Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies

by H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER XIII

  TWO QUESTIONS, AND THE ANSWER

  At length the light began to fade, and for that day their experimentswere over. In token of their conclusion twice Stella rang the electricwarning bell which was attached to the aerophone, and in some mysteriousmanner caused the bell of its twin instrument to ring also. Then shepacked the apparatus in its box, for, with its batteries, it was tooheavy and too delicate to be carried conveniently, locking it up, andleft the church, which she also locked behind her. Outside it was stillsnowing fast, but softly, for the wind had dropped, and a sharp frostwas setting in, causing the fallen snow to scrunch beneath her feet.About half-way along the bleak line of deserted cliff which stretchedfrom the Dead Church to the first houses of Monksland, she saw thefigure of a man walking swiftly towards her, and knew from the benthead and broad, slightly stooping shoulders that it was Morris coming toescort her home. Presently they met.

  "Why did you not wait for me?" he asked in an irritated voice, "I toldyou I was coming, and you know that I do not like you to be trampingabout these lonely cliffs at this hour."

  "It is very kind of you," she answered, smiling that slow, soft smilewhich was characteristic of her when she was pleased, a smile thatseemed to be born in her beautiful eyes and thence to irradiate herwhole face; "but it was growing dreary and cold there, so I thought thatI would start."

  "Yes," he answered, "I forgot, and, what is more, it is very selfish ofme to keep you cooped up in such a place upon a winter's day. Enthusiasmmakes one forget everything."

  "At least without it we should do nothing; besides, please do not pityme, for I have never been happier in my life."

  "I am most grateful," he said earnestly. "I don't know what I shouldhave done without you through this critical time, or what I shall----"and he stopped.

  "It went beautifully to-day, didn't it?" she broke in, as though she hadnot heard his words.

  "Yes," he answered, "beyond all expectations. We must experiment over agreater distance, and then if the thing still works I shall be able tospeak with my critics in the gate. You know I have kept everything asdark as possible up to the present, for it is foolish to talk first andfail afterwards. I prefer to succeed first and talk afterwards."

  "What a triumph it will be!" said Stella. "All those clever scientistswill arrive prepared to mock, then think they are taken in, and at lastgo away astonished to write columns upon columns in the papers."

  "And after that?" queried Morris.

  "Oh, after that, honour and glory and wealth and power and--the happyending. Doesn't it sound nice?"

  "Ye--es, in a way. But," he added with energy, "it won't come off. No,not the aerophones, they are right enough I believe, but all the rest ofit."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it is too much. 'Happy endings' don't come off. The happinesslies in the struggle, you know,--an old saying, but quite true.Afterwards something intervenes."

  "To have struggled happily and successfully is happiness in itself.Whatever comes afterwards nothing can take that away. 'I have donesomething; it is good; it cannot be changed; it is a stone built forever in the pyramid of beauty, or knowledge, or advancement.' What canman hope to say more at the last, and how few live to say it, to say ittruly? You will leave a great name behind you, Mr. Monk."

  "I shall leave my work; that is enough for me," he answered.

  For a while they walked in silence; then some thought struck him, and hestopped to ask:

  "Why did Layard come to the Dead Church to-day? He said that he wasgoing home, and it isn't on his road."

  Stella turned her head, but, even in that faint light, not quicklyenough to prevent him seeing a sudden flush change the pallor of herface to the rich colour of her lips.

  "To call, I suppose; or," correcting herself, "perhaps from curiosity."

  "And what did he talk about?"

  "Oh, the aerophone, I think; I don't remember."

  "That must be a story," he said, laughing. "I always remember Layard'sconversation for longer than I want; it has a knack of impressing itselfupon me. What was it? Cemetery land, church debts, the new drainagescheme, or something equally entrancing and confidential?"

  Under this cross-examination Stella grew desperate, unnecessarily,perhaps, and said in a voice that was almost cross:

  "I cannot tell you; please let's talk of something else."

