Stella Fregelius by H. Rider Haggard (no david read aloud .TXT) 📕
"Ah! that's just like you, if you will forgive my saying so. You takeany amount of trouble to invent and perfect a thing, but when it comesto making use of it, then you forget," and with a little gesture ofimpatience the Colonel turned aside to light a match from a box whichhe had found in the pocket of his cape.
"I am sorry," said Morris, with a sigh, "but I am afraid it is true.When one's mind is very fully occupied with one thing----" and hebroke off.
"Ah! that's it, Morris, that's it," said the Colonel, seating himselfupon a garden chair; "this hobby-horse of yours is carrying you--tothe devil, and your family with you. I don't want to be rough, but itis time that I spoke plain. Let's see, how long is it since you leftthe London firm?"
"Nine years this autumn," answered Morris, setting his mouth a little,for he knew what was coming. The port drunk after claret had upset hisfather's digestion and ruffled his temper. This meant that to him--Morris--Fate had appoin
Read free book «Stella Fregelius by H. Rider Haggard (no david read aloud .TXT) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
- Performer: -
Read book online «Stella Fregelius by H. Rider Haggard (no david read aloud .TXT) 📕». Author - H. Rider Haggard
She laughed. “The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves credit, 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 know that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time was one of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often played for five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thing drop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonely life. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although there remains 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. I daresay that some time I shall drift there—for the living—not because I like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that I had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are pleased, 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 I must go away.”
“Go away!” she faltered.
“Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am here to listen.”
The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it—why, she knew not. For a 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 intellect came to her aid. Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and this man 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 to wander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon from this instrument of strings and wood.
So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to time letting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemed by nature to fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey fall drop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower. Now long did she play and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs? They never knew. The moon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed away gradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight. Now only the stars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, and on, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, “where all day long the noise of battle rolled”; it rose shrill and high, and in 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 their dead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as those might use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became rich and soft and far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heard sighs and the broken words of love, that slowly fell away and melted as into the nothingness of some happy sleep.
The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; her voice grew faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flicker of the fire and the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returned from heaven to earth. Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair.
Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosen home of Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into his heart with a chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to him at least the most beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had promised herself in marriage to Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her mind, her music—all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he knew—were the actual property of Stephen Layard. Could it be true? Was it not possible that he had made some mistake? that he had misunderstood? A burning desire came upon him to know, to know before he went, and upon the forceful impulse of that moment he did what at any other time would have filled him with horror. He asked her; the words broke from his lips; he could not help them.
“Is it true,” he said, with something like a groan, “can it be true that you—you are really going to marry that man?”
Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made no pretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know to whom he referred.
“Are you mad to ask me such a thing?” she asked, with a strange break in her 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, but that you should think it possible that I would sell myself—I tell you that it hurts,” and as she spoke two large tears began to roll from her lovely pleading eyes.
“Then you mean that you refused him?”
“What else?”
“Thank you. Of course, I have no right to interfere, but forgive me if I say that I cannot help feeling glad. Even if it is taken on the ground of 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. But presently 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 Monk so that he could not speak the thing he wished. He meant to answer a monosyllable “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 be necessary; 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 eyes wiped 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.
CHAPTER XIV THE RETURN OF THE COLONEL
Next morning Morris and Stella met at breakfast as usual, but as though by mutual consent neither of them alluded to the events of the previous evening. Thus the name of Mr. Layard was “taboo,” nor were any more questions asked, or statements volunteered as to that journey, the toils of which Morris had suddenly discovered he was after all able to avoid. This morning, as it chanced, no experiments were carried on, principally because it was necessary for Stella to spend the day in the village doing various things on behalf of her father, and lunching with the wife of Dr. Charters, who was one of the churchwardens.
By the second post, which arrived about three o’clock, Morris received two letters, one from his father and one from Mary. There was something about the aspect of these letters that held his eye. That from his father was addressed with unusual neatness, the bold letters being written with all the care of a candidate in a calligraphic competition. The stamps also were affixed very evenly, and the envelope was beautifully sealed with the full Monk coat done in black wax. These, as experience told him, were signs that his father had something important to communicate, since otherwise everything connected with his letters was much more casual. Further, to speak at hazard, he should judge that this matter, whatever it might be, was not altogether disagreeable to the writer.
Mary’s letter also had its peculiarities. She always wrote in a large, loose scrawl, running the words into one another after the idle fashion which was an index to her character. In this instance, however, the fault had been carried to such an extreme that the address was almost illegible; indeed, Morris wondered that the letter had not been delayed. The stamps, too, were affixed anyhow, and the envelope barely closed.
“Something has happened,” he thought to himself. Then he opened Mary’s letter. It was dated Tuesday, that is, two days before, and ran:
“Dearest,—My father is dead, my poor old father, and now I have nobody but you left in the world. Thank God, at the last he was without pain and, they thought, insensible; but I know he wasn’t, because he squeezed my hand. Some of his last words that could be understood were, ‘Give my love to Morris.’ Oh! I feel as though my heart would break. After my mother’s death till you came into my life, he was everything to me—everything, everything. I can’t write any more.
“Your loving “Mary.”
“P.S. Don’t trouble to come out here. It is no good. He is to be buried to-morrow, and next day I am going ‘en retraite’ for a month, as I must have time to get over this—to accustom myself to not seeing him every morning when I come down to breakfast. You remember my French friend, Gabrielle d’Estree? Well; she is a nun now, a sub-something or other in a convent near here where they take in people for a payment. Somehow she heard my father was dead, and came to see me, and offered to put me up at the convent, which has a beautiful large garden, for I have been there. So I said yes, for I shan’t feel lonely with her, and it will be a rest for a month. I shall write to you sometimes, and you needn’t be afraid, they won’t make me a Roman Catholic. Your father objected at first, but now he quite approves; indeed, I told him at last that I meant to go whether he approved or not. It seems it doesn’t matter from a business point of view, as you and he are left executors of my father’s will. When the month is up I will come to England, and we will settle about getting married. This is the address of the convent as nearly as I can remember it. Letters will reach me there.”
Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been truly attached to his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood and appreciated. Then he opened his father’s letter, which began in an imposing manner:
“My Dear Son (usually he called him Morris),—It is with the deepest grief that I must tell you that poor John Porson, your uncle, passed away this morning about ten o’clock. I was present at the time, and did my best to soothe his last moments with such consolations as can be offered by a relative who is not a clergyman. I wished to wire the sad event to you, but Mary, in whom natural grief develops a self-will that perhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused to allow it, alleging that it was useless to alarm you and waste money on telegrams (how like a woman to think of money at such a moment) when it was quite impossible that you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he wouldn’t be brought home), which, under these queer foreign regulations, must take place to-morrow. Also she announced, to my surprise, and, I must admit, somewhat to my pain, that she intended to immure herself for a month in a convent, after the fashion of the Roman faith, so that it was no use your coming,
Comments (0)