Stella Fregelius - H. Rider Haggard
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STELLA FREGELIUS
A TALE OF THREE DESTINIES
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1904.
"Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus; strepitumque Acherontis avari."
DEDICATION
My Dear John Berwick,
When you read her history in MS. you thought well of "Stella Fregelius"
and urged her introduction to the world. Therefore I ask you, my severe
and accomplished critic, to accept the burden of a book for which you
are to some extent responsible. Whatever its fate, at least it has
pleased you and therefore has not been written quite in vain.
H. Rider Haggard.
Ditchingham,
25th August, 1903.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The author feels that he owes some apology to his readers for his
boldness in offering to them a modest story which is in no sense a
romance of the character that perhaps they expect from him; which has,
moreover, few exciting incidents and no climax of the accustomed order,
since the end of it only indicates its real beginning.
His excuse must be that, in the first instance, he wrote it purely to
please himself and now publishes it in the hope that it may please some
others. The problem of such a conflict, common enough mayhap did we
but know it, between a departed and a present personality, of which
the battle-ground is a bereaved human heart and the prize its complete
possession; between earthly duty and spiritual desire also; was one that
had long attracted him. Finding at length a few months of leisure, he
treated the difficult theme, not indeed as he would have wished to do,
but as best he could.
He may explain further that when he drafted this book, now some five
years ago, instruments of the nature of the "aerophone" were not so much
talked of as they are to-day. In fact this aerophone has little to
do with his characters or their history, and the main motive of its
introduction to his pages was to suggest how powerless are all such
material means to bring within mortal reach the transcendental and
unearthly ends which, with their aid, were attempted by Morris Monk.
These, as that dreamer learned, must be far otherwise obtained, whether
in truth and spirit, or perchance, in visions only.
1903.
STELLA FREGELIUS
CHAPTER I
MORRIS, MARY, AND THE AEROPHONE
Above, the sky seemed one vast arc of solemn blue, set here and there
with points of tremulous fire; below, to the shadowy horizon, stretched
the plain of the soft grey sea, while from the fragrances of night and
earth floated a breath of sleep and flowers.
A man leaned on the low wall that bordered the cliff edge, and looked
at sea beneath and sky above. Then he contemplated the horizon, and
murmured some line heard or learnt in childhood, ending "where earth and
heaven meet."
"But they only seem to meet," he reflected to himself, idly. "If I
sailed to that spot they would be as wide apart as ever. Yes, the stars
would be as silent and as far away, and the sea quite as restless and
as salt. Yet there must be a place where they do meet. No, Morris, my
friend, there is no such place in this world, material or moral; so
stick to facts, and leave fancies alone."
But that night this speculative man felt in the mood for fancies, for
presently he was staring at one of the constellations, and saying to
himself, "Why not? Well, why not? Granted force can travel through
ether,--whatever ether is--why should it stop travelling? Give it time
enough, a few seconds, or a few minutes or a few years, and why should
it not reach that star? Very likely it does, only there it wastes
itself. What would be needed to make it serviceable? Simply this--that
on the star there should dwell an Intelligence armed with one of my
instruments, when I have perfected them, or the secret of them. Then
who knows what might happen?" and he laughed a little to himself at the
vagary.
From all of which wandering speculations it may be gathered that Morris
Monk was that rather common yet problematical person, an inventor who
dreamed dreams.
An inventor, in truth, he was, although as yet he had never really
invented anything. Brought up as an electrical engineer, after a very
brief experience of his profession he had fallen victim to an idea and
become a physicist. This was his idea, or the main point of it--for
its details do not in the least concern our history: that by means of
a certain machine which he had conceived, but not as yet perfected,
it would be possible to complete all existing systems of aerial
communication, and enormously to simplify their action and enlarge their
scope. His instruments, which were wireless telephones--aerophones he
called them--were to be made in pairs, twins that should talk only
to each other. They required no high poles, or balloons, or any other
cumbrous and expensive appliance; indeed, their size was no larger than
that of a rather thick despatch box. And he had triumphed; the thing was
done--in all but one or two details.
