CHAPTER XXI
THE END OF STELLA'S DIARY
A month or two later in the diary came the account of the shipwreck ofthe Trondhjem and of the writer's rescue from imminent death. "My firstgreat adventure," the pages were headed. They told how her father, withwhom ready-money was a scarce commodity, and who had a passion for smalland uncomfortable economies, suddenly determined to save two or threepounds by taking a passage in a Norwegian tramp steamboat named theTrondhjem. This vessel, laden with a miscellaneous cargo, had put inat a Northumbrian port, and carried freight consisting of ready-madewindows, door-frames, and other wooden house-fittings suited to therequirements of the builders of seaside villas, to be delivered atthe rising watering-place of Northwold, upon her way to London.Then followed a description of the voyage, the dirt of the ship, thesurpassing nastiness of the food, and the roughness of the crew, whosesailor-like qualities inspired the writer with no confidence.
Next, the diary which now had been written up by Stella in the Abbeywhere Morris read it, went on to tell of how she had gone to her berthone night in the cabin next to that occupied by her father, and beingtired by a long day in the strong sea air had fallen instantly into aheavy sleep, which was disturbed by a nightmare-like dream of shockand noise. This imagined pandemonium, it said, was followed by a greatquiet, in the midst of which she awoke to miss the sound of the thumpingscrew and of the captain shouting his orders from the bridge.
For a while, the writing told, she lay still, till a sense thatsomething was wrong awoke her thoroughly, when she lit the candle whichshe kept by her berth, and, rising, peeped out into the saloon to seethat water was washing along its floor. Presently she made anotherdiscovery, that she was alone, utterly alone, even her father's cabinbeing untenanted.
The rest need not be repeated in detail. Throwing on some garments, anda red cloak of North-country frieze, she made her way to the deck tofind that the ship was abandoned by every living soul, including herown father; why, or under what circumstances, remained a mystery. Sheretreated into the captain's cabin, which was on deck, being afraidto go below again in the darkness, and sheltered there until the lightcame. Then she went out, and though the dim, mist-laden dawn creptforward to the forecastle, and staring over the side discovered that theprow of the ship was fixed upon a rock, while her stern and waist, whichfloated clear, heaved and rolled with every sea. As she stood thus thevessel slipped back along the reef three feet or more, throwing her tothe deck, and thrilling her from head to foot with the most sickeningsensation she had ever experienced. Then the Trondhjem caught and hungagain, but Stella, so she wrote, knew that the end must be near, as theship would lift off with the full tide and founder, and for the firsttime felt afraid.
"I did not fear what might come after death," went on the diary, "but Idid fear the act of death. I was so lonely, and the dim waters lookedso cold; the brown shoulders of the rocks which showed now and againthrough the surges, so cruel. To be dashed by those cold waters uponthose iron rocks till the life was slowly ground out of my body! Andmy father--the thought of him tormented my mind. Was he dead, or hadhe deserted me? The last seemed quite impossible, for it would havesupposed him a coward, and I was sure that he would rather die thanleave me; therefore, as I feared, the first must be true. I was afraid,and I was wretched, and I said my prayers and cried a little, while thecold struck me through the red cloak, and the damp mist made me shiver.
"Then suddenly I remembered that it had not been the custom of myancestors and countrywomen of the old time to die weeping, and with thethought some of my courage came back. I rose from the deck and stoodupon the prow of the ship, supporting myself by a rope, as many a deadwoman of my race has done before me in the hour of battle and shipwreck.As I stood thus, believing that I was about to die, there floated intomy mind a memory of the old Norse song that my mother had taught me asshe learned it from her mother. It is called the 'Song of the Overlord,'and for generations without count on their death-beds has been sung,or if they were too weak to sing, whispered, by the women of my family.Even my mother murmured it upon the day she died, although to allappearances she had become an Englishwoman; and the first line of it,
"'Hail to thee, Sky King! Hail to thee, Earth King!'
were the last words that the gentlest creature whom I ever knew, mysister Gudrun, muttered before she became unconscious. This song ithas always been held unlucky to sing except upon the actual approachof death, since otherwise, so goes the old saying, 'it draws the arrowwhose flight was wide,' and Death, being invoked, comes soon. Still,for me I believed there was no escape, for I was quite sure from hermovements that the steamer would soon come off the rocks, and I hadmade my confession and said my prayers. So I began to sing, and sang myloudest, pleasing myself with the empty, foolish thought that in somesuch circumstance as this many a Danish sea-king's daughter had sungthat song before me.
