CHAPTER V
A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE
Although it consisted of but a dozen people, the dinner-party at theAbbey that night was something of a function. To begin with, the oldrefectory, with its stone columns and arches still standing as theywere in the pre-Reformation days, lit with cunningly-arranged and shadedelectric lights designed and set up by Morris, was an absolutelyideal place in which to dine. Then, although the Monk family wereimpoverished, they still retained the store of plate accumulated by pastgenerations. Much of this silver was old and very beautiful, and whenset out upon the great side-boards produced an affect well suited tothat chamber and its accessories. The company also was pleasant andpresentable. There were the local baronet and his wife; the two beautiesof the neighbourhood, Miss Jane Rose and Miss Eliza Layard, with theirrespective belongings; the clergyman of the parish, a Mr. Tomley, whowas leaving the county for the north of England on account of his wife'shealth; and a clever and rising young doctor from the county town.These, with Mr. Porson and his daughter, made up the number who uponthis particular night with every intention of enjoying themselves, satdown to that rather rare entertainment in Monksland, a dinner-party.
Colonel Monk had himself very carefully placed the guests. As a result,Morris, to whose lot it had fallen to take in the wealthy Miss Layard,a young lady of handsome but somewhat ill-tempered countenance, foundhimself at the foot of the oblong table with his partner on one sideand his cousin on the other. Mary, who was conducted to her seat by Mr.Layard, the delicate brother, an insignificant, pallid-looking specimenof humanity, for reasons of her own, not unconnected perhaps with theexpected presence of the Misses Layard and Rose, had determined to lookand dress her best that night. She wore a robe of some rich white silk,tight fitting and cut rather low, and upon her neck a single row ofmagnificent diamonds. The general effect of her sheeny dress, snow-likeskin, and golden, waving hair, as she glided into the shaded room,suggested to Morris's mind a great white lily floating down the quietwater of some dark stream, and, when presently the light fell on her,a vision of a silver, mist-laden star lying low upon the ocean at thebreak of dawn. Later, after she became acquainted with these poeticalimaginings, Mary congratulated herself and her maid very warmly on thefact that she had actually summoned sufficient energy to telegraph totown for this particular dress.
Of the other ladies present, Miss Layard was arrayed in a hot-lookingred garment, which she imagined would suit her dark eyes and complexion.Miss Rose, on the contrary, had come out in the virginal style of muslinand blue bows, whereof the effect, unhappily, was somewhat marred by afiery complexion, acquired as the result of three days' violent play ata tennis tournament. To this unfortunate circumstance Miss Layard, whohad her own views of Miss Rose, was not slow in calling attention.
"What has happened to poor Jane?" she said, addressing Mary. "She looksas though she had been red-ochred down to her shoulders."
"Who is poor Jane?" asked that young lady languidly. "Oh! you mean MissRose. I know, she has been playing in that tennis tournament at--what'sthe name of the place? Dad would drive me there this afternoon, and itmade me quite hot to look at her, jumping and running and hitting forhour after hour. But she's awfully good at it; she won the prize.Don't you envy anybody who can win a prize at a tennis tournament, MissLayard?"
"No," she answered sharply, for Miss Layard did not shine at Tennis. "Idislike women who go about what my brother calls 'pot-hunting' just asif they were professionals."
"Oh, do you? I admire them. It must be so nice to be able to do anythingwell, even if it's only lawn tennis. It's the poor failures like myselffor whom I am so sorry."
"I don't admire anybody who can come to out to a dinner party with ahead and neck like that," retorted Eliza.
"Why not? You can't burn, and that should make you more charitable. AndI tie myself up in veils and umbrellas, which is absurd. Besides, whatdoes it matter? You see, it is different with most of us; Miss Rose isso good-looking that she can afford herself these little luxuries."
"That is a matter of opinion," replied Miss Layard.
"Oh! I don't think so; at least, the opinion is all one way. Don'tyou think Miss Rose beautiful, Mr. Layard?" she said, turning to hercompanion.
"Ripping," said that gentleman, with emphasis. "But I wish she wouldn'tbeat one at tennis; it is an insult to the stronger sex."
Mary looked at him reflectively. His sister looked at him also.
"And I am sure that you think her beautiful, don't you, Morris?" went onthe imperturbable Mary.
"Certainly, of course; lovely," he replied, with a vacuous stare at theelderly wife of the baronet.
"There, Miss Layard, now you collect the opinions of the gentlemenall along your side." And Mary turned away, ostensibly to talk to hercavalier; but really to find out what could possibly interest Morris sodeeply in the person or conversation of Lady Jones.
