TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER
At length the light began to fade, and for that day their experiments
were over. In token of their conclusion twice Stella rang the electric
warning bell which was attached to the aerophone, and in some
mysterious manner caused the bell of its twin instrument to ring also.
Then she packed the apparatus in its box, for, with its batteries, it
was too heavy and too delicate to be carried conveniently, locking it
up, and left the church, which she also locked behind her. Outside it
was still snowing fast, but softly, for the wind had dropped, and a
sharp frost was setting in, causing the fallen snow to scrunch beneath
her feet. About half-way along the bleak line of deserted cliff which
stretched from the Dead Church to the first houses of Monksland, she
saw the figure of a man walking swiftly towards her, and knew from the
bent head and broad, slightly stooping shoulders that it was Morris
coming to escort her home. Presently they met.
“Why did you not wait for me?” he asked in an irritated voice, “I told
you I was coming, and you know that I do not like you to be tramping
about these lonely cliffs at this hour.”
“It is very kind of you,” she answered, smiling that slow, soft smile
which was characteristic of her when she was pleased, a smile that
seemed to be born in her beautiful eyes and thence to irradiate her
whole face; “but it was growing dreary and cold there, so I thought
that I would start.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I forgot, and, what is more, it is very selfish of
me to keep you cooped up in such a place upon a winter’s day.
Enthusiasm makes one forget everything.”
“At least without it we should do nothing; besides, please do not pity
me, for I have never been happier in my life.”
“I am most grateful,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know what I should
have 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
had not heard his words.
“Yes,” he answered, “beyond all expectations. We must experiment over a
greater distance, and then if the thing still works I shall be able to
speak with my critics in the gate. You know I have kept everything as
dark as possible up to the present, for it is foolish to talk first and
fail afterwards. I prefer to succeed first and talk afterwards.”
“What a triumph it will be!” said Stella. “All those clever scientists
will arrive prepared to mock, then think they are taken in, and at last
go 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 happy
ending. 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
of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is too much. ‘Happy endings’ don’t come off. The happiness
lies 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 done
something; it is good; it cannot be changed; it is a stone built for
ever in the pyramid of beauty, or knowledge, or advancement.’ What can
man hope to say more at the last, and how few live to say it, to say it
truly? 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
he stopped to ask:
“Why did Layard come to the Dead Church to-day? He said that he was
going home, and it isn’t on his road.”
Stella turned her head, but, even in that faint light, not quickly
enough to prevent him seeing a sudden flush change the pallor of her
face 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’s
conversation for longer than I want; it has a knack of impressing
itself upon me. What was it? Cemetery land, church debts, the new
drainage scheme, 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 once
jumped to a conclusion far other than the truth. Doubtless Layard had
gone to the church to propose to Stella, and she had accepted him, or
half accepted him; the confusion of her manner told its own tale. A new
and strange sensation took possession of Morris. He felt unwell; he
felt angry; if the aerophone refused to work at all to-morrow, he would
care nothing. He could not see quite clearly, and was not altogether
sure where 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 my
congratulations,” but fortunately, or unfortunately, stopped himself in
time.
Stella divined something of what was passing in his mind; not all,
indeed, for to her the full measure of his folly would have been
incomprehensible. For a moment she contemplated an explanation, then
abandoned the idea because she could find no words; because, also, this
was another person’s secret, and she had no right to involve an honest
man, who had paid her a great compliment, in her confidences. So she
said nothing. To Morris, for the moment at any rate, a conclusive proof
of his worst suspicions.
The rest of that walk was marked by unbroken silence. Both of them were
very glad when it was finished.
It was five o’clock when they reached the Abbey, so that there were two
hours to be spent before it was time to dress for dinner. When she had
taken off her things Stella went straight to her father’s room to give
him his tea. By now Mr. Fregelius was much better, although the nature
of 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 knew
that 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 call
it?—the Dead Church, all day?”
“Yes, and the experiments went beautifully.”
“Did they, did they indeed?” commented her father in an uninterested
voice. The fate of the experiments did not move him. “Isn’t it very
lonely 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 of
them were a little different from other people, I have been told.”
“Quite right, Stella; they were all odd women, but I think that you are
quite the oddest of the family.” Then, as though the subject were
disagreeable to him, he added suddenly: “Mr. Layard came to see me
to-day.”
“So he told me,” answered Stella.
“Oh, you have met him. I remember; he said he should call in at the
Dead Church, 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 your
consent.”