  Then of a sudden Morris understood, and, like a foolish man, at oncejumped to a conclusion far other than the truth. Doubtless Layard hadgone to the church to propose to Stella, and she had accepted him, orhalf accepted him; the confusion of her manner told its own tale. A newand strange sensation took possession of Morris. He felt unwell; he feltangry; if the aerophone refused to work at all to-morrow, he would carenothing. He could not see quite clearly, and was not altogether surewhere he was walking.

  "I beg your pardon," he said in a cold voice, as he recovered himself;"it was most impertinent of me." He was going to add, "pray accept mycongratulations," but fortunately, or unfortunately, stopped himself intime.

  Stella divined something of what was passing in his mind; not all,indeed, for to her the full measure of his folly would have beenincomprehensible. For a moment she contemplated an explanation, thenabandoned the idea because she could find no words; because, also, thiswas another person's secret, and she had no right to involve an honestman, who had paid her a great compliment, in her confidences. So shesaid nothing. To Morris, for the moment at any rate, a conclusive proofof his worst suspicions.

  The rest of that walk was marked by unbroken silence. Both of them werevery glad when it was finished.

  It was five o'clock when they reached the Abbey, so that there were twohours to be spent before it was time to dress for dinner. When she hadtaken off her things Stella went straight to her father's room to givehim his tea. By now Mr. Fregelius was much better, although the natureof his injuries made it imperative that he should still stay in bed.

  "Is that you, Stella?" he said, in his high, nervous voice, and,although she could not see them in the shadow of the curtain, she knewthat his quick eyes were watching her face eagerly.

  "Yes, father, I have brought you your tea. Are you ready for it?"

  "Thank you, my dear. Have you been at that place--what do you callit?--the Dead Church, all day?"

  "Yes, and the experiments went beautifully."

  "Did they, did they indeed?" commented her father in an uninterestedvoice. The fate of the experiments did not move him. "Isn't it verylonely up there in that old church?"

  "I prefer to be alone--generally."

  "I know, I know. Forgive me; but you are a very odd woman, my dear."

  "Perhaps, father; but not more so than those before me, am I? Most ofthem were a little different from other people, I have been told."

  "Quite right, Stella; they were all odd women, but I think that youare quite the oddest of the family." Then, as though the subject weredisagreeable to him, he added suddenly: "Mr. Layard came to see meto-day."

  "So he told me," answered Stella.

  "Oh, you have met him. I remember; he said he should call in at the DeadChurch, as he had something to say to you."

  Stella determined to get the conversation over, so she forced the pace.She was a person who liked to have disagreeable things behind her.Drawing herself up, she answered steadily:

  "He did call in, and--he said it."

  "What, my dear, what?" asked Mr. Fregelius innocently.

  "He asked me to marry him, father; I think he told me with yourconsent."

  Mr. Fregelius, auguring the very best from this openness, answered intones which he could not prevent from betraying an unseemly joy.

  "Quite true, Stella; I told him to go on and prosper; and really I hopehe has prospered."

  "Yes," said Stella reflectively.

  "Then, my dear love, am I to understand that you are engaged to him?"

  "Engaged to him! Certainly not," she answered.

  "Then," s
napped out her justly indignant parent, "how in the name ofHeaven has he prospered?"

  "By my refusing him, of course. We should never have suited each otherat all; he would have been miserable if I had married him."

  Mr. Fregelius groaned in bitterness of spirit.

  "Oh, Stella, Stella," he cried, "what a disappointment!"

  "Why should you be disappointed, father dear?" she asked gently.

  "Why? You stand there and ask why, when I hear that my daughter, whowill scarcely have a sixpence--or at least very few of them--has refuseda young man with between seventeen and eighteen thousand pounds ayear--that's his exact income, for he told me himself, a most estimablechurchman, who would have been a pillar of strength to me, a man whomI should have chosen out of ten thousand as a son-in-law----" and heceased, overwhelmed.

  "Father, I am sorry that you are sorry, but it is strange you shouldunderstand me so little after all these years, that you could for onemoment think that I should marry Mr. Layard."

  "And why not, pray? Are you better born----"

  "Yes," interrupted Stella, whose one pride was that of her ancientlineage.

  "I didn't mean that. I meant better bred and generally superior to him?You talk as though you were of a different clay."

  "Perhaps the clay is the same," said Stella, "but the mind is not."

