CHAPTER XVIII
TWO EXPLANATIONS
Accordingly, at a quarter past one on the following day the Colonelarrived at Seaview, went in to lunch with Mary, and made himself veryamusing and agreeable about the domestic complications of his oldfriend, Lady Rawlins and her objectionable husband, and other kindredtopics. Then, adroitly enough, he changed the conversation to thesubject of the great gale, and when he talked of it awhile, saidsuddenly:
"I suppose that you have heard of the dreadful thing that happenedhere?"
"What dreadful thing?" asked Mary. "I have heard nothing; you mustremember that I have been in a convent where one does not see theEnglish papers."
"The death of Stella Fregelius," said the Colonel sadly.
"What! the daughter of the new rector--the young lady whom Morris tookoff the wreck, and whom I have been longing to ask him about, only Iforgot last night? Do you mean to say that she is dead?"
"Dead as the sea can make her. She was in the old church yonder whenit was swept away, and now lies beneath its ruins in four fathoms ofwater."
"How awful!" said Mary. "Tell me about it; how did it happen?"
"Well, through Morris, poor fellow, so far as I can make out, and thatis why he is so dreadfully cut up. You see she helped him to carry onhis experiments with that machine, she sitting in the church and he athome in the Abbey, with a couple of miles of coast and water betweenthem. Well, you are a woman of the world, my dear, and you must knowthat all this sort of thing means a great deal more intimacy than isdesirable. How far that intimacy went I do not know, and I do not careto inquire, though for my part I believe that it was a very little wayindeed. Still, Eliza Layard got hold of some cock and bull tale, and youcan guess the rest."
"Perfectly," said Mary in a quiet voice, "if Eliza was concerned in it;but please go on with the story."
"Well, the gossip came to my ears----"
"Through Eliza?" queried Mary.
"Through Eliza--who said----" and he told her about the incident ofthe ulster and the dog-cart, adding that he believed it to be entirelyuntrue.
As Mary made no comment he went on: "I forgot to say that Miss Fregeliusseems to have refused to marry Stephen Layard, who fell violently inlove with her, which, to my mind, accounts for some of this gossip.Still, I thought it my duty, and the best thing I could do, to givea friendly hint to the old clergyman, Stella's father, a funny,withered-up old boy by the way. He seems to have spoken to his daughterrather indiscreetly, whereon she waylaid me as I was walking on thesands and informed me that she had made up her mind to leave this placefor London, where she intended to earn her own living by singing andplaying on the violin. I must tell you that she played splendidly, and,in my opinion, had one of the most glorious contralto voices that I everheard."
"She seems to have been a very attractive young woman," said Mary, inthe same quiet, contemplative voice.
"I think," went on the Colonel, "take her all in all, she was about themost attractive young woman that ever I saw, poor thing. Upon my word,dear, old as I am, I fell half in love with her myself, and so would youif you had seen those eyes of hers."
"I remember," broke in Mary, "that old Mr. Tomley, after he returnedfrom inspecting the Northumberland living, spoke about Miss Fregelius'swonderful eyes--at the dinner-party, you know, on the night when Morrisproposed to me," and she shivered a little as though she had turnedsuddenly cold.
"Well, let me go on with my story. After she had told me this, and Ihad promised to help her with introductions--exactly why or how Iforget--but I asked her flat out if she was in love with Morris.Thereon--I assure you, my dear Mary, it was the most painful scene inall my long experience--the poor thing turned white as a sheet, andwould have fallen if I had not caught hold of her. When she came toherself a little, she admitted frankly that this was her case, butadded--of which, of course, one may believe as much as one likes, thatshe had never known it until I asked the question."
"I think that quite possible," said Mary; "and really, uncle, to me yourcross-examination seems to have been slightly indiscreet."
"Possibly, my dear, very possibly; even Solomon might be excused foroccasionally making a mistake where the mysterious articles which youngladies call their hearts are concerned. I tell what happened, that isall. Shall I go on?"
"If you please."
