The Statement of Stella Maberly, and An Evil Spirit

by F. Anstey

  ‘Am I selfish? and blind, too?’ she said slowly. ‘Tell me how, Stella; it is the least you can do.’

  ‘Very well, I will tell you, though you know it already. You are not a fool, Evelyn, and even a fool might have guessed that if I avoided him and made him believe I detested the very sight of him, it was because—because I was afraid of myself. . . . Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘Stella!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, you were right. I have been blind. If you had only confided in me.’

  ‘I had some pride left,’ I retorted. ‘I would have kept it from every living soul if I could, and now you have succeeded in wringing it out of me. Be satisfied with that, and leave me in peace.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘It is so sudden and bewildering that I—but I shall be able to tell you in a moment how—’

  ‘The less we say now the better it will be for us both,’ I said. ‘You see now what a mockery the word friendship is between us, and how necessary it is that we should part.’

  ‘We need not,’ she cried. ‘Stella, did I not tell you all I cared for was your happiness? Well—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t go through the farce of offering to give him up!’ I said scornfully. ‘As if he would be likely to allow himself—as if I would accept. I will listen to no more of this hypocritical cant . . . See, I have stopped my ears. Say what you please now—I shall hear nothing!’

  She caught my hands in hers and drew them down. ‘You shall hear me, you foolish, wilful girl,’ she said. ‘I won’t let you wreck your own life like this!’

  I wrenched myself free with such violence that she staggered back and fell into a couch, on which she lay, white and panting, looking up at me as I stood over her in a tempest of ungovernable fury.

  ‘Be silent, do you hear,’ I said. ‘I warn you that, if you say a single word more just now, I can’t answer for what I may do. I might kill you! If you are wise, go away, and leave me to myself—go away!’

  She rose to her feet unsteadily, her eyes misted over with pain and apprehension and appeal as they met mine; she drew a long gasping sigh and pressed her hand to her left side, and then, supporting herself on her way by chairs and couches, she slowly went out of the room, leaving me standing there, already a little ashamed of my outburst, but sullen and impenitent still. Everything was at an end between us; meek and spiritless as she was, she must recognise that we could never be the same to one another again, that my confession had made a chasm that nothing could ever bridge. It was a relief to have delivered my soul, to have done with all dissimulation, and yet I cursed my insane folly in allowing the one thing I was bound to conceal to be extorted from me, and I hated Evelyn for having driven me beyond prudence.

  She had been so irreproachably correct throughout, so maddeningly forbearing and gentle, she had put me so hopelessly in the wrong—and now I was at the mercy of her discretion, and some day or other she would infallibly confide my secret to him—and he would despise and pity me. At least I would not be there to see it. I would leave Tansted the very next day, even if—which was not likely—Evelyn tried to keep me—any place was better than this now. How long I sat nursing these bitter and angry thoughts, I don’t know; it was late, and the servants had locked up and gone to bed, before I heard footsteps descending the stairs and entering the room. Could it be Evelyn coming to patch up a peace? I would have none of her forgiveness, she should know how I hated her, and how determined I was that this should be the last night I ever spent under her roof.

  But the footsteps were not light enough for Evelyn’s. When I turned, it was to see Mrs Maitland in a loose wrapper,4 with a look of severity and decision that was unusual on her flaccid, good-natured countenance. ‘I came down, Miss Maberly,’ she said, ‘to ask you to tell me what is wrong with Evelyn. I can get nothing from her—and you can probably enlighten me if you choose. Has she made up her mind to refuse Mr Dallas, or has she not? If she has, and you have induced her to do it, may Heaven forgive you!’

  ‘I know no more about her intentions than you do,’ I replied haughtily. ‘If she refuses Mr Dallas it will not be through any inducements of mine—and it is useless to demand explanations from me in that very peremptory tone.’

