CHAPTER XII
MR. LAYARD'S WOOING
The days went by with an uneventful swiftness at the Abbey, and after
he had once accustomed himself to the strangeness of what was, in
effect, solitude in the house with an unmarried guest of the other
sex, it may be admitted, very pleasantly to Morris. At first that
rather remarkable young lady, Stella, had alarmed him somewhat, so
that he convinced himself that the duties of this novel hospitality
would prove irksome. As a matter of fact, however, in forty-eight
hours the irksomeness was all gone, to be replaced within twice that
period by an atmosphere of complete understanding, which was
comforting to his fearful soul.
The young lady was never in the way. Now that she had procured some
suitable clothes the young lady was distinctly good looking; she was
remarkably intelligent and well-read; she sang, as Stephen Layard had
said, "like an angel"; she took a most enlightened interest in
aerophones and their possibilities; she proved a very useful assistant
in various experiments; and made one or two valuable suggestions.
While Mary and the rest of them were away the place would really be
dull without her, and somehow he could not be as sorry as he ought
when Dr. Charters told him that old Mr. Fregelius's bones were uniting
with exceeding slowness.
Such were the conclusions which one by one took shape in the mind of
that ill-starred man, Morris Monk. As yet, however, let the student of
his history understand, they were not tinged with the slightest
"arriere-pensee." He did not guess even that such relations as already
existed between Stella and himself might lead to grievous trouble;
that at 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,
a woman whose thought, if deeper, or at any rate different to his and
not altogether to be followed, was in tune with his. He could not
always catch her meaning, and yet that unrealised meaning would appeal
to him. Himself a very spiritual man, and a humble seeker after truth,
his nature did intuitive reverence to one who appeared to be still
more spiritual, who, as he conjectured, at times at any rate, had
discovered some portion of the truth. He believed it, although she had
never told him so. Indeed that semi-mystical side of Stella, whereof
at first she had shown him glimpses, seemed to be quite in abeyance;
she dreamed no more dreams, she saw no more visions, or if she did she
kept them to herself. Yet to him this woman seemed to be in touch with
that unseen which he found it so difficult to weigh and appreciate.
Instinctively he felt that her best thoughts, her most noble and
permanent desires, were there and not here.
As he had said to her in the boat, the old Egyptians lived to die. In
life a clay hut was for them a sufficient lodging; in death they
sought a costly, sculptured tomb, hewn from the living rock. With them
these things were symbolical, since that great people believed, with a
wonderful certainty, that the true life lay beyond. They believed,
too, that on the earth they did but linger in its gateway, passing
their time with such joy as they could summon, baring their heads
undismayed to the rain of sorrow, because they knew that very soon
they would be crowned with eternal joys, whereof each of these sorrows
was but an earthly root.
Stella Fregelius reminded Morris of these old Egyptians. Indeed, had
he wished to carry the comparison from her spiritual to her physical
attributes it still might have been considered apt, for in face she
was somewhat Eastern. Let the reader examine the portrait bust of the
great Queen Taia, clothed with its mysterious smile, which adorns the
museum in Cairo, and, given fair instead of dusky skin, with certain
other minor differences, he will behold no mean likeness to Stella
Fregelius. However this may be, for if Morris saw the resemblance
there were others who could not agree with him; doubtless although not
an Eastern, ancient or modern, she was tinged with the fatalism of the
East, mingled with a certain contempt of death inherited perhaps from
her northern ancestors, and an active, pervading spirituality that was
all her own. Yet her manners were not gloomy, nor her air tragic, for
he found her an excellent companion, fond of children and flowers, and
at times merry in her own fashion. But this gaiety of hers always
reminded Morris of that which is said to have prevailed in the days of
the Terror among those destined to the guillotine. Never for one hour
did she seem to forget the end. "'Vanity of vanities,' saith the
Preacher"; and that lesson was her watchword.
One evening they were walking together upon the cliff. In the west the
sun had sunk, leaving a pale, lemon-coloured glow upon the sky. Then
far away over the quiet sea, showing bright and large in that frosty
air, sprang out a single star. Stella halted in her walk, and looked
first at 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
advancing night. Morris, watching her, saw the blood mantle to her
pale face, while the dark eyes grew large and luminous, proud, too,
and full of secret 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 the
present 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.
