by F. Anstey
She seized my wrists in her light, cool grasp and attempted to draw me towards the lamplight.
‘Let me go,’ I cried, cowering with a sense that some nameless horror was before me. ‘Don’t look at me. Don’t make me look at you. I am afraid. I am so afraid!’
‘You fool!’ she said angrily. ‘You have nothing to fear from me. I am not your victim—the innocent, trustful girl whom you allowed to be drugged to death. You know what you found when you went in this morning.’
‘It seemed to be death,’ I said wildly. ‘But it was not—it could not have been. And I prayed to God and He heard me.’
‘God!’ she answered contemptuously. ‘God does not hear such prayers as yours!’
‘He did hear mine. He gave you back to me,’ I insisted. ‘If not, how should you be here?’
‘Look at me,’ she said, ‘look me in the face—and then you will understand.’
I forced myself to lift my reluctant eyes to the lovely, scornful face that was looking down upon me—and then—God help me! I understood at last, and shrieked in an agony of despair and horror.
For in that awful moment I knew that it was not Evelyn’s stainless soul that was gazing at me now through her eyes, but some evil, mocking spirit that my rash and blasphemous prayer had called to animate the form she had left.
And then the room seemed to grow dark suddenly, and with a loud rush and roar in my ears, and the hope that this might be death that was mercifully snatching me from those soft, cruel hands that held me so fast, I became insensible.
VI
When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in bed in my own room. It was later than my usual hour for rising, and I felt dazed and confused. Someone had come in and drawn my curtains, for the sun was striking in on the cut-glass bottles on my dressing-table and making dancing prismatic flecks and bars on the ceiling and walls, at which I lay gazing with a languid sense of pleasure.
There was something reassuring in the pretty room and the wholesome sunlight, and though I had a vague recollection of having lately been through some awful experience, it was merely as of a dream too fantastically horrible to bear thinking of.
Presently there came a tap at my door, and I heard Evelyn’s voice asking if she might come in. She entered, looking so fresh and fair that I wondered why my heart sank at the sound of her voice, and why the sight of her filled me with an almost ungovernable terror.
‘I have brought you some breakfast,’ she said, as she set down the tray. ‘We didn’t like to disturb you before, as you seemed to be sleeping so soundly. I hope you are quite recovered by this time.’
‘I—I have had a bad night, I think,’ I said, ‘but I have not been ill—have I?’
She smiled. ‘Then you have forgotten how you alarmed me, and, indeed, the whole house, by suddenly fainting in the drawing-room last night. I had to call Aunt Lucy and have you carried upstairs. Did you fancy you saw something that frightened you, Stella, or how was it? I saw nothing in the room but our two selves.’
I looked at her and saw that, in spite of her assumed innocence and unconsciousness, her eyes were watching my face uneasily. And then the whole scene came back to me, and I turned from her, shuddering.
‘Ah, I remember,’ I cried. ‘My God, it was no dream—it is true, true! I know you now—you are not my Evelyn—don’t touch me, don’t come near me.’
‘Why, my dearest Stella,’ she said soothingly, ‘what does all this mean? What extraordinary idea has taken hold of you? You must be dreaming still. Who else should I be but Evelyn?’
I saw at once that she was anxious to undo the effect of her revelation last night, and persuade me that I had imagined it all—as if that was possible!
‘I do not know who you are,’ I said, ‘but you are not Evelyn—nothing you can say will ever make me believe that again. Evelyn is dead and I am to blame, and you—fiend, devil, evil spirit, whatever you may be—have taken her form to torment me. But I will have no dealings with you, do you hear? You cannot compel me to accept you as—as what you only seem. I will not breathe the same air with you.’
Her mouth quivered pathetically, she looked sweetly grieved. ‘Why do you treat me as if I were your enemy?’ she asked softly, ‘why should I wish to harm you, and what reason have you for even assuming that I am wicked at all?’
‘Will you dare to pretend that you are Evelyn Heseltine?’ I said; ‘it will be useless, after what you said last night!’
‘As you please,’ she said. ‘I am not Evelyn Heseltine, then. What am I? That is not so easy to say. Not so very long ago I was a human being, living my life on this earth, in this very England. I do not claim to have been a saint—if I had been a better woman my soul would not have been within hearing of your call. Thanks to your prayer, I was released from the penance that such as I must undergo, permitted to return to this dear, warm, beautiful world. I am young, I seem to be rich, I am good to look at, and I owe all this to you. Think whether I am likely to be ungrateful, whether, whatever I have been in the past, I may not be willing to avoid laying up worse punishment for myself in the future. I am ready to be your friend, and you repulse me as if I were some evil thing.’