  "Oh, there it is again, spiritual and intellectual pride, which causesyou to set yourself above your fellows, and in the end will be yourruin. It has made a lonely woman of you for years, and it will do worsethan that. It will turn you into an old maid--if you live," he added, asthough shaken by some sudden memory.

  "Perhaps," said Stella, "I am not frightened at the prospect. I daresaythat I shall have a little money and at the worst I can always earna living; my voice would help me to it, if nothing else does. Father,dear, you mustn't be vexed with me; and pray--pray do understand thatno earthly thing would make me marry a man whom I dislike rather thanotherwise; who, at least, is not a mate for me, merely because he couldgive me a fine house to live in, and treat me luxuriously. What would bethe good of such things to me if I knew that I had tarnished myself andviolated my instincts?"

  "You talk like a book--you talk like a book," muttered the oldgentleman. "But I know that the end of it will be wretchedness foreverybody. People who go on as you do about instincts, and finefeelings, and all that stuff, are just the ones who get into somedreadful mess at last. I tell you that such ideas are some of thedevil's best baits."

  Stella began to grow indignant.

  "Do you think, father, that you ought to talk to me quite like that?"she asked. "Don't you know me well enough to be sure that I should neverget into what you call a mess--at least, not in the way I suppose youmean? My heart and thought are my own, and I shall be prepared to renderaccount of them; for the rest, you need not be afraid."

  "I didn't mean that--I didn't mean anything of the sort----"

  "I am glad to hear it," broke in Stella. "It would scarcely have beenkind, especially as I am no longer a child who needs to be warnedagainst the dangers of the world."

  "What I did mean is that you are an enigma; that I am frightened aboutyou; that you are no companion; because your thoughts--yes, and at timesyour face, too--seem unnatural, unearthly, and separate you from others,as they have separated you from this poor young man."

  "I am what I was made," answered Stella with a little smile, "and I seekcompany where I can find it. Some love the natural, some the spiritual,and each receive from them their good. Why should they blame oneanother?"

  "Mad," muttered her father to himself as she left the room. "Mad as sheis charming and beautiful; or, if not mad, at least quite impracticableand unfitted for the world. What a disappointment to me--what a bitterdisappointment! Well, I should be used to them by now."

  Meanwhile, Morris was in his workshop in the old chapel entering up hisrecord of the day's experiments, which done, he drew his chair to thestove and fell into thought. Somehow the idea of the engagement of MissFregelius to Stephen Layard was not agreeable to him; probably becausehe did not care about the young man. Yet, now that he came to thinkof it quietly, in all her circumstances it would be an admirablearrangement, and the offer undoubtedly was one which she had been wiseto accept. On the whole, such a marriage would be as happy as marriagesgenerally are. The man was honest, the man was young and rich, and verysoon the man would be completely at the disposal of his brilliant andbeautiful wife.

  Personally he, Morris, would lose a friend, since a woman cannot marryand remain the friend of another man. That, however, would probably havehappened in any case, and to object on this account, even in his secretheart, would be abominably selfish. Indeed, what right had he evento consider the matter? The young lady had come into his life verystrangely, and made a curious impression upon him; she was now going outof it by ordinary channels, and soon nothing but the impression wouldremain. It was proper, natural, and the way of the world; there wasnothing more to be said.

  Somehow he was in a dreary mood, and everything bored him. He fetchedMary's last letter. There was nothing in it but some chit-chat, exceptthe postscript, which was rather longer than the letter, and ran:

  "I am glad to hear the young lady whom you fished up out of the seais such an assistance to you in your experiments. I gather from what Ihear--although you haven't mentioned the fact--that she is as beautifulas she is charming, and that she sings wonderfully. She must besomething remarkable, I am sure, because Eliza Layard evidently detestsher, and says that she is trying to ensnare the affections of thatsquire of dames, her brother Stephen, now temporarily homeless aftera visit to Jane Rose. What will you do when you have to get on withouther? I am afraid you must accustom yourself to the idea, unless shewould like to make a third in the honeymoon party. Joking apart, I amexceedingly grateful to her for all the help she has given you, and,dear, dear Morris, more delighted than I can tell you to learn thatafter all your years of patient labour you believe success to beabsolutely within sight.