They just live and forget that beneath them lie their fathers' bones.
They forget that in some few days--perhaps more, perhaps less--other
unknown creatures will be standing above /their/ forgotten bones, as
blind, as self-seeking, as puffed up with the pride of the brief
moment, and filled with the despair of their failure, the glory of
their success, as they are to-night."
"Perhaps," suggested Morris, "they say that while they are in the
world it is well to be of the world; that when they belong to the next
it will be time to consider it. I am not sure that they are not right.
I have heard that view," he added, remembering a certain conversation
with Mary.
"Oh, don't think that!" she answered, almost imploringly; "for it is
not true, 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 not
told; that we must find out for ourselves with 'groanings which cannot
be 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 and
desires, so shall it inherit. It is here that the soul must grow, not
there. As the child comes into the world with a nature already formed,
and its blood filled with gifts of strength or weakness, so shall the
spirit come into its world wearing the garment that it has woven and
which 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
time which is allotted for the task, that is Fate again; but the
pattern is our own. Here are brushes, here is pigment, so much of it,
of such and such colours, and here is light to work by. 'Now paint
your picture,' says the Master; 'paint swiftly, with such skill as you
can, not knowing how 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
reign like that star. It is to labour forward from age to age at the
great tasks 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
endure it is still to be with those whom I have loved on earth,
although they cannot see me; to soothe their sorrows, to support their
weakness, to lull their fears. It is that the empty longing and daily
prayer may be filled, and filled, and filled again, like a cup from a
stream which never ceases."
"And what is that daily prayer?" asked Morris, looking at her.
"O! God, touch me with Thy light, and 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
is foolish to talk long of such things."
Shortly after this curious conversation, which was never renewed
between them, or, at least, but once, a new element entered into the
drama, the necessary semi-comic element without which everything would
be so dull. This fresh factor was the infatuation, which possibly the
reader may have foreseen, of the susceptible, impulsive little man,
Stephen Layard, for Stella Fregelius, the lady whose singing he had
admired, and who had been a cause of war between him and his sister.
Like many weak men, Stephen Layard was obstinate, also from boyhood up
he had suffered much at the hands of Eliza, who was not, in fact,
quite so young as she looked. Hence there arose in his breast a very
natural desire for retaliation. Eliza had taken a violent dislike to
Miss Fregelius, whom he thought charming. This circumstance in their
strained relations was reason enough to induce Stephen to pay court to
her, even if his natural inclination had not made the adventure very
congenial.
Therefore, on the first opportunity he called at the Abbey to ask
after the rector, to be, as he had hoped, received by Stella. Finding
his visit exceedingly agreeable, after a day or two he repeated it,
and this time was conducted to the old clergyman's bedroom, upon whom
his civility made a good impression.
Now, as it happened, although he did not live in Monksland, Mr. Layard
was one of the largest property owners in the parish, a circumstance
which he did not fail to impress upon the new rector. Being by nature
and training a hard-working man who wished to do his best for his cure
even while he lay helpless, Mr. Fregelius welcomed the advances of
this wealthy young gentleman with enthusiasm, especially when he found
that he was no niggard. A piece of land was wanted for the cemetery.
Mr. Layard offered to present an acre. Money was lacking to pay off a
debt upon the reading-room. Mr. Layard headed the subscription list
with a handsome sum. And so forth.
Now the details of these various arrangements could not conveniently
be settled without many interviews, and thus very soon it came about
that scarcely a day went by upon which Mr. Layard's dog-cart did not
pass through the Abbey gates. Generally he came in the morning and
stopped to lunch; or he came in the afternoon and stopped to tea. In
fact, or thus it seemed to Morris, he always stopped to something, so
much so that although not lacking in hospitality, at times Morris
found his presence wearisome, for in truth the two men had nothing in
common.
"He must have turned over a new leaf with a vengeance, for he never
would give a sixpence to anything during old Tomley's time," remarked
Morris to Stella. "I suppose that he has taken a great fancy to your
father, which is a good thing for the parish, as those Layards are
richer than Croesus."
"Yes," answered Stella with a curious little smile.