"Well, after this she announced that she meant to see Morris once to saygood-bye to him before she went to London, and left me. Practically thenext thing I heard about her was that she was dead."
"Did she commit suicide?" asked Mary.
"It is said not; it is suggested that after Morris's interview with herin the Dead Church--for I gather there was an interview though nobodyknows about it, and that's where they met--she fell asleep, whichsounds an odd thing to do in the midst of such a gale as was raging onChristmas Eve, and so was overwhelmed. But who can say? Impressionableand unhappy women have done such deeds before now, especially if theyimagine themselves to have become the object of gossip. Of course, also,the mere possibility of such a thing having happened on his accountwould be, and indeed has been, enough to drive a man like Morris crazywith grief and remorse."
"What had he to be remorseful for?" asked Mary. "If a young womanchanced to fall in love with him, why should he be blamed, or blamehimself for that? After all, people's affections are in their ownkeeping."
"I imagine--very little, if anything. At least, I know this, that whenI spoke to him about the matter after my talk with her, I gathered fromwhat he said that there was absolutely nothing between them. To be quitefrank, however, as I have tried to be with you, my dear, throughoutthis conversation, I also gathered that this young lady had produced acertain effect upon his mind, or at least that the knowledge that shehad avowed herself to be attached to him--which I am afraid I let out,for I was in a great rage--produced some such effect. Well, afterwardsI believe, although I have asked no questions and am not sure of it, hewent and said good-bye to her in this church, at her request. Then thisdreadful tragedy happened, and there is an end of her and her story."
"Have you any object in telling it to me, uncle?"
"Yes, my dear, I have. I wished you to know the real facts before theyreached you in whatever distorted version Morris's fancy or imagination,or exaggerated candour, may induce him to present them to you. Also,my dear, even if you find, or think you find that you have cause ofcomplaint against him, I hope that you will see your way to beinglenient and shutting your eyes a little."
"Severity was never my strong point," interrupted Mary.
"For this reason," went on the Colonel; "the young woman concerned was avery remarkable person; if you could have heard her sing, for instance,you would have said so yourself. It is a humiliating confession, butI doubt whether one young man out of a hundred, single, engaged, ormarried, could have resisted being attracted by her to just such anextent as she pleased, especially if he were flattered by the knowledgethat she was genuinely attracted by himself."
Mary made no answer.
"Didn't you say you had some documents you wanted me to sign?" she askedpresently.
"Oh, yes; here is the thing," and he pulled a paper out of his pocket;"the lawyers write that it need not be witnessed."
Mary glanced at it. "Couldn't Morris have brought this?--he is yourco-executor, isn't he?--and saved you the trouble?"
"Undoubtedly he could; but----"
"But what?"
"Well, if you want to know, my dear," said the Colonel, with a gravecountenance, "just now Morris is in a state in which I do not care toleave more of this important business in his hands than is necessary."
"What am I to understand by that, uncle?" she said, looking at himshrewdly. "Do you mean that he is--not quite well?"
"Yes, Mary, I mean that--he is not quite well; that is, if myobservation goes for anything. I mean," he went on with quiet vehemence,"I mean that--just at present, of course, he has been so upset by thismiserable affair that for my part I wouldn't p
ut any confidence in whathe says about it, or about anything else. The thing has got upon hisnerves and rendered him temporarily unfit for the business of ordinarylife. You know that at the best of times he is a very peculiar man andnot quite like other people.
"Well, have you signed that? Thank you, my dear. By Jove! I must be off;I shall be late as it is. I may rely upon your discretion as to what wehave been talking about, may I not? but I thought it as well to let youknow how the land lay."
"Yes, uncle; and thank you for taking so much trouble."
When the door had closed behind him Mary reflected awhile. Then she saidto herself:
"He thinks Morris is a little off his head, and has come here to warnme. I should not be surprised, and I daresay that he is right. Any way,a new trouble has risen up between us, the shadow of another woman, poorthing. Well, shadows melt, and the dead do not come back. She seems tohave been very charming and clever, and I daresay that she fascinatedhim for a while, but with kindness and patience it will all comeright. Only I do hope that he will not insist upon making me too manyconfidences."