For two long years he had struggled with these, and still they eluded
him. Once he had succeeded--that was the dreadful thing. Once for a
while the instruments had worked, and with a space of several miles
between them. But--this was the maddening part of it--he had never been
able to repeat the exact conditions; or, rather, to discover precisely
what they were. On that occasion he had entrusted one of his machines to
his first cousin, Mary Porson, a big girl with her hair still down her
back, rather idle in disposition, but very intelligent, when she chose.
Mary, for the most part, had been brought up at her father's house,
close by. Often, too, she stayed with her uncle for weeks at a stretch,
so at that time Morris was as intimate with her as a man of eight and
twenty usually is with a relative in her teens.
The arrangement on this particular occasion was that she should take the
machine--or aerophone, as its inventor had named it--to her home. The
next morning, at the appointed hour, as Morris had often done before, he
tried to effect communication, but without result. On the following day,
at the same hour, he tried again, when, to his astonishment, instantly
the answer came back. Yes, as distinctly as though she were standing by
his side, he heard his cousin Mary's voice.
"Are you there?" he said, quite hopelessly, merely as a matter of
form--of very common form--and well-nigh fell to the ground when he
received the reply:
"Yes, yes, but I have just been telegraphed for to go to Beaulieu; my
mother is very ill."
"What is the matter with her?" he asked; and she replied:
"Inflammation of the lungs--but I must stop; I can't speak any more."
Then came some sobs and silence.
That same afternoon, by Mary's direction, the aerophone was brought back
to him in a dog-cart, and three days later he heard that her mother,
Mrs. Porson, was dead.
Some months passed, and when they met again, on her return from the
Riviera, Morris found his cousin changed. She had parted from him a
child, and now, beneath the shadow of the wings of grief, suddenly
she had become a woman. Moreover, the best and frankest part of their
intimacy seemed to have vanished. There was a veil between them. Mary
thought of little, and at this time seemed to care for no one except
her mother, who was dead. And Morris, who had loved the child, recoiled
somewhat from the new-born woman. It may be explained that he was afraid
of women. Still, with an eye to business, he spoke to her about the
aerophone; and, so far as her memory served her, she confirmed all the
details of their short conversation across the gulf of empty space.
"You see," he said, trembling with excitement, "I have got it at last."
"It looks like it," she answered, wearily, her thoughts already far
away. "Why shouldn't you? There are so many odd things of the sort. But
one can never be sure; it mightn't work next time."
"Will you try again?" he asked.
"If you like," she answered; "but I don't believe I shall hear anything
now. Somehow--since that last business--everything seems different to
me."
"Don't be foolish," he said; "you have nothing to do with the hearing;
it is my new receiver."
"I daresay," she replied; "but, then, why couldn't you make it work with
other people?"
Morris answered nothing. He, too, wondered why.
Next morning they made the experiment. It failed. Other experiments
followed at intervals, most of which were fiascos, although some were
partially successful. Thus, at times Mary could hear what he said. But
except for a word or two, and now and then a sentence, he could not hear
her whom, when she was still a child and his playmate, once he had heard
so clearly.
"Why is it?" he said, a year or two later, dashing his fist upon the
table in impotent rage. "It has been; why can't it be?"
Mary turned her large blue eyes up to the ceiling, and reflectively
rubbed her dimpled chin with a very pretty finger.
"Isn't that the kind of question they used to ask oracles?" she asked
lazily--"Oh! no, it was the oracles themselves that were so vague. Well,
I suppose because 'was' is as different from 'is' as 'as' is from 'shall
be.' We are changed, Cousin; that's all."
He pointed to his patent receiver, and grew angry.
"Oh, it isn't the receiver," she said, smoothing her curling hair; "it's
us. You don't understand me a bit--not now--and that's why you can't
hear me. Take my advice, Morris"--and she looked at him sharply--"when
you find a woman whom you can hear on your patent receiver, you had
better marry her. It will be a good excuse for keeping her at a distance
afterwards."
