THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL
Next morning Morris and Stella met at breakfast as usual, but as though
by mutual consent neither of them alluded to the events of the previous
evening. Thus the name of Mr. Layard was “taboo,” nor were any more
questions asked, or statements volunteered as to that journey, the
toils of which Morris had suddenly discovered he was after all able to
avoid. This morning, as it chanced, no experiments were carried on,
principally because it was necessary for Stella to spend the day in the
village doing various things on behalf of her father, and lunching with
the wife of Dr. Charters, who was one of the churchwardens.
By the second post, which arrived about three o’clock, Morris received
two letters, one from his father and one from Mary. There was something
about the aspect of these letters that held his eye. That from his
father was addressed with unusual neatness, the bold letters being
written with all the care of a candidate in a calligraphic competition.
The stamps also were affixed very evenly, and the envelope was
beautifully sealed with the full Monk coat done in black wax. These, as
experience told him, were signs that his father had something important
to communicate, since otherwise everything connected with his letters
was much more casual. Further, to speak at hazard, he should judge that
this matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable to
the 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 fashion
which was an index to her character. In this instance, however, the
fault had been carried to such an extreme that the address was almost
illegible; 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’s
letter. It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran:
“DEAREST,—My father is dead, my poor old father, and now I have nobody
but you left in the world. Thank God, at the last he was without pain
and, they thought, insensible; but I know he wasn’t, because he
squeezed my hand. Some of his last words that could be understood were,
‘Give my love to Morris.’ Oh! I feel as though my heart would break.
After my mother’s death till you came into my life, he was everything
to me—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 buried
to-morrow, and next day I am going ‘en retraite’ for a month, as I must
have time to get over this—to accustom myself to not seeing him every
morning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French friend,
Gabrielle d’Estrée? Well; she is a nun now, a sub-something or other in
a convent near here where they take in people for a payment. Somehow
she heard my father was dead, and came to see me, and offered to put me
up at the convent, which has a beautiful large garden, for I have been
there. So I said yes, for I shan’t feel lonely with her, and it will be
a rest for a month. I shall write to you sometimes, and you needn’t be
afraid, they won’t make me a Roman Catholic. Your father objected at
first, but now he quite approves; indeed, I told him at last that I
meant to go whether he approved or not. It seems it doesn’t matter from
a business point of view, as you and he are left executors of my
father’s will. When the month is up I will come to England, and we will
settle about getting married. This is the address of the convent as
nearly as I can remember it. Letters will reach me there.”
Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been truly
attached to his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood and
appreciated. Then he opened his father’s letter, which began in an
imposing manner:
“MY DEAR SON (usually he called him Morris),—It is with the deepest
grief that I must tell you that poor John Porson, your uncle, passed
away this morning about ten o’clock. I was present at the time, and did
my best to soothe his last moments with such consolations as can be
offered by a relative who is not a clergyman. I wished to wire the sad
event to you, but Mary, in whom natural grief develops a self-will that
perhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused to allow it, alleging
that it was useless to alarm you and waste money on telegrams (how like
a woman to think of money at such a moment) when it was quite
impossible that you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he
wouldn’t be brought home), which, under these queer foreign
regulations, must take place 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 in a convent, after the fashion of the Roman
faith, so that it was no use your coming, as men are not admitted into
these places. It never seems to have occurred to her that under this
blow I should have liked the consolation 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 felt bound to bring it to your notice, since
women under such circumstances are 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—you
will please accept this as an official notice of the fact—that on
reading a copy of your uncle’s will, which by his directions was handed
to me after his death, I find that he has died much better off even
than I expected. The net personalty will amount to quite £100,000, and
there is large realty, of which at present I do not know the value. All
this is left to Mary with the fullest possible powers of disposal. You
and I are appointed executors with a complimentary legacy of £500 to
you, and but £100 to me. However, the testator ‘in consideration of the
forthcoming marriage between his son Morris and my daughter Mary,
remits all debts and obligations that may be due to his estate by the
said Richard Monk, Lieutenant-Colonel, Companion of the Bath, and an
executor of this will.’ This amounts to something, of course, 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 you
should not leave home at present, as there will be plenty of executor’s
business to keep you on the spot. No doubt you will hear from your late
uncle’s lawyers, Thomas and Thomas, and as soon as you do so you had
better go over to Seaview and take formal possession of it and its
contents as an executor of the will. I have no time to write more at
present, as the undertaker is waiting to see me about the last
arrangements for the interment, which takes place at the English
cemetery here. The poor man has gone, but at least we may reflect that
he can be no more troubled by sickness, etc., and it is a consolation
to know that he has made arrangements so eminently proper under the
circumstances.
