In those days, if anyone among his acquaintances had been asked to pointout an individual as prosperous and happy as, under the most favouredcircumstances, it is given to a mortal to be, he would unhesitatinglyhave named Morris Monk.
What was there lacking to this man? He had lineage that in his ownneighbourhood gave him standing better than that of many an upstartbaronet or knight, and with it health and wealth. He had a wife who wasacknowledged universally to be one of the most beautiful, charming, andwitty women in the county, whose devotion to himself was so marked andopen that it became a public jest; who had, moreover, presented him withhealthy and promising offspring. In addition to all these good thingshe had suddenly become in his own line one of the most famous personsin the world, so that, wherever civilized man was to be found, therehis name was known as "Monk, who invented that marvellous machine, theaerophone." Lastly, there was no more need for him, as for most ofus, to stagger down his road beneath a never lessening burden of dailylabour. His work was done; a great conception completed after half ascore of years of toil and experiment had crowned it with unquestionablesuccess. Now he could sit at ease and watch the struggles of others lessfortunate.
There are, however, few men on the right side of sixty whose souls growhealthier in idleness. Although nature often recoils from it, man wasmade to work, and he who will not work calls down upon himself somecurse, visible or invisible, as he who works, although the toil seemwasted, wakes up one day to find the arid wilderness where he wandersstrown with a manna of blessing. This should be the prayer of all ofunderstanding, that whatever else it may please Heaven to take away,there may be left to them the power and the will to work, throughdisappointment, through rebuffs, through utter failure even, still towork. Many things for which they are or are not wholly responsible arecounted to men as sins. Surely, however, few will press more heavilyupon the beam of the balance, when at length we are commanded to unfoldthe talents which we have been given and earned, than those fatefulwords: "Lord, mine lies buried in its napkin," or worse still: "Lord, Ihave spent mine on the idle pleasures which my body loved."
Therefore it was not to the true welfare of Morris when through lack offurther ambition, or rather of the sting of that spur of necessity whichdrives most men on, he rested upon his oars, and in practice abandonedhis labours, drifting down the tide. No man of high intelligence andacquisitive brain can toil arduously for a period of years and suddenlycease from troubling to find himself, as he expects, at rest. For theninto the swept and garnished chambers of that empty mind enter sevenor more blue devils. Depression marks him for its own; melancholyforebodings haunt him; remorse for past misdeeds long repented of ishis daily companion. With these Erinnyes, more felt perhaps than any ofthem, comes the devastating sense that he is thwarting the best instinctof his own nature and the divine command to labour while there is stilllight, because the night draws on apace in which no man can labour.
Mary was fond of society, in which she liked to be accompanied by herhusband, so Morris, whose one great anxiety was to please his wifeand fall in with her every wish, went to a great many parties which hehated. Mary liked change also, so it came about that three months in theseason were spent in London, where they had purchased a house in GreenStreet that was much frequented by the Colonel, and another two, orsometimes three, months at the villa on the Riviera, which Mary was veryfond of on account of its associations with her parents.
Also in the summer and shooting seasons, when they were at home, the oldAbbey was kept full of guests; for we may be sure that people so richand distinguished did not lack for friends, and Mary made the very bestof hostesses.
Thus it happened that except at the seasons when his wife retired underthe pressure of domestic occurrences, Morris found that he had butlittle time left in which to be quiet; that his life in short was nolonger the life of a worker, but that of a commonplace country gentlemanof wealth and fashion.
Now it was Mary who had brought these things about, and by design; forshe was not a woman to act without reasons and an object. It is truethat she liked a gay and pleasant life, for gaiety and pleasure wereagreeable to her easy and somewhat indolent mind, also they gave heropportunities of exercising her faculties of observation, which wereconsiderable.
But Mary was far fonder of her husband than of those and other vanities;indeed, her affection for him shone the guiding star of her existence.From her childhood she had been devoted to this cousin, who, since herearliest days, had been her playmate, and at heart had wished to marryhim, and no one else. Then he began his experiments, and drifted quiteaway from her. Afterwards things changed, and they became engaged. Againthe experiments were carried on, with the aid of another woman, andagain he drifted away from her; also the drifting in this instance wasattended by serious and painful complications.
Now the complications had ceased to exist; they threatened her happinessno more. Indeed, had they been much worse than they were she would haveoverlooked them, being altogether convinced of the truth of the oldadage which points out the folly of cutting off one's nose to spiteone's face. Whatever his failings or shortcomings, Morris was her joy,the human being in whose company she delighted; without whom, indeed,her life would be flat, stale, and unprofitable. The stronger then washer determination that he should not slip back into his former courses;those courses which in the end had always brought about estrangementfrom herself.
