Stella Fregelius | Page 8

should never have
considered the matter seriously before--because of the cousinship, I
suppose. Would she have him? It doesn't seem likely, but you can never
know what a woman will or will not do, and as a child she was very
fond of Morris. At any rate the situation is desperate, and if I can, I
mean to save the old place, for his sake and our family's, as well as my
own."
He went to the window, and, lifting a corner of the blind, looked out.
"There he is, still staring at the sea and the sky, and there I daresay he
will be till dawn. I bet he has forgotten all about Mary now, and is
thinking of his electrical machine. What a curiosity! Good heavens;
what a curiosity! Ah, I wonder what they would have made of him in
my old mess five and thirty years ago?" And quite overcome by this
reflection, the Colonel shook his grizzled head, put out the candle, and

retired to rest.

His father was right. The beautiful September dawn was breaking over
the placid sea before Morris brushed the night dew from his hair and
cloak, and went in by the abbot's door.
What was he thinking of all the time? He scarcely knew. One by one,
like little clouds in the summer sky, fancies arose in his mind to sail
slowly across its depth and vanish upon an inconclusive and shadowy
horizon. Of course, he thought about his instruments; these were never
absent from his heart. His instinct flew back to them as an oasis, as an
island of rest in the wilderness of this father's thorny and depressing
conversation. The instruments were disappointing, it is true, at present;
but, at any rate, they did not dwell gloomily upon impending ruin or
suggest that it was his duty to get married. They remained silent,
distressingly silent indeed.
Well, as the question of marriage had been started, he might as well
face it out; that is, argue it in his mind, reduce it to its principles, follow
it to its issues in a reasonable and scientific manner. What were the
facts? His family, which, by tradition, was reported to be Danish in its
origin, had owned this property for several hundred years, though how
they came to own it remained a matter of dispute. Some said the Abbey
and its lands were granted to a man of the name of Monk by Henry
VIII., of course for a consideration. Others held, and evidence existed
in favour of this view, that on the dissolution of the monastery the
abbot of the day, a shrewd man of easy principles, managed to possess
himself of the
Chapter House
and further extensive hereditaments, of course with the connivance of
the Commissioners, and, providing himself with a wife, to exchange a
spiritual for a temporal dignity. At least this remained certain, that from
the time of Elizabeth onwards Morris's forefathers had been settled in
the old Abbey house at Monksland; that the first of them about whom
they really knew anything was named Monk, and that Monk was still
the family name.
Now they were all dead and gone, and their history, which was

undistinguished, does not matter. To come to the present day. His
father succeeded to a diminished and encumbered estate; indeed, had it
not been for the fortune of his mother, a Miss Porson and one of a
middle class and business, but rather wealthy family, the property must
have been sold years before. That fortune, however, had long ago been
absorbed--or so he gathered--for his father, a brilliant and fashionable
army officer, was not the man to stint himself or to nurse a crippled
property. Indeed, it was wonderful to Morris how, without any
particular change in their style of living, which, if unpretentious, was
not cheap, in these bad times they had managed to keep afloat at all.
Unworldly as Morris might be, he could easily guess why his father
wished that he should marry, and marry well. It was that he might
bolster up the fortunes of a shattered family. Also--and this touched
him, this commanded his sympathy--he was the last of his race. If he
died without issue the ancient name of Monk became extinct, a
consummation from which his father shrank with something like
horror.
The Colonel was a selfish man--Morris could not conceal it, even from
himself--one who had always thought of his own comfort and
convenience first. Yet, either from idleness or pride, to advance these
he had never stooped to scheme. Where the welfare of his family was
concerned, however, as his son knew, he was a schemer. That desire
was the one real and substantial thing in a somewhat superficial,
egotistic, and finessing character.
Morris