“Your affectionate father,
“RICHARD MONK.
“P.S. I shall remain here for a little while so as to be near Mary in
case she wishes to see me, and afterwards work homewards via Paris. I
expect to turn up at the Abbey in a fortnight’s time or so.”
“Quite in his best style,” reflected Morris to himself. “‘Remits all
debts and obligations that may be due to his estate by the said Richard
Monk.’ I should be surprised if they don’t amount to a good lot. No
wonder my father is going to return via Paris; he must feel quite rich
again.”
Then he sat down to write to Mary.
Under the pressure of this sudden blow—for the fact that Mr. Porson had
been for some time in failing health, and the knowledge that his life
might terminate at any time, did not seem to make it less sudden—a
cloud of depression settled on the Abbey household. Before dinner
Morris visited Mr. Fregelius, and told him of what had happened;
whereon that pious and kindly, but somewhat inefficient man, bestowed
upon him a well-meant lecture of consolation. Appreciating his motives,
Morris thanked him sincerely, and was rising to depart, when the
clergyman added:
“It is most grievous to me, Mr. Monk, that in these sad hours of
mourning you should be forced to occupy your mind with the details of
an hospitality which has been forced upon you by circumstances. For the
present 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 doctor
tells me if I continue to progress as well as at present, I shall be
able 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
that you have ceased to be welcome. Your presence and that of Miss
Fregelius will lessen, not increase, my trouble. I should be lonely in
this great place 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 see
Morris 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 what
more to say.”
“There is nothing to be said,” answered Morris; “my poor uncle had
lived out 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 always
fond—really fond—of those who happen to be their relations.”
“Yes, I was very fond of him. He was a good man, though simple and
self-made; very kind to everybody; especially to myself.”
“Then do not grieve for him, his pains are over, and some day you will
meet 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,
this is 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 said
presently.
“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 the
place, and she has taken a fancy to be quiet there for a while.”
“It is very natural,” answered Stella, and nothing more was said upon
the subject.
Stella neither played the violin nor sang that night, nor, indeed,
again while she remained alone with Morris at the Abbey. Both of them
felt that under the circumstances this form of pleasure would be out of
place, if not unfeeling, and it was never suggested. For the rest,
however, their life went on as usual. On two or three occasions when
the weather was suitable some further experiments were carried out with
the aerophone, but on most days Stella was engaged in preparing the
Rectory, a square, red-brick house, dating from the time of George
III., to receive them as soon as her father could be moved. Very
fortunately, as has been said, their journey in the steamer Trondhjem
had been decided upon so hurriedly that there was no time to allow them
to ship their heavy baggage and furniture, which were left to follow,
and thus escaped destruction. Now at length these had arrived, and the
unpacking and arrangement gave her constant thought and occupation, in
which Morris occasionally assisted.
One evening, indeed, he stayed in the Rectory with her, helping to hang
some pictures till about half-past six o’clock, when they started for
the Abbey. As it chanced, a heavy gale was blowing that night, one of
the furious winter storms which are common on this coast, and its worst
gusts beat upon Stella so fiercely that she could scarcely stand, and
was glad to accept the support of Morris’s arm. As they struggled along
the high road thus, a particularly savage blast tore the hood of
Stella’s ulster from her head, whereupon, leaning over her in such a
position that his face was necessarily quite close to her own, with
some difficulty he managed to replace the hood.
It was while Morris was so engaged that a dog-cart, which because of
the roar of the wind he did not hear, and because of his position he
could not 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 occupants
of the dog-cart were Stephen and Eliza Layard.
At the same moment Stephen recognised them, as indeed he could scarcely
help doing with the light of the powerful lamp shining full upon their
faces. He shouted something to his sister, who also stared coldly at
the pair. 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 the whip 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
from Eliza.
Then the dog-cart vanished into the darkness, and the incident was
closed.
For a moment Morris stood angry and astonished, but reflecting that in
this wind his ears might have deceived him, and that, at any rate,
Stella had heard nothing through her thick frieze hood, he once more
offered his arm and walked forward.
The next day was Sunday, when, as usual, he escorted Stella to church.
