot find Beaulieu very entertaining; indeed, in an unguarded moment heconfessed to Mary that he "hated the hole. " Even the steam launch inwhich they went for picnics did not console him, fond though he was ofthe sea; while as for Monte Carlo, after his third visit he was heardto declare that if they wanted to take him there again it must be in hiscoffin. 

The Colonel did not share these views. He was out for a holiday, and hemeant to enjoy himself. To begin with, there was the club at Nice, wherehe fell in with several old comrades and friends. Then, whom should hemeet but Lady Rawlins: once, for a little while in the distant past, they had been engaged; until suddenly the young lady, a beauty in herday, jilted him in favour of a wealthy banker of Hebraic origin. Now, many years after, the banker was aged, violent, and uncomely, habituallyexceeded in his cups, and abused his wife before the servants. So itcame about that to the poor woman the Colonel's courteous, if somewhatsarcastic, consolations were really very welcome. It pleased him also tooffer them. The jilting he had long ago forgiven indeed, he blessed hernightly for having taken that view of her obligations, seeing that JaneMillet, as she was then, however pretty her face may once have been, hadneither fortune nor connections. 

"Yes, my dear Jane, " he said to her confidentially one afternoon, "Iassure you I often admire your foresight. Now, if you had done the otherthing, where should we have been to-day? In the workhouse, I imagine. "

"I suppose so, " answered Lady Rawlins, meekly, and suppressing asigh, since for the courtly and distinguished Colonel she cherisheda sentimental admiration which actually increased with age; "but youdidn't always think like that, Richard. " Then she glanced out of thewindow, and added: "Oh, there is Jonah coming home, and he looks socross, " and the poor lady shivered. 

The Colonel put up his eyeglass and contemplated Jonah through thewindow. He was not a pleasing spectacle. A rather low-class Hebrew whocalls himself a Christian, of unpleasant appearance and sinister temper, suffering from the effects of lunch, is not an object to be loved. 

"Ah, I see, " said the Colonel. "Yes, Sir Jonah ages, doesn't he?as, indeed, we do all of us, " and he glanced at the lady's spreadingproportions. Then he went on. "You really should persuade him to betidier in his costume, Jane; his ancestral namesake could scarcely havelooked more dishevelled after his sojourn with the whale. Well, it isa small failing; one can't have everything, and on the whole, with yourwealth and the rest, you have been a very fortunate woman. "

"Oh, Richard, how can you say so?" murmured the wretched Lady Rawlins, as she took the hand outstretched in farewell. For Jonah in large doseswas more than the Colonel could stomach. 

Indeed, as the door closed behind him she wiped away a tear, whisperingto herself: "And to think that I threw over dear Richard in order tomarry that--that--yes, I will say it--that horror!"

Meanwhile, as he strolled down the street, beautifully dressed, andstill looking very upright and handsome--for he had never lost hisfigure--the Colonel was saying to himself:

"Silly old woman! Well, I hope that by now she knows the differencebetween a gentleman and a half-Christianised, money-hunting, wine-bibbing Jew. However, she's got the fortune, which was what shewanted, although she forgets it now, and he's got a lachrymose, stout, old party. But how beautiful she used to be! My word, how beautiful sheused to be! To go to see her now is better than any sermon; it is anadmirable moral exercise. "

To Lady Rawlins also the Colonel's visits proved excellent moralexercises tinged with chastenings. Whenever he went away he left behindhim some aphorism or reflection filled with a wholesome bitter. Butstill she sought his society and, in secret, adored him. 

In addition to the club and Lady Rawlins there were the tables at MonteCarlo, with their motley company, which to a man of the world could notfail to be amusing. Besides, the Colonel had one weakness--sometimes hedid a little gambling, and when he played he liked to play fairlyhigh. Morris accompanied him once to the "Salles de jeu, " and--that wasenough. What passed there exactly, could never be got out of him, evenby Mary, whose sense of humour was more than satisfied with the littlecomedies in progress about her, no single point of which did she evermiss. 

Only, funny as she might be in her general feebleness, and badly asshe might have behaved in some distant past, for Lady Rawlins she feltsorry. Her kind heart told Mary that this unhappy person also possesseda heart, although she was now stout and on the wrong side of middle age. She was aware, too, that the Colonel knew as much, and his scientificpin-pricks and searings of that guileless and unprotected organ struckher as little short of cruel. None the less so, indeed, because thevictim at the stake imagined that they were inflicted in kindness by thehand of a still tender and devoted friend. 

"I hope that I shan't quarrel with my father-in-law, " reflected Maryto herself, after one of the best of these exhibitions; "he's got anuncommonly long memory, and likes to come even. However, I never shall, because he's afraid of me and knows that I see through him. "

Mary was right. A very sincere respect for her martial powers whenroused ensured perfect peace between her and the Colonel. With hisson, however, it was otherwise. Even in this age of the Triumph of theOffspring parents do exist who take advantage of their sons' strictobservance of the Fifth Commandment. It is easy to turn a man into amoral bolster and sit upon him if you know that an exaggerated sense offilial duty will prevent him from stuffing himself with pins. So it cameabout that Morris was sometimes sat upon, especially when the Colonelwas suffering from a bad evening at the tables; well out of sight andhearing of Mary, be it understood, who on such occasions was apt todevelop a quite formidable temper. 

It is over this question of the tables that one of these domesticdifferences arose which in its results brought about the return of theMonks to Monksland. Upon a certain afternoon the Colonel asked his sonto accompany him to Monte Carlo. Morris refused, rather curtly, perhaps. 

"Very well, " replied the Colonel in his grandest manner. "I am sure Ido not wish for an unwilling companion, and doubtless your attention isclaimed by affairs more important than the according of your company toa father. "

"No, " replied Morris, with his accustomed truthfulness; "I am going outsea-fishing, that is all. "

"Quite so. Allow me then to wish good luck to your fishing. Does Maryaccompany you?"

"No, I think not; she says the boat makes her sick, and she can't beareels. "

"So much the better, as I can ask for the pleasure of her society thisafternoon. "

"Yes, you can ask, " said Morris, suddenly turning angry. 

"Do you imply, Morris, that the request will be refused?"

"Certainly, father; if I have anything to do with it. "

"And might I inquire why?"

"Because I won't have Mary taken to that place to mix with the peoplewho frequent it. "

"I see. This is exclusiveness with a vengeance. Perhaps you considerthat those unholy doors should be shut to me also. "

"I have no right to express an opinion as to where my father shouldor should not go; but if you ask me, I think that, under all thecircumstances, you would do best to keep away. "

"The circumstances! What circumstances?"

"Those of our poverty, which leaves us no money to risk in gambling. "

Then the Colonel lost all control of his temper, as sometimes happenedto him, and became exceedingly violent and unpleasant. What he said doesnot matter; let it suffice that the remarks were of a character whicheven headstrong men are accustomed to reserve for the benefit of theirwomen-folk and other intimate relations. 

Attracted by the noise, which was considerable, Mary came in to find heruncle marching up and down the room vituperating Morris, who, with quitea new expression upon his face--a quiet, dogged kind of expression--wasleaning upon the mantel-piece and watching him. 

"Uncle, " began Mary, "would you mind being a little quieter? My fatheris asleep upstairs, and I am afraid that you will wake him. "

"I am sorry, my dear, very sorry, but there are some insults that no manwith self-respect can submit to, even from a son. "

"Insults! insults!" Mary repeated, opening her blue eyes; then, lookingat him with a pained air: "Morris, why do you insult your father?"

"Insult?" he replied. "Then I will tell you how. My father wanted totake you to play with him at Monte Carlo this afternoon and I said thatyou shouldn't go. That's the insult. "

"You observe, my dear, " broke in the Colonel, "that already he treatsyou as one having authority. "

"Yes, " said Mary, "and why shouldn't he? Now that my father is so weakwho am I to obey if not Morris?"

"Oh, well, well, " said the Colonel, diplomatically beginning to cool, for he could control his temper when he liked. "Everyone to their taste;but some matters are so delicate that I prefer not to discuss them, " andhe looked round for his hat. 

By this time, however, the cyclonic condition of things had affectedMary also, and she determined that he should not escape so easily. 

"Before you go, " she went on in her slow voice, "I should like to say, uncle, that I quite agree with Morris. I don't think those tables arequite the place to take young ladies to, especially if the gentlemanwith them is much engaged in play. "

"Indeed, indeed; then you are both of a mind, which is quite as itshould be. Of course, too, upon such matters of conduct and etiquette wemust all bow to the taste and the experience of the young--even those ofus who have mixed with the world for forty years. Might I ask, my dearMary, if you have any further word of advice for me before I go?"

"Yes, uncle, " replied Mary quite calmly. "I advise you not to lose somuch of--of your money, or to sit up so late at night, which, youknow, never agrees with you. Also, I wish you wouldn't abuse Morris fornothing, because he doesn't deserve it, and I don't like it; and if weare all to live together after I am married, it will be so much morecomfortable if we can come to an understanding first. "

Then muttering something beneath his breath about ladies in general andthis young lady in particular, the Colonel departed with speed. 

Mary sat down in an armchair, and fanned herself with apocket-handkerchief. 

"Thinking of the right thing to say always makes me hot, " she remarked. 

"Well, if by the right thing you mean the strong thing, you certainlydiscovered it, " replied Morris, looking at her with affectionateadmiration. 

"I know; but it had to be done, dear. He's losing a lot of money, whichis mere waste"--here Morris groaned, but asked no questions--"besides, "and her voice became earnest, "I will not have him talking to you likethat. The fact that one man is the father of another man doesn't givehim the right to abuse him like a pickpocket. Also, if you are so goodthat you put up with it, I have myself to consider--that is, if we areall to live as a happy family. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, " said Morris. "I daresay you are right, but I hate rows. "

"So do I, and that is why I have accepted one or two challenges tosingle combat quite at the beginning of things. You mark my words, hewill be like a lamb at breakfast to-morrow. "

"You shouldn't speak disrespectfully of my father; at any rate, to me, "suggested the old-fashioned Morris, rather mildly. 

"No, dear, and when I have learnt to respect him I promise you thatI won't. There, don't be vexed with me; but my uncle Richard makes mecross, and then I scratch. As he said the other day, all women are likecats, you know. When they are young they play, when they get old theyuse their claws--I quote uncle Richard--and although I am not old yet, I can't help showing the claws. Dad is ill, that is the fact of it, Morris, and it gets upon my nerves. "

"I thought he was better, love. "

"Yes, he is better; he may live for years; I hope and believe that hewill, but it is terribly uncertain. And now, look here, Morris, whydon't you go home?"

"Do you want to get rid of me, love?" he asked, looking up. 

"No, I don't. You know that, I am sure. But what is the use of yourstopping here? There is nothing for you to do, and I feel that you arewasting your time and that you hate it. Tell the truth. Don't you longto be back at Monksland, working at that aerophone?"

"I should be glad to get on with my experiments, but I don't likeleaving you, " he answered. 

"But you had better leave me for a while. It is not comfortable for youidling here, particularly when your father is in this uncertain temper. If all be well, in another couple of months or so we shall come togetherfor good, and be able to make our own arrangements, according tocircumstances. Till then, if I were you, I should go home, especiallyas I find that I can get on with my uncle much better when you are nothere. "

"Then what is to happen after we marry, and I can't be sent away. "

"Who knows? But if we are not comfortable at Monk's Abbey, we can alwaysset up for ourselves--with Dad at Seaview, for instance. He's peaceableenough; besides, he must be looked after; and, to be frank, my unclehectors him, poor dear. "

"I will think it over, " said Morris. "And now come for a walk on thebeach, and we will forget all these worries. "

Next morning the Colonel appeared at breakfast in a perfectlyangelic frame of mind, having to all appearance utterly forgotten the"contretemps" of the previous afternoon. Perhaps this was policy, orperhaps the fact of his having won several hundred pounds the nightbefore mollified his mood. At least it had become genial, and he proveda most excellent companion. 

"Look here, old fellow, " he said to Morris, throwing him a letter acrossthe table; "if you have nothing to do for a week or so, I wish you wouldsave an aged parent a journey and settle up this job with Simpkins. "

Morris read the letter. It had to do with the complete reerection ofa set of buildings on the Abbey farm, and the putting up of a certaindrainage mill. Over this question differences had arisen between theagent Simpkins and the rural authorities, who alleged that the said millwould interfere with an established right of way. Indeed, things hadcome to such a point that if a lawsuit was to be avoided the presence ofa principal was necessary. 

"Simpkins is a quarrelsome ass, " explained the Colonel, "and somebodywill have to smooth those fellows down. Will you go? because if youwon't I must, and I don't want to break into the first pleasant holidayI have had for five years--thanks to your kindness, my dear John. "

"Certainly I will go, if necessary, " answered Morris. "But I thought youtold me a few months ago that it was quite impossible to execute thosealterations, on account of the expense. "

"Yes, yes; but I have consulted with your uncle here, and the matter hasbeen arranged. Hasn't it, John?"

Mr. Porson was seated at the end of the table, and Morris, looking athim, noticed with a shock how old he had suddenly become. His plump, cheerful face had fallen in; the cheeks were quite hollow now; his jawsseemed to protrude, and the skin upon his bald head to be drawn quitetight like the parchment on a drum. 

"Of course, of course, Colonel, " he answered, lifting his chin fromhis breast, upon which it was resting, "arranged, quite satisfactorilyarranged. " Then he looked about rather vacantly, for his mind, it wasclear, was far away, and added, "Do you want: I mean, were you talkingabout the new drainage mill for the salt marshes?" Mary interrupted andexplained. 

"Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I am afraid I am getting a little deaf, and this air makes me so sleepy in the morning. Now, just tell me again, what is it?"

Mary explained further. 

"Morris to go and see about it. Well, why shouldn't he? It doesn't takelong to get home nowadays. Not but that we shall be sorry to lose you, my dear boy; or, at least, one of us will be sorry, " and he tried towink in his old jovial fashion, and chuckled feebly. 

Mary saw and sighed; while the Colonel shook his head portentously. Nobody could play the part of Job's comforter to greater perfection. 

The end of it was that, after a certain space of hesitation, Morrisagreed to go. This "menage" at Beaulieu oppressed him, and he hated theplace. Besides, Mary, seeing that he was worried, almost insisted on hisdeparture. 

"If I want you back I will send for you, " she said. "Go to your work, dear; you will be happier. "

So he kissed her fondly and went--as he was fated to go. 

"Good-bye, my dear son, " said Mr. Porson--sometimes he called him hisson, now. "I hope that I shall see you again soon, and if I don't, youwill be kind to my daughter Mary, won't you? You understand, everybodyelse is dead--my wife is dead, my boy is dead, and soon I shall be dead. So naturally I think a good deal about her. You will be kind to her, won't you? Good-bye, my son, and don't trouble about money; there'splenty. "

CHAPTER VIII

THE SUNK ROCKS AND THE SINGER

Morris arrived home in safety, and speedily settled the question ofthe drainage mill to the satisfaction of all concerned. But he did notreturn to Beaulieu. To begin with, although the rural authorities ceasedto trouble them, his father was most urgent that he should stay andsupervise the putting up of the new farm buildings, and wrote to himnearly every day to this effect. It occurred to his son that under thecircumstances he might have come to look after the buildings himself;also, that perhaps he found the villa at Beaulieu more comfortablewithout his presence; a conjecture in which he was perfectly correct. 

Upon the first point, also, letters from Mary soon enlightened him. Itappeared that shortly after his departure Sir Jonah, in a violent fitof rage, brought on by drink and a remark of his wife's that had shemarried Colonel Monk she "would have been a happy woman, " burst a smallblood-vessel in his head, with the strange result that from a raginganimal of a man he had been turned into an amiable and perfectlyharmless imbecile. Under so trying a domestic blow, naturally, Maryexplained, Colonel Monk felt it to be his duty to support and comforthis old friend to the best of his ability. "This, " added Mary, "he doesfor about three hours every day. I believe, indeed, that a place isalways laid for him at meals, while poor Sir Jonah, for whom I feelquite sorry, although he was such a horrid man, sits in an armchair andsmiles at him continually. "

So Morris determined to take the advice which Mary gave him veryplainly, and abandoned all idea of returning to Beaulieu, at any rate, on this side of Christmas. His plans settled, he went to work with awill, and was soon deeply absorbed in the manufacture of experimentalreceivers made from the new substance. So completely, indeed, did thesepossess his mind that, as Mary at last complained, his letters to hermight with equal fitness have been addressed to an electrical journal, since from them even diagrams were not lacking. 

So things went on until the event occurred which was destined profoundlyand mysteriously to affect the lives of Morris and his affianced wife. That event was the shipwreck of the steam tramp, Trondhjem, upon thewell-known Sunk Rocks outside the Sands which run parallel to the coastat a distance of about five knots from the Monksland cliff. In this yearof our story, about the middle of November, the weather set in verymild and misty. It was the third of these "roky" nights, and the sea-fogpoured along the land like vapour from an opened jar of chemicals. Morris was experimenting at the forge in his workshop very late--or, rather early, for it was near to two o'clock in the morning--when of asudden through the open window, rising from the quiet sea beneath, heheard the rattle of oars in rowlocks. Wondering what a boat could bedoing so near inshore at a season when there was no night fishing, hewent to the window to listen. Presently he caught the sound of voicesshouting in a tongue with which he was unacquainted, followed by anothersound, that of a boat being beached upon the shingle immediately belowthe Abbey. Now guessing that something unusual must have happened, Morris took his hat and coat, and, unlocking the Abbot's door, lit alantern, and descended the cement steps to the beach. Here he foundhimself in the midst of ten or twelve men, most of them tall andbearded, who were gathered about a ship's boat which they had dragged uphigh and dry. One of these men, who from his uniform he judged to bethe captain, approached and addressed him in a language that he did notunderstand, but imagined must be Danish or Norwegian. 

Morris shook his head to convey the blankness of his ignorance, whereupon other men addressed him, also in northern tongues. Then, as hestill shook his head, a lad of about nineteen came forward and spoke inbroken and barbarous French. 

"Naufrage la bas, " he said; "bateau a vapeur, naufrage sur lesrochers--brouillard. Nouse echappe. "

"Tous?" asked Morris. 

The young man shrugged his shoulders as though he were doubtful on thepoint, then added, pointing to the boat:

"Homme beaucoup blesse, pasteur anglais. "

Morris went to the cutter, and, holding up the lantern, looked down, tofind an oldish man with sharp features, dark eyes, and grizzled beard, lying under a tarpaulin in the bottom of the boat. He was clothedonly in a dressing gown and a blood-stained nightshirt, groaning andsemi-unconscious. 

"Jambe casse, beaucoup mal casse, " explained the French scholar. 

"Apportez-le vite apres moi, " said Morris. This order having beentranslated by the youth, several stalwart sailors lifted up the injuredman, and, placing the tarpaulin beneath him, took hold of it by thesides and corners. Then, following Morris, they bore him as gently asthey could up the steps into the Abbey to a large bedroom upon the firstfloor, where they laid him upon the bed. 

Meanwhile, by the industrious ringing of bells as they went, Morris hadsucceeded in rousing a groom, a page-boy, and the cook. The first ofthese he sent off post haste for Dr. Charters. Next, having directedthe cook to give the foreign sailormen some food and beer, he toldthe page-boy to conduct them to the Sailors' Home, a place of refugeprovided, as is common upon this stormy coast, for the accommodationof distressed and shipwrecked mariners. As he could extract nothingfurther, it seemed useless to detain them at the Abbey. Then, pendingthe arrival of the doctor, with the assistance of the old housekeeper, he set to work to examine the patient. This did not take long, for hisinjuries were obvious. The right thigh was broken and badly bruised, and he bled from a contusion upon the forehead. This wound upon his headseemed also to have affected his brain; at any rate, he was unable tospeak coherently or to do more than mutter something about "shipwreck"and "steamer Trondhjem, " and to ask for water. 

Thinking that at least it could do no harm, Morris gave him a cup ofsoup, which had been hastily prepared. Just as the patient finisheddrinking it, which he did eagerly, the doctor arrived, and after a swiftexamination administered some anaesthetic, and got to work to set thebroken limb. 

"It's a bad smash--very bad, " he explained to Morris; "something musthave fallen on him, I think. If it had been an inch or two higher, he'dhave lost his leg, or his life, or both, as perhaps he will now. At thebest it means a couple of months or so on his back. No, I think thecut on his head isn't serious, although it has knocked him silly for awhile. "

At length the horrid work was done, and the doctor, who had to returnto a confinement case in the village, departed. Before he went he toldMorris that he hoped to be back by five o'clock. He promised also thatbefore his return he would call in at the Sailor's Home to see that thecrew were comfortable, and discover what he could of the details of thecatastrophe. Meanwhile for his part, Morris undertook to watch in thesick-room. 

For nearly three hours, while the drug retained his grip of him, thepatient remained comatose. All this while Morris sat at his bedsidewondering who he might be, and what curious circumstance could havebrought him into the company of these rough Northmen sailors. To hisprofession he had a clue, although no sure one, for round his neck theman wore a silver cross suspended by a chain. This suggested that hemight be a clergyman, and went far to confirm the broken talk of theFrench-speaking sailor. Clearly, also, he was a person of some breedingand position, the refinement of his face and the delicacy of his handsshowed as much. While Morris was watching and wondering, suddenly theman awoke, and began to talk in a confused fashion. 

"Where am I?" he asked. 

"At Monksland, " answered Morris. 

"That's all right, that's where I should be, but the ship, theship"--then a pause and a cry: "Stella, Stella!"

Morris pricked his ears. "Where is Stella?" he asked. 

"On the rocks. She struck, then darkness, all darkness. Stella, comehere, Stella!"

A memory awoke in the mind of Morris, and he leant over the patient, whoagain had sunk into delirium. 

"Do you mean Stella Fregelius?" he asked. 

The man turned his flushed face and opened his dark eyes. 

"Of course, Stella Fregelius--who else? There is only one Stella, " andagain he became incoherent. 

For a while Morris plied him with further questions; but as he couldobtain no coherent answer, he gave him his medicine and left him quiet. Then for another half-hour or so he sat and watched, while a certaintheory took shape in his mind. This gentleman must be the new rector. It seemed as though, probably accompanied by his daughter, he had takenpassage in a Danish tramp boat bound for Northwold, which had touchedat some Northumbrian port. Morris knew that the incoming clergyman hada daughter, for, now that he thought of it, he had heard Mr. Tomleymention the fact at the dinner-party on the night when he becameengaged. Yes, and certainly she was named Stella. But there was no womanamong those who had come to land, and he understood the injured man tosuggest that his daughter had been left upon the steamer which was saidto have gone ashore upon some rocks; or, perhaps, upon the Sunk Rocksthemselves. 

Now, the only rocks within twenty miles of them were these famous SunkRocks, about six knots away. Even within his own lifetime four vesselshad been lost there, either because they had missed, or mistaken, thelightship signal further out to sea, as sometimes happened in a fog suchas prevailed this night, or through false reckonings. The fate ofall these vessels had been identical; they had struck upon the reef, rebounded or slid off, and foundered in deep water. Probably in thiscase the same thing had happened. At least, the facts, so far as he knewthem, pointed to that conclusion. Evidently the escape of the crew hadbeen very hurried, for they had saved nothing. He judged also that theclergyman, Mr. Fregelius, having rushed on deck, had been injured by thefall of some spar or block consequent upon the violence of the impactof the vessel upon the reef, and in this hurt condition had been throwninto the boat by the sailors. 

Then where was the daughter Stella? Was she killed in the same fashionor drowned? Probably one or the other. But there was a third barepossibility, which did no credit to the crew, that she had beenforgotten in the panic and hurry, and left behind on the sinking ship. 

At first Morris thought of rousing the captain of the lifeboat. Onreflection, however, he abandoned this idea, for really what had he togo on beyond the scanty and disjointed ravings of a delirious man? Verypossibly the girl Stella was not upon the ship at all. Probably, also, hours ago that vessel had vanished from the eyes of men for ever. Tosend out the lifeboat upon such a wild-goose chase would be to turnhimself into a laughing-stock. 

Still something drew his thoughts to that hidden line of reef, and theship which might still be hanging on it, and the woman who might stillbe living in the ship. 

It was a painful vision from which he could not free his mind. 

Then there came to him an idea. Why should he not go to the Sunk Rocksand look? There was a light breeze off land, and with the help of thepage-boy, who was sitting up, as the tide was nearing its full he couldmanage to launch his small sailing-boat, which by good fortune was stillberthed near the beach steps. It was a curious chance that this shouldbe so, seeing that in most seasons she would have been by now removedto the shed a mile away, to be out of reach of possible damage from thefurious winter gales. As it happened, however, the weather remaining soopen, this had not been done. Further, the codlings having begun to runin unusual numbers, as is common upon this coast in late autumn, Morristhat very morning had taken the boat out to fish for them, an amusementwhich he proposed to resume on the morrow in the hope of better sport. Therefore the boat had her sails on board, and was in every way readyfor sea. 

Why should he not go? For one reason only that he could suggest. Therewas a certain amount of risk in sailing about the Sunk Rocks in a fog, even for a tiny craft like his, for here the currents were very sharp;also, in many places the points of the rocks were only just beneath thesurface of the water. But he knew the dangerous places well enough if hecould see them, as he ought to be able to do, for the dawn should breakbefore he arrived. And, after all, what was a risk more or less in life?He would go. He felt impelled--strangely impelled--to go, though ofcourse it was all nonsense, and probably he would be back by nineo'clock, having seen nothing at all. 

By this time the injured Mr. Fregelius had sunk into sleep or stupor, doubtless beneath the influence of the second draught which he hadadministered to him in obedience to the doctor's orders. On his account, therefore, Morris had no anxiety, since the cook, a steady, middle-agedwoman, could watch by him for the present. 

He called her and gave her instructions, bidding her tell the doctorwhen he came that he had gone to see if he could make out anything moreabout the wreck, and that he would be back soon. Then, ordering thepage-boy, a stout lad, to accompany him, he descended the steps, andtogether, with some difficulty, they succeeded in launching the boat. Now for a moment Morris hesitated, wondering whether he should take theyoung man with him; but remembering that this journey was not withoutits dangers, finally he decided to go alone. 

"I am just going to have a sail round, Thomas, to look if I can make outanything about that ship. "

"Yes, sir, " remarked Thomas, doubtfully. "But it is rather a queer timeto hunt for her, and in this sea-haze too, especially round the SunkRocks. Shall I leave the lunch basket in the locker, sir, or take it upto the house?"

"Leave it; it wasn't touched to-day, and I might be glad of somebreakfast, " Morris answered. Then, having hoisted his sail, he sathimself in the stern, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in theother. Instantly the water began to lap gently against the bow, and inanother minute he glided away from the sight of the doubting Thomas, vanishing like some sea-ghost into the haze and that chill darknesswhich precedes the dawn. 

It was very dark, and the mist was very damp, and the wind, what therewas of it, very cold, especially as in his hurry he had forgotten tobring a thick ulster, and had nothing but a covert coat and a thinoil-skin to wear. Moreover, he could not see in the least where he wasgoing, or do more than lay his course for the Sunk Rocks by means of theboat's compass, which he consulted from time to time by the help of abull's-eye lantern. 

This went on for nearly an hour, by the end of which Morris beganto wonder why he had started upon such a fool's errand. Also, he wasgrowing alarmed. He knew that by now he should be in the neighbourhoodof the reef, and fancied, indeed, that he could hear the water lappingagainst its rocks. Accordingly, as this reef was ill company in thedark, Morris hauled down his sail, and in case he should have reachedthe shallows, threw out his little anchor, which was attached to sixfathoms of chain. At first it swung loose, but four or five minuteslater, the boat having been carried onward into fleeter water by theswift current that was one of the terrors of the Sunk Rocks, it touchedbottom, dragged a little, and held fast. 

Morris gave a sigh of relief, for that blind journey among unknowndangers was neither safe nor pleasant. Now, at least, in this quietweather he could lie where he was till light came, praying that a windmight not come first. Already the cold November dawn was breaking inthe east; he was able to see the reflection of it upon the fog, and thesurface of the water, black and oily-looking, became visible as it sweptpast the sides of his boat. Now, too, he was sure that the rocks mustbe close at hand, for he could hear the running tide distinctly as itwashed against them and through the dense growth of seaweed that clungto their crests and ridges. 

Presently, too, he heard something else, which at first caused him torub his eyes in the belief that he must have fallen asleep and dreamt;nothing less, indeed, than the sound of a woman's voice. He began toreason with himself. What was there strange in this? He was told, orhad inferred, that a woman had been left upon a ship. Doubtless thiswas she, upon some rock or raft, perhaps. Only then she would have beencrying for help, and this voice was singing, and in a strange tongue, more sweetly than he had heard woman sing before. 

It was incredible, it was impossible. What woman would sing in a winterdaybreak upon the Sunk Rocks--sing like the siren of old fable? Yet, there, quite close to him, over the quiet sea rose the song, strong, clear, and thrilling. Once it ceased, then began again in a deeper, more triumphant note, such as a Valkyrie might have sung as she led someNorn-doomed host to their last battle. 

Morris sat and listened with parted lips and eyes staring at the fleecymist. He did not move or call out, because he was certain that he mustbe the victim of some hallucination, bred of fog, or of fatigue, or ofcold; and, as it was very strange and moving, he had no desire to breakin upon its charm. 

So there he sat while the triumphant, splendid song rolled and thrilledabove him, and by degrees the grey light of morning grew to right andleft. To right and left it grew, but, strangely enough, although henever noted it at the time, he and his boat lay steeped in shadow. Thenof a sudden there was a change. 

A puff of wind from the north seemed to catch the fog and roll it uplike a curtain, so that instantly all the sea became visible, brokenhere and there by round-headed, weed-draped rocks. Out of the east alsopoured a flood of light from the huge ball of the rising sun, and now itwas that Morris learned why the gloom had been so thick about him, forhis boat lay anchored full in the shadow of the lost ship Trondhjem. There, not thirty yards away, rose her great prow; the cutwater, whichstood up almost clear, showing that she had forced herself on to aridge of rock. There, too, poised at the extreme point of the slopingforecastle, and supporting herself with one hand by a wire rope that ranthence to the foremast, was the woman to whose siren-like song he hadbeen listening. 

At that distance he could see little of her face; but the new-wakenedwind blew the long dark hair about her head, while round her, fallingalmost to her naked feet, was wrapped a full red cloak. Had Morriswished to draw the picture of a Viking's daughter guiding her father'sship into the fray, there, down to the red cloak, bare feet, and flyingtresses, stood its perfect model. 

The wild scene gripped his heart. Whoever saw the like of it? This girlwho sang in the teeth of death, the desolate grey face of ocean, thebrown and hungry rocks, the huge, abandoned ship, and over all the angryrays of a winter sunrise. 

Thus, out of the darkness of the winter night, out of the bewilderingwhite mists of the morning, did this woman arise upon his sight, thisstrange new star begin to shine upon his life and direct his destiny. 

At the moment that he saw her she seemed to see him. At any rate, sheceased her ringing, defiant song, and, leaning over the netting rail, stared downwards. 

Morris began to haul at his anchor; but, though he was a strong man, at first he could not lift it. Just as he was thinking of slipping thecable, however, the little flukes came loose from the sand or weeds inwhich they were embedded, and with toil and trouble he got it shipped. Then he took a pair of sculls and rowed until he was nearly under theprow of the Trondhjem. It was he, too, who spoke first. 

"You must come to me, " he called. 

"Yes, " the woman answered, leaning over the rail; "I will come, but how?Shall I jump into the water?"

"No, " he said, "it is too dangerous. You might strike against a rock orbe taken by the current. The companion ladder seems to be down on thestarboard side. Go aft to it, I will row round the ship and meet youthere. "

She nodded her head, and Morris started on his journey. It provedperilous. To begin with, there were rocks all about. Also, here the tideor the current, or both, ran with the speed of a mill-race, so thatin places the sea bubbled and swirled like a boiling kettle. Howeverskilled and strong he might be, it was hard for one man to deal withsuch difficulties and escape disaster. Still following the port sideof the ship, since owing to the presence of certain rocks he dared notattempt the direct starboard passage, he came at last to her stern. Thenhe saw how imminent was the danger, for the poop of the vessel, which seemed to be of about a thousand tons burden, was awash andwater-logged, but rolling and lifting beneath the pressure of the tideas it drew on to flood. 

To Morris, who had lived all his life by the sea, and understood suchmatters, it was plain that presently she would float, or be torn offthe point of the rock on which she hung, broken-backed, and sink in thehundred-fathom-deep water which lay beyond the reef. There was no timeto spare, and he laboured at his oars fiercely, till at length, partlyby skill and partly by good fortune, he reached the companion ladder andfastened to it with a boat-hook. 

Now no woman was to be seen; she had vanished. Morris called and called, but could get no answer, while the great dead carcass of the ship rolledand laboured above, its towering mass of iron threatening to fall andcrush him and his tiny craft to nothingness. He shouted and shoutedagain; then in despair lashed his boat to the companion, and ran up theladder. 

Where could she have gone? He hurried forward along the heaving, jerkingdeck to the main hatchway. Here he hesitated for a moment; then, knowingthat, if anywhere, she must be below, set his teeth and descended. Thesaloon was a foot deep in water, which washed from side to side with aheavy, sickening splash, and there, carrying a bag in one hand, holdingup her garments with the other, and wading towards him from the dryupper part of the cabin, at last he found the lady whom he sought. 

"Be quick!" he shouted; "for God's sake, be quick! The ship is comingoff the rock. "

She splashed towards him; now he had her by the hand; now they wereon the deck, and now he was dragging her after him down the companionladder. They reached the boat, and just as the ship gave a great rolltowards them, Morris seized the oars and rowed like a madman. 

"Help me!" he gasped; "the current is against us. " And, sitting oppositeto him, she placed her hands upon his hands, pressing forward as hepulled. Her slight strength made a difference, and the boat forgedahead--thirty, forty, seventy yards--till they reached a rock to which, exhausted, he grappled with a hook, bidding her hold on to the floatingseaweed. Thus they rested for thirty seconds, perhaps, when she spokefor the first time:

"Look!" she said. 

As she spoke the steamer slid and lifted off the reef. For a few momentsshe wallowed; then suddenly her stern settled, her prow rose slowly inthe air till it stood up straight, fifty or sixty feet of it. Then, witha majestic, but hideous rush, down went the Trondhjem and vanished forever. 

All round about her the sea boiled and foamed, while in the greathollow which she made on the face of the waters black lumps of wreckageappeared and disappeared. 

"Tight! hold tight!" he cried, "or she will suck us after her. "

Suck she did, till the water poured over the gunwale. Then, the worstpassed, and the boat rose again. The foam bubbles burst or floated awayin little snowy heaps; the sea resumed its level, and, save for thefloating debris, became as it had been for thousands of years before thelost Trondhjem rushed downward to its depths. 

Now, for the first time, knowing the immediate peril past, Morris lookedat the face of his companion. It was a fine face, and beautiful in itsway. Dark eyes, very large and perfect, whereof the pupils seemed toexpand and contract in answer to every impulse of the thoughts within. Above the eyes long curving lashes and delicately pencilled, archedeyebrows, and above them again a forehead low and broad. The chinrounded; the lips full, rich, and sensitive; the complexion of a clearand beautiful pallor; the ears tiny; the hands delicate; the figureslim, of medium height, and alive with grace; the general effect mostuncommon, and, without being lovely, breathing a curious power andpersonality. 

Such was the woman whom he had saved from death. 

"Oh, how splendid!" she said in her deep voice, and clasping her hands. "What a death! For ship or man, what a death! And after it the greatcalm sea, taking and ready to take for ever. "

"Thank Heaven that it did not take you, " answered Morris wrathfully. 

"Why?" she answered. 

"Because you are still alive, who by now would have been dead. "

"It seems that it was not fated this time, " she answered, adding: "Thenext it may be different. "

"Yes, " he said reflectively; "the next it may be different, MissFregelius. "

She started. "How do you know my name?" she asked. 

"From your father's lips. He is ashore at my house. The sailors musthave seen the light in my workshop and steered for it. "

"My father?" she gasped. "He is still alive? But, oh, how is thatpossible? He would never have left me. "

"Yes, he lives, but with a broken thigh and his head cut open. He wasbrought ashore senseless, so you need not be ashamed of him. Thosesailors are the cowards. "

She sighed, as though in deep relief. "I am very glad. I had made up mymind that he must be dead, for of course I knew that he would never haveleft me otherwise. It did not occur to me that he might be carriedaway senseless. Is he--" and she paused, then added: "tell me theworst--quick. "

"No; the doctor thinks in no danger at present; only a break of thethigh and a scalp wound. Of course, he could not help himself, for hecan have known no more than a corpse of what was passing, " he went on. "It is those sailors who are to blame--for leaving you on the ship, Imean. "

She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 

"The sailors! From such rough men one does not expect much. They hadlittle time, and thought of themselves, not of a passenger, whom theyhad scarcely seen. Thank God they did not leave my father behind also. "

"You do not thank God for yourself, " said Morris curiously, as heprepared to hoist the sail, for his mind harked back to his oldwonderment. 

"Yes, I do, but it was not His will that I should die last night. I havetold you that it was not fated, " she answered. 

"Quite so. That is evident now; but were I in your case this reallyremarkable escape would make me wonder what is fated. "

"Yes, it does a little; but not too much, for you see I shall learn intime. You might as well wonder how it happened that you arrived to saveme, and to what end. "

Morris hesitated, for this was a new view of the case, before heanswered. 

"That your life should be saved, I suppose. "

"And why should it happen that your boat should come to save me?"

"I don't know; chance, I suppose. "

"Neither do I; but I don't believe in chance. Everything has its meaningand purpose. "

"Only one so seldom finds it out. Life is too short, I suppose, " repliedMorris. 

By now the sail was up, the boat was drawing ahead, and he was seated ather side holding the tiller. 

"Why did you go down into the saloon, Miss Fregelius?" he askedpresently. 

She glanced at herself, and now, for the first time, he noticed that shewore a dress beneath her red cloak, and that there were slippers on herfeet, which had been bare. 

"I could not come into the boat as I was, " she explained, dropping hereyes. "The costume which is good enough to be drowned in is not fittedfor company. My cabin was well forward, and I guessed that by wading Icould reach it. Also, I had some trinkets and one or two books I did notwish to lose, " and she nodded at the hand-bag which she had thrown intothe boat. 

Morris smiled. "It is very nice of you to pay so much respect toappearances, " he said; "but I suppose you forgot that the vessel mightcome off the rocks at any moment and crush me, who was waiting. "

"Oh, no, " she answered; "I thought of it. I have always been accustomedto the sea, and know about such things. "

"And still you went for your dress and your trinkets?"

"Yes, because I was certain that it wouldn't happen and that no harmwould come to either of us by waiting a few minutes. "

"Indeed, and who told you that?"

"I don't know, but from the moment that I saw you in the boat I wascertain that the danger was done with--at least, the immediate danger, "she added. 

CHAPTER IX

MISS FREGELIUS

While Miss Fregelius was speaking, Morris had been staring at the sail, which, after drawing for a time in an indifferent fashion, had begun toflap aimlessly. 

"What is the matter?" asked his companion. "Has the wind veered again?"

He nodded. "Dead from the west, now, and rising fast. I hope that yourspirit of prophecy still speaks smooth things, for, upon my word, Ibelieve we are both of us in a worse mess than ever. "

"Can't we row ashore? It is only a few miles, is it?"

"We can try, but I am afraid we are in for a regular tearer. We get themsometimes on this coast after a spell of calm weather. "

"Please give me an oar, " she said. "I am used to rowing--of a sort. "

So he let down the sail, and they began to row. For ten minutes or sothey struggled against the ever-rising gale. Then Morris called to herto ship oars. 

"It is no use exhausting ourselves, Miss Fregelius, " he said, "for nowthe tide is on the ebb, and dead against us, as well as the wind. "

"What are you going to do?" she asked. 

Morris glanced back to where a mile behind them the sea was beginning tofoam ominously over the Sunk Rocks, here and there throwing up isolatedjets of spray, like those caused by the blowing of a whale. 

"I am going to try to clear them, " he said, "and then run before it. Perhaps we might make the Far Lightship five and twenty miles away. Helpme to pull up the sail. So, that's enough; she can't stand too much. Nowhold the sheet, and if I bid you, let go that instant. I'll steer. "

A few seconds later the boat's head had come round, and she was rushingthrough the water at great speed, parallel with the line of the SunkRocks, but being momentarily driven nearer to them. The girl, StellaFregelius, stared at the farthest point of foam which marked the end ofthe reef. 

"You must hold her up if you want to clear it, " she said quietly. 

"I can't do any more in this wind, " he answered. "You seem to know aboutboats; you will understand. "

She nodded, and on they rushed, the ever-freshening gale on their beam. 

"This boat sails well, " said Stella, as a little water trickled over thegunwale. 

Morris made no answer, his eyes were fixed upon the point of rock; onlybidding his companion hold the tiller, he did something to the sail. Nowthey were not more than five hundred yards away. 

"It will be a very near thing, " she said. 

"Very, " he answered, "and I don't want to be officious, but I suggestthat you might do well to say your prayers. "

She looked at him, and bowed her head for a minute or so. Then suddenlyshe lifted it again and stared at the terror ahead of them with wide, unflinching eyes. 

On sped the boat while more and more did tide and gale turn her prowinto the reef. At the end of it a large, humpbacked rock showed now andagain through the surf, like the fin of a black whale. That was the rockwhich they must clear if they would live. Morris took the boat-hook andlaid it by his side. They were very near now. They would clear it; no, the wash sucked them in like a magnet. 

"Good-bye, " said Morris instinctively, but Stella answered nothing. 

The wave that lifted them broke upon the rock in a cloud of spraywherein for some few instants their boat seemed to vanish. They wereagainst it; the boat touched, and Stella felt a long ribbon of seaweedcut her like a whip across the face. Kneeling down, Morris thrust madlywith the boat-hook, and thus for an instant--just one--held her off. Hisarms doubled beneath the strain, and then came the back-wash. 

