STELLA FREGELIUS
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1904.
STELLA FREGELIUS
A TALE OF THREE DESTINIES
BY
H. RIDER HAGGARD
"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 severe and accomplished critic, to accept the burden
of a book for which you are to some extent responsible. Whatever
its fate, at least it has pleased 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 his
boldness in offering to them a modest story which is in no sense a
romance 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 to
please himself and now publishes it in the hope that it may please
some others. The problem of such a conflict, common enough mayhap did
we but know it, between a departed and a present personality, of which
the battle-ground is a bereaved human heart and the prize its complete
possession; between earthly duty and spiritual desire also; was one
that had long attracted him. Finding at length a few months of
leisure, he treated 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 five
years ago, instruments of the nature of the "aerophone" were not so
much talked of as they are to-day. In fact this aerophone has little
to do with his characters or their history, and the main motive of its
introduction to his pages was to suggest how powerless are all such
material means to bring within mortal reach the transcendental and
unearthly ends which, with their aid, were attempted by Morris Monk.
These, as that dreamer learned, must be far otherwise obtained,
whether in 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 there
with points of tremulous fire; below, to the shadowy horizon,
stretched the plain of the soft grey sea, while from the fragrances of
night and earth floated a breath of sleep and flowers.
A man leaned on the low wall that bordered the cliff edge, and looked
at sea beneath and sky above. Then he contemplated the horizon, and
murmured some line heard or learnt in childhood, ending "where earth
and heaven meet."
"But they only seem to meet," he reflected to himself, idly. "If I
sailed to that spot they would be as wide apart as ever. Yes, the
stars would be as silent and as far away, and the sea quite as
restless and as salt. Yet there must be a place where they do meet.
No, Morris, my friend, there is no such place in this world, material
or moral; so stick to facts, and leave fancies alone."
But that night this speculative man felt in the mood for fancies, for
presently he was staring at one of the constellations, and saying to
himself, "Why not? Well, why not? Granted force can travel through
ether,--whatever ether is--why should it stop travelling? Give it time
enough, a few seconds, or a few minutes or a few years, and why should
it not reach that star? Very likely it does, only there it wastes
itself. What would be needed to make it serviceable? Simply this--that
on the star there should dwell an Intelligence armed with one of my
instruments, when I have perfected them, or the secret of them. Then
who knows what might happen?" and he laughed a little to himself at
the vagary.
From all of which wandering speculations it may be gathered that
Morris Monk was that rather common yet problematical person, an
inventor who dreamed dreams.
An inventor, in truth, he was, although as yet he had never really
invented anything. Brought up as an electrical engineer, after a very
brief experience of his profession he had fallen victim to an idea and
become a physicist. This was his idea, or the main point of it--for
its details do not in the least concern our history: that by means of
a certain machine which he had conceived, but not as yet perfected, it
would be possible to complete all existing systems of aerial
communication, and enormously to simplify their action and enlarge
their scope. His instruments, which were wireless telephones--
aerophones he called them--were to be made in pairs, twins that should
talk only to each other. They required no high poles, or balloons, or
any other cumbrous and expensive appliance; indeed, their size was no
larger than that of a rather thick despatch box. And he had triumphed;
the thing was done--in all but one or two details.
For two long years he had struggled with these, and still they eluded
him. Once he had succeeded--that was the dreadful thing. Once for a
while the instruments had worked, and with a space of several miles
between them. But--this was the maddening part of it--he had never
been able to repeat the exact conditions; or, rather, to discover
precisely what they were. On that occasion he had entrusted one of his
machines to his first cousin, Mary Porson, a big girl with her hair
still down her back, 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 and twenty usually is with a relative in her teens.
The arrangement on this particular occasion was that she should take
the machine--or aerophone, as its inventor had named it--to her home.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, as Morris had often done
before, he tried to effect communication, but without result. On the
following day, at the same hour, he tried again, when, to his
astonishment, instantly the answer came back. Yes, as distinctly as
though she were standing by his side, he heard his cousin Mary's
voice.
