CHAPTER XIV
THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL
Next morning Morris and Stella met at breakfast as usual, but as thoughby mutual consent neither of them alluded to the events of the previousevening. Thus the name of Mr. Layard was "taboo," nor were any morequestions asked, or statements volunteered as to that journey, the toilsof which Morris had suddenly discovered he was after all able to avoid.This morning, as it chanced, no experiments were carried on, principallybecause it was necessary for Stella to spend the day in the villagedoing various things on behalf of her father, and lunching with the wifeof Dr. Charters, who was one of the churchwardens.
By the second post, which arrived about three o'clock, Morris receivedtwo letters, one from his father and one from Mary. There was somethingabout the aspect of these letters that held his eye. That from hisfather was addressed with unusual neatness, the bold letters beingwritten with all the care of a candidate in a calligraphic competition.The stamps also were affixed very evenly, and the envelope wasbeautifully sealed with the full Monk coat done in black wax. These, asexperience told him, were signs that his father had something importantto communicate, since otherwise everything connected with his letterswas much more casual. Further, to speak at hazard, he should judge thatthis matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable tothe 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 fashionwhich was an index to her character. In this instance, however, thefault had been carried to such an extreme that the address was almostillegible; 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'sletter. It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran:
"Dearest,--My father is dead, my poor old father, and now I have nobodybut you left in the world. Thank God, at the last he was without painand, they thought, insensible; but I know he wasn't, because he squeezedmy hand. Some of his last words that could be understood were, 'Givemy love to Morris.' Oh! I feel as though my heart would break. Aftermy mother's death till you came into my life, he was everything tome--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 buriedto-morrow, and next day I am going 'en retraite' for a month, as I musthave time to get over this--to accustom myself to not seeing him everymorning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French friend,Gabrielle d'Estree? Well; she is a nun now, a sub-something or other ina convent near here where they take in people for a payment. Somehow sheheard my father was dead, and came to see me, and offered to put meup at the convent, which has a beautiful large garden, for I have beenthere. So I said yes, for I shan't feel lonely with her, and it will bea rest for a month. I shall write to you sometimes, and you needn't beafraid, they won't make me a Roman Catholic. Your father objected atfirst, but now he quite approves; indeed, I told him at last that Imeant to go whether he approved or not. It seems it doesn't matterfrom a business point of view, as you and he are left executors of myfather's will. When the month is up I will come to England, and we willsettle about getting married. This is the address of the convent asnearly as I can remember it. Letters will reach me there."
Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been trulyattached to his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood andappreciated. Then he opened his father's letter, which began in animposing manner:
"My Dear Son (usually he called him Morris),--It is with the deepestgrief that I must tell you that poor John Porson, your uncle, passedaway this morning about ten o'clock. I was present at the time, anddid my best to soothe his last moments with such consolations as can beoffered by a relative who is not a clergyman. I wished to wire the sadevent to you, but Mary, in whom natural grief develops a self-will thatperhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused to allow it, alleging thatit was useless to alarm you and waste money on telegrams (how like awoman to think of money at such a moment) when it was quite impossiblethat you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he wouldn't bebrought home), which, under these queer foreign regulations, must takeplace 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 ina convent, after the fashion of the Roman faith, so that it was no useyour coming, as men are not admitted into these places. It never seemsto have occurred to her that under this blow I should have liked theconsolation 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 feltbound to bring it to your notice, since women under such circumstancesare 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--youwill please accept this as an official notice of the fact--that onreading a copy of your uncle's will, which by his directions was handedto me after his death, I find that he has died much better off even thanI expected. The net personalty will amount to quite 100,000 pounds, andthere is large realty, of which at present I do not know the value. Allthis is left to Mary with the fullest possible powers of disposal. Youand I are appointed executors with a complimentary legacy of 500pounds to you, and but 100 pounds to me. However, the testator 'inconsideration of the forthcoming marriage between his son Morris and mydaughter Mary, remits all debts and obligations that may be due to hisestate by the said Richard Monk, Lieutenant-Colonel, Companion of theBath, and an executor of this will.' This amounts to something, ofcourse, 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 youshould not leave home at present, as there will be plenty of executor'sbusiness to keep you on the spot. No doubt you will hear from your lateuncle's lawyers, Thomas and Thomas, and as soon as you do so you hadbetter go over to Seaview and take formal possession of it and itscontents as an executor of the will. I have no time to write moreat present, as the undertaker is waiting to see me about the lastarrangements for the interment, which takes place at the Englishcemetery here. The poor man has gone, but at least we may reflect thathe can be no more troubled by sickness, etc., and it is a consolationto know that he has made arrangements so eminently proper under thecircumstances.