Oh, heaven! it had swept them clear. The rock was behind, the sail drew, and swiftly they fled away from the death that had seemed certain. 

Stella sighed aloud, while Morris wiped the water from his face. 

"Are we clear?" she asked presently. 

"Of the Sunk Rocks? Yes, we are round them. But the North Sea is infront of us, and what looks like the worst gale that has blown thisautumn is rising behind. "

"This is a good sea-boat, and on the open water I think perhaps that weought to weather it, " she said, trying to speak cheerfully, as Morrisstowed the sail, for in that wind they wanted no canvas. 

"I wish we had something to eat, " she added presently; "I am so hungry. "

"By good luck I can help you there, " he answered. "Yesterday I was outfishing and took lunch for myself and the boatman; but the fish wouldn'tbite, so we came back without eating it, and it is still in the locker. Shift a little, please, I will get the basket. "

She obeyed, and there was the food sure enough, plenty of it. A thickpacket of sandwiches, and two boiled eggs, a loaf, and a large lump ofcheese for the boatman, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of beer, another ofwater, and two of soda. They ate up the sandwiches and the eggs, Morrisdrinking the beer and Stella the soda water, for whiskey as yet shewould not touch. 

"Now, " she said, "we are still provisioned for twenty-four hours withthe bread and cheese, the water and the soda which is left. "

"Yes, " he answered, "if we don't sink or die of cold we shall notstarve. I never thought that sandwiches were so good before;" and helooked hungrily at the loaf. 

"You had better put it away; you may want it later, " she suggested. Andhe put it away. 

"Tell me, if you don't mind, " he asked, for the food and the lighteningof the strain upon his nerves had made him conversational, "what is thatsong which you sang upon the ship, and why did you sing it?"

She coloured a little, and smiled, a sweet smile that seemed to begin inher eyes. 

"It is an old Norse chant which my mother taught me; she was a Dane, asmy father is also by descent. It has come down in her family for many, many generations, and the legend is that the women of her race alwayssang it or repeated it while the men were fighting, and, if they had thestrength, in the hour of their own death. I believe that is true, forshe died whispering it herself; yes, it grew fainter and fainter untilit ceased with her breath. So, when I thought that my hour had come, Isang it also, for the first time, for I tried to be brave, and wishedto go as my forefathers went. It is a foolish old custom, but I like oldcustoms. I am ashamed that you should have heard it. I thought myselfalone. That is all. "

"You are a very strange young lady, " said Morris, staring at her. 

"Strange?" she answered, laughing. "Not at all; only I wanted to showthose scores of dead people that their traditions and spirit still livedon in me, their poor modern child. Think how glad they must have beento hear the old chant as they swept by in the wind just now, waiting togive me welcome. "

Morris stared still harder. Was this beautiful girl mad? He knewsomething of the old Norse literature and myths. A fantastic vision roseup in his mind of her forebears, scores and hundreds of them gatheredat some ghostly Walhalla feast, listening to the familiar paean as itpoured from her fearless heart, and waiting to rise and greet her, thelast newcomer of their blood, with "_Skoll_, daughter, _skoll!_"

She watched him as though she read his thought. 

"You see, they would have been pleased; it is only natural, " she said;"and I have a great respect for the opinion of my ancestors. "

"Then you are sure they still exist in some shape or form, and areconscious?"

She laughed again. "Of course I am sure. The world of spirits, as Ithink, is the real world. The rest is a nightmare; at least, it seemslike a nightmare, because we don't know the beginning or the end of thedream. "

"The old Egyptians thought something like that, " said Morrisreflectively. "They only lived to die. "

"But we, " she answered, "should only die to live, and that is why I trynot to be afraid. I daresay, however, I mean the same as they did, onlyyou do not seem to have put their thought quite clearly. "

"You are right; I meant that for them death was but a door. "

"That is better, I think, " she said. "That was their thought, andthat is my thought; and, " she added, searching his face, "perhaps yourthought also. "

"Yes, " he answered, "though somehow you concentrate it; I have neverseen things, or, rather, this thing, quite so sharply. "

"Because you have never been in a position to see them; they have notbeen brought home to you. Or your mind may have wanted an interpreter. Perhaps I am that interpreter--for the moment. " Then she added: "Wereyou afraid just now? Don't tell me if you had rather not, only I shouldlike to compare sensations. I was--more than on the ship. I admit it. "

"No, " he answered; "I suppose that I was too excited. "

"What were you thinking of when we bumped against the rocks?" she askedagain. 

"Well, now that you mention it, " he replied, rubbing his forehead withhis left hand like a man newly awakened, "I could think of nothing butthat song of yours, which you sang upon the vessel. Everything grew darkfor an instant, and through the darkness I remembered the song. "

"Are you married?" she asked, as though speaking to herself. 

"No; I am engaged. "

"Then, why----" and she stopped, confused. 

Morris guessed what had been in her mind, and of a sudden felt terriblyashamed. 

"Because of that witch-song of yours, " he answered, with a flash ofanger, "which made me forget everything. "

She smiled and answered. "It wasn't the song; it was the excitement andstruggle which blotted out the rest. One does not really think at allat such moments, or so I believe. I know that I didn't, not just when webumped against the rock. But it is odd that you should believe that youremembered my song, for, according to tradition, that is just what thechant should do, and what it always did. Its ancient name means 'TheOver-Lord, ' because those who sang it and those who heard it were saidto remember nothing else, and to fear nothing, not even Death our lord. It is the welcome that they give to death. "

"What egregious nonsense!" he blurted out. 

"I daresay; but then, why do you understand my nonsense so well? Tellme, if you will, of what blood are you?"

"Danish, I believe, in the beginning. "

"Oh, " she said, laughing, "no doubt that accounts for it. Someforefather of yours may have heard the song of the Over-Lord, perhapsfrom the lips of some foremother of mine. So, of course, you rememberedand understood. "

"Such a thing will scarcely bear argument, will it?"

"Of course it won't. I have only been joking all the time, though I dohalf believe in this old song, as my ancestors did before me. I mean, that as I thought I had to die, I liked to keep up the ancient customand sing it first. It encouraged my spirits. But where are we going?"

"To where our spirits will need no more encouragement, " he answeredgrimly; "or, at least, I fear it may be so. Miss Fregelius, to dropjests, it is blowing very hard off land; the sea is getting up, and thisis but a small boat. We are doing pretty well now, but sooner or later, I fear, and I think it right to tell you, that a wave may poop us andthen----"

"There will be an end, " said Stella. "Is there anything to be done? Haveyou any plan?"

"None, except to make the Far Lightship, as I told you; but even if wesucceed, I don't know whether it will be possible to get aboard of herunless the sea moderates. "

"Won't the lifeboat come out to look for you?" she asked. 

He shook his head. "How could they find one tiny sail upon the greatocean? Moreover, it will be supposed either that I have foundered ormade some port along the coast. There is the worst of it. I fear that itmay be telegraphed everywhere, " and he sighed deeply. 

"Why?" she asked. "Are you a very important person that they shouldbother to do that? You see, " she added in explanation, "I don't evenknow your name or where you come from, only that you told me you workedin a shop which, " she added reflectively, looking at him, "seems odd. "

Even then and there Morris could not help a smile; really this younglady was very original. 

"No, " he answered, "I am not at all important, and I work in a shopbecause I am an inventor--or try to be--in the electrical line. My nameis Morris Monk, and I am the son of Colonel Monk, and live at the AbbeyHouse, Monksland. Now you know all about me. "

"Oh! of course I do, Mr. Monk, " she said in some confusion, "how foolishof me not to guess. You are my father's principal new parishioner, ofwhom Mr. Tomley gave us a full description. "

"Did he indeed? What did he say?" he asked idly. 

"Do you really want to know, Mr. Monk?"

"Yes, if it is amusing. Just now I shall be grateful for anything thatcan divert my thoughts. "

"And you will promise not to bear malice against Mr. Tomley?"

"Certainly, especially as he has gone away, and I don't expect to seehim any more. "

"Well, he described your father, Colonel Monk, as a handsome anddistinguished elderly gentleman of very good birth, and manners, too, when he chose, who intensely disliked growing old. He said that hethought of himself more than of anybody else in the world, and next ofthe welfare of his family, and that if we wished to get on with himwe must be careful not to offend his dignity, as then he would bequarrelsome. "

"That's true enough, or most of it, " answered Morris, "a good picture ofmy father's weak side. And what was his definition of myself?"

"He said that you were in his opinion one of the most interesting peoplethat he had ever met; that you were a dreamer and a mystic; that youcared for few of the things which usually attract young men, and thatyou were in practice almost a misogynist. He added that, althoughheretofore you had not succeeded, he thought that you possessed realgenius in certain lines, but that you had not your father's 'courtlyair, ' that was his term. Of course, I am only repeating, so you must notbe angry. "

"Well, " said Morris, "I asked for candour and I have got it. Withoutadmitting the accuracy of his definitions, I must say that I neverthought that pompous old Tomley had so much observation. " Then he addedquickly, to change the subject, since the possible discussion of his ownattributes, physical or mental, alarmed him, "Miss Fregelius, you havenot told me how you came to be left aboard the ship. "

"Really, Mr. Monk, I don't know. I heard a confused noise in my sleep, and when I woke up it was to find myself alone, and the saloon half fullof water. I suppose that after the vessel struck, the sailors, thinkingthat she was going down, got off at once, taking my father, who had beeninjured and made insensible in some way, with them as he happened tobe on deck, leaving me to my chance. You know, we were the onlypassengers. "

"Were you not frightened when you found yourself all alone like that?"

"Yes, at first, dreadfully; then I was so distressed about my father, whom I thought dead, and angry with them for deserting me, that I forgotto be frightened, and afterwards--well, I was too proud. Besides, wemust die alone, every one of us, so we may as well get accustomed to theidea. "

Morris shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

"You think that I need not talk so much about our mortal end. Well, perhaps under all the circumstances, we may as well keep our thoughts onthis world--while it lasts. You have not told me, Mr. Monk, how you cameto be sailing about alone this morning. Did you come out to look at thewreck?"

"Do you think that I am mad?" he asked, not without indignation. "ShouldI make a journey at night, in a November fog, with every chance ofa gale coming up, to the Sunk Rocks in this cockle-shell, and alone, merely to look at the place where, as I understood rather vaguely, aforeign tramp steamer had gone down?"

"Well, it does seem rather odd. But why else did you come? Were youfishing? Men will risk a great deal for fishing, I know, I have seenthat in Norway. "

"Why do you pretend not to understand, Miss Fregelius? You must knowperfectly well that I came to look for you. "

"Indeed, " she answered candidly, "I knew nothing of the sort. How didyou find out that I was still on the ship, or that the ship was stillabove water? And even if you knew both, why should you risk your lifejust on the faint chance of rescuing a girl whom you never saw?"

"I can't quite tell you; but your father in his delirium muttered somewords which made me suspect the truth, and a sailor who could speaka little bad French said that the Trondhjem was lost upon some rocks. Well, these are the only rocks about here; and as the whole story wastoo vague to carry to the lifeboat people I thought that I would come tolook. So you see it is perfectly simple. "

"So simple, Mr. Monk, that I do not understand it in the least. You musthave known the risks, for you asked no one to share them--the risks thatare so near and real;" and, shivering visibly, she looked at the greycombers seething past them, and the wind-torn horizon beyond. "Yet, you--you who have ties, faced all this on the chance of saving astranger. "

"Please, please, " broke in Morris. "At any rate, you see, it was a happyinspiration. "

"Yes, for me, perhaps--but for you! Oh, if it should end in your beingtaken away from the world before your time, from the world and the ladywho--what then?"

Morris winced; then he said: "God's will be done. But although we may bein danger, we are not dead yet; not by a long way. "

"She would hate me whose evil fortune it was to draw you to death, andin life or out of it I should never forgive myself--never! never!" andshe covered her eyes with her cold, wet hand and sighed. 

"Why should you grieve over what you cannot help?" asked Morris gently. 

"I cannot quite explain to you, " she answered; "but the thought of itseems so sad. "

CHAPTER X

DAWN AND THE LAND

A day, a whole day, spent upon that sullen, sunless waste of water, with the great waves bearing them onwards in one eternal, monotonousprocession, till at length they grew dizzy with looking at them, andthe ceaseless gale piping in their ears. Long ago they had lost sight ofland; even the tall church towers built by our ancestors as beaconson this stormy coast had vanished utterly. Twice they sighted shipsscudding along under their few rags of canvas, and once a steamerpassed, the smoke from her funnels blowing out like long black pennons. But all of these were too far off, or too much engaged with theirown affairs to see the little craft tossing hither and thither like aused-up herring basket upon the endless area of ocean. 

Fortunately, from his youth Morris had been accustomed to the managementof boats in all sorts of weather, the occupation of sailing aloneupon the waters being one well suited to his solitary and reflectivedisposition. Thus it came about that they survived, when others, less skilful, might have drowned. Sometimes they ran before the seas;sometimes they got up a few square feet of sail, and, taking advantageof a veer in the wind, tried to tack, and once, when it blew itshardest, fearing lest they should be pooped, for over an hour theycontrived to keep head on to the waves. 

Thus, diversified by some necessary bailing, passed the short Novemberday, long enough for them, till once more the darkness began to gather. They had still some food and drink left; indeed, had it not been forthese they would have perished. Most happily, also, with the sun thewind dropped, although for hours the sea remained dangerously high. Now wet and cold were their enemies, worse than any that they had beencalled upon to face. Long ago the driving spray had soaked them to theskin, and there upon the sea the winter night was very chill. 

While the wind, fortunately for them, by comparison a warm one, stillblew from the west, and the sea remained tempestuous, they foundsome shelter by wrapping themselves in a corner of the sail. Towardsmidnight, however, it got round to the northeast, enough of it tomoderate the sea considerably, and to enable them to put the boat aboutand go before it with a closely reefed sail. Now, indeed, they werebitterly cold, and longed even for the shelter of the wet canvas. Still Morris felt, and Stella was of the same mind, that before utterexhaustion overtook them their best chance for life lay in trying tomake the shore, which was, they knew not how far away. 

There, then, for hours they cowered in the stern of the boat, huddledtogether to protect themselves as best they might from the weather, andplunging forward beneath their little stretch of sail. Sleep they couldnot, for that icy breath bit into their marrow, and of this Morris wasglad, since he did not dare relax his watch for an instant. So sometimesthey sat silent, and sometimes by fits and starts they talked, theirlips close to each other's face, as though they were whispering to oneanother. 

To while away the weary time, Morris told his companion about hisinvention, the aerophone. Then she in turn told him something of herprevious life--Stella was now a woman of four and twenty. It seemedthat her mother had died when she was fourteen at the rectory inNorthumberland, where she was born. After that, with short intervals, she had spent five years in Denmark, whither her father came tovisit her every summer. Most of this time she passed at a school inCopenhagen, going for her holidays to stay with her grandmother, who wasthe widow of a small landowner of noble family, and lived in an ancient, dilapidated house in some remote village. At length the grandmotherdied, leaving to Stella the trifle she possessed, after which, hereducation being completed, she returned to Northumberland to keep housefor her father. Here, too, it would seem that her life was very lonely, for the place was but an unvisited coast village, and they were notrich enough to mix much with the few county families who lived anywherewithin reach. 

"Have you no brothers or sisters?" asked Morris. 

Even then, numb as was her flesh with cold, he felt her wince at thequestion. 

"No, no, " she answered, "none now--at least, none here. I have--I meanI had--a sister, my twin, but she died when we were seventeen. This wasthe most dreadful thing that ever happened to me, the thing which mademe what I am. "

"I don't quite understand. What are you, then?"

"Oh, something very unsatisfactory, I am afraid, quite different fromother people. What Mr. Tomley said _you_ were, Mr. Monk, a mystic anda dreamer of dreams; a lover of the dead; one who dwells in the past, and--in the future. "

Morris did not pursue the subject; even under their strangecircumstances, favourable as they were to intimacy and confidences, itseemed impertinent to him to pry into the mysteries of his companion'slife. Only he asked, at hazard almost:

"How did you spend your time up there in Northumberland?"

"In drawing a little, in collecting eggs, moths, and flowers a greatdeal; in practising with my violin playing and singing; and during thelong winters in making translations in my spare time of Norse sagas, which no one will publish. "

"I should like to read them; I am fond of the sagas, " he said, and afterthis, under pressure of their physical misery, the conversation diedaway. 

Hour succeeded to hour, and the weather moderated so much that now theywere in little danger of being swamped. This, indeed, was fortunate, since in the event of a squall or other emergency, in their numbedcondition it was doubtful whether they could have found enough strengthto do what might be necessary to save themselves. They drank whatremained of the whiskey, which put life into their veins for a while, but soon its effects passed off, leaving them, if possible, more frozenthan before. 

"What is the time?" asked Stella, after a long silence. 

"It should be daybreak in about two hours, " he said, in a voice thatattempted cheerfulness. 

Then a squall of sleet burst upon them, and after this new misery atorpor overcame Stella; at least, her shiverings grew less violent, andher head sank upon his shoulder. Morris put one arm round her waist tosave her from slipping into the water at the bottom of the boat, making shift to steer with the other. Thus, for a while they ploughedforward--whither he knew not, across the inky sea, for there was nomoon, and the stars were hidden, driven on slowly by the biting breathof the winter wind. 

Presently she awoke, lifted her head, and spoke, saying:

"We can't last much longer in this cold and wet. You are not afraid, areyou?"

"No, not exactly afraid, only sorry; it is hard to go with so much to bedone, and--to leave behind. "

"You shouldn't think like that, " she answered, "for what we leave mustfollow. She will suffer, but soon she will be with you again, whereeverything is understood. Only you ought to have died with her, and notwith me, a stranger. "

"Fate settles these things, " he muttered, "and if it comes to that, maybe God will give her strength. But the dawn is near, and by it we maysee land. "

"Yes, yes, "--now her voice had sunk to a whisper, --"the dawn is alwaysnear, and by it we shall see land. "

Then again Stella's head sank upon his shoulder, and she slept heavily;nor, although he knew that such slumbers are dangerous, did he think itworth while to disturb her. 

The invisible seas hissed past; the sharp wind bit his bones, and overhim, too, that fatal slumber began to creep. But, although he seldomexercised it, Morris was a man of strong will, and while any strengthwas left he refused to give way. Would this dreadful darkness never end?For the fiftieth time he glanced back over his shoulder, and now, he wassure of it, the east grew ashen. He waited awhile, for the November dawnis slow in breaking, then looked again. Heaven be thanked! the cold windhad driven away the clouds, and there, upon the edge of the horizon, peeped up the fiery circle of the sun, throwing long rays of sicklyyellow across the grey, troubled surface of the waters. In front of himlay a dense bank of fog, which, from its character, as Morris knew well, must emanate from the reeking face of earth. They were near shore, itcould not be doubted; still, he did not wake his companion. Perhaps hemight be in error, and sleep, even a death-sleep, is better than thecheatings of disappointed hope. 

What was that dim object in front of him? Surely it must be the ruina mile or so to the north of Monksland, that was known as the DeathChurch? Once a village stood here, but the sea had taken most of it;indeed, all that remained to-day was this old, deserted fane, which, having been built upon a breast of rising ground, still remained, awaiting its destruction by the slow sap of the advancing ocean. Evennow, at times of very high tide, the sea closed in behind, cutting thefabric off from the mainland, where it looked like a forsaken lighthouserather than the tower and chancel of a church. But there, not much morethan a mile away, yes, there it was, and Morris felt proud to think howstraight he had steered homewards through that stormy darkness. 

The sea was still wild and high, but he was familiar with every inch ofthe coast, and knew well that there was a spot to the south of the DeadChurch, just where the last rood of graveyard met the sand, upon whichhe could beach the boat safely even in worse weather. For this nookMorris headed with a new energy; the fires of life and hope burnt up inhim, giving him back his strength and judgment. 

At last they were opposite to the place, and, watching his chance, heput the helm down and ran in upon the crest of a wave, till the boatgrounded in the soft sand, and began to wallow there like a dying thing. Fearing lest the back-wash should suck them off into the surf again, herolled himself into the water, for jump he could not; indeed, it wasas much as he could do to stand. With a last effort of his strength heseized Stella in his arms and struggled with her to the sandy shore, where he sank down exhausted. Then she woke. "Oh, I dreamed, I dreamed!"she said, staring round her wildly. 

"What?" he asked. 

"That it was all over; and afterwards, that I----" and she broke offsuddenly, adding: "But it was all a dream, for we are safe on shore, arewe not?"

"Yes, thank Heaven!" said Morris. "Sit still, and I will make the boatsecure. She has served us a good turn, and I do not want to lose herafter all. "

She nodded, and wading into the water, with numbed hands he managed tolift the little anchor and carry it ashore in his arms. 

"There, " he said, "the tide is ebbing, and she'll hold fast enough untilI can send to fetch her; or, if not, it can't be helped. Come on, MissFregelius, before you grow too stiff to walk;" and, bending down, hehelped her to her feet. 

Their road ran past the nave of the church, which was ruined andunroofed. At some time during the last two generations, however, although the parishioners saw that it was useless to go to the cost ofrepairing the nave, they had bricked in the chancel, and to within thelast twenty years continued to use it as a place of worship. Indeed, the old oak door taken from the porch still swung on rusty hinges in thepartition wall of red brick. Stella looked up and saw it. 

"I want to look in there, " she said. 

"Wouldn't it do another time?" The moment did not strike Morris asappropriate for the examination of ruined churches. 

"No; if you don't mind I should like to look now, while I remember, justfor one instant. "

So he shrugged his shoulders, and they limped forward up the rooflessnave and through the door. She stared at the plain stone altar, at theeastern window, of which part was filled with ancient coloured glassand part with cheap glazed panes; at the oak choir benches, mouldy andbroken; at the few wall-slabs and decaying monuments, and at the roofstill strong and massive. 

"I dreamed of a place very like this, " she said, nodding her head. "Ithought that I was standing in such a spot in a fearful gale, and thatthe sea got under the foundations and washed the dead out of theirgraves. "

"Really, Miss Fregelius, " he said, with some irritation, for thesurroundings of the scene and his companion's talk were uncanny, "do youthink this an occasion to explore ruins and relate nightmares?" Thenhe added, "I beg your pardon, but I think that the cold and wet haveaffected your nerves; for my part, I have none left. "

"Perhaps; at least forgive me, I did so want to look, " she answeredhumbly as, arm-in-arm, for she needed support, they passed from thealtar to the door. 

A grotesque imagination entered the numbed mind of Morris. Their slowand miserable march turned itself to a vision of a bridal processionfrom the altar. Wet, dishevelled, half-frozen, they two were thebride-groom and the bride, and the bride was a seer of visions, and thebridegroom was a dreamer of dreams. Yes, and they came up together outof the bitter sea and the darkness, and they journeyed together to avault of the dead----

Thank Heaven! they were out of the place, and above was the sun shining, and, to the right and left, the grey ocean and the purple plough-lands, cold-looking, suggesting dangers and labour, but wholesome all of them, and good to the eye of man. Only why did this woman see visions, and whydid he dream dreams? And what was the meaning of their strange meetingupon the sea? And what----

"Where are we going?" asked Stella after a while and very faintly. 

"Home; to the Abbey, I mean, where your father lies. Now it is not muchmore than a mile away. "

She sighed; her strength was failing her. 

"You had better try to walk, it will warm you, " he urged, and shestruggled on. 

It was a miserable journey, but they reached the house at length, passing first through a street of the village in which no one seemed tobe awake. A wretched-looking couple, they stumbled up the steps intothe porch, where Morris rang the bell, for the door was locked. The timeseemed an age, but at last steps were heard, the door was unbarred, and there appeared a vision of the lad Thomas, yawning, and clad in anightshirt and a pair of trousers, with braces attached which dangled tothe floor. 

"Oh, Lord!" he said when he saw them, and his jaw dropped. 

"Get out of the way, you young idiot, " said Morris, "and call the cook. "

It was half-past seven in the evening, that is, dinner time, and Morrisstood in the study waiting for Stella, who had announced through thehousemaid that she was coming down. 

After telling the servants to send for the doctor and attend to hiscompanion, who had insisted upon being led straight to her father'sroom, Morris's first act that morning on reaching home was to take abath as hot as he could bear. Then he drank several cups of coffee withbrandy in it, and as the office would soon be open, wrote a telegram toMary, which ran thus:

"If you hear that I have been drowned, don't believe it. Have arrivedsafe home after a night at sea. "

This done, for he guessed that all sorts of rumours would be abroad, heinquired after Mr. Fregelius and Stella. Having learned that they wereboth going on well and sent off his telegram, Morris went to bed andslept for ten hours. 

Morris looked round the comfortable sitting-room with its recessed Tudorwindows, its tall bookcases and open hearth, where burned a bright fireof old ship's timbers supported on steel dogs, and thought to himselfthat he was fortunate to be there. Then the door opened, he heard thehousemaid's voice say, "This way please, Miss, " and Stella came in. Shewore a plain white dress that seemed to fit her very well, though whereshe got it from he never discovered, and her luxuriant hair was twistedup into a simple knot. On the bosom of her dress was fixed a spray ofbrilliant ampelopsis leaves; it was her only ornament, but none couldhave been more striking. For the rest, although she limped and stilllooked dark and weary about the eyes, to all appearances she was notmuch the worse for their terrible adventure. 

Morris glanced at her. Could this dignified and lovely young lady bethat red-cloaked, loose-haired Valkyrie whom he had seen singing atdaybreak upon the prow of the sinking ship, or the piteous bedraggledperson whom he had supported from the altar in the Dead Church?

She guessed his thought--from the beginning Stella had this curiouspower of discovering his mind--and said with a smile:

"Fine feathers make fine birds, and even Cleopatra would have lookeddreadful after a November night in an open boat. "

"Have you recovered?" he asked. 

"Yes, Mr. Monk; that is, I don't think I am going to have inflammationof the lungs or anything horrid of the sort. The remedies and that walkstopped it. But my feet are peeling from being soaked so long in saltwater, and my hands are not much better. See, " and she held them towardshim. 

Then dinner was announced, and for the second time that day they walkedarm-in-arm. 

"It seems a little strange, doesn't it?" suggested Morris as he surveyedthe great refectory in which they two, seated at the central table, looked so lone and small. 

"Yes, " she answered; "but so it should, anything quite usual would havebeen out of place to-day. "

Then he asked her how her father was going on, and heard what he hadalready learned from the doctor, that he was doing as well as could beexpected. 

"By the way, Mr. Monk, " she added; "if you can spare a few minutes afterdinner, and are not too tired, he would so much like to see you. "

"Of course, " answered Morris a little nervously, for he scented adisplay of fervent gratitude. 

After this they dropped into desultory conversation, curiously differentfrom the intimate talk which passed between them in the boat. Thenthey had been in danger, and at times in the very shadow of Death; acondition that favours confidences since those who stand beneath hiswings no longer care to hide their hearts. The reserves which so largelydirect our lives are lifted, their necessity is past, and in the face ofthe last act of Nature, Nature asserts herself. Who cares to continue toplay a part when the audience has dispersed, the curtain is falling, andthe pay-box has put up its shutters? Now, very unexpectedly these twowere on the stage again, and each assumed the allotted role. 

Stella admired the room; whereon Morris set to work to explain itscharacteristics, to find, to his astonishment, that Miss Fregeliushad more knowledge of architecture than he could boast. He pointed outcertain details, alleging them to be Elizabethan work, to which age theyhad been credited for generations, whereon she suggested and, indeed, proved, that some of them dated from the earlier years of Henry VIII. , and that some were late Jacobean. While Morris was wondering how hecould combat this revolutionary opinion, the servant brought in atelegram. It was from Mary, at Beaulieu, and ran:

"Had not heard that you were drowned, but am deeply thankful that youare saved. Why did you pass a night at sea in this weather? Is it ariddle? Grieved to say my father not so well. Best love, and please keepon shore. MARY. "

At first Morris was angry with this rather flippant message; then helaughed. As he had already discovered, in fact, his anxieties had beenquite groundless. The page-boy, Thomas, it appeared, when questioned, had given the inquirers to understand that his master had gone out tofish, taking his breakfast with him. Later, on his non-appearance, he amended this statement, suggesting out of the depths of a fertileimagination, that he had sailed down to Northwold, where he meant topass the night. Therefore, although the cook, a far-seeing woman whoknew her Thomas and hated him, had experienced pangs of doubt, nobodyelse troubled the least, and even the small community of Monkslandremained profoundly undisturbed as to the fate of one of its principalinhabitants. 

So little is an unsympathetic world concerned in our greatest and mostparticular adventures! A birth, a marriage, an inquest, a scandal--thesemove it superficially, for the rest it has no enthusiasm to spare. Thiscold neglect of events which had seemed to him so important reacted uponMorris, who, now that he had got over his chill and fatigue, saw themin their proper proportions. A little adventure in an open boat at seawhich had ended without any mishap, was not remarkable, and might evenbe made to appear ridiculous. So the less said about it, especially toMary, whose wit he feared, the better. 

When dinner was finished Stella left the room, passing down its shadowedrecesses with a peculiar grace of which even her limp could not rob her. Ten minutes later, while Morris sat sipping a glass of claret, the nursecame down to tell him that Mr. Fregelius would like to see him if hewere disengaged. Reflecting that he might as well get the interviewover, Morris followed her at once to the Abbot's chamber, where the sickman lay. 

Except for a single lamp near the bed, the place was unlighted, but bythe fire, its glow falling on her white-draped form and pale, uncommonface, sat Stella. As he entered she rose, and, coming forward, accompanied him to the bedside, saying, in an earnest voice:

"Father, here is our host, Mr. Monk, the gentleman who saved my life atthe risk of his own. "

The patient raised his bandaged head and stretched out a long thin hand;he could stir nothing else, for his right thigh was in splints beneath acoffer-like erection designed to keep the pressure of the blankets fromhis injured limb. 

"Sir, I thank you, " he said in a dry, staccato voice; "all the humanitythat is lacking from the hearts of those rude wretches, the crew of theTrondhjem, must have found its home in you. "

Morris looked at the dark, quiet eyes that seemed to express much whichthe thin and impassive face refused to reveal; at the grey pointed beardand the yellowish skin of the outstretched arm. Here before him, hefelt, lay a man whose personality it was not easy to define, one whomight be foolish, or might be able, but of whose character the leadingnote was reticence, inherent or acquired. Then he took the hand, andsaid simply:

"Pray, say no more about it. I acted on an impulse and some wanderingwords of yours, with results for which I could not hope. There isnothing to thank me for. "

"Then, sir, I thank God, who inspired you with that impulse, and mayevery blessing reward your bravery. "

Stella looked up as though to speak, but changed her mind and returnedto her seat by the fire. 

"What is there to reward?" said Morris impatiently; "that your daughteris still alive is my reward. How are you to-night, Mr. Fregelius?"

CHAPTER XI

A MORNING SERVICE

Mr. Fregelius replied he was as well as could be expected; that thedoctor said no complications were likely to ensue, but that here uponthis very bed he must lie for at least two months. "That, " he added, "isa sad thing to have to say to a man into whose house you have driftedlike a log into a pool of the rocks. "

"It is not my house, but my father's, who is at present in France, "answered Morris. "But I can only say on his behalf that both you andyour daughter are most welcome until you are well enough to move to theRectory. "

"Why should I not go there at once?" interrupted Stella. "I could comeeach day and see my father. "

"No, no, certainly not, " said Morris. "How could you live alone in thatgreat, empty house?"

"I am not afraid of being alone, " she answered, smiling; "but let itbe as you like, Mr. Monk--at any rate, until you grow tired of us, andchange your mind. "

Then Mr. Fregelius told Morris what he had not yet heard--that when itbecame known that they had deserted Stella, leaving her to drown inthe sinking ship, the attentions of the inhabitants of Monksland to thecowardly foreign sailors became so marked that their consul at Northwoldhad thought it wise to get them out of the place as quickly as possible. While this story was in progress Stella left the room to speak to thenurse who had been engaged to look after her father at night. 

Afterwards, at the request of Mr. Fregelius, Morris told the tale ofhis daughter's rescue. In the course of it he mentioned how he found herstanding on the deck of the sinking ship and singing a Norse song, whichshe had informed him was an ancient death-dirge. 

The old clergyman turned his head and sighed. 

"What is the matter?" asked Morris. 

"Nothing, Mr. Monk; only that song is unlucky in my family, and I hopedthat she had forgotten it. "

Morris looked at him blankly. 

"You don't understand--how should you? But, Mr. Monk, there are strangethings and strange people in this world, and I think that my daughterStella is one of the strangest of them. Fey like the rest--only a feyNorse woman would sing in such a moment. "

Again Morris looked at him. 

"Oh, it is an old northern term, and means foreseeing, and foredoomed. To my knowledge her grandmother, her mother, and her sister, all threeof them, sang or repeated that song when in some imminent danger totheir lives, and all three of them were dead within the year. Thecoincidence is unpleasant. "

"Surely, " said Morris, with a smile, "you who are a clergyman, canscarcely believe in such superstition?"

"No, I am not superstitious, and I don't believe in it; but the thingrecalls unhappy memories. They have been death-lovers, all of them. Inever heard of a case of one of that family who showed the slightestfear at the approach of death; and some have greeted it with eagerness. "

"Well, " said Morris, "would not that mean only that their spiritualsight is a little clearer than ours, and their faith a little stronger?Theoretically, we should all of us wish to die. "

"Quite so, yet we are human, and don't. But she is safe, thanks toyou, who but for you would now be gone. My head is still weak fromthat blow--you must pay no attention to me. I think that I hear Stellacoming; you will say nothing to her--about that song, I mean--will you?We never talk of it in my family. "

When, still stiff and sore from his adventure in the open boat, Morriswent to bed, it was clear to his mind after careful consideration thatfortune had made him the host of an exceedingly strange couple. OfMr. Fregelius he was soon able to form an estimate distinct enough, although, for aught he knew, it might be erroneous. The clergymanstruck him as a person of some abilities who had been doomed to muchdisappointment and suffered from many sorrows. Doubtless his talentshad not proved to be of a nature to advance him in the world. Probably, indeed--and here Morris's hazard was correct--he was a scholar anda bookworm without individuality, to whom fate had assigned minorpositions in a profession, which, however sincere his faith, he wasscarcely fitted to adorn. 

The work of a clergyman in a country parish if it is to succeed, shouldbe essentially practical, and this man was not practical. Clearly, thought Morris, he was one of those who beat their wings against thebars with the common result; it was the wings that suffered, the barsonly grew a trifle brighter. Then it seemed that he had lost a wife towhom he was attached, and the child who remained to him, although heloved her and clung to her, he did not altogether understand. So it cameabout, perhaps, that he had fallen under the curses of loneliness andcontinual apprehension; and in this shadow where he was doomed to walk, flourished forebodings and regrets, drawing their strength from hisstarved nature like fungi from a tree outgrown and fallen in the forest. 

Mr. Fregelius, so thought Morris, was timid and reticent, because hedared not discover his heart, that had been so sorely trampled by Fateand Fortune. Yet he had a heart which, if he could find a confessor whomhe could trust, he longed to ease in confidence. For the rest, the man'sphysical frame, not too robust at any time, was shattered, and with ithis nerve--sudden shipwreck, painful accident, the fierce alternativesof hope and fear; then at last a delirium of joy at the recovery of onewhom he thought dead, had done their work with him; and in this brokenstate some ancient, secret superstition became dominant, and, strive ashe would to suppress it, even in the presence of a stranger, had burstfrom his lips in hints of unsubstantial folly. 

Such was the father, or such he appeared to Morris, but of the daughterwhat could be said? Without doubt she was a woman of strange andimpressive power. At this very moment her sweet voice, touched with thatcontinual note of pleading, still echoed in his brain. And the dark, quiet eyes that now slept, and now shone large, as her thoughts fledthrough them, like some mysterious sky at night in which the summerlightning pulses intermittently! Who might forget those eyes that oncehad seen them? Already he wished to be rid of their haunting and couldnot. Then her beauty--how unusual it was, yet how rich and satisfying tothe eye and sense; in some ways almost Eastern notwithstanding her Norseblood!

Often Morris had read or heard of the bewildering power of women, whichfor his part hitherto he had been inclined to attribute to shallow andvery common causes, such as underlie all animate nature. Yet that ofStella--for undoubtedly she had power--suggested another interpretationto his mind. Or was it, after all, nothing but a variant, one of theProtean shapes of the ancient, life-compelling mystery? And her strangechant, the song of which her father made light, but feared so much; herquick insight into the workings of his own thought; her courage in theface of danger and sharp physical miseries; her charm, her mastery. Whatwas he to make of them? Lastly, why did he think so much about her?It was not his habit where strangers were concerned. And why had sheawakened in his somewhat solitary and secluded mind a sympathy sounusual that it seemed to him that he had known her for years and notfor hours?

Pondering these things and the fact that perhaps within the coming weekshe would find out their meaning, Morris went to sleep. When he awokenext morning his mood had changed. Somewhat vaguely he remembered hisperturbations of the previous night indeed, but now they only moved himto a smile. Their reasons were so obvious. Such exaggerated estimatesand thoughts follow strange adventures--and in all its detailsthis adventure was very strange--as naturally as nightmares followindigestion. 

Presently Thomas came to call him, and brought up his letters, amongthem one from Mary containing nothing in particular, for, of course, it had been despatched before her telegram, but written in her usualhumorous style, which made him laugh aloud. 

There was a postscript to the letter screwed into the unoccupied spacebetween the date line and the "Dearest Morris" at its commencement. Itran:

"How would you like to spend our honeymoon? In a yacht in theMediterranean? I think that would do. There is nothing like solitude ina wretched little boat to promote mutual understanding. If yourdevotion could stand the strain of a dishevelled and seasick spouse, ourmatrimonial future has no terrors for your loving Mary. "

As Morris read he ceased to laugh. "Yes, " he thought to himself, "'solitude in a wretched little boat' does promote mutual understanding. I am not certain that it does not promote it too much. " Then, with anaccess of irritation, "Bother the people! I wish I could be rid of them;the whole thing seems likely to become a worry. "

Next he took up a letter from his father, which, when perused, did notentertain him in the least. There was nothing about Lady Rawlins in it, of whom he longed to hear, or thought that he did; nothing about thatentrancing personality, the bibulous and violent Sir Jonah, now so meekand lamblike, but plenty, whole pages indeed, as to details connectedwith the estate. Also it contained a goodly sprinkling of sarcasms andgrumblings at his, Morris's, bad management of various little matterswhich the Colonel considered important. Most of all, however, was hisparent indignant at his neglect to furnish him with details sufficientlyample of the progress of the new buildings. Lastly, he desired, byreturn of post, a verbatim report of the quarrel that, as he wasinformed, had occurred on the school board when a prominent RomanCatholic threatened to throw an inkstand at a dissenting minister who, _coram populo_, called him the son of "a Babylonian woman. "

By the time that Morris had finished this epistle, and two otherswhich accompanied it, he was in no mood for further reflections of anunpractical or dreamy nature. Who can wonder when it is stated thatthey contained, respectively, a summary demand for the amount of aconsiderable bill which he imagined he had paid, and a request that hewould read a paper before a "Science Institute" upon the possibilitiesof aerial telephones, made by a very unpleasing lady whom he had oncemet at a lawn-tennis party? Indeed it would not be too much to say thatif anyone had given him the opportunity he would have welcomed a chanceto quarrel, especially with the lady of the local Institute. Thus, curedof all moral distempers, and every tendency to speculate on femininecharms, hidden or overt, did he descend to the Sabbath breakfast. 

That morning Morris accompanied Stella to church, where the serviceswere still being performed by a stop-gap left by Mr. Tomley. Here, again, Stella was a surprise to him, for now her demeanour, and at alittle distance her appearance also, were just such as mark ninety-eightout of every hundred clergyman's daughters in the country. So quietand reserved was she that anyone meeting her that morning might haveimagined that she was hurrying from the accustomed Bible-class to sitamong her pupils in the church. This impression indeed was, as it were, certificated by an old-fashioned silk fichu that she had been obliged toborrow, which in bygone years had been worn by Morris's mother. 

Once in church, however, matters changed. To begin with, finding itwarm, Stella threw off the fichu, greatly to the gain of her personalappearance. Next, it became evident that the beauties of the ancientbuilding appealed to her, which was not wonderful; for these old, seaside, eastern counties churches, relics of long past wealth andpiety, are some of them among the most beautiful in the world. Then camethe "Venite, " of which here and there she sang a line or so, just oneor two rich notes like those that a thrush utters before he bursts intofull song. Rare as they might be, however, they caused those about herin the church to look at the strange singer wonderingly. 

After this, in the absence of his father, Morris read the lessons, andalthough, being blessed with a good voice, this was a duty which heperformed creditably enough, that day he went through it with a certainsense of nervousness. Why he was nervous at first he did not guess;till, chancing to glance up, he became aware that Miss Fregelius waslooking at him out of her half-closed eyes. What is more, she waslistening critically, and with much intenseness, whereupon, instantly, he made a mistake and put a false accent on a name. 

In due course, the lessons done with, they reached the first hymn, whichwas one that scarcely seemed to please his companion; at any rate, she shut the book and would not sing. In the case of the second hymn, however, matters were different. This time she did not even open thebook. It was evident that she knew the words, perhaps among the mostbeautiful in the whole collection, by heart. The reader will probably beacquainted with them. They begin:

 "And now, O Father, mindful of the love That bought us, once for all, on Calvary's tree. "

At first Stella sang quite low, as though she wished to repress herpowers. Now, as it happened, at Monksland the choir was feeble, butinoffensive; whereas the organ was a good, if a worn and neglectedinstrument, suited to the great but sparsely peopled church, and theorganist, a man who had music in his soul. Low as she was singing, hecaught the sound of Stella's voice, and knew at once that before him wasa woman who in a supreme degree possessed the divinest gift, perhaps, with which Nature can crown her sex, the power and gift of song. Forgetting his wretched choir, he began to play to her. She seemed tonote the invitation, and at once answered to it. 