"Then, as I sang, a wind began to blow, and suddenly the mist was drivenbefore it like puffs of smoke, and in the east behind me rose the redball of the sun. Its light fell upon the rocks and upon the watersbeyond them, and there to my amazement, appearing and disappearingupon the ridges and hollows of the swell, I saw a man alone in asailing-boat, which rode at anchor within thirty yards of me. At first Ithought that it must be my father, then the man caught sight of me, andI saw his face as he looked up, for the sun shone upon his dark eyes,and knew that he was a stranger.
"He lifted his anchor and called to me to come to the companion ladder,and his voice told me that he was a gentleman. I could not meet him as Iwas, with my hair loose, and bare-footed like some Norse Viking girl. SoI took the risk, for now, although I cannot tell why, I felt sure thatno harm would come to him or me, and ran to the cabin, where also wasthis volume of my diary and my mother's jewels that I did not wish tolose. When at last I was ready after a fashion, I came out with my bag,and there, splashing through the water of the saloon, ran the stranger,shouting angrily to me to be quick, as the ship was lifting off therock, which made me think how brave it was of him to come aboard to lookfor me. In an instant he caught me by the hand, and was dragging me upthe stairs and down the companion, so that in another minute wewere together in the boat, and he had told me that my father was onshore--thank God!--though with a broken thigh."
Then some pages of the diary were taken up with the description of thetwenty-four hours which she had spent on the open sea with himself, oftheir landing, dazed and exhausted, at the Dead Church, and her strangedesire to explore it, their arrival at the Abbey, and her meeting withher father. After these came a passage that may be quoted:--
"He is not handsome--I call him plain--with his projecting brow, largemouth, and untidy brown hair. But notwithstanding his stoop and histhin hands, he looks a fine man, and, when they light up, his eyes arebeautiful. It was brave of him, too, very brave, although he thinksnothing of it, to come out alone to look for me like that. I wonder whatbrought him? I wonder if anything told his mind that I, a girl whom hehad never seen, was really on the ship and in danger? Perhaps--at anyrate, he came, and the odd thing is that from the moment I saw him, andespecially from the moment I heard his voice, I felt as though I hadknown him all my life. Probably he would think me mad if I were tosay so; indeed, I am by no means sure that he does not pay me thatcompliment already, with some excuse, perhaps, in view of the 'Song ofthe Overlord' and all my wild talk. Well, after such a night as I hadspent anyone might be excused for talking foolishly. It is the reactionfrom never expecting to talk again at all. The chief advantage of adiary is that one may indulge in the luxury of telling the actual truth.So I will say that I feel as though I had known him always; always--andas though I understood him as one understands a person one has watchedfor years. What is more, I think that he understands me more than mostpeople do; not that this is wonderful, seeing how few I know. At anyrate, he guesses more or less what I am thinking about, and can seethat there is something in the ideas which others consider foolish, asperhaps they are.
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p; "It is very odd that I, who had made sure that I was gone, shouldbe still alive in this pleasant house, and saved from death by thispleasant companion, to find my father, whom I feared was dead, alsoliving. And all this after I had sung the 'Song of the Overlord!' Somuch for its ill-luck. But, all the same, my father was ratherupset when he heard that I had been found singing it. He is verysuperstitious, my dear old father; that is one of the few Norsecharacteristics which he has left in him. I told him that there was nouse in being disturbed, since, in the end, things must go as they arefated.