Inventions, the details of which she could not understand, meant, asshe knew well, long days and weeks of solitary brooding; thereforeinventions, and, indeed, all unnecessary work, were in his case to bediscouraged. Such solitary brooding also drew from the mind of Morrisa vague mist of thought about matters esoteric which, to Mary's belief,had the properties of a miasma that crept like poison through his being.She wished for no more star-gazing, no more mysticism, and, above all,no more memories of the interloping woman who, in his company, hadstudied its doubtful and dangerous delights.
Although since the day of Morris's confession Mary had never evenmentioned the name of Stella to him, she by no means forgot that sucha person once existed. Indeed, carelessly and without seeming to beanxious on the subject, she informed herself about her down to thelast possible detail; so that within a few months of the death of MissFregelius she knew, as she thought, everything that could be known ofher life at Monksland. Moreover, she saw three different pictures ofher: one a somewhat prim photograph which Mr. Fregelius, her father,possessed, taken when she was about twenty; another, a coloured drawingmade by Morris--who was rather clever at catching likenesses--of her asshe appeared singing in the chapel on the night when she had drawn thepage-boy, Thomas, from his slumbers; and the third, also a photograph,taken by some local amateur, of her and Morris standing together on thebeach and engaged evidently in eager discussion.
From these three pictures, and especially from Morris's sketch, whichshowed the spiritual light shining in her eyes, and her face rapt, asit were, in a very ecstasy of music, Mary was able to fashion with somecertainty the likeness of the living woman. The more she studied thisthe more she found it formidable, and the more she understood how itcame about that her husband had fallen into folly. Also, she learnedto understand that there might be greater weight and meaning in hisconfession than she had been inclined to allow to it at the time; that,at any rate, its extravagances ought not to be set down entirely, asher father-in-law had suggested with such extreme cleverness, to thevagaries of a mind suffering from sudden shock and alarm.
All these conclusions made Mary anxious, by wrapping her husband roundwith common domestic cares and a web of daily, social incident, tobury the memory of this Stella beneath ever-thickening strata offorgetfulness; not that in themselves these reminiscences, howeverhallowed, could do her any further actual harm; but because the train ofthought evoked thereby was, as she conceived, morbid, and dangerous tothe balance of his mind.
The plan seemed wise and good, and, in the case of most men, probablywould have succeeded. Yet in Morris's inst
ance from the commencementit was a failure. She had begun by making his story and ideas, absurdenough on the face of them, an object of somewhat acute sarcasm, ifnot of ridicule. This was a mistake, since thereby she caused him tosuppress every outward evidence of them; to lock them away in the mostsecret recesses of his heart. If the lid of a caldron full of fluid isscrewed down while a fire continues to burn beneath it, the steam whichotherwise would have passed away harmlessly, gathers and struggles tillthe moment of inevitable catastrophe. The fact that for a while thecaldron remains inert and the steam invisible is no indication ofsafety. To attain safety in such a case either the fire must be rakedout or the fluid tapped. Mary had screwed down the lid of her domesticcaldron, but the flame still burned beneath, and the water still boiledwithin.
This was her first error, and the second proved almost as mischievous.She thought to divert Morris from a central idea by a multitude ofpetty counter-attractions; she believed that by stopping him from thescientific labours and esoteric speculation connected with this idea,that it would be deadened and in time obliterated.
As a matter of fact, by thus emptying his mind of its serious andaccustomed occupations, Mary made room for the very development shedreaded to flourish like an upas tree. For although he breathed no wordof it, although he showed no sign of it, to Morris the memory of thedead was a constant companion. Time heals all things, that is the commonsaying; but would it be possible to formulate any fallacy more complete?There are many wounds that time does not heal, and often enough againstthe dead it has no power at all--for how can time compete against theeternity of which they have become a part? The love of them where theyhave been truly loved, remains quite unaltered; in some instances,indeed, it is emdued with a power of terrible and amazing growth.
On earth, very probably, that deep affection would have become subjectto the natural influences of weakening and decay; and, in the instanceof a man and woman, the soul-possessing passion might have passed, tobe replaced by a more moderate, custom-worn affection. But the dead arebeyond the reach of those mouldering fingers. There they stand, perfectand unalterable, with arms which never cease from beckoning, with asmile that never grows less sweet. Come storm, come shine, nothing cantarnish the pure and gleaming robes in which our vision clothes them. Weknow the worst of them; their faults and failings cannot vex us afresh,their errors are all forgiven. It is their best part only that remainsunrealised and unread, their purest aspirations which we follow withleaden wings, their deepest thoughts that we still strive to plumb withthe short line of our imagination or experience, and to weigh in ourimperfect balances.