 "Look, Father, look on His anointed face, "

swelled from her throat in deep contralto notes, rich as those the organechoed. 

But the full glory of the thing, that surpassing music which setMonksland talking for a week, was not reached till she came to the thirdverse. Perhaps the pure passion and abounding humanity of its spiritmoved her. Perhaps by this time she was the thrall of her own song. Perhaps she had caught the look of wonder and admiration on the faceof Morris, and was determined to show him that she had other music atcommand besides that of pagan death-chants. At least, she sang up andout, till her notes dominated those of the choir, which seemed to be butan accompaniment to them; till they beat against the ancient roof anddown the depth of the long nave, to be echoed back as though from thegolden trumpets of the angels that stood above the tower screen; tilleven the village children ceased from whispers and playing to listenopen-mouthed. 

 "And then for those, our dearest and best, By this prevailing Presence we appeal; O! fold them closer to Thy mercy's breast, O! do Thine utmost, for their souls' true weal; From tainting mischief keep them white and clear, And crown Thy gifts with strength to persevere. "

It was as her voice lingered upon the deep tones of these last wordsthat suddenly Stella seemed to become aware that practically she wassinging a solo; that at any rate no one else in the congregation wascontributing a note. Then she was vexed, or perhaps a panic took her;at least, not another word of that hymn passed her lips. In vain theorganist paused and looked round indignantly; the little boys, theclerk, and the stout coach-builder were left to finish it by themselves, with results that by contrast were painful. 

When Stella came out of church, redraped in the antique and unbecomingfichu, she found herself the object of considerable attention. Indeed, upon one pretext and another nearly all the congregation seemed tobe lingering about the porch and pathway to stare at the new parson'sshipwrecked daughter when she appeared. Among them was Miss Layard, and with her the delicate brother. They were staying to lunch with theStop-gap's meek little wife. Indeed, this self-satisfied and somewhatacrimonious lady, Miss Layard, engaged Morris in conversation, andpointedly asked him to introduce her to Miss Fregelius. 

"We are to be neighbours, you know, " she explained, "for we live at theHall in the next parish, not more than a mile away. "

"Indeed, " answered Stella, who did not seem much impressed. 

"My brother and I hope to call upon Mr. Fregelius and yourself assoon as possible, but I thought I would not wait for that to have thepleasure of making your acquaintance. "

"You are very kind indeed, " said Stella simply. "At present, I amafraid, it is not much use calling upon my father, as he is in bed witha broken thigh; also, we are not at the Rectory. Until he can be movedwe are only guests at the Abbey, " and she looked at Morris, who addedrather grumpily, by way of explanation:

"Of course, Miss Layard, you have heard about the wreck of theTrondhjem, and how those foreign sailors saw the light in my workshopand brought Mr. Fregelius to the Abbey. "

"Oh, yes, Mr. Monk, and how they left Miss Fregelius behind, and youwent to fetch her, and all sorts of strange things happened to you. Wethink it quite wonderful and romantic. I am writing to dear Miss Porsonto tell her about it, because I am sure that you are too modest to singyour own praises. "

Morris grew angry. At the best of times he disliked Miss Layard. Nowhe began to detest her, and to long for the presence of Mary, whounderstood how to deal with that not too well-bred young person. 

"You really needn't have troubled, " he answered. "I have alreadywritten. "

"Then my epistle will prove a useful commentary. If I were engaged to amodern hero I am sure I could not hear too much about him, and, " fixingher eyes upon the black silk fichu, "the heroine of the adventure. "

Meanwhile, Stella was being engaged by the brother, who surveyed herwith pale, admiring eyes which did not confine their attentions to thefichu. 

"Monk is always an awfully lucky fellow, " he said. "Just fancy hisgetting the chance of doing all that, and finding you waiting on theship at the end of it, " he added, with desperate and emphatic gallantry. "There's to be a whole column about it in the 'Northwold Times'to-morrow. I wish the thing had come my way, that's all. "

"Unless you understand how to manage a boat in a heavy sea, and thewinds and tides of this coast thoroughly, I don't think that you shouldwish that, Mr. Layard, " said Stella. 

"Why not?" he asked sharply. As a matter of fact the little man was amiserable sailor and suspected her of poking fun at him. 

"Because you would have been drowned, Mr. Layard, and lying at thebottom of the North Sea among the dogfish and conger-eels this morninginstead of sitting comfortably in church. "

Mr. Layard started and stared at her. Evidently this lady's imaginationwas as vivid as it was suggestive. 

"I say, Miss Fregelius, " he said, "you don't put things verypleasantly. "

"No, I am afraid not, but then drowning isn't pleasant. I have been nearit very lately, and I thought a great deal about those conger-eels. And sudden death isn't pleasant, and perhaps--unless you are very, very good, as I daresay you are--what comes after it may not be quitepleasant. All of which has to be thought of before one goes to sea inan open boat in winter, on the remotest chance of saving a stranger'slife--hasn't it?"

Somehow Mr. Layard felt distinctly smaller. 

"I daresay one wouldn't mind it at a pinch, " he muttered; "Monk isn'tthe only plucky fellow in the world. "

"I am sure you would not, Mr. Layard, " replied Stella in a gentlervoice, "still these things must be considered upon such occasions and agood many others. "

"A brave man doesn't think, he acts, " persisted Mr. Layard. 

"No, " replied Stella, "a foolish man doesn't think, a brave man thinksand sees, and still acts--at least, that is how it strikes me, althoughperhaps I have no right to an opinion. But Mr. Monk is going on, so Imust say good-morning. "

"Are many of the ladies about here so inquisitive, and the younggentlemen so?"--"decided" she was going to say, but changed the word to"kind"--asked Stella of Morris as they walked homeward. 

"Ladies!" snapped Morris. "Miss Layard isn't a lady, and never will be;she has neither birth nor breeding, only good looks of a sort and money. I should like, " he added, viciously--"I should like to shut her into herown coal mine. "

Stella laughed, which was a rare thing with her--usually she onlysmiled--as she answered:

"I had no idea you were so vindictive, Mr. Monk. And what would you liketo do with Mr. Layard?"

"Oh! I--never thought much about him. He is an ignorant, uneducatedlittle fellow, but worth two of his sister, all the same. After all, he's got a heart. I have known him do kind things, but she has nothingbut a temper. "

Meanwhile, at the luncheon table of the Stop-gap the new and mysteriousarrival, Miss Fregelius, was the subject of fierce debate. 

"Pretty! I don't call her pretty, " said Miss Layard; "she has fine eyes, that is all, and they do not look quite right. What an extraordinarygarment she had on, too; it might have come out of Noah's Ark. "

"I fancy, " suggested the hostess, a mild little woman, "that it came outof the wardrobe of the late Mrs. Monk. You know, Miss Fregelius lost allher things in that ship. "

"Then if I were she I should have stopped at home until I got some newones, " snapped Miss Layard. 

"Perhaps everybody doesn't think so much about clothes as you do, Eliza, " suggested her brother Stephen, seeing an opportunity which hewas loth to lose. Eliza, in the privacy of domestic life, was not aperson to be assailed with a light heart, but in company, when to someextent she must keep her temper under control, more might be dared. 

She shifted her chair a little, with her a familiar sign of war, andwhile searching for a repartee which would be sufficiently crushing, cast on Stephen a glance that might have turned wine into vinegar. 

Somewhat tremulously, for unless the fire could be damped before it gotfull hold, she knew what they might expect, the little hostess broke inwith--

"What a beautiful singing voice she has, hasn't she?"

"Who?" asked Eliza, pretending not to understand. 

"Why, Miss Fregelius, of course. "

"Oh, well, that is a matter of opinion. "

"Hang it all, Eliza!" said her brother, "there can't be two opinionsabout it, she sings like an angel. "

"Do you think so, Stephen? I should have said she sings like an operadancer. "

"Always understood that their gifts lay in their legs and not intheir throats. But perhaps you mean a prima donna, " remarked Stephenreflectively. 

"No, I don't. Prima donnas are not in the habit of screeching at thetop of their voices, and then stopping suddenly to make an effect andattract attention. "

"Certainly she has attracted my attention, and I only wish I couldhear such screeching every day; it would be a great change. " It maybe explained that the Layards were musical, and that each detested themusic of the other. 

"Really, Stephen, " rejoined Eliza, with sarcasm as awkward as it wasmeant to be crushing, "I shall have to tell Jane Rose that she isdethroned, poor dear--beaten out of the field by a hymn-tune, a pair ofbrown eyes, and--a black silk fichu. "

This was a venomous stab, since for a distance of ten miles roundeveryone with ears to hear knew that Stephen's admiration of Miss Rosehad not ended prosperously for Stephen. The poisoned knife sank deep, and its smart drove the little pale-eyed man to fury. 

"You can tell her what you like, Eliza, " he replied, for hisself-control was utterly gone; "but it won't be much use, for she'llknow what you mean. She'll know that you are jealous of Miss Fregeliusbecause she's so good looking; just as you are jealous of her, andof Mary Porson, and of anybody else who dares to be pretty and, " withcrushing meaning, "to look at Morris Monk. "

Eliza gasped, then said in a tragic whisper, "Stephen, you insult me. Oh! if only we were at home, I would tell you----"

"I have no doubt you would--you often do; but I'm not going home atpresent. I am going to the Northwold hotel. "

"Really, " broke in their hostess, almost wringing her hands, "this isSunday, Mr. Layard; remember this is Sunday. "

"I am not likely to forget it, " replied the maddened Stephen; but overthe rest of this edifying scene we will drop a veil. 

Thus did the advent of Stella bring with it surprises, rumours, andfamily dissensions. What else it brought remains to be told. 

CHAPTER XII

MR. LAYARD'S WOOING

The days went by with an uneventful swiftness at the Abbey, and after hehad once accustomed himself to the strangeness of what was, in effect, solitude in the house with an unmarried guest of the other sex, it maybe admitted, very pleasantly to Morris. At first that rather remarkableyoung lady, Stella, had alarmed him somewhat, so that he convincedhimself that the duties of this novel hospitality would prove irksome. As a matter of fact, however, in forty-eight hours the irksomeness wasall gone, to be replaced within twice that period by an atmosphere ofcomplete understanding, which was comforting to his fearful soul. 

The young lady was never in the way. Now that she had procured somesuitable clothes the young lady was distinctly good looking; she wasremarkably intelligent and well-read; she sang, as Stephen Layardhad said, "like an angel"; she took a most enlightened interest inaerophones and their possibilities; she proved a very useful assistantin various experiments; and made one or two valuable suggestions. WhileMary and the rest of them were away the place would really be dullwithout her, and somehow he could not be as sorry as he ought whenDr. Charters told him that old Mr. Fregelius's bones were uniting withexceeding slowness. 

Such were the conclusions which one by one took shape in the mind ofthat ill-starred man, Morris Monk. As yet, however, let the studentof his history understand, they were not tinged with the slightest"arriere-pensee. " He did not guess even that such relations as alreadyexisted between Stella and himself might lead to grievous trouble; thatat least they were scarcely wise in the case of a man engaged. 

All he felt, all he knew, was that he had found a charming companion, awoman whose thought, if deeper, or at any rate different to his and notaltogether to be followed, was in tune with his. He could not alwayscatch her meaning, and yet that unrealised meaning would appeal tohim. Himself a very spiritual man, and a humble seeker after truth, his nature did intuitive reverence to one who appeared to be still morespiritual, who, as he conjectured, at times at any rate, had discoveredsome portion of the truth. He believed it, although she had never toldhim so. Indeed that semi-mystical side of Stella, whereof at first shehad shown him glimpses, seemed to be quite in abeyance; she dreamed nomore dreams, she saw no more visions, or if she did she kept them toherself. Yet to him this woman seemed to be in touch with that unseenwhich he found it so difficult to weigh and appreciate. Instinctively hefelt that her best thoughts, her most noble and permanent desires, werethere and not here. 

As he had said to her in the boat, the old Egyptians lived to die. Inlife a clay hut was for them a sufficient lodging; in death they soughta costly, sculptured tomb, hewn from the living rock. With them thesethings were symbolical, since that great people believed, with awonderful certainty, that the true life lay beyond. They believed, too, that on the earth they did but linger in its gateway, passing their timewith such joy as they could summon, baring their heads undismayed to therain of sorrow, because they knew that very soon they would be crownedwith eternal joys, whereof each of these sorrows was but an earthlyroot. 

Stella Fregelius reminded Morris of these old Egyptians. Indeed, hadhe wished to carry the comparison from her spiritual to her physicalattributes it still might have been considered apt, for in face she wassomewhat Eastern. Let the reader examine the portrait bust of the greatQueen Taia, clothed with its mysterious smile, which adorns the museumin Cairo, and, given fair instead of dusky skin, with certain otherminor differences, he will behold no mean likeness to Stella Fregelius. However this may be, for if Morris saw the resemblance there were otherswho could not agree with him; doubtless although not an Eastern, ancientor modern, she was tinged with the fatalism of the East, mingled with acertain contempt of death inherited perhaps from her northern ancestors, and an active, pervading spirituality that was all her own. Yet hermanners were not gloomy, nor her air tragic, for he found her anexcellent companion, fond of children and flowers, and at times merry inher own fashion. But this gaiety of hers always reminded Morris of thatwhich is said to have prevailed in the days of the Terror among thosedestined to the guillotine. Never for one hour did she seem to forgetthe end. "'Vanity of vanities, ' saith the Preacher"; and that lesson washer watchword. 

One evening they were walking together upon the cliff. In the west thesun had sunk, leaving a pale, lemon-coloured glow upon the sky. Then faraway over the quiet sea, showing bright and large in that frosty air, sprang out a single star. Stella halted in her walk, and looked firstat the sunset heaven, next at the solemn sea, and last at that bright, particular star set like a diadem of power upon the brow of advancingnight. Morris, watching her, saw the blood mantle to her pale face, while the dark eyes grew large and luminous, proud, too, and full ofsecret strength. At length his curiosity got the better of him. 

"What are you thinking of?" he asked. 

"Do you wish me to tell you?"

"Yes, if you will. "

"You will laugh at me. "

"Yes--as I laugh at that sky, and sea, and star. "

"Well, then, I was thinking of the old, eternal difference between thepresent and the future. "

"You mean between life and death?" queried Morris, and she nodded, answering:

"Between life and death, and how little people see or think of it. Theyjust live and forget that beneath them lie their fathers' bones. Theyforget that in some few days--perhaps more, perhaps less--other unknowncreatures will be standing above _their_ forgotten bones, as blind, as self-seeking, as puffed up with the pride of the brief moment, andfilled with the despair of their failure, the glory of their success, asthey are to-night. "

"Perhaps, " suggested Morris, "they say that while they are in the worldit is well to be of the world; that when they belong to the next it willbe time to consider it. I am not sure that they are not right. I haveheard that view, " he added, remembering a certain conversation withMary. 

"Oh, don't think that!" she answered, almost imploringly; "for it is nottrue, really it is not true. Of course, the next world belongs to all, but our lot in it does not come to us by right, that must be earned. "

"The old doctrine of our Faith, " suggested Morris. 

"Yes; but, as I believe, there is more behind, more which we are nottold; that we must find out for ourselves with 'groanings which cannotbe uttered; by hope we are saved. ' Did not St. Paul hint at it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that as our spirit sows, so shall it reap; as it imagines anddesires, so shall it inherit. It is here that the soul must grow, notthere. As the child comes into the world with a nature already formed, and its blood filled with gifts of strength or weakness, so shall thespirit come into its world wearing the garment that it has woven andwhich it cannot change. "

"The garment which it has woven, " said Morris. "That means free will, and how does free will chime in with your fatalism, Miss Fregelius?"

"Perfectly; the material given us to weave with, that is Fate; the timewhich is allotted for the task, that is Fate again; but the pattern isour own. Here are brushes, here is pigment, so much of it, of such andsuch colours, and here is light to work by. 'Now paint your picture, 'says the Master; 'paint swiftly, with such skill as you can, not knowinghow long is allotted for the task. ' And so we weave, and so we paint, every one of us--every one of us. "

"What is your picture, Miss Fregelius? Tell me, if you will. "

She laughed, and drew herself up. "Mine, oh! it is large. It is to reignlike that star. It is to labour forward from age to age at the greattasks that God shall set me; to return and bow before His throne crying, 'It is done. Behold, is the work good?' For the hour that they endureit is still to be with those whom I have loved on earth, although theycannot see me; to soothe their sorrows, to support their weakness, tolull their fears. It is that the empty longing and daily prayer may befilled, and filled, and filled again, like a cup from a stream whichnever ceases. "

"And what is that daily prayer?" asked Morris, looking at her. 

"O! God, touch me with Thy light, and give me understanding--yes, understanding--the word encloses all I seek, " she replied, then, checking herself, added in a changed voice, "Come, let us go home; it isfoolish to talk long of such things. "

Shortly after this curious conversation, which was never renewed betweenthem, or, at least, but once, a new element entered into the drama, thenecessary semi-comic element without which everything would be so dull. This fresh factor was the infatuation, which possibly the reader mayhave foreseen, of the susceptible, impulsive little man, Stephen Layard, for Stella Fregelius, the lady whose singing he had admired, and whohad been a cause of war between him and his sister. Like many weak men, Stephen Layard was obstinate, also from boyhood up he had sufferedmuch at the hands of Eliza, who was not, in fact, quite so young asshe looked. Hence there arose in his breast a very natural desire forretaliation. Eliza had taken a violent dislike to Miss Fregelius, whomhe thought charming. This circumstance in their strained relations wasreason enough to induce Stephen to pay court to her, even if his naturalinclination had not made the adventure very congenial. 

Therefore, on the first opportunity he called at the Abbey to ask afterthe rector, to be, as he had hoped, received by Stella. Finding hisvisit exceedingly agreeable, after a day or two he repeated it, andthis time was conducted to the old clergyman's bedroom, upon whom hiscivility made a good impression. 

Now, as it happened, although he did not live in Monksland, Mr. Layardwas one of the largest property owners in the parish, a circumstancewhich he did not fail to impress upon the new rector. Being by natureand training a hard-working man who wished to do his best for his cureeven while he lay helpless, Mr. Fregelius welcomed the advances of thiswealthy young gentleman with enthusiasm, especially when he found thathe was no niggard. A piece of land was wanted for the cemetery. Mr. Layard offered to present an acre. Money was lacking to pay off a debtupon the reading-room. Mr. Layard headed the subscription list with ahandsome sum. And so forth. 

Now the details of these various arrangements could not conveniently besettled without many interviews, and thus very soon it came about thatscarcely a day went by upon which Mr. Layard's dog-cart did not passthrough the Abbey gates. Generally he came in the morning and stopped tolunch; or he came in the afternoon and stopped to tea. In fact, or thusit seemed to Morris, he always stopped to something, so much so thatalthough not lacking in hospitality, at times Morris found his presencewearisome, for in truth the two men had nothing in common. 

"He must have turned over a new leaf with a vengeance, for he neverwould give a sixpence to anything during old Tomley's time, " remarkedMorris to Stella. "I suppose that he has taken a great fancy to yourfather, which is a good thing for the parish, as those Layards arericher than Croesus. "

"Yes, " answered Stella with a curious little smile. 

But to herself she did not smile; for, if Morris found his visitor abore, to Stella he was nothing short of an infliction, increased ratherthan mitigated by numerous presents of hot-house fruit and flowersoffered to herself, and entailing, each of them, an expression of thanksverbal or written. At first she treated the thing as a joke, till itgrew evident that her admirer was as much in earnest as his nature wouldpermit. Thereon, foreseeing eventualities, she became alarmed. 

Unless some means could be found to stop him it was now clear toStella that Mr. Layard meant to propose to her, and as she had not theslightest intention of accepting him this was an honour which she didnot seek. But she could find no sufficient means; hints, and even snubs, only seemed to add fuel to the fire, and of a perpetual game of hide andseek she grew weary. 

So it came about that at last she shrugged her shoulders and left thingsto take their chance, finding some consolation for her discomfort inthe knowledge that Miss Layard, convinced that the rector's daughter wasluring her inexperienced brother into an evil matrimonial net, couldin no wise restrain her rage and indignation. So openly did this ladyexpress her views, indeed, that at length a report of them reached evenMorris's inattentive ears, whereon he was at first very angry and thenburst out laughing. That a man like Stephen Layard should hope to marrya woman like Stella Fregelius seemed to him so absurd as to be almostunnatural. Yet when he came to think it over quietly he was constrainedto admit to himself that the match would have many advantages for theyoung lady, whereof the first and foremost were that Stephen was veryrich, and although slangy and without education in its better sense, atheart by no means a bad little fellow. So Morris shrugged his shoulders, shut his eyes, continued to dispense luncheons and afternoon teas, andthough with an uneasy mind, like Stella herself, allowed things to taketheir chance. 

All this while, however, his own friendship with Stella grew apace, enhanced as it was in no small degree by the fact that now her help inhis scientific operations had become most valuable. Indeed, it appearedthat he was destined to owe the final success of his instrument to theassistance of women who, at the beginning, at any rate, knew little ofits principles. Mary, it may be remembered, by some fortunate chance, made the suggestion as to the substance of the receiver, which turnedthe aerophone from a great idea into a practical reality. Now tocomplete the work it was Stella, not by accident, but after carefulstudy of its problem who gave the thought that led to the removal of theone remaining obstacle to its general and successful establishment. 

To test this new development of the famous sound deflector and perfectits details, scores of experiments were needed, most of which he and shecarried out together. This was their plan. One of them established himor herself in the ruined building known as the Dead Church, while theother took up a position in the Abbey workshop. From these respectivepoints, a distance of about two miles, they tested the machines withresults that day by day grew better and clearer, till at length, underthese conditions they were almost perfect. 

Strange was the experience and great the triumph when at last Morris, seated in the Abbey with his apparatus before him, unconnected with itstwin by any visible medium, was able without interruption for a wholemorning to converse with Stella established in the Dead Church. 

"It is done, " he cried in unusual exultation. "Now, if I die to-morrowit does not matter. "

Instantly came the answer in Stella's voice. 

"I am very happy. If I do nothing else I have helped a man to fame. "

Then a hitch arose, the inevitable hitch; it was found that, in certainstates of the atmosphere, and sometimes at fixed hours of the day, thesounds coming from the receiver were almost inaudible. At other timesagain the motive force seemed to be so extraordinarily active that, thesound deflector notwithstanding, the instrument captured and transmitteda thousand noises which are not to be heard by the unobservant listener, or in some cases by any human ear. 

Weird enough these noises were at times. Like great sighs they came, like the moan of the breeze brought from an infinite distance, likemutterings and groanings arisen from the very bowels of the earth. Thenthere were the splash or boom of the waves, the piping of the sea-wind, the cry of curlew, or black-backed gulls, all mingled in one great andtangled skein of sound that choked the voice of the speaker, and intheir aggregate, bewildered him who hearkened. 

These, and others which need not be detailed, were problems that hadto be met, necessitating many more experiments. Thus it came about thatthrough most of the short hours of winter daylight Morris and Stellafound themselves at their respective positions, corresponding, or tryingto correspond, through the aerophones. If the weather was very bad, or very cold, Morris went to the dead Church, otherwise that post wasallotted to Stella, both because it was more convenient that Morrisshould stay in his laboratory, and by her own choice. 

Two principal reasons caused her to prefer to pass as much of her timeas was possible in this desolate and unvisited spot. First, because Mr. Layard was less likely to find her when he called, and secondly, thatfor her it had a strange fascination. Indeed, she loved the place, clothed as it was with a thousand memories of those who had been humanlike herself, but now--were not. She would read the inscriptions uponthe chancel stones and study the coats-of-arms and names of thosedeparted, trying to give to each lost man and woman a shape andcharacter, till at length she knew all the monuments by appearance aswell as by the names inscribed upon them. 

One of these dead, oddly enough, had been named Stella Ethel Smythe, daughter of Sir Thomas Smythe, whose family lived at the old hall nowin the possession of the Layards. This Stella had died at the age oftwenty-five in the year 1741, and her tombstone recorded that in mindshe was clean and sweet, and in body beautiful. Also at the foot of itwas a doggerel couplet, written probably by her bereaved father, whichran:

 "Though here my Star seems set, I know 'twill light me yet. "

Stella, the live Stella, thought these simple words very touching, andpointed them out to Morris. He agreed with her, and tried in the recordsof the parish and elsewhere to discover some details about the deadgirl's life, but quite without avail. 

"That's all that's left, " he said one day, nodding his head at thetombstone. "The star is quite set. "

"'I know 'twill light me yet, '" murmured his companion, as she turnedaway to the work in hand. "Sometimes, " she went on, "as I sit here atdusk listening to all the strange sounds which come from that receiver, I fancy that I can hear Stella and her poor father talking while theywatch me; only I cannot understand their language. "

"Ah!" said Morris, "if that were right we should have found a means ofcommunication from the dead and with the unseen world at large. "

"Why not?" asked Stella. 

"I don't know, I have thought of it, " he answered, and the subjectdropped. 

One afternoon Stella, wrapped in thick cloaks, was seated in the chancelof the Dead Church attending to the instrument which stood upon thestone altar. Morris had not wished her to go that morning, for theweather was very coarse, and snow threatened; but, anticipating a visitfrom Mr. Layard, she insisted, saying that she should enjoy the walk. Now the experiments were in progress, and going beautifully. In order totest the aerophones fully in this rough weather, Morris and Stella hadagreed to read to each other alternate verses from the Book of Job, beginning at the thirty-eighth chapter. 

"'Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bandsof Orion?'" read Stella presently in her rich, clear voice. 

Instantly from two miles away came the next verse, the sound of thosesplendid words rolling down the old church like echoes of some lessonread generations since. 

"'Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season, or canst thou guideArcturus with his sons?'"

So it went on for a few more verses, till just as the instrument wassaying, "'Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath givenunderstanding to the heart?'" the rude door in the brick partitionopened, admitting a rush of wind and--Stephen Layard. 

The little man sidled up nervously to where Stella was sitting on acamp-stool by the altar. 

"How do you do?" said Stella, holding out her hand, and lookingsurprised. 

"How do you do, Miss Fregelius? What--what are you doing in thisdreadfully cold place on such a bitter day?"

Before she could answer the voice of Morris, anxious and irritated, foras the next verse did not follow he concluded that something had gonewrong with the apparatus, rang through the church asking:

"'Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath givenunderstanding to the heart?'"

"Good gracious, " said Mr. Layard. "I had no idea that Monk was here; Ileft him at the Abbey. Where is he?"

"At the Abbey, " answered Stella, as for the second time the voice ofMorris rolled out the question from the Book. 

"I don't understand, " said Stephen, beginning to look frightened; "hasit 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. Hesaid he was going home, " whereon Stella switched off before worse thingshappened. 

Mr. Layard, who had heard these words, began a confused explanation tillStella broke in. 

"Please don't apologise. You changed your mind, and we all do that; butI 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 forMonk? Does he pay you?"

"I work because I like work, and shall go on working till I die, andafterwards 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 Iwho am in his debt for all the kindness he has shown to my father andmyself. To any little assistance that I can give him he is welcome. "

"I see, " said Mr. Layard; "but I should have thought that was MaryPorson'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 wouldnot care for this particular work. "

Then came a pause, which, not knowing what this awkward silence mightbreed, 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 himabout 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 tooobvious. 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 horridthing was talking about just now--understanding to the heart; yes, that's it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella? I willmake you a good husband, and it isn't a bad place, and all that, andthough your father says he has little to leave you, you will be treatedas 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 muchobliged to you. You have paid me a great compliment, but it is notpossible that I should become your wife, and the sooner that is clearthe better for us both. "

"Are you engaged?" he asked. 

"No, Mr. Layard; and probably I never shall be. I have my own ideasabout matrimony, and the conditions under which I would undertake it arenot at all likely ever to be within my reach. "

Again he implored, --for at the time this woman really held hisheart, --wringing his hands, and, indeed, weeping in the agony of arepulse which was the more dreadful because it was quite unexpected. He had scarcely imagined that this poor clergyman's daughter, who hadlittle but her looks and a sweet voice, would really refuse the bestmatch for twenty miles round, nor had his conversation with her fathersuggested 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 tohimself, but that it was a matter of which Stella must judge; andwhen asked whether he would speak to his daughter, he had emphaticallydeclined. Still, Stephen Layard had taken this to be all a part of thepaternal formula, and rejoiced, thinking the matter as good as settled. Dreadful indeed, then, was it to him when he found that he was calledupon to contemplate the dull obverse of his shield of faith, and notits bright and shining face, in which he had seen mirrored so clear apicture of perfect happiness. 

So he begged on piteously enough, till at last Stella was forced to stophim by saying as gently as she could:

"Please spare us both, Mr. Layard; I have given my answer, and I amsorry 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 withMorris Monk; and he is a villain, when he is engaged, to go taking youtoo. I know it. "

"Then, Mr. Layard, " said Stella, striving to keep her temper, "you knowmore 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 yoursorrow"--and he placed his hand upon his heart. 

A sudden terror took hold of her, but with difficulty she found hermental balance. 

"I hoped, Mr. Layard, " she said, "that we might have parted friends; buthow can we when you bring such accusations?"

"I retract them, " broke in the distracted man. "You mustn't thinkanything of what I said; it is only the pain that has made me mad. ForGod's sake, at least let us part friends, for then, perhaps, some day wemay come together again. "

Stella shook her head sadly, and gave him her hand, which he coveredwith kisses. Then, reeling in his gait like one drunken, the unhappysuitor departed into the falling snow. 

Mechanically Stella switched on the instrument, and at once Morris'svoice 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 calledback the answering verse. 

CHAPTER XIII

TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER

At length the light began to fade, and for that day their experimentswere over. In token of their conclusion twice Stella rang the electricwarning bell which was attached to the aerophone, and in some mysteriousmanner caused the bell of its twin instrument to ring also. Then shepacked the apparatus in its box, for, with its batteries, it was tooheavy and too delicate to be carried conveniently, locking it up, andleft the church, which she also locked behind her. Outside it was stillsnowing fast, but softly, for the wind had dropped, and a sharp frostwas setting in, causing the fallen snow to scrunch beneath her feet. About half-way along the bleak line of deserted cliff which stretchedfrom the Dead Church to the first houses of Monksland, she saw thefigure of a man walking swiftly towards her, and knew from the benthead and broad, slightly stooping shoulders that it was Morris coming toescort her home. Presently they met. 

"Why did you not wait for me?" he asked in an irritated voice, "I toldyou I was coming, and you know that I do not like you to be trampingabout these lonely cliffs at this hour. "

"It is very kind of you, " she answered, smiling that slow, soft smilewhich was characteristic of her when she was pleased, a smile thatseemed to be born in her beautiful eyes and thence to irradiate herwhole face; "but it was growing dreary and cold there, so I thought thatI would start. "

"Yes, " he answered, "I forgot, and, what is more, it is very selfish ofme to keep you cooped up in such a place upon a winter's day. Enthusiasmmakes one forget everything. "

"At least without it we should do nothing; besides, please do not pityme, for I have never been happier in my life. "

"I am most grateful, " he said earnestly. "I don't know what I shouldhave 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 hadnot heard his words. 

"Yes, " he answered, "beyond all expectations. We must experiment over agreater distance, and then if the thing still works I shall be able tospeak with my critics in the gate. You know I have kept everything asdark as possible up to the present, for it is foolish to talk first andfail afterwards. I prefer to succeed first and talk afterwards. "

"What a triumph it will be!" said Stella. "All those clever scientistswill arrive prepared to mock, then think they are taken in, and at lastgo 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 happyending. 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 ofit. "

"Why not?"

"Because it is too much. 'Happy endings' don't come off. The happinesslies 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 donesomething; it is good; it cannot be changed; it is a stone built forever in the pyramid of beauty, or knowledge, or advancement. ' What canman hope to say more at the last, and how few live to say it, to say ittruly? 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 hestopped to ask:

"Why did Layard come to the Dead Church to-day? He said that he wasgoing home, and it isn't on his road. "

Stella turned her head, but, even in that faint light, not quicklyenough to prevent him seeing a sudden flush change the pallor of herface to the rich colour of her lips. 

"To call, I suppose; or, " correcting herself, "perhaps from curiosity. "

"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'sconversation for longer than I want; it has a knack of impressing itselfupon me. What was it? Cemetery land, church debts, the new drainagescheme, 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 oncejumped to a conclusion far other than the truth. Doubtless Layard hadgone to the church to propose to Stella, and she had accepted him, orhalf accepted him; the confusion of her manner told its own tale. A newand strange sensation took possession of Morris. He felt unwell; he feltangry; if the aerophone refused to work at all to-morrow, he would carenothing. He could not see quite clearly, and was not altogether surewhere 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 mycongratulations, " but fortunately, or unfortunately, stopped himself intime. 

Stella divined something of what was passing in his mind; not all, indeed, for to her the full measure of his folly would have beenincomprehensible. For a moment she contemplated an explanation, thenabandoned the idea because she could find no words; because, also, thiswas another person's secret, and she had no right to involve an honestman, who had paid her a great compliment, in her confidences. So shesaid nothing. To Morris, for the moment at any rate, a conclusive proofof his worst suspicions. 

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

It was five o'clock when they reached the Abbey, so that there were twohours to be spent before it was time to dress for dinner. When she hadtaken off her things Stella went straight to her father's room to givehim his tea. By now Mr. Fregelius was much better, although the natureof 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 knewthat 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 callit?--the Dead Church, all day?"

"Yes, and the experiments went beautifully. "

"Did they, did they indeed?" commented her father in an uninterestedvoice. The fate of the experiments did not move him. "Isn't it verylonely 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 ofthem were a little different from other people, I have been told. "

"Quite right, Stella; they were all odd women, but I think that youare quite the oddest of the family. " Then, as though the subject weredisagreeable to him, he added suddenly: "Mr. Layard came to see meto-day. "

"So he told me, " answered Stella. 

"Oh, you have met him. I remember; he said he should call in at the DeadChurch, 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 yourconsent. "

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

"Quite true, Stella; I told him to go on and prosper; and really I hopehe 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 ofHeaven has he prospered?"

"By my refusing him, of course. We should never have suited each otherat 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, whowill scarcely have a sixpence--or at least very few of them--has refuseda young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds ayear--that's his exact income, for he told me himself, a most estimablechurchman, who would have been a pillar of strength to me, a man whomI should have chosen out of ten thousand as a son-in-law----" and heceased, overwhelmed. 

"Father, I am sorry that you are sorry, but it is strange you shouldunderstand me so little after all these years, that you could for onemoment 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 ancientlineage. 

"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 causesyou to set yourself above your fellows, and in the end will be yourruin. It has made a lonely woman of you for years, and it will do worsethan that. It will turn you into an old maid--if you live, " he added, asthough shaken by some sudden memory. 

"Perhaps, " said Stella, "I am not frightened at the prospect. I daresaythat I shall have a little money and at the worst I can always earna 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 thatno earthly thing would make me marry a man whom I dislike rather thanotherwise; who, at least, is not a mate for me, merely because he couldgive me a fine house to live in, and treat me luxuriously. What would bethe good of such things to me if I knew that I had tarnished myself andviolated my instincts?"

"You talk like a book--you talk like a book, " muttered the oldgentleman. "But I know that the end of it will be wretchedness foreverybody. People who go on as you do about instincts, and finefeelings, and all that stuff, are just the ones who get into somedreadful mess at last. I tell you that such ideas are some of thedevil'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 neverget into what you call a mess--at least, not in the way I suppose youmean? My heart and thought are my own, and I shall be prepared to renderaccount 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 beenkind, especially as I am no longer a child who needs to be warnedagainst the dangers of the world. "

"What I did mean is that you are an enigma; that I am frightened aboutyou; that you are no companion; because your thoughts--yes, and at timesyour 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 seekcompany where I can find it. Some love the natural, some the spiritual, and each receive from them their good. Why should they blame oneanother?"

"Mad, " muttered her father to himself as she left the room. "Mad as sheis charming and beautiful; or, if not mad, at least quite impracticableand unfitted for the world. What a disappointment to me--what a bitterdisappointment! Well, I should be used to them by now. "

Meanwhile, Morris was in his workshop in the old chapel entering up hisrecord of the day's experiments, which done, he drew his chair to thestove and fell into thought. Somehow the idea of the engagement of MissFregelius to Stephen Layard was not agreeable to him; probably becausehe did not care about the young man. Yet, now that he came to thinkof it quietly, in all her circumstances it would be an admirablearrangement, and the offer undoubtedly was one which she had been wiseto accept. On the whole, such a marriage would be as happy as marriagesgenerally are. The man was honest, the man was young and rich, and verysoon the man would be completely at the disposal of his brilliant andbeautiful wife. 

Personally he, Morris, would lose a friend, since a woman cannot marryand remain the friend of another man. That, however, would probably havehappened in any case, and to object on this account, even in his secretheart, would be abominably selfish. Indeed, what right had he evento consider the matter? The young lady had come into his life verystrangely, and made a curious impression upon him; she was now going outof it by ordinary channels, and soon nothing but the impression wouldremain. It was proper, natural, and the way of the world; there wasnothing more to be said. 

Somehow he was in a dreary mood, and everything bored him. He fetchedMary's last letter. There was nothing in it but some chit-chat, exceptthe 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 seais such an assistance to you in your experiments. I gather from what Ihear--although you haven't mentioned the fact--that she is as beautifulas she is charming, and that she sings wonderfully. She must besomething remarkable, I am sure, because Eliza Layard evidently detestsher, and says that she is trying to ensnare the affections of thatsquire of dames, her brother Stephen, now temporarily homeless aftera visit to Jane Rose. What will you do when you have to get on withouther? I am afraid you must accustom yourself to the idea, unless shewould like to make a third in the honeymoon party. Joking apart, I amexceedingly grateful to her for all the help she has given you, and, dear, dear Morris, more delighted than I can tell you to learn thatafter all your years of patient labour you believe success to beabsolutely within sight. 

"My father, I am sorry to say, is no better; indeed, although thedoctors deny it, I believe he is worse, and I see no prospect of ourgetting 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 youmiserable, and where you can't work. What a queer menage you must be atthe Abbey now! You and the Star who has risen from the ocean--she oughtto have been called Venus--tete-a-tete, and the, I gather, rather feebleand uninteresting old gentleman in bed upstairs. I should like to seeyou when you didn't know. Why don't you invent a machine to enablepeople at a distance to see as well as to hear each other? It wouldbe very popular and bring Society to utter wreck. Does the Northernstar--she is Danish, isn't she?--make good coffee, and how, oh! how doesshe get on with the cook?"

Morris put down the letter and laughed aloud. Mary was as amusing asever, and he longed to see her again, especially as he was convincedthat she was really bored out there at Beaulieu, with Mr. Porson sick, and his father very much occupied with his own affairs. In a moment hemade up his mind; he would go out and see her. Of course, he could illspare the time, but for the present the more pressing of his experimentswere completed, and he could write up his "data" there. Anyway, he wouldput in a fortnight at Beaulieu, and, what is more, start to-morrow if itcould be arranged. 

He went to the table and began a letter to Mary announcing that shemight expect to see him sometime on the day that it reached her. When hehad got so far as this he remembered that the dressing bell had alreadyrung some minutes, and ran upstairs to change his clothes. As hefastened his tie he thought to himself sadly that this would be his lastdinner with Stella Fregelius, and as he brushed his hair he determinedthat unless she had other wishes, it should be as happy as it could bemade. He would like this final meal to be the pleasantest of all theirmeals, and although, of course, he had no right to form an opinion onthe matter, he thought that perhaps she might like it, too. They weregoing to part, to enter on different walks of life--for now, be itsaid, he had quite convinced himself that she was engaged--so let theirparting memories of each other be as agreeable as possible. 

Meanwhile, Stella also had her reflections. Her conversation with herfather had troubled her, more, perhaps, than her remarks might havesuggested. There was little between this pair except the bond of blood, which sometimes seems to be so curiously accidental, so absolutelydevoid of influence in promoting mutual sympathies, or in opening thedoor to any deep and real affection. Still, notwithstanding this lackof true intimacy, Stella loved her father as she felt that he loved her, and it gave her pain to be forced to cross his wishes. She knew withwhat a fierce desire, although he was ashamed to express all itsintensity, he desired that she should accept this, the first chance ofwealthy and successful marriage that had come her way, and the anguishwhich her absolute refusal must have entailed upon his heart. 

Of course, it was very worldly of him, and therefore reprehensible;yet to a great extent she could sympathise with his disappointment. Atbottom he was a proud man, although he repressed his pride and kept itsecret. He was an ambitious man, also, and his lot had been confinedto humble tasks, absolutely unrecognised beyond his parish, of aremotely-placed country parson. Moreover, his family had been rich; hehad been brought up to believe that he himself would be rich, andthen, owing to certain circumstances, was doomed to pass his days incomparative poverty. 

Even death had laid a heavy hand on him; she was the last of herrace, and she knew he earnestly desired that she should marry and bearchildren so that it might not become extinct. And now this chance, thisprincely chance, which, from his point of view, seemed to fill everypossible condition, had come unawares, like a messenger from Heaven, andshe refused its entertainment. Looked at through his eyes the positionwas indeed cruel. 

Yet, deeply as she sympathised with him in his disappointment, Stellanever for one moment wavered in her determination. Marry Mr. Layard! Herblood shrank back to her heart at the very thought, and then rushed toher neck and bosom in a flood of shame. No, she was sorry, but that wasimpossible, a thing which no woman should be asked to do against herwill. 

The subject wearied her, but as brooding on it could not mend matters, she dismissed it from her mind, and turned her thoughts to Morris. Why, she did not know, but something had come between them; he was vexed withher, and what was more, disappointed; she could feel it well enough, and--she found his displeasure painful. What had she done wrong, how hadshe offended him? Surely it could not be--and once again that red blushspread itself over face and bosom. He could not believe that she hadaccepted the man! He could never have so grossly misunderstood her, hernature, her ideas, everything about her! And yet who knew what he wouldor would not believe? In some ways, as she had already discovered, Mr. Monk was curiously simple. How could she tell him the truth withoutusing words which she did not desire to speak? Here instinct came to heraid. It might be done by making herself as agreeable to him as possible, for surely he must know that no girl would do her best to please oneman when she had just promised herself to another. So it came about thatquite innocently Stella determined to allay her host's misgivings bythis doubtful and dangerous expedient. 