"Mr. Monk is engaged to a Miss Porson. He told me that in the boat. Iasked him what he was thinking of when we nearly over-set against thatdreadful rock. He answered that he could only think of the song he hadheard me singing on the ship, which I considered a great complimentto my voice, quite the nicest I ever had. But he ought to have beenthinking about the lady to whom he is engaged, and he understood thatI thought so, which I daresay I should not have allowed him to do.However, when people believe that they are going to be drowned they growconfidential, and expose their minds freely. He exposed his when he toldme that he thought I was talking egregious nonsense, and I am afraidthat I laughed at him. I don't think that he really can love her--thatis, as engaged people are supposed to love each other. If he did hewould not have grown so angry--with himself--and then turned upon mebecause the recollection of my old death song had interfered with thereflections which he ought to have offered upon her altar. That is whatstruck me as odd; not his neglecting to remember her in a moment ofdanger, since then we often forget everything except some trivialityof the hour. But, of course, this is all nonsense, which I oughtn't towrite here even, as most people have their own ways of being fond ofeach other. Also, it is no affair of mine.
"I have seen Miss Porson's photograph, a large one of her in Courtdress, which stands in Mr. Monk's laboratory (such a lovely place,it was an old chapel). She is a beautiful woman; large and soft andregal-looking, a very woman; it would be difficult to imagine a betterspecimen of 'the eternal feminine.' Also, they say, that is, the nursewho is looking after my father says, that she is very rich and devotedto 'Mr. Morris.' So Mr. Morris is a lucky man. I wonder why he didn'tsave her from a shipwreck instead of me. It would have given anappropriate touch of romance to the affair, which is now entirely wastedupon a young person, if I may still call myself so, with whom it has noconcern.
"What interests me more than our host's matrimonial engagements,however, are his experiments with aerophones. That is a wonderfulinvention if only it can be made to work without fail upon alloccasions. I do wish that I could help him there. It would be somereturn for his great kindness, for it must be a dreadful nuisance tohave an old clergyman with a broken leg and his inconvenient daughtersuddenly quartered upon you for an unlimited period of time."
The record of the following weeks was very full, but almost entirelyconcerned--brief mention of other things, such as her father's healthexcepted--with full and accurate notes and descriptions of the aerophoneexperiments. To Morris reading them it was wonderful, especially asStella had received no training in the science of electricity, thatshe could have grasped the subject thus thoroughly in so short a time.Evidently she must have had a considerable aptitude for its theory andpractice, as might be seen by the study that she gave to the literaturewhich he lent her, including some manuscript volumes of his own notes.Also there were other entries. Thus:
"To-day Mr. Stephen Layard proposed to me in the Dead Church. I had seenit coming for the last three weeks and wished to avoid it, but he wouldnot take a hint. I am most sorry, as I really think he cares aboutme--for the while--which is very kind of him. But it is out of thequestion, and I had to say no. Indeed, he repels me. I do not evenlike being in the same room with him, although no doubt this is veryfastidious and wrong of me. I hope that he will get over it soon; infact, although he seemed distressed, I am not vain enough to supposethat it will be otherwise. . . .
"Of course, my father is angry, for reasons which I need not set down.This I expected, but he said some things which I wish he had leftunsaid, for they made me answer him as I ought not to have done. Fathersand daughters look at marriage from such different standpoints; what isexcellent in their eyes may be as bad as death, or in some cases worseto the woman who of course must pay the price. . . .
"I sang and played my best last night, my very, very best; indeed, Idon't think I ever did so well before, and perhaps never shall again. Hewas moved--more moved than I meant him to be, and I was moved myself.I suppose that it was the surroundings; that old chapel--how well thosemonks understood acoustic properties--the moonlight, the upset to mynerves this afternoon, my fear that he believed that I had accepted Mr.L. (imagine his believing that! I thought better of him, and he _did_believe it)--everything put together.
"While I was singing he told me that he was going away--to see MissPorson at Beaulieu, I suppose. When I had finished--oh! how tired I wasafter the effort was over--he asked me straight out if I intended tomarry Mr. Layard, and I asked him if he was mad! Then I put anotherquestion, I don't know why; I never meant to do it, but it came up frommy heart--whether he had not said that he was going away? In answer heexplained that he was thinking of so doing, but had changed his mind.Oh! I was pleased when I heard that. I was never so pleased in my lifebefore. After all, the gift of music is of some use.