  "My father, I am sorry to say, is no better; indeed, although thedoctors deny it, I believe he is worse, and I see no prospect of ourgetting away from here at present. However, don't let that bother you,and above all, don't think of coming out to this place which makes youmiserable, and where you can't work. What a queer menage you must be atthe Abbey now! You and the Star who has risen from the ocean--she oughtto have been called Venus--tete-a-tete, and the, I gather, rather feebleand uninteresting old gentleman in bed upstairs. I should like to seeyou when you didn't know. Why don't you invent a machine to enablepeople at a distance to see as well as to hear each other? It wouldbe very popular and bring Society to utter wreck. Does the Northernstar--she is Danish, isn't she?--make good coffee, and how, oh! how doesshe get on with the cook?"

  Morris put down the letter and laughed aloud. Mary was as amusing asever, and he longed to see her again, especially as he was convincedthat she was really bored out there at Beaulieu, with Mr. Porson sick,and his father very much occupied with his own affairs. In a moment hemade up his mind; he would go out and see her. Of course, he could illspare the time, but for the present the more pressing of his experimentswere completed, and he could write up his "data" there. Anyway, he wouldput in a fortnight at Beaulieu, and, what is more, start to-morrow if itcould be arranged.

  He went to the table and began a letter to Mary announcing that shemight expect to see him sometime on the day that it reached her. When hehad got so far as this he remembered that the dressing bell had alreadyrung some minutes, and ran upstairs to change his clothes. As hefastened his tie he thought to himself sadly that this would be his lastdinner with Stella Fregelius, and as he brushed his hair he determinedthat unless she had other wishes, it should be as happy as it could bemade. He would like this final meal to be the pleasantest of all theirmeals, and although, of course, he had no right to form an opinion onthe matter, he thought that perhaps she might like it, too. They weregoing to part, to enter on different walks of life--fo
r now, be itsaid, he had quite convinced himself that she was engaged--so let theirparting memories of each other be as agreeable as possible.

  Meanwhile, Stella also had her reflections. Her conversation with herfather had troubled her, more, perhaps, than her remarks might havesuggested. There was little between this pair except the bond of blood,which sometimes seems to be so curiously accidental, so absolutelydevoid of influence in promoting mutual sympathies, or in opening thedoor to any deep and real affection. Still, notwithstanding this lackof true intimacy, Stella loved her father as she felt that he loved her,and it gave her pain to be forced to cross his wishes. She knew withwhat a fierce desire, although he was ashamed to express all itsintensity, he desired that she should accept this, the first chance ofwealthy and successful marriage that had come her way, and the anguishwhich her absolute refusal must have entailed upon his heart.

  Of course, it was very worldly of him, and therefore reprehensible;yet to a great extent she could sympathise with his disappointment. Atbottom he was a proud man, although he repressed his pride and kept itsecret. He was an ambitious man, also, and his lot had been confinedto humble tasks, absolutely unrecognised beyond his parish, of aremotely-placed country parson. Moreover, his family had been rich; hehad been brought up to believe that he himself would be rich, andthen, owing to certain circumstances, was doomed to pass his days incomparative poverty.

  Even death had laid a heavy hand on him; she was the last of herrace, and she knew he earnestly desired that she should marry and bearchildren so that it might not become extinct. And now this chance, thisprincely chance, which, from his point of view, seemed to fill everypossible condition, had come unawares, like a messenger from Heaven, andshe refused its entertainment. Looked at through his eyes the positionwas indeed cruel.

  Yet, deeply as she sympathised with him in his disappointment, Stellanever for one moment wavered in her determination. Marry Mr. Layard! Herblood shrank back to her heart at the very thought, and then rushed toher neck and bosom in a flood of shame. No, she was sorry, but that wasimpossible, a thing which no woman should be asked to do against herwill.

