It was one o'clock on Christmas morning, or more. Hours ago Morris hadgone though his rites, the ritual that he had invented or discovered--inits essence, simple and pathetic enough--whereby he strove to bringhimself to the notice of the dead, and to fit himself to see or hear thedead. Such tentative mysticism as served his turn need not be writtendown, but its substance can be imagined by many. Then, through anexercise of his will, he had invoked the strange, trance-like statewhich has been described. The soft waves flowing from an unknown sourcehad beat upon his brain, and with them came the accustomed phenomena;the sense of some presence near, impending, yet impotent; suggestingby analogy and effect the misdirected efforts of a blind person seekingsomething in a room, or the painful attempt of one almost deaf, strivingto sift out words from a confused murmur of sounds. The personalityof Stella seemed to pervade him, yet he could see nothing, could hearnothing. The impression might be from within, not from without. Perhaps,after all, it was nothing but a dream, a miasma, a mirage, drawn by hisown burning thought from the wastes and marshes of his mind peopledwith illusive hopes and waterlogged by memories. Or it might be true andreal; as yet he could not be certain of its origin.
The fit passed, delightful in its overpowering emptiness, butunsatisfying as all that had gone before it, and left him weak. For awhile Morris crouched by the fire, for he had grown cold, and couldnot think accurately. Then his vital, human strength returned, and, asseemed to him to be fitting upon this night of all nights, he began oneby one to recall the events of that day four years ago, when Stella wasstill a living woman.
The scene in the Dead Church, the agonies of farewell; he summonedthem detail by detail, word by word; her looks, the changes of herexpression, the movements of her hands and eyes and lips; he counted andpictured each precious souvenir. The sound of her last sentences also,as the blind, senseless aerophone had rendered them just before theend, one by one they were repeated in his brain. There stood the veryinstrument; but, alas! it was silent now, its twin lay buried in the seawith her who had worked it.
Morris grew weary, the effort of memory was exhausting, and after it hewas glad to think of nothing. The fire flickered, the clear light ofthe electric lamps shone upon the hard, sixteenth-century faces ofthe painted angels in the ancient roof; without the wind soughed, andthrough it rose the constant, sullen roar of the sea.
Tired, disappointed, unhappy, and full of self-reproaches, for when themadness was not on him he knew his sin, Morris sank into a doze. Nowmusic crept softly into his sleep; sweet, thrilling music, causing himto open his eyes and smile. It was Christmas Eve, and doubtless he heardthe village waifs.
Morris looked up arousing himself to listen, and lo! there before him,unexpected and ineffable, was Stella; Stella as she appeared that nighton which she had sung to him, just as she finished singing, indeed, whenhe stood for a while in the faint moonlight, the flame of inspirationstill flickering in those dark eyes and the sweet lips drawn down alittle as though she were about to weep.
The sight did not astonish him, at the moment he never imagined eventhen that this could be her spirit, that his long labours in a soil noman was meant to till had issued into harvest. Surely it was a dream,nothing but a dream. He felt no tremors, no cold wind stirred his hair;his heart did not stand still, nor his breath come short. Why should aman fear so beautiful a dream? Yet, vaguely enough, he wished that itmight last forever, for it was sweet to see her so--as she had been.As she had been--yet, was she ever thus? Surely some wand of change hadtouched her. She was beautiful, but had she worn that beauty? And thoseeyes! Could any such have shone in the face of woman?
"Stella," he whispered, and from roof and walls crept back the echo ofhis voice. He rose and went towards her. She had vanished. He returned,and there she was.
"Speak!" he muttered; "speak!" But no word came, only the lovelychangeless eyes shone on and watched him.
Listen! Music seemed to float about the room, such music as he had neverheard--even Stella could not make the like. The air was full of it, thenight without was full of it, millions of voices took up the chant, andfrom far away, note by note, mighty organs and silver trumpets told itsmelody.
His brain reeled. In the ocean of those unimagined harmonies it wastossed like a straw upon a swirling river, tossed and overwhelmed.
Slowly, very slowly, as the straw might be sucked into the heart of awhirlpool, his soul was drawn down into blackness. It shuddered, it wasafraid; this vision of a whirlpool haunted him. He could see the narrowfunnel of its waters, smooth, shining like jet, unspecked by foam, solidto all appearances; but, as he was aware, alive, every atom of them,instinct with some frightful energy, the very face of force--and in theteeth of it, less than a dead leaf, himself.
Down he went, down, and still above him shone the beautiful, pitying,changeless eyes; and still round him echoed that strange, searchingmusic. The eyes receded, the music became faint, and then--blackness.
Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies Page 38