"But why should I have been pleased? Mr. Monk's comings or goings arenothing to me; I have no right to interfere with them, even indirectly,or to concern myself about them. Yet I cried when I heard thosewords, but I suppose it was the music that made me cry; it has thatinconvenient effect sometimes. Well, I have no doubt that he will seeplenty of Miss Porson, and it would have been a great pity to break offthe experiments just now."
One more extract from the very last entry in the series of books. It waswritten at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, just before Stella started outto meet Morris at the Dead Church:
"He--Colonel M.--asked me and I told him the truth straight out. I couldnot help myself; it burst from my lips, although the strange thing isthat until he put it into my mind with the question, I knew _nothing_.Then of a sudden, in an instant; in a flash; I understood and I knewthat my whole being belonged to this man, his son Morris. What is love?Once I remember hearing a clever cynic argue that between men and womenno such thing exists. He called their affection by other names, and saidthat for true love to be present the influence of sex must be absent.This he proved by declaring that this marvellous passion of love aboutwhich people talk and write is never heard of where its object is old ordeformed, or even very ugly, although such accidents of chance and timeare no bar to the true love of--let us say--the child and the parent, orthe friend and the friend.
"Well, the argument seemed difficult to answer, although at the timeI knew that it must be wrong, but how could I, who was utterly withoutexperience, talk of such a hard matter? Now I understand that love; thereal love between a man and a woman, if it be real, embraces all theother sorts of love. More--whether the key be physical or spiritual, itunlocks a window in our hearts through which we see a different worldfrom the world that we have known. Also with this new vision comememories and foresights. This man whom I love--three months ago I hadnever seen his face--and now I feel as though I had known him not onlyall my life, but from the beginning of time--as though we never could beparted any more.
"And I talk thus about one who has never said a tender word to me. Why?Because my thought, is his thought, and my mind his mind. How am I sureof that? Because it came upon me at the moment when I learned the truthabout myself. He and I are one, therefore I learned the truth about himalso.
"I was like Eve when she left the Tree; knowledge was mine, only I hadeaten of the fruit of Life. Yet the taste of it must be bitter in mymouth. What have I done? I have given my spirit into the keeping of aman who is pledged to another woman, and, as I think, have taken hisfrom her keeping to my own. What then? Is this other woman, who is sogood and kind, to be rob
bed of all that is left to her in the world? AmI to take from her him who is almost her husband? Never. If his hearthas come to me I cannot help it--for the rest, no. So what is left tome? His spirit and all the future when the flesh is done with; that isheritage enough. How the philosopher who argued about the love of menand women would laugh and mock if he could see these words. Supposingthat he could say, 'Stella Fregelius, I am in a position to offer youa choice. Will you have this man for your husband and live out yournatural lives upon the strict stipulation that your relationship endsabsolutely and forever with your last breaths? Or will you let him goto the other woman for their natural lives with the prospect of thatheritage which your imagination has fashioned; that dim eternity ofdouble joy where, hand in hand, twain and yet one, you will fulfil thesecret purpose of your destinies?'
"What should I answer then?
"Before Heaven I would answer that I would not sell myself to the devilof the flesh and of this present world. What! Barter my birthright ofimmortality for the mess of pottage of a few brief years of union? Payout my high hopes to their last bright coin for this dinner of mingledherbs? Drain the well of faith dug with so many prayers and labours,that its waters may suffice to nourish a rose planted in the sand, whoseblooms must die at the first touch of creeping earthly frost?
"The philosopher would say that I was mad; that the linnet in the handis better than all the birds of paradise which ever flew in fabledtropic seas.
"I reply that I am content to wait till upon some glorious morningmy ship breaks into the silence of those seas, and, watching from herbattered bulwarks, I behold the islands of the Blest and catch thescent of heavenly flowers, and see the jewelled birds, whereof I dreamfloating from palm to palm.