Lady Jones was talking across the table to Mr. Tomley, the departingrector, a benevolent-looking person, with a broad forehead adorned likethat of Father Time by a single lock of snowy hair.
"And so you are really going to the far coast of Northumberland, Mr.Tomley, to exchange livings with the gentleman with the odd name? Howbrave of you!"
Mr. Tomley smiled assent, adding: "You can imagine what a blow it isto me, Lady Jones, to separate myself from my dear parishioners andfriends"--here he eyed the Colonel, with whom he had waged a continualwar during his five years of residence in the parish, and added: "Butwe must all give way to the cause of duty and the necessities of health.Mrs. Tomley says that this part of the country does not agree withher, and is quite convinced that unless she is taken back to her nativeNorthumberland air the worst may be expected."
"I fancy that it has arrived in that poor man's case," thought Maryto herself. Lady Jones, who also knew Mrs. Tomley and the power of hertongue, nodded her head sympathetically and said:
"Of course, of course. A wife's health must be the first considerationof every good man. But isn't it rather lonely up there, Mr. Tomley?"
"Lonely, Lady Jones?" the clergyman replied with energy, and shaking hiswhite lock. "I assure you that the place is a howling desert; a greatmoor behind, and the great sea in front, and some rocks and the churchbetween the two. That's about all, but my wife likes it because she usedto stay at the rectory when she was a little girl. Her uncle was theincumbent there. She declares that she has never been well since sheleft the parish."
"And what did you say is the name of the present inhabitant of thisearthly paradise, the man with whom you have exchanged?" interrupted theColonel.
"Fregelius--the Reverend Peter Fregelius."
"What an exceedingly odd name! Is he an Englishman?"
"Yes; but I think that his father was a Dane, and he married a Danishlady."
"Indeed! Is she living?"
"Oh, no. She died a great many years ago. The old gentleman has only onechild left--a girl."
"What is her name?" asked someone idly, in a break of the generalconversation, so that everybody paused to listen to his reply.
"Stella--Stella Fregelius; a very unusual girl."
Then the conversation broke out again with renewed vigour, and all thatthose at Morris's end of the table could catch were snatches such as:"Wonderful eyes"; "Independent young person"; "Well read and musical";"Oh, yes! poor as church mice, that's why he accepted my offer."
At this point the Doctor began a rather vehement argument with Mr.Porson as to the advisability of countervailing duties to force foreignnations to abandon the sugar bounties, and no more was heard of Mr.Tomley and his plans.
On the whole, Mary enjoyed that dinner-party. Miss Layard, somewhat soreafter her first encounter, attempted to retaliate later.
But by this time Mary's argumentative energy had evaporated. Therefore,adroitly appealing to Mr. Layard to take her part, she retired from thefray till, seeing that it grew acrimonious, for this brother and sisterdid not love each other, she pretended to hear no m
ore.
"Have you been stopping out all night again and staring at the sea,Morris?" she inquired; "because I understand it is a habit of yours. Youseem so sleepy. I know that I must have looked just like you when thatold political gentleman took me in to dinner, and I made an exhibitionof myself."
"What was that?" asked Morris.
So she told him the story of her unlawful slumbers, and so amusinglythat he burst out laughing and remained in an excellent mood for therest of the feast, or at any rate until the ladies had departed. Afterthis event once more he became somewhat silent and distant.
It was not wonderful. To most men, except the very experienced,proposals are terrifying ordeals, and Morris had made up his mind, if hecould find a chance, to propose to Mary that night. The thing was to bedone, so the sooner he did it the better.
Then it would be over, one way or the other. Besides, and this wasstrange and opportune enough, never had he felt so deeply and trulyattracted to Mary. Whether it was because her soft, indolent beautyshowed at its best this evening in that gown and setting, or becauseher conversation, with its sub-acid tinge of kindly humour amused him,or--and this seemed more probable--because her whole attitude towardshimself was so gentle and so full of sweet benevolence, he could notsay. At any rate, this remained true, she attracted him more than anywoman he had ever met, and sincerely he hoped and prayed that when heasked her to be his wife she might find it in her heart to say Yes.
The rest of the entertainment resembled that of most countrydinner-parties. Conducted to the piano by the Colonel, who understoodmusic very well, the talented ladies of the party, including Miss Rose,sang songs with more or less success, while Miss Layard criticised, Marywas appreciative, and the men talked. At length the local baronet'swife looked at the local baronet, who thereupon asked leave to orderthe carriage. This example the rest of the company followed in quicksuccession until all were gone except Mr. Porson and his daughter.
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Porson, "I suppose that we had better be offtoo, or you won't get your customary nine hours."