So thought Mary, who by nature was forgiving, gentle, and an optimist;not guessing how sorely her patience as an affianced wife, and hercharity as a woman of the world, would be tried within the hour.
From all of which it will be seen that for once the diplomacy of theColonel had prospered somewhat beyond its deserts. The departed cannotexplain or defend themselves, and Morris's possible indiscretionsalready stood discounted in the only quarter where they might do harm.
Half an hour later Mary, sitting beside the fire with her toes upon thegrate and her face to the window, perceived Morris on the gravel drive,wearing a preoccupied and rather wretched air. She noted, moreover,that before he rang the bell he paused for a moment as though to shakehimself together.
"Here you are at last," she said, cheerfully, as he bent down to kissher, "seven whole minutes before your time, which is very nice of you.Now, sit down there and get warm, and we will have a good, long talk."
Morris obeyed. "My father has been lunching with you, has he not?" hesaid somewhat nervously.
"Yes, dear, and telling me all the news, and a sad budget it seems tobe; about the dreadful disasters of the great gale and the death of thatpoor girl who was staying with you, Miss Fregelius."
At the mention of this name Morris's face contorted itself, as theface of a man might do who was seized with a sudden pang of sharp andunexpected agony.
"Mary," he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, "I have a confession tomake to you, and I must make it--about this dead woman, I mean. I willnot sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and thenjudge."
"Dear me," she answered; "this sounds dreadfully tragic. But I may aswell tell you at once that I have already heard some gossip."
"I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was knownonly to me and her."
Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary'seyes.
"What am I to understand?" she said in a low voice--and she looked aquestion.
"Oh, no!" he answered with a faint smile; "nothing at all----"
"Not that you have been embracing her, for instance? That, I understand,is Eliza Layard's story."
"No, no; I never did such a thing in my life."
A little sigh of relief broke from Mary's lips. At the worst this wasbut an affair of sentiment.
"I think, dear" she said in her ordinary slow voice, "that you hadbetter set out the trouble in your own words, with as few detailsas possible, or none at all. Such things are painful, are theynot--especially where the dead are concerned?"
Morris bowed his head and began: "You know I found her on the ship,singing as she only could sing, and she was a very strange and beautifulwoman--perhaps beautiful is not the word--"
"It will do," interrupted Mary; "at any rate, you thought herbeautiful."
"Then afterwards we grew intimate, very intimate, without knowing it,almost--indeed, I am not sure that we should ever have known it had itnot been for the mischief-making of Eliza Layard----"
"May she be rewarded," ejaculated Mary.
"Well, and after she--that is, Eliza Layard--had spoken to my father, heattacked Mr. Fregelius, his daughter, and myself, and it seems that sheconfessed to my father that she was--was----"
"In love with you--not altogether unnatural, perhaps, from my point ofview; though, of course, she oughtn't to have been so."
"Yes, and said that she was going away and--on Christmas Eve we metthere in the Dead Church. Then somehow--for I had no intention of sucha thing--all the truth came out, and I found that I was no longer masterof myself, and--God forgive me! and you, Mary, forgive me, too--that Iloved her also."
"And afterwards?" said Mary, moving her skirts a little.
"And afterwards--oh! it will sound strange to you--we made some kind ofcompact for the next world, a sort of spiritual marriage; I can call itnothing else. Then I shook hands with her and went away, and in afew hours she was dead--dead. But the compact stands, Mary; yes, thatcompact stands for ever."
"A compact of a spiritual marriage in a place where there is nomarriage. Do you mean, Morris, that you wish this strange proceeding todestroy your physical and earthly engagement to myself?"
"No, no; nor did she wish it; she said so. But you must judge. I feelthat I have done you a dreadful wrong, and I was determined that youshould know the worst."