  She changed her manner at once. ‘Was I peremptory, my dear? I’m sure I didn’t intend to be, and I beg your pardon. But I am so worried and uneasy about it, and I thought perhaps you— The poor dear child is dreadfully distressed about something. I was quite shocked when I went in to see how ill she was looking, and I’m sure she had been crying. She has been trying to write a letter to Hugh Dallas, I’m afraid, and she is really unfit for it just now.’

  Writing to him! Writing to tell him—of course from the highest and most unselfish motives—what she had just wormed out of me, to propose that impossible renunciation to him— Could the most feline malice invent a more crushing and humiliating revenge?

  ‘Trying to write,’ I repeated; ‘then she has not written yet?’

  ‘I think she had made one or two attempts and torn them up.’

  ‘Don’t let her write to-night,’ I said. ‘Persuade her to give it up and go to bed.’

  ‘My dear, I tried—but she declares she can’t sleep until she has written. I wonder,’ she added, ‘whether if I gave her just a few drops of that sleeping draught you have—’

  ‘Do,’ I said eagerly. ‘You will find it on my table; make her take some at once.’

  ‘You are sure it is quite safe?’

  ‘Yes, yes, perfectly. It can do her no harm. The dose is on the label and she ought to get to sleep at once, and not think about that letter till morning.’

  ‘She will be really ill to-morrow unless she can have a good night’s rest, and I’ve no bromide or sulphonal5 or anything. I really think I had better— On your table, you said? Then, good-night, my dear, and don’t sit up too late yourself, for I’m sure you look as if you needed sleep too.’

  She left me to myself, and for the first time I was thankful for her fussiness, for her suggestion of the sleeping-draught would effectually prevent that letter from being written that night. To-morrow I would see Evelyn and compel her, by every argument I could think of, to abandon her quixotic intention.

  If she could only be induced to take the draught at once. I wanted to be sure. I felt stifled indoors; outside there would be air, and I might find out what I was so anxious to know. It was easy to slip back a bolt or two on the hall door, and soon I was outside in the warm darkness.

  From the lawn I could see Evelyn’s window. The curtains were drawn, but above them a slender bar of light told me that she was still up. Perhaps the letter was now being written that would present her to him as more angelic and adorable than ever; and render me odious and despicable in his eyes. Oh, how intensely I hated her at that moment. Whether she believed herself sincere, or whether she was the most consummate of hypocrites, she was equally betraying my secret, exposing me to the ignominy of being refused by the man to whom I had given my heart unasked.

  Was it then, as I stood there under the cedar, that it flashed across my mind that in the medical book I had consulted I had read a statement that chloral, even in the smallest doses, was extremely dangerous in any case of weakness of the heart?

  And had not Evelyn, that first afternoon as we were driving from the station together, told me that once, at all events, her heart had been considered to be affected?

  I have tried and tried in vain to be quite clear when this first occurred to me. There are even times when I have terrible doubts whether both these facts may not have been present to my mind from the very first—even when Mrs Maitland was suggesting chloral. I cling to the hope that, bitter as my feelings were towards Evelyn, I was guiltless, even in thought, of such wickedness as that. I cannot believe that I was really capable of wilfully allowing her to encounter any peril which I could have prevented. I have enough to reproach myself with, God knows, without that!

  No, it was not till later, I am sure o
f that, not till the moment when, as I stood watching, I saw the bar of light suddenly die out.

  And then, as soon as I realised the danger, my first impulse was to rush up, arouse Mrs Maitland, find out whether the drug had been taken as yet, and what could be done.

  But if Evelyn had already taken the chloral it would be too late to interfere. She might not have needed it at all. In any case, was it certain that it would do her the slightest harm? People outgrew weakness of the heart; she was no longer an invalid—perhaps she had never even had anything really wrong with her heart; young girls often like to fancy they are suffering from some interesting malady; doctors can make mistakes.

  And if I alarmed Mrs Maitland by my misgivings, what would she think? Why, that I had really been contemplating Evelyn’s death, and was seized with tardy remorse! I should be exposing myself to the most dreadful suspicions—all for a risk which most likely only existed in my over-excited imagination.