Mr. Fregelius, auguring the very best from this openness, answered in
tones which he could not prevent from betraying an unseemly joy.
“Quite true, Stella; I told him to go on and prosper; and really I hope
he 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 of
Heaven has he prospered?”
“By my refusing him, of course. We should never have suited each other
at 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, who
will scarcely have a sixpence—or at least very few of them—has refused
a young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds a
year—that’s his exact income, for he told me himself, a most estimable
churchman, who would have been a pillar of strength to me, a man whom I
should have chosen out of ten thousand as a son-in-law——” and he
ceased, overwhelmed.
“Father, I am sorry that you are sorry, but it is strange you should
understand me so little after all these years, that you could for one
moment 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 ancient
lineage.
“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 causes
you to set yourself above your fellows, and in the end will be your
ruin. It has made a lonely woman of you for years, and it will do worse
than that. It will turn you into an old maid—if you live,” he added, as
though shaken by some sudden memory.
“Perhaps,” said Stella, “I am not frightened at the prospect. I daresay
that I shall have a little money and at the worst I can always earn a
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 that no
earthly thing would make me marry a man whom I dislike rather than
otherwise; who, at least, is not a mate for me, merely because he could
give me a fine house to live in, and treat me luxuriously. What would
be the good of such things to me if I knew that I had tarnished myself
and violated my instincts?”
“You talk like a book—you talk like a book,” muttered the old
gentleman. “But I know that the end of it will be wretchedness for
everybody. People who go on as you do about instincts, and fine
feelings, and all that stuff, are just the ones who get into some
dreadful mess at last. I tell you that such ideas are some of the
devil’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
never get into what you call a mess—at least, not in the way I suppose
you mean? My heart and thought are my own, and I shall be prepared to
render account 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 been
kind, especially as I am no longer a child who needs to be warned
against the dangers of the world.”
“What I did mean is that you are an enigma; that I am frightened about
you; that you are no companion; because your thoughts—yes, and at times
your 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
seek company where I can find it. Some love the natural, some the
spiritual, and each receive from them their good. Why should they blame
one another?”
“Mad,” muttered her father to himself as she left the room. “Mad as she
is charming and beautiful; or, if not mad, at least quite impracticable
and unfitted for the world. What a disappointment to me—what a bitter
disappointment! Well, I should be used to them by now.”
Meanwhile, Morris was in his workshop in the old chapel entering up his
record of the day’s experiments, which done, he drew his chair to the
stove and fell into thought. Somehow the idea of the engagement of Miss
Fregelius to Stephen Layard was not agreeable to him; probably because
he did not care about the young man. Yet, now that he came to think of
it quietly, in all her circumstances it would be an admirable
arrangement, and the offer undoubtedly was one which she had been wise
to accept. On the whole, such a marriage would be as happy as marriages
generally are. The man was honest, the man was young and rich, and very
soon the man would be completely at the disposal of his brilliant and
beautiful wife.
Personally he, Morris, would lose a friend, since a woman cannot marry
and remain the friend of another man. That, however, would probably
have happened in any case, and to object on this account, even in his
secret heart, would be abominably selfish. Indeed, what right had he
even to consider the matter? The young lady had come into his life very
strangely, and made a curious impression upon him; she was now going
out of it by ordinary channels, and soon nothing but the impression
would remain. It was proper, natural, and the way of the world; there
was nothing more to be said.
Somehow he was in a dreary mood, and everything bored him. He fetched
Mary’s last letter. There was nothing in it but some chit-chat, except
the 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 sea is
such an assistance to you in your experiments. I gather from what I
hear—although you haven’t mentioned the fact—that she is as beautiful
as she is charming, and that she sings wonderfully. She must be
something remarkable, I am sure, because Eliza Layard evidently detests
her, and says that she is trying to ensnare the affections of that
squire of dames, her brother Stephen, now temporarily homeless after a
visit to Jane Rose. What will you do when you have to get on without
her? I am afraid you must accustom yourself to the idea, unless she
would like to make a third in the honeymoon party. Joking apart, I am
exceedingly grateful to her for all the help she has given you, and,
dear, dear Morris, more delighted than I can tell you to learn that
after all your years of patient labour you believe success to be
absolutely within sight.