"Your affectionate father,
"Richard Monk.
"P.S. I shall remain here for a little while so as to be near Mary incase she wishes to see me, and afterwards work homewards via Paris. Iexpect to turn up at the Abbey in a fortnight's time or so."
"Quite in his best style," reflected Morris to himself. "'Remits alldebts and obligations that may be due to his estate by the said RichardMonk.' I should be surprised if they don't amount to a good lot. Nowonder my father is going to return via Paris; he must feel quite richagain."
Then he sat down to write to Mary.
Under the pressure of this sudden blow--for the fact that Mr. Porson hadbeen for some time in failing health, and the knowledge that his lifemight terminate at any time, did not seem to make it less sudden--acloud of depression settled on the Abbey household. Before dinner Morrisvisited Mr. Fregelius, and told him of what had happened; whereon thatpious and kindly, but somewhat inefficient man, bestowed upon him awell-meant lecture of consolation. Appreciating his motives, Morristhanked him sincerely, and was rising to depart, when the clergymanadded:
"It is most grievous to me, Mr. Monk, that in these sad hours ofmourning you should be forced to occupy your mind with the details ofan hospitality which has been forced upon you by circumstances. For thepresent 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 doctortells me if I continue to progress as well as at present, I shall beable 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 thatyou have ceased to be welcome. Your presence and that of Miss Fregeliuswill lessen, not increase, my trouble. I should be lonely in this greatplace 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 seeMorris 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 whatmore to say."
"There is nothing to be said," answered Morris; "my poor uncle had livedout 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 alwaysfond--really fond--of those who happen to be their relations."
"Yes, I was very fond of him. He was a good man, though simple andself-made; very kind to everybody; especially to myself."
"Then do not grieve for him, his pains are over, and some day you willmeet 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, thisis 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 saidpresently.
"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 theplace, and she has taken a fancy to be quiet there for a while."
"It is very natural," answered Stella, and nothing more was said uponthe subject.
Stella neither played the violin nor sang that night, nor, indeed, againwhile she remained alone with Morris at the Abbey. Both of them feltthat under the circumstances this form of pleasure would be out ofplace, if not unfeeling, and it was never suggested. For the rest,however, their life went on as usual. On two or three occasions when theweather was suitable some further experiments were carried out with theaerophone, but on most days Stella was engaged in preparing the Rectory,a square, red-brick house, dating from the time of George III., toreceive them as soon as her father could be moved. Very fortunately, ashas been said, their journey in the steamer Trondhjem had been decidedupon so hurriedly that there was no time to allow them to ship theirheavy baggage and furniture, which were left to follow, and thus escapeddestruction. Now at length these had arrived, and the unpacking andarrangement gave her constant thought and occupation, in which Morrisoccasionally assisted.
One evening, indeed, he stayed in the Rectory with her, helping to hangsome pictures till about half-past six o'clock, when they started forthe Abbey. As it chanced, a heavy gale was blowing that night, one ofthe furious winter storms which are common on this coast, and its worstgusts beat upon Stella so fiercely that she could scarcely stand, andwas glad to accept the support of Morris's arm. As they struggledalong the high road thus, a particularly savage blast tore the hood ofStella's ulster from her head, whereupon, leaning over her in such aposition that his face was necessarily quite close to her own, with somedifficulty he managed to replace the hood.
It was while Morris was so engaged that a dog-cart, which because of theroar of the wind he did not hear, and because of his position he couldnot 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 occupantsof the dog-cart were Stephen and Eliza Layard.
At the same moment Stephen recognised them, as indeed he could scarcelyhelp doing with the light of the powerful lamp shining full upon theirfaces. He shouted something to his sister, who also stared coldly at thepair. 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 thewhip 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 fromEliza.
Then the dog-cart vanished into the darkness, and the incident wasclosed.
For a moment Morris stood angry and astonished, but reflecting thatin this wind his ears might have deceived him, and that, at any rate,Stella had heard nothing through her thick frieze hood, he once moreoffered his arm and walked forward.
