Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies Read online

  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, an
d 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."