To begin with, she put on her best dress--a low bodice of black silkrelieved with white and a single scarlet rose from the hothouse. Roundher neck also, fastened by a thin chain, she wore a large blood-redcarbuncle shaped like a heart, and about her slender waist a quaintgirdle of ancient Danish silver, two of the ornaments which she hadsaved from the shipwreck. Her dark and waving hair she parted in themiddle after a new fashion, tying its masses in a heavy knot at the backof her head, and thus adorned descended to the library where Morris wasawaiting her. 

He stood leaning over the fire with his back towards her, but hearingthe sweep of a skirt turned round, and as his eyes fell upon her, started a little. Never till he saw her thus had he known how beautifulStella was at times. Quite without design his eyes betrayed his thought, but with his lips he said merely as he offered her his arm, --

"What a pretty dress! Did it come out of Northwold?"

"The material did; I made it up, and I am glad that you think it nice. "

This was a propitious beginning, and the dinner that followed did notbelie its promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagasthat Stella had translated, for which Morris had promised to try to finda publisher. Then abandoning the silence and reserve which were habitualto him he began to talk, asking her about her work and her past. Sheanswered him freely enough, telling him of her school days in Denmark, of her long holiday visits to the old Danish grandmother, whose memorystretched back through three generations, and whose mind was stored withtraditions of men and days now long forgotten. This particular saga, she said, had, for instance, never been written in its entirety till shetook it down from the old dame's lips, much as in the fifteenth centurythe Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson and others. Even thetraditional music of the songs as they were sung centuries ago she hadreceived from her with their violin accompaniments. 

"I have one in the house, " broke in Morris, "a violin--rather a goodinstrument; I used to play a little when I was young. I wish, if youdon't mind, that you would sing them to me after dinner. "

"I will try if you like, " she answered, "but I don't know how I shallget on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went to thebottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You knowwe came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end ofour economy. Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were notready, and escaped. "

"I do not call it unlucky, " said Morris with grave courtesy, "since itgave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of yourfriendship. "

"Yes, " she answered, looking pleased; "certainly you may say of myfriendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not, --with agreat deal more that I can never pay?"

"Don't speak of it, " he said. "That midnight sail was my one happyinspiration, my one piece of real good luck. "

"Perhaps, " and she sighed, "that is, for me, though who can tell? I haveoften wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go on. "

"I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration. "

"And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?"

"Fate, I suppose. "

"Yes, I think it must be what we call fate--if it troubles itself aboutso small a thing as the life of one woman. "

Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberlandmoors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existenceamong them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they didtogether, for even then Morris drank very little wine. 

"May I get you the violin, and will you sing?" he asked eagerly, whenthey reached the library. 

"If you wish it I will try. "

"Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put awaythere. "

Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced theviolin from the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it. 

"That is a very good instrument, " said Stella, her eyes shining, "youdon't know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the violin ismy pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I wantedit, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can't affordto buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full moonshining on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and thestars, too; they glitter like great diamonds. "

"It is the frost, " answered Morris. "Yes, everything is beautifulto-night. "

Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up thestrings to her liking. 

"Do you really wish me to sing, Mr. Monk?" she asked. 

"Of course; more than I can tell you. "

"Then, will you think me very odd if I ask you to turn out the electriclamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can seemy audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light Iwant. "

He obeyed, and now she was but an ethereal figure, with a patch of redat her heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdlebeneath her breast, on whose pale face the moonbeams poured sweetly. For a while she stood thus, and the silence was heavy in that beautiful, dismantled place of prayer. Then she lifted the violin, and from thefirst touch of the bow Morris knew that he was in the presence of amistress of one of the most entrancing of the arts. Slow and sweet camethe plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to pass into his heartand thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now they almostdied away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time, shebegan to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand thewords, but their burden was clear enough; they were a lament, thelament of some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient andforgotten grief thus embalmed in heavenly music. 

It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted anddied among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighedaloud. 

"How can I thank you?" he said. "I knew that you were a musician, butnot that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel veryhumble. "

She laughed. "The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deservescredit, although, of course, it can be improved. "

"If so, what of the accompaniment?"

"That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you knowthat when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time wasone of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often playedfor five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thingdrop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonelylife. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although thereremains much to be learnt. "

"Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage. "

"A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. Idaresay that some time I shall drift there--for the living--not becauseI like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact thatI had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you arepleased, than be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people. "

"And I--oh, I cannot explain! Sing on, sing all you can, for to-morrow Imust go away. "

"Go away!" she faltered. 

"Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am hereto listen. "

The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it--why, she knew not. Fora moment she felt helpless, as though she could neither sing nor play. She did not wish him to go; she did not wish him to go. Her intellectcame to her aid. Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and thisman could feel its weight. Would it not suffice to keep him from going?She would try; she would play and sing as she had never done before;sing till his heart was soft, play till his feet had no strength towander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon fromthis instrument of strings and wood. 

So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to timeletting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemedby nature to fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey falldrop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower. Now long did sheplay and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs? They never knew. Themoon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed awaygradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight. Now only thestars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, andon, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, "whereall day long the noise of battle rolled"; it rose shrill and high, andin it rang the scream of the Valkyries preparing the feast of Odin. It was low, and sad, and tender, the voice of women mourning for theirdead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as thosemight use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became richand soft and far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heardsighs and the broken words of love, that slowly fell away and melted asinto the nothingness of some happy sleep. 

The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; hervoice grew faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flickerof the fire and the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returnedfrom heaven to earth. Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair. 

Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosenhome of Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into hisheart with a chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to himat least the most beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had promisedherself in marriage to Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her mind, her music--all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he knew--were theactual property of Stephen Layard. Could it be true? Was it not possiblethat he had made some mistake? that he had misunderstood? A burningdesire came upon him to know, to know before he went, and upon theforceful impulse of that moment he did what at any other time would havefilled him with horror. He asked her; the words broke from his lips; hecould not help them. 

"Is it true, " he said, with something like a groan, "can it be true thatyou--_you_ are really going to marry that man?"

Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made nopretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know towhom he referred. 

"Are you mad to ask me such a thing?" she asked, with a strange break inher voice. 

"I am sorry, " he began. 

She stamped her foot upon the ground. 

"Oh!" she said, "it hurts me, it hurts--from my father I understood, butthat you should think it possible that I would sell myself--I tell youthat it hurts, " and as she spoke two large tears began to roll from herlovely pleading eyes. 

"Then you mean that you refused him?"

"What else?"

"Thank you. Of course, I have no right to interfere, but forgive me ifI say that I cannot help feeling glad. Even if it is taken on the groundof wealth you can easily make as much money as you want without him, "and he glanced at the violin which lay beside her. 

She made no reply, the subject seemed to have passed from her mind. Butpresently she lifted her head again, and in her turn asked a question. 

"Did you not say that you are going away to-morrow?"

Then something happened to the heart and brain and tongue of Morris Monkso that he could not speak the thing he wished. He meant to answer amonosyllable "Yes, " but in its place he replied with a whole sentence. 

"I was thinking of doing so; but after all I do not know that it will benecessary; especially in the middle of our experiments. "

Stella said nothing, not a single word. Only she found her handkerchief, and without in the least attempting to hide them, there before his eyeswiped the two tears off her face, first one and then the other. 

This done she held out her hand to him and left the room. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL

Next morning Morris and Stella met at breakfast as usual, but as thoughby mutual consent neither of them alluded to the events of the previousevening. Thus the name of Mr. Layard was "taboo, " nor were any morequestions asked, or statements volunteered as to that journey, the toilsof which Morris had suddenly discovered he was after all able to avoid. This morning, as it chanced, no experiments were carried on, principallybecause it was necessary for Stella to spend the day in the villagedoing various things on behalf of her father, and lunching with the wifeof Dr. Charters, who was one of the churchwardens. 

By the second post, which arrived about three o'clock, Morris receivedtwo letters, one from his father and one from Mary. There was somethingabout the aspect of these letters that held his eye. That from hisfather was addressed with unusual neatness, the bold letters beingwritten with all the care of a candidate in a calligraphic competition. The stamps also were affixed very evenly, and the envelope wasbeautifully sealed with the full Monk coat done in black wax. These, asexperience told him, were signs that his father had something importantto communicate, since otherwise everything connected with his letterswas much more casual. Further, to speak at hazard, he should judge thatthis matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable tothe writer. 

Mary's letter also had its peculiarities. She always wrote in a large, loose scrawl, running the words into one another after the idle fashionwhich was an index to her character. In this instance, however, thefault had been carried to such an extreme that the address was almostillegible; indeed, Morris wondered that the letter had not been delayed. The stamps, too, were affixed anyhow, and the envelope barely closed. 

"Something has happened, " he thought to himself. Then he opened Mary'sletter. It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran:

"Dearest, --My father is dead, my poor old father, and now I have nobodybut you left in the world. Thank God, at the last he was without painand, they thought, insensible; but I know he wasn't, because he squeezedmy hand. Some of his last words that could be understood were, 'Givemy love to Morris. ' Oh! I feel as though my heart would break. Aftermy mother's death till you came into my life, he was everything tome--everything, everything. I can't write any more. 

"Your loving "Mary. "

"P. S. Don't trouble to come out here. It is no good. He is to be buriedto-morrow, and next day I am going 'en retraite' for a month, as I musthave time to get over this--to accustom myself to not seeing him everymorning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French friend, Gabrielle d'Estree? Well; she is a nun now, a sub-something or other ina convent near here where they take in people for a payment. Somehow sheheard my father was dead, and came to see me, and offered to put meup at the convent, which has a beautiful large garden, for I have beenthere. So I said yes, for I shan't feel lonely with her, and it will bea rest for a month. I shall write to you sometimes, and you needn't beafraid, they won't make me a Roman Catholic. Your father objected atfirst, but now he quite approves; indeed, I told him at last that Imeant to go whether he approved or not. It seems it doesn't matterfrom a business point of view, as you and he are left executors of myfather's will. When the month is up I will come to England, and we willsettle about getting married. This is the address of the convent asnearly as I can remember it. Letters will reach me there. "

Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been trulyattached to his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood andappreciated. Then he opened his father's letter, which began in animposing manner:

"My Dear Son (usually he called him Morris), --It is with the deepestgrief that I must tell you that poor John Porson, your uncle, passedaway this morning about ten o'clock. I was present at the time, anddid my best to soothe his last moments with such consolations as can beoffered by a relative who is not a clergyman. I wished to wire the sadevent to you, but Mary, in whom natural grief develops a self-will thatperhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused to allow it, alleging thatit was useless to alarm you and waste money on telegrams (how like awoman to think of money at such a moment) when it was quite impossiblethat you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he wouldn't bebrought home), which, under these queer foreign regulations, must takeplace to-morrow. Also she announced, to my surprise, and, I must admit, somewhat to my pain, that she intended to immure herself for a month ina convent, after the fashion of the Roman faith, so that it was no useyour coming, as men are not admitted into these places. It never seemsto have occurred to her that under this blow I should have liked theconsolation of her presence, or that I might wish to see you, my son. Still, you must not think too much of all this, although I have feltbound to bring it to your notice, since women under such circumstancesare naturally emotional, rebellious against the decrees of Providence, and consequently somewhat selfish. 

"To turn to another subject. I am glad to be able to inform you--youwill please accept this as an official notice of the fact--that onreading a copy of your uncle's will, which by his directions was handedto me after his death, I find that he has died much better off even thanI expected. The net personalty will amount to quite 100, 000 pounds, andthere is large realty, of which at present I do not know the value. Allthis is left to Mary with the fullest possible powers of disposal. Youand I are appointed executors with a complimentary legacy of 500pounds to you, and but 100 pounds to me. However, the testator 'inconsideration of the forthcoming marriage between his son Morris and mydaughter Mary, remits all debts and obligations that may be due to hisestate by the said Richard Monk, Lieutenant-Colonel, Companion of theBath, and an executor of this will. ' This amounts to something, ofcourse, but I will not trouble you with details at the moment. 

"After all, now that I come to think of it, it is as well that youshould not leave home at present, as there will be plenty of executor'sbusiness to keep you on the spot. No doubt you will hear from your lateuncle's lawyers, Thomas and Thomas, and as soon as you do so you hadbetter go over to Seaview and take formal possession of it and itscontents as an executor of the will. I have no time to write moreat present, as the undertaker is waiting to see me about the lastarrangements for the interment, which takes place at the Englishcemetery here. The poor man has gone, but at least we may reflect thathe can be no more troubled by sickness, etc. , and it is a consolationto know that he has made arrangements so eminently proper under thecircumstances. 

"Your affectionate father, "Richard Monk. 

"P. S. I shall remain here for a little while so as to be near Mary incase she wishes to see me, and afterwards work homewards via Paris. Iexpect to turn up at the Abbey in a fortnight's time or so. "

"Quite in his best style, " reflected Morris to himself. "'Remits alldebts and obligations that may be due to his estate by the said RichardMonk. ' I should be surprised if they don't amount to a good lot. Nowonder my father is going to return via Paris; he must feel quite richagain. "

Then he sat down to write to Mary. 

Under the pressure of this sudden blow--for the fact that Mr. Porson hadbeen for some time in failing health, and the knowledge that his lifemight terminate at any time, did not seem to make it less sudden--acloud of depression settled on the Abbey household. Before dinner Morrisvisited Mr. Fregelius, and told him of what had happened; whereon thatpious and kindly, but somewhat inefficient man, bestowed upon him awell-meant lecture of consolation. Appreciating his motives, Morristhanked him sincerely, and was rising to depart, when the clergymanadded:

"It is most grievous to me, Mr. Monk, that in these sad hours ofmourning you should be forced to occupy your mind with the details ofan hospitality which has been forced upon you by circumstances. For thepresent I fear this cannot be altered----"

"I do not wish it altered, " interrupted Morris. 

"It is indeed kind of you to say so, but I am happy to state the doctortells me if I continue to progress as well as at present, I shall beable to leave your roof----"

"My father's roof, " broke in Morris again. 

"I beg pardon--your father's roof--in about a fortnight. "

"I am sorry to hear it, sir; and please clear your mind of the idea thatyou have ceased to be welcome. Your presence and that of Miss Fregeliuswill lessen, not increase, my trouble. I should be lonely in this greatplace with no company but that of my own thoughts. "

"I am glad to hear you say so. Whether you feel it or not you are kind, very kind. "

And so for the while they parted. When she came in that afternoon, Mr. Fregelius told Stella the news; but, as it happened, she did not seeMorris until she met him at dinner time. 

"You have heard?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes, " she answered; "and I am sorry, so sorry. I do not know whatmore to say. "

"There is nothing to be said, " answered Morris; "my poor uncle had livedout his life--he was sixty-eight, you know, and there is an end. "

"Were you fond of him? Forgive me for asking, but people are not alwaysfond--really fond--of those who happen to be their relations. "

"Yes, I was very fond of him. He was a good man, though simple andself-made; very kind to everybody; especially to myself. "

"Then do not grieve for him, his pains are over, and some day you willmeet him again, will you not?"

"I suppose so; but in the presence of death faith falters. "

"I know; but I think that is when it should be strongest and clearest, that is when we should feel that whatever else is unreal and false, thisis certain and true. "

Morris bowed his head in assent, and there was silence for a while. 

"I am afraid that Miss Porson must feel this very much, " Stella saidpresently. 

"Yes, she seems quite crushed. She was his only living child, you know. "

"Are you not going to join her?"

"No, I cannot; she has gone into a convent for a month, near Beaulieu, and I am afraid the Sisters would not let me through their gates. "

"Is she a Catholic?"

"Not at all, but an old friend of hers holds some high position in theplace, and she has taken a fancy to be quiet there for a while. "

"It is very natural, " answered Stella, and nothing more was said uponthe subject. 

Stella neither played the violin nor sang that night, nor, indeed, againwhile she remained alone with Morris at the Abbey. Both of them feltthat under the circumstances this form of pleasure would be out ofplace, if not unfeeling, and it was never suggested. For the rest, however, their life went on as usual. On two or three occasions when theweather was suitable some further experiments were carried out with theaerophone, but on most days Stella was engaged in preparing the Rectory, a square, red-brick house, dating from the time of George III. , toreceive them as soon as her father could be moved. Very fortunately, ashas been said, their journey in the steamer Trondhjem had been decidedupon so hurriedly that there was no time to allow them to ship theirheavy baggage and furniture, which were left to follow, and thus escapeddestruction. Now at length these had arrived, and the unpacking andarrangement gave her constant thought and occupation, in which Morrisoccasionally assisted. 

One evening, indeed, he stayed in the Rectory with her, helping to hangsome pictures till about half-past six o'clock, when they started forthe Abbey. As it chanced, a heavy gale was blowing that night, one ofthe furious winter storms which are common on this coast, and its worstgusts beat upon Stella so fiercely that she could scarcely stand, andwas glad to accept the support of Morris's arm. As they struggledalong the high road thus, a particularly savage blast tore the hood ofStella's ulster from her head, whereupon, leaning over her in such aposition that his face was necessarily quite close to her own, with somedifficulty he managed to replace the hood. 

It was while Morris was so engaged that a dog-cart, which because of theroar of the wind he did not hear, and because of his position he couldnot see until it was almost passing them, came slowly down the road. 

Then catching the gleam of the lamps he looked up and started back, thinking that they were being run into, to perceive that the occupantsof the dog-cart were Stephen and Eliza Layard. 

At the same moment Stephen recognised them, as indeed he could scarcelyhelp doing with the light of the powerful lamp shining full upon theirfaces. He shouted something to his sister, who also stared coldly at thepair. Then a kind of fury seemed to seize the little man; at any rate, he shook his clenched fist in a menacing fashion, and brought down thewhip with a savage cut upon the horse. As the animal sprang forward, moreover, Morris could almost have sworn that he heard the words"kissing her, " spoken in Stephen's voice, followed by a laugh fromEliza. 

Then the dog-cart vanished into the darkness, and the incident wasclosed. 

For a moment Morris stood angry and astonished, but reflecting thatin this wind his ears might have deceived him, and that, at any rate, Stella had heard nothing through her thick frieze hood, he once moreoffered his arm and walked forward. 

The next day was Sunday, when, as usual, he escorted Stella tochurch. The Layards were there also, but he noticed that, somewhatostentatiously, they hurried from the building immediately on theconclusion of the service, and it struck him that this demonstrationmight have some meaning. Eliza, whom he afterwards observed, engagedapparently in eager conversation with a knot of people on the roadway, was, as he knew well, no friend to him, for reasons which he couldguess. Nor, as he had heard from various quarters, was she any friend ofStella Fregelius, any more than she had been to Jane Rose. It struck himthat even now she might be employed in sowing scandal about them both, and for Stella's sake the thought made him furious. But even if it wereso he did not see what he could do; therefore he tried to think he wasmistaken, and to dismiss the matter from his mind. 

Colonel Monk had written to say that he was coming home on theWednesday, but he did not, in fact, put in an appearance till thehalf-past six train on the following Saturday evening, when he arrivedbeautifully dressed in the most irreproachable black, and in a very goodtemper. 

"Ah, Morris, old fellow, " he said, "I am very pleased to see you again. After all, there is no place like home, and at my time of life nothingto equal quiet. I can't tell you how sick I got of that French hole. Ifit hadn't been for Mary, and my old friend, Lady Rawlins, who, as usual, was in trouble with that wretched husband of hers--he is an imbecilenow, you know--I should have been back long before. Well, how are yougetting on?"

"Oh, pretty well, thank you, father, " Morris answered, in that ratherrestrained voice which was natural to him when conversing with hisparent. "I think, I really think I have nearly perfected my aerophone. "

"Have you? Well, then, I hope you will make something out of it afterall these years; not that it much matters now, however, " he addedcontentedly. "By the way, that reminds me, how are our two guests, thenew parson and his daughter? That was a queer story about your findingher on the wreck. Are they still here?"

"Yes; but the old gentleman is out of bed now, and he expects to be ableto move into the Rectory on Monday. "

"Does he? Well, they must have given you some company while you werealone. There is no time like the present. I will go up and see himbefore I dress for dinner. "

Accordingly Morris conducted his father to the Abbot's chamber, andintroduced him to the clergyman. Mr. Fregelius was seated in hisarm-chair, with a crutch by his side, and on learning who his visitorwas, made a futile effort to rise. 

"Pray, pray, sir, " said the Colonel, "keep seated, or you will certainlyhurt your leg again. "

"When I should be obliged to inflict myself upon you for another five orsix weeks, " replied Mr. Fregelius. 

"In that case, sir, " said the Colonel, with his most courteous bow, "andfor that reason only I should consider the accident fortunate, " by thesehappy words making of his guest a devoted friend for ever. 

"I don't know how to thank you; I really don't know how to thank you. "

"Then pray, Mr. Fregelius, leave the thanks unspoken. What would youhave had us--or, rather, my son--do? Turn a senseless, shattered manfrom his door, and that man his future spiritual pastor and master?"

"But there was more. He, Mr. Monk, I mean, saved my daughter Stella'slife. You know, a block or a spar fell on me immediately after the shipstruck. Then those cowardly dogs of sailors, thinking that she mustfounder instantly, threw me into the boat and rowed away, leaving herto her fate in the cabin; whereon your son, acting on some words which Ispoke in my delirium, sailed out alone at night and rescued her. "

"Yes, I heard something, but Morris is not too communicative. The oddthing about the whole affair, so far as I can gather, is that he shouldhave discovered that there was anybody left on board. But he is acurious fellow, Morris; those things which one would expect him to knowhe never does know; and the things that nobody else has ever heard ofhe seems to have at his fingers' ends by instinct, or second sight, orsomething. Well, it has all turned out for the best, hasn't it?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so, " answered Mr. Fregelius, glancing at his injuredleg. "At any rate, we are both alive and have not lost many of ourbelongings. "

"Quite so; and under the circumstances you should be uncommonlythankful. But I need not tell a parson that. Well, I can only say thatI am delighted to have such a good opportunity of making youracquaintance, which I am sure will lead to our pulling together inparish affairs like a pair of matched horses. Now I must go and dress. But I tell you what, I'll come and smoke a cigar with you afterwards, and put you au fait with all our various concerns. You'll find them anice lot in this parish, I can tell you, a nice lot. Old Tomley justgave them up as a bad job. "

"I hope I shan't do that, " replied Mr. Fregelius, after his retreatingform. 

The Colonel was down to dinner first, and standing warming himself atthe library fire when Stella, once more in honour of his arrival arrayedin her best dress, entered the room. The Colonel put up his eyeglass andlooked at her as she came down its length. 

"By Jove!" he thought to himself, "I didn't know that the clergyman'sdaughter was like this; nobody ever said so. After all, that fellowMorris can't be half such a fool as he looks, for he kept it dark. " Thenhe stepped forward with outstretched hand. 

"You must allow me to introduce myself, Miss Fregelius, " he said with anold-fashioned and courtly bow, "and to explain that I have the honour tobe my son's father. "

She bowed and answered: "Yes, I think I should have known that from thelikeness. "

"Hum!" said the Colonel. "Even at my age I am not certain that I amaltogether flattered. Morris is an excellent fellow, and very cleverat electrical machines; but I have never considered him remarkable forpersonal beauty--not exactly an Adonis, or an Apollo, or a Narcissus, you know. "

"I should doubt whether any of them had such a nice face, " repliedStella with a smile. 

"My word! Now, that is what I call a compliment worth having. But I hearthe gentleman himself coming. Shall I repeat it to him?"

"No, please don't, Colonel Monk. I did not mean it for compliment, onlyfor an answer. "

"Your wish is a command; but may I make an exception in favour of MissPorson, who prospectively owns the nice face in question? She would bedelighted to know it so highly rated;" and he glanced at her sharply, the look of a man of the world who is trying to read a woman's heart. 

"By all means, " answered Stella, in an indifferent voice, butrecognising in the Colonel one who, as friend or foe, must be taken intoaccount. Then Morris came in, and they went to dinner. 

Here also Colonel Monk was very pleasant. He made Stella tell the storyof the shipwreck and of her rescue, and generally tried to draw her outin every possible way. But all the while he was watching and takingnote of many things. Before they had been together for five minutes heobserved that this couple, his son and their visitor, were on terms ofextreme intimacy--intimacy so extreme and genuine that in two instances, at least, each anticipated what the other was going to say, withoutwaiting for any words to be spoken. Thus Stella deliberately answereda question that Morris had not put, and he accepted the answer andcontinued the argument quite as a matter of course. Also, they seemedmysteriously to understand each other's wants, and, worst of all, he noted that when speaking they never addressed each other by name. Evidently just then each of them had but one "you" in the world. 

Now, the Colonel had not passed through very varied experiences andstudied many sides and conditions of life for nothing; indeed, he wouldhimself explain that he was able to see as far into a brick wall asother folk. 

The upshot of all this was that first he thought Morris a very luckyfellow to be an object of undoubted admiration to those beautifuleyes. (It may be explained that the Colonel throughout life had beenan advocate of taking such goods as the gods provided; something of aworshipper, too, at the shrine of lovely Thais. ) His second reflectionwas that under all the circumstances it seemed quite time that hereturned home to look after him. 

"Now, Miss Fregelius, " he said, as she rose to leave the table, "whenMorris and I have had a glass of wine, and ten minutes to chat overmatters connected with his poor uncle's death, I am going to ask you todo me a favour before I go up to smoke a cigar with your father. It isthat you will play me a tune on the violin and sing me a song. "

"Did Mr. Monk tell you that I played and sang?" she asked. 

"No, he did not. Indeed, Mr. Monk has told me nothing whatsoever aboutyou. His, as you may have observed, is not a very communicative nature. The information came from a much less interesting, though, for aughtI know, from a more impartial source--the fat page-boy, Thomas, whois first tenor in the Wesleyan chapel, and therefore imagines that heunderstands music. "

"But how could Thomas----" began Morris, when his father cut him shortand answered:

"Oh, I'll tell you, quite simply. I had it from the interesting youth'sown lips as he unpacked my clothes. It seems that the day before thenews of your uncle's death reached this place, Thomas was aroused fromhis slumbers by hearing what he was pleased to call 'hangels a-'arpingand singing. ' As soon as he convinced himself that he still lingered onthe earth, drawn by the sweetness of the sounds, 'just in his jacket andbreeches, ' he followed them, until he was sure that they proceeded fromyour workshop, the chapel. 

"Now, as you know, on the upstair passage there still is that queer slitthrough which the old abbots used to watch the monks at their devotions. Finding the shutter unlocked, the astute Thomas followed their example, as well as he could, for he says there was no light in the chapel exceptthat of the fire, by which presently he made out your figure, MissFregelius, sometimes playing the violin, and sometimes singing, and thatof Morris--again I must quote--'a-sitting in a chair by the fire withhis 'ands at the back of 'is 'ead, a-staring at the floor and rocking'imself as though he felt right down bad. ' No, don't interrupt me, Morris; I must tell my story. It's very amusing. 

"Well, Miss Fregelius, he says--and, mind you, this is a greatcompliment--that you sang and played till he felt as though he would crywhen at last you sank down quite exhausted in a chair. Then, suddenlyrealising that he was very cold, and hearing the stable clock striketwo, he went back to bed, and that's the end of the tale. Now you willunderstand why I have asked you this favour. I don't see why Morris andThomas should keep it all to themselves. "

"I shall be delighted, " answered Stella, who, although her cheeks wereburning, and she knew that the merciless Colonel was taking note of thefact, on the whole had gone through the ordeal remarkably well. Then sheleft the room. 

As soon as the door closed Morris turned upon his father angrily. 

"Oh! my dear boy, " the Colonel said, "please do not begin to explain. I know it's all perfectly right, and there is nothing to explain. Whyshouldn't you get an uncommonly pretty girl with a good voice to singto you--while you are still in a position to listen? But if you careto take my advice, next time you will see that the shutter of thathagioscope, or whatever they call it, is locked, as such elevateddelights 'a deux' are apt to be misinterpreted by the vulgar. And now, there's enough of this chaff and nonsense. I want to speak to you aboutthe executorship and matters connected with the property generally. "

Half an hour later, when the Colonel appeared in the drawing-room, the violin was fetched, and Stella played it and sang afterwards to apiano-forte accompaniment. The performance was not of the same standard, by any means, as that which had delighted Thomas, for Stella did notfeel the surroundings quite propitious. Still, with her voice and touchshe could not fail, and the result was that before she had done theColonel grew truly enthusiastic. 

"I know a little of music, " he said, "and I have heard most of the bestsingers and violinists during the last forty years; but in the face ofall those memories I hope you will allow me to congratulate you, MissFregelius. There are some notes in your voice which really reduce meto the condition of peeping Thomas, and, hardened old fellow that I am, almost make me feel inclined to cry. "

CHAPTER XV

THREE INTERVIEWS

The next day was a Sunday, and the Colonel went to church, wearing ahat-band four inches deep. Morris, however, declined to accompany him, saying that he had a letter to write to Mary; whereon his father, whoat first was inclined to be vexed, replied that he could not be betteremployed, and that he was to give her his love. Then he asked if MissFregelius was coming, but somewhat to his disappointment, was informedthat she wished to stay with her father. 

"I wonder, " thought the Colonel to himself as he strolled to the church, now and again acknowledging greetings or stopping to chat with one ofthe villagers--"I wonder if they are going to have a little sacred musictogether in the chapel. If so, upon my soul, I should like to makethe congregation. And that pious fellow Morris, too--the blamelessMorris--to go philandering about in this fashion. I hope it won't cometo Mary's ears; but if it does, luckily, with all her temper, she is asensible woman, and knows that even Jove nods at times. "

After the service the Colonel spoke to various friends, accepted theircondolences upon the death of Mr. Porson, and finally walked down theroad with Eliza Layard. 

"You must have found that all sorts of strange things have happened atthe Abbey since you have been away, Colonel Monk, " she said presently ina sprightly voice. 

"Well, yes; at least I don't know. I understand that Morris has improvedthat blessed apparatus of his, and the new parson and his daughter havefloated to our doors like driftwood. By the way, have you seen MissFregelius?"

"Seen her? Yes, I have seen her. "

"She is a wonderfully captivating girl, isn't she? So unusual, withthose great eyes of hers that seem to vary with the light----"

"Like a cat's, " snapped Eliza. 

"The light within--I was going to say. "

"Oh! I thought you meant the light without. Well, she may befascinating--to men, but as I am only a woman, I cannot be expected toappreciate that. You see we look more to other things. "

"Ah. Well, so far as I am a judge she seemed to me to be pretty well setup in them also. She has a marvellous voice, is certainly a first-classviolinist, and I should say extremely well-read, especially in Norseliterature. "

"Oh! I daresay she is a genius as well as a beauty. "

"I gather, " said the Colonel with a smile, "that you do not like MissFregelius. As my acquaintance with her is limited, would you think merude if I asked why?"

"How can I be expected to like her, seeing----" and she paused. 

"Seeing what, Miss Layard?"

"What, haven't you heard? I thought it was common property. "

He shook his head. "I have heard nothing. Go on, pray, this is quiteinteresting. "

"That she led on that silly brother of mine until he proposed toher--yes, proposed to her!--and then refused him. Stephen has been likea crazy creature ever since, moaning, and groaning, and moping tillI think that he will go off his head, instead of returning thanks toProvidence for a merciful escape. "

The Colonel set his lips as though to whistle, then checked himself. 

"Under the circumstances, presuming them to be accurately stated, Iam not prepared to say who is to be congratulated or who should thankProvidence. These things are so individual, are they not? But if onething is clear, whatever else she is or is not, Miss Fregelius cannot bea fortune-hunter, although she must want money. "

"She may want other things more. "

"Perhaps. But I am very stupid, I am afraid I do not understand. "

"Men, for instance, " suggested Eliza. 

"Dear me! that sounds almost carnivorous. I am afraid that there arenot many about here to satisfy her appetite. Your brother, Morris, the curate at Morton, and myself, if at my age I may creep into thathonourable company, are the only single creatures within four miles, andfrom these Stephen and Morris must apparently be eliminated. "

"Why should Morris be eliminated?"

"A reason may occur to you. "

"Do you mean because he is engaged? What on earth does that matter?"

"Nothing--in the East--but, rightly or wrongly, we have decided upon amonogamous system; a man can't marry two wives, Miss Layard. "

"But he can throw over one girl to marry another. "

"Do you suggest that Morris is contemplating this experiment?"

"I? I suggest nothing; all I know is----"

"Well, now, what do you know?"

"If you wish me to tell you, as perhaps I ought, I know this, ColonelMonk, that the other night, when I was driving along the Rectory road, I saw your son, Mr. Monk, kissing this wonderful Miss Fregelius; that isall, and Stephen saw it also, you ask him. "

"Thank you; I think I would rather not. But what an odd place for him tochoose for this interchange of early Christian courtesies! Also--if youare not mistaken--how well it illustrates that line in the hymn thismorning:

"'How many a spot defiles the robe that wraps an earthly saint. '

Such adventures seem scarcely in Morris's line, and I should havethought that even an inexperienced saint would have been more discreet. "

"Men always jest at serious things, " said Eliza severely. 

"Which do you mean--the saints or the kissing? Both are serious enough, but the two in combination----"

"Don't you believe me?" asked Eliza. 

"Of course. But could you give me a few details?"

Eliza could and did--with amplifications. 

"Now, what do you say, Colonel Monk?" she asked triumphantly. 

"I say that I think you have made an awkward mistake, Miss Layard. Itseems to me that all you saw is quite consistent with the theory that hewas buttoning or arranging the young lady's hood. I understand that thewind was very high that night. "

Eliza started; this was a new and unpleasant interpretation which shehastened to repudiate. "Arranging her hood, indeed----"

"When he might have been kissing her? You cannot understand suchmoderation. Still, it is possible, and he ought to have the benefit ofthe doubt. Witnesses to character would be valuable in such a case, andhis--not to mention the lady's--is curiously immaculate. "

"Of course you are entitled to your own opinion, but I have mine. "

Suddenly the Colonel changed his bantering, satirical tone, and becamestern and withering. 

"Miss Layard, " he said, "does it occur to you that on evidence whichwould not suffice to convict a bicyclist of riding on a footpath, youare circulating a scandal of which the issue might be very grave to boththe parties concerned?"

"I am not circulating anything. I was telling you privately;" repliedEliza, still trying to be bold. 

"I am glad to hear it. I understand that neither you nor your brotherhave spoken of this extraordinary tale, and I am quite certain that youwill not speak of it in the future. "

"I cannot answer for my brother, " she said sulkily. 

"No, but in his own interest and in yours I trust that you will make himunderstand that if I hear a word of this I shall hold him to account. Also, that his propagation of such a slander will react upon you, whowere with him. "

"How?" asked Eliza, now thoroughly frightened, for when he chose theColonel could be very crushing. 

"Thus: Your brother's evidence is that of an interested person which noone will accept; and of yours, Miss Layard, it might be inferred thatit was actuated by jealousy of a charming and quite innocent girl; or, perhaps, by other motives even worse, which I would rather you did notask me to suggest. "

Eliza did not ask him. She was too wise. As she knew well, when rousedthe Colonel was a man with a bitter tongue and a good memory. 

"I am sure I am the last person who would wish to do mischief, " she saidin a humble voice. 

"Of course, I know that, I know that. Well, now we understand eachother, so I must be turning home. Thank you so much for having beenquite candid with me. Good morning, Miss Layard; remember me toStephen. "

"Phew!" reflected the Colonel to himself, "that battle is won--after afashion--but just about forty-eight hours too late. By this time thatvixen of a woman has put the story all over the place. Oh, Morris, youegregious ass, if you wanted to take to kissing like a schoolboy, whythe deuce did you select the high road for the purpose? This must be puta stop to. I must take steps, and at once. They mustn't be seen togetheragain, or there will be trouble with Mary. But how to do it? how to doit? That is the question, and one to which I must find an answer withinthe next two hours. What a kettle of fish! What a pretty kettle offish!"

In due course, and after diligent search, he found the answer to thisquestion. 

At lunch time the Colonel remarked casually that he had walked a littleway with Miss Layard, who mentioned that she had seen them--i. E. , hisson and Miss Fregelius--struggling through the gale the other night. Then he watched the effect of this shot. Morris moved his chair andlooked uncomfortable; clearly he was a most transparent sinner. But onStella it took no effect. 

"As usual, " reflected the Colonel, "the lady has the most control. Or perhaps he tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him, and aconsciousness of virtue gives her strength. "

After luncheon the Colonel paid a visit to Mr. Fregelius, ostensibly totalk to him about the proposed restoration of the chancel, for whichhe, as holder of the great tithes, was jointly liable with the rector, aresponsibility that, in the altered circumstances of the family, he nowfelt himself able to face. When this subject was exhausted, which didnot take long, as Mr. Fregelius refused to express any positiveopinion until he had inspected the church, the Colonel's manner grewportentously solemn. 

"My dear sir, " he said, "there is another matter, a somewhat graveone, upon which, for both our sakes and the sakes of those immediatelyconcerned, I feel bound to say a few words. "

Mr. Fregelius, who was a timid man, looked very much alarmed. Aconviction that the "grave matter" had something to do with Stellaflashed into his mind, but all he said was:

"I am afraid I don't understand, Colonel Monk. "

"No; indeed, how should you? Well, to come to the point, it has to dowith that very charming daughter of yours and my son Morris. "

"I feared as much, " groaned the clergyman. 

"Indeed! I thought you said you did not understand. "

"No, but I guessed; wherever Stella goes things seem to happen. "

"Exactly; well, things have happened here. To be brief, I mean that alot of silly women have got up a scandal about them--no, scandal is toostrong a word--gossip. "

"What is alleged?" asked Mr. Fregelius faintly. 

"Well, that your daughter threw over that young ass, Stephen Layard, because--the story seems to me incredible, I admit--she had fallenviolently in love with Morris. Further that she and the said Morris wereseen embracing at night on the Rectory road, which I don't believe, asthe witnesses are Layard, who is prejudiced, and his sister, who is themost ill-bred, bitter, and disappointed woman in the county. Lastly, and this is no doubt true, that they are generally on terms of greatintimacy, and we all know where that leads to between a man andwoman--'Plato, thy confounded fantasies, ' etc. You see, when people situp singing to each other alone till two in the morning--I don't meanthat Morris sings, he has no more voice than a crow; he does theappreciative audience--well, other people will talk, won't they?"

"I suppose so, the world being what it is, " sighed Mr. Fregelius. 

"Exactly; the world being what it is, and men and women what they are, amost unregenerate lot and 'au fond' very primitive, as I daresay you mayhave observed. "

"What is to be done?"

"Well, under other circumstances, I should have said, Nothing at allexcept congratulate them most heartily, more especially my son. But inthis case there are reasons which make such a course impossible. As youknow, Morris is engaged to be married to my niece, Miss Porson, and itis a contract which, even if he wished it, honour would forbid him tobreak, for family as well as for personal reasons. "

"Quite so, quite so; it is not to be thought of. But again I ask--Whatis to be done?"

"Is that not rather a question for you to consider? I suggest that youhad better speak to your daughter; just a hint, you know, just a hint. "

"Upon my word, I'd rather not. Stella can be so--decided--at times, andwe never seem quite to understand each other. I did speak to her theother day when Mr. Layard wished to marry her, a match I was naturallyanxious for, but the results were not satisfactory. "

"Still, I think you might try. "

"Very well, I will try; and, Colonel Monk, I cannot tell you how grievedI am to have brought all this trouble on you. "

"Not a bit, " answered the Colonel cheerfully. "I am an old student ofhuman nature, and I rather enjoy it; it's like watching the puppets on astage. Only we mustn't let the comedy grow into a tragedy. "

"Ah! that's what I am afraid of, some tragedy. Stella is a woman whotakes things hard, and if any affection really has sprung up----"

"----It will no doubt evaporate with the usual hysterics and morningheadache. Bless me! I have known dozens of them, and felt some myself inmy time--the headaches, I mean, not the other things. Don't be alarmedif she gets angry, Mr. Fregelius, but just appeal to her reason; shewill see the force of it afterwards. "

An hour or so later the Colonel started for a walk on the beach tolook at some damage which a high tide had done to the cliff. As hewas nearing the Abbey steps on his return he saw the figure of a womanstanding quite still upon the sands. An inspection through his eyeglassrevealed that it was Stella, and instinct told him her errand. 

"This is rather awkward, " he thought, as he braced himself to battle, "especially as I like that girl and don't want to hurt her feelings. Hullo! Miss Fregelius, are you taking the air? You should walk, or youwill catch cold. "

"No, Colonel Monk, I was waiting for you. "

"Waiting for me? Me! This is indeed an honour, and one which ageappreciates. "

She waved aside his two-edged badinage. "You have been speaking to myfather, " she said. 

Instantly the Colonel assumed a serious manner, not the most serious, such as he wore at funerals, but still one suited to a grave occasion. 

"Yes, I have. "

"You remember all that you said?"

"Certainly, Miss Fregelius; and I assume that for the purposes of thisconversation it need not be repeated. "

She bowed her head, and replied, "I have come to explain and to tell youthree things. First, that all these stories are false except that aboutthe singing. Secondly, that whoever is responsible for them has made itimpossible that I should live in Monksland, so I am going to London toearn my own living there. And, thirdly, that I hope you will excuse myabsence from dinner as I think the more I keep to myself until we goto-morrow, the better; though I reserve to myself the right to speak toMr. Monk on this subject and to say good-bye to him. "

"She _is_ taking it hard and she _is_ fond of him--deuced fond ofhim, poor girl, " thought the Colonel; but aloud he said, "My dear MissFregelius, I never believed the stories. As for the principal one, common sense rebels against it. All I said to your father was thatthere appears to be a lot of talk about the place, and, under thecircumstances of my son's engagement, that he might perhaps give you afriendly hint. "

"Oh! indeed; he did not put it quite like that. He gave me to understandthat you had told him--that I was--so--so much in love with Mr. Monkthat on this account I had--rejected Mr. Layard. "

"Please keep walking, " said the Colonel, "or you _really_ will catchcold. " Then suddenly he stopped, looked her sharply in the face, muchas he had done to Eliza, and said, "Well, and are you not in love withhim?"