"'But if there are no such isles?' he would answer; 'If, with theirmagic birds and flowers, they are indeed but the baseless fabric of adream? If your ship, amidst the ravings of the storm and the darkness ofthe tortured night, should founder once and for ever in the dark straitwhich leads to the gateways of that Dawn--those gateways through whichno traveller returns to lay his fellows' course for the harbours of yourperfect sea; what then?'
"Then I would say, let me forswear God Who has suffered me to bedeceived with false spirits, and sink to depths where no light breaks,where no memories stir, where no hopes torment. Yes, then let me denyHim and die, who am of all women the most miserable. But it is notso, for to me a messenger has _come_; at my prayer once the Gates wereopened, and now I know quite surely that it was permitted to me to seewithin them that I might find strength in this the bitter hour of mytrial.
"Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within me?Oh! the road which my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and heavythe cross that I must bear. I go now, in a few minutes' time, to bidhim farewell. If I can help it I shall never see him again. No, noteven after many years, since it is better not. Also, perhaps this isweakness, but I should wish him to remember me wearing such beauty asI have and still young, before time and grief and labour have markedme with their ugly scars. It is the Stella whom he found singing at thedaybreak on the ship which brought her to him, for whom I desire that heshould seek in the hour of a different dawn.
"I go presently, to my marriage, as it were; a cold and pitiful feast,many would think it--these nuptials of life-long renunciation. Thephilosopher would say, Why renounce? You have some advantages, somepowers, use them. The man loves you, play upon his natural weakness.Help yourself to the thing that chances to be desirable in your eyes.Three years hence who will blame you, who will even remember? Hisfather? Well, he likes you already, and in time a man of the worldaccepts accomplished facts, especially if things go well, as they willdo, for that invention must succeed. No one else? Yes; three others. Hewould remember, however much he loved me, for I should have brought himto do a shameful act. And she would remember, whom I had robbed of herhusband, coming into his life after he had promised himself to her. Lastof all--most of all, perhaps--I myself should remember, day by day, andhour by hour, that I was nothing more than one of the family of thieves.
"No; I will have none of such philosophy; at least I, Stella Fregelius,will live and die among the upright. So I go to my cold marriage, suchas it is; so I bend my back to the burden, so I bow my head to thestorm; and throughout it all I thank God for what he has been pleased tosend me. I may seem poor, but how rich I am who have been dowered with alove that I know to be eternal as my eternal soul. I go, and my husbandshall receive me, not with a lover's kiss and tenderness, but with wordsfew and sad, with greetings that, almost before their echoes die, mustfade into farewells. I wrap no veil about my head, he will set no ringupon my hand, perchance we shall plight no troth. So be it; our hour ofharvest is not yet.
"Yesterday was very sharp and bleak, with scuds of sleet and snow drivenby the wind, but as I drove here with my father I saw a man and a womanin the midst of an empty, lifeless field, planting some winter seed.Who, looking at them, who that did not know, could foretell the fruitsof their miserable, unhopeful labour? Yet the summer will come and thesweet smell of the flowering beans, and the song of the nesting birds,and the plentiful reward of the year crowned with fatness. It is asymbol of this marriage of mine. To-day we sow the seed; next, after aspace of raving rains and winds, will follow the long, white winterof death, then some dim, sweet spring of awakening, and beyond it thefulness of all joy.
"What is there about me that it would make me ashamed that he shouldknow; this husband to whom I must tell nothing? I cannot think. No otherman has been anything to me. I can remember no great sin. I have worked,making the best of such gifts as I possess. I have tried to do my duty,and I will do it to the end. Surely my heart is whole and my hands areclean. Perhaps it is a sin that I should have learned to love him; thatI should look to a far future where I may be with him. If so, am I toblame, who ask nothing here? Can I conquer destiny who am its child? CanI read or shape the purpose of my Maker?
"And so I go. O God, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, give me strength to bearmy temptations and my trials; and to him, also, give every strength andblessing. O Father, I pray Thee of Thy mercy, shorten these the daysof my tribulation upon earth. Accept and sanctify this my sacrifice ofdenial; grant me pardon here, and hereafter through all the abyss oftime in Thy knowledge and presence, that perfect peace which I desirewith him to whom I am appointed. Amen."
Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies Page 34