Then he lost his temper; indeed, he raved, and stormed, and nearly
smashed the patent receiver in his fury. To a scientific man, let it
be admitted, it was nothing short of maddening to be told that the
successful working of his instrument, to the manufacture of which he
had given eight years of toil and study, depended upon some pre-existent
sympathy between the operators of its divided halves. If that were so,
what was the use of his wonderful discovery, for who could ensure a
sympathetic correspondent? And yet the fact remained that when, in
their playmate days, he understood his cousin Mary, and when her quiet,
indolent nature had been deeply moved by the shock of the news of her
mother's peril, the aerophone had worked. Whereas now, when she had
become a grown-up young lady, he did not understand her any longer--he,
whose heart was wrapped up in his experiments, and who by nature feared
the adult members of her sex, and shrank from them; when, too, her
placid calm was no longer stirred, work it would not.
She laughed at his temper; then grew serious, and said:
"Don't get angry, Morris. After all, there are lots of things that you
and I can't understand, and it isn't odd that you should have tumbled
across one of them. If you think of it, nobody understands anything.
They know that certain things happen, and how to make them happen; but
they don't know why they happen, or why, as in your case, when they
ought to happen, they won't."
"It is all very well for you to be philosophical," he answered, turning
upon her; "but can't you see, Mary, that the thing there is my life's
work? It is what I have given all my strength and all my brain to make,
and if it fails in the end--why, then I fail too, once and forever. And
I have made it talk. It talked perfectly between this place and Seaview,
and now you stand there and tell me that it won't work any more because
I don't understand you. Then what am I to do?"
"Try to understand me, if you think it worth while, which I don't; or
go on experimenting," she answered. "Try to find some substance which is
less exquisitely sensitive, something a little grosser, more in key with
the material world; or to discover someone whom you do understand. Don't
lose heart; don't be beaten after all these years."
"No," he answered, "I don't unless I die," and he turned to go.
"Morris," she said, in a softer voice, "I am lazy, I know. Perhaps
that is why I adore people who can work. So, although you don't think
anything of me, I will do my honest best to get into sympathy with you
again; yes, and to help in any way I can. No; it's not a joke. I would
give a great deal to see the thing a success."
"Why do you say I don't think anything of you, Mary? Of course, it isn't
true. Besides, you are my cousin, and we have always been good friends
since you were a little thing."
She laughed. "Yes, and I suppose that as you had no brothers or sisters
they taught you to pray for your cousin, didn't they? Oh, I know all
about it. It is my unfortunate sex that is to blame; while I was a mere
tom-boy it was different. No one can serve two masters, can they? You
have chosen to serve a machine that won't go, and I daresay that you are
wise. Yes, I think that it is the better part--until you find someone
that will make it go--and then you would adore her--by aerophone!"
CHAPTER II
THE COLONEL AND SOME REFLECTIONS
Presently Morris heard a step upon the lawn, and turned to see his
father sauntering towards him. Colonel Monk, C.B., was an elderly man,
over sixty indeed, but still of an upright and soldierly bearing. His
record was rather distinguished. In his youth he had served in the
Crimea, and in due course was promoted to the command of a regiment of
Guards. After this, certain diplomatic abilities caused him to be sent
to one of the foreign capitals as military attache, and in reward of
this service, on retiring, he was created a Companion of the Bath. In
appearance he was handsome also; in fact, much better looking than his
son, with his iron-grey hair, his clear-cut features, somewhat marred
in effect by a certain shiftiness of the mouth, and his large dark eyes.
Morris had those dark eyes also--they redeemed his face from plainness,
for otherwise it showed no beauty, the features being too irregular, the
brow too prominent, and the mouth too large. Yet it could boast what, in
the case of a man at any rate, is better than beauty--spirituality,
and a certain sympathetic charm. It was not the face which was so
attractive, but rather the intelligence, the personality that shone
through it, as the light shines through the horn panes of some homely,
massive lantern. Speculative eyes of the sort that seem to search
horizons and gather knowledge there, but shrink from the faces of women;
a head of brown hair, short cut but untidy, an athletic, manlike form to
which, bizarrely enough, a slight stoop, the stoop of a student, seemed
to give distinction, and hands slender and shapely as those of an
Eastern--such were the characteristics of Morris Monk, or at least those
of them that the observer was apt to notice.
