THE RETURN OF MARY
Curiously enough, indirectly, but in fact, it was the circumstance of
Stella’s sudden and mysterious death that made Morris a rich and famous
man, and caused his invention of the aerophone to come into common use.
Very early on the following morning, but not before, she was missed
from the Rectory and sought far and wide. One of the first places
visited by those who searched was the Abbey, whither they met Morris
returning through the gale, wild-eyed, flying-haired, and altogether
strange to see. 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 the
Dead Church, which was swept away by the gale last night.”
Then they stared and asked how he knew this. He answered that, being
unable to sleep that night on account of the storm, he had gone into
his workshop when his attention was suddenly attracted by the bell of
the aerophone, by means of which he learned that Miss Fregelius had
been cut off from the shore in the church. He added that he ran as hard
as he could to the spot, only to find at dawn that the building had
entirely vanished in the gale, and that the sea had encroached upon the
land by at least two hundred paces.
Of course these statements concerning the aerophone and its
capabilities were reported all over the world and much criticised—very
roughly in some quarters. Thereupon Morris offered to demonstrate the
truth of what he had said. The controversy proved sharp; but of this he
was glad; it was a solace to him, perhaps even it prevented him from
plunging headlong into madness. At first he was stunned; he did not
feel very much. Then the first effects of the blow passed; a sense of
the swiftness and inevitableness of this awful consummation seemed to
sink down into his heart and crush him. The completeness of the
tragedy, its Greek-play qualities, were overwhelming. Question and
answer, seed and fruit—there was no space for thought or growth between
them. The curtain was down upon the Temporal, and lo! almost before its
folds had shaken to their place, it had risen upon the Eternal. His
nature reeled beneath this knowledge and his loss. Had it not been for
those suspicions and attacks it might have fallen.
The details of the struggle need not be entered into, as they have
little to do with the life-story of Morris Monk. It is enough to say
that in the end he more than carried out his promises under the
severest conditions, and in the presence of various scientific bodies
and other experts.
Afterwards came the natural results; the great aerophone company was
floated, in which Morris as vendor received half the shares—he would
take no cash—which shares, by the way, soon stood at five and a
quarter. Also he found himself a noted man; was asked to deliver an
address before the British Association; was nominated on the council of
a leading scientific society, and in due course after a year or two
received one of the greatest compliments that can be paid to an
Englishman, that of being elected to its fellowship, as a distinguished
person, by the committee of a famous Club. Thus did Morris prosper
greatly—very greatly, and in many different ways; but with all this
part of his life we are scarcely concerned.
On the day of his daughter’s death Morris visited Mr. Fregelius, for
whom 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-voiced and 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 for me 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
ever suggested such a thing, curiously enough, by some intuitive
process, Mr. Fregelius who, to a certain extent, at any rate, guessed
his daughter’s mind, took it for granted that she had been in love with
Morris. He seemed to know also by the same deductive process that he
was attached to her.
“I do, indeed,” said Morris, with a sad smile, thinking that if only
the clergyman could look into his heart he would perhaps be somewhat
astonished at the depth of that understanding sympathy.
“I told you,” went on Mr. Fregelius, “and you laughed at me, that it
was most unlucky her having sung that hateful Norse song, the ‘Greeting
to Death,’ when you found her upon the steamer Trondhjem.”
“Everything has been unlucky, Mr. Fregelius—or lucky,” he added beneath
his breath. “But you will like to know that she died singing it. The
aerophone told me that.”
“Mr. Monk,” the old man said, catching his arm, “my daughter was a
strange woman, a very strange woman, and since I heard this dreadful
news I have been afraid that perhaps she was—unhappy. She was leaving
her home, on your account—yes, on your account, it’s no use pretending
otherwise, although no one ever told me so—and—that she knew the church
was going to be washed away.”