For a moment Stella stared at him indignantly. Then suddenly he saw ablush spread upon her face to be followed by an intense pallor, whilethe pupils of the lovely eyes enlarged themselves and grew soft. Nextinstant she put her hand to her heart, tottered on her feet, and had henot caught her would perhaps have fallen. 

"I do not think I need trouble you to answer my question, which, indeed, now that I think of it, was one I had no right to put, " he said as sherecovered herself. 

"Oh, my God!" moaned Stella, wringing her hands; "I never knew it tillthis moment. You have brought it home to me; you, yes, you!" and sheburst out weeping. 

"Here are the hysterics, " thought the Colonel, "and I am afraid that theheadache will be bad to-morrow morning. "

To her, however, he said very tenderly, "My dear girl, my dear girl, pray do not distress yourself. These little accidents will happen in thebest regulated hearts, and believe me, you will get over it in a monthor two. "

"Accident!" she said. "It is no accident; it is Fate!--I see it allnow--and I shall never get over it. However, that is my own affair, andI have no right to trouble you with my misfortunes. "

"Oh! but you will indeed, and though you may think the advice hard, Iwill tell you the best way. "

She looked up in inquiry. 

"Change your mind and marry Stephen Layard. He is not at all a badfellow, and--there are obvious advantages. "

This was the Colonel's first really false move, as he himself feltbefore the last word had left his lips. 

"Colonel Monk, " she said, "because I am unfortunate is it any reasonthat you should insult me?"

"Miss Fregelius, to my knowledge I have never insulted any woman; andcertainly I should not wish to begin with one who has just honoured mewith her confidence. "

"Is it not an insult, " she answered with a sort of sob, "when a womanto her shame and sorrow has confessed--what I have--to bid her consoleherself by marriage with another man?"

"Now that you put it thus, I confess that perhaps some minds might sointerpret an intention which did not exist. It seemed to me that, aftera while, in marriage you would most easily forget a trouble which my sonso unworthily has brought on you. "

"Don't blame him for he does not deserve it. If anybody is to blame itis I; but in truth all those stories are false; we have neither of usdone anything. "

"Do not press the point, Miss Fregelius; I believe you. "

"We have neither of us done anything, " she repeated; "and, what is more, if you had not interfered, I do not think that I should have found outthe truth; or, at least, not yet--till I saw him married, perhaps, whenit would have been no matter. "

"When you see a man walking in his sleep you do your best to stop him, "said the Colonel. 

"And so cause him to fall over the precipice and be dashed to bits. Oh!you should have let me finish my journey. Then I should have come backto the bed that I have made to lie on, and waked to find myself alone, and nobody would have been hurt except myself who caused the evil. "

The Colonel could not continue this branch of the conversation. Even tohim, a hardened vessel, as he had defined himself, it was too painful. 

"You said you mean to earn a living in London. How?"

"By my voice and violin, if one can sing and play with a sore heart. Ihave an old aunt, a sister of my father's, who is a music mistress, withwhom I daresay I can arrange to live, and who may be able to get me someintroductions. "

"I hope that I can help you there, and I will to the best of my ability;indeed, if necessary, I will go to town and see about things. Allow meto add this, Miss Fregelius, that I think you are doing a very bravething, and, what is more, a very wise one; and I believe that beforelong we shall hear of you as the great new contralto. "

She shrugged her shoulders. "It may be; I don't care. Good-bye. By theway, I wish to see Mr. Monk once more before I go; it would be betterfor us all. I suppose that you don't object to that, do you?"

"Miss Fregelius, my son is a man advancing towards middle age. It isentirely a point for you and him to decide, and I will only say that Ihave every confidence in you. "

"Thank you, " she answered, and turning, walked rapidly down the lonelybeach till her figure melted into the gathering gloom of the winter'snight. Once, however, when she thought that she was out of eyeshot, hesaw her stop with her face towards the vast and bitter sea, and saw alsothat she was wringing her hands in an agony of the uttermost despair. 

"She looks like a ghost, " said the Colonel aloud with a little shiver, "like a helpless, homeless ghost, with the world behind her and theinfinite in front, and nothing to stand on but a patch of shifting sand, wet with her own tears. "

When the Colonel grew thus figurative and poetical it may be surmised byanyone who has taken the trouble to study his mixed and somewhat worldlycharacter that he was deeply moved. And he was moved; more so, indeed, than he had been since the death of his wife. Why? He would have foundit hard to explain. On the face of it, the story was of a trivial order, and in some of its aspects rather absurd. Two young people who happenedto be congenial, but one of whom was engaged, chance to be throwntogether for a couple of months in a country house. Although thereis some gossip, nothing at all occurs between them beyond a littleperfectly natural flirtation. The young man's father, hearing thegossip, speaks to the young lady in order that she may take steps toprotect herself and his son against surmise and misinterpretation. Thereupon a sudden flood of light breaks upon her soul, by which shesees that she is really attached to the young man, and being a woman ofunusual character, or perhaps absurdly averse to lying even upon sucha subject, in answer to a question admits that this is so, and that shevery properly intends to go away. 

Could anything be more commonplace, more in the natural order of events?Why, then, was he moved? Oh! it was that woman's face and eyes. Old ashe might be, he felt jealous of his son; jealous to think that for himsuch a woman could wear this countenance of wonderful and thrilling woe. What was there in Morris that it should have called forth this depth ofpassion undefiled? Now, if there were no Mary--but there was a Mary, itwas folly to pursue such a line of thought. 

From sympathy for Stella, which was deep and genuine, to anger withhis son proved to the Colonel an easy step. Morris was that worst ofsinners, a hypocrite. Morris, being engaged to one woman, had takenadvantage of her absence deliberately to involve the affections ofanother, or, at any rate, caused her considerable inconvenience. He waswroth with Morris, and what was more, before he grew an hour older hewould let him have a piece of his mind. 

He found the sinner in his workshop, the chapel, making mathematicalcalculations, the very sight of which added to his father's indignation. The man, he reflected to himself, who under these circumstances couldindulge an abnormal talent for mathematics, especially on Sunday, mustbe a cold-blooded brute. He entered the place slamming the door behindhim; and Morris looking up noted with alarm, for he hated rows, thatthere was war in his eye. 

"Won't you take a chair, father?" he said. 

"No, thank you; I would rather say what I have to say standing. "

"What is the matter?"

"The matter is, sir, that I find that by your attentions you have madethat poor girl, Miss Fregelius, while she was a guest in my house, theobject of slander and scandal to every ill-natured gossip in the threeparishes. "

Morris's quiet, thoughtful eyes flashed in an ominous and unusualmanner. 

"If you were not my father, " he said, "I should ask you to change yourtone in speaking to me on such a subject; but as things are I supposethat I must submit to it, unless you choose otherwise. "

"The facts, Morris, " answered his father, "justify any language that Ican use. "

"Did you get these facts from Stephen Layard and Miss Layard? Ah! Iguessed as much. Well, the story is a lie; I was merely arranging herhood which she could not do herself, as the wind forced her to use herhand to hold her dress down. "

The thought of his own ingenuity in hitting on the right solution of thestory mollified the Colonel not a little. 

"Pshaw, " he said, "I knew that. Do you suppose that I believed you foolenough to kiss a girl on the open road when you had every opportunity ofkissing 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 madeher in love with you--don't deny it; I have it from her own lips. Thatyou have driven her out of this place to earn a living in London as bestshe may, and that, being yourself an engaged man"--here once more theColonel drew a bow at a venture--"you are what is called in love withher 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 Morrissank back in his chair and turned white. Generosity, or perhaps the fearof exciting more unpleasant consequences, prevented the Colonel fromfollowing 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 thatis your intention?"

"No; but supposing that all you say were true, and that it _was_ myintention, what then?"

"Then, sir, to my old-fashioned ideas you would be a dishonourablefellow, 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 moredishonourable to marry her; would it not be kinder, shameful as it maybe, 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, thatrather than do such a thing, under all the circumstances, it would bebetter that you should take a pistol and blow your brains out. "

"Very probably, " answered Morris, "but would you mind telling mealso what are the exact circumstances which would in your opinion soaggravate this particular case?"

"You have a copy of your uncle Porson's will in that drawer; give itme. "

Morris obeyed, and his father searched for, and read the followingsentence: "In consideration of the forthcoming marriage between hisson Morris and my daughter Mary, the said testator remits all debtsand obligations that may be due to his estate by the said Richard Monk, Lieutenant Colonel, Companion of the Bath, and an executor of thiswill. "

"Well, " said Morris. 

"Well, " replied the Colonel coolly, "those debts in all amountedto 19, 543 pounds. No wonder you seem astonished, but they have beenaccumulating for a score of years. There's the fact, any way, sodiscussion is no use. Now do you understand? 'In consideration of theforthcoming 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 ofcoming to nothing. Besides, hang it all, Morris, you know that there ismore than money in the question. "

Morris hid his face in his hands for a moment; when he removed them itwas ashen. "Yes, " he said, "things are unfortunate. You remember thatyou were very anxious that I should engage myself, and Mary was so goodas to accept me. Perhaps, I cannot say, I should have done better tohave 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 ofwhich you would disapprove. "

"I was sure you wouldn't, old fellow, " answered the Colonel in afriendly tone, "not when you came to think. Matters seem to have gotinto a bit of a tangle, don't they? Most unfortunate that charming younglady being brought to this house in such a fashion. Really, it lookslike a spite of what she called Fate. However, I have no doubt that itwill all straighten itself somehow. By the way, she told me that sheshould wish to see you once to say good-bye before she went. Don't bevexed with me if, should she do so, I suggest to you to be very careful. Your position will be exceedingly painful and exceedingly dangerous, andin a moment all your fine resolutions may come to nothing; though I amsure that she does not wish any such thing, poor dear. Unless she reallyseeks this interview, I think, indeed, it would be best avoided. "

Morris made no answer, and the Colonel went away somewhat weary andsorrowful. 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. Inthe course of the morning, growing impatient, for he had explanations tomake, 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 theRectory in a fly that had been especially prepared to convey the invalidwithout shaking him. Morris did not witness their departure, as theColonel, either by accident or design, had arranged to go with him onthis day to inspect the new buildings which had been erected on theAbbey Farm. Nor, indeed, were the names of the departed guests so muchas mentioned at dinner that night. The incident of their long stay atthe Abbey, with all its curious complications, was closed, and bothfather and son, by tacit agreement, determined to avoid all reference toit; at any rate for the present. 

The Christmas Eve of that year will long be remembered in Monksland andall that stretch of coast as the day of the "great gale" which wroughtso much damage on its shores. The winter's dawn was of extraordinarybeauty, for all the eastern sky might have been compared to one vastflower, with a heart of burnished gold, and sepals and petals of manycoloured fires. Slowly from a central point it opened, slowly itssplendours spread across the heavens; then suddenly it seemed to witherand die, till where it had been was nothing but masses of grey vapourthat arose, gathered, and coalesced into an ashen pall hanging lowabove 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 wentto haul up their boats as high as they could drag them, knowing that itwould blow hard by night. 

About mid-day the sea began to be troubled, as though its waves werebeing pushed on by some force as yet unseen, and before two o'clockgusts of cold air from the nor'east travelled landwards off the oceanwith a low moaning sound, which was very strange to hear. 

As Morris trudged along towards the Dead Church he noticed, as we donotice such things when our minds are much preoccupied and oppressed, that these gusts were coming quicker and quicker, although stillseparated from each other by periods of aerial calm. Then he rememberedthat a great gale had been prophesied in the weather reports, andthought to himself that they portended its arrival. 

He reached the church by the narrow spit of sand and shingle which stillconnected it with the shore, passed through the door in the rough brickwall, closing it behind him, and paused to look. Already under thatheavy sky the light which struggled through the brine-encrusted easternwindow was dim and grey. Presently, however, he discovered the figureof Stella seated in her accustomed place by the desolate-looking stonealtar, whereon stood the box containing the aerophone that they had usedin their experiments. She was dressed in her dark-coloured ulster, ofwhich the hood was still drawn over her head, giving her the appearanceof some cloaked nun, lingering, out of time and place, in the ruinedhabitations of her worship. 

As he advanced she rose and pushed back the hood, revealing the massesof her waving hair, to which it had served as a sole covering. Insilence 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; myfather 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 havebrought upon you. "

She smiled. "I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard ofthese 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. Heconsidered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do notthink that he weighed his words. "

"I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannothelp things, and the truth will out. "

"Yes, " he said, quite simply; "we love each other, so we may as welladmit it before we part. "

"Yes, " she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; "I know now--we loveeach other. "

These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this, their declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions ofmen and women, and not the less so because neither of them seemed tothink its fashion strange. 

"It must always have been so, " said Morris. 

"Always, " she answered, "from the beginning; from the time you savedmy life and we were together in the boat and--perhaps, who cansay?--before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our mindswe did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should havefound it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever havereally 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. "Death will unite us beyond thepossibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly--to me, notto you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean thelife of my body, but the real life, that within. "

"I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there isnothing to be done. "

"Of course, " she answered eagerly; "nothing. Do you suppose that Iwished to suggest such a treachery?"

"No, you are too pure and good. "

"Good I am not--who is?--but I believe that I am pure. "

"It is bitter, " groaned Morris. 

"Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because Iknow that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would havebeen bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how andwhere it comes about? To-day we part--for ever in the flesh. You willnot look upon this mortal face of mine again. "

"Why do you say so?"

"Because I feel that it is true. "

He glanced up hastily, and she answered the question in his eyes. 

"No--indeed--not that--I never thought of such a thing. I think it acrime. We are bid to endure the burden of our day. I shall go on weavingmy web and painting my picture till, soon or late, God says, 'Hold, ' andthen I shall die gladly, yes, very gladly, because the real beginning isat hand. "

"Oh! that I had your perfect faith, " groaned Morris. 

"Then, if you love me, learn it from me. Should I, of all people, tellyou what is not true? It is the truth--I swear it is the truth. I am notdeceived. I know, I know, I _know_. "

"What do you know--about us?"

"That, when it is over, we shall meet again where there is no marriage, where there is nothing gross, where love perfect and immortal reigns andpassion is forgotten. There that we love each other will make no heartsore, not even hers whom here, perhaps, we have wronged; there will beno jealousies, since each and all, themselves happy in their own wayand according to their own destinies, will rejoice in the happiness ofothers. There, too, our life will be one life, our work one work, ourthought one thought--nothing more shall separate us at all in thatplace where there is no change or shadow of turning. Therefore, " and sheclasped her hands and looked upwards, her face shining like a saint's, although the tears ran down it, "therefore, 'O Death, where is thysting? O grave, where is thy victory?'"

"You talk like one upon the verge of it, who hears the beating ofDeath's wings. It frightens me, Stella. "

"I know nothing of that; it may be to-night, or fifty years hence--weare always on the verge, and those Wings I have heard from childhood. Fifty, even seventy years, and after them--all the Infinite; one tinygrain of sand compared to the bed of the great sea, that sea from whichit was washed at dawn to be blown back again at nightfall. "

"But the dead forget--in that land all things are forgotten. Were youto die I should call to you and you would not answer; and when my timecame, I might look for you and never find you. "

"How dare you say it? If I die, search, and you shall see. No; do _not_search, wait. At your death I will be with you. "

"Whatever happens in life or death--here or hereafter--swear that youwill not forget me, and that you will love me only. Swear it, Stella. "

"Come to this altar, " she said, when she had thought a moment, "and giveme your hand--so. Now, before my Maker and the Presences who surroundus, I marry you, Morris Monk. Not in the flesh--with your flesh I havenothing to do--but in the spirit. I take your soul to mine, I give mysoul to yours; yours it was from its birth's day, yours it is, and whenit ceases to be yours, let it perish everlastingly. "

"So be it to both of us, for ever and for ever, " he answered. 

This, then, was their marriage, and as they walked hand in hand awayfrom the ancient altar, which surely had never seen so strange a rite, there returned to Morris an idle fantasy which had entered his mind atthis very spot when they landed one morning half-frozen after that nightin the open boat. But he said nothing of it; for with the memory camea recollection of certain wandering words which that same day fell fromStella's lips, words at the thought of which his spirit thrilled and hisflesh shuddered. What if she were near it, or he were near it, or bothof them? What if this solemn ceremony of marriage mocked, yet madedivine, had taken place upon the very threshold of its immortalconsummation? She read his thought and answered:

"Remember always, far and near, it is the same thing; time is nothing;this oath of ours cannot be touched by time or earthly change. "

"I will remember, " he answered. 

What more did they say? He never could be sure, nor does it matter, forwhat is written bears its gist. 

"Go away first, " she said presently; "I promised your father that Iwould bring no further trouble on you, so we must not be seen together. Go now, for the gale is rising fast and the darkness grows. "

"This is hard to bear, " he muttered, setting his teeth. "Are you surethat we shall not meet again in after years?"

"Sure. You look your last upon me, on the earthly Stella whom you knowand love. "

"It must be done, " he said. 

"It must be done, " she echoed. "Good-bye, husband, till that appointedhour of meeting when I may call you so without shame, " and she held outher hand. 

He took and pressed it; speak he could not. Then, like a man stricken inyears, he passed down the church with bent head and shambling feet. Atthe door he turned to look at her. She was standing erect and proud as aconqueror, her hand resting upon the altar. Even at that distance theireyes met, and in hers, lit with a wild and sudden ray from the sinkingsun, he could see a strange light shine. Then he went out of the doorand dragged it to behind him, to battle his way homeward through theroaring gale that stung and buffeted him like all the gathered spitesand hammerings of Destiny. 

This, then, was their parting, a parting pure and stern and high, unsolaced by one soft word, unsweetened by a single kiss. Yet it seemsfitting that those who hope to meet in the light of the spirit shouldmake their last farewells on earth beneath such solemn shadows. 

And Stella? After all she was but a woman, a woman with a very humanheart. She knew the truth indeed, to whom it was given to see beforethe due determined time of vision, but still she was troubled with thathuman heart, and weighed down by the flesh over which she triumphed. Nowthat he was gone, pride and strength seemed both to leave her, and witha low cry, like the cry of a wounded sea-bird, she cast herself downthere upon the cold stones before the altar, and wept till her sensesleft her. 

A great gale roared and howled. The waters, driven onwards by itsfurious breath, beat upon the eastern cliffs till these melted like snowbeneath them, taking away field and church, town and protecting wall, and in return casting up the wrecks of ships and the bodies of dead men. 

Morris could not sleep. Who could sleep in such an awful tempest? Whocould sleep that had passed through such a parting? Oh! his heartached, and he was as one sick to death, and with him continually was thethought of Stella, and before him came the vision of her eyes. He couldnot sleep, so rising, he dressed himself and went to the window. Highin the heavens swept clean of clouds by the furious blasts floated awandering moon, throwing her ghastly light upon the swirling, furioussea. Shorewards rushed the great rollers in unending lines, there tobreak in thunder and seethe across the shingle till the sea-wall stoppedthem and sent the spray flying upwards in thin, white clouds. 

"God help those in the power of the sea to-night, " thought Morris, "formany of them will not keep Christmas here. "

Then it seemed to his mind, excited by storm and sorrow, as though somepower were drawing him, as though some voice were telling him that therewas that which he must hear. Aimlessly, half-unconsciously he wanderedto his workshop in the old chapel, turned on one of the lamps, and stoodat the window watching the majestic progress of the storm, and thinking, thinking, thinking. 

While he remained thus, suddenly, thrilling his nerves as though with aquick shock of pain, sharp and clear even in that roar and turmoil, rangout the sound of an electric bell. He started round and looked. Yes;as he thought in all the laboratory there was only one bell that couldring, none other had its batteries charged, and that bell was attachedto the aerophone whereof the twin stood upon the altar in the DeadChurch. The instrument was one of the pair with which he had carried outhis experiments of the last two months. 

His heart stood still. "Great God! What could have caused that bellto ring?" It could not ring; it was a physical impossibility unlesssomebody were handling the sister instrument, and at four o'clock in themorning, who could be there, and except one, who would know its working?With a bound he was by the aerophone and had given the answering signal. Then instantly, as though she were standing at his side in the room, for this machine does not blur the voice or heighten its tone, he heardStella speaking. 

"Is it you who answer me?" she asked. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, "but where are you at this hour of the night?"

"Where you left me, in the Dead Church, " floated back the quick replythrough the raving breadths of storm. "Listen: After you went mystrength gave out and I suppose that I fainted; at least, a little whileago I woke up from a deep sleep to find myself lying before the alterhere. I was frightened, for I knew that it must be far into the night, and an awful gale is blowing which shakes the whole church. I went tothe door and opened it, and by the light of the moon I saw that betweenme and the shore lies a raging sea hundreds of yards wide. Then I cameback and threw out my mind to you, and tried to wake you, if you slept;tried to make you understand that I wished you to go to the aerophoneand hear me. "

"I will get help at once, " broke in Morris. 

"I beg you, " came back the voice, "I beg you, do not stir. The timeis very short; already the waves are dashing against the walls of thechancel, and I hear the water rumbling in the vaults beneath my feet. Listen!" her voice ceased, and in place of it there swelled the shriekof the storm which beat about the Dead Church, the rush, too, of thewater in the hollow vaults and the crashing of old coffins as they werewashed from their niches. Another instant, and Stella had cut off thesesounds and was speaking again. 

"It is useless to think of help, no boat, nothing could live upon thatfearful sea; moreover, within five minutes this church must fall andvanish. "

"My God! My God!" wailed Morris. 

"Do not grieve; it is a waste of precious time, and do not stir till theend. I want you to know that I did not seek this death. I never dreamedof such a thing. You must tell my father so, and bid him not to mournfor me. It was my intention to leave the church within ten minutes ofyourself. This cup is given to me by the hand of Fate. I did not fillit. Do you hear and understand?"

"I hear and understand, " answered Morris. 

"Now you see, " she went on, "that our talk to-day was almost inspired. My web is woven, my picture is painted, and to me Heaven says, 'Hold. 'The thought that it might be so was in your mind, was it not?"

"Yes. "

"And I answered your thought, telling you that time is nothing. This Itell you again for your comfort in the days that remain to you of life. Oh! I bless God; I bless God Who has dealt so mercifully to me. Whereare now the long years of lonely suffering that I feared--I who standupon the threshold of the Eternal? . . . I can talk no more, the wateris rising in the church--already it is about my knees; but rememberevery word which I have said to you; remember that we are wed--trulywed, that I go to wait for you, and that even if you do not see me Iwill, if I may, be near you always--till you die, and afterwards will bewith you always--always. "

"Stay, " cried Morris. 

"What have you to say? Be swift, the water rises and the walls arecracking. "

"That I love you now and for ever and for ever; that I will remembereverything; and that I know beyond a doubt that you have seen, and speakthe truth. "

"Thank you for those blessed words, and for this life fare you well. "

For a moment there was silence, or at least Stella's voice was silent, while Morris stood over the aerophone, the sweat running from his face, rocking like a drunken man in his agony and waiting for the end. Thensuddenly loud, clear, and triumphant, broke upon his ears the sound ofthat song which he had heard her sing upon the sinking ship when herdeath seemed near; the ancient song of the Over-Lord. Once more atthe last mortal ebb, while the water rose about her breast, Stella'sinstincts and blood had asserted themselves, and forgetting aught else, she was dying as her pagan forefathers had died, with the secret ancientchant upon her lips. Yes, she sang as Skarphedinn the hero sang whilethe flame ate out his life. 

The song swelled on, and the great waters boomed an accompaniment. Thencame a sound of crashing walls, and for a moment it ceased, only torise again still clearer and more triumphant. Again a crash--a seethinghiss--and the instrument was silent, for its twin was shattered. Shattered also was the fair shape that held the spirit of Stella. 

Again and again Morris spoke eagerly, entreatingly, but the aerophonewas dumb. So he ceased at length, and even then well nigh laughed whenhe thought that in this useless piece of mechanism he saw a symbol ofhis own soul, which also had lost its mate and could hold true conversewith no other. 

Then he started up, and just as he was, ran out into the raving night. 

Three hours later, when the sun rose upon Christmas Day, if any had beenthere to note him they might have seen a dishevelled man standing aloneupon the lonely shore. There he stood, the back-wash of the mightycombers hissing about his knees as he looked seaward beneath the hollowof his hand at a spot some two hundred yards away, where one by onetheir long lines were broken into a churning yeast of foam. 

Morris knew well what broke them--the fallen ruins of the church thatwas now Stella's sepulchre, and, oh! in that dark hour, he would havebeen glad to seek her where she lay. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE RETURN OF MARY

Curiously enough, indirectly, but in fact, it was the circumstance ofStella's sudden and mysterious death that made Morris a rich and famousman, and caused his invention of the aerophone to come into common use. Very early on the following morning, but not before, she was missed fromthe Rectory and sought far and wide. One of the first places visitedby those who searched was the Abbey, whither they met Morris returningthrough the gale, wild-eyed, flying-haired, and altogether strange tosee. They asked him if he knew what had become of Miss Fregelius. 

"Yes, " he replied, "she has been crushed or drowned in the ruins of theDead Church, which was swept away by the gale last night. "

Then they stared and asked how he knew this. He answered that, beingunable to sleep that night on account of the storm, he had gone into hisworkshop when his attention was suddenly attracted by the bell of theaerophone, by means of which he learned that Miss Fregelius had beencut off from the shore in the church. He added that he ran as hard as hecould to the spot, only to find at dawn that the building had entirelyvanished in the gale, and that the sea had encroached upon the land byat least two hundred paces. 

Of course these statements concerning the aerophone and its capabilitieswere reported all over the world and much criticised--very roughly insome quarters. Thereupon Morris offered to demonstrate the truth of whathe had said. The controversy proved sharp; but of this he was glad;it was a solace to him, perhaps even it prevented him from plungingheadlong into madness. At first he was stunned; he did not feelvery much. Then the first effects of the blow passed; a sense of theswiftness and inevitableness of this awful consummation seemed to sinkdown into his heart and crush him. The completeness of the tragedy, itsGreek-play qualities, were overwhelming. Question and answer, seedand fruit--there was no space for thought or growth between them. Thecurtain was down upon the Temporal, and lo! almost before its folds hadshaken to their place, it had risen upon the Eternal. His naturereeled beneath this knowledge and his loss. Had it not been for thosesuspicions and attacks it might have fallen. 

The details of the struggle need not be entered into, as they havelittle to do with the life-story of Morris Monk. It is enough to saythat in the end he more than carried out his promises under the severestconditions, and in the presence of various scientific bodies and otherexperts. 

Afterwards came the natural results; the great aerophone company wasfloated, in which Morris as vendor received half the shares--he wouldtake no cash--which shares, by the way, soon stood at five and aquarter. Also he found himself a noted man; was asked to deliver anaddress before the British Association; was nominated on the councilof a leading scientific society, and in due course after a year ortwo received one of the greatest compliments that can be paid to anEnglishman, that of being elected to its fellowship, as a distinguishedperson, by the committee of a famous Club. Thus did Morris prospergreatly--very greatly, and in many different ways; but with all thispart of his life we are scarcely concerned. 

On the day of his daughter's death Morris visited Mr. Fregelius, forwhom he had a message. He found the old man utterly crushed and broken. 

"The last of the blood, Mr. Monk, " he moaned, when Morris, hoarse-voicedand slow-worded, had convinced him of the details of the dreadful fact, "the last of the blood; and I left childless. At least you will feel forme and with me. _You_ will understand. "

It will be seen that although outside of some loose talk in the village, which indirectly had produced results so terrible, no one had eversuggested such a thing, curiously enough, by some intuitive process, Mr. Fregelius who, to a certain extent, at any rate, guessed his daughter'smind, took it for granted that she had been in love with Morris. Heseemed to know also by the same deductive process that he was attachedto her. 

"I do, indeed, " said Morris, with a sad smile, thinking that if onlythe clergyman could look into his heart he would perhaps be somewhatastonished at the depth of that understanding sympathy. 

"I told you, " went on Mr. Fregelius, "and you laughed at me, that it wasmost unlucky her having sung that hateful Norse song, the 'Greeting toDeath, ' when you found her upon the steamer Trondhjem. "

"Everything has been unlucky, Mr. Fregelius--or lucky, " he added beneathhis breath. "But you will like to know that she died singing it. Theaerophone told me that. "

"Mr. Monk, " the old man said, catching his arm, "my daughter was astrange woman, a very strange woman, and since I heard this dreadfulnews I have been afraid that perhaps she was--unhappy. She was leavingher home, on your account--yes, on your account, it's no use pretendingotherwise, although no one ever told me so--and--that she knew thechurch was going to be washed away. "

"She thought you might think so, " answered Morris, and he gavehim Stella's last message. Moreover, he told him more of the realcircumstances than he revealed to anybody else. He told him what nobodyelse ever knew, for on that lonely coast none had seen him enter orleave the place, how he had met her in the church--about the removal ofthe instruments, as he left it to be inferred--and at her wish had comehome alone because of the gossip which had arisen. He explained alsothat according to her own story, from some unexplained cause she hadfallen asleep in the church after his departure, and awakened to findherself surrounded by the waters with all hope gone. 

"And now she is dead, now she is dead, " groaned Mr. Fregelius, "and I amalone in the world. "

"I am sorry for you, " said Morris simply, "but there it is. It is no uselooking backward, we must look forward. "

"Yes, look forward, both of us, since she is hidden from both. You see, almost from the first I knew you were fond of her, " added the clergymansimply. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I am fond of her, though of that the less said thebetter, and because our case is the same I hope that we shall always befriends. "

"You are very kind; I shall need a friend now. I am alone now, quitealone, and my heart is broken. "

Here it may be added that Morris was even better than his word. Out ofthe wealth that came to him in such plenty, for instance, he was carefulto augment the old man's resources without offending his feelings, byadding permanently and largely to the endowment of the living. Also, heattended to his wants in many other ways which need not be enumerated, and not least by constantly visiting him. Many were the odd hours andthe evenings that shall be told of later, which they spent togethersmoking their pipes in the Rectory study, and talking of her who hadgone, and whose lost life was the strongest link between them. Otherwiseand elsewhere, except upon a few extraordinary occasions, her namerarely passed the lips of Morris. 

Yet within himself he mourned and mourned, although even in the firstbitterness not as one without hope. He knew that she had spoken truth;that she was not dead, but only for a while out of his sight andhearing. 

Ten days had passed, and for Morris ten weary, almost sleepless, nights. The tragedy of the destruction of the new rector's daughter in the ruinsof the Dead Church no longer occupied the tongues of men and paragraphsin papers. One day the sea gave up the hood of her brown ulster, thesame that Morris had been seen arranging by Stephen and Eliza Layard; itwas found upon the beach. After this even the local police admitted thatthe conjectures as to her end must be true, and, since for the lackof anything to hold it on there could be no inquest, the excitementdwindled and died. Nor indeed, as her father announced that he wasquite satisfied as to the circumstances of his daughter's death, wasany formal inquiry held concerning them. A few people, however, stillbelieved that she was not really drowned but had gone away secretly forunknown private reasons. The world remembers few people, even if theybe distinguished, for ten whole days. It has not time for suchlong-continued recollection of the dead, this world of the living whohurry on to join them. 

If this is the case with the illustrious, the wealthy and the powerful, how much more must it be so in the instance of an almost unknown girl, astranger in the land? Morris and her father remembered her, for shewas part of their lives and lived on with their lives. Stephen Layardmourned for the woman whom he had wished to marry--fiercely at first, with the sharp pain of disappointed passion; then intermittently; and atlast, after he was comfortably wedded to somebody else, with a mild andsentimental regret three or four times a year. Eliza, too, when onceconvinced that she was "really dead, " was "much shocked, " and talkedvaguely of the judgments and dispensations of Providence, as though thisvictim were pre-eminently deserving of its most stern decrees. It wasrumoured, however, among the observant that her Christian sorrow was, perhaps, tempered by a secret relief at the absence of a rival, who, asshe now admitted, sang extremely well and had beautiful eyes. 

The Colonel also thought of the guest whom the sea had given and takenaway, and with a real regret, for this girl's force, talents, andloveliness had touched and impressed him who had sufficient intellectand experience to know that she was a person cast in a rare and noblemould. But to Morris he never mentioned her name. No further confidencehad passed between them on the matter. Yet he knew that to his son thisname was holy. Therefore, being in some ways a wise man, he thought itwell to keep his lips shut and to let the dead bury their dead. 

By all the rest Stella Fregelius was soon as much forgotten as thoughshe had never walked the world or breathed its air. That gale had donemuch damage and taken away many lives--all down the coast was heard thevoice of mourning; hers chanced to be one of them, and there was nothingto be said. 

On the morning of the eleventh day came a telegram from Mary addressedto Morris, and dated from London. It was brief and to the point. "Cometo dinner with me at Seaview, and bring your father. --Mary. "

When Morris drove to Seaview that evening he was as a man is in a dream. Sorrow had done its work on him, agonising his nerves, till at lengththey seemed to be blunted as with a very excess of pain, much as thenerves of the victims of the Inquisition were sometimes blunted, tillat length they could scarcely feel the pincers bite or the irons burn. Always abstemious, also, for this last twelve days he had scarcelyswallowed enough food to support him, with the result that his bodyweakened and suffered with his mind. 

Then there was a third trouble to contend with, --the dull and gnawingsense of shame which seemed to eat into his heart. In actual fact, hehad been faithful enough to Mary, but in mind he was most unfaithful. How could he come to her, the woman who was to be his wife, the womanwho had dealt so well by him, with the memory of that spiritual marriageat the altar of the Dead Church still burning in his brain--thatmarriage which now was consecrated and immortalised by death? What hadhe to give her that was worth her taking? he, who if the truth wereknown, shrank from all idea of union with any earthly woman; who longedonly to be allowed to live out his time in a solitude as complete as hecould find or fashion? It was monstrous; it was shameful; and then andthere he determined that before ever he stood in Monksland church by theside of Mary Porson, at least he would tell her the truth, and giveher leave to choose. To his other sins against her deceit should not beadded. 

"Might I suggest, Morris, " said the Colonel, who as they drove, hadbeen watching his son's face furtively by the light of the broughamlamp--"might I suggest that, under all the circumstances, Mary wouldperhaps appreciate an air a little less reminiscent of funerals? You mayrecollect that several months have passed since you parted. "

"Yes, " said Morris, "and a great deal has happened in that time. "

"Of course, her father is dead. " The Colonel alluded to no other death. "Poor Porson! How painfully that beastly window in the dining-roomwill remind me of him! Come, here we are; pull yourself together, oldfellow. "

Morris obeyed as best he could, and presently found himself followingthe Colonel into the drawing-room, for once in his life, as hereflected, heartily glad to have the advantage of his parent's society. He could scarcely be expected to be very demonstrative and lover-likeunder the fire of that observant eyeglass. 

As they entered the drawing-room by one door, Mary, looking veryhandsome and imposing in a low black dress, which became her fair beautyadmirably, appeared at the other. Catching sight of Morris, she ran, or rather glided, forward with the graceful gait that was one of herdistinctions, and caught him by both hands, bending her face towards himin open and unmistakable invitation. 

In a moment it was over somehow, and she was saying:

"Morris, how thin you look, and there are great black lines under youreyes! Uncle, what have you been doing to him?"

"When I have had the pleasure of saying, How-do-you-do to you, my dear, "he replied in a somewhat offended voice--for the Colonel was not fondof being overlooked, even in favour of an interesting son--"I shall behappy to do my best to answer your question. "

"Oh! I am so sorry, " she said, advancing her forehead to be kissed; "butwe saw each other the other day, didn't we, and one can't embrace twopeople at once, and of course one must begin somewhere. But, why haveyou made him so thin?"

The Colonel surveyed Morris critically with his eyeglass. 

"Really, my dear Mary, " he replied, "I am not responsible for thevariations in my son's habit of body. " Then, as Morris turned awayirritably, he added in a stage whisper, "He's been a bit upset, poorfellow! He felt your father's death dreadfully. "

Mary winced a little, then, recovering her vivacity, said:

"Well, at any rate, uncle, I am glad to see that nothing of the sort hasaffected your health; I never saw you looking better. "

"Ah! my dear, as we grow older we learn resignation----"

"And how to look after ourselves, " thought Mary. 

At that moment dinner was announced, and she went in on Morris's arm, the Colonel gallantly insisting that it should be so. After this thingsprogressed a good deal better. The first plunge was over, and the coolrefreshing waters of Mary's conversation seemed to give back to Morris'ssystem some of the tone that it had lost. Also, when he thought fit touse it, he had a strong will, and he thought fit this night. Lastly, like many a man in a quandary before him, he discovered the strangeadvantages of a scientific but liberal absorption of champagne. Marynoticed this as she noticed everything, and said presently with her eyeswide open:

"Might I ask, my dear, if you are--ill? You are eating next to nothing, and that's your fourth large glass of champagne--you who never drankmore than two. Don't you remember how it used to vex my poor dad, because he said that it always meant half a bottle wasted, and atemptation to the cook?"

Morris laughed--he was able to laugh by now--and replied, as ithappened, with perfect truth, that he had an awful toothache. 

"Then everything is explained, " said Mary. "Did you ever see me witha toothache? Well, I should advise you not, for it would be our lastinterview. I will paint it for you after dinner with pure carbolic acid;it's splendid, that is if you don't drop any on the patient's tongue. "

Morris answered that he would stick to champagne. Then Mary began tonarrate her experiences in the convent in a fashion so funny that theColonel could scarcely control his laughter, and even Morris, toothache, heartache, and all, was genuinely amused. 

"Imagine, my dear Morris, " she said, "you know the time I get down tobreakfast. Or perhaps you don't. It's one of those things which I havebeen careful to conceal from you, but you will one day, and I believethat over it our matrimonial happiness may be wrecked. Well, at whathour do you think I found myself expected to be up in that convent?"

"Seven, " suggested Morris. 

"At seven! At a quarter to five, if you please! At a quarter to fiveevery morning did some wretched person come and ring a dinner-belloutside my door. And it was no use going to sleep again, not the least, for at half-past five two hideous old lay-sisters arrived with bucketsof water--they have a perfect passion for cleanliness--and began toscrub out the cell whether you were in bed or whether you weren't. "

Then she rattled on to other experiences, trivial enough in themselves, but so entertaining when touched and lightened with her native humour, that very soon the evening had worn itself pleasantly away without asingle sad or untoward word. 

"Good night, dear!" said Mary to Morris, who this time managed toembrace her with becoming warmth; "you will come and see me to-morrow, won't you--no, not in the morning. Remember I have been getting up ata quarter to five for a month, and I am trying to equalise matters; butafter luncheon. Then we will sit before a good fire, and have a talk, for the weather is so delightfully bad that I am sure I shan't be forcedto take exercise. "

"Very well, at three o'clock, " said Morris, when the Colonel, who hadbeen reflecting to himself, broke in. 

"Look here, my dear, you must be down to lunch, or if you are not youought to be; so, as I want to have a chat with you about some of yourpoor father's affairs, and am engaged for the rest of the day, I willcome over then if you will allow me. "

"Certainly, uncle, if you like; but wouldn't Morris do instead--asrepresenting me, I mean?"

"Yes, " he answered; "when you are married he will do perfectly well, but until that happy event I am afraid that I must take your personalopinion. "

"Oh! very well, " said Mary with a sigh; "I will expect you at a quarterpast one. "

CHAPTER XVIII

TWO EXPLANATIONS

Accordingly, at a quarter past one on the following day the Colonelarrived at Seaview, went in to lunch with Mary, and made himself veryamusing and agreeable about the domestic complications of his oldfriend, Lady Rawlins and her objectionable husband, and other kindredtopics. Then, adroitly enough, he changed the conversation to thesubject of the great gale, and when he talked of it awhile, saidsuddenly:

"I suppose that you have heard of the dreadful thing that happenedhere?"

"What dreadful thing?" asked Mary. "I have heard nothing; you mustremember that I have been in a convent where one does not see theEnglish papers. "

"The death of Stella Fregelius, " said the Colonel sadly. 

"What! the daughter of the new rector--the young lady whom Morris tookoff the wreck, and whom I have been longing to ask him about, only Iforgot 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 whenit was swept away, and now lies beneath its ruins in four fathoms ofwater. "

"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 thatis why he is so dreadfully cut up. You see she helped him to carry onhis experiments with that machine, she sitting in the church and he athome in the Abbey, with a couple of miles of coast and water betweenthem. Well, you are a woman of the world, my dear, and you must knowthat all this sort of thing means a great deal more intimacy than isdesirable. How far that intimacy went I do not know, and I do not careto inquire, though for my part I believe that it was a very little wayindeed. Still, Eliza Layard got hold of some cock and bull tale, and youcan 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 ofthe ulster and the dog-cart, adding that he believed it to be entirelyuntrue. 

As Mary made no comment he went on: "I forgot to say that Miss Fregeliusseems to have refused to marry Stephen Layard, who fell violently inlove 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 givea 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 daughterrather indiscreetly, whereon she waylaid me as I was walking on thesands and informed me that she had made up her mind to leave this placefor London, where she intended to earn her own living by singing andplaying 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 everheard. "

"She seems to have been a very attractive young woman, " said Mary, inthe same quiet, contemplative voice. 

"I think, " went on the Colonel, "take her all in all, she was about themost 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 youif you had seen those eyes of hers. "

"I remember, " broke in Mary, "that old Mr. Tomley, after he returnedfrom inspecting the Northumberland living, spoke about Miss Fregelius'swonderful eyes--at the dinner-party, you know, on the night when Morrisproposed to me, " and she shivered a little as though she had turnedsuddenly cold. 

