Stella Fregelius by H. Rider Haggard (books to read now TXT) 📖

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