The next day was Sunday, when, as usual, he escorted Stella tochurch. The Layards were there also, but he noticed that, somewhatostentatiously, they hurried from the building immediately on theconclusion of the service, and it struck him that this demonstrationmight have some meaning. Eliza, whom he afterwards observed, engagedapparently in eager conversation with a knot of people on the roadway,was, as he knew well, no friend to him, for reasons which he couldguess. Nor, as he had heard from various quarters, was she any friend ofStella Fregelius, any more than she had been to Jane Rose. It struck himthat 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 wereso he did not see what he could do; therefore he tried to think he wasmistaken, and to dismiss the matter from his mind.
Colonel Monk had written to say that he was coming home on theWednesday, but he did not, in fact, put in an appearance till thehalf-past six train on the following Saturday evening, when he arrivedbeautifully dressed in the most irreproachable black, and in a very goodtemper.
"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 nothingto equal quiet. I can't tell you how sick I got of that French hole. Ifit 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 imbecilenow, you know--I should have been back long before. Well, how are yougetting on?"
"Oh, pretty well, thank you, father," Morris answered, in that ratherrestrained voice which was natural to him when conversing with hisparent. "I think, I really think I have nearly perfected my aerophone."
"Have you? Well, then, I hope you will make something out of it afterall these years; not that it much matters now, however," he addedcontentedly. "By the way, that reminds me, how are our two guests, thenew parson and his daughter? That was a queer story about your findingher on the wreck. Are they still here?"
"Yes; but the old gentleman is out of bed now, and he expects to be ableto move into the Rectory on Monday."
"Does he? Well, they must have given you some company while you werealone. There is no time like the present. I will go up and see himbefore I dress for dinner."
Accordingly Morris conducted his father to the Abbot's chamber, andintroduced him to the clergyman. Mr. Fregelius was seated in hisarm-chair, with a crutch by his side, and on learning who his visitorwas, made a futile effort to rise.
"Pray, pray, sir," said the Colonel, "keep seated, or you will certainlyhurt your leg again."
"When I should be obliged to inflict myself upon you for another five orsix weeks," replied Mr. Fregelius.
"In that case, sir," said the Colonel, with his most courteous bow, "andfor that reason only I should consider the accident fortunate," by thesehappy 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 youhave had us--or, rather, my son--do? Turn a senseless, shatter
ed manfrom his door, and that man his future spiritual pastor and master?"
"But there was more. He, Mr. Monk, I mean, saved my daughter Stella'slife. You know, a block or a spar fell on me immediately after the shipstruck. Then those cowardly dogs of sailors, thinking that she mustfounder instantly, threw me into the boat and rowed away, leaving herto her fate in the cabin; whereon your son, acting on some words which Ispoke in my delirium, sailed out alone at night and rescued her."
"Yes, I heard something, but Morris is not too communicative. The oddthing about the whole affair, so far as I can gather, is that he shouldhave discovered that there was anybody left on board. But he is acurious fellow, Morris; those things which one would expect him to knowhe never does know; and the things that nobody else has ever heard ofhe seems to have at his fingers' ends by instinct, or second sight, orsomething. Well, it has all turned out for the best, hasn't it?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," answered Mr. Fregelius, glancing at his injuredleg. "At any rate, we are both alive and have not lost many of ourbelongings."
"Quite so; and under the circumstances you should be uncommonlythankful. But I need not tell a parson that. Well, I can only say thatI am delighted to have such a good opportunity of making youracquaintance, which I am sure will lead to our pulling together inparish 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 anice lot in this parish, I can tell you, a nice lot. Old Tomley justgave them up as a bad job."
"I hope I shan't do that," replied Mr. Fregelius, after his retreatingform.
The Colonel was down to dinner first, and standing warming himself atthe library fire when Stella, once more in honour of his arrival arrayedin her best dress, entered the room. The Colonel put up his eyeglass andlooked at her as she came down its length.
"By Jove!" he thought to himself, "I didn't know that the clergyman'sdaughter was like this; nobody ever said so. After all, that fellowMorris can't be half such a fool as he looks, for he kept it dark." Thenhe stepped forward with outstretched hand.
"You must allow me to introduce myself, Miss Fregelius," he said with anold-fashioned and courtly bow, "and to explain that I have the honour tobe my son's father."
She bowed and answered: "Yes, I think I should have known that from thelikeness."