"Hullo! Morris, are you star-gazing there?" said Colonel Monk, with a
yawn. "I suppose that I must have fallen asleep after dinner--that comes
of stopping too long at once in the country and drinking port. I notice
you never touch it, and a good thing, too. There, my cigar is out. Now's
the time for that new electric lighter of yours which I can never make
work."
Morris fumbled in his pocket and produced the lighter. Then he said:
"I am sorry, father; but I believe I forgot to charge it."
"Ah! that's just like you, if you will forgive my saying so. You take
any amount of trouble to invent and perfect a thing, but when it comes
to making use of it, then you forget," and with a little gesture of
impatience the Colonel turned aside to light a match from a box which he
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 he broke
off.
"Ah! that's it, Morris, that's it," said the Colonel, seating himself
upon a garden chair; "this hobby-horse of yours is carrying you--to the
devil, and your family with you. I don't want to be rough, but it is
time that I spoke plain. Let's see, how long is it since you left the
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
his father's digestion and ruffled his temper. This meant that to
him--Morris--Fate had appointed a lecture.
"Nine years, nine wasted years, idled and dreamt away in a village upon
the eastern coast. It is a large slice out of a man's life, my boy. By
the time that I was your age I had done a good deal," said his father,
meditatively. When he meant to be disagreeable it was the Colonel's
custom to become reflective.
"I can't admit that," answered Morris, in his light, quick voice--"I
mean I can't admit that my time has either been idled away or wasted. On
the contrary, father, I have worked very hard, as I did at college,
and as I have always done, with results which, without boasting, I may
fairly call glorious--yes, glorious--for when they are perfected they
will change the methods of communication throughout the whole world."
As he spoke, forgetting the sharp vexation of the moment, his face was
irradiated with light--like some evening cloud on which the sun strikes
suddenly.
Watching him out of the corner of his eye, even in that low moonlight,
his father saw those fires of enthusiasm shine and die upon his son's
face, and the sight vexed him. Enthusiasm, as he conceived, perhaps with
justice, had been the ruin of Morris. Ceasing to be reflective, his tone
became cruel.
"Do you really think, Morris, that the world wishes to have its methods
of communication revolutionised? Aren't there enough telephones and
phonograms and aerial telegraphs already? It seems to me that you merely
wish to add a new terror to existence. However, there is no need to
pursue an academical discussion, since this wretched machine of yours,
on which you have wasted so much time, appears to be a miserable
failure."
Now, to throw the non-success of his invention into the teeth of the
inventor, especially when that inventor knows that it is successful
really, although just at present it does not happen to work, is a very
deadly insult. Few indeed could be deadlier, except, perhaps, that of
the cruelty which can suggest to a woman that no man will ever look at
her because of her plainness and lack of attraction; or the coarse
taunt which, by shameless implication, unjustly accuses the soldier of
cowardice, the diplomat of having betrayed the secrets of his country,
or the lawyer of having sold his brief. All the more, therefore, was it
to Morris's credit that he felt the lash sting without a show of temper.
"I have tried to explain to you, father," he began, struggling to free
his clear voice from the note of indignation.
"Of course you have, Morris; don't trouble yourself to repeat that long
story. But even if you were successful--which you are not--er--I cannot
see the commercial use of this invention. As a scientific toy it may be
very well, though, personally, I should prefer to leave it alone, since,
if you go firing off your thoughts and words into space, how do you know
who will answer them, or who will hear them?"
"Well, father, as you understand all about it, it is no use my
explaining any further. It is pretty late; I think I will be turning
in."
"I had hoped," replied the Colonel, in an aggrieved voice, "that you
might have been able to spare me a few minutes' conversation. For some
weeks I have been seeking an opportunity to talk to you; but somehow
your arduous occupations never seem to leave you free for ordinary
social intercourse."
"Certainly," replied Morris, "though I don't quite know why you should
say that. I am always about the place if you want me." But in his heart
he groaned, guessing what was coming.
"Yes; but you are ever working at your chemicals and machinery in the
old chapel; or reading those eternal books; or wandering about rapt
in contemplation of the heavens; so that, in short, I seldom like to
trouble you with my mundane but necessary affairs."
