by F. Anstey
‘Such a pleasant party, Evelyn,’ she began; ‘though almost too hot to move about. The Holliers were so disappointed not to see you—they sent the kindest messages. And really, I’m quite glad I went, for I’ve got a piece of news that I think you’ll be pleased to hear. Whom do you think I met there? You’ll never guess. That nice Mr Dallas we saw so much of at Florence. And just fancy, he has a place only a few miles from here—Laleham Court. Did you know that?’
‘Mr Dallas!’ exclaimed Evelyn, with more animation than she had shown all day. ‘No, Aunt Lucy, I’d no idea of it. I never thought of him, somehow, as having any fixed home. How strange that you should have met him again like this.’
‘My dear, we live in a small world after all,’ said Mrs Maitland, with an evident sense of her own aphoristic originality, ‘I quite expected we should come across him again sooner or later. And he is most anxious to meet you again, my dear. I thought I might tell him that you would be charmed to see him, and he is going to ride over some afternoon soon. I hope I did right, Evelyn. You will be glad to see him, won’t you?’
‘Very,’ said Evelyn, softly. ‘I liked Mr Dallas. I hope he will come. I want you to meet him, Stella,’ she added, turning to me. ‘I know you have rather a contempt for young men in general, but I think you will admit that he is an exception.’
She spoke naturally enough, but there was a tender light in her eyes, and a slight increase of colour in her cheeks that made my heart sink. Why was she so anxious to prejudice me in this man’s favour? Why did she look at me in that wistful, almost pleading way, unless she wished to prepare me for something that might, that she hoped would, happen?
Evelyn went indoors shortly after, and Mrs Maitland and I were left together, when the suspicions I had already formed were more than confirmed.
‘Has dear Evelyn ever happened to mention this Mr Dallas to you?’ she asked. ‘No? how very curious—I should have thought—but she is strangely reserved about some things. And really, I think she seemed pleased at the idea of meeting him, don’t you? Strictly between ourselves, Miss Maberly, I have a strong impression—indeed, when we were at Florence I felt almost sure that on both sides—but though he was so much with us, there was hardly time for it to develop into— Still, now he is actually in the same neighbourhood, it does seem quite possible that—though of course it’s too soon to speak as yet. It would be such a good thing. He’s a great favourite of mine, most charming, and very well off. I hear Laleham Court is quite one of the show-places here. Everyone seems to think so much of him, too. Exactly the kind of man I should wish to see dearest Evelyn married to!’
These incoherent confidences were poured out on our way to the house, and I was soon able to escape to my room, and think over all they portended.
I felt almost stunned at first; it may seem strange, but the possibility of Evelyn’s marrying some day had never struck me as anything but remote, since we had been associated.
I had suggested it that first afternoon while we were driving from the station, and she had repudiated any intention of marriage with a sincerity which would have reassured me subsequently had it occurred to me to feel any serious alarm.
But it did not, partly because Evelyn’s nature seemed too spiritual somehow to be associated with earthly passion, partly because she had wound herself so closely round my heart that I instinctively shrank from the mere thought of losing her in such a way.
Now for the first time I had to face the fact that this was not only merely possible, but probable. I remember now that, even when she declared that she had decided never to marry, she had done so with a reservation to which her aunt had just given me the clue.
Evidently this Mr Dallas had made no ordinary impression upon Evelyn, though for some reason he had gone away without declaring himself; she had believed him indifferent, and that they were unlikely to meet again, but she had always had the faint hope that she might be mistaken, and this was the contingency which might make her reconsider her resolve to remain unmarried.
How I constructed all this out of so little I can hardly say, but I knew it as certainly as if she had told me so in words, and foresaw the almost inevitable future.
This man would appear sooner or later; the sight of Evelyn would revive his interest in her, if it had ever faded; their intimacy would be taken up again at the stage at which it had been interrupted, and, step by step, he would usurp my place in Evelyn’s heart. I should have no right to complain; it would only be natural that she should put her lover before her friend. No doubt she would assure me that even marriage would make no difference in her affection for me, that, next to her husband, I should always be dearest in the world to her—but, even if this were true, it would not satisfy me. I could not be content now with any place but the first, and I already hated this unknown Prince Charming who was coming to thrust me into the background.
I felt a dull resentment against Evelyn, too, which was all the deeper because, at the bottom of my heart, I knew it was unreasonable. She might, I thought, have been more open with me; I had believed there were no secrets between us—and all the time she had kept this passage in her life to herself. I had a right to feel hurt and angry, but I would not let her see how sorely I was wounded; I would not condescend to a word of reproach, or any sign that I foresaw how speedily I should be abandoned. If she could be reserved, I would be still more so. And, besides, it was only prudent to steel my heart against her for the future, so as to be better able to bear to do without her when the time came, for if I was to be less than all in all to her, I was determined to be nothing.
So, from that evening, I began, almost insensibly, to alter in my manner towards Evelyn, and to put a certain distance between us. I said and did nothing which could give her any excuse to protest or ask for explanations; I kept up all the forms of our ordinary intercourse, but still, by slight, almost imperceptible, gradations, I withdrew from our former comradeship.