"Hum!" said the Colonel. "Even at my age I am not certain that I amaltogether flattered. Morris is an excellent fellow, and very cleverat electrical machines; but I have never considered him remarkable forpersonal 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," repliedStella with a smile.
"My word! Now, that is what I call a compliment worth having. But I hearthe gentleman himself coming. Shall I repeat it to him?"
"No, please don't, Colonel Monk. I did not mean it for compliment, onlyfor an answer."
"Your wish is a command; but may I make an exception in favour of MissPorson, who prospectively owns the nice face in question? She would bedelighted 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, butrecognising in the Colonel one who, as friend or foe, must be taken intoaccount. Then Morris came in, and they went to dinner.
Here also Colonel Monk was very pleasant. He made Stella tell the storyof the shipwreck and of her rescue, and generally tried to draw her outin every possible way. But all the while he was watching and takingnote of many things. Before they had been together for five minutes heobserved that this couple, his son and their visitor, were on terms ofextreme intimacy--intimacy so extreme and genuine that in two instances,at least, each anticipated what the other was going to say, withoutwaiting for any words to be spoken. Thus Stella deliberately answereda question that Morris had not put, and he accepted the answer andcontinued the argument quite as a matter of course. Also, they seemedmysteriously 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 andstudied many sides and conditions of life for nothing; indeed, he wouldhimself explain that he was able to see as far into a brick wall asother folk.
The upshot of all this was that first he thought Morris a very luckyfellow to be an object of undoubted admiration to those beautifuleyes. (It may be explained that the Colonel throughout life had beenan advocate of taking such goods as the gods provided; something of aworshipper, too, at the shrine of lovely Thais.) His second reflectionwas that under all the circumstances it seemed quite time that hereturned home to look after him.
"Now, Miss Fregelius," he said, as she rose to leave the table, "whenMorris and I have had a glass of wine, and ten minutes to chat overmatters connected with his poor uncle's death, I am going to ask you todo me a favour before I go up to smoke a cigar with your father. It isthat 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 aboutyou. His, as you may have observed, is not a very communicative nature.The information came from a much less interesting, though, for aughtI know, from a more impartial source--the fat page-boy, Thomas, whois first tenor in the Wesleyan chapel, and therefore imagines that heunderstands music."
"But how could Thomas----" began Morris, when his father cut him shortand answered:
"Oh, I'll tell you, quite simply. I had it from the interesting youth'sown lips as he unpacked my clothes. It seems that the day before thenews of your uncle's death reached this place, Thomas was aroused fromhis slumbers by hearing what he was pleased to call 'hangels a-'arpingand singing.' As soon as he convinced himself that he still lingered onthe earth, drawn by the sweetness of the sounds, 'just in his jacket andbreeches,' he followed them, until he was sure that they proceeded fromyour workshop, the chapel.
"Now, as you know, on the upstair passage there still is that queer slitthrough 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 exceptthat of the fire, by which presently he made out your figure, MissFregelius, sometimes playing the violin, and sometimes singing, and thatof Morris--again I must quote--'a-sitting in a chair by the fire withhis '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 greatcompliment--that you sang and played till he felt as though he would crywhen at last you sank down quite exhausted in a chair. Then, suddenlyrealising that he was very cold, and hearing the stable clock striketwo, he went back to bed, and that's the end of the tale. Now you willunderstand why I have asked you this favour. I don't see why Morris andThomas should keep it all to themselves."
"I shall be delighted," answered Stella, who, although her cheeks wereburning, and she knew that the merciless Colonel was taking note of thefact, on the whole had gone through the ordeal remarkably well. Then sheleft 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. Whyshouldn't you get an uncommonly pretty girl with a good voice to singto you--while you are still in a position to listen? But if you careto take my advice, next time you will see that the shutter of thathagioscope, or whatever they call it, is locked, as such elevateddelights 'a 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 aboutthe executor
ship 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 apiano-forte accompaniment. The performance was not of the same standard,by any means, as that which had delighted Thomas, for Stella did notfeel the surroundings quite propitious. Still, with her voice and touchshe could not fail, and the result was that before she had done theColonel grew truly enthusiastic.
"I know a little of music," he said, "and I have heard most of the bestsingers and violinists during the last forty years; but in the face ofall those memories I hope you will allow me to congratulate you, MissFregelius. There are some notes in your voice which really reduce meto the condition of peeping Thomas, and, hardened old fellow that I am,almost make me feel inclined to cry."