  The subject wearied her, but as brooding on it could not mend matters,she dismissed it from her mind, and turned her thoughts to Morris. Why,she did not know, but something had come between them; he was vexed withher, and what was more, disappointed; she could feel it well enough,and--she found his displeasure painful. What had she done wrong, how hadshe offended him? Surely it could not be--and once again that red blushspread itself over face and bosom. He could not believe that she hadaccepted the man! He could never have so grossly misunderstood her, hernature, her ideas, everything about her! And yet who knew what he wouldor would not believe? In some ways, as she had already discovered, Mr.Monk was curiously simple. How could she tell him the truth withoutusing words which she did not desire to speak? Here instinct came to heraid. It might be done by making herself as agreeable to him as possible,for surely he must know that no girl would do her best to please oneman when she had just promised herself to another. So it came about thatquite innocently Stella determined to allay her host's misgivings bythis doubtful and dangerous expedient.

  To begin with, she put on her best dress--a low bodice of black silkrelieved with white and a single scarlet rose from the hothouse. Roundher neck also, fastened by a thin chain, she wore a large blood-redcarbuncle shaped like a heart, and about her slender waist a quaintgirdle of ancient Danish silver, two of the ornaments which she hadsaved from the shipwreck. Her dark and waving hair she parted in themiddle after a new fashion, tying its masses in a heavy knot at the backof her head, and thus adorned descended to the library where Morris wasawaiting her.

  He stood leaning over the fire with his back towards her, but hearingthe sweep of a skirt turned round, and as his eyes fell upon her,started a little. Never till he saw her thus had he known how beautifulStella was at times. Quite without design his eyes betrayed his thought,but with his lips he said merely as he offered her his arm,--

  "What a pretty dress! Did it come out of Northwold?"

  "The material did; I made it up, and I am glad that you think it nice."

  This was a propitious beginning, and the dinner that followed did notbelie its promise. The conversation turned upon one of the Norse sagasthat Stella had translated, for which Morris had promised to try to finda publisher. Then abandoning the silence and reserve which were habitualto him he began to talk, asking her about her work and her past. Sheanswered him freely enough, telling him of her school days in Denmark,of her long holiday visits to the old Danish grandmother, whose memorystretched back through three generations, and whose mind was stored withtraditions of men and days now long forgotten. This particular saga,she said, had, for instance, never been written in its entirety till shetook it down from the old dame's lips, much as in the fifteenth centurythe Iceland sagas were recorded by Snorro Sturleson and others. Even thetraditional music of the songs as they were sung centuries ago she hadreceived from her with their violin accompaniments.

  "I have one in the house," broke in Morris, "a violin--rather a goodinstrument; I used to play a little when I was young. I wish, if youdon't mind, that you would sing them to me after dinner."

  "I will try if you like," she answered, "but I don't know how I shallget on, for my own old fiddle, to which I am accustomed, went to thebottom with a lot of other things in that unlucky shipwreck. You knowwe came by sea because it seemed so cheap, and that was the end ofour economy. Fortunately, all our heavy baggage and furniture were notready, and escaped."

  "I do not call it unlucky," said Morris with grave courtesy, "since itgave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of yourfriendship."

  "Yes," she answered, looking pleased; "certainly you may say of myfriendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not,--with agreat deal more that I can never pay?"

  "Don't speak of it," he said. "That midnight sail was my one happyinspiration, my one piece of real good luck."

  "Perhaps," and she sighed, "that is, for me, though who can tell? I haveoften wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go on."

  "I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration."

  "And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?"

  "Fate, I suppose."

  "Yes, I think it must be what we call fate--if it troubles itself aboutso small a thing as the life of one woman."

  Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberlandmoors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existenceamong them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they didtogether, for even then Morris drank very little wine.

  "May I get you the violin, and will you sing?" he asked eagerly, whenthey reached the library.

  "If you wish it I will try."

  "Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put awaythere."

  Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced theviolin from the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it.

  "That is a very good instrument," said Stella, her eyes shining, "youdon't know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the violin ismy pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I wantedit, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can't affordto buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full moonshining on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and thestars, too; they glitter like great diamonds."

  "It is the frost," answered Morris. "Yes, everything is beautifulto-night."

  Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up thestrings to her liking.

  "Do you really wish me to sing, Mr. Monk?" she asked.

  "Of course; more than I can tell you."

  "Then, will you think me very odd if I ask you to turn out the electriclamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can seemy audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light Iwant."