So sensitive a nature as hers could not help being affected by this, and I could see that she was vaguely uneasy and distressed by the consciousness of some unseen barrier between us, but I found a sombre satisfaction in the ingenuity with which I baffled all her advances, while still leaving her unable to determine precisely where or if she had been repelled.
It is strange how soon such a mental attitude as mine becomes rigid, until it is only to be relaxed by some extraordinary effort of will. I nursed my secret grievance against Evelyn until it was an absorbing and imperative necessity to find fresh food for it, and I was impatient for this friend of hers to appear and prove to me that my jealousy was only too well justified.
I had not to wait long. Mr Dallas rode over to call one afternoon that week, and I made my first acquaintance with the man who was to separate me from the only friend I had in the world.
As he came towards us across the lawn, my first impression was of a tall, well-built figure, a dark, smooth-shaven face, neither plain nor handsome, but with a look of undeniable distinction on it. When he glanced at me, as Evelyn introduced him, I saw that his eyes were grey, and calmly observant; he had an easy, quiet manner and a remarkably pleasant voice.
He made no secret of his pleasure at seeing Evelyn again, and she was equally frank in her welcome of him. They were soon deep in their Italian reminiscences, and as I was necessarily unable to take more than a listener’s part in the conversation, I was the better able to watch them both; but whether my presence acted as a restraint upon them, or whether, as yet, they had not gone beyond the stage of friendship, I could detect nothing on his part or hers that absolutely bore out my suspicions.
He talked well, with an occasional touch of humour, and everything he said indicated considerable knowledge and culture, without a trace of priggishness or ‘showing off.’ He was certainly as different as possible from the rather heavy-witted young sportsmen whose conversation I had found so wearisome, and I could not help reluctantly admitting to myself that—dislike him as I might—there was something strang
ely attractive in his personality.
Occasionally courtesy obliged him to include me in the conversation, or explain some allusion for my benefit, but something—I did not know what—made me unusually tongue-tied and stupid that afternoon, and I was provoked to feel how unfavourably I must be impressing him.
Not that it mattered, of course. To him, if, indeed, he gave me a thought, I was merely the salaried companion, who was not expected to be brilliant or original. Why should I care about the opinion of a man to whom I was bound to be indifferent, and who was so evidently here for the sole sake of recommending himself to Evelyn?
She irritated me by the serenity with which she received all his attentions, as if she imagined I did not know how triumphant she felt at seeing him return to her, as if she could really be so insensible as she seemed to his personal charm.
It would have galled me even more, I daresay, if I could have surprised her in some self-betraying look or intonation, but my resentment against her had gained too strong a hold to make me care whether I was consistent or not, so long as I found fresh grievances to keep it alive.
He went away at last, and as I heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs departing down the drive, the garden seemed to me to have grown dreary and deserted, and Mrs Maitland’s chatter more unendurable than ever.
‘Well, Stella?’ said Evelyn, softly, looking at me with an expectant appeal in her eyes. I knew she wished to hear me praise this lover of hers, and I would rather have died just then.
‘Well, Evelyn?’ I returned.
‘What do you think of him?’
‘Of Mr Dallas? What should I think, except that he is the most irresistibly charming and accomplished and generally delightful person I ever met outside a novel?’
Her face clouded. ‘If you talk in that ironical tone about him,’ she said, ‘I shall begin to think you dislike him—and yet I don’t know why you should.’
‘Why should you care whether I like him or dislike him, my dear?’ I replied. ‘What possible difference can it make to you—or to anyone else?’
I looked her in the face as I spoke, and saw that for the first time she hesitated and seemed confused.
‘None, perhaps,’ she said, ‘and yet I shall be disappointed if you don’t, Stella. But I believe you will, when you come to know him better.’
‘I shall have plenty of time to study his many excellencies,’ I said, ‘if his visits are all as long as this one. I began to think he never would go.’
‘I didn’t think he stayed at all too long!’ said Evelyn.
‘Then, of course, my dear Evelyn, he didn’t,’ I retorted, as I rose; ‘but all the same, he has contrived to give me a headache, and I must go indoors and lie down if I am to get rid of it by dinner-time.’
When I got upstairs I did not lie down, though my plea of a headache was not altogether a subterfuge. I paced the room, trying to realise what I actually felt towards this man. Why was it that the chief bitterness in my heart seemed concentrated upon Evelyn, when I had at least equal reason to hate him?
And suddenly the humiliating reason forced itself upon me, obstinately as I sought to keep it back.
I was no longer jealous of Hugh Dallas—I was jealous of Evelyn. And, as I realised all that this implied, I hid my burning face in my hands for very shame, though there was none to see.
III
Fool that I was, I had thought to do without Love, but he had found me out at last, and was punishing me for having set him at defiance. I had only met Hugh Dallas once, and yet I was already trying to recall his exact image, the tones of his voice, the least things I had heard him say; my heart was aching with the longing to see him again. My pride rebelled against it. I could not understand how this should have happened to me, how, in one short hour, the pivot of all my thoughts and hopes seemed to have shifted, or even what precise qualities he had which appealed to me so powerfully. Does one ever reason or analyse in such cases? I only knew that I loved him.
