Stella Fregelius - H. Rider Haggard (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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That morning Morris accompanied Stella to church, where the services were still being performed by a stop-gap left by Mr. Tomley. Here, again, Stella was a surprise to him, for now her demeanour, and at a little distance her appearance also, were just such as mark ninety-eight out of every hundred clergyman’s daughters in the country. So quiet and reserved was she that anyone meeting her that morning might have imagined that she was hurrying from the accustomed Bible-class to sit among her pupils in the church. This impression indeed was, as it were, certificated by an old-fashioned silk fichu that she had been obliged to borrow, which in bygone years had been worn by Morris’s mother.
Once in church, however, matters changed. To begin with, finding it warm, Stella threw off the fichu, greatly to the gain of her personal appearance. Next, it became evident that the beauties of the ancient building appealed to her, which was not wonderful; for these old, seaside, eastern counties churches, relics of long past wealth and piety, are some of them among the most beautiful in the world. Then came the “Venite,” of which here and there she sang a line or so, just one or two rich notes like those that a thrush utters before he bursts into full song. Rare as they might be, however, they caused those about her in the church to look at the strange singer wonderingly.
After this, in the absence of his father, Morris read the lessons, and although, being blessed with a good voice, this was a duty which he performed creditably enough, that day he went through it with a certain sense of nervousness. Why he was nervous at first he did not guess; till, chancing to glance up, he became aware that Miss Fregelius was looking at him out of her half-closed eyes. What is more, she was listening critically, and with much intenseness, whereupon, instantly, he made a mistake and put a false accent on a name.
In due course, the lessons done with, they reached the first hymn, which was one that scarcely seemed to please his companion; at any rate, she shut the book and would not sing. In the case of the second hymn, however, matters were different. This time she did not even open the book. It was evident that she knew the words, perhaps among the most beautiful in the whole collection, by heart. The reader will probably be acquainted with them. They begin:
That bought us, once for all, on Calvary’s tree.”
At first Stella sang quite low, as though she wished to repress her powers. Now, as it happened, at Monksland the choir was feeble, but inoffensive; whereas the organ was a good, if a worn and neglected instrument, suited to the great but sparsely peopled church, and the organist, a man who had music in his soul. Low as she was singing, he caught the sound of Stella’s voice, and knew at once that before him was a woman who in a supreme degree possessed the divinest gift, perhaps, with which Nature can crown her sex, the power and gift of song. Forgetting his wretched choir, he began to play to her. She seemed to note the invitation, and at once answered to it.
swelled from her throat in deep contralto notes, rich as those the organ echoed.
But the full glory of the thing, that surpassing music which set Monksland talking for a week, was not reached till she came to the third verse. Perhaps the pure passion and abounding humanity of its spirit moved her. Perhaps by this time she was the thrall of her own song. Perhaps she had caught the look of wonder and admiration on the face of Morris, and was determined to show him that she had other music at command besides that of pagan death-chants. At least, she sang up and out, till her notes dominated those of the choir, which seemed to be but an accompaniment to them; till they beat against the ancient roof and down the depth of the long nave, to be echoed back as though from the golden trumpets of the angels that stood above the tower screen; till even the village children ceased from whispers and playing to listen open-mouthed.
By this prevailing Presence we appeal;
O! fold them closer to Thy mercy’s breast,
O! do Thine utmost, for their souls’ true weal;
From tainting mischief keep them white and clear,
And crown Thy gifts with strength to persevere.”
It was as her voice lingered upon the deep tones of these last words that suddenly Stella seemed to become aware that practically she was singing a solo; that at any rate no one else in the congregation was contributing a note. Then she was vexed, or perhaps a panic took her; at least, not another word of that hymn passed her lips. In vain the organist paused and looked round indignantly; the little boys, the clerk, and the stout coach-builder were left to finish it by themselves, with results that by contrast were painful.
When Stella came out of church, redraped in the antique and unbecoming fichu, she found herself the object of considerable attention. Indeed, upon one pretext and another nearly all the congregation seemed to be lingering about the porch and pathway to stare at the new parson’s shipwrecked daughter when she appeared. Among them was Miss Layard, and with her the delicate brother. They were staying to lunch with the Stop-gap’s meek little wife. Indeed, this self-satisfied and somewhat acrimonious lady, Miss Layard, engaged Morris in conversation, and pointedly asked him to introduce her to Miss Fregelius.
“We are to be neighbours, you know,” she explained, “for we live at the Hall in the next parish, not more than a mile away.”
“Indeed,” answered Stella, who did not seem much impressed.