  I argued all this with myself over and over again as I walked the lawn feverishly, backwards and forwards, unable to arrive at any conclusion for long, until at last, too exhausted bodily and mentally to go on thinking, I sank into one of the wicker seats that had been left in the garden. Why torment myself any longer when no action was possible? It was out of my hands now; and, besides—nothing would happen.

  And then I was so worn out by all I had gone through since that afternoon that I suppose I must have fallen asleep in the chair, for I was not conscious of anything more until I was roused by a sense of chillness in the air, and opened my eyes to see the eaves and gables of the old house before me looking unnaturally sharp and distinct in the livid light of approaching daybreak, and the sky above already starless and mottled with pearl and opal clouds. I rose shivering and went indoors, still overcome with drowsiness, and, once in my room, threw myself on my bed without undressing, in the hope that sleep would come when I closed my eyes. But I only succeeded in dozing for a few minutes at a time, and soon the daylight that filtered in through my blinds, and the first feeble cheeping of the birds outside, made even this impossible, and I lay there, trying wearily to identify the various objects in the room, and strangely baffled and irritated by being unable to account for a grey square on my table that seemed unfamiliar.

  As the light increased it revealed the square as a letter, and with an irrational hope of finding it a note from Mrs Maitland to tell me that she had not given Evelyn the chloral, I sprang up and drew the curtains in order to read it. Then my mind would be set at rest, and I could sleep.

  But when I tore the envelope open it was Evelyn’s handwriting that I saw, and though it is long since I last had that letter in my hands, I believe I can remember it almost word for word, as I read it then:

  ‘I have begun this several times,’ she wrote, ‘and torn it up, and yet I can’t sleep until I have put an end to all this misunderstanding. I know so well that you will be even more wretched than I am, you poor, self-tormenting Stella! I would have told you—but you were not yourself, you would not have listened, and I was afraid of driving you into saying or doing something you would regret if I tried any more just then.

  ‘But now I have a superstitious feeling that, if I don’t tell you at once, this very night, something that will change all your thoughts of me, you may never know, and so, perhaps, miss a great happinesss.

  ‘Hugh is nothing to me, Stella, has never been anything but a very dear friend. Perhaps, at one time, at Florence, he might—but I felt that my hold on life was so slight then that I had no right to let him care for me in that way. And since then—where were your eyes, Stella, that you could not see how devotedly he has come to worship you? though he almost despaired of ever touching your heart. You were so proud, so resolute in keeping him at a distance, that you misled us both. I quite believed that you had taken one of your obstinate dislikes to him, and that his only chance was in time and patience. We had long and anxious consultations over it, and I could only promise that I would do my best for him, when all the time—! If you had only let me talk to you about him, only shown the slightest sign of interest, I would have told you how it was my dearest wish, ever since I first heard he was a neighbour of ours, that you and he might make each other happy.

  ‘But I know now—and I understand that you were silent out of loyalty to me, and love and admire you all the more for it, and I mean to make you happy in spite of your wilful, obstinate self, for I made him promise to come over to-morrow as usual, in case I could induce you to relent. I can tell him now—though you may be sure that I shall not say a word you would not wish me to say—but I can let him understand that you feel you have been too hasty, and that he need not give up all hope just yet.

  ‘As for you and me, Stella, let us forget that this cloud has ever come between us; we will never speak of it, never think of it again, unless to rejoice that it has passed and left our love all the firmer.

  ‘There is so much I want to say—but I am too tired to sit up any longer, and I feel I shall sleep soundly now. I shall tell Saunders to put this on your dressing-table, so that you will see it before you go to bed, and now good-night, Stella, love me always, and never never have bad thoughts about me again.’

  Not even my hard and embittered heart could be proof against the love and generosity and delicacy which spoke in every sentence of this letter and overwhelmed me with shame and contrition. Was there ever such perversity of misconstruction, such readiness to impute my own base thoughts to others, such ingenuity in making myself and them miserable, as I had been guilty of all these wretched weeks?