“My father, I am sorry to say, is no better; indeed, although the
doctors deny it, I believe he is worse, and I see no prospect of our
getting 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 you
miserable, and where you can’t work. What a queer ménage you must be at
the Abbey now! You and the Star who has risen from the ocean—she ought
to have been called Venus—tête-à-tête, and the, I gather, rather feeble
and uninteresting old gentleman in bed upstairs. I should like to see
you when you didn’t know. Why don’t you invent a machine to enable
people at a distance to see as well as to hear each other? It would be
very popular and bring Society to utter wreck. Does the Northern
star—she is Danish, isn’t she?—make good coffee, and how, oh! how does
she get on with the cook?”
Morris put down the letter and laughed aloud. Mary was as amusing as
ever, and he longed to see her again, especially as he was convinced
that 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 he
made up his mind; he would go out and see her. Of course, he could ill
spare the time, but for the present the more pressing of his
experiments were completed, and he could write up his “data” there.
Anyway, he would put in a fortnight at Beaulieu, and, what is more,
start to-morrow if it could be arranged.
He went to the table and began a letter to Mary announcing that she
might expect to see him sometime on the day that it reached her. When
he had got so far as this he remembered that the dressing bell had
already rung some minutes, and ran upstairs to change his clothes. As
he fastened his tie he thought to himself sadly that this would be his
last dinner with Stella Fregelius, and as he brushed his hair he
determined that unless she had other wishes, it should be as happy as
it could be made. He would like this final meal to be the pleasantest
of all their meals, and although, of course, he had no right to form an
opinion on the matter, he thought that perhaps she might like it, too.
They were going to part, to enter on different walks of life—for now,
be it said, he had quite convinced himself that she was engaged—so let
their parting memories of each other be as agreeable as possible.
Meanwhile, Stella also had her reflections. Her conversation with her
father had troubled her, more, perhaps, than her remarks might have
suggested. There was little between this pair except the bond of blood,
which sometimes seems to be so curiously accidental, so absolutely
devoid of influence in promoting mutual sympathies, or in opening the
door to any deep and real affection. Still, notwithstanding this lack
of 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
with what a fierce desire, although he was ashamed to express all its
intensity, he desired that she should accept this, the first chance of
wealthy and successful marriage that had come her way, and the anguish
which 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. At
bottom he was a proud man, although he repressed his pride and kept it
secret. He was an ambitious man, also, and his lot had been confined to
humble tasks, absolutely unrecognised beyond his parish, of a
remotely-placed country parson. Moreover, his family had been rich; he
had been brought up to believe that he himself would be rich, and then,
owing to certain circumstances, was doomed to pass his days in
comparative poverty.
Even death had laid a heavy hand on him; she was the last of her race,
and she knew he earnestly desired that she should marry and bear
children so that it might not become extinct. And now this chance, this
princely chance, which, from his point of view, seemed to fill every
possible condition, had come unawares, like a messenger from Heaven,
and she refused its entertainment. Looked at through his eyes the
position was indeed cruel.
Yet, deeply as she sympathised with him in his disappointment, Stella
never for one moment wavered in her determination. Marry Mr. Layard!
Her blood shrank back to her heart at the very thought, and then rushed
to her neck and bosom in a flood of shame. No, she was sorry, but that
was impossible, a thing which no woman should be asked to do against
her will.
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
with her, and what was more, disappointed; she could feel it well
enough, and—she found his displeasure painful. What had she done wrong,
how had she offended him? Surely it could not be—and once again that
red blush spread itself over face and bosom. He could not believe that
she had accepted the man! He could never have so grossly misunderstood
her, her nature, her ideas, everything about her! And yet who knew what
he would or would not believe? In some ways, as she had already
discovered, Mr. Monk was curiously simple. How could she tell him the
truth without using words which she did not desire to speak? Here
instinct came to her aid. 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 one man when she had just promised herself
to another. So it came about that quite innocently Stella determined to
allay her host’s misgivings by this doubtful and dangerous expedient.
To begin with, she put on her best dress—a low bodice of black silk
relieved with white and a single scarlet rose from the hothouse. Round
her neck also, fastened by a thin chain, she wore a large blood-red
carbuncle shaped like a heart, and about her slender waist a quaint
girdle of ancient Danish silver, two of the ornaments which she had
saved from the shipwreck. Her dark and waving hair she parted in the
middle after a new fashion, tying its masses in a heavy knot at the
back of her head, and thus adorned descended to the library where
Morris was awaiting her.