“She thought you might think so,” answered Morris, and he gave him
Stella’s last message. Moreover, he told him more of the real
circumstances than he revealed to anybody else. He told him what nobody
else ever knew, for on that lonely coast none had seen him enter or
leave the place, how he had met her in the church—about the removal of
the instruments, as he left it to be inferred—and at her wish had come
home alone because of the gossip which had arisen. He explained also
that according to her own story, from some unexplained cause she had
fallen asleep in the church after his departure, and awakened to find
herself surrounded by the waters with all hope gone.
“And now she is dead, now she is dead,” groaned Mr. Fregelius, “and I
am alone in the world.”
“I am sorry for you,” said Morris simply, “but there it is. It is no
use looking 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 clergyman
simply.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am fond of her, though of that the less said the
better, and because our case is the same I hope that we shall always be
friends.”
“You are very kind; I shall need a friend now. I am alone now, quite
alone, and my heart is broken.”
Here it may be added that Morris was even better than his word. Out of
the wealth that came to him in such plenty, for instance, he was
careful to augment the old man’s resources without offending his
feelings, by adding permanently and largely to the endowment of the
living. Also, he attended to his wants in many other ways which need
not be enumerated, and not least by constantly visiting him. Many were
the odd hours and the evenings that shall be told of later, which they
spent together smoking their pipes in the Rectory study, and talking of
her who had gone, and whose lost life was the strongest link between
them. Otherwise and elsewhere, except upon a few extraordinary
occasions, her name rarely passed the lips of Morris.
Yet within himself he mourned and mourned, although even in the first
bitterness 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 and
hearing.
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 ruins of the Dead Church no longer occupied the tongues of men and
paragraphs in papers. One day the sea gave up the hood of her brown
ulster, the same that Morris had been seen arranging by Stephen and
Eliza Layard; it was found upon the beach. After this even the local
police admitted that the conjectures as to her end must be true, and,
since for the lack of anything to hold it on there could be no inquest,
the excitement dwindled and died. Nor indeed, as her father announced
that he was quite satisfied as to the circumstances of his daughter’s
death, was any formal inquiry held concerning them. A few people,
however, still believed that she was not really drowned but had gone
away secretly for unknown private reasons. The world remembers few
people, even if they be distinguished, for ten whole days. It has not
time for such long-continued recollection of the dead, this world of
the living who hurry 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,
a stranger in the land? Morris and her father remembered her, for she
was part of their lives and lived on with their lives. Stephen Layard
mourned for the woman whom he had wished to marry—fiercely at first,
with the sharp pain of disappointed passion; then intermittently; and
at last, after he was comfortably wedded to somebody else, with a mild
and sentimental regret three or four times a year. Eliza, too, when
once convinced that she was “really dead,” was “much shocked,” and
talked vaguely of the judgments and dispensations of Providence, as
though this victim were pre-eminently deserving of its most stern
decrees. It was rumoured, however, among the observant that her
Christian sorrow was, perhaps, tempered by a secret relief at the
absence of a rival, who, as she now admitted, sang extremely well and
had beautiful eyes.
The Colonel also thought of the guest whom the sea had given and taken
away, and with a real regret, for this girl’s force, talents, and
loveliness had touched and impressed him who had sufficient intellect
and experience to know that she was a person cast in a rare and noble
mould. But to Morris he never mentioned her name. No further confidence
had passed between them on the matter. Yet he knew that to his son this
name was holy. Therefore, being in some ways a wise man, he thought it
well 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 though
she had never walked the world or breathed its air. That gale had done
much damage and taken away many lives—all down the coast was heard the
voice of mourning; hers chanced to be one of them, and there was
nothing to be said.
On the morning of the eleventh day came a telegram from Mary addressed
to Morris, and dated from London. It was brief and to the point. “Come
to 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
length they seemed to be blunted as with a very excess of pain, much as
the nerves of the victims of the Inquisition were sometimes blunted,
till at length they could scarcely feel the pincers bite or the irons
burn. Always abstemious, also, for this last twelve days he had
scarcely swallowed enough food to support him, with the result that his
body weakened and suffered with his mind.