  What could I ever say and do to show Evelyn how sincerely I repented? That, though she had forgiven me, I could never entirely forgive myself? How long would it be before I could go to her room and pour out all my penitence and gratitude? How impatiently I realised that it was too early as yet, that I must not venture to disturb her slumber for several hours to come.

  And after the first sharpness of shame and remorse I began to feel the exquisite thrill of a joy that would not be quite suppressed; in vain I tried to think only of my wickedness and folly. My heart would throb wildly with the knowledge that Hugh Dallas loved me, all unlovable as I was, that an immense, unhoped-for happiness was coming to me with the brightness of the summer morning, and the expanding flowers, and the triumphant trilling and piping of birds.

  At last I could resist the impulse to go to Evelyn no longer; if she was asleep, I would sit beside her and wait until she awoke—I might find her awake already.

  I went to her door and opened it softly; the curtains were thick and shut out the light so effectually that all was grey and indistinct at first, but I could see that Evelyn was still asleep, lying with her face turned from me and her right hand extended, palm upwards, as if seeking to be clasped. I laid mine upon it—was it my fancy that made it seem so strangely chill and unresponsive? And why could not my ear detect any sound of breathing? I recollected the chloral; no doubt that would have produced a deeper sleep than usual—I was giving way to fanciful terrors again; when I had let in the light, the reassuring, everyday light, I should see that all was well.

  I drew the curtains—softly, for fear of waking her; the light poured in, and the cool air of morning met my cheeks through the open casement. Thrushes were hopping about the turf, and the sky between the cedar branches was tinged with saffron and rose.

  And I turned and saw Evelyn’s face and realised the cruel and awful truth. Nothing would wake her any more, no words of love and sorrow would ever reach her. She was dead.

  V

  I think that even those who have felt least sympathy with me hitherto will find some pity for me now in the first terrible shock of my discovery that Evelyn was dead.

  I refused to believe it at first, in spite of appearances. I tried every restorative, every test I could think of—and all was in vain, until in my despair I felt something like anger with the form that lay there, so still and passive, with the lips parted in a half smile that seemed a
tender mockery of my efforts.

  She was dead, and I might rouse the house and send for doctors, but nothing would make any difference—they would only tell me what I knew already. I recognised at last how useless it was to seek any longer for signs of the life that had fled, and I stood there in a dazed stupor, repeating to myself, over and over again, ‘Evelyn is dead. She will never know now how bitterly I repent, how dearly I love her. I shall never hear her speak to me again. She is dead—quite dead—’ until the words lost their meaning.

  If only, even now, I could wake to find it all a ghastly dream—but no, I knew it was too hideously real, the horrible irony of having been so near happiness and missing it thus, the thought of all that hung upon Evelyn’s life, the part she was to have taken in bringing Hugh Dallas and me together, and the impassable gulf her death had set between us—all this came upon me with crushing force, and I fell on my knees, writhing, in speechless, tearless agony, by the bed where she lay unheeding—and out in the garden the pitiless birds sang louder and merrier every moment.

  I knew I ought to take some action, call someone, not to leave the household any longer in ignorance of what had happened, but I could not stir. I would wait a little longer still; there might—who knew?—there might be a miracle wrought, if I prayed, if I wrestled hard enough with Heaven to give me back my dead. God had heard such prayers before; would He be more cruel to me when my need was as great as—nay, greater far than that of those others? Surely He would see that my punishment was heavier already than I could bear.

  And I prayed—unceasingly, frantically, seeking by passionate entreaties, arguments, promises, to move that far-off Tribunal to set back its decrees, just this once more, and allow this one soul to return through the gates that had scarcely closed as yet. Was not all possible to an omnipotent and merciful God?

  Thus I entreated and implored—but there was no answering sign. God saw my misery and heeded it not; it was useless to appeal any longer, since He was either indifferent or powerless, and then in my reckless raving I besought whatever power there might be—good or evil, angel or devil, on earth or in hell—that heard me, to come to my aid now in my desperate extremity, and make that which was dead alive.