“My brother and I hope to call upon Mr. Fregelius and yourself as soon as possible, but I thought I would not wait for that to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“You are very kind indeed,” said Stella simply. “At present, I am afraid, it is not much use calling upon my father, as he is in bed with a broken thigh; also, we are not at the Rectory. Until he can be moved we are only guests at the Abbey,” and she looked at Morris, who added rather grumpily, by way of explanation:
“Of course, Miss Layard, you have heard about the wreck of the Trondhjem, and how those foreign sailors saw the light in my workshop and brought Mr. Fregelius to the Abbey.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Monk, and how they left Miss Fregelius behind, and you went to fetch her, and all sorts of strange things happened to you. We think it quite wonderful and romantic. I am writing to dear Miss Porson to tell her about it, because I am sure that you are too modest to sing your own praises.”
Morris grew angry. At the best of times he disliked Miss Layard. Now he began to detest her, and to long for the presence of Mary, who understood how to deal with that not too well-bred young person.
“You really needn’t have troubled,” he answered. “I have already written.”
“Then my epistle will prove a useful commentary. If I were engaged to a modern hero I am sure I could not hear too much about him, and,” fixing her eyes upon the black silk fichu, “the heroine of the adventure.”
Meanwhile, Stella was being engaged by the brother, who surveyed her with pale, admiring eyes which did not confine their attentions to the fichu.
“Monk is always an awfully lucky fellow,” he said. “Just fancy his getting the chance of doing all that, and finding you waiting on the ship at the end of it,” he added, with desperate and emphatic gallantry. “There’s to be a whole column about it in the ‘Northwold Times’ to-morrow. I wish the thing had come my way, that’s all.”
“Unless you understand how to manage a boat in a heavy sea, and the winds and tides of this coast thoroughly, I don’t think that you should wish that, Mr. Layard,” said Stella.
“Why not?” he asked sharply. As a matter of fact the little man was a miserable sailor and suspected her of poking fun at him.
“Because you would have been drowned, Mr. Layard, and lying at the bottom of the North Sea among the dogfish and conger-eels this morning instead of sitting comfortably in church.”
Mr. Layard started and stared at her. Evidently this lady’s imagination was as vivid as it was suggestive.
“I say, Miss Fregelius,” he said, “you don’t put things very pleasantly.”
“No, I am afraid not, but then drowning isn’t pleasant. I have been near it very lately, and I thought a great deal about those conger-eels. And sudden death isn’t pleasant, and perhaps—unless you are very, very good, as I daresay you are—what comes after it may not be quite pleasant. All of which has to be thought of before one goes to sea in an open boat in winter, on the remotest chance of saving a stranger’s life—hasn’t it?”
Somehow Mr. Layard felt distinctly smaller.
“I daresay one wouldn’t mind it at a pinch,” he muttered; “Monk isn’t the only plucky fellow in the world.”
“I am sure you would not, Mr. Layard,” replied Stella in a gentler voice, “still these things must be considered upon such occasions and a good many others.”
“A brave man doesn’t think, he acts,” persisted Mr. Layard.
“No,” replied Stella, “a foolish man doesn’t think, a brave man thinks and sees, and still acts—at least, that is how it strikes me, although perhaps I have no right to an opinion. But Mr. Monk is going on, so I must say good-morning.”
“Are many of the ladies about here so inquisitive, and the young gentlemen so?”—“decided” she was going to say, but changed the word to “kind”—asked Stella of Morris as they walked homeward.
“Ladies!” snapped Morris. “Miss Layard isn’t a lady, and never will be; she has neither birth nor breeding, only good looks of a sort and money. I should like,” he added, viciously—“I should like to shut her into her own coal mine.”
Stella laughed, which was a rare thing with her—usually she only smiled—as she answered:
“I had no idea you were so vindictive, Mr. Monk. And what would you like to do with Mr. Layard?”
“Oh! I—never thought much about him. He is an ignorant, uneducated little fellow, but worth two of his sister, all the same. After all, he’s got a heart. I have known him do kind things, but she has nothing but a temper.”
Meanwhile, at the luncheon table of the Stop-gap the new and mysterious arrival, Miss Fregelius, was the subject of fierce debate.
“Pretty! I don’t call her pretty,” said Miss Layard; “she has fine eyes, that is all, and they do not look quite right. What an extraordinary garment she had on, too; it might have come out of Noah’s Ark.”
“I fancy,” suggested the hostess, a mild little woman, “that it came out of the wardrobe of the late Mrs. Monk. You know, Miss Fregelius
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