Yes, there they stand, and smile, and beckon, while ever more radiantgrow their brows, and more to be desired the knowledge of their perfectmajesty. There is no human passion like this passion for the dead;none so awful, none so holy, none so changeless. For they have becomeeternal, and our desire for them is sealed with the stamp of theireternity, and strengthens in the shadow of its wings till the shadowsflee away and we pass to greet them in the dawn of the immortal morning.
Yes, within the secret breast of Morris the flame of memory stillburned, and still seethed those bitter waters of desire for the dead.There was nothing carnal about this desire, since the passions of theflesh perish with the flesh. Nor was there anything of what a man mayfeel when he sees the woman whom he loves and who loves him, forced toanother fate, for to those he robs death has this advantage over thecase of other successful rivals: his embrace purifies, and of it we arenot jealous. The longing was spiritual, and for this reason it did notweaken, but, indeed, became a part of him, to grow with the spirit fromwhich it took its birth. Still, had it not been for a chance occurrence,there, in the spirit, it might have remained buried, in due course topass away with it and seek its expression in unknown conditions andregions unexplored.
In a certain fashion Morris was happy enough. He was very fond of hiswife, and he adored his little children as men of tender nature do adorethose that are helpless, and for whose existence they are responsible.He appreciated his public reputation, his wealth, and the luxury thatlapped him round, and above all he was glad to have been the means ofrestoring, and, indeed, of advancing the fortunes of his family.
Moreover, as has been said, above all things he desired to please Mary,the lovely, amiable woman who had complimented him with her unvaryingaffection; and--when he went astray--who, with scarcely a reproach, hadled him back into its gentle fold. Least of all, therefore, was it hiswill to flaunt before her eyes the spectre from a past which she wishedto forget, or even to let her guess that such a past still permeatedhis present. Therefore, on this subject settled the silence of the dead,till at length Mary, observant as she was, became well-nigh convincedthat Stella Fregelius was forgotten, and that her fantastic promiseswere disproved. Yet no mistake could have been more profound.
It was Morris's habit, whenever he could secure an evening to himself,which was not very often, to walk to the Rectory and smoke his pipe inthe company of Mr. Fregelius. Had Mary chanced to be invisibly present,or to peruse a stenographic report of what passed at one of theseevening calls--whereof, for reasons which she suppressed, she did notentirely approve--she might have found sufficient cause to vary heropinion. On these occasions ostensibly Morris went to talk about parishaffairs, and, indeed, to a certain extent he did talk about them. Forinstance, Stella who had been so fond of music, once described to himthe organ which she would like to have in the fine old parish churchof Monksland. Now that renovated instrument stood there, and was theadmiration of the country-side, as it well might be in view of the factthat it had cost over four thousand pounds.
Again, Mr. Fregelius wished to erect a monument to his daughter, which,as her body never had been found, could properly be placed in thechancel of the church. Morris entered heartily into the idea andundertook to spend the hundred pounds which the old gentleman had savedfor this purpose on his account and to the best advantage. In affect hedid spend it to excellent advantage, as Mr. Fregelius admitted when themonument arrived.
It was a lovely thing, executed by one of the first sculptors of theday, in white marble upon a black stone bed, and represented the mortalshape of Stella. There she lay to the very life, wrapped in a whiterobe, portrayed as a sleeper awakening from the last sleep of death, hereyes wide and wondering, and on her face that rapt look which Morris hadcaught in his sketch of her, singing in the chapel. At the edge of thebase of this remarkable effigy, set flush on the black marble in lettersof plain copper was her name--Stella Fregelius--with the date of herdeath. On one side appeared the text that she had quoted, "O death,where is thy sting?" and on the other its continuation, "O grave, whereis thy victory?" and at the foot part of a verse from the forty-secondpsalm: "Deep calleth unto deep. . . . All Thy waves and storms have goneover me."
Like the organ, this monument, which stood in the chancel, was muchadmired by everybody, except Mary, who found it rather theatrical;and, indeed, when nobody was looking, surveyed it with a gloomy and adoubtful eye.
That Morris had something to do with the thing she was quite certain,since she knew well that Mr. Fregelius would never have invented anymemorial so beautiful and full of symbolism; also she doubted hisability to pay for a piece of statuary which must have cost manyhundreds of pounds. A third reason, which seemed to her conclusive,was that the face on the statue was the very face of Morris's drawing,although, of course, it was possible that Mr. Fregelius might haveborrowed the sketch for the use of the sculptor. But of all this,although it disturbed her, occurring as it did just when she hoped thatStella was beginning to be forgotten, she spoke not a word to Morris."Least said, soonest mended," is a good if a homely motto, or so thoughtMary.