Morris made no answer; he was a very dutiful son and humble-spirited.
Those who pit their intelligences against the forces of Nature, and
try to search out her secrets, become humble. He could not altogether
respect his father; the gulf between them was too wide and deep. But
even at his present age of three and thirty he considered it a duty to
submit himself to him and his vagaries. Outside of other reasons, his
mother had prayed him to do so almost with her last breath, and, living
or dead, Morris loved his mother.
"Perhaps you are not aware," went on Colonel Monk, after a solemn pause,
"that the affairs of this property are approaching a crisis."
"I know something, but no details," answered Morris. "I have not liked
to interfere," he added apologetically.
"And I have not not liked to trouble you with such sordid matters,"
rejoined his parent, with sarcasm. "I presume, however, that you are
acquainted with the main facts. I succeeded to this estate encumbered
with a mortgage, created by your grandfather, an extravagant and
unbusiness-like man. That mortgage I looked to your mother's fortune
to pay off, but other calls made this impossible. For instance, the
sea-wall here had to be built if the Abbey was to be saved, and half a
mile of sea-walling costs something. Also very extensive repairs to the
house were necessary, and I was forced to take three farms in hand when
I retired from the army fifteen years ago. This has involved a net loss
of about ten thousand pounds, while all the time the interest had to be
paid and the place kept up in a humble fashion."
"I thought that my uncle Porson took over the mortgage after my mother's
death," interrupted Morris.
"That is so," answered his father, wincing a little; "but a creditor
remains a creditor, even if he happens to be a relative by marriage. I
have nothing to say against your uncle John, who is an excellent
person in his way, and well-meaning. Of course, he has been justified,
perfectly justified, in using his business abilities--or perhaps I
should say instincts, for they are hereditary--to his own advantage.
In fact, however, directly or indirectly, he has done well out of this
property and his connection with our family--exceedingly well, both
financially and socially. In a time of stress I was forced to sell him
the two miles of sea-frontage building-land between here and Northwold
for a mere song. During the last ten years, as you know, he has cut this
up into over five hundred villa sites, which he has sold upon long lease
at ground-rents that to-day bring in annually as much as he paid for the
whole property."
"Yes, father; but you might have done the same. He advised you to before
he bought the land."
"Perhaps I might, but I am not a tradesman; I do not understand these
affairs. And, Morris, I must remind you that in such matters I have had
no assistance. I do not blame you any more than I blame myself--it is
not in your line either--but I repeat that I have had no assistance."
Morris did not argue the point. "Well, father," he asked, "what is the
upshot? Are we ruined?"
"Ruined? That is a large word, and an ugly one. No, we are no more
ruined than we have been for the last half-dozen years, for, thank
Heaven, I still have resources and--friends. But, of course, this place
is in a way expensive, and you yourself would be the last to pretend
that our burdens have been lessened by--your having abandoned the
very strange profession which you selected, and devoted yourself to
researches which, if interesting, must be called abstract----"
"Forgive me, father," interrupted Morris with a ring of indignation
in his voice; "but you must remember that I put you to no expense. In
addition to what I inherited from my mother, which, of course, under
the circumstances I do not ask for, I have my fellowship, out of which
I contribute something towards the cost of my living and experiments,
that, by the way, I keep as low as possible."
"Of course, of course," said the Colonel, who did not wish to pursue
this branch of the subject, but his son went on:
"You know also that it was at your express wish that I came to live here
at Monksland, as for the purposes of my work it would have suited me
much better to take rooms in London or some other scientific centre."
"Really, my dear boy, you should control yourself," broke in his father.
"That is always the way with recluses; they cannot bear the slightest
criticism. Of course, as you were going to devote yourself to this line
of research it was right and proper that we should live together. Surely
you would not wish at my age that I should be deprived of the comfort of
the society of an only child, especially now that your mother has left
us?"
"Certainly not, father," answered Morris, softening, as was his fashion
at the thought of his dead mother.
Then came a pause, and he hoped that the conversation was at end; a vain
hope, as it proved.
"My real object in troubling you, Morris," continued his father,
presently, "was very different to the unnecessary discussions into which
we have drifted."