The Statement of Stella Maberly, and An Evil Spirit

by F. Anstey

  I yielded to his wishes to some extent, only to encounter further mortifications, which cut me to the quick, though pride forbade me to betray it. I grew more and more unhappy and restless, and should have been utterly miserable if I had not found some distraction in writing.

  I had always had an ambition to be an author, and I wrote one or two short stories with a facility and fluency that gave me the hope of having found my vocation in life.

  The hope proved delusive; my manuscripts returned to me again and again; some editors admitted that they showed some fancy and imagination, but were too crude and inexperienced to be worthy of acceptance. I flung them into the fire at last in a fit of temper, and sullenly recognised that, though I might be at least as well-educated and original as some of the women-writers who have sprung into popularity, literary distinction was not for me. I might persevere, of course, but the glow and the confidence had departed; it did not seem worth while to court any further failures.

  And then something happened which turned my thoughts into a different channel altogether. One day my stepmother sent for me to her boudoir and told me that my father had just received news of the failure of a bank in Australia in which he was a large shareholder. What his liabilities were exactly he did not know as yet, but the greatest economy would be necessary if we were even to go on living in our present home; the horses and carriages must be sold, and we must all learn to do without the luxuries we had been accustomed to.

  She ended by suggesting that I should rouse myself from what she was pleased to call my ‘selfish isolation,’ and make some return for the expensive education I had been given, by helping to teach my youngest sister and saving the cost of a governess.

  All this was said with an insidious show of affection which did not deceive me in the least. I knew perfectly well that she hoped to provoke me into some protest against such humiliation as the position of unpaid drudge in my own father’s household. I saw, too, that, even if I accepted the task, she would take care that I did not succeed in it—she meant to drive me out of my home, and out of my father’s heart as well, if she could.

  So I answered that I quite understood that I was an encumbrance to them all, and that I ought in future to support myself; but, as to doing so by the means she suggested, she must be aware that the relations between her children and myself put that quite out of the question, as she herself had completely destroyed any influence I might once have had over them.

  And with that I left her and wrote at once to my old schoolmistress, recalling myself to her, explaining that I found myself compelled by family circumstances to go out into the world and earn my bread, and asking her if she knew anyone to whom she could recommend me as a governess.

  I had an answer within two days. The letter began by an assurance that the writer remembered me perfectly, and was sorry to hear of the change in my prospects. From what she recollected of my temperament a few years ago, she doubted whether I was fitted for so trying a life as a governess’s—but it so happened that a pleasanter and easier position might possibly be obtained if I cared to apply for it.

  The day before my letter arrived she had had a visit from a former pupil of hers and old school-fellow of mine, Evelyn Heseltine, who had just returned to England after having been abroad for her health during the past few years. She was now recovered and intended to occupy a house in Surrey that belonged to her, and had mentioned her desire to find a companion of about her own age who would come and live with her there. Evelyn had asked most affectionately after me, and the writer felt sure that she would be overjoyed at securing the companionship of her old friend and school-fellow if possible.

  I had seen nothing of Evelyn since our school-days, though we had corresponded for a time. After she went abroad our letters had gradually ceased, and I had almost forgotten her existence till the letter reminded me of it. Now all the old times came back with a rush; I remembered Evelyn’s goodness and sweetness, and felt a great longing to see her again. She used to care for me—perhaps cared for me still—and I felt so alone and unloved at home.

  It seemed almost too good to be true that she and I might really be together again, that I should leave the jangle and worry of home life, not for slavery amongst strangers, but a quiet and peaceful existence with the dearest friend I had ever had—the one friend I had left in the whole world now.

  I wrote to Evelyn that night, as the principal had given me her address in Surrey, and shortly after received an enthusiastic reply. Nothing could be more fortunate, I was the very person she would have most wished for; I was to come as soon as possible, and she would do everything she could to make me happy.

  So I was able to forestall my stepmother’s intentions, and leave home of my own free will; not without some opposition from my father, it is true, though he gave way when he saw that I was determined to carry my point. And here I will stop for the present, having arrived at the stage where my story may really be said to begin.

  II

  The day arrived on which I was to enter upon my new life, and, during the tedious cross-country journey from my Hampshire home to the little village near the border of Kent and Surrey that was my destination, I had ample time for misgivings.

  Should I find Evelyn Heseltine the same as she was four years ago? Would she be quite unspoilt by wealth, quite unaffected by the relations of patroness and dependent that were now to exist between us? True, I could detect no shade of patronage in her letter, but she might betray it in her manner, notwithstanding.

  She had arranged to meet me at the station, and any doubts I had were dispelled the moment I had alighted on the whinstone platform and saw her coming eagerly towards me.

  I can see her still; tall and slender in the fawn-coloured serge, pale pink shirt, and small sailor hat, which were being worn that season; her soft hazel eyes shining with pleasure and welcome, her cheeks flushed with a delicate rose, and her bright hair slightly ruffled by the May breeze.

  Yes, she was unchanged, except that her former air of diffidence and timidity had been replaced by the ease and self-possession which a few years’ experience of the world will give to the most unassuming. Even before she spoke my name with glad recognition, and our hands met, I knew that she loved me as dearly as ever, and the joy and relief I felt almost prevented me from speaking.