He stood leaning over the fire with his back towards her, but hearing
the 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 beautiful
Stella 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 not
belie its promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagas
that Stella had translated, for which Morris had promised to try to
find a publisher. Then abandoning the silence and reserve which were
habitual to him he began to talk, asking her about her work and her
past. She answered him freely enough, telling him of her school days in
Denmark, of her long holiday visits to the old Danish grandmother,
whose memory stretched back through three generations, and whose mind
was stored with traditions of men and days now long forgotten. This
particular saga, she said, had, for instance, never been written in its
entirety till she took it down from the old dame’s lips, much as in the
fifteenth century the Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson
and others. Even the traditional music of the songs as they were sung
centuries ago she had received from her with their violin
accompaniments.
“I have one in the house,” broke in Morris, “a violin—rather a good
instrument; I used to play a little when I was young. I wish, if you
don’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 shall
get on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went to the
bottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You know
we came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end of our
economy. Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were not
ready, and escaped.”
“I do not call it unlucky,” said Morris with grave courtesy, “since it
gave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of your
friendship.”
“Yes,” she answered, looking pleased; “certainly you may say of my
friendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not,—with a
great deal more that I can never pay?”
“Don’t speak of it,” he said. “That midnight sail was my one happy
inspiration, my one piece of real good luck.”
“Perhaps,” and she sighed, “that is, for me, though who can tell? I
have often 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 about
so small a thing as the life of one woman.”
Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland
moors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence
among them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they
did together, for even then Morris drank very little wine.
“May I get you the violin, and will you sing?” he asked eagerly, when
they reached the library.
“If you wish it I will try.”
“Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put away
there.”
Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced the
violin from the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it.
“That is a very good instrument,” said Stella, her eyes shining, “you
don’t know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the violin is
my pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I
wanted it, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can’t
afford to buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full
moon shining on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and
the stars, too; they glitter like great diamonds.”
“It is the frost,” answered Morris. “Yes, everything is beautiful
to-night.”
Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up the
strings 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 electric
lamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can see my
audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light I
want.”
He obeyed, and now she was but an ethereal figure, with a patch of red
at her heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdle
beneath 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 the first touch of the bow Morris knew that he was in the presence
of a mistress of one of the most entrancing of the arts. Slow and sweet
came the plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to pass into his
heart and thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now they
almost died away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time,
she began to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand
the words, but their burden was clear enough; they were a lament, the
lament of some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient and
forgotten grief thus embalmed in heavenly music.
It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted
and died among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris
sighed aloud.
“How can I thank you?” he said. “I knew that you were a musician, but
not that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel very
humble.”
She laughed. “The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves
credit, 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
know that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his
time was one of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I
often played for five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never
let the thing drop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a
somewhat lonely life. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art,
although there remains 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. I
daresay that some time I shall drift there—for the living—not because I
like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that
I had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are
pleased, 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 I
must go away.”
“Go away!” she faltered.
“Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am here
to listen.”
The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it—why, she knew not. For
a 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 intellect
came to her aid. Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and this
man 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 to
wander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon from
this instrument of strings and wood.
So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to time
letting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemed
by nature to fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey fall
drop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower. How long did she
play and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs? They never knew. The
moon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed away
gradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight. Now only the
stars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, and
on, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, “where
all day long the noise of battle rolled”; it rose shrill and high, and
in 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 their
dead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as those
might use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became rich
and soft and far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heard
sighs and the broken words of love, that slowly fell away and melted as
into the nothingness of some happy sleep.
The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; her
voice grew faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flicker
of the fire and the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returned
from heaven to earth. Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair.
Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosen
home of Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into
his heart with a chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to
him at least the most beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had
promised herself in marriage to Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her
mind, her music—all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he
knew—were the actual property of Stephen Layard. Could it be true? Was
it not possible that he had made some mistake? that he had
misunderstood? A burning desire came upon him to know, to know before
he went, and upon the forceful impulse of that moment he did what at
any other time would have filled him with horror. He asked her; the
words broke from his lips; he could not help them.
“Is it true,” he said, with something like a groan, “can it be true
that you—_you_ are really going to marry that man?”
Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made no
pretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know to
whom he referred.
“Are you mad to ask me such a thing?” she asked, with a strange break
in her 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, but
that you should think it possible that I would sell myself—I tell you
that it hurts,” and as she spoke two large tears began to roll from her
lovely pleading eyes.
“Then you mean that you refused him?”
“What else?”
“Thank you. Of course, I have no right to interfere, but forgive me if
I say that I cannot help feeling glad. Even if it is taken on the
ground of 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. But
presently 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
Monk so that he could not speak the thing he wished. He meant to answer
a monosyllable “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
be necessary; 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 eyes wiped 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.