"Well, let me go on with my story. After she had told me this, and Ihad promised to help her with introductions--exactly why or how Iforget--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 inall my long experience--the poor thing turned white as a sheet, andwould have fallen if I had not caught hold of her. When she came toherself a little, she admitted frankly that this was her case, butadded--of which, of course, one may believe as much as one likes, thatshe had never known it until I asked the question. "

"I think that quite possible, " said Mary; "and really, uncle, to me yourcross-examination seems to have been slightly indiscreet. "

"Possibly, my dear, very possibly; even Solomon might be excused foroccasionally making a mistake where the mysterious articles which youngladies call their hearts are concerned. I tell what happened, that isall. Shall I go on?"

"If you please. "

"Well, after this she announced that she meant to see Morris once to saygood-bye to him before she went to London, and left me. Practically thenext 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 herin the Dead Church--for I gather there was an interview though nobodyknows about it, and that's where they met--she fell asleep, whichsounds an odd thing to do in the midst of such a gale as was raging onChristmas Eve, and so was overwhelmed. But who can say? Impressionableand unhappy women have done such deeds before now, especially if theyimagine themselves to have become the object of gossip. Of course, also, the mere possibility of such a thing having happened on his accountwould be, and indeed has been, enough to drive a man like Morris crazywith grief and remorse. "

"What had he to be remorseful for?" asked Mary. "If a young womanchanced to fall in love with him, why should he be blamed, or blamehimself for that? After all, people's affections are in their ownkeeping. "

"I imagine--very little, if anything. At least, I know this, that whenI spoke to him about the matter after my talk with her, I gathered fromwhat he said that there was absolutely nothing between them. To be quitefrank, however, as I have tried to be with you, my dear, throughoutthis conversation, I also gathered that this young lady had produced acertain effect upon his mind, or at least that the knowledge that shehad 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, afterwardsI believe, although I have asked no questions and am not sure of it, hewent and said good-bye to her in this church, at her request. Then thisdreadful 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 theyreached 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 ofcomplaint against him, I hope that you will see your way to beinglenient 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 avery remarkable person; if you could have heard her sing, for instance, you would have said so yourself. It is a humiliating confession, butI doubt whether one young man out of a hundred, single, engaged, ormarried, could have resisted being attracted by her to just such anextent as she pleased, especially if he were flattered by the knowledgethat she was genuinely attracted by himself. "

Mary made no answer. 

"Didn't you say you had some documents you wanted me to sign?" she askedpresently. 

"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 yourco-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 gravecountenance, "just now Morris is in a state in which I do not care toleave more of this important business in his hands than is necessary. "

"What am I to understand by that, uncle?" she said, looking at himshrewdly. "Do you mean that he is--not quite well?"

"Yes, Mary, I mean that--he is not quite well; that is, if myobservation 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 thismiserable affair that for my part I wouldn't put any confidence in whathe says about it, or about anything else. The thing has got upon hisnerves and rendered him temporarily unfit for the business of ordinarylife. You know that at the best of times he is a very peculiar man andnot 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 wehave been talking about, may I not? but I thought it as well to let youknow 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 saidto herself:

"He thinks Morris is a little off his head, and has come here to warnme. 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, poorthing. Well, shadows melt, and the dead do not come back. She seems tohave been very charming and clever, and I daresay that she fascinatedhim for a while, but with kindness and patience it will all comeright. Only I do hope that he will not insist upon making me too manyconfidences. "

So thought Mary, who by nature was forgiving, gentle, and an optimist;not guessing how sorely her patience as an affianced wife, and hercharity 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 theColonel had prospered somewhat beyond its deserts. The departed cannotexplain or defend themselves, and Morris's possible indiscretionsalready stood discounted in the only quarter where they might do harm. 

Half an hour later Mary, sitting beside the fire with her toes upon thegrate 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 shakehimself together. 

"Here you are at last, " she said, cheerfully, as he bent down to kissher, "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?" hesaid somewhat nervously. 

"Yes, dear, and telling me all the news, and a sad budget it seems tobe; about the dreadful disasters of the great gale and the death of thatpoor girl who was staying with you, Miss Fregelius. "

At the mention of this name Morris's face contorted itself, as theface of a man might do who was seized with a sudden pang of sharp andunexpected agony. 

"Mary, " he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, "I have a confession tomake to you, and I must make it--about this dead woman, I mean. I willnot sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and thenjudge. "

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

"I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was knownonly to me and her. "

Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary'seyes. 

"What am I to understand?" she said in a low voice--and she looked aquestion. 

"Oh, no!" he answered with a faint smile; "nothing at all----"

"Not that you have been embracing her, for instance? That, I understand, is Eliza Layard's story. "

"No, no; I never did such a thing in my life. "

A little sigh of relief broke from Mary's lips. At the worst this wasbut an affair of sentiment. 

"I think, dear" she said in her ordinary slow voice, "that you hadbetter set out the trouble in your own words, with as few detailsas possible, or none at all. Such things are painful, are theynot--especially where the dead are concerned?"

Morris bowed his head and began: "You know I found her on the ship, singing as she only could sing, and she was a very strange and beautifulwoman--perhaps beautiful is not the word--"

"It will do, " interrupted Mary; "at any rate, you thought herbeautiful. "

"Then afterwards we grew intimate, very intimate, without knowing it, almost--indeed, I am not sure that we should ever have known it had itnot been for the mischief-making of Eliza Layard----"

"May she be rewarded, " ejaculated Mary. 

"Well, and after she--that is, Eliza Layard--had spoken to my father, heattacked Mr. Fregelius, his daughter, and myself, and it seems that sheconfessed to my father that she was--was----"

"In love with you--not altogether unnatural, perhaps, from my point ofview; though, of course, she oughtn't to have been so. "

"Yes, and said that she was going away and--on Christmas Eve we metthere in the Dead Church. Then somehow--for I had no intention of sucha thing--all the truth came out, and I found that I was no longer masterof myself, and--God forgive me! and you, Mary, forgive me, too--that Iloved her also. "

"And afterwards?" said Mary, moving her skirts a little. 

"And afterwards--oh! it will sound strange to you--we made some kind ofcompact for the next world, a sort of spiritual marriage; I can call itnothing else. Then I shook hands with her and went away, and in afew hours she was dead--dead. But the compact stands, Mary; yes, thatcompact stands for ever. "

"A compact of a spiritual marriage in a place where there is nomarriage. Do you mean, Morris, that you wish this strange proceeding todestroy your physical and earthly engagement to myself?"

"No, no; nor did she wish it; she said so. But you must judge. I feelthat I have done you a dreadful wrong, and I was determined that youshould know the worst. "

"That was very good of you, " Mary said, reflectively, "for really thereis no reason why you should have told me this peculiar story. Morris, you have been working pretty hard lately, have you not?"

"Yes, " he replied, absently, "I suppose I have. "

"Was this young lady what is called a mystic?"

"Perhaps. Danish people often are. At any rate, she saw things moreclearly than most. I mean that the future was nearer to her mind; and ina sense, the past also. "

"Indeed. You must have found her a congenial companion. I suppose thatyou talked a good deal of these things?"

"Sometimes we did. "

"And discovered that your views were curiously alike? For when onemystic meets another mystic, and the other mystic has beautiful eyes andsings divinely, the spiritual marriage will follow almost as a matterof course. What else is to be expected? But I am glad that you werefaithful to your principles, both of you, and clung fast to the etherealside of things. "

Morris writhed beneath this satire, but finding no convenient answer toit, made none. 

"Do you remember, my dear?" went on Mary, "the conversation we had oneday in your workshop before we were engaged--that's years ago, isn'tit--about star-gazing considered as a fine art?"

"I remember something, " he said. 

"That I told you, for instance, that it might be better if you paid alittle more attention to matters physical, lest otherwise you should goon praying for vision till you could see, and for power until you couldcreate?"

Morris nodded. 

"Well, and I think I said--didn't I? that if you insisted upon followingthese spiritual exercises, the result might be that they would returnupon you in some concrete shape, and take possession of you, and leadyou into company and surroundings which most of us think it wholesome toavoid. "

"Yes, you said something like that. "

"It wasn't a bad bit of prophecy, was it?" went on Mary, rubbing herchin reflectively, "and you see his Satanic Majesty knew very wellhow to bring about its fulfilment. Mystical, lovely, and a wonderfulmistress of music, which you adore; really, one would think that thebait must have been specially selected. "

Crushed though he was, Morris's temper began to rise beneath the lashof Mary's sarcasm. He knew, however, that it was her method of showingjealousy and displeasure, both of them perfectly natural, and did hisbest to restrain himself. 

"I do not quite understand you, " he said. "Also, you are unjust to her. "

"Not at all. I daresay that in herself she was what you think her, aperfect angel; indeed, the descriptions that I have heard from yourfather and yourself leave no doubt of it in my mind. But even angelshave been put to bad purposes; perhaps their innocence makes it possibleto take advantage of them----"

He opened his lips to speak, but she held up her hand and went on:

"You mustn't think me unsympathetic because I put things as they appearto my very mundane mind. Look here, Morris, it just comes to this: Ifthis exceedingly attractive young lady had made love to you, or hadinduced you to make love to her, so that you ran away with her, oranything else, of course you would have behaved badly and cruelly to me, but at least your conduct would be natural, and to be explained. We allknow that men do this kind of thing, and women too, for the matter ofthat, under the influence of passion--and are often very sorry for itafterwards. But she didn't do this; she took you on your weak side, which she understood thoroughly--probably because it was her own weakside--and out-Heroded Herod, or, rather, out-mysticised the mystic, finishing up with some spiritual marriage, which, if it is anything atall, is impious. What right have we to make bargains for the Beyond, about which we know nothing?"

"She did know something, " said Morris, with a sullen conviction. 

"You think she did because you were reduced to a state of mind in which, if she had told you that the sun goes round the earth, you would quitereadily have believed her. My dearest Morris, that way madness lies. Perhaps you understand now what I have been driving at, and the bestproof of the absurdity of the whole thing is that I, stupid as I am, from my intimate knowledge of your character since childhood, was ableto predict that something of this sort would certainly happen to you. You will admit that is a little odd, won't you?"

"Yes, it's odd; or, perhaps, it shows that you have more of the innersight than you know. But there were circumstances about the story whichyou would find difficult to explain. "

"Not in the least. In your own answer lies the explanation--yourtendency to twist things. I prophesy certain developments from myknowledge of your character, whereupon you at once credit me with secondsight, which is absurd. "

"I don't see the analogy, " said Morris. 

"Don't you? I do. All this soul business is just a love affair gonewrong. If circumstances had been a little different--if, for instance, there had been no Mary Porson--I doubt whether anybody would have heardmuch about spiritual marriages. Somehow I think that things would havesettled down into a more usual groove. "

Morris did not attempt to answer. He felt that Mary held all the cards, and, not unnaturally, was in a mood to play them. Moreover, it wasdesecration to him to discuss Stella's most secret beliefs with anyother woman, and especially with Mary. Their points of view wereabsolutely and radically different. The conflict was a conflict betweenthe natural and the spiritual law; or, in other words, between hard, brutal facts and theories as impalpable as the perfume of a flower, or the sound waves that stirred his aerophone. Moreover, he could seeclearly that Mary's interpretation of this story was simple; namely, that he had fallen into temptation, and that the shock of his partingfrom the lady concerned, followed by her sudden and violent death, had bred illusions in his mind. In short, that he was slightly crazy;therefore, to be well scolded, pitied, and looked after rather thansincerely blamed. The position was scarcely heroic, or one that any manwould choose to fill; still, he felt that it had its conveniences; that, at any rate, it must be accepted. 

"All these questions are very much a matter of opinion, " he said; thenadded, unconsciously reflecting one of Stella's sayings, "and I daresaythat the truth is for each of us exactly what each of us imagines it tobe. "

"I was always taught that the truth is the truth, quite irrespective ofour vague and often silly imaginings; the difficulty being to find outexactly what it is. "

"Perhaps, " answered Morris, declining argument which is always uselessbetween people are are determined not to sympathise with each other'sviews. "I knew that you would think my story foolish. I should neverhave troubled you with it, had I not felt it to be my duty, fornaturally the telling of such a tale puts a man in a ridiculous light. "

"I don't think you ridiculous, Morris; I think that you are sufferingslightly from shock, that is all. What I say is that I detest all thisspiritual hocus-pocus to which you have always had a leaning. I fear andhate it instinctively, as some people hate cats, because I know that itbreeds mischief, and that, as I said before, people who go on trying tosee, do see, or fancy that they do. While we are in the world let theworld and its limitations be enough for us. When we go out of the world, then the supernatural may become the natural, and cease to be hurtfuland alarming. "

"Yes, " said Morris, "those are very good rules. Well, Mary, I have toldyou the history of this sad adventure of which the book is now closed bydeath, and I can only say that I am humiliated. If anybody had saidto me six months ago that I should have to come to you with such aconfession, I should have answered that he was a liar. But now yousee----"

"Yes, " repeated Mary, "I see. "

"Then will you give me your answer? For you must judge; I have told youthat you must judge. "

"Judge not, that ye be not judged, " answered Mary. "Who am I that Ishould pass sentence on your failings? Goodness knows that I have plentyof my own; if you don't believe me, go and ask the nuns at that convent. Whatever were the rights and wrongs of it, the thing is finished anddone with, and nobody can be more sorry for that unfortunate girl thanI am. Also I think that you have behaved very well in coming to tell meabout your trouble; but then that is like you, Morris, for you couldn'tbe deceitful, however hard you might try. 

"So, dear, with your leave, we will say no more about Stella Fregeliusand her spiritual views. When I engaged myself to you, as I told youat the time, I did so with my eyes open, for better or for worse, andunless you tell me right out that you don't want me, I have no intentionof changing my mind, especially as you need looking after, and are notlikely to come across another Stella. 

"There, I haven't talked so much for months; I am quite tired, andwish to forget about all these disagreeables. I am afraid I have spokensharply, but if so you must make allowances, for such stories are aptto sour the sweetest-tempered women--for half an hour. If I haveseemed bitter and cross, dear, it is because I love you better than anycreature in the world, and can't bear to think----So you must forgiveme. Do you, Morris?"

"Forgive! _I_ forgive!" he stammered overwhelmed. 

"There, " she said again, very softly, stretching out her arms, "come andgive me a kiss, and let us change the subject once and for ever. Iwant to tell you about my poor father; he left some messages for you, Morris. "

CHAPTER XIX

MORRIS, THE MARRIED MAN

More than three years had gone by. Within twelve weeks of the dateof the conversation recorded in the last chapter Morris and Mary weremarried in Monksland church. Although the wedding was what is called"quiet" on account of the recent death of the bride's father, theColonel, who gave her away, was careful that it should be distinguishedby a certain stamp of modest dignity, which he considered to be fittingto the station and fortune of the parties. To him, indeed, this unionwas the cause of heartfelt and earnest rejoicings, which is not strange, seeing that it meant nothing less than a new lease of life to an ancientfamily that was on the verge of disappearance. Had Morris not marriedthe race would have become extinct, at any rate in the direct line;and had he married where there was no money, it might, as his fatherthought, become bankrupt, which in his view was almost worse. 

The one terror which had haunted the Colonel for years like a persistentnightmare was that a day seemed to be at hand when the Monks would bedriven from Monksland, where, from sire to son, they had sat for so manygenerations. That day had nearly come when he was a young man; indeed, it was only averted by his marriage with the somewhat humbly born MissPorson, who brought with her sufficient dowry to enable him to pay offthe major portion of the mortgages which then crippled the estate. Butat that time agriculture flourished, and the rents from the propertywere considerable; moreover, the Colonel was never of a frugal turn ofmind. So it came about that every farthing was spent. 

Afterwards followed a period of falling revenues and unlet farms. Butstill the expenses went on, with the result, as the reader knows, thatat the opening of this history things were worse than they had everbeen, and indeed, without the help received from Mr. Porson, must erethat have reached their natural end. Now the marriage of his son with awealthy heiress set a period to all such anxiety, and unless the coupleshould be disappointed of issue, made it as certain as anything can bein this mutable world, that for some generations to come, at any rate, the name of Monk of Monksland would still appear in the handbooks ofcounty families. 

In the event these fears proved to be groundless, since by an unexpectedturn of the wheel of chance Morris became a rich man in reward of hisown exertions, and was thus made quite independent of his wife's largefortune. This, however, was a circumstance which the Colonel could notbe expected to foresee, for how could he believe that an electricalinvention which he looked upon as a mere scientific toy would ultimatelybring its author not only fame, but an income of many thousands perannum? Yet this happened. 

Other things happened also which, under the circumstances, were quiteas satisfactory, seeing that within two years of his marriage Morris wasthe father of a son and daughter, so that the old Abbey, where, by theespecial request of the Colonel, they had established themselves, oncemore echoed to the voices of little children. 

In those days, if anyone among his acquaintances had been asked to pointout an individual as prosperous and happy as, under the most favouredcircumstances, it is given to a mortal to be, he would unhesitatinglyhave named Morris Monk. 

What was there lacking to this man? He had lineage that in his ownneighbourhood gave him standing better than that of many an upstartbaronet or knight, and with it health and wealth. He had a wife who wasacknowledged universally to be one of the most beautiful, charming, andwitty women in the county, whose devotion to himself was so marked andopen that it became a public jest; who had, moreover, presented him withhealthy and promising offspring. In addition to all these good thingshe had suddenly become in his own line one of the most famous personsin the world, so that, wherever civilized man was to be found, therehis name was known as "Monk, who invented that marvellous machine, theaerophone. " Lastly, there was no more need for him, as for most ofus, to stagger down his road beneath a never lessening burden of dailylabour. His work was done; a great conception completed after half ascore of years of toil and experiment had crowned it with unquestionablesuccess. Now he could sit at ease and watch the struggles of others lessfortunate. 

There are, however, few men on the right side of sixty whose souls growhealthier in idleness. Although nature often recoils from it, man wasmade to work, and he who will not work calls down upon himself somecurse, visible or invisible, as he who works, although the toil seemwasted, wakes up one day to find the arid wilderness where he wandersstrown with a manna of blessing. This should be the prayer of all ofunderstanding, that whatever else it may please Heaven to take away, there may be left to them the power and the will to work, throughdisappointment, through rebuffs, through utter failure even, still towork. Many things for which they are or are not wholly responsible arecounted to men as sins. Surely, however, few will press more heavilyupon the beam of the balance, when at length we are commanded to unfoldthe talents which we have been given and earned, than those fatefulwords: "Lord, mine lies buried in its napkin, " or worse still: "Lord, Ihave spent mine on the idle pleasures which my body loved. "

Therefore it was not to the true welfare of Morris when through lack offurther ambition, or rather of the sting of that spur of necessity whichdrives most men on, he rested upon his oars, and in practice abandonedhis labours, drifting down the tide. No man of high intelligence andacquisitive brain can toil arduously for a period of years and suddenlycease from troubling to find himself, as he expects, at rest. For theninto the swept and garnished chambers of that empty mind enter sevenor more blue devils. Depression marks him for its own; melancholyforebodings haunt him; remorse for past misdeeds long repented of ishis daily companion. With these Erinnyes, more felt perhaps than any ofthem, comes the devastating sense that he is thwarting the best instinctof his own nature and the divine command to labour while there is stilllight, because the night draws on apace in which no man can labour. 

Mary was fond of society, in which she liked to be accompanied by herhusband, so Morris, whose one great anxiety was to please his wifeand fall in with her every wish, went to a great many parties which hehated. Mary liked change also, so it came about that three months in theseason were spent in London, where they had purchased a house in GreenStreet that was much frequented by the Colonel, and another two, orsometimes three, months at the villa on the Riviera, which Mary was veryfond of on account of its associations with her parents. 

Also in the summer and shooting seasons, when they were at home, the oldAbbey was kept full of guests; for we may be sure that people so richand distinguished did not lack for friends, and Mary made the very bestof hostesses. 

Thus it happened that except at the seasons when his wife retired underthe pressure of domestic occurrences, Morris found that he had butlittle time left in which to be quiet; that his life in short was nolonger the life of a worker, but that of a commonplace country gentlemanof wealth and fashion. 

Now it was Mary who had brought these things about, and by design; forshe was not a woman to act without reasons and an object. It is truethat she liked a gay and pleasant life, for gaiety and pleasure wereagreeable to her easy and somewhat indolent mind, also they gave heropportunities of exercising her faculties of observation, which wereconsiderable. 

But Mary was far fonder of her husband than of those and other vanities;indeed, her affection for him shone the guiding star of her existence. From her childhood she had been devoted to this cousin, who, since herearliest days, had been her playmate, and at heart had wished to marryhim, and no one else. Then he began his experiments, and drifted quiteaway from her. Afterwards things changed, and they became engaged. Againthe experiments were carried on, with the aid of another woman, andagain he drifted away from her; also the drifting in this instance wasattended by serious and painful complications. 

Now the complications had ceased to exist; they threatened her happinessno more. Indeed, had they been much worse than they were she would haveoverlooked them, being altogether convinced of the truth of the oldadage which points out the folly of cutting off one's nose to spiteone's face. Whatever his failings or shortcomings, Morris was her joy, the human being in whose company she delighted; without whom, indeed, her life would be flat, stale, and unprofitable. The stronger then washer determination that he should not slip back into his former courses;those courses which in the end had always brought about estrangementfrom herself. 

Inventions, the details of which she could not understand, meant, asshe knew well, long days and weeks of solitary brooding; thereforeinventions, and, indeed, all unnecessary work, were in his case to bediscouraged. Such solitary brooding also drew from the mind of Morrisa vague mist of thought about matters esoteric which, to Mary's belief, had the properties of a miasma that crept like poison through his being. She wished for no more star-gazing, no more mysticism, and, above all, no more memories of the interloping woman who, in his company, hadstudied its doubtful and dangerous delights. 

Although since the day of Morris's confession Mary had never evenmentioned the name of Stella to him, she by no means forgot that sucha person once existed. Indeed, carelessly and without seeming to beanxious on the subject, she informed herself about her down to thelast possible detail; so that within a few months of the death of MissFregelius she knew, as she thought, everything that could be known ofher life at Monksland. Moreover, she saw three different pictures ofher: one a somewhat prim photograph which Mr. Fregelius, her father, possessed, taken when she was about twenty; another, a coloured drawingmade by Morris--who was rather clever at catching likenesses--of her asshe appeared singing in the chapel on the night when she had drawn thepage-boy, Thomas, from his slumbers; and the third, also a photograph, taken by some local amateur, of her and Morris standing together on thebeach and engaged evidently in eager discussion. 

From these three pictures, and especially from Morris's sketch, whichshowed the spiritual light shining in her eyes, and her face rapt, asit were, in a very ecstasy of music, Mary was able to fashion with somecertainty the likeness of the living woman. The more she studied thisthe more she found it formidable, and the more she understood how itcame about that her husband had fallen into folly. Also, she learnedto understand that there might be greater weight and meaning in hisconfession than she had been inclined to allow to it at the time; that, at any rate, its extravagances ought not to be set down entirely, asher father-in-law had suggested with such extreme cleverness, to thevagaries of a mind suffering from sudden shock and alarm. 

All these conclusions made Mary anxious, by wrapping her husband roundwith common domestic cares and a web of daily, social incident, tobury the memory of this Stella beneath ever-thickening strata offorgetfulness; not that in themselves these reminiscences, howeverhallowed, could do her any further actual harm; but because the train ofthought evoked thereby was, as she conceived, morbid, and dangerous tothe balance of his mind. 

The plan seemed wise and good, and, in the case of most men, probablywould have succeeded. Yet in Morris's instance from the commencementit was a failure. She had begun by making his story and ideas, absurdenough on the face of them, an object of somewhat acute sarcasm, ifnot of ridicule. This was a mistake, since thereby she caused him tosuppress every outward evidence of them; to lock them away in the mostsecret recesses of his heart. If the lid of a caldron full of fluid isscrewed down while a fire continues to burn beneath it, the steam whichotherwise would have passed away harmlessly, gathers and struggles tillthe moment of inevitable catastrophe. The fact that for a while thecaldron remains inert and the steam invisible is no indication ofsafety. To attain safety in such a case either the fire must be rakedout or the fluid tapped. Mary had screwed down the lid of her domesticcaldron, but the flame still burned beneath, and the water still boiledwithin. 

This was her first error, and the second proved almost as mischievous. She thought to divert Morris from a central idea by a multitude ofpetty counter-attractions; she believed that by stopping him from thescientific labours and esoteric speculation connected with this idea, that it would be deadened and in time obliterated. 

As a matter of fact, by thus emptying his mind of its serious andaccustomed occupations, Mary made room for the very development shedreaded to flourish like an upas tree. For although he breathed no wordof it, although he showed no sign of it, to Morris the memory of thedead was a constant companion. Time heals all things, that is the commonsaying; but would it be possible to formulate any fallacy more complete?There are many wounds that time does not heal, and often enough againstthe dead it has no power at all--for how can time compete against theeternity of which they have become a part? The love of them where theyhave been truly loved, remains quite unaltered; in some instances, indeed, it is emdued with a power of terrible and amazing growth. 

On earth, very probably, that deep affection would have become subjectto the natural influences of weakening and decay; and, in the instanceof a man and woman, the soul-possessing passion might have passed, tobe replaced by a more moderate, custom-worn affection. But the dead arebeyond the reach of those mouldering fingers. There they stand, perfectand unalterable, with arms which never cease from beckoning, with asmile that never grows less sweet. Come storm, come shine, nothing cantarnish the pure and gleaming robes in which our vision clothes them. Weknow the worst of them; their faults and failings cannot vex us afresh, their errors are all forgiven. It is their best part only that remainsunrealised and unread, their purest aspirations which we follow withleaden wings, their deepest thoughts that we still strive to plumb withthe short line of our imagination or experience, and to weigh in ourimperfect balances. 

Yes, there they stand, and smile, and beckon, while ever more radiantgrow their brows, and more to be desired the knowledge of their perfectmajesty. There is no human passion like this passion for the dead;none so awful, none so holy, none so changeless. For they have becomeeternal, and our desire for them is sealed with the stamp of theireternity, and strengthens in the shadow of its wings till the shadowsflee away and we pass to greet them in the dawn of the immortal morning. 

Yes, within the secret breast of Morris the flame of memory stillburned, and still seethed those bitter waters of desire for the dead. There was nothing carnal about this desire, since the passions of theflesh perish with the flesh. Nor was there anything of what a man mayfeel when he sees the woman whom he loves and who loves him, forced toanother fate, for to those he robs death has this advantage over thecase of other successful rivals: his embrace purifies, and of it we arenot jealous. The longing was spiritual, and for this reason it did notweaken, but, indeed, became a part of him, to grow with the spirit fromwhich it took its birth. Still, had it not been for a chance occurrence, there, in the spirit, it might have remained buried, in due course topass away with it and seek its expression in unknown conditions andregions unexplored. 

In a certain fashion Morris was happy enough. He was very fond of hiswife, and he adored his little children as men of tender nature do adorethose that are helpless, and for whose existence they are responsible. He appreciated his public reputation, his wealth, and the luxury thatlapped him round, and above all he was glad to have been the means ofrestoring, and, indeed, of advancing the fortunes of his family. 

Moreover, as has been said, above all things he desired to please Mary, the lovely, amiable woman who had complimented him with her unvaryingaffection; and--when he went astray--who, with scarcely a reproach, hadled him back into its gentle fold. Least of all, therefore, was it hiswill to flaunt before her eyes the spectre from a past which she wishedto forget, or even to let her guess that such a past still permeatedhis present. Therefore, on this subject settled the silence of the dead, till at length Mary, observant as she was, became well-nigh convincedthat Stella Fregelius was forgotten, and that her fantastic promiseswere disproved. Yet no mistake could have been more profound. 

It was Morris's habit, whenever he could secure an evening to himself, which was not very often, to walk to the Rectory and smoke his pipe inthe company of Mr. Fregelius. Had Mary chanced to be invisibly present, or to peruse a stenographic report of what passed at one of theseevening calls--whereof, for reasons which she suppressed, she did notentirely approve--she might have found sufficient cause to vary heropinion. On these occasions ostensibly Morris went to talk about parishaffairs, and, indeed, to a certain extent he did talk about them. Forinstance, Stella who had been so fond of music, once described to himthe organ which she would like to have in the fine old parish churchof Monksland. Now that renovated instrument stood there, and was theadmiration of the country-side, as it well might be in view of the factthat it had cost over four thousand pounds. 

Again, Mr. Fregelius wished to erect a monument to his daughter, which, as her body never had been found, could properly be placed in thechancel of the church. Morris entered heartily into the idea andundertook to spend the hundred pounds which the old gentleman had savedfor this purpose on his account and to the best advantage. In affect hedid spend it to excellent advantage, as Mr. Fregelius admitted when themonument arrived. 

It was a lovely thing, executed by one of the first sculptors of theday, in white marble upon a black stone bed, and represented the mortalshape of Stella. There she lay to the very life, wrapped in a whiterobe, portrayed as a sleeper awakening from the last sleep of death, hereyes wide and wondering, and on her face that rapt look which Morris hadcaught in his sketch of her, singing in the chapel. At the edge of thebase of this remarkable effigy, set flush on the black marble in lettersof plain copper was her name--Stella Fregelius--with the date of herdeath. On one side appeared the text that she had quoted, "O death, where is thy sting?" and on the other its continuation, "O grave, whereis thy victory?" and at the foot part of a verse from the forty-secondpsalm: "Deep calleth unto deep. . . . All Thy waves and storms have goneover me. "

Like the organ, this monument, which stood in the chancel, was muchadmired by everybody, except Mary, who found it rather theatrical;and, indeed, when nobody was looking, surveyed it with a gloomy and adoubtful eye. 

That Morris had something to do with the thing she was quite certain, since she knew well that Mr. Fregelius would never have invented anymemorial so beautiful and full of symbolism; also she doubted hisability to pay for a piece of statuary which must have cost manyhundreds of pounds. A third reason, which seemed to her conclusive, was that the face on the statue was the very face of Morris's drawing, although, of course, it was possible that Mr. Fregelius might haveborrowed the sketch for the use of the sculptor. But of all this, although it disturbed her, occurring as it did just when she hoped thatStella was beginning to be forgotten, she spoke not a word to Morris. "Least said, soonest mended, " is a good if a homely motto, or so thoughtMary. 

The monument had been in place a year, but whenever he was at homeMorris's visits to Mr. Fregelius did not grow fewer. Indeed, his wifenoticed that, if anything, they increased in number, which, as the organwas now finished down to the last allegorical carvings of its case, seemed remarkable and unnecessary. Of course, the fact was that on theseoccasions the conversation invariably centred on one subject, and thatsubject, Stella. Considered in certain aspects, it must have been apiteous thing to see and hear these two men, each of them bereavedof one who to them above all others had been the nearest and dearest, trying to assuage their grief by mutual consolations. Morris had nevertold Mr. Fregelius all the depth of his attachment to his daughter, atleast, not in actual, unmistakable words, although, as has been said, from the first her father took it for granted, and Morris, tacitly atany rate, had accepted the conclusion. Indeed, very soon he found thatno other subject had such charms for his guest; that of Stella he mighttalk for ever without the least fear that Morris would be weary. 

So the poor, childless, unfriended old man put aside the reserve andtimidity which clothed him like a garment, and talked on into thosesympathetic ears, knowing well, however--for the freemasonry of theircommon love taught it to him--that in the presence of a third personher name, no allusion to her, even, must pass his lips. In short, theseconversations grew at length into a kind of seance or solemn rite; ajoint offering to the dead of the best that they had to give, theirtenderest thoughts and memories, made in solemn secrecy and withuplifted hearts and minds. 

Mr. Fregelius was an historian, and possessed some interesting records, upon which it was his habit to descant. Amongst other things heinstructed Morris in the annals of Stella's ancestry upon both sides, which, as it happened, could be traced back for many generations. Inthese discourses it grew plain to his listener whence had sprung certainof her qualities, such as her fearless attitude towards death, and hertendency towards mysticism. Here in these musty chronicles, far back inthe times when those of whom they kept record were half, if not wholly, heathen, these same qualities could be discovered among her forbears. 

Indeed, there was one woman of whom the saga told, a certain ancestressnamed Saevuna, whereof it is written "that she was of all women the veryfairest, and that she drew the hearts of men with her wonderful eyes asthe moon draws mists from a marsh, " who, in some ways, might have beenStella herself, Stella unchristianized and savage. 

This Saevuna's husband rebelled against the king of his country, and, being captured, was doomed to a shameful death by hanging as a traitor. Thereon, under pretence of bidding him farewell, she administered poisonto him, partaking of the same herself; "and, " continues the saga, "theyboth of them, until their pains overcame them, died singing a certainancient song which had descended in the family of one of them, and iscalled the Song of the Over-Lord, or the Offering to Death. This song, while strength and voice remained to them, it is the duty of this familyto say or sing, or so they hold it, in the hour of their death. But ifthey sing it, except by way of learning its words and music from theirmothers, and escape death, it will not be for very long, seeing thatwhen once the offering is laid upon his altar, the Over-Lord considersit his own, and, after the fashion of gods and men, takes it as soon ashe can. So sweet and strange was the singing of this Saevuna until shechoked that the king and his nobles came out to hear it, and all menthought it a great marvel that a woman should sing thus in the verypains of death. Moreover, they declared, many of them, that while thesong went on they could think of nothing else, and that strange andwonderful visions passed before their eyes. But of this nobody can knowthe truth for certain, as the woman and her husband died long ago. "

"You see, " said Mr. Fregelius, when he had finished translating thepassage aloud, "it is not wonderful that I thought it unlucky when Iheard that you had found Stella singing this same song upon the ship, much as centuries ago her ancestress, Saevuna, sang it while she and herhusband died. "

"At any rate, the omen fulfilled itself, " answered Morris, with a sigh, "and she, too, died with the song upon her lips, though I do not thinkthat it had anything to do with these things, which were fated tobefall. "

"Well, " said the clergyman, "the fate is fulfilled now, and the songwill never be sung again. She was the last of her race, and it was a lawamong them that neither words nor music should ever be written down. "

When such old tales and legends were exhausted, and, outside theimmediate object of their search, some of them were of great interestto a man who, like Morris, had knowledge of Norse literature, and wasdelighted to discover in Mr. Fregelius a scholar acquainted with theoriginal tongues in which they were written, these companions fell backupon other matters. But all of them had to do with Stella. One night theclergyman read some letters written by her as a child from Denmark. On another he produced certain dolls which she had dressed at the sameperiod of her life in the costume of the peasants of that country. On athird he repeated a piece of rather indifferent poetry composed by herwhen she was a girl of sixteen. Its strange title was, "The Resurrectionof Dead Roses. " It told how in its author's fancy the flowers whichwere cut and cast away on earth bloomed again in heaven, never to withermore; a pretty allegory, but treated in a childish fashion. 

Thus, then, from time to time, as occasion offered, did this strangepair celebrate the rites they thought so harmless, and upon the altar ofmemory make offerings to their dead. 

CHAPTER XX

STELLA'S DIARY

It seems to be a law of life that nothing can stand completely still andchangeless. All must vary, must progress or retrograde; the very rocksin the bowels of the earth undergo organic alterations, while theeternal hills that cover them increase or are worn away. Much more isthis obvious in the case of ephemeral man, of his thoughts, his works, and everything wherewith he has to do, he who within the period of a fewshort years is doomed to appear, wax, wane, and vanish. 

Even the conversations of Mr. Fregelius and Morris were subject tothe working of this universal rule; and in obedience to it must traveltowards a climax, either of fruition, however unexpected, or, theirpurpose served, whatever it may have been, to decay and death, for lackof food upon which to live and flourish. The tiniest groups of impulsesor incidents have their goal as sure and as appointed as that of thecluster of vast globes which form a constellation. Between them theprincipal distinction seems to be one of size, and at present we are notin a position to say which may be the most important, the issue of thesmallest of unrecorded causes, or of the travelling of the great worlds. The destiny of a single human soul shaped or directed by the one, foraught we know, may be of more weight and value than that of a multitudeof hoary universes naked of life and spirit. Or perhaps to the Eye thatsees and judges the difference is nothing. 

Thus even these semi-secret interviews when two men met to talk overthe details of a lost life with which, however profoundly it may haveinfluenced them in the past, they appeared, so far as this world isconcerned, to have nothing more to do, were destined to affect thefuture of one of them in a fashion that could scarcely have beenforeseen. This became apparent, or put itself in the way of becomingapparent, when on a certain evening Morris found Mr. Fregelius seatedin the rectory dining-room, and by his side a little pile of manuscriptvolumes bound in shabby cloth. 

"What are those?" asked Morris. "Her translation of the Saga of the CaveOutlaws?"

"No, Morris, " answered Mr. Fregelius--he called him Morris when theywere alone--"of course not. Don't you remember that they were bound inred?" he added reproachfully, "and that we did them up to send to thepublisher last week?"

"Yes, yes, of course; he wrote to me yesterday to say that he would beglad to bring out the book"--Morris did not add, "at my risk. "--"Butwhat are they?"

"They are, " replied Mr. Fregelius, "her journals, which she appears tohave kept ever since she was fourteen years of age. You remember shewas going to London on the day that she was drowned--that Christmas Day?Well, before she went out to the old church she packed her belongingsinto two boxes, and there those boxes have lain for three years andmore, because I could never find the heart to meddle with them. But, afew nights ago I wasn't able to sleep--I rest very badly now--so Iwent and undid them, lifting out all the things which her hands had putthere. At the bottom of one of the boxes I found these volumes, exceptthe last of them, in which she was writing till the day of her death. That was at the top. I was aware that she kept a diary, for I have seenher making the entries; but of its contents I knew nothing. In fact, until last night I had forgotten its existence. "

"Have you read it now?" asked Morris. 

"I have looked into it; it seems to be a history of her thoughts andtheories. Facts are very briefly noted. It occurred to me that you mightlike to read it. Why not?"

"Yes, yes, very much, " answered Morris eagerly. "That is, if you thinkshe will not mind. You see, it is private. "

Mr. Fregelius took no notice of the tense of which Morris made use, forthe reason that it seemed natural to him that he should employ it. Theirstrange habit was to talk of Stella, not as we speak of one dead, but asa living individuality with whom they chanced for a while to be unableto communicate. 

"I do not think that she will mind, " he answered slowly; "quite thereverse, indeed. It is a record of a phase and period of her existencewhich, I believe, she might wish those who are--interested in her--tostudy, especially as she had no secrets that she could desire toconceal. From first to last I believe her life to have been as clear asthe sky, and as pure as running water. "

"Very well, " answered Morris, "if I come across any passage that I thinkI ought not to read, I will skip. "

"I can find nothing of the sort, or I would not give it to you, " saidMr. Fregelius. "But, of course, I have not read the volumes throughas yet. There has been no time for that. I have sampled them here andthere, that is all. "

That night Morris took those shabby note-books home with him. Mary, who according to her custom went to bed early, being by this time fastasleep, he retired to his laboratory in the old chapel, where it was hishabit to sit, especially when, as at the present time, his father wasaway from home. Here, without wasting a moment, he began his study ofthem. 

It was with very strange sensations, such as he had never beforeexperienced, that he opened the first of the volumes, written somethirteen years earlier, that is, about ten years before Stella's death. Their actual acquaintance had been but brief. Now he was about tocomplete his knowledge of her, to learn many things which he had foundno time, or had forgotten to inquire into, to discover the explanationof various phases of her character hitherto but half-revealed; perhapsto trace to its source the energy of that real, but mystic, faith withwhich it was informed. This diary that had come--or perhaps been sentto him--in so unexpected a fashion, was the key whereby he hoped to openthe most hidden chambers of the heart of the woman whom he loved, andwho loved him with all her strength and soul. 

Little wonder, then, that he trembled upon the threshold of such asearch. He was like the neophyte of some veiled religion, who, afterlong years of arduous labour and painful preparation, is at lengthconducted to the doors of its holy of holies, and left to enter therealone. What will he find beyond them? The secret he longed to learn, the seal and confirmation of his hard-won faith, or empty, baulkingnothingness? Would the goddess herself, the unveiled Isis, wait to blessher votary within those doors? Or would that hall be tenanted but by apainted and bedizened idol, a thing fine with ivory and gold, but deadand soulless?

Might it not be better indeed to turn back while there was yet time, to be content to dwell on in the wide outer courts of the imagination, where faith is always possible, rather than to hazard all? No; it would, Morris felt, be best to learn the whole truth, especially as he was surethat it could not prove other than satisfying and beautiful. Blind musthe have been indeed, and utterly without intuition if with every veilthat was withdrawn from it the soul of Stella did not shine more bright. 

Another question remained. Was it well that he should read thesediaries? Was not his mind already full enough of Stella? If once hebegan to read, might it not be overladen? In short, Mary had dealt wellby him; when those books were open in his hand, would he be dealing wellby Mary? Answers--excellent answers--to these queries sprang up in hismind by dozens. 

Stella was dead. "But you are sworn to her in death, " commented thevoice of Conscience. "Would you rob the living of your allegiance beforethe time?"

There was no possible harm in reading the records of the life andthoughts of a friend, or even of a love departed. "Yet, " suggested thevoice of Conscience, "are you so sure that this life _is_ departed? Haveyou not at whiles felt its presence, that mysterious presence of thedead, so sweet, so heavy, and so unmistakable, with which at some timeor other in their lives many have made acquaintance? Will not the studyof this life cause that life to draw near? the absorption of thosethoughts bring about the visits of other and greater thoughts, whereofthey may have been, as it were, the seed?"

Anyone who knew its author would be interested to read this humandocument, the product of an intelligence singularly bright and clear;of a vision whose point of outlook was one of the highest and mostspiritual peaks in the range of our human imaginings. "Quite so, " agreedthe voice of Conscience. "For instance, Mary would be delighted. Why notbegin with her? In fact, why not peruse these pages together--it wouldlead to some interesting arguments? Why pore over them in this selfishmanner all alone and at the dead of night when no one can possiblydisturb you, or, since you have blocked the hagioscope, even see you?And why does the door of that safe stand open? Because of the risk offire if anyone should chance to come in with a candle, I suppose. No, of course it would not be right to leave such books about; especially asthey do not belong to you. "

Then enraged, or at least seriously irritated, by these impertinentcomments of his inner self upon himself, Morris bade Conscience to begone to its own place. Next, after contemplating it for a while as Evemight have contemplated the apple, unmindful of a certain petition inthe Lord's Prayer, he took up the volume marked I, and began to readthe well-remembered hand-writing with its quaint mediaeval-lookingcontractions. Even at the age when its author had opened her diary, he noted that this writing was so tiny and neat that many of thepages might have been taken from a monkish missal. Also there were fewcorrections; what she set down was already determined in her mind. 