  We were soon seated in the carriage with the pair of smart ponies which Evelyn drove herself, and as she had told the groom to follow behind with the luggage-cart, we were able to talk freely.

  ‘It’s so delightful to have you here, Stella,’ she said as soon as the ponies required less of her attention; ‘and you are so exactly what I hoped you would be, only even more—but I forgot, you always hated to be told about your looks, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I?’ I said. ‘At all events, I’m glad you approve of me; and if we must talk about one another’s appearance, you are looking wonderfully well, Evelyn, far stronger than ever you promised to be. I was afraid, from Mrs Chichester’s letter, that you were still delicate.’

  ‘I feel perfectly well just now,’ she answered; ‘there was nothing seriously the matter with me, only the doctors said I had a weak heart. I suppose I outgrew my strength at school; at all events, they said I ought to live abroad for a time and avoid worry and excitement. I should have come home long ago, only I liked the life in Italy so; and no one can accuse existence here of being dangerously exciting—I’m only afraid you will find it dull.’

  I protested with perfect sincerity that I should be quite contented if I never saw a strange face, and that I wanted no society but hers.

  ‘It’s not quite so bad as that!’ she exclaimed, laughing. ‘My aunt, Mrs Maitland, is living at Tansted with us. We must have a chaperon of some sort; and, of course, there are people about who seem pleasant and friendly, and we shall have to see something of them. And the country is perfectly lovely; you and I will ride and drive every day when it’s fine, and if we have to stay indoors we shall find plenty of things to do�
��music and books and work. You must try not to be bored while you are with me, though I’m afraid I sha’n’t keep you very long.’

  ‘If it depends on me,’ I said, ‘I am not at all likely to wish to leave you. Why do you think I should?’

  ‘Oh, because—’ she replied, ‘because, of course, I shall have to give you up to somebody sooner or later, Stella. You are much too beautiful not to be fallen in love with. Perhaps, even now, there is someone who—you won’t mind telling me if there is, and then, when the time does come, I shall feel more prepared.’

  ‘There is nobody,’ I said. ‘I have had one or two offers of marriage, but I never cared enough for any man yet to give up my life to him, and I don’t believe I ever shall.’

  ‘Your heart will be touched some day,’ said Evelyn. ‘Then you will speak differently.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think my heart is capable of that kind of sentiment. Some women are born with no vocation for marriage, and I believe I am one of them. And really,’ I added, ‘if we are to be separated by one of us marrying, I am hardly the most likely person to be chosen.’

  ‘Indeed, you are wrong, Stella, if you mean that it is I,’ said Evelyn. ‘I made up my mind before I came home—when we were in Italy—that I would never think of marrying unless I was sure—of what I never can be perfectly certain of now. But how silly of us to be anticipating parting when we have only just met! It seems so wonderful our coming together like this, Stella. It was the merest accident that I told dear old Mrs Chichester about my wanting to find somebody about my own age to come and live with me. I hardly expected she would know of any one. And if I had, I never dreamed for a moment that you of all people in the world—’

  ‘Would have been obliged to try to earn my own living,’ I said, as she left the sentence uncompleted. ‘I thought it unlikely enough once. But my father lost most of his money, and my stepmother made me so miserable at home—I had no choice.’

  ‘You poor Stella!’ exclaimed Evelyn, tenderly. ‘What a trial it must have been for you! But you don’t mind now you have come to me, do you? It isn’t as if you were with strangers. Tansted is to be your real home now, as long as ever you care to make it so.’

  And my heart grew lighter and lighter as we drove on through the pretty Surrey landscape, under the horse chestnut trees with their tossing, creamy plumes, past cottage gardens and orchards where the fruit trees spread their branches, laden with rose-flushed snow, against the pure blue of the sky, and the air was sweet with hawthorn and the fragrant gums of pines and larches.

  Presently we turned off the road, through a gateway and under an ivy-covered arch, after which I saw my future home for the first time. Tansted House was a delightful old Tudor or Caroline mansion—I forget which—with barge boarded gables and herring-bone brickwork filling up the spaces of the half-timbered upper story, which projected and was supported by carved corbels. It was not large—even with the additions that had been built some time in this century. I had a glimpse, as I entered, of long, low-ceilinged rooms with spacious latticed windows, an impression of old-world pot-pourri, mingled with the delicate scent of azaleas and the freshness of garden flowers, and then Evelyn took me up at once to a pretty chintz-hung bedroom opposite her own.

  ‘This is to be your room, Stella,’ she said. ‘I do so hope you will like it. I want you so much to feel comfortable and at home here.’ And she left me to rest after the journey, with an affectionate embrace and repeated assurances of her delight in having me with her.

  After she had gone I went to the window and stood looking out on the velvet lawn below, with the fine old cedar, ringed by a circular seat of faded blue; from the tiled roof over my head came the sleepy crooning and ‘roo-coo-hooing’ of pigeons; in the garden, beyond the lawn, a whip-lash fountain2 pattered and tinkled musically as the breeze drove its spray this way and that.

