CHAPTER XVI
A MARRIAGE AND AFTER
Stella did not appear at dinner that night, or at breakfast next day. Inthe course of the morning, growing impatient, for he had explanations tomake, Morris sent her a note worded thus:
"Can I see you?--M. M."
to which came the following answer:
"Not to-day. Meet me to-morrow at the Dead Church at three o'clock.--Stella."
It was the only letter that he ever received from her.
That afternoon, December 23, Mr. Fregelius and his daughter moved to theRectory in a fly that had been especially prepared to convey the invalidwithout shaking him. Morris did not witness their departure, as theColonel, either by accident or design, had arranged to go with him onthis day to inspect the new buildings which had been erected on theAbbey Farm. Nor, indeed, were the names of the departed guests so muchas mentioned at dinner that night. The incident of their long stay atthe Abbey, with all its curious complications, was closed, and bothfather and son, by tacit agreement, determined to avoid all reference toit; at any rate for the present.
The Christmas Eve of that year will long be remembered in Monksland andall that stretch of coast as the day of the "great gale" which wroughtso much damage on its shores. The winter's dawn was of extraordinarybeauty, for all the eastern sky might have been compared to one vastflower, with a heart of burnished gold, and sepals and petals of manycoloured fires. Slowly from a central point it opened, slowly itssplendours spread across the heavens; then suddenly it seemed to witherand die, till where it had been was nothing but masses of grey vapourthat arose, gathered, and coalesced into an ashen pall hanging lowabove the surface of the ashen sea. The coastguard, watching the glass,hoisted their warning cone, although as yet there was no breath of wind,and old sailormen hanging about in knots on the cliff and beach wentto haul up their boats as high as they could drag them, knowing that itwould blow hard by night.
About mid-day the sea began to be troubled, as though its waves werebeing pushed on by some force as yet unseen, and before two o'clockgusts of cold air from the nor'east travelled landwards off the oceanwith a low moaning sound, which was very strange to hear.
As Morris trudged along towards the Dead Church he noticed, as we donotice such things when our minds are much preoccupied and oppressed,that these gusts were coming quicker and quicker, although stillseparated from each other by periods of aerial calm. Then he rememberedthat a great gale had been prophesied in the weather reports, andthought to himself that they portended its arrival.
He reached the church by the narrow spit of sand and shingle which stillconnected it with the shore, passed through the door in the rough brickwall, closing it behind him, and paused to look. Already under thatheavy sky the light which struggled through the brine-encrusted easternwindow was dim and grey. Presently, however, he discovered the figureof Stella seated in her accustomed place by the desolate-looking stonealtar, whereon stood the box containing the aerophone that they had usedin their experiments. She was dressed in her dark-coloured ulster, ofwhich the hood was still drawn over her head, giving her the appearanceof some cloaked nun, lingering, out of time and place, in the ruinedhabitations of her worship.
As he advanced she rose and pushed back the hood, revealing the massesof her waving hair, to which it had served as a sole covering. Insilence Stella stretched out her hand, and in silence Morris took it;for neither of them seemed to find any words. At length she spoke,fixing her sad eyes upon his face, and saying:
"You understand that we meet to part. I am going to London to-morrow; myfather has consented."
"That is Christmas Day," he faltered.
"Yes, but there is an early train, the same that runs on Sundays."
Then there was another pause.
"I wish to ask your pardon," he said, "for all the trouble that I havebrought upon you."
She smiled. "I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard ofthese stories?"
"Yes, my father spoke to me; he told me of his conversation with you."
"All of it?"
"I do not know; I suppose so," and he hung his head.
"Oh!" she broke out in a kind of cry, "if he told you all----"
"You must not blame him," he interrupted. "He was very angry with me. Heconsidered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do notthink that he weighed his words."
"I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannothelp things, and the truth will out."
"Yes," he said, quite simply; "we love each other, so we may as welladmit it before we part."
"Yes," she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; "I know now--we loveeach other."
These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this,their declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions ofmen and women, and not the less so because neither of them seemed tothink its fashion strange.
"It must always have been so," said Morris.
"Always," she answered, "from the beginning; from the time you savedmy life and we were together in the boat and--perhaps, who cansay?--before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our mindswe did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should havefound it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever havereally kept us asunder."
"Nothing but death," he answered heavily.
"That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith," she replied,with one of her bright smiles. "Death will unite us beyond thepossibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly--to me, notto you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean thelife of my body, but the real life, that within."
"I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there isnothing to be done."
"Of course," she answered eagerly; "nothing. Do you suppose that Iwished to suggest such a treachery?"
"No, you are too pure and good."
"Good I am not--who is?--but I believe that I am pure."
"It is bitter," groaned Morris.
"Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because Iknow that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would havebeen bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how andwhere it comes about? To-day we part--for ever in the flesh. You willnot look upon this mortal face of mine again."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because I feel that it is true."