  He obeyed, and now she was
but an ethereal figure, with a patch of redat her heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdlebeneath her breast, on whose pale face the moonbeams poured sweetly.For a while she stood thus, and the silence was heavy in that beautiful,dismantled place of prayer. Then she lifted the violin, and from thefirst touch of the bow Morris knew that he was in the presence of amistress of one of the most entrancing of the arts. Slow and sweet camethe plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to pass into his heartand thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now they almostdied away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time, shebegan to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand thewords, but their burden was clear enough; they were a lament, thelament of some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient andforgotten grief thus embalmed in heavenly music.

  It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted anddied among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighedaloud.

  "How can I thank you?" he said. "I knew that you were a musician, butnot that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel veryhumble."

  She laughed. "The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deservescredit, although, of course, it can be improved."

  "If so, what of the accompaniment?"

  "That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you knowthat when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time wasone of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often playedfor five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thingdrop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonelylife. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although thereremains much to be learnt."

  "Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage."

  "A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. Idaresay that some time I shall drift there--for the living--not becauseI like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact thatI had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you arepleased, than be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people."

  "And I--oh, I cannot explain! Sing on, sing all you can, for to-morrow Imust go away."

  "Go away!" she faltered.

  "Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am hereto listen."

  The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it--why, she knew not. Fora moment she felt helpless, as though she could neither sing nor play.She did not wish him to go; she did not wish him to go. Her intellectcame to her aid. Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and thisman could feel its weight. Would it not suffice to keep him from going?She would try; she would play and sing as she had never done before;sing till his heart was soft, play till his feet had no strength towander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon fromthis instrument of strings and wood.

  So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to timeletting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemedby nature to fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey falldrop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower. Now long did sheplay and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs? They never knew. Themoon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed awaygradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight. Now only thestars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, andon, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, "whereall day long the noise of battle rolled"; it rose shrill and high, andin it rang the scream of the Valkyries preparing the feast of Odin.It was low, and sad, and tender, the voice of women mourning for theirdead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as thosemight use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became richand soft and far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heardsighs and the broken words of love, that slowly fell away and melted asinto the nothingness of some happy sleep.

  The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; hervoice grew faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flickerof the fire and the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returnedfrom heaven to earth. Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair.

  Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosenhome of Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into hisheart with a chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to himat least the most beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had promisedherself in marriage to Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her mind,her music--all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he knew--were theactual property of Stephen Layard. Could it be true? Was it not possiblethat he had made some mistake? that he had misunderstood? A burningdesire came upon him to know, to know before he went, and upon theforceful impulse of that moment he did what at any other time would havefilled him with horror. He asked her; the words broke from his lips; hecould not help them.

  "Is it true," he said, with something like a groan, "can it be true thatyou--_you_ are really going to marry that man?"

  Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made nopretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know towhom he referred.

  "Are you mad to ask me such a thing?" she asked, with a strange break inher voice.

  "I am sorry," he began.

  She stamped her foot upon the ground.

  "Oh!" she said, "it hurts me, it hurts--from my father I understood, butthat you should think it possible that I would sell myself--I tell youthat it hurts," and as she spoke two large tears began to roll from herlovely pleading eyes.

  "Then you mean that you refused him?"

  "What else?"

  "Thank you. Of course, I have no right to interfere, but forgive me ifI say that I cannot help feeling glad. Even if it is taken on the groundof wealth you can easily make as much money as you want without him,"and he glanced at the violin which lay beside her.

  She made no reply, the subject seemed to have passed from her mind. Butpresently she lifted her head again, and in her turn asked a question.

  "Did you not say that you are going away to-morrow?"

  Then something happened to the heart and brain and tongue of Morris Monkso that he could not speak the thing he wished. He meant to answer amonosyllable "Yes," but in its place he replied with a whole sentence.

  "I was thinking of doing so; but after all I do not know that it will benecessary; especially in the middle of our experiments."

  Stella said nothing, not a single word. Only she found her handkerchief,and without in the least attempting to hide them, there before his eyeswiped the two tears off her face, first one and then the other.

  This done she held out her hand to him and left the room.