Mary yawned slightly and assented, asserting that she had utterlyexhausted herself in defending Miss Rose from the attacks of her rival,Miss Layard.
"No, no," broke in the Colonel, "come and have a smoke first, John. I'vegot that old map of the property unrolled on purpose to show you, andI don't want to keep it about, for it fills up the whole place. Morriswill look after Mary for half an hour, I daresay."
"Certainly," said Morris, but the heart within him sank to the level ofhis dress-shoes. Here was the opportunity for which he had wished, butas he could not be called a forward, or even a pushing lover, he wasalarmed at its very prompt arrival. This answer to his prayers wassomewhat too swift and thorough. There is a story of an enormously fatold Boer who was seated on the veld with his horse at his side, whensuddenly a band of armed natives rushed to attack him. "Oh, God, help!"he cried in his native _taal_, as he prepared to heave his huge forminto the saddle. Having thus invoked divine assistance, this DutchFalstaff went at the task with such a will that in a trice he foundhimself not on the horse, but over it, lying upon his back,indeed, among the grasses. "O God!" that deluded burgher exclaimed,reproachfully, as the Kaffirs came up and speared him, "Thou hast helpeda great deal too much!"
At this moment Morris felt very much like this stout but simple dwellerin the wilderness. He would have preferred to coquet with the enemyfor a while from the safety of his saddle. But Providence willed itotherwise.
"Won't you come out, Mary?" he said, with the courage which inspiresmen in desperate situations. He felt that it would be impossible to saythose words with the electric lights looking at him like so many eyes.The thought of it, even, made him warm all over.
"I don't know; it depends. Is there anything comfortable to sit on?"
"The deck chair," he suggested.
"That sounds nice. I have slumbered for hours in deck chairs. Look,there's a fur rug on that sofa, and here's my white cape; now you getyour coat, and I'll come."
"Thank you, no; I don't want any coat; I am hot enough already."
Mary turned and looked him up and down with her wondering blue eyes.
"Do you really think it safe," she said, "to expose yourself to allsorts of unknown dangers in this unprotected condition?"
"Of course," he answered. "I am not afraid of the night air even inOctober."
"Very well, very well, Morris," she went on, and there was meaning inher voice; "then whatever happens don't blame me. It's so easy to berash and thoughtless and catch a chill, and then you may become aninvalid for life, or die, you know. One can't get rid of it again--atleast, not often."
Morris looked at her with a puzzled air, and stepped through the windowwhich he had opened, on to the lawn, whither, with a quaint little shrugof her shoulders, Mary followed him, muttering to herself:
"Now if he takes cold, it won't be _my_ fault." Then she stopped,clasped her hands, and said, "Oh! what a lovely night. I am glad that wecame out here."
She was right, it was indeed lovely. High in the heavens floated abright half-moon, across whose face the little white-edged cloudsdrifted in quick succession, throwing their gigantic shadows to theworld beneath. All silver was the sleeping sea where the moonlight fellupon it, and when this was eclipsed, then it was all jet. To the rightand left, up to the very borders of the cliff, lay the soft wreathsof roke or land-fog, covering the earth as with a cloak of down, butpierced here and there by the dim and towering shapes of trees. Yetalthough these curling wreaths of mist hung on the edges of the clifflike white water about to fall, they never fell, since clear to thesight, though separated from them by a gulf of translucent blackness,lay the yellow belt of sand up which, inch by inch, the tide wascreeping.
And the air--no wind stirred it, though the wind was at work aloft--itwas still and bright as crystal, and crisp and cold as new-iced wine,for the first autumn frost was falling.
They stood for a few moments looking at all these wonderful beautiesof the mysterious night--which dwellers in the country so rarelyappreciate, because to them they are common, daily things--and listeningto the soft, long-drawn murmuring of the sea upon the shingle. Then theywent forward to the edge of the cliff, but although Morris threw the furrug over it Mary did not seat herself in the comfortable-looking deckchair. Her desire for repose had departed. She preferred to lean uponthe low grey wall in whose crannies grew lichens, tiny ferns, and, intheir season, harebells and wallflowers. Morris came and leant at herside; for a while they both stared at the sea.
"Pray, are you making up poetry?" she inquired at last.
"Why do you ask such silly questions?" he answered, not withoutindignation.
"Because you keep muttering to yourself, and I thought that you weretrying to get the lines to scan. Also the sea, and the sky, and thenight suggest poetry, don't they?"
Morris turned his head and looked at her.
"_You_ suggest it," he said, with desperate earnestness, "in all thatshining white, especially when the moon goes in. Then you look like abeautiful spirit new lit upon the edge of the world."