The Layards were there also, but he noticed that, somewhat
ostentatiously, they hurried from the building immediately on the
conclusion of the service, and it struck him that this demonstration
might have some meaning. Eliza, whom he afterwards observed, engaged
apparently in eager conversation with a knot of people on the roadway,
was, as he knew well, no friend to him, for reasons which he could
guess. Nor, as he had heard from various quarters, was she any friend
of Stella Fregelius, any more than she had been to Jane Rose. It struck
him that 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 were so he did not see what he could do; therefore he tried to think
he was mistaken, and to dismiss the matter from his mind.
Colonel Monk had written to say that he was coming home on the
Wednesday, but he did not, in fact, put in an appearance till the
half-past six train on the following Saturday evening, when he arrived
beautifully dressed in the most irreproachable black, and in a very
good temper.
“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 nothing
to equal quiet. I can’t tell you how sick I got of that French hole. If
it 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
imbecile now, you know—I should have been back long before. Well, how
are you getting on?”
“Oh, pretty well, thank you, father,” Morris answered, in that rather
restrained voice which was natural to him when conversing with his
parent. “I think, I really think I have nearly perfected my aerophone.”
“Have you? Well, then, I hope you will make something out of it after
all these years; not that it much matters now, however,” he added
contentedly. “By the way, that reminds me, how are our two guests, the
new parson and his daughter? That was a queer story about your finding
her on the wreck. Are they still here?”
“Yes; but the old gentleman is out of bed now, and he expects to be
able to move into the Rectory on Monday.”
“Does he? Well, they must have given you some company while you were
alone. There is no time like the present. I will go up and see him
before I dress for dinner.”
Accordingly Morris conducted his father to the Abbot’s chamber, and
introduced him to the clergyman. Mr. Fregelius was seated in his
arm-chair, with a crutch by his side, and on learning who his visitor
was, made a futile effort to rise.
“Pray, pray, sir,” said the Colonel, “keep seated, or you will
certainly hurt your leg again.”
“When I should be obliged to inflict myself upon you for another five
or six weeks,” replied Mr. Fregelius.
“In that case, sir,” said the Colonel, with his most courteous bow,
“and for that reason only I should consider the accident fortunate,” by
these happy 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 you
have had us—or, rather, my son—do? Turn a senseless, shattered man from
his door, and that man his future spiritual pastor and master?”
“But there was more. He, Mr. Monk, I mean, saved my daughter Stella’s
life. You know, a block or a spar fell on me immediately after the ship
struck. Then those cowardly dogs of sailors, thinking that she must
founder instantly, threw me into the boat and rowed away, leaving her
to her fate in the cabin; whereon your son, acting on some words which
I spoke in my delirium, sailed out alone at night and rescued her.”
“Yes, I heard something, but Morris is not too communicative. The odd
thing about the whole affair, so far as I can gather, is that he should
have discovered that there was anybody left on board. But he is a
curious fellow, Morris; those things which one would expect him to know
he never does know; and the things that nobody else has ever heard of
he seems to have at his fingers’ ends by instinct, or second sight, or
something. Well, it has all turned out for the best, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” answered Mr. Fregelius, glancing at his
injured leg. “At any rate, we are both alive and have not lost many of
our belongings.”
“Quite so; and under the circumstances you should be uncommonly
thankful. But I need not tell a parson that. Well, I can only say that
I am delighted to have such a good opportunity of making your
acquaintance, which I am sure will lead to our pulling together in
parish 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 a
nice lot in this parish, I can tell you, a nice lot. Old Tomley just
gave them up as a bad job.”
“I hope I shan’t do that,” replied Mr. Fregelius, after his retreating
form.
The Colonel was down to dinner first, and standing warming himself at
the library fire when Stella, once more in honour of his arrival
arrayed in her best dress, entered the room. The Colonel put up his
eyeglass and looked at her as she came down its length.
“By Jove!” he thought to himself, “I didn’t know that the clergyman’s
daughter was like this; nobody ever said so. After all, that fellow
Morris can’t be half such a fool as he looks, for he kept it dark.”
Then he stepped forward with outstretched hand.
“You must allow me to introduce myself, Miss Fregelius,” he said with
an old-fashioned and courtly bow, “and to explain that I have the
honour to be my son’s father.”
She bowed and answered: “Yes, I think I should have known that from the
likeness.”