And he felt nothing but indifference towards me, probably had not noticed whether I was young or old, pretty or plain—how should he when all his thoughts were so evidently occupied with Evelyn?
I went to my mirror and studied myself curiously and dispassionately. I had certainly been looking my very best that afternoon. Surely the oval, olive-tinted face I saw reflected there, with the crown of soft dark hair, the imperious mouth, and the deep brown eyes that looked wistful and proud and sad, had a character and charm of its own which could bear comparison even with Evelyn’s more fragile and spiritual loveliness. I was taller than she was; I was as shapely, as well-born; the cleverer in some respects. Why should I despair? He was not hers yet—was it so impossible that, if I chose, I might compel him, even now, to transfer his homage?
And yet I knew that I could not really sink to such baseness. After all, Evelyn had been good to me; I had loyalty and gratitude enough in me still to recognise that I would never repay her by robbing her of the love that was rightfully hers. But as I registered this vow I saw, with a bitter laugh at my own vanity, how ludicrously superfluous and cheap this magnanimity of mine was. For what had Evelyn to fear from me? She was everything to him already, and if she were not, she had the advantage of her wealth; it was not likely that Hugh Dallas would ever turn from the heiress to her penniless companion. How truly generous to renounce what I had not the remotest chance of ever possessing! No, such a love as mine was hopeless; the only course left to me was to preserve my self-respect in future by preventing him from ever suspecting my unhappy secret.
The surest way was to leave the home at once, and how often now I wish I had had the courage to do so. But I could not. What plausible excuse could I give Evelyn for leaving her so suddenly? She would guess my real reason. And I shrank from returning home and facing the astonishment and curiosity of my family—and where else was I to go?
I would stay at Tansted until I could remain no longer; I clung to the mere prospect of seeing him again. Anything was more bearable, even having to stand and look on at the rapid growth of his attachment to another, than going away and imagining it all. So I stayed on and hid the fox that was gnawing my heart, being sustained, as I then thought, by womanly pride, though I believe I was as much influenced by the old self-torturing impulse which led me to seek rather than shun the emotional excitement of misery.
Evelyn had no suspicion of my mad jealousy or the envy that jaundiced my every thought of her. As before, I took care to make any real confidence between us impossible, without allowing her to feel that I was estranged from her; she merely considered, as I knew she would, that I was suffering from a return of the old causeless depression that attacked me even in my school-girl days, and that it was wiser and kinder to leave me to fight it alone.
But the part I had resolved to play was more difficult and painful than I could have realised. Hugh Dallas became a more and more frequent visitor at Tansted; he had originally intended only to spend Whitsuntide at Laleham, but he stayed on, and seemed fully resigned to lose the remainder of the season in town. He had some idea, he said, of standing for his division at the next General Election, and it was necessary to cultivate his future constituents. How far he did this I could not tell, but he apparently found time to attend every social event at which there was any chance of Evelyn being present, and we were constantly meeting him at the various houses around Whinstone. At first he took some pains to be agreeable to me, as Evelyn’s most intimate friend, and a person whom it was desirable to have on his side, but the mockery of this careless kindness was more than I could bear. I was afraid of betraying, in some unguarded moment, how deeply his presence agitated me, and I hid my feelings under a stony indifference, or cutting speeches at which my own heart bled while I was making them. I avoided him as much as I could, for it was better that he should believe I had an aversion for him than guess the truth.
I could see that he was hurt as well as surprised by my treatment, and that Evelyn, too, was distressed, and I felt a fierce
satisfaction in knowing it; it was only fair that they should suffer a little when I was suffering so much.
She made tentative approaches to the subject when we were alone, but Evelyn was always easily repelled, and she soon saw that I did not intend to discuss it, and gave up the attempt with a sigh. The consciousness of the growing shadow between us was telling on her spirits, as I noticed, and every evidence of my supposed antipathy to Hugh Dallas was a fresh grief and anxiety to her.
I imagined that it was this which made her still hesitate before definitely accepting him, and that she did not love him enough as yet to brave my disapproval.
This impression of mine was strengthened by what I saw of their demeanour when they thought themselves alone and unobserved, for though I slipped away to my room at the first opportunity, I could not resist watching them whenever they were in the garden together and came within sight. They were always talking earnestly and confidentially; he, from his expression, seemed to be pressing her for a decision, and she gently putting him off without forbidding him all hope. Once or twice, as they passed below my window, I was almost certain I heard my own name.
I was the obstacle, I knew, but sooner or later he would succeed in persuading her to disregard my prejudices, though the suspense was so long drawn out that I almost fancied I should be glad when the comedy was over and the inevitable dénouement reached.
Even Mrs Maitland began to grow a little uneasy and impatient. ‘I suppose it is really all right,’ she said to me one afternoon, ‘though why they should take so long to come to an understanding—I often feel tempted to try whether I can find out from dear Evelyn whether there is anything actually—but I might do more harm than good by interfering. Now you, dear Miss Maberly, you are naturally more in her confidence than I ever was—though I am her aunt. Don’t you think that if you were to speak to her—?’