At first Mary was pleased, the compliment was obvious, and, coming fromMorris, great. She had never heard him say so much as that before. Thenshe thought an instant, and the echo of the word "spirit" came back toher mind, and jarred upon it with a little sudden shock. Even when hehad a lovely woman at his side must his fancy be wandering to theseunearthly denizens and similes.
"Please, Morris," she said almost sharply, "do not compare me to aspirit. I am a woman, nothing more, and if it is not enough that Ishould be a woman, then----" she paused, to add, "I beg your pardon,I know you meant to be nice, but once I had a friend who went in forspirits--table-turning ones I mean--with very bad results, and I detestthe name of them."
Morris took this rebuff better than might have been expected.
"Would you object if one ventured to call you an angel?" he asked.
"Not if the word was used in a terrestria
l sense. It excites a vision ofpossibilities, and the fib is so big that anyone must pardon it."
"Very well, then; I call you that."
"Thank you, I should be delighted to return the compliment. Can youthink of any celestial definition appropriate to a young gentleman withdark eyes?"
"Oh! Mary, please stop making fun of me," said Morris, with somethinglike a groan.
"Why?" she asked innocently. "Besides I wasn't making fun. It's only myway of carrying on conversation; they taught it me at school, you know."
Morris made no answer; in fact, he did not know what on earth to say, orrather how to find the fitting words. After all, it was an accident andnot his own intelligence that freed him from his difficulty. Mary moveda little, causing the white cloak, which was unfastened, to slip fromher shoulders. Morris put out his hand to catch it, and met her hand. Inanother instant he had thrown his arm round her, drawn her to him, andkissed her on the lips. Then, abashed at what he had done, he let her goand picked up the cloak.
"Might I ask?" began Mary in her usual sweet, low tones. Then her voicebroke, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
"I beg your pardon; I am a brute," began Morris, utterly abased by thesight of these tears, which glimmered like pearls in the moonlight,"but, of course, you know what I mean."
Mary shook her head vacantly. Apparently she could not trust herself tospeak.
"Dear, will you take me?"
She made no answer; only, after pausing for some few seconds as thoughlost in thought, with a little action more eloquent than any speech, sheleant herself ever so slightly towards him.
Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, words came to him readily enough:
"I am not worth your having," he said. "I know I am an odd fellow, notlike other men; my very failings have not been the same as other men's.For instance--before heaven it is true--you are the first woman whom Iever kissed, as I swear to you that you shall be the last. Then, whatelse am I? A failure in the very work that I have chosen, and the heirto a bankrupt property! Oh! it is not fair; I have no right to ask you!"
"I think it quite fair, and here I am the judge, Morris." Then, sentenceby sentence, she went on, not all at once, but with breaks and pauses.
"You asked me just now if I loved you, and I told you--Yes. But you didnot ask me when I began to love you. I will tell you all the same. Ican't remember a time when I didn't; no, not since I was a little girl.It was you who grew away from me, not me from you, when you took tostudying mysticism and aerophones, and were repelled by all women,myself included."
"I know, I know," he said. "Don't remind me of my dead follies. Somethings are born in the blood."
"Quite so, and they remain in the bone. I understand. Morris, unless youmaltreat me wilfully--which I am sure you would never do--I shall alwaysunderstand."
"What are you afraid of?" he asked in a shaken voice. "I feel that youare afraid."
"Oh, one or two things; that you might overwork yourself, for instance.Or, lest you should find that after all you are more human than youimagine, and be taken possession of by some strange Stella coming out ofnowhere."
"What do you mean, and why do you use that name?" he said amazed.
"What I say, dear. As for that name, I heard it accidentally at tableto-night, and it came to my lips--of itself. It seemed to typify what Imeant, and to suggest a wandering star--such as men like you are fond offollowing."
"Upon my honour," said Morris, "I will do none of these things."
"If you can help it, you will do none of them. I know it well enough. Ihope and believe that there will never be a shadow between us while welive. But, Morris, I take you, risks and all, because it has been mychance to love you and nobody else. Otherwise, I should think twice; butlove doesn't stop at risks."
"What have I done to deserve this?" groaned Morris.
"I cannot see. I should very much like to know," replied Mary, with atouch of her old humour.
It was at this moment that Colonel Monk, happening to come round thecorner of the house, walking on the grass, and followed by Mr. Porson,saw a sight which interested him. With one hand he pointed it out toPorson, at the same moment motioning him to silence with the other.Then, taking his brother-in-law by the arm, he dragged him back roundthe corner of the house.
"They make a pretty picture there in the moonlight, don't they, John, myboy?" he said. "Come, we had better go back into the study and talk overmatters till they have done. Even the warmth of their emotions won'tkeep out the night air for ever."