From that time forward Morris sat up even later than usual, nor didhe waste those precious solitary hours. But the diary covered ten fullyears of a woman's life, during all of which time certainly never a weekpassed without her making entries in it, some of them of considerablelength. Thus it came about--for he skipped no word--that a full monthhad gone by before Morris closed the last volume and slipped it awayinto its hiding-place in the safe. 

As Mr. Fregelius had said, the history was a history of thoughts andtheories, rather than of facts, but notwithstanding this, perhaps onaccount of it, indeed, it was certainly a work which would have struckthe severest and least interested critic as very remarkable. Theprevailing note was that of vividness. What the writer had felt, whatshe had imagined, what she had desired, was all set out, frequently inbut few words, with such crystal clearness, such incisive point, that itcame home to the reader's thought as a flash of sudden light might comehome to his eye. In a pre-eminent degree Stella possessed the gift ofexpression. Even her most abstruse self-communings and speculations wereportrayed so sharply that their meaning could not possibly be mistaken. This it was that gave the book much of its value. Her thoughts were notvague, she could define them in her own consciousness, and, what is morerare, on paper. 

So much for the form of the journal, its matter is not so easy todescribe. At first, as might be expected from her years, it was somewhatchildish in character, but not on that account the less sweet andfragrant of a child's poor heart. Here with stern accuracy were recordedher little faults of omission and commission--how she had answeredcrossly; how she had not done her duty; varied occasionally with shortpoems, some copied, some of her own composition, and prayers also ofher making, one or two of them very touching and beautiful. From timeto time, too--indeed this habit clung to her to the last--she introducedinto her diary descriptions of scenery, generally short and detached, but set there evidently because she wished to preserve a sketch in wordsof some sight that had moved her mind. 

Here is a brief example describing a scene in Norway, where she wasvisiting, as it appeared to her upon some evening in late autumn: "Thisafternoon I went out to gather cranberries on the edge of the fir-beltbelow the Stead. Beneath me stretched the great moss-swamp, so wide thatI could not discern its borders, and grey as the sea in winter. The windblew and in the west the sun was setting, a big, red sun which glowedlike the copper-covered cathedral dome that we saw last week. All aboutin the moss stood pools of black, stagnant water with little stragglingbushes growing round them. Under the clouds they were ink, but in thepath of the red light, there they were blood. A man with a large basketon his back and a long staff in his hand, was walking across the mossfrom west to east. The wind tossed his cloak and bent his grey beard ashe threaded his way among the pools. The red light fell upon him also, and he looked as though he were on fire. Before him, gathering thickeras the sun sank, were shadows and blackness. He seemed to walk into theblackness like a man wading into the sea. It swallowed him up; he musthave felt very lonely with no one near him in that immense grey place. Now he was all gone, except his head that wore a halo of the red light. He looked like a saint struggling across the world into the Black Gates. For a minute he stood still, as though he were frightened. Then a suddengust seemed to sweep him on again, right into the Gates, and I lostsight of that man whom I shall never see any more. I wonder whetherhe was a saint or a sinner, and what he will find beyond the Gates. Acurlew flew past me, borne out of the darkness, and its cry made me feelsad and shiver. It might have been the man's soul which wished to lookupon the light again. Then the sun sank, and there was no light, onlythe wind moaning, and far, far away the sad cry of the curlew. "

This description was simple and unpolished as it was short. Yet itimpressed the mind of Morris, and its curious allegorical note appealedto his imagination. The grey moss broken by stagnant pools, lonesomeand primeval; the dreary pipe of the wildfowl, the red and angrysun fronting the gloom of advancing, oblivious night; the solitarytraveller, wind-buffeted, way-worn, aged, heavy-laden, fulfilling thelast stage of his appointed journey to a realm of sleep and shadow. Allthese sprang into vision as he read, till the landscape, concentrated, and expressing itself in its tiny central point of human interest, grewmore real in memory and meaning than many with which he was himselffamiliar. 

Yet that description was written by an untrained girl not yet seventeenyears of age. But with such from first to last, and this was by no meansthe best of them, he found her pages studded. 

Then, jotted down from day to day, came the account of the illnessand death of her twin sister, Gudrun, a pitiful tale to read. Hopes, prayers, agonies of despair, all were here recorded; the last scene alsowas set out with a plain and noble dignity, written by the bed of deathin the presence of death. Now under the hand of suffering the childhad become a woman, and, as was fitting, her full soul found relief indeeper notes. "Good-bye, Gudrun, " she ended, "my heart is broken; but Iwill mourn for you no more. God has called you, and we give you backto God. Wait for me, my sister, for I am coming also, and I will notlinger. I will walk quickly. "

It was from this sad day of her only sister's death that the first realdevelopments of the mystical side of Stella's character must be dated. The sudden vanishing in Gudrun in the bloom of youth and beauty broughthome to her the lesson which all must learn, in such a fashion thathenceforth her whole soul was tinged to its sad hue. 

"Now I understand it all, " she wrote after returning from the funeral. "We do not live to die, we die to live. As a grain of sand to the wholeshore, as a drop of water to the whole sea, so is what we call our lifeto the real life. Of course one has always been taught that in church, but I never really comprehended it before. Henceforth this thought shallbe a part of me! Every morning when I wake I will remember that I am onenight nearer to the great dawn, every night when I lie down to sleep Iwill thank God that another day of waiting has ended with the sunset. Yes, and I will try to live so that after my last sunset I may meet theend as did Gudrun; without a single doubt or fear, for if I have nothingto reproach myself with, why should I be reproached? If I have longedfor light and lived towards the light, however imperfect I may be, whyshould I be allotted to the darkness?"

Almost on the next page appeared a prayer "For the welfare and greaterglory" of her who was dead, and for the mourner who was left alive, withthis quaint note appended: "My father would not approve of this, as itis against the rubric, but all the same I mean to go on praying for thedead. Why should I not? If my poor petitions cannot help them whoare above the need for help, at least they may show that they are notforgotten. Oh! that must be the bitter part; to live on full of love andmemory and watch forgetfulness creeping into the hearts of the loved andthe remembered. The priests never thought of it, but there lies the realpurgatory. "

The diary showed it to be a little more than a year after this thatspiritual doubts began to possess the soul of Stella. After all, was shenot mistaken? Was there any world beyond the physical? Were we not mereaccidents, born of the will or the chance of the flesh, and shapedby the pressure of centuries of circumstance? Were not all religionsdifferent forms of a gigantic fraud played by his own imagination uponblind, believing man? And so on to the end of the long list of thosequestions which are as old as thought. 

"I look, " she wrote under the influence of this mood, "but everywhereis blackness; blackness without a single star. I cry aloud, but the onlyanswer is the echo of my own voice beating back upon me from the deafheavens. I pray for faith, yet faith fades and leaves me. I ask forsigns, and there is no sign. The argument? So far as I have read andheard, it seems the other way. And yet I do not believe their proofs. Ido not believe that so many generations of good men would have fedfull upon a husk of lies and have lain down to sleep at last as thoughsatisfied with meat. My heart rises at the thought. I am immortal. Iknow that I am immortal. I am a spirit. In days to come, unchained bymatter, time, or space, I shall stand before the throne of the Fatherof all spirits, receiving of His wisdom and fulfilling His commandments. Yet, O God, help Thou my unbelief. O God, draw and deliver me from thisabyss. "

From this time forward here and there in the diary were to be foundpassages, or rather sentences, that Morris did not understand. Theyalluded to some secret and persistent effort which the writer had beenmaking, and after one of them came these words, "I have failed again, but she was near me; I am sure that she was very near me. "

Then at last came this entry, which, as the writing showed, was writtenwith a shaking hand. "I have seen her beyond the possibility of a doubt. She appeared, and was with me quite a while; and, oh! the rapture! Ithas left me weak and faint after all that long, long preparation. It isof the casting forth of spirits that it is said, 'This kind goeth notout but by prayer and fasting, ' but it is also true of the drawing ofthem down. To see a spirit one must grow akin to spirits, which is notgood for us who are still in the flesh. I am satisfied. I have seen, andI _know_. Now I shall call her back no more lest the thing should getthe mastery of me, and I become unfitted for my work on earth. Thismorning I could scarcely hold the bow of the violin, and its sweetestnotes sounded harsh to me; I heard discords among their harmonies. AlsoI had no voice to sing, and after all the money and time that have beenspent upon them, I must keep up my playing and singing, since, perhaps, in the future if my father's health should fail, as it often threatensto do, they may be our only means of livelihood. NO, I shall try nomore; I will stop while there is yet time, while I am still my ownmistress and have the strength to deny me this awful joy. But I haveseen! I have seen, and I am thankful, who shall never doubt again. Yetthe world, and those who tread it, can never more be quite the same tome, and that is not wholesome. This is the price which must be paid forvision of that which we were not meant to touch, to taste, to handle. "

After this, for some years--until it was decided, indeed, that theyshould move to Monksland--there was little of startling interest in thediary. It recorded descriptions of the wild moorland scenery, of birds, and ferns, and flowers. Also there were sketches of the peasantry andof the gentlefolk with whom the writer came in contact; very shrewdand clever, some of them, but with this peculiarity--that they wereabsolutely free from unkindness of thought or words, though sometimestheir author allowed herself the license of a mitigated satire. Suchthings, with notes of domestic and parish matters, and of the progressmade in her arduous and continual study of vocal and instrumental music, made up the sum of these years of the diary. Then at length, at thebeginning of the last volume, came this entry:

"The unexpected has happened, somebody has actually been found in whoseeyes this cure of souls is desirable--namely, a certain Mr. Tomley, therector of a village called Monksland, upon the East Coast of England. Iwill sum up the history of the thing. For some years I have been gettingtired of this place, although, in a way, I love it too. It is so lonelyhere, and--I confess my weakness--playing and singing as I do now, Ishould like, occasionally, to have a better audience than a few old, half-deaf clergymen, their preoccupied and commonplace wives, someyeomen farmers, and a curate or two. 

"It was last year, though I find that I didn't put it down at the time, that at the concert in aid of the rebuilding of Pankford church I playedTartini's 'Il Trillo del Diavolo, ' to me one of the weirdest and mostwonderful bits of violin music in the world. I know that I was almostcrying when I finished it. But next day I saw in the report in the localpaper, written by 'Our Musical Man, ' that 'Miss Fregelius then relievedthe proceedings with a comic interlude on the violin, which was muchappreciated by the audience. ' It was that, I confess it--yes, theidiotic remark of 'Our Musical Man, ' which made me determine if it wasin any way possible that I would shake the dust of this village off myfeet. Then, so far as my father is concerned, the stipend is wretchedand decreasing. Also he has never really got on here; he is too shy, too reserved, perhaps, in a way, too well read and educated, for theserough-and-ready people. Even his foreign name goes against him. Thecurates about here call him 'Frigid Fregelius. ' It is the local idea ofa joke. 

"So I persuaded him to advertise for an exchange, although he said itwas a mere waste of money, as nobody in his senses would look atthis parish. Then came the wonderful thing. After the very firstadvertisement--yes, the very first--arrived a letter from Mr. Tomley, rector of Monksland, where the stipend is 100 pounds a year betterthan this, saying that he would wish to inquire into the matter. He hasinquired, he has been, a pompous old gentleman with a slow voice anda single lock of white hair above his forehead; he says that it issatisfactory, and that, subject to the consent of the bishop, etc. , hethinks that he will be glad to effect the exchange. Afterwards I foundhim in front of the house staring at the moorland behind, the sea infront, and the church in the middle, and looking very wretched. I askedhim why he wanted to do it--the words popped out of my mouth, I couldn'thelp them; it was all so odd. 

"Then I found out the reason. Mr. Tomley has a wife who is, or thinksshe is--I am not sure which--an invalid, and who, I gather, speaks toMr. Tomley with no uncertain sound. Mr. Tomley's wife was the niece ofa long-departed rector who was inducted in 1815, and reigned here forforty-five years. He was rich, a bachelor, and rebuilt the church. (Isit not all written in the fly-leaf of the last register?) Mrs. Tomleyinherited her uncle's landed property in this neighbourhood, and saysthat she is only well in the air of Northumberland. So Mr. Tomley has tocome up here, which he doesn't at all like, although I gather that he isglad to escape from his present squire, who seems to be a distinguishedbut arbitrary old gentleman, an ex-Colonel of the Guards; ratherquarrelsome, too, with a habit of making fun of Mrs. Tomley. There's theexplanation. 

"So just because of the silly criticism of 'Our Musical Man' we aregoing to move several hundred miles. But is that really the cause? Arethese things done of our own desire, or do we do them because we must, as our forefathers believed? Beneath our shouts and chattering they havealways heard the slow thunder of the waves of Fate. Through the flare ofour straw fires and the dust of our hurrying feet, they could always seethe shadow of his black banners and the sheen of his advancing spears, and for them every wayside sign-post was painted with his finger. 

"I think like that, too, perhaps because I am all, nearly all, Norse, and we do not shake off the strong and ancient shackle of our blood inthe space of a few generations of Christian freedom and enlightenment. Yes, I see the finger of Fate upon this sign-post of an advertisement ina Church paper. His flag is represented to me by Mr. Tomley's whiteand cherished lock. Assuredly our migration is decreed of the Norns, therefore I accept it without question; but I should like to know whatkind of a web of destiny they are weaving for us yonder in the placecalled Monksland. "

CHAPTER XXI

THE END OF STELLA'S DIARY

A month or two later in the diary came the account of the shipwreck ofthe Trondhjem and of the writer's rescue from imminent death. "My firstgreat adventure, " the pages were headed. They told how her father, withwhom ready-money was a scarce commodity, and who had a passion for smalland uncomfortable economies, suddenly determined to save two or threepounds by taking a passage in a Norwegian tramp steamboat named theTrondhjem. This vessel, laden with a miscellaneous cargo, had put inat a Northumbrian port, and carried freight consisting of ready-madewindows, door-frames, and other wooden house-fittings suited to therequirements of the builders of seaside villas, to be delivered atthe rising watering-place of Northwold, upon her way to London. Then followed a description of the voyage, the dirt of the ship, thesurpassing nastiness of the food, and the roughness of the crew, whosesailor-like qualities inspired the writer with no confidence. 

Next, the diary which now had been written up by Stella in the Abbeywhere Morris read it, went on to tell of how she had gone to her berthone night in the cabin next to that occupied by her father, and beingtired by a long day in the strong sea air had fallen instantly into aheavy sleep, which was disturbed by a nightmare-like dream of shockand noise. This imagined pandemonium, it said, was followed by a greatquiet, in the midst of which she awoke to miss the sound of the thumpingscrew and of the captain shouting his orders from the bridge. 

For a while, the writing told, she lay still, till a sense thatsomething was wrong awoke her thoroughly, when she lit the candle whichshe kept by her berth, and, rising, peeped out into the saloon to seethat water was washing along its floor. Presently she made anotherdiscovery, that she was alone, utterly alone, even her father's cabinbeing untenanted. 

The rest need not be repeated in detail. Throwing on some garments, anda red cloak of North-country frieze, she made her way to the deck tofind that the ship was abandoned by every living soul, including herown father; why, or under what circumstances, remained a mystery. Sheretreated into the captain's cabin, which was on deck, being afraidto go below again in the darkness, and sheltered there until the lightcame. Then she went out, and though the dim, mist-laden dawn creptforward to the forecastle, and staring over the side discovered that theprow of the ship was fixed upon a rock, while her stern and waist, whichfloated clear, heaved and rolled with every sea. As she stood thus thevessel slipped back along the reef three feet or more, throwing her tothe deck, and thrilling her from head to foot with the most sickeningsensation she had ever experienced. Then the Trondhjem caught and hungagain, but Stella, so she wrote, knew that the end must be near, as theship would lift off with the full tide and founder, and for the firsttime felt afraid. 

"I did not fear what might come after death, " went on the diary, "but Idid fear the act of death. I was so lonely, and the dim waters lookedso cold; the brown shoulders of the rocks which showed now and againthrough the surges, so cruel. To be dashed by those cold waters uponthose iron rocks till the life was slowly ground out of my body! Andmy father--the thought of him tormented my mind. Was he dead, or hadhe deserted me? The last seemed quite impossible, for it would havesupposed him a coward, and I was sure that he would rather die thanleave me; therefore, as I feared, the first must be true. I was afraid, and I was wretched, and I said my prayers and cried a little, while thecold struck me through the red cloak, and the damp mist made me shiver. 

"Then suddenly I remembered that it had not been the custom of myancestors and countrywomen of the old time to die weeping, and with thethought some of my courage came back. I rose from the deck and stoodupon the prow of the ship, supporting myself by a rope, as many a deadwoman of my race has done before me in the hour of battle and shipwreck. As I stood thus, believing that I was about to die, there floated intomy mind a memory of the old Norse song that my mother had taught me asshe learned it from her mother. It is called the 'Song of the Overlord, 'and for generations without count on their death-beds has been sung, or if they were too weak to sing, whispered, by the women of my family. Even my mother murmured it upon the day she died, although to allappearances she had become an Englishwoman; and the first line of it, "'Hail to thee, Sky King! Hail to thee, Earth King!'

were the last words that the gentlest creature whom I ever knew, mysister Gudrun, muttered before she became unconscious. This song ithas always been held unlucky to sing except upon the actual approachof death, since otherwise, so goes the old saying, 'it draws the arrowwhose flight was wide, ' and Death, being invoked, comes soon. Still, for me I believed there was no escape, for I was quite sure from hermovements that the steamer would soon come off the rocks, and I hadmade my confession and said my prayers. So I began to sing, and sang myloudest, pleasing myself with the empty, foolish thought that in somesuch circumstance as this many a Danish sea-king's daughter had sungthat song before me. 

"Then, as I sang, a wind began to blow, and suddenly the mist was drivenbefore it like puffs of smoke, and in the east behind me rose the redball of the sun. Its light fell upon the rocks and upon the watersbeyond them, and there to my amazement, appearing and disappearingupon the ridges and hollows of the swell, I saw a man alone in asailing-boat, which rode at anchor within thirty yards of me. At first Ithought that it must be my father, then the man caught sight of me, andI saw his face as he looked up, for the sun shone upon his dark eyes, and knew that he was a stranger. 

"He lifted his anchor and called to me to come to the companion ladder, and his voice told me that he was a gentleman. I could not meet him as Iwas, with my hair loose, and bare-footed like some Norse Viking girl. SoI took the risk, for now, although I cannot tell why, I felt sure thatno harm would come to him or me, and ran to the cabin, where also wasthis volume of my diary and my mother's jewels that I did not wish tolose. When at last I was ready after a fashion, I came out with my bag, and there, splashing through the water of the saloon, ran the stranger, shouting angrily to me to be quick, as the ship was lifting off therock, which made me think how brave it was of him to come aboard to lookfor me. In an instant he caught me by the hand, and was dragging me upthe stairs and down the companion, so that in another minute wewere together in the boat, and he had told me that my father was onshore--thank God!--though with a broken thigh. "

Then some pages of the diary were taken up with the description of thetwenty-four hours which she had spent on the open sea with himself, oftheir landing, dazed and exhausted, at the Dead Church, and her strangedesire to explore it, their arrival at the Abbey, and her meeting withher father. After these came a passage that may be quoted:--

"He is not handsome--I call him plain--with his projecting brow, largemouth, and untidy brown hair. But notwithstanding his stoop and histhin hands, he looks a fine man, and, when they light up, his eyes arebeautiful. It was brave of him, too, very brave, although he thinksnothing of it, to come out alone to look for me like that. I wonder whatbrought him? I wonder if anything told his mind that I, a girl whom hehad never seen, was really on the ship and in danger? Perhaps--at anyrate, he came, and the odd thing is that from the moment I saw him, andespecially from the moment I heard his voice, I felt as though I hadknown him all my life. Probably he would think me mad if I were tosay so; indeed, I am by no means sure that he does not pay me thatcompliment already, with some excuse, perhaps, in view of the 'Song ofthe Overlord' and all my wild talk. Well, after such a night as I hadspent anyone might be excused for talking foolishly. It is the reactionfrom never expecting to talk again at all. The chief advantage of adiary is that one may indulge in the luxury of telling the actual truth. So I will say that I feel as though I had known him always; always--andas though I understood him as one understands a person one has watchedfor years. What is more, I think that he understands me more than mostpeople do; not that this is wonderful, seeing how few I know. At anyrate, he guesses more or less what I am thinking about, and can seethat there is something in the ideas which others consider foolish, asperhaps they are. 

"It is very odd that I, who had made sure that I was gone, shouldbe still alive in this pleasant house, and saved from death by thispleasant companion, to find my father, whom I feared was dead, alsoliving. And all this after I had sung the 'Song of the Overlord!' Somuch for its ill-luck. But, all the same, my father was ratherupset when he heard that I had been found singing it. He is verysuperstitious, my dear old father; that is one of the few Norsecharacteristics which he has left in him. I told him that there was nouse in being disturbed, since, in the end, things must go as they arefated. 

"Mr. Monk is engaged to a Miss Porson. He told me that in the boat. Iasked him what he was thinking of when we nearly over-set against thatdreadful rock. He answered that he could only think of the song he hadheard me singing on the ship, which I considered a great complimentto my voice, quite the nicest I ever had. But he ought to have beenthinking about the lady to whom he is engaged, and he understood thatI thought so, which I daresay I should not have allowed him to do. However, when people believe that they are going to be drowned they growconfidential, and expose their minds freely. He exposed his when he toldme that he thought I was talking egregious nonsense, and I am afraidthat I laughed at him. I don't think that he really can love her--thatis, as engaged people are supposed to love each other. If he did hewould not have grown so angry--with himself--and then turned upon mebecause the recollection of my old death song had interfered with thereflections which he ought to have offered upon her altar. That is whatstruck me as odd; not his neglecting to remember her in a moment ofdanger, since then we often forget everything except some trivialityof the hour. But, of course, this is all nonsense, which I oughtn't towrite here even, as most people have their own ways of being fond ofeach other. Also, it is no affair of mine. 

"I have seen Miss Porson's photograph, a large one of her in Courtdress, which stands in Mr. Monk's laboratory (such a lovely place, it was an old chapel). She is a beautiful woman; large and soft andregal-looking, a very woman; it would be difficult to imagine a betterspecimen of 'the eternal feminine. ' Also, they say, that is, the nursewho is looking after my father says, that she is very rich and devotedto 'Mr. Morris. ' So Mr. Morris is a lucky man. I wonder why he didn'tsave her from a shipwreck instead of me. It would have given anappropriate touch of romance to the affair, which is now entirely wastedupon a young person, if I may still call myself so, with whom it has noconcern. 

"What interests me more than our host's matrimonial engagements, however, are his experiments with aerophones. That is a wonderfulinvention if only it can be made to work without fail upon alloccasions. I do wish that I could help him there. It would be somereturn for his great kindness, for it must be a dreadful nuisance tohave an old clergyman with a broken leg and his inconvenient daughtersuddenly quartered upon you for an unlimited period of time. "

The record of the following weeks was very full, but almost entirelyconcerned--brief mention of other things, such as her father's healthexcepted--with full and accurate notes and descriptions of the aerophoneexperiments. To Morris reading them it was wonderful, especially asStella had received no training in the science of electricity, thatshe could have grasped the subject thus thoroughly in so short a time. Evidently she must have had a considerable aptitude for its theory andpractice, as might be seen by the study that she gave to the literaturewhich he lent her, including some manuscript volumes of his own notes. Also there were other entries. Thus:

"To-day Mr. Stephen Layard proposed to me in the Dead Church. I had seenit coming for the last three weeks and wished to avoid it, but he wouldnot take a hint. I am most sorry, as I really think he cares aboutme--for the while--which is very kind of him. But it is out of thequestion, and I had to say no. Indeed, he repels me. I do not evenlike being in the same room with him, although no doubt this is veryfastidious and wrong of me. I hope that he will get over it soon; infact, although he seemed distressed, I am not vain enough to supposethat it will be otherwise. . . . 

"Of course, my father is angry, for reasons which I need not set down. This I expected, but he said some things which I wish he had leftunsaid, for they made me answer him as I ought not to have done. Fathersand daughters look at marriage from such different standpoints; what isexcellent in their eyes may be as bad as death, or in some cases worseto the woman who of course must pay the price. . . . 

"I sang and played my best last night, my very, very best; indeed, Idon't think I ever did so well before, and perhaps never shall again. Hewas moved--more moved than I meant him to be, and I was moved myself. I suppose that it was the surroundings; that old chapel--how well thosemonks understood acoustic properties--the moonlight, the upset to mynerves this afternoon, my fear that he believed that I had accepted Mr. L. (imagine his believing that! I thought better of him, and he _did_believe it)--everything put together. 

"While I was singing he told me that he was going away--to see MissPorson at Beaulieu, I suppose. When I had finished--oh! how tired I wasafter the effort was over--he asked me straight out if I intended tomarry Mr. Layard, and I asked him if he was mad! Then I put anotherquestion, I don't know why; I never meant to do it, but it came up frommy heart--whether he had not said that he was going away? In answer heexplained that he was thinking of so doing, but had changed his mind. Oh! I was pleased when I heard that. I was never so pleased in my lifebefore. After all, the gift of music is of some use. 

"But why should I have been pleased? Mr. Monk's comings or goings arenothing to me; I have no right to interfere with them, even indirectly, or to concern myself about them. Yet I cried when I heard thosewords, but I suppose it was the music that made me cry; it has thatinconvenient effect sometimes. Well, I have no doubt that he will seeplenty of Miss Porson, and it would have been a great pity to break offthe experiments just now. "

One more extract from the very last entry in the series of books. It waswritten at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, just before Stella started outto meet Morris at the Dead Church:

"He--Colonel M. --asked me and I told him the truth straight out. I couldnot help myself; it burst from my lips, although the strange thing isthat until he put it into my mind with the question, I knew _nothing_. Then of a sudden, in an instant; in a flash; I understood and I knewthat my whole being belonged to this man, his son Morris. What is love?Once I remember hearing a clever cynic argue that between men and womenno such thing exists. He called their affection by other names, and saidthat for true love to be present the influence of sex must be absent. This he proved by declaring that this marvellous passion of love aboutwhich people talk and write is never heard of where its object is old ordeformed, or even very ugly, although such accidents of chance and timeare no bar to the true love of--let us say--the child and the parent, orthe friend and the friend. 

"Well, the argument seemed difficult to answer, although at the timeI knew that it must be wrong, but how could I, who was utterly withoutexperience, talk of such a hard matter? Now I understand that love; thereal love between a man and a woman, if it be real, embraces all theother sorts of love. More--whether the key be physical or spiritual, itunlocks a window in our hearts through which we see a different worldfrom the world that we have known. Also with this new vision comememories and foresights. This man whom I love--three months ago I hadnever seen his face--and now I feel as though I had known him not onlyall my life, but from the beginning of time--as though we never could beparted any more. 

"And I talk thus about one who has never said a tender word to me. Why?Because my thought, is his thought, and my mind his mind. How am I sureof that? Because it came upon me at the moment when I learned the truthabout myself. He and I are one, therefore I learned the truth about himalso. 

"I was like Eve when she left the Tree; knowledge was mine, only I hadeaten of the fruit of Life. Yet the taste of it must be bitter in mymouth. What have I done? I have given my spirit into the keeping of aman who is pledged to another woman, and, as I think, have taken hisfrom her keeping to my own. What then? Is this other woman, who is sogood and kind, to be robbed of all that is left to her in the world? AmI to take from her him who is almost her husband? Never. If his hearthas come to me I cannot help it--for the rest, no. So what is left tome? His spirit and all the future when the flesh is done with; that isheritage enough. How the philosopher who argued about the love of menand women would laugh and mock if he could see these words. Supposingthat he could say, 'Stella Fregelius, I am in a position to offer youa choice. Will you have this man for your husband and live out yournatural lives upon the strict stipulation that your relationship endsabsolutely and forever with your last breaths? Or will you let him goto the other woman for their natural lives with the prospect of thatheritage which your imagination has fashioned; that dim eternity ofdouble joy where, hand in hand, twain and yet one, you will fulfil thesecret purpose of your destinies?'

"What should I answer then?

"Before Heaven I would answer that I would not sell myself to the devilof the flesh and of this present world. What! Barter my birthright ofimmortality for the mess of pottage of a few brief years of union? Payout my high hopes to their last bright coin for this dinner of mingledherbs? Drain the well of faith dug with so many prayers and labours, that its waters may suffice to nourish a rose planted in the sand, whoseblooms must die at the first touch of creeping earthly frost?

"The philosopher would say that I was mad; that the linnet in the handis better than all the birds of paradise which ever flew in fabledtropic seas. 

"I reply that I am content to wait till upon some glorious morningmy ship breaks into the silence of those seas, and, watching from herbattered bulwarks, I behold the islands of the Blest and catch thescent of heavenly flowers, and see the jewelled birds, whereof I dreamfloating from palm to palm. 

"'But if there are no such isles?' he would answer; 'If, with theirmagic birds and flowers, they are indeed but the baseless fabric of adream? If your ship, amidst the ravings of the storm and the darkness ofthe tortured night, should founder once and for ever in the dark straitwhich leads to the gateways of that Dawn--those gateways through whichno traveller returns to lay his fellows' course for the harbours of yourperfect sea; what then?'

"Then I would say, let me forswear God Who has suffered me to bedeceived with false spirits, and sink to depths where no light breaks, where no memories stir, where no hopes torment. Yes, then let me denyHim and die, who am of all women the most miserable. But it is notso, for to me a messenger has _come_; at my prayer once the Gates wereopened, and now I know quite surely that it was permitted to me to seewithin them that I might find strength in this the bitter hour of mytrial. 

"Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within me?Oh! the road which my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and heavythe cross that I must bear. I go now, in a few minutes' time, to bidhim farewell. If I can help it I shall never see him again. No, noteven after many years, since it is better not. Also, perhaps this isweakness, but I should wish him to remember me wearing such beauty asI have and still young, before time and grief and labour have markedme with their ugly scars. It is the Stella whom he found singing at thedaybreak on the ship which brought her to him, for whom I desire that heshould seek in the hour of a different dawn. 

"I go presently, to my marriage, as it were; a cold and pitiful feast, many would think it--these nuptials of life-long renunciation. Thephilosopher would say, Why renounce? You have some advantages, somepowers, use them. The man loves you, play upon his natural weakness. Help yourself to the thing that chances to be desirable in your eyes. Three years hence who will blame you, who will even remember? Hisfather? Well, he likes you already, and in time a man of the worldaccepts accomplished facts, especially if things go well, as they willdo, for that invention must succeed. No one else? Yes; three others. Hewould remember, however much he loved me, for I should have brought himto do a shameful act. And she would remember, whom I had robbed of herhusband, coming into his life after he had promised himself to her. Lastof all--most of all, perhaps--I myself should remember, day by day, andhour by hour, that I was nothing more than one of the family of thieves. 

"No; I will have none of such philosophy; at least I, Stella Fregelius, will live and die among the upright. So I go to my cold marriage, suchas it is; so I bend my back to the burden, so I bow my head to thestorm; and throughout it all I thank God for what he has been pleased tosend me. I may seem poor, but how rich I am who have been dowered with alove that I know to be eternal as my eternal soul. I go, and my husbandshall receive me, not with a lover's kiss and tenderness, but with wordsfew and sad, with greetings that, almost before their echoes die, mustfade into farewells. I wrap no veil about my head, he will set no ringupon my hand, perchance we shall plight no troth. So be it; our hour ofharvest is not yet. 

"Yesterday was very sharp and bleak, with scuds of sleet and snow drivenby the wind, but as I drove here with my father I saw a man and a womanin the midst of an empty, lifeless field, planting some winter seed. Who, looking at them, who that did not know, could foretell the fruitsof their miserable, unhopeful labour? Yet the summer will come and thesweet smell of the flowering beans, and the song of the nesting birds, and the plentiful reward of the year crowned with fatness. It is asymbol of this marriage of mine. To-day we sow the seed; next, after aspace of raving rains and winds, will follow the long, white winterof death, then some dim, sweet spring of awakening, and beyond it thefulness of all joy. 

"What is there about me that it would make me ashamed that he shouldknow; this husband to whom I must tell nothing? I cannot think. No otherman has been anything to me. I can remember no great sin. I have worked, making the best of such gifts as I possess. I have tried to do my duty, and I will do it to the end. Surely my heart is whole and my hands areclean. Perhaps it is a sin that I should have learned to love him; thatI should look to a far future where I may be with him. If so, am I toblame, who ask nothing here? Can I conquer destiny who am its child? CanI read or shape the purpose of my Maker?

"And so I go. O God, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, give me strength to bearmy temptations and my trials; and to him, also, give every strength andblessing. O Father, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, shorten these the daysof my tribulation upon earth. Accept and sanctify this my sacrifice ofdenial; grant me pardon here, and hereafter through all the abyss oftime in Thy knowledge and presence, that perfect peace which I desirewith him to whom I am appointed. Amen. "

CHAPTER XXII

THE EVIL GATE

Such was the end of the diary of Stella. 

Morris shut the book with something like a sob. Then he rose andbegan to tramp up and down the length of the long, lonely room, whilethoughts, crowded, confused, and overwhelming, pressed in upon his mind. What a woman was this whom he had lost! Who had known another so pure, so spiritual? Surely she did not belong to this world, and thereforeher last prayer was so quickly answered, therefore Heaven took her. Many reading those final pages might have said with the philosopher sheimagined that the shock of love and the sorrow of separation had turnedher brain, and that she was mad. For who, so such might argue, wouldthink that person otherwise than mad who dared to translate into action, and on earth to set up as a ruling star, that faith which day by daytheir lips professed. 

Yet it would seem after that this "dreamer and mystic" Stella believedin nothing which our religion, accepted by millions without cavil, doesnot promise to its votaries. Its revelations and rewards marked theextremest limits of her fantasy; immortality of the personal soul, itsfoundation stone, was the rock on which she built. A heaven where thereis no earthly marriage, but where each may consort with the souls mostloved and most desired; where all sorrows are forgotten, all tearsare wiped away, all purposes made clear, reserved for those who denythemselves, do their duty, and seek forgiveness of their sins--thisheaven conceived by Stella, is it not vowed to us in the pages of theGospel? Is it not vowed again and again, sometimes with more detail, sometimes with less; sometimes in open, simple words, sometimes wrappedin the mystic allegory of the visions of St. John; but everywhere andcontinually held before us as our crown and great reward? And the rest, such things as her belief in guardian angels, and that it had been givento her mortal eyes to behold and commune with a beloved ghost, is therenot ample warrant for them in those inspired writings? Were not the deadseen of many in Jerusalem on the night of fear, and are we not told of"ministering spirits sent forth to do service for the sake of themthat shall inherit salvation?" and of the guardian angels, who lookcontinually upon the Father?

Now it all grew clear to Morris. In Stella he beheld an example ofthe doctrines of Christianity really inspiring the daily life of thebeliever. If her strong faith animated all those who served under thatbanner, then in like circumstances they would act as she had acted. They would have no doubts; their fears would vanish; their griefs becomforted, and, to a great extent, even the promptings and passions oftheir mortality would be trodden under foot. With Stella they would beready to neglect the temporary in their certainty of the eternal, andeven to welcome death, to them in truth, and not in mere convention, theGate of Life. 

Many things are promised to those who can achieve faith. Stella achievedit and became endued with some portion of the promise. Spiritual faith, not inherited, nor accepted, but hard-won by personal struggle andexperience; that was the key-note to her character and the explanationof her actions. Yet that faith, when examined into, was nothing exotic;no combination of mysticism and mummery, but one founded upon the dailycreed of the English and its fellow churches, and understood and appliedto the circumstances of a life which was as brief as it seemed to beunfortunate. This was Morris's discovery, open and obvious enough, andyet at first until he grew accustomed to it, a thing marvellous inhis eyes; one, moreover, in which he found comfort; since surely thatstraight but simple path was such as his feet might follow. 

And she loved him. Oh! how she had loved him. There could be no doubt;there were her words written in that book, not hastily spoken beneaththe pressure of some sudden wind of feeling, but set down in black andwhite, thought over, reasoned out, and recorded. And then their purport. They were a paean of passion, but the dirge of its denial. They dweltupon the natural hopes of woman only to put them by. 

"Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within me?Oh! the road that my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and heavythe cross that I must bear. . . . So I go to my marriage, such as itis, so I bend my back to the burden, so I bow my head to the storm, andthrough it all I thank God for what He has been pleased to send me. Imay seem poor, but how rich I am who have been dowered with a love thatI know to be eternal as my eternal soul. "

That was her creed, those were the teachings of her philosophy. And thiswas the woman who had loved him, who died loving him. Her very wordscame back, spoken but a few seconds before the end:--"Remember everyword which I have said to you. Remember that we are wed--truly wed; thatI go to wait for you, and that even if you do not see me, I will, if Imay, be near you always. "

"I go to wait for you. I will be near you always. " Here was anotherinspiration. For three years or more he had been thinking of her asdead. Or rather he had thought of her in that nebulous, undefinedfashion in which we consider the dead; the slumberous people who forgeteverything, who see nothing; who, if they exist at all, are like stonesupon the beach rolled to and fro blind and senseless, not of their owndesire, but by the waves of a fearful fate that itself is driven onwith the strength of a secret storm of Will. And this fate some call theBreath of God, and some the working of a soulless force that compels theuniverse, past, present, and to be. 

But was this view as real as it is common? If Stella were right, if ourreligion were right, it must be most wrong. That religion told us thatthe Master of mankind descended into Hades to preach to the souls ofmen. Did he preach to dumb, ocean-driven stones, to frozen forms andfossils who had once been men, or to spirits, changed, but active andexistent?

Stella, too, had walked in the valley of doubt, by the path which allwho think must tread; it was written large in the book of her life. Butshe had not fainted there; she had lived through its thunder-rains, its arid blasts of withering dust, its quivering quicksands, and itsmirage-like meadows gay with deceitful, poisonous flowers. At last shehad reached the mountain slopes of Truth to travel up them higher--everhigher, till she won their topmost peak, where the sun shone undimmedand the pure air blew; whence the world seemed far away and heaven verynear. Yes, and from that heaven she had called down the spirit of herlost sister, and thenceforward was content and sure. 

She had called down the spirit of her sister. Was it not written in thepages which she thought that no eye but hers would see?

Well, if such spirits were, hers--Stella's--must be also. And if theycould be made apparent, why should not hers share their qualities?

Morris paused in his swift walk and trembled: "I will be near youalways. " For aught he knew she was near him now--present, perhaps, inthis very room. While she was still in life, what were her aspirations?This was one of them, he remembered, as it fell from her lips: "Still tobe with those whom I have loved on earth, although they cannot seeme; to soothe their sorrows, to support their weakness, to lull theirfears. " And if this were so; if any power were given her to fulfil herwill, whom would she sooner visit than himself?

Stay! That was her wish on earth, while she was a woman. But would shestill wish it afterwards? The spirit was not the flesh, the spirit couldsee and be sure, while the flesh must be content with deductions andhazardings. If she could see, she would know him as he was; everyfailing, every secret infirmity, every infidelity of heart, might bean open writing to her eyes. And then would she not close that book inhorror?

A great writer has said in effect that no man would dare to affront theears of his fellows--men much worse than himself perhaps--with the truedetails of his hidden history. Knowing all the truth, they would shrinkfrom him. How much more then at such sights and sounds would a purespirit, washed clean of every taint of earth, fly from his soiledpresence, wailing and aghast? Nay, men are hypocrites, who, in greateror less degree, themselves practice the very sins that shock them, butspirits, knowing all, would forgive all. They are above hypocrisy. Ifthe Lord of spirits can weigh the "dust whereof we are made" and stillbe merciful, shall his bright messengers trample it in scorn andhate? Will they not also consider the longings of the heart and itsuprightness, and be pitiful towards the failings of the flesh? WouldStella hate him because he remained as he was made--as herself she mightonce have been? Because having no wings with which to rule the air hemust still tramp onwards through the foetid, clinging mud of earth?

Oh! how he longed to see her, that he might win her faith; win it beyondall doubt by the evidence of his earthly eyes and senses. "If I die, search and you shall see, " she had once said to him, and then added, "No, do not search, but wait. " Wait! How could he wait? "At your deathI will be with you. " Why he might live another fifty years! That book ofher recorded thoughts had aroused in him such a desire for the sight, orat least the actual knowledge of her continued being, that his blood wasaflame as with a madness. And yet how should he search?

"Stella, " he whispered, "come to me, Stella!" But no Stella came; nowings rustled, no breath stirred; the empty room was as the room hadbeen. Its silence seemed to mock him. Those who slept beneath its marblefloor were not more silent. 

Was he mad that he should claim the power to work this miracle--to charmthe dead back through the Gates of Death as Orpheus charmed Eurydice?Yet Stella did this thing--but how? He turned to the volume and pageof her diary which dealt with the drawing down of Gudrun. Yes, hereshe spoke of continual efforts and of "that long, long preparation"--ofprayer and fasting also. Here, too, was the whole secret summed up in adozen words: "To see a spirit one must grow akin to spirits. " Well, itcould be done, and he would do it. But look further on where she said:"I shall call her back no more, lest the thing should get the mastery ofme, and I become unfitted for my work on earth. . . . I will stop whilethere is yet time, while I am still mistress of my mind, and have thestrength to deny myself this awful joy. "

Was there not a warning in these words, and in those other words: "No, do not search, but wait. " Surely they told of risk to him who, being yeton earth, dared to lift a corner of the veil which separates flesh andspirit. "Should get the mastery of me. " If he saw her once would he beable to do as Stella did, and by an effort of his will separate himselffrom a communion so fearful yet so sweet? "Unfitted for my work. "Supposing that it did get the mastery of him, would he not also beunfitted for his work on earth?