  It was all so restful and sweet, such a haven of refuge for my wounded and troubled mind. It filled me with a great peace, a soothing sense of security. Here, at least, the black moods of depression and sullenness would have no power over me, no hateful suspicions could find lodgment now I had shaken off the demons which had made my life a burden. With such a home and such a friend, how could even I be anything but happy?

  I should have been insensible indeed if I had been unmoved by this, and if my heart had not been lifted up just then by a passion of love and gratitude towards her to whom I owed so much more than I could ever repay. I would, I vowed to myself, be worthy of her goodness. By no act or word of mine would I ever grieve that gentle nature. No friend Evelyn might have chosen could be more loyal and devoted than I would prove myself.

  Not a difficult resolve to make or keep for anyone of ordinary good feeling, it will be thought. And yet I was destined to find it hard enough, as those who have sufficient patience to follow my unhappy story will discover before very long.

  Sometimes I wonder whether, by any effort of mine, I could have overcome my nature altogether for long, and how far our thoughts and feelings really are within our own control, as we are so often told they are. I only know that these good intentions of mine were absolutely sincere at the time, and indeed I honestly believe that I carried them out as faithfully as was possible to such a temperament as mine. Perhaps, if things had only happened differently, I should never—but it is idle to speculate on what might have been, and I must return to actual facts.

  When I went downstairs again, I was presented to Mrs Maitland, the aunt of whom Evelyn had spoken. She was a widow of about fifty, pleasant to look upon, with a manner which, though kindly and amiable, was somewhat fussy and over-anxious, and, as I soon discovered, without an idea that was not absolutely safe and commonplace.

  I might have expected that she would look upon me as a rival and treat me with a certain reserve, if not with suppressed hostility, but her greeting was as cordial as it was obviously sincere.

  ‘So nice for dear Evelyn to have someone of her own age about her, my dear Miss Maberly!’ she remarked. ‘I’m sure I often felt, while we were abroad together, what a poor companion I was, for I’m too old and stupid to take the interest she does in things; in my young days girls weren’t as highly educated as they are now, and I never was clever. And now we’re at Tansted, there’s so much that I have to see to that my time is almost entirely taken up. But it won’t be dull for her any longer now you have come. Ah, Evelyn, my love, you may say what you like—I know very well you did find it dull; it was only natural you should, and it’s a great comfort to my mind to think it won’t be so any longer. I shall be able to attend to everything properly without feeling uncomfortable about leaving you alone.’

  And the good-natured gentlewoman proved perfectly content to act as a kind of superior housekeeper when her services were not needed as chaperon, so that, for the earlier part of the day, at all events, Evelyn and I were left to the undisturbed enjoyment of each other’s society.

  In spite of what I have previously said about my school-days, I am not sure that those first few weeks at Tansted were not, after all, the most uninterruptedly happy period of my life. Evelyn grew dearer to me, and the sympathy and understanding between us more perfect with every hour we spent together. Even if I had never known her before, I could not have been so constantly with her without learning to love her now, and I was proud and glad to feel that she was as attached to me as I to her.

  The days passed quietly and uneventfully enough, but they never seemed long or monotonous. Evelyn was occupied with various charitable undertakings in the village, in which I rendered her what assistance I could; we took up some of our former studies again, and read and practised and sketched with a pleasant sense of our own virtue; there were delightful rides together, through leafy lanes and over wild heaths and commons, and long intimate talks, over old school memories, as we sat under the trees on the lawn of an afternoon, or paced the garden paths in the growing dusk.

  My spirits recovered their tone in this who
lesome, peaceful atmosphere. I should have been perfectly happy with Evelyn as my sole companion, but of course we could not remain in absolute seclusion, and my former morbid dislike to meeting people seemed to have almost disappeared, as I found, when I went with Evelyn to local gatherings, that I encountered none of the slights and coldnesses which had made me shrink from such ordeals in my own set at home.

  All this I owed to Evelyn; she had made life seem fair and hopeful once more—and it would never be clouded again while she was with me, as, of course, she always would be now. Whether we lived on together all the years to come in this sweet old country home, or spent part of the time travelling abroad, was perfectly indifferent to me, so long as I had her by my side.

  At times I fancied that she looked more fragile and delicate than when I first arrived, and seemed less and less inclined for exertion, but the excessive heat of that year’s June was quite enough to account for it, and I felt no real uneasiness about her health, especially as she always declared she was perfectly well.

  And, as it happened, when the day came which first shook my blind confidence in the future and revealed the Fool’s Paradise in which I was living, the incident—if I may call so slight a thing an incident—that brought this about had nothing to do with the state of Evelyn’s health.

  It happened late one afternoon; we were to have gone to a garden-party at the Hall, but Evelyn had not felt equal to it at the last moment, and as I was not disposed to shelter myself under her aunt’s too fluttering wing, I preferred to stay at home too, and leave Mrs Maitland to go alone and make our excuses.

  We were still sitting on the lawn, though the first dinner-bell had rung, when the carriage returned with Mrs Maitland, who joined us with a little air of suppressed importance.