"That was very good of you," Mary said, reflectively, "for really thereis no reason why you should have told me this peculiar story. Morris,you have been working pretty hard lately, have you not?"
"Yes," he replied, absently, "I suppose I have."
"Was this young lady what is called a mystic?"
"Perhaps. Danish people often are. At any rate, she saw things moreclearly than most. I mean that the future was nearer to her mind; and ina sense, the past also."
"Indeed. You must have found her a congenial companion. I suppose thatyou talked a good deal of these things?"
"Sometimes we did."
"And discovered that your views were curiously alike? For when onemystic meets another mystic, and the other mystic has beautiful eyes andsings divinely, the spiritual marriage will follow almost as a matterof course. What else is to be expected? But I am glad that you werefaithful to your principles, both of you, and clung fast to the etherealside of things."
Morris writhed beneath this satire, but finding no convenient answer toit, made none.
"Do you remember, my dear?" went on Mary, "the conversation we had oneday in your workshop before we were engaged--that's years ago, isn'tit--about star-gazing considered as a fine art?"
"I remember something," he said.
"That I told you, for instance, that it might be better if you paid alittle more attention to matters physical, lest otherwise you should goon praying for vision till you could see, and for power until you couldcreate?"
Morris nodded.
"Well, and I think I said--didn't I? that if you insisted upon followingthese spiritual exercises, the result might be that they would returnupon you in some concrete shape, and take possession of you, and leadyou into company and surroundings which most of us think it wholesome toavoid."
"Yes, you said something like that."
"It wasn't a bad bit of prophecy, was it?" went on Mary, rubbing herchin reflectively, "and you see his Satanic Majesty knew very wellhow to bring about its fulfilment. Mystical, lovely, and a wonderfulmistress of music, which you adore; really, one would think that thebait must have been specially selected."
Crushed though he was, Morris's temper began to rise beneath the lashof Mary's sarcasm. He knew, however, that it was her method of showingjealousy and displeasure, both of them perfectly natural, and did hisbest to restrain himself.
"I do not quite understand you," he said. "Also, you are unjust to her."
"Not at all. I daresay that in herself she was what you think her, aperfect angel; indeed, the descriptio
ns that I have heard from yourfather and yourself leave no doubt of it in my mind. But even angelshave been put to bad purposes; perhaps their innocence makes it possibleto take advantage of them----"
He opened his lips to speak, but she held up her hand and went on:
"You mustn't think me unsympathetic because I put things as they appearto my very mundane mind. Look here, Morris, it just comes to this: Ifthis exceedingly attractive young lady had made love to you, or hadinduced you to make love to her, so that you ran away with her, oranything else, of course you would have behaved badly and cruelly to me,but at least your conduct would be natural, and to be explained. We allknow that men do this kind of thing, and women too, for the matter ofthat, under the influence of passion--and are often very sorry for itafterwards. But she didn't do this; she took you on your weak side,which she understood thoroughly--probably because it was her own weakside--and out-Heroded Herod, or, rather, out-mysticised the mystic,finishing up with some spiritual marriage, which, if it is anything atall, is impious. What right have we to make bargains for the Beyond,about which we know nothing?"
"She did know something," said Morris, with a sullen conviction.
"You think she did because you were reduced to a state of mind in which,if she had told you that the sun goes round the earth, you would quitereadily have believed her. My dearest Morris, that way madness lies.Perhaps you understand now what I have been driving at, and the bestproof of the absurdity of the whole thing is that I, stupid as I am,from my intimate knowledge of your character since childhood, was ableto predict that something of this sort would certainly happen to you.You will admit that is a little odd, won't you?"
"Yes, it's odd; or, perhaps, it shows that you have more of the innersight than you know. But there were circumstances about the story whichyou would find difficult to explain."
"Not in the least. In your own answer lies the explanation--yourtendency to twist things. I prophesy certain developments from myknowledge of your character, whereupon you at once credit me with secondsight, which is absurd."
"I don't see the analogy," said Morris.