His work? What work had he now? It seemed to be done; for attendingscientific meetings, receiving dividends, playing the country squire'sonly son and the wealthy host whilst awaiting the title which Marywished for--these things are not work, and somehow his days were soarranged that he was never allowed to go beyond them. All furtherresearches and experiments were discouraged. What did it matter ifhe were unfitted for that which he could no longer do? His work wasfinished. There it stood before him in that box, stamped "Monk'saerophone. The Twin. No. 3412. "

No; he had but one ambition left. To pierce the curtain of thick nightand behold her who was lost to him; her who loved him as man had beenseldom loved. 

The fierce temptation struck him as a sudden squall strikes a ship withall her canvas spread. For a moment mast and rigging stood the strain, then they went by the board. He would do it if it killed him; but thetask must be undertaken properly, deliberately, and above all in secret. To-morrow he would begin. When he had satisfied himself; when he hadseen; then he could always stop. 

A few minutes later Morris stood beside his wife's bed. There shelay, in the first perfection of young motherhood and beauty, a lovely, white-wrapped vision with straying golden hair; her sweet, rounded facepink with the flush of sleep, and the long lashes lying like littleshadows on her cheek. 

Morris looked at her, and his doubts returned. What would Stella say?he thought to himself. It almost seemed to him that he could hear hervoice, bidding him forbear; bidding him render unto his wife thosethings which were his wife's: all honour, loyalty, and devotion. If heentered on this course could he still render them? Was there not sucha thing as moral infidelity, and did not such exercises as he proposedpartake of its nature? Perhaps, perhaps. On the whole it might be wellto put all this behind him. 

It was three o'clock, he was tired out, and must sleep. The morningwould be a more fitting time to ponder such weighty questions of theunwritten matrimonial law. 

In due course, the morning came--indeed, it was not far off--and withit wiser counsels. Mary woke early and talked about the baby, which wasteething; indeed, so soon as the nurse was up she sent for it that thethree of them might hold a consultation over a swollen gum. Also shediscussed the date of their departure to Beaulieu, for again Christmaswas near at hand; adding, however, somewhat to Morris's relief, thatunless the baby's teeth went on better she really did not think thatthey could go, as it would be most unwise to take her out of the careof Dr. Charters and trust her to the tender mercies of foreign leeches. Morris agreed that it might be risky, and mentioned that in a letterwhich he had received from the concierge at Beaulieu a few days before, that functionary said that the place was overrun with measles andscarlatina. 

"Morris!" ejaculated Mary, sitting bolt upright in bed, "and you nevertold me! What is more, had it not been for baby's teeth, which broughtit to your mind, I believe you never would have told me, and I mighthave taken those unprotected little angels and--Oh! goodness, I can'tbear to think of it. "

Morris muttered some apologies, whereon Mary, looking at himsuspiciously through her falling hair, asked:

"Why did you forget to show me the letter? Did you suppress it becauseyou wanted to go to Beaulieu?"

"No, " answered Morris with energy; "I hate Beaulieu. I forgot, that isall; because I have so much to think about, I suppose. "

"So much? I thought that things were arranged now so that you hadnothing at all to think about except how to spend your money and behappy with me, and adore the dear angels--Yes, I think that perhaps thenurse had better take her away. Touch the bell, will you? There, she'sgone. Keep her well wrapped up, and mind the draught, nurse. 

"No, don't get up yet, Morris; I want to talk to you. You have been verygloomy of late, just like you used to be before you married, mooningabout and staring at nothing. And what on earth do you do sitting up toall hours of the morning in that ghosty old chapel, where I wouldn't bealone at twelve o'clock for a hundred pounds?"

"I read, " said Morris. 

"Read? Read what? Novels?"

"Sometimes, " answered Morris. 

"Oh, how can you tell such fibs? Why, that last book by LadyWhat's-her-name which came in the Mudie box--the one they say is soimproper--has been lying on your table for over two months, and youcan't tell me yet what it was the heroine did wrong. Morris, you are notinventing anything more, are you?"

Here was an inspiration. "I admit that I am thinking of a little thing, "he said with diffidence, as though he were a budding poet with a sonneton his mind. 

"A little thing? What little thing?"

"Well, a new kind of aerophone designed to work uninfluenced by itstwin. "

"Well, and why shouldn't it? Everything can't have a twin--only Isuppose there would be nothing to hear. "

"That's just the point, " replied Morris in his old professional manner. "I think there would be plenty to hear if only I could make the machinesensitive to the sounds and capable of reproducing them. "

"What sounds?" asked Mary. 

"Well, if, for instance, one could successfully insulate it from theearth noises, the sounds which permeate space, and even those that havetheir origin upon the surfaces of the planets and perhaps of the moredistant stars. "

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Mary, "imagine a man who can want to letloose upon our poor little world every horrible noise that happens inthe stars. Why, what under heaven would be the use of it?"

"Well, one might communicate with them. Conceivably even one might hearthe speech of their inhabitants, if they have any; always presumingthat such an instrument could be made, and that it can be successfullyinsulated. "

"Hear the speech of their inhabitants! That is your old idea, but youwill never succeed, that's one blessing. Morris, I suspect you; you wantto stop at home here to work at this horrible new machine; to work foryears, and years, and years without the slightest result. I suppose thatyou didn't invent that about the measles and the scarlatina, did you?The two of them together sound rather clumsy, as though you might havedone so. "

"Not a bit, upon my honour, " answered Morris. "I will go and get theletter, " and, not sorry to escape from further examination, he went. 

Whether the cause were Mary's doubts and reproaches, or the infant'sgums, or the working of his own conscience, --he felt that a man witha teething baby has no right to cultivate the occult. For quite a longperiod, a whole fortnight, indeed, Morris steadily refrained from anyattempt to fulfil his dangerous ambition to "pierce the curtain ofthick night. " Only he read and re-read Stella's diary--that secret, fascinating work which in effect was building a wall between him and thehealthy, common instincts of the world--till he knew whole pages of itby heart. Also he began a series of experiments whereof the object wasto produce an improved and more sensitive aerophone. 

That any instrument which the intellect of man could produce wouldreally succeed in conveying sounds which, if they exist at all, are bornin the vast cosmic areas that envelope our earth and its atmosphere, hebelieved to be most improbable. Still, such a thing was possible, forwhat is not? Moreover, the world itself as it rushes on its fearfuljourney across the depths of space has doubtless many voices that havenot yet been heard by the ears of men, some of which he might be able todiscover and record. At the least he stood upon the threshold of a newknowledge, and now a great desire arose in him to pass its doors, if sohe might, for who could tell what he would learn or see behind them? Andby degrees, as he worked, always with one ulterior object in his mind, his scruples vanished or were mastered by the growth of his longing, till this became his ruling passion--to behold the spirit of Stella. Now he no longer reasoned with himself, but openly, nakedly, in hisown heart gave his will over to the achievement of this monstrous andunnatural end. 

How was it to be done? That was now the sole dilemma which tormentedhim--as the possible methods of obtaining the drink he craves, or thedrug that gives him peace and radiant visions, torment the dipsomaniacor the morphia victim in his guarded prison. He thought of hisinstruments, those magic machines with the working of which Stella hadbeen familiar in her life. He even poured petitions into them in thehope that these might be delivered far beyond the ken of man, only tolearn that he was travelling a road which led to a wall impassable; thewall that, for the lack of a better name, we call Death, which bars thenatural from the spiritual. 

Wonderful as were his electrical appliances, innumerable as might betheir impalpable emanations, insoluble as seemed the mystery of theirpower of catching and transmitting sounds by the agency of ether, theywere still physical appliances producing physical effects in obedienceto the laws of nature. But what he sought lay beyond nature and wassubject to some rule of which he did not even know the elements, andmuch less the axioms. Herein his instruments, or indeed, any that mancould make, were as futile and as useless as would be the prayers of anarchbishop addressed to a Mumbo-jumbo in a fetish house. The link waswanting; there was, and could be, no communication between the two. The invisible ether which he had subdued to his purposes was still aconstituent part of the world of matter; he must discover the spiritualether, and discover also the animating force by which it might beinfluenced. 

Now he formed a new plan--to reach the dead by his petitions, by theinvocation of his own spirit. "Seek me and you shall find me, " she hadsaid. So he sought and called in bitterness and concentration of heart, but still he did not find. Stella did not come. 

He was in despair. She had promised, and her promise seemed to bebroken. Then it was that in turning the pages of her diary he cameacross a passage that had escaped him, or which he had forgotten. It ranthus:

"In the result I have learned this, that we cannot compel the departedto appear. Even if they hear us they will not, or are not suffered toobey. If we would behold them we must create the power of vision in ourown natures. They are about us always, only we cannot see or feel theirpresence; our senses are too gross. To succeed we must refine our sensesuntil they acquire an aptitude beyond the natural. Then without any willor any intervention on their parts, we may triumph, perhaps even when_they_ do not know that we have triumphed. "

CHAPTER XXIII

STELLA COMES

Now, by such arts as are known to those who have studied mysticism inany of its protean forms, Morris set himself to attempt communicationwith the unseen. In their practice these arts are as superlativelyunwholesome as in their result, successful or not, they are unnatural. Also, they are very ancient. The Chaldeans knew them, and the magicianswho stood before Pharaoh knew them. To the early Christian anchoritesand to the gnostics they were familiar. In one shape or another, ancientwonder-workers, Scandinavian and mediaeval seers, modern Spiritualists, classical interpreters of oracles, Indian fakirs, savage witch-doctorsand medicine men, all submitted or submit themselves to the yoke of thesame rule in the hope of attaining an end which, however it may vary inits manifestations, is identical in essence. 

This is the rule: to beat down the flesh and its instincts and nurturethe spirit, its aspirations and powers. And this is the end--to escapebefore the time, if only partially and at intervals, into an atmosphereof vision true or false, where human feet were meant to find no road, and the trammelled minds of men no point of outlook. That such anatmosphere exists even materialists would hesitate to deny, for it isproved by the whole history of the moral world, and especially by thatof the religions of the world, their founders, their prophets and theirexponents, many of whom have breathed its ether, and pronounced it thevery breath of life. Their feet have walked the difficult path; standingon those forbidden peaks they have scanned the dim plains and valleysof the unseen, and made report of the dreams and shapes that haunt them. Then the busy hordes of men beneath for a moment pause to listen and aresatisfied. 

"Lo, here is Truth, " they cry, "now we may cease from troubling. " So fora while they rest till others answer, "Nay, _this_ is Truth; our teachertold it us from yonder mountain, the only Holy Hill. " And yet othersfall upon them and slay them, shouting, "Neither of these is Truth. Shedwells not among the precipices, but in the valley; there we have heardher accents. "

And still from cliff to cliff and along the secret vales echoes thevoice of Truth; and still upon the snow-wreathed peaks and across thespace of rolling ocean, and even among the populous streets of men, veiled, mysterious, and changeful, her shape is seen by those who havetrained themselves or been inspired to watch and hear. But no two seethe same shape, and no two hear the same voice, since to each she wearsa different countenance, and speaks with another tongue. For Truth isas the sand of the shore for number, and as the infinite hues of therainbow for variety. Yet the sand is ground out of one mother rock, andall the colours of earth and air are born of a single sun. 

So, practising the ancient rites and mysteries, and bowing himself tothe ancient law whose primeval principles every man and woman may findgraven upon the tablets of their solitary heart, Morris set himself tofind that truth, which for him was hid in the invisible soul of Stella, the soul which he desired to behold and handle, even if the touch andsight should slay him. 

Day by day he worked, for as many hours as he could make his own, at thedetails of his new experiments. These in themselves were interesting, and promised even to be fruitful; but that was not his object, or, at any rate, his principal object in pursuing them with such an eagerpassion of research. The talk and hazardings which had passed betweenhimself and Stella notwithstanding, both reason and experience hadtaught him already that all instruments made by the hand of man wereuseless to break a way into the dwellings of the departed. A day mightcome when they would enable the inhabitants of the earth to conversewith the living denizens of the most distant stars; but never, neverwith the dead. He laboured because of the frame of thought his toilbrought with it, but still more that he might be alone: that he might beable to point to his soiled hands, the shabby clothes which he wore whenworking with chemicals or at the forge, the sheets of paper covered withhalf-finished and maddening calculations, as an excuse why he should notbe taken out, or, worse still, dragged from his home to stay for nights, or perhaps whole weeks, in other places. Even his wife, he felt, wouldrelent at the sight of those figures, and would fly from the odour ofchemicals. 

In fact, Mary did both, for she hated what she called "smells, " anda place strewn with hot irons and bottles of acids, which, as shediscovered, if disturbed burnt both dress and fingers. The sight alsoof algebraic characters pursuing each other across quires of paper, likethe grotesque forces of some broken, impish army, filled her indolentmind with a wondering admiration that was akin to fear. The man, shereflected, who could force those cabalistic symbols to reveal anythingworth knowing must indeed be a genius, and one who deserved not to bedisturbed, even for a tea party. 

Although she disapproved deeply of these renewed studies, such wasMary's secret thought. Whether it would have sufficed alone to persuadeher to permit them is another matter, since her instinct, keen andsubtle as any of Morris's appliances, warned her that in them lay dangerto her home and happiness. But just then, as it happened, there wereother matters to occupy her mind. The baby became seriously ill over itsteething, and, other infantile complications following, for some weeksit was doubtful whether she would survive. 

Now Mary belonged to the class of woman which is generally known as"motherly, " and adored her offspring almost to excess. Consequently forthose weeks she found plenty to think about without troubling herselfover-much as to Morris and his experiments. For these same reasons, perhaps, she scarcely noticed, seated as she was some distance awayat the further end of the long table, how very ethereal her husband'sappetite had become, or that, although he took wine as usual, it wasa mere pretence, since he never emptied his glass. The most loving ofwomen can scarcely be expected to consider a man's appetite when that ofa baby is in question, or, while the child wastes, to take note whetheror no its father is losing flesh. Lastly, as regards the hours at whichhe came to bed, being herself a sound sleeper Mary had long since ceasedto interest herself about them, on the wise principle that so long asshe was not expected to sit up it was no affair of hers. 

Thus it happened that Morris worked and meditated by day, and bynight--ah! who that has not tried to climb this difficult and endlessJacob's ladder resting upon the earth and losing itself far, far away inthe blue of heaven above, can understand what he did by night? But thosewho have stood even on its lowest rung will guess, and--for the rest itdoes not matter. 

He advanced; he knew that he advanced, that the gross wall of sense waswearing thin beneath the attacks of his out-thrown soul; that even ifthey were not drawn, from time to time the black curtains swung aside inthe swift, pure breath of his continual prayers. Moreover, the dead drewnear to him at moments, or he drew near the dead. Even in his earthlybrain he could feel their awful presence as wave by wave soft, sweetpulses of impression beat upon him and passed through him. Through andthrough him they passed till his brow ached, and every nerve of his bodytingled, as though it had become the receiver of some mysterious currentthat stirred his blood with what was not akin to it, and summoned to hismind strange memories and foresights. Visions came also that he couldnot define, to slip from his frantic grasp like wet sand through thefingers of a drowning man. More and more frequently, and with an everincreasing completeness, did this unearthly air, blowing from a shore nohuman foot has trod, breathe through his being and possess him, muchas some faint wind which we cannot feel may be seen to possess an aspentree so that it turns white and shivers when every other natural thingis still. And as that aspen turns white and shivers in this thin, impalpable air, so did his spirit blanch and quiver with joy and dreadmingled mysteriously in the cup of his expectant soul. 

Again and again those sweet, yet sickening waves flowed over him, toleave him shaken and unnerved. At first they were rare visitors, singleclouds floating across his calm, coming he knew not whence and vanishinghe knew not whither. Now they drove in upon him like some scud, ampleyet broken, before the wind, till at whiles, as it were, he could notsee the face of the friendly, human sun. Then he was like a travellerlost in the mist upon a mountain top, sure of nothing, feelingprecipices about him, hearing voices calling him, seeing white armsstretched out to lead him, yet running forward gladly because amid somany perils a fate was in his feet. 

Now, too, they came with an actual sense of wind. He would wake upat night even by his wife's side and feel this unholy breath blowingice-cold on his brow and upon the backs of his outstretched hands. Yetif he lit a candle it had no power to stir its flame; yes, while itstill blew sharp upon him the flame of the candle did not move. Thenthe wind would cease, and within him the intangible, imponderable powerwould arise, and the voices would speak like the far, far, murmur ofa stream, and the thoughts which he could not weigh or interpret wouldsoak into his being like some strange dew, and, soft, soft as fallingsnow, invisible feet would tread the air about him, till of a sudden adoor in his brain seemed to shut, and he woke to the world again. 

Every force is subject to laws. Even if they were but the emanations ofan incipient madness which like all else have their origins, destinies, and forms, these possessing vapours were a force, which in time Morris, whose mind from a lifelong training was scientific and methodical, accustomed, moreover, to struggle for dominion over elements unknown orimperfectly appreciated, learned to regulate if not entirely to control. Their visits were pleasant to him, a delight even; but to experiencethis joy to the utmost he discovered that their power must beconcentrated; that if the full effect was to be produced this moralmorphia must be taken in strong doses, and at stated intervals, sufficient space being allowed between them to give his mental beingtime to recuperate. Science has proved that even the molecules of a wirecan grow fatigued by the constant passage of electricity, or the edge ofa razor by too frequent stropping. Both of them, to be effective, to dotheir utmost service, must have periods of rest. 

Here, then, his will came to his aid, for he found that by its strong, concentrated exertion he was enabled both to shut off the sensations orto excite them. Another thing he found also--that after a while it wasimpossible to do without them. For a period the anticipation of theirnext visit would buoy him up; but if it were baulked too long, thenreaction set in, and with it the horrors of the Pit. 

This was the first stage of his insanity--or of his vision. 

Dear as such manifestations might be to him, in time he wearied of them;these hints which but awakened his imagination, these fantastic spicedmeats which, without staying it, only sharpened his spiritual appetite. More than ever he longed to see and to know, to make acquaintance withthe actual presence, whereof they were but the forerunners, the coldblasts that go before the storm, the vague, mystical draperies whichveiled the unearthly goddess at whose shrine he was a worshipper. Hedesired the full fierce fury of the tempest, the blinding flash of thelightning, the heavy hiss of the rain, the rush of the winds bursting onhim from the four horizons; he desired the naked face of his goddess. 

And she came--or he acquired the power to see her, whichever it mightbe. She came suddenly, unexpectedly, completely, as a goddess should. 

It was on Christmas Eve, at night, the anniversary of Stella's deathfour years before. Morris and his wife were alone at the Abbey, as theColonel had gone for a fortnight or so to Beaulieu, just to keep thehouse aired, as he explained. Also Lady Rawlins was there with herhusband, the evil-tempered man who by a single stroke of sickness hadbeen converted into a babbling imbecile, harmless as a babe, and amusedfor the most part with such toys as are given to babes. She, so Morrisunderstood, had intimated that Sir Jonah was failing, really failingquickly, and that in her friendlessness at a foreign place, especiallyat Christmas time, she would be thankful to have the comfort of an oldfriend's presence. This the old friend, who, having been back from townfor a whole month, was getting rather bored with Monksland and thesick baby, determined to vouchsafe, explaining that he knew that youngmarried people liked to be left to each other now and again, especiallywhen they were worried with domestic troubles. Lady Rawlins was foolishand fat, but, as the Colonel remembered, she was fond. Where, indeed, could another woman be found who would endure so much scientificdiscipline and yet be thankful? Also, within a few weeks, after theexpected demise of Jonah, she would be wondrous wealthy--that he knew. Therefore it seemed that the matter was worth consideration--and ajourney to Beaulieu. 

So the Colonel went, and Morris, more and more possessed by hismonomania, was glad that he had gone. His absence gave him greateropportunities of loneliness; it was now no longer necessary that heshould sit at night smoking with his father, or, rather, watching himsmoke at the expense of so many precious hours when he should be up anddoing. 

Morris and Mary dined tete-a-tete that evening, but almost immediatelyafter dinner she had gone to the nurseries. The baby was now threatenedwith convulsions, and a trained nurse had been installed. But, as Marydid not in the least trust the nurse, who, according to her account, was quite unaccustomed to children, she insisted upon dogging thatfunctionary's footsteps. Therefore, Morris saw little of her. 

It was one o'clock on Christmas morning, or more. Hours ago Morris hadgone though his rites, the ritual that he had invented or discovered--inits essence, simple and pathetic enough--whereby he strove to bringhimself to the notice of the dead, and to fit himself to see or hear thedead. Such tentative mysticism as served his turn need not be writtendown, but its substance can be imagined by many. Then, through anexercise of his will, he had invoked the strange, trance-like statewhich has been described. The soft waves flowing from an unknown sourcehad beat upon his brain, and with them came the accustomed phenomena;the sense of some presence near, impending, yet impotent; suggestingby analogy and effect the misdirected efforts of a blind person seekingsomething in a room, or the painful attempt of one almost deaf, strivingto sift out words from a confused murmur of sounds. The personalityof Stella seemed to pervade him, yet he could see nothing, could hearnothing. The impression might be from within, not from without. Perhaps, after all, it was nothing but a dream, a miasma, a mirage, drawn by hisown burning thought from the wastes and marshes of his mind peopledwith illusive hopes and waterlogged by memories. Or it might be true andreal; as yet he could not be certain of its origin. 

The fit passed, delightful in its overpowering emptiness, butunsatisfying as all that had gone before it, and left him weak. For awhile Morris crouched by the fire, for he had grown cold, and couldnot think accurately. Then his vital, human strength returned, and, asseemed to him to be fitting upon this night of all nights, he began oneby one to recall the events of that day four years ago, when Stella wasstill a living woman. 

The scene in the Dead Church, the agonies of farewell; he summonedthem detail by detail, word by word; her looks, the changes of herexpression, the movements of her hands and eyes and lips; he counted andpictured each precious souvenir. The sound of her last sentences also, as the blind, senseless aerophone had rendered them just before theend, one by one they were repeated in his brain. There stood the veryinstrument; but, alas! it was silent now, its twin lay buried in the seawith her who had worked it. 

Morris grew weary, the effort of memory was exhausting, and after it hewas glad to think of nothing. The fire flickered, the clear light ofthe electric lamps shone upon the hard, sixteenth-century faces ofthe painted angels in the ancient roof; without the wind soughed, andthrough it rose the constant, sullen roar of the sea. 

Tired, disappointed, unhappy, and full of self-reproaches, for when themadness was not on him he knew his sin, Morris sank into a doze. Nowmusic crept softly into his sleep; sweet, thrilling music, causing himto open his eyes and smile. It was Christmas Eve, and doubtless he heardthe village waifs. 

Morris looked up arousing himself to listen, and lo! there before him, unexpected and ineffable, was Stella; Stella as she appeared that nighton which she had sung to him, just as she finished singing, indeed, whenhe stood for a while in the faint moonlight, the flame of inspirationstill flickering in those dark eyes and the sweet lips drawn down alittle as though she were about to weep. 

The sight did not astonish him, at the moment he never imagined eventhen that this could be her spirit, that his long labours in a soil noman was meant to till had issued into harvest. Surely it was a dream, nothing but a dream. He felt no tremors, no cold wind stirred his hair;his heart did not stand still, nor his breath come short. Why should aman fear so beautiful a dream? Yet, vaguely enough, he wished that itmight last forever, for it was sweet to see her so--as she had been. As she had been--yet, was she ever thus? Surely some wand of change hadtouched her. She was beautiful, but had she worn that beauty? And thoseeyes! Could any such have shone in the face of woman?

"Stella, " he whispered, and from roof and walls crept back the echo ofhis voice. He rose and went towards her. She had vanished. He returned, and there she was. 

"Speak!" he muttered; "speak!" But no word came, only the lovelychangeless eyes shone on and watched him. 

Listen! Music seemed to float about the room, such music as he had neverheard--even Stella could not make the like. The air was full of it, thenight without was full of it, millions of voices took up the chant, andfrom far away, note by note, mighty organs and silver trumpets told itsmelody. 

His brain reeled. In the ocean of those unimagined harmonies it wastossed like a straw upon a swirling river, tossed and overwhelmed. 

Slowly, very slowly, as the straw might be sucked into the heart of awhirlpool, his soul was drawn down into blackness. It shuddered, it wasafraid; this vision of a whirlpool haunted him. He could see the narrowfunnel of its waters, smooth, shining like jet, unspecked by foam, solidto all appearances; but, as he was aware, alive, every atom of them, instinct with some frightful energy, the very face of force--and in theteeth of it, less than a dead leaf, himself. 

Down he went, down, and still above him shone the beautiful, pitying, changeless eyes; and still round him echoed that strange, searchingmusic. The eyes receded, the music became faint, and then--blackness. 

CHAPTER XXIV

DREAMS AND THE SLEEP

The Christmas Day which followed this strange night proved the happiestthat Morris could ever remember to have spent since his childhood. Inhis worldly circumstances of course he was oppressed by none of theeveryday worries which at this season are the lot of most--no duns cameto trouble him, nor through lack of means was he forced to turn anybeggar from his door. Also the baby was much better, and Mary's spiritswere consequently radiant. Never, indeed, had she been more lovely andcharming than when that morning she presented him with a splendid goldchronometer to take the place of the old silver watch which was hismother's as a girl, and that he had worn all his life. Secretly hesorrowed over parting with that familiar companion in favour of itsnew eighty-guinea rival, although it was true that it always lost tenminutes a day, and sometimes stopped altogether. But there was no helpfor it; so he kissed Mary and was grateful. 

Moreover, the day was beautiful. In the morning they walked to churchthrough the Abbey plantations, which run for nearly half a mile alongthe edge of the cliff. The rime lay thick upon the pines and firs--everylittle needle had its separate coat of white whereon the sun's raysglistened. The quiet sea, too, shone like some gigantic emerald, and inthe sweet stillness the song of a robin perched upon the bending boughof a young poplar sounded pure and clear. 

Yet it was not this calm and plenty, this glittering ocean flecked withwhite sails, and barred by delicate lines of smoke, this blue andhappy sky, nor all the other good things that were given to him in suchabundance, which steeped his heart in Sabbath rest. Although he soughtno inspiration from such drugs, and, indeed, was a stranger to them, rather was his joy the joy of the opium-eater while the poison works;the joy of him who after suffering long nights of pain has found theirantidote, and perhaps for the first time appreciates the worth of peace, however empty. His troubled heart had ceased its striving, his wreckednerves were still, his questionings had been answered, his ends wereattained; he had drunk of the divine cup which he desired, and its wineflowed through him. The dead had visited him, and he had tasted of thedelight which lies hid in death. On that day he felt as though nothingcould hurt him any more, nothing could even move him. The angry voices, the wars, the struggles, the questionings--all the things which tormentmankind; what did they matter? He had forced the lock and broken thebar; if only for a little while, the door had opened, and he had seenthat which he desired to see and sought with all his soul, and with thewondrous harvest of this pure, inhuman passion, that owes nothing tosex, or time, or earth, he was satisfied at last. 

"Why did you look so strange in church?" asked Mary as they walked home, and her voice echoed in the spaces of his void mind as words echo in anempty hall. 

His thoughts were wandering far, and with difficulty he drew them back, as birds tied by the foot are drawn back and, still fluttering to befree, brought home to the familiar cage. 

"Strange, dear?" he answered; "did I look strange?"

"Yes; like a man in a dream or the face of a saint being comfortablymartyred in a picture. Morris, I believe that you are not well. I willspeak to the doctor. He must give you a tonic, or something for yourliver. Really, to see you and that old mummy Mr. Fregelius staring ateach other while he murmured away about the delights of the world tocome, and how happy we ought to be at the thought of getting there, mademe quite uncomfortable. "

"Why? Why, dear?" asked Morris, vacantly. 

"Why? Because the old man with his pale face and big eyes looked morelike an astral body than a healthy human being; if I met him in hissurplice at night, I should think he was a ghost, and upon my word, you are catching the same expression. That comes of your being so muchtogether. Do be a little more human and healthy. Lose your temper; swearat the cook like your father; admire Jane Rose's pretty bonnet, or herpretty face; take to horse-racing, do anything that is natural, even ifit is wicked. Anything that doesn't make one think of graves, and stars, and infinities, and souls who died last night; of all of which no doubtwe shall have plenty in due season. "

"All right, dear, " answered Morris, with a fine access of forcedcheerfulness, "we will have some champagne for dinner and play picquetafter it. "

"Champagne! What's the use of champagne when you only pretend to drinkit and fill up the glass with soda-water? Picquet! You hate it, and sodo I; and it is silly losing large sums of money to each other which wenever mean to pay. That isn't the real thing, there's no life inthat. Oh, Morris, if you love me, do cultivate some human error. It isterrible to have a husband in whom there is nothing to reform. "

"I will try, love, " said Morris, earnestly. 

"Yes, " she replied, with a gloomy shake of the head, "but you won'tsucceed. When Mrs. Roberts told me the other day that she was afraid herhusband was taking to drink because he went out walking too often withthat pretty widow from North Cove--the one with the black and goldbonnet whom they say things about--I answered that I quite envied her, and she didn't in the least understand what I meant. But I understand, although I can't express myself. "

"I give up the drink, " said Morris; "it disagrees; but perhaps you mightintroduce me to the widow. She seems rather attractive. "

"I will, " answered Mary, stamping her foot. "She's a horrid, vulgarlittle thing; but I'll ask her to tea, or to stay, and anything, if shecan only make you look rather less disembodied. "

That night the champagne appeared, and, feeling his wife's eyes uponhim, Morris swallowed two whole glasses, and in consequence was quitecheerful, for he had eaten little--circumstances under which champagneexhilarates--for a little while. Then they went into the drawing-roomand talked themselves into silence about nothing in particular, after which Morris began to wander round the room and contemplate thefurniture as though he had never seen it before. 

"What are you fidgeting about?" asked Mary. "Morris, you remind me ofsomebody who wants to slip away to an assignation, which in your case isabsurd. I wish your father were back, I really do; I should be glad tolisten to his worst and longest story. It isn't often that I sit withyou, so it would be kinder if you didn't look so bored. I'm cross; I'mgoing to bed. I hope you will spend a pleasant night in the chapel withyour thoughts and your instruments and the ghosts of the old Abbots. Butplease come into my room quietly; I don't like being woke up after threein the morning, as I was yesterday. " And she went, slamming the doorbehind her. 

Morris went also with hanging head and guilty step to his accustomedhaunt in the old chapel. He knew that he was doing wrong; he couldsympathise with Mary's indignation. Yet he was unable to resist, he mustsee again, must drink once more of that heavenly cup. 

And he failed. Was it the champagne? Was it Mary's sharp words which hadruffled him? Was it that he had not allowed enough time for the energywhich came from him enabling her to appear before his mortal eyes, togather afresh in the life-springs of his own nature? Or was she alsoangry with him?

At least he failed. The waves came indeed, and the cold wind blew, butthere was no sound of music, and no vision. Again and again he stroveto call it up--to fancy that he saw. It was useless, and at last, weary, broken, but filled with a mad irritation such as might be felt by ahungry man who sees food which he cannot touch, or by a jealous loverwho beholds her that should have been his bride take another husbandbefore his eyes, he crept away to such rest as he could win. 

He awoke, ill, wretched, and unsatisfied, but wisdom had come to himwith sleep. He must not fail again, it was too wearing; he must preparehimself according to the rules which he had laid down. Also he mustconciliate his wife, so that she did not speak angrily to him, and thusdisturb his calm of mind. Broken waters mirror nothing; if his soul wasto be the glass in which that beloved spirit might appear, it must bestill and undisturbed. If? Then was she built up in his imagination, ordid he really see her with his eyes? He could not tell, and after all itmattered little so long as he did see her. 

He grew cunning--in such circumstances a common symptom--affecting a"bonhomie, " a joviality of demeanour, indeed, which was rather overdone. He suggested that Mary should ask some people to tea, and twice hewent out shooting, a sport which he had almost abandoned. Only whenshe wanted to invite certain guests to stay, he demurred a little, onaccount of the baby, but so cleverly that she never suspected him ofbeing insincere. In short, as he could attain his unholy end in no otherway, Morris entered on a career of mild deception, designed to preventhis wife from suspecting him of she knew not what. His conduct was thatof a man engaged in an intrigue. In his case, however, the possible endof his ill-doing was not the divorce-court, but an asylum, or so someobservers would have anticipated. Yet did man ever adore a mistress sofatal and destroying as this poor shadow of the dead which he desired?

It was not until New Year's Eve that Stella came again. Once moreenervated and exhausted by the waves, Morris sank into a doze whence, asbefore, he was awakened by the sound of heavenly music to which, onthis night, was added the scent of perfume. Then he opened his eyes--tobehold Stella. As she had been at first, so she was now, only morelovely--a hundred times lovelier than the imagination can paint, or thepen can tell. Here was nothing pale or deathlike, no sheeted, melancholyspectre, but a radiant being whose garment was the light, and whose eyesglowed like the heart of some deep jewel. About her rolled a vision ofmany colours, such hues as the rainbow has fell upon her face and abouther hair. And yet it was the same Stella that he had known made perfectand spiritual and, beyond all imagining, divine. 

Once more he addressed--implored her, and once more no answer came; nordid her face change, or that wondrous smile pass from her lips into thegravity of her eyes. This, at least, was sure; either that she no longerhad any understanding knowledge of his earthly tongue, or that itsdemonstration was to her a thing forbidden. What was she then? Thatdouble of the body which the Egyptians called the _Ka_, or the soulitself, the {preuma}, no eidolon, but the immortal _ego_, clothed inhuman semblance made divine?

Why was there no answer? Because his speech was too gross for her tohearken to? Why did she not speak? Because his ears were deaf? Was thisan illusion? No! a thousand times. When he approached she vanished, butwhat of it? He was mortal, she a spirit; they might not mix. 

Yet in her own method she did speak, spoke to his soul, bidding thescales fall from its eyes so that it might see. And it saw what humanimagination could not fashion. Behold those gardens, those groves thathang upon the measureless mountain face, and the white flowers whichdroop in tresses from the dark bough of yonder towering poplar tree, andthe jewelled serpent nestling at its root. 

Oh! they are gone, and when the flame-eyed Figure smote, the vast, barring, precipices fall apart and the road is smooth and open. 

How far? A million miles? No, twenty thousand millions. Look, yondershines the destined Star; now come! So, it is reached. Nay, do not stopto stare. Look again! out through utter space to where the low lightglows. So, come once more. The suns float past like windblown goldendust--like the countless lamps of boats upon the bosom of a summer sea. There, beneath, lies the very home of Power. Those springing sparks oflight? They are the ineffable Decrees passing outward through infinity. That sound? It is the voice of worlds which worship. 

Look now! Out yonder see the flaming gases gather and cohere. They burnout and the great globe blackens. Cool mists wrap it, rains fall, seas collect, continents arise. There is life, behold it, various andinfinite. And hearken to the whisper of this great universe, one tinynote in that song of praise you heard but now. Yes, the life dies, theball grows black again; it is the carcase of a world. How long haveyou watched it? For an hour, a breath; but, as you judge time, someten thousand million years. Sleep now, you are weary; later you shallunderstand. 

Thus the wraith of Stella spoke to his soul in visions. Presently, with drumming ears and eyes before which strange lights seemed to play, Morris staggered from the place, so weak, indeed, that he could scarcelythrust one foot before the other. Yet his heart was filled with a madjoy, and his brain was drunken with the deep cup of a delight and aknowledge that have seldom been given to man. 

On other nights the visions were different. Thus he saw the spirits ofmen going out and returning, and among them his own slumbering spiritthat a vast and shadowy Stella bore in her arms as a mother bears ababe. 

He saw also the Vision of Numbers. All the infinite inhabitants of allthe infinite worlds passed before him, marching through the ages tosome end unknown. Once, too, his mind was opened, and he understoodthe explanation of Evil and the Reason of Things. He shouted at theirglorious simplicity--shouted for joy; but lo! before he rose from hischair they were forgotten. 

Other visions there were without count. Also they would mix and fallinto new patterns, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. There wasno end to them, and each was lovelier, or grander, or fraught with amore sweet entrancement, than the last. And still she who brought them, she who opened his eyes, who caused his ears to hear and his soul tosee; she whom he worshipped; his heart's twin, she who had swornherself to him on earth, and was there waiting to fulfil the oath to alleternity; the woman who had become a spirit, that spirit that had takenthe shape of a woman--there she stood and smiled and changed, and yetwas changeless. And oh! what did it matter if his life was draining fromhim, and oh! to die at those glittering feet, with that perfumed breathstirring in his hair! What did he seek more when Death would be thegreat immortal waking, when from twilight he passed out to light? Whatmore when in that dawn, awful yet smiling, she should be his and hehers, and they twain would be one, with thought that answered thought, since it was the same thought?

There is much that might be told--enough to fill many pages. It would beeasy, for instance, to set out long lists of the entrancing dreams whichwere the soul speech of the spirit of Stella, and to some extent, topicture them. Also the progress of the possession of Morris might bedescribed and the student of his history shown, step by step, how theconsummation that in her life days Stella had feared, overtook him; how"the thing got the mastery of him, " and he became "unfitted for his workon earth!" How, too, his body wasted and his spiritual part developed, till every physical sight and deed became a cause of irritation to hisnew nature, and at times even a source of active suffering. 

Thus an evil odour, the spectacle of pain, the cry of grief, the sightof the carcases of dead animals, to take a few examples out of verymany, were agonies to his abnormal, exasperated nerves. Nor did it stopthere, since the misfortune which threatened Stella when at lengthshe had succeeded in becoming bodily conscious of the presence of theeidolon of her sister, and "heard discords among the harmonies" of therich music of her violin, overtook him also. 

Thus, for instance, in the scent of the sweetest rose at times Morriswould discover something frightful; even the guise of tender childhoodceased to be lovely in his eyes, for now he could see and feel thebudding human brute beneath. Worse still, his beautiful companion, Mary, fair and gracious as she was, became almost repulsive to him, so thathe shrank from her as in common life some delicate-nurtured man mightshrink from a full-bodied, coarse-tongued young fishwife. Even her dailyneed of food, which was healthy though not excessive, disgusted him towitness, --he who was out of touch with all wholesome appetites of earth, whose distorted nature sought an alien rest and solace. 

Of Mary herself, also, it might be narrated how, after first mockingat the thought and next thrusting it away, by degrees she grew toappreciate the reality of the mysterious foreign influence which reignedin her home. It might be told how in that spiritual atmosphere, sheddingits sleepy indolence, her own spirit awoke and grew conscious andfar-seeing, till impressions and hints which in the old days she wouldhave set aside as idle, became for her pregnant with light and meaning. Then at last her eyes were opened, and understanding much and guessingmore she began to watch. The attitude of the Colonel also could bestudied, and how he grew first suspicious, then sarcastic, and at lastthoroughly alarmed, even to his ultimate evacuation of the Abbey House, detailed at length. 

But to the chronicler of these doings and of their unusual issues at anyrate, it appears best to resist a natural temptation; to deny the desireto paint such closing scenes in petto. Much more does this certaintyhold of their explanation. Enough has been said to enable those in whomthe spark of understanding may burn, to discover by its light how muchis left unsaid. Enough has been hinted at to teach how much thereis still to guess. At least few will deny that some things are bestabandoned to the imagination. To attempt to drag the last veil from theface of Truth in any of her thousand shapes is surely a folly predoomedto failure. From the beginning she has been a veiled divinity, andveiled, however thinly, she must and will remain. Also, even were itpossible thus to rob her, would not her bared eyes frighten us?

It was late, very late, and there, pale and haggard in the low light ofthe fire, once again Morris stood pleading with the radiant image whichhis heart revealed. 

"Oh, speak! speak!" he moaned aloud. "I weary of those pictures. Theyare too vast; they crush me. I grow weak. I have no strength left tofight against the power of this fearful life that is discovered. Icannot bear this calm everlasting life. It sucks out my mortality asmists are sucked up by the sun. Become human. Speak. Let me touch yourhand. Or be angry. Only cease smiling that awful smile, and take thosesolemn eyes out of my heart. Oh, my darling, my darling! remember that Iam still a man. In pity answer me before I die. "

Then a low and awful cry, and Morris turned to behold Mary his wife. Atlast she had seen and heard, and read his naked heart. At last she knewhim--mad, and in his madness, most unfaithful--a man who loved one deadand dragged her down to earth for company. 

Look! there in his charmed and secret sight stood the spirit, and there, over against her, the mortal woman, and he--wavering--he lost betweenthe two. 

Certainly he had been sick a long while, since the sun-ray touched theface of the old abbot carved in that corner of the room to supportthe hammer beam. This, as he had known from a child, only chanced atmid-summer. Mary was bending over him, but he was astonished to findthat he could sit up and move. Surely, then, his mind must have beenmore ill than his body. 

"Hush!" she said, "drink this, dear, and go to sleep. "

It was a week after, and Morris had told her all, the kind and gentlewife who was so good to him, who understood and could even smile as heexplained, in faltering, shame-heavy words. And he had sworn for hersake and his children's sake, that he would put away this awful traffic, and seek such fellowship no more. 

Nor for six months did he seek it; not till the winter returned. Then, when his body was strong again, the ravening hunger of his soul overcamehim, and, lest he should go mad or die of longing, Morris broke hisoath--as she was sure he would. 

One night Mary missed her husband from her side, and creeping downin the grey of the morning, she found him sitting in his chair in thechapel workshop, smiling strangely, but cold and dead. Then her heartseemed to break, for she loved him. Yet, remembering her promises, and the dust whereof he was made, and the fate to which he had beenappointed, she forgave him all. 

The search renewed, or the fruit of some fresh discovery--what he soughtor what he saw, who knows?--had killed him. 

Or perhaps Stella had seemed to speak at last and the word he heard hersay was _Come!_

This, then, is the end of the story of Stella Fregelius upon earth, andthis the writing on a leaf torn from the book of three human destinies. Remember, only one leaf.