"Are you there?" he said, quite hopelessly, merely as a matter of form
--of very common form--and well-nigh fell to the ground when he
received the reply:
"Yes, yes, but I have just been telegraphed for to go to Beaulieu; my
mother 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
back to 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 the
Riviera, Morris found his cousin changed. She had parted from him a
child, and now, beneath the shadow of the wings of grief, suddenly she
had become a woman. Moreover, the best and frankest part of their
intimacy seemed to have vanished. There was a veil between them. Mary
thought of little, and at this time seemed to care for no one except
her mother, who was dead. And Morris, who had loved the child,
recoiled somewhat from the new-born woman. It may be explained that he
was afraid of women. Still, with an eye to business, he spoke to her
about the aerophone; and, so far as her memory served her, she
confirmed all the details 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 far
away. "Why shouldn't you? There are so many odd things of the sort.
But one 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
anything now. Somehow--since that last business--everything seems
different to me."
"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
with other people?"
Morris answered nothing. He, too, wondered why.
Next morning they made the experiment. It failed. Other experiments
followed at intervals, most of which were fiascos, although some were
partially successful. Thus, at times Mary could hear what he said. But
except for a word or two, and now and then a sentence, he could not
hear her whom, when she was still a child and his playmate, once he
had heard so clearly.
"Why is it?" he said, a year or two later, dashing his fist upon the
table in impotent rage. "It has been; why can't it be?"
Mary turned her large blue eyes up to the ceiling, and reflectively
rubbed her dimpled chin with a very pretty finger.
"Isn't that the kind of question they used to ask oracles?" she asked
lazily--"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 'shall be.' 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's us. You don't understand me a bit--not now--and that's why you
can't hear me. Take my advice, Morris"--and she looked at him sharply
--"when you find a woman whom you can hear on your patent receiver,
you had better marry her. It will be a good excuse for keeping her at
a distance afterwards."
Then he lost his temper; indeed, he raved, and stormed, and nearly
smashed the patent receiver in his fury. To a scientific man, let it
be admitted, it was nothing short of maddening to be told that the
successful working of his instrument, to the manufacture of which he
had given eight years of toil and study, depended upon some pre-
existent sympathy between the operators of its divided halves. If that
were so, what was the use of his wonderful discovery, for who could
ensure a sympathetic correspondent? And yet the fact remained that
when, in their playmate days, he understood his cousin Mary, and when
her quiet, indolent nature had been deeply moved by the shock of the
news of her mother's peril, the aerophone had worked. Whereas now,
when she had become 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 feared the adult members of her sex, and shrank from them;
when, too, her placid 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 you
and I can't understand, and it isn't odd that you should have tumbled
across one of them. If you think of it, nobody understands anything.
They know that certain things happen, and how to make them happen; but
they don't know why they happen, or why, as in your case, when they
ought to happen, they won't."
"It is all very well for you to be philosophical," he answered,
turning upon her; "but can't you see, Mary, that the thing there is my
life's work? 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. And I 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 because I don't understand you. Then what am I to do?"
"Try to understand me, if you think it worth while, which I don't; or
go on experimenting," she answered. "Try to find some substance which
is less exquisitely sensitive, something a little grosser, more in key
with the material world; or to discover someone whom you do
understand. Don't lose 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. Perhaps
that is why I adore people who can work. So, although you don't think
anything of me, I will do my honest best to get into sympathy with you
again; yes, and to help in any way I can. No; it's not a joke. I would
give 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't true. Besides, you are my cousin, and we have always been good
friends since you were a little thing."
She laughed. "Yes, and I suppose that as you had no brothers or
sisters they taught you to pray for your cousin, didn't they? Oh, I
know all about it. It is my unfortunate sex that is to blame; while I
was a mere tom-boy it was different. No one can serve two masters, can
they? You have chosen to serve a machine that won't go, and I daresay
that you are wise. Yes, I think that it is the better part--until you
find someone that will make it go--and then you would adore her--by
aerophone!"