He glanced up hastily, and she answered the question in his eyes.
"No--indeed--not that--I never thought of such a thing. I think it acrime. We are bid to endure the burden of our day. I shall go on weavingmy web and painting my picture till, soon or late, God says, 'Hold,' andthen I shall die gladly, yes, very gladly, because the real beginning isat hand."
"Oh! that I had your perfect faith," groaned Morris.
"Then, if you love me, learn it from me. Should I, of all people, tellyou what is not true? It is the truth--I swear it is the truth. I am notdeceived. I know, I know, I _know_."
"What do you know--about us?"
"That, when it is over, we shall meet again where there is no marriage,where there is nothing gross, where love perfect and immortal reigns andpassion is forgotten. There that we love each other will make no heartsore, not even hers whom here, perhaps, we have wronged; there will beno jealousies, since each and all, themselves happy in their own wayand according to their own destinies, will rejoice in the happiness ofothers. There, too, our life will be one life, our work one work, ourthought one thought--nothing more shall separate us at all in thatplace where there is no change or shadow of turning. Therefore," and sheclasped her hands and looked upwards, her face shining like a saint's,although the tears ran down it, "therefore, 'O Death, where is thysting? O grave, where is thy victory?'"
"You talk like one upon the verge of it, who hears the beating ofDeath's wings. It frightens me, Stella."
"I know nothing of that; it may be to-night, or fifty years hence--weare always on the verge, and
those Wings I have heard from childhood.Fifty, even seventy years, and after them--all the Infinite; one tinygrain of sand compared to the bed of the great sea, that sea from whichit was washed at dawn to be blown back again at nightfall."
"But the dead forget--in that land all things are forgotten. Were youto die I should call to you and you would not answer; and when my timecame, I might look for you and never find you."
"How dare you say it? If I die, search, and you shall see. No; do _not_search, wait. At your death I will be with you."
"Whatever happens in life or death--here or hereafter--swear that youwill not forget me, and that you will love me only. Swear it, Stella."
"Come to this altar," she said, when she had thought a moment, "and giveme your hand--so. Now, before my Maker and the Presences who surroundus, I marry you, Morris Monk. Not in the flesh--with your flesh I havenothing to do--but in the spirit. I take your soul to mine, I give mysoul to yours; yours it was from its birth's day, yours it is, and whenit ceases to be yours, let it perish everlastingly."
"So be it to both of us, for ever and for ever," he answered.
This, then, was their marriage, and as they walked hand in hand awayfrom the ancient altar, which surely had never seen so strange a rite,there returned to Morris an idle fantasy which had entered his mind atthis very spot when they landed one morning half-frozen after that nightin the open boat. But he said nothing of it; for with the memory camea recollection of certain wandering words which that same day fell fromStella's lips, words at the thought of which his spirit thrilled and hisflesh shuddered. What if she were near it, or he were near it, or bothof them? What if this solemn ceremony of marriage mocked, yet madedivine, had taken place upon the very threshold of its immortalconsummation? She read his thought and answered:
"Remember always, far and near, it is the same thing; time is nothing;this oath of ours cannot be touched by time or earthly change."
"I will remember," he answered.
What more did they say? He never could be sure, nor does it matter, forwhat is written bears its gist.
"Go away first," she said presently; "I promised your father that Iwould bring no further trouble on you, so we must not be seen together.Go now, for the gale is rising fast and the darkness grows."
"This is hard to bear," he muttered, setting his teeth. "Are you surethat we shall not meet again in after years?"
"Sure. You look your last upon me, on the earthly Stella whom you knowand love."
"It must be done," he said.
"It must be done," she echoed. "Good-bye, husband, till that appointedhour of meeting when I may call you so without shame," and she held outher hand.
He took and pressed it; speak he could not. Then, like a man stricken inyears, he passed down the church with bent head and shambling feet. Atthe door he turned to look at her. She was standing erect and proud as aconqueror, her hand resting upon the altar. Even at that distance theireyes met, and in hers, lit with a wild and sudden ray from the sinkingsun, he could see a strange light shine. Then he went out of the doorand dragged it to behind him, to battle his way homeward through theroaring gale that stung and buffeted him like all the gathered spitesand hammerings of Destiny.
This, then, was their parting, a parting pure and stern and high,unsolaced by one soft word, unsweetened by a single kiss. Yet it seemsfitting that those who hope to meet in the light of the spirit shouldmake their last farewells on earth beneath such solemn shadows.
And Stella? After all she was but a woman, a woman with a very humanheart. She knew the truth indeed, to whom it was given to see beforethe due determined time of vision, but still she was troubled with thathuman heart, and weighed down by the flesh over which she triumphed. Nowthat he was gone, pride and strength seemed both to leave her, and witha low cry, like the cry of a wounded sea-bird, she cast herself downthere upon the cold stones before the altar, and wept till her sensesleft her.