‘You are evil!’ I cried. ‘I feel it—all your fair words, all your sweet looks cannot deceive me. Say what you please, I will have nothing to do with you.’
‘Are you so ungrateful, Stella?’ she murmured reproachfully; ‘when you owe me so much!’
‘Ungrateful! What have I to be grateful to you for?’ I asked.
‘Much, I should have imagined. What would be your position now if I had not come to your rescue? Your friend would be lying dead in that room there, you would be under suspicion, at all events, of having had some share in her death—you seem to have allowed your jealousy and resentment to be apparent enough. At the best, you would be thrown on the world, penniless, and with a cloud hanging over your name. Whereas, who can accuse you, who can suspect you now, who will ever guess that I am not the real Evelyn—unless, of course, you are mad enough to suggest it to them?’
Still I tried to break through the meshes of cajolery in which I felt I was being entangled. ‘I will say nothing,’ I said, ‘but I cannot live on here in this house with you. I will go away. I must.’
‘I cannot do without you, Stella,’ she said. ‘This new existence which you—you, remember—have summoned me into, is still strange and unfamiliar. I want a guide, someone to instruct me in all it is necessary to know about myself, or I shall make blunders which, if they don’t betray our little secret, will certainly set people speculating and gossiping. No, for your own sake you must stay with me.’
‘Stay,’ I cried, ‘stay and lend myself to such a ghastly mockery!—oh, how can I, how can I?’
‘Of course you can,’ she said, ‘and of course you will—there is nothing else to be done. Come, Stella,’ she added more gently, ‘we cannot undo the past, either you or I, so let us make the best of it. Don’t harden your foolish heart against me any more. Trust yourself to me, you will not find me hard or cruel so long as you do your best to please me. What we two alone know will only link us closer together—in time you will even come to forget that I am not your own Evelyn. I can make you love me better than ever you loved her, if only you will let me try. Tell me that we are to be friends.’
I could not resist her any longer. I felt so utterly helpless, the situation was so terrible, that I caught at any compromise. I told myself that she might have spoken the truth, she might have come to save me. I could almost believe that it was Evelyn’s very self that was pleading with me for my love and confidence. And so I yielded; I let her fold me in her arms and kiss me on the lips with a fierce possession that made me shiver.
‘Now you are my own Stella,’ she whispered caressingly. ‘We understand one another, do we not? We are allies from this moment.’
Unnatural and unholy as such a compact was, it brought me a delusive comfort just then. If only she would be kind, if she could
indeed make me forget even for a time, was it not as much as I could hope for now?
As soon as I had come downstairs, Evelyn—(for though it is repugnant to me to use that beloved name in connection with the spirit that had taken her form, I find myself compelled to do so)—Evelyn insisted that, as I was now quite recovered, I should accompany her on a round of inspection of the gardens and stables.
I knew that she wanted me to instruct her in all the details of an existence necessarily still unfamiliar to her, and I submitted passively, feeling all the while that I was sinking to the level of an accomplice.
She was extraordinarily quick in turning all my answers to account; not one of the servants we met, and whom she spoke to, suspected for a moment that she was anything but the young mistress they adored. Nothing untoward happened until we entered the stables, where Roy, Evelyn’s favourite collie, was lying in his kennel.
At the first sight of her he had sprung forward to the full length of his chain, barking with delight, but as she came nearer I saw the dog’s manner suddenly change, his bark died away into a terrified whine, his hair bristled, and he retreated before her, growling and showing his fangs.
I noticed Evelyn’s colour change, though she showed no sign of fear. ‘He seems very strange to-day,’ she said quietly, as the collie slunk into his kennel, where he lay snarling. ‘What can be the matter with him?’ she asked Reynolds, the coachman, who happened to come out at that moment.
‘I haven’t noticed anything, Miss Evelyn,’ he said. ‘For the Lord’s sake keep back, miss!’ he cried the next instant, as she was about to go up and pat the dog’s head, ‘he means mischief, sure enough.’
He had just time to seize her arm and draw her out of reach as the dog made a sudden spring. Had the chain not been a strong one, nothing could have saved her from being torn to pieces.