The monument had been in place a year, but whenever he was at homeMorris's visits to Mr. Fregelius did not grow fewer. Indeed, his wifenoticed that, if anything, they increased in number, which, as the organwas now finished down to the last allegorical carvings of its case,seemed remarkable and unnecessary. Of course, th
e fact was that on theseoccasions the conversation invariably centred on one subject, and thatsubject, Stella. Considered in certain aspects, it must have been apiteous thing to see and hear these two men, each of them bereavedof one who to them above all others had been the nearest and dearest,trying to assuage their grief by mutual consolations. Morris had nevertold Mr. Fregelius all the depth of his attachment to his daughter, atleast, not in actual, unmistakable words, although, as has been said,from the first her father took it for granted, and Morris, tacitly atany rate, had accepted the conclusion. Indeed, very soon he found thatno other subject had such charms for his guest; that of Stella he mighttalk for ever without the least fear that Morris would be weary.
So the poor, childless, unfriended old man put aside the reserve andtimidity which clothed him like a garment, and talked on into thosesympathetic ears, knowing well, however--for the freemasonry of theircommon love taught it to him--that in the presence of a third personher name, no allusion to her, even, must pass his lips. In short, theseconversations grew at length into a kind of seance or solemn rite; ajoint offering to the dead of the best that they had to give, theirtenderest thoughts and memories, made in solemn secrecy and withuplifted hearts and minds.
Mr. Fregelius was an historian, and possessed some interesting records,upon which it was his habit to descant. Amongst other things heinstructed Morris in the annals of Stella's ancestry upon both sides,which, as it happened, could be traced back for many generations. Inthese discourses it grew plain to his listener whence had sprung certainof her qualities, such as her fearless attitude towards death, and hertendency towards mysticism. Here in these musty chronicles, far back inthe times when those of whom they kept record were half, if not wholly,heathen, these same qualities could be discovered among her forbears.
Indeed, there was one woman of whom the saga told, a certain ancestressnamed Saevuna, whereof it is written "that she was of all women the veryfairest, and that she drew the hearts of men with her wonderful eyes asthe moon draws mists from a marsh," who, in some ways, might have beenStella herself, Stella unchristianized and savage.
This Saevuna's husband rebelled against the king of his country, and,being captured, was doomed to a shameful death by hanging as a traitor.Thereon, under pretence of bidding him farewell, she administered poisonto him, partaking of the same herself; "and," continues the saga, "theyboth of them, until their pains overcame them, died singing a certainancient song which had descended in the family of one of them, and iscalled the Song of the Over-Lord, or the Offering to Death. This song,while strength and voice remained to them, it is the duty of this familyto say or sing, or so they hold it, in the hour of their death. But ifthey sing it, except by way of learning its words and music from theirmothers, and escape death, it will not be for very long, seeing thatwhen once the offering is laid upon his altar, the Over-Lord considersit his own, and, after the fashion of gods and men, takes it as soon ashe can. So sweet and strange was the singing of this Saevuna until shechoked that the king and his nobles came out to hear it, and all menthought it a great marvel that a woman should sing thus in the verypains of death. Moreover, they declared, many of them, that while thesong went on they could think of nothing else, and that strange andwonderful visions passed before their eyes. But of this nobody can knowthe truth for certain, as the woman and her husband died long ago."
"You see," said Mr. Fregelius, when he had finished translating thepassage aloud, "it is not wonderful that I thought it unlucky when Iheard that you had found Stella singing this same song upon the ship,much as centuries ago her ancestress, Saevuna, sang it while she and herhusband died."
"At any rate, the omen fulfilled itself," answered Morris, with a sigh,"and she, too, died with the song upon her lips, though I do not thinkthat it had anything to do with these things, which were fated tobefall."
"Well," said the clergyman, "the fate is fulfilled now, and the songwill never be sung again. She was the last of her race, and it was a lawamong them that neither words nor music should ever be written down."
When such old tales and legends were exhausted, and, outside theimmediate object of their search, some of them were of great interestto a man who, like Morris, had knowledge of Norse literature, and wasdelighted to discover in Mr. Fregelius a scholar acquainted with theoriginal tongues in which they were written, these companions fell backupon other matters. But all of them had to do with Stella. One night theclergyman read some letters written by her as a child from Denmark.On another he produced certain dolls which she had dressed at the sameperiod of her life in the costume of the peasants of that country. On athird he repeated a piece of rather indifferent poetry composed by herwhen she was a girl of sixteen. Its strange title was, "The Resurrectionof Dead Roses." It told how in its author's fancy the flowers whichwere cut and cast away on earth bloomed again in heaven, never to withermore; a pretty allegory, but treated in a childish fashion.
Thus, then, from time to time, as occasion offered, did this strangepair celebrate the rites they thought so harmless, and upon the altar ofmemory make offerings to their dead.
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