“Hum!” said the Colonel. “Even at my age I am not certain that I am
altogether flattered. Morris is an excellent fellow, and very clever at
electrical machines; but I have never considered him remarkable for
personal 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,” replied
Stella with a smile.
“My word! Now, that is what I call a compliment worth having. But I
hear the gentleman himself coming. Shall I repeat it to him?”
“No, please don’t, Colonel Monk. I did not mean it for compliment, only
for an answer.”
“Your wish is a command; but may I make an exception in favour of Miss
Porson, who prospectively owns the nice face in question? She would be
delighted 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, but
recognising in the Colonel one who, as friend or foe, must be taken
into account. Then Morris came in, and they went to dinner.
Here also Colonel Monk was very pleasant. He made Stella tell the story
of the shipwreck and of her rescue, and generally tried to draw her out
in every possible way. But all the while he was watching and taking
note of many things. Before they had been together for five minutes he
observed that this couple, his son and their visitor, were on terms of
extreme intimacy—intimacy so extreme and genuine that in two instances,
at least, each anticipated what the other was going to say, without
waiting for any words to be spoken. Thus Stella deliberately answered a
question that Morris had not put, and he accepted the answer and
continued the argument quite as a matter of course. Also, they seemed
mysteriously 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 and
studied many sides and conditions of life for nothing; indeed, he would
himself explain that he was able to see as far into a brick wall as
other folk.
The upshot of all this was that first he thought Morris a very lucky
fellow to be an object of undoubted admiration to those beautiful eyes.
(It may be explained that the Colonel throughout life had been an
advocate of taking such goods as the gods provided; something of a
worshipper, too, at the shrine of lovely Thais.) His second reflection
was that under all the circumstances it seemed quite time that he
returned home to look after him.
“Now, Miss Fregelius,” he said, as she rose to leave the table, “when
Morris and I have had a glass of wine, and ten minutes to chat over
matters connected with his poor uncle’s death, I am going to ask you to
do me a favour before I go up to smoke a cigar with your father. It is
that 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 about
you. His, as you may have observed, is not a very communicative nature.
The information came from a much less interesting, though, for aught I
know, from a more impartial source—the fat page-boy, Thomas, who is
first tenor in the Wesleyan chapel, and therefore imagines that he
understands music.”
“But how could Thomas——” began Morris, when his father cut him short
and answered:
“Oh, I’ll tell you, quite simply. I had it from the interesting youth’s
own lips as he unpacked my clothes. It seems that the day before the
news of your uncle’s death reached this place, Thomas was aroused from
his slumbers by hearing what he was pleased to call ‘hangels a-’arping
and singing.’ As soon as he convinced himself that he still lingered on
the earth, drawn by the sweetness of the sounds, ‘just in his jacket
and breeches,’ he followed them, until he was sure that they proceeded
from your workshop, the chapel.
“Now, as you know, on the upstair passage there still is that queer
slit through 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 except that of the fire, by which presently he made out your
figure, Miss Fregelius, sometimes playing the violin, and sometimes
singing, and that of Morris—again I must quote—‘a-sitting in a chair by
the fire with his ‘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 great
compliment—that you sang and played till he felt as though he would cry
when at last you sank down quite exhausted in a chair. Then, suddenly
realising that he was very cold, and hearing the stable clock strike
two, he went back to bed, and that’s the end of the tale. Now you will
understand why I have asked you this favour. I don’t see why Morris and
Thomas should keep it all to themselves.”
“I shall be delighted,” answered Stella, who, although her cheeks were
burning, and she knew that the merciless Colonel was taking note of the
fact, on the whole had gone through the ordeal remarkably well. Then
she left 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. Why
shouldn’t you get an uncommonly pretty girl with a good voice to sing
to you—while you are still in a position to listen? But if you care to
take my advice, next time you will see that the shutter of that
hagioscope, or whatever they call it, is locked, as such elevated
delights ‘à 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 about
the 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 a
piano-forte accompaniment. The performance was not of the same
standard, by any means, as that which had delighted Thomas, for Stella
did not feel the surroundings quite propitious. Still, with her voice
and touch she could not fail, and the result was that before she had
done the Colonel grew truly enthusiastic.
“I know a little of music,” he said, “and I have heard most of the best
singers and violinists during the last forty years; but in the face of
all those memories I hope you will allow me to congratulate you, Miss
Fregelius. There are some notes in your voice which really reduce me to
the condition of peeping Thomas, and, hardened old fellow that I am,
almost make me feel inclined to cry.”