‘Come away,’ I cried to her; ‘come—before he breaks free.’
She stood there just beyond his reach, calmly looking down on the furious animal as it strove again and again to fly at her throat. ‘You go,’ she replied, ‘if you are afraid to stop. I am quite able to take care of myself.’
I was afraid—terribly afraid; the effect which her presence produced upon the collie, as gentle and good-tempered a creature in ordinary8 as ever breathed, came home to me like a rebuke. I could not bear it and fled back to the garden.
There Evelyn joined me later. ‘Why, Stella, you are actually trembling still. What a coward you are! What is there to be so afraid of?’
‘The dog knew,’ I answered hoarsely. ‘What is the use of my being silent? You will never silence him.’
‘He is quiet enough now,’ she replied. ‘Come and see for yourself.’
Wondering what strange spell she could have used to subdue the animal so soon, I let her lead me back to the stable-yard, and there one glance at the dog, as he lay on his side with glazed eyes and protruded tongue, told me that he was silenced only too effectually.
‘It is done, then?’ she said to Reynolds, who was standing gloomily by the body. ‘I hope the poor creature suffered no pain?’
‘No, Miss Evelyn,’ said the coachman. ‘I gave him some proosic acid9 as was put by in the harness room. He went off quite quiet, miss. He licked my hand as I gave him the stuff,’ the man added, with a catch in his voice, for he had been fond of the dog. ‘He seemed himself again the minute you’d gone, Miss Evelyn. I can’t account for his breaking out as he did nohow—I can’t. ’Taint as if he’d shown any sign of it afore.’
‘He would never have flown at me like that unless he had been mad, quite dangerously mad,’ said Evelyn. ‘I am dreadfully grieved that it should have been necessary to have him put out of the way, but it was too great a risk to run, was it not, Stella?’
Her eyes shone with the sweetest pity, her tone would have sounded to most ears only tender and womanly, and yet on mine the words fell with a suggestion of hideous hypocrisy. They seemed to bear a covert menace addressed to me alone.
And from that moment all the old repulsion and dread which she had so nearly lulled awoke once more with an intensity that turned me sick and faint. Yes, it was in vain to delude myself any longer. Whatever spirit this might be that wore Evelyn’s shape, looked at me with her fair eyes and spoke in her sweet voice, I knew now that it was altogether evil—a thing essentially false, cunning and relentless.
And I, miserable woman that I was, I was committed to this alliance. I was paralysed by the conviction that if I ventured to thwart or oppose her, she would make me feel her power in some terrible form that would plunge me into yet deeper misery and subjection.
VII
I had thought the loss of Hugh Dallas’s love, at the very moment when I believed it won, the greatest misery that could befall me, but beside the overwhelming horror of such a secret as I now had to bear, his desertion seemed almost insignificant.
There were times when the thought that the gentle girl who had loved me was dead through my own half-guilty inaction, that some lost and wandering soul, if not a spirit from Hell itself, was masquerading in her form, and I was compelled to assist in this ghastly mockery, was so intolerable that it seemed as if my brain must inevitably give way under it.
Then I would try to persuade myself that my terrors were unreal, that I was the victim of some morbid hallucination which caused me to distort the most ordinary events, to find confirmation of my fancies in Evelyn’s most innocent acts and speeches, and these attempts sometimes almost succeeded. She did everything in her power to overcome my antipathy, and there was a subtle witchery now in her looks and ways that made it hard to resist her always. I did so long to believe, if I only could, that she was just her own sweet human self, and not what my instinct and reason knew her to be.
I fancy that at the beginning she really had a kind of fierce, perverse fondness for me, or at least that she desired to conquer my affection and make a fascinated, submissive slave of me.
But that she could not do; my dread of her was too deeply rooted, it returned in spite of myself and made me as rebellious as I dared. And so it was not long before she realised that the aversion she inspired in me was proof against all her advances, and from that time she felt nothing for me but malignant hatred.
This showed itself especially in the systematic persecution she practised upon me whenever Hugh Dallas was with us, a torture so refined that no observer could have detected its insidious cruelty. For then she would overwhelm me with hypocritical caresses and little affectionate speeches which I was powerless either to resent or to respond to, except by what, as she knew perfectly well, would strike him as sullen ungraciousness. Or she would try to provoke me into