Then there was a third trouble to contend with,—the dull and gnawing
sense of shame which seemed to eat into his heart. In actual fact, he
had 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 woman
who had dealt so well by him, with the memory of that spiritual
marriage at the altar of the Dead Church still burning in his
brain—that marriage which now was consecrated and immortalised by
death? What had he to give her that was worth her taking? he, who if
the truth were known, shrank from all idea of union with any earthly
woman; who longed only to be allowed to live out his time in a solitude
as complete as he could find or fashion? It was monstrous; it was
shameful; and then and there he determined that before ever he stood in
Monksland church by the side of Mary Porson, at least he would tell her
the truth, and give her leave to choose. To his other sins against her
deceit should not be added.
“Might I suggest, Morris,” said the Colonel, who as they drove, had
been watching his son’s face furtively by the light of the brougham
lamp—“might I suggest that, under all the circumstances, Mary would
perhaps appreciate an air a little less reminiscent of funerals? You
may recollect 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-room will
remind me of him! Come, here we are; pull yourself together, old
fellow.”
Morris obeyed as best he could, and presently found himself following
the Colonel into the drawing-room, for once in his life, as he
reflected, heartily glad to have the advantage of his parent’s society.
He could scarcely be expected to be very demonstrative and lover-like
under the fire of that observant eyeglass.
As they entered the drawing-room by one door, Mary, looking very
handsome and imposing in a low black dress, which became her fair
beauty admirably, appeared at the other. Catching sight of Morris, she
ran, or rather glided, forward with the graceful gait that was one of
her distinctions, and caught him by both hands, bending her face
towards him in 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 your
eyes! 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
fond of being overlooked, even in favour of an interesting son—“I shall
be happy to do my best to answer your question.”
“Oh! I am so sorry,” she said, advancing her forehead to be kissed;
“but we saw each other the other day, didn’t we, and one can’t embrace
two people at once, and of course one must begin somewhere. But, why
have you made him so thin?”
The Colonel surveyed Morris critically with his eyeglass.
“Really, my dear Mary,” he replied, “I am not responsible for the
variations in my son’s habit of body.” Then, as Morris turned away
irritably, he added in a stage whisper, “He’s been a bit upset, poor
fellow! 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
has affected 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 things
progressed a good deal better. The first plunge was over, and the cool
refreshing waters of Mary’s conversation seemed to give back to
Morris’s system some of the tone that it had lost. Also, when he
thought fit to use 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 strange advantages of a scientific but liberal absorption of
champagne. Mary noticed this as she noticed everything, and said
presently with her eyes wide 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 drank
more 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 a
temptation to the cook?”
Morris laughed—he was able to laugh by now—and replied, as it happened,
with perfect truth, that he had an awful toothache.
“Then everything is explained,” said Mary. “Did you ever see me with a
toothache? Well, I should advise you not, for it would be our last
interview. 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 to
narrate her experiences in the convent in a fashion so funny that the
Colonel 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 to
breakfast. Or perhaps you don’t. It’s one of those things which I have
been careful to conceal from you, but you will one day, and I believe
that over it our matrimonial happiness may be wrecked. Well, at what
hour 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 five
every morning did some wretched person come and ring a dinner-bell
outside 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 buckets
of water—they have a perfect passion for cleanliness—and began to scrub
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 a
single sad or untoward word.
“Good night, dear!” said Mary to Morris, who this time managed to
embrace 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 at a
quarter to five for a month, and I am trying to equalise matters; but
after 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
forced to take exercise.”
“Very well, at three o’clock,” said Morris, when the Colonel, who had
been reflecting to himself, broke in.
“Look here, my dear, you must be down to lunch, or if you are not you
ought to be; so, as I want to have a chat with you about some of your
poor father’s affairs, and am engaged for the rest of the day, I will
come over then if you will allow me.”
“Certainly, uncle, if you like; but wouldn’t Morris do instead—as
representing 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 personal
opinion.”
“Oh! very well,” said Mary with a sigh; “I will expect you at a quarter
past one.”