"Don't you? I do. All this soul business is just a love affair gonewrong. If circumstances had been a little different--if, for instance,there had been no Mary Porson--I doubt whether anybody would have heardmuch about spiritual marriages. Somehow I think that things would havesettled down into a more usual groove."
Morris did not attempt to answer. He felt that Mary held all the cards,and, not unnaturally, was in a mood to play them. Moreover, it wasdesecration to him to discuss Stella's most secret beliefs with anyother woman, and especially with Mary. Their points of view wereabsolutely and radically different. The conflict was a conflict betweenthe natural and the spiritual law; or, in other words, between hard,brutal facts and theories as impalpable as the perfume of a flower,or the sound waves that stirred his aerophone. Moreover, he could seeclearly that Mary's interpretation of this story was simple; namely,that he had fallen into temptation, and that the shock of his partingfrom the lady concerned, followed by her sudden and violent death,had bred illusions in his mind. In short, that he was slightly crazy;therefore, to be well scolded, pitied, and looked after rather thansincerely blamed. The position was scarcely heroic, or one that any manwould choose to fill; still, he felt that it had its conveniences; that,at any rate, it must be accepted.
"All these questions are very much a matter of opinion," he said; thenadded, unconsciously reflecting one of Stella's sayings, "and I daresaythat the truth is for each of us exactly what each of us imagines it tobe."
"I was always taught that the truth is the truth, quite irrespective ofour vague and often silly imaginings; the difficulty being to find outexactly what it is."
"Perhaps," answered Morris, declining argument which is always uselessbetween people are are determined not to sympathise with each other'sviews. "I knew that you would think my story foolish. I should neverhave troubled you with it, had I not felt it to be my duty, fornaturally the telling of such a tale puts a man in a ridiculous light."
"I don't think you ridiculous, Morris; I think that you are sufferingslightly from shock, that is all. What I say is that I detest all thisspiritual hocus-pocus to which you have always had a leaning. I fear andhate it instinctively, as some people hate cats, because I know that itbreeds mischief, and that, as I said before, people who go on trying tosee, do see, or fancy that they do. While we are in the world let theworld and its limitations be enough for us. When we go out of the world,then the supernatural may become the natural, and cease to be hurtfuland alarming."
"Yes," said Morris, "those are very good rules. Well, Mary, I have toldyou the history of this sad adventure of which the book is now closed bydeath, and I can only say that I am humiliated. If anybody had saidto me six months ago that I should have to come to you with such aconfession, I should have answered that he was a liar. But now yousee----"
"Yes," repeated Mary, "I see."
"Then will you give me your answer? For you must judge; I have told youthat you must judge."
"Judge not, that ye be not judged," answered Mary. "Who am I that Ishould pass sentence on your failings? Goodness knows that I have plentyof my own; if you don't believe me, go and ask the nuns at that convent.Whatever were the rights and wrongs of it, the thing is finished anddone with, and nobody can be more sorry for that unfortunate girl thanI am. Also I think that you have behaved very well in coming to tell meabout your trouble; but then that is like you, Morris, for you couldn'tbe deceitful, however hard you might try.
"So, dear, with your leave, we will say no more about Stella Fregeliusand her spiritual views. When I engaged myself to you, as I told youat the time, I did so with my eyes open, for better or for worse, andunless you tell me right out that you don't want me, I have no intentionof changing my mind, especially as you need looking after, and are notlikely to come across another Stella.
"There, I haven't talked so much for months; I am quite tired, andwish to forget about all these disagreeables. I am afraid I have spokensharply, but if so you must make allowances, for such stories are aptto sour the sweetest-tempered women--for half an hour. If I haveseemed bitter and cross, dear, it is because I love you better than anycreature in the world, and can't bear to think----So you must forgiveme. Do you, Morris?"
"Forgive! _I_ forgive!" he stammered overwhelmed.
"There," she said again, very softly, stretching out her arms, "come andgive me a kiss, and let us change the subject once and for ever. Iwant to tell you about my poor father; he left some messages for you,Morris."