But to herself she did not smile; for, if Morris found his visitor a
bore, to Stella he was nothing short of an infliction, increased
rather than mitigated by numerous presents of hot-house fruit and
flowers offered to herself, and entailing, each of them, an expression
of thanks verbal or written. At first she treated the thing as a joke,
till it grew evident that her admirer was as much in earnest as his
nature would permit. Thereon, foreseeing eventualities, she became
alarmed.
Unless some means could be found to stop him it was now clear to
Stella that Mr. Layard meant to propose to her, and as she had not the
slightest intention of accepting him this was an honour which she did
not seek. But she could find no sufficient means; hints, and even
snubs, only seemed to add fuel to the fire, and of a perpetual game of
hide and seek she grew weary.
So it came about that at last she shrugged her shoulders and left
things to take their chance, finding some consolation for her
discomfort in the knowledge that Miss Layard, convinced that the
rector's daughter was luring her inexperienced brother into an evil
matrimonial net, could in no wise restrain her rage and indignation.
So openly did this lady express her views, indeed, that at length a
report of them reached even Morris's inattentive ears, whereon he was
at first very angry and then burst out laughing. That a man like
Stephen Layard should hope to marry a woman like Stella Fregelius
seemed to him so absurd as to be almost unnatural. Yet when he came to
think it over quietly he was constrained to admit to himself that the
match would have many advantages for the young lady, whereof the first
and foremost were that Stephen was very rich, and although slangy and
without education in its better sense, at heart by no means a bad
little fellow. So Morris shrugged his shoulders, shut his eyes,
continued to dispense luncheons and afternoon teas, and though with an
uneasy mind, like Stella herself, allowed things to take their chance.
All this while, however, his own friendship with Stella grew apace,
enhanced as it was in no small degree by the fact that now her help in
his scientific operations had become most valuable. Indeed, it
appeared that he was destined to owe the final success of his
instrument to the assistance of women who, at the beginning, at any
rate, knew little of its principles. Mary, it may be remembered, by
some fortunate chance, made the suggestion as to the substance of the
receiver, which turned the aerophone from a great idea into a
practical reality. Now to complete the work it was Stella, not by
accident, but after careful study of its problem who gave the thought
that led to the removal of the one remaining obstacle to its general
and successful establishment.
To test this new development of the famous sound deflector and perfect
its details, scores of experiments were needed, most of which he and
she carried out together. This was their plan. One of them established
him or herself in the ruined building known as the Dead Church, while
the other took up a position in the Abbey workshop. From these
respective points, a distance of about two miles, they tested the
machines with results that day by day grew better and clearer, till at
length, under these conditions they were almost perfect.
Strange was the experience and great the triumph when at last Morris,
seated in the Abbey with his apparatus before him, unconnected with
its twin by any visible medium, was able without interruption for a
whole morning to converse with Stella established in the Dead Church.
"It is done," he cried in unusual exultation. "Now, if I die to-morrow
it does not matter."
Instantly came the answer in Stella's voice.
"I am very happy. If I do nothing else I have helped a man to fame."
Then a hitch arose, the inevitable hitch; it was found that, in
certain states of the atmosphere, and sometimes at fixed hours of the
day, the sounds coming from the receiver were almost inaudible. At
other times again the motive force seemed to be so extraordinarily
active that, the sound deflector notwithstanding, the instrument
captured and transmitted a thousand noises which are not to be heard
by the unobservant listener, or in some cases by any human ear.
Weird enough these noises were at times. Like great sighs they came,
like the moan of the breeze brought from an infinite distance, like
mutterings and groanings arisen from the very bowels of the earth.
Then there were the splash or boom of the waves, the piping of the
sea-wind, the cry of curlew, or black-backed gulls, all mingled in one
great and tangled skein of sound that choked the voice of the speaker,
and in their aggregate, bewildered him who hearkened.
These, and others which need not be detailed, were problems that had
to be met, necessitating many more experiments. Thus it came about
that through most of the short hours of winter daylight Morris and
Stella found themselves at their respective positions, corresponding,
or trying to correspond, through the aerophones. If the weather was
very bad, or very cold, Morris went to the dead Church, otherwise that
post was allotted to Stella, both because it was more convenient that
Morris should stay in his laboratory, and by her own choice.
Two principal reasons caused her to prefer to pass as much of her time
as was possible in this desolate and unvisited spot. First, because
Mr. Layard was less likely to find her when he called, and secondly,
that for her it had a strange fascination. Indeed, she loved the
place, clothed as it was with a thousand memories of those who had
been human like herself, but now--were not. She would read the
inscriptions upon the chancel stones and study the coats-of-arms and
names of those departed, trying to give to each lost man and woman a
shape and character, till at length she knew all the monuments by
appearance as well as by the names inscribed upon them.
One of these dead, oddly enough, had been named Stella Ethel Smythe,
daughter of Sir Thomas Smythe, whose family lived at the old hall now
in the possession of the Layards. This Stella had died at the age of
twenty-five in the year 1741, and her tombstone recorded that in mind
she was clean and sweet, and in body beautiful. Also at the foot of it
was a doggerel couplet, written probably by her bereaved father, which
ran:
"Though here my Star seems set,
I know 'twill light me yet."
Stella, the live Stella, thought these simple words very touching, and
pointed them out to Morris. He agreed with her, and tried in the
records of the parish and elsewhere to discover some details about the
dead girl's life, but quite without avail.
"That's all that's left," he said one day, nodding his head at the
tombstone. "The star is quite set."
"'I know 'twill light me yet,'" murmured his companion, as she turned
away to the work in hand. "Sometimes," she went on, "as I sit here at
dusk listening to all the strange sounds which come from that
receiver, I fancy that I can hear Stella and her poor father talking
while they watch me; only I cannot understand their language."
"Ah!" said Morris, "if that were right we should have found a means of
communication from the dead and with the unseen world at large."
"Why not?" asked Stella.
"I don't know, I have thought of it," he answered, and the subject
dropped.
One afternoon Stella, wrapped in thick cloaks, was seated in the
chancel of the Dead Church attending to the instrument which stood
upon the stone altar. Morris had not wished her to go that morning,
for the weather was very coarse, and snow threatened; but,
anticipating a visit from Mr. Layard, she insisted, saying that she
should enjoy the walk. Now the experiments were in progress, and going
beautifully. In order to test the aerophones fully in this rough
weather, Morris and Stella had agreed to read to each other alternate
verses from the Book of Job, beginning at the thirty-eighth chapter.
"'Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands
of Orion?'" read Stella presently in her rich, clear voice.
Instantly from two miles away came the next verse, the sound of those
splendid words rolling down the old church like echoes of some lesson
read generations since.
"'Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season, or canst thou guide
Arcturus with his sons?'"
So it went on for a few more verses, till just as the instrument was
saying, "'Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given
understanding to the heart?'" the rude door in the brick partition
opened, admitting a rush of wind and--Stephen Layard.
The little man sidled up nervously to where Stella was sitting on a
camp-stool by the altar.
"How do you do?" said Stella, holding out her hand, and looking
surprised.
"How do you do, Miss Fregelius? What--what are you doing in this
dreadfully cold place on such a bitter day?"
Before she could answer the voice of Morris, anxious and irritated,
for as the next verse did not follow he concluded that something had
gone wrong with the apparatus, rang through the church asking:
"'Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts, or who hath given
understanding to the heart?'"
"Good gracious," said Mr. Layard. "I had no idea that Monk was here; I
left him at the Abbey. Where is he?"
"At the Abbey," answered Stella, as for the second time the voice of
Morris rolled out the question from the Book.
"I don't understand," said Stephen, beginning to look frightened; "has
it anything to do with his electrical experiments?"
Stella nodded. Then, addressing the instrument, said:
"Please stop reading for a while. Mr. Layard is calling here."
"Confound him," came the swift answer. "Let me know when he is gone.
He said he was going home," whereon Stella switched off before worse
things happened.
Mr. Layard, who had heard these words, began a confused explanation
till Stella broke in.
"Please don't apologise. You changed your mind, and we all do that;
but I am afraid this is a cold place to come to."
"You are right there. Why on earth do you sit here so long?"
"To work, Mr. Layard."
"Why should you work? I thought women hated it, and above all, why for
Monk? Does he pay you?"
"I work because I like work, and shall go on working till I die, and
afterwards I hope; also, these experiments interest me very much. Mr.
Monk does not pay me. I have never asked him to do so. Indeed, it is I
who am in his debt for all the kindness he has shown to my father and
myself. To any little assistance that I can give him he is welcome."
"I see," said Mr. Layard; "but I should have thought that was Mary
Porson's job. You know he is engaged to her, don't you?"
"Yes, but Miss Porson is not here; and if she were, perhaps she would
not care for this particular work."
Then came a pause, which, not knowing what this awkward silence might
breed, Stella broke.
"I suppose you saw my father," she said; "how did you find him
looking?"
"Oh! better, I thought; but that leg of his still seems very bad."
Then, with a gasp and a great effort, he went on: "I have been
speaking to him about you."
"Indeed," said Stella, looking at him with wondering eyes.
"Yes, and he says that if--it suits us both, he is quite willing;
that, in fact, he would be very pleased to see you so well provided
for."
Stella could not say that she did not understand, the falsehood was
too obvious. So she merely went on looking, a circumstance from which
Mr. Layard drew false auguries.
"You know what I mean, don't you?" he jerked out.
She shook her head.
"I mean--I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this
horrid thing was talking about just now--understanding to the heart;
yes, that's it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella?
I will make you a good husband, and it isn't a bad place, and all
that, and though your father says he has little to leave you, you will
be treated as liberally as though you were a lady in your own right."
Stella smiled a little.
"Will you marry me?" he asked again.
"I am afraid that I must answer no, Mr. Layard."
Then the poor man broke out into a rhapsody of bitter disappointment,
genuine emotion, and passionate entreaty.
"It is no use, Mr. Layard," said Stella at last. "Indeed, I am much
obliged to you. You have paid me a great compliment, but it is not
possible that I should become your wife, and the sooner that is clear
the better for us both."
"Are you engaged?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Layard; and probably I never shall be. I have my own ideas
about matrimony, and the conditions under which I would undertake it
are not at all likely ever to be within my reach."
Again he implored,--for at the time this woman really held his heart,
--wringing his hands, and, indeed, weeping in the agony of a repulse
which was the more dreadful because it was quite unexpected. He had
scarcely imagined that this poor clergyman's daughter, who had little
but her looks and a sweet voice, would really refuse the best match
for twenty miles round, nor had his conversation with her father
suggested to his mind any such idea.
It was true that Mr. Fregelius had given him no absolute
encouragement; he had said that personally the marriage would be very
pleasing to himself, but that it was a matter of which Stella must
judge; and when asked whether he would speak to his daughter, he had
emphatically declined. Still, Stephen Layard had taken this to be all
a part of the paternal formula, and rejoiced, thinking the matter as
good as settled. Dreadful indeed, then, was it to him when he found
that he was called upon to contemplate the dull obverse of his shield
of faith, and not its bright and shining face, in which he had seen
mirrored so clear a picture of perfect happiness.
So he begged on piteously enough, till at last Stella was forced to
stop him by saying as gently as she could:
"Please spare us both, Mr. Layard; I have given my answer, and I am
sorry to say that it is impossible for me to go back upon my word."
Then a sudden fury seized him.
"You are in love with somebody else," he said; "you are in love with
Morris Monk; and he is a villain, when he is engaged, to go taking you
too. I know it."
"Then, Mr. Layard," said Stella, striving to keep her temper, "you
know more than I know myself."
"Very likely," he answered. "I never said you knew it, but it's true,
for all that. I feel it here--where you will feel it one day, to your
sorrow"--and he placed his hand upon his heart.
A sudden terror took hold of her, but with difficulty she found her
mental balance.
"I hoped, Mr. Layard," she said, "that we might have parted friends;
but how can we when you bring such accusations?"
"I retract them," broke in the distracted man. "You mustn't think
anything of what I said; it is only the pain that has made me mad. For
God's sake, at least let us part friends, for then, perhaps, some day
we may come together again."
Stella shook her head sadly, and gave him her hand, which he covered
with kisses. Then, reeling in his gait like one drunken, the unhappy
suitor departed into the falling snow.
Mechanically Stella switched on the instrument, and at once Morris's
voice was heard asking:
"I say, hasn't he gone?"
"Yes," she said.
"Thank goodness! Why on earth did you keep him gossiping all that
time? Now then--'Who can number the clouds in wisdom----'"
"Not Mr. Layard or I," thought Stella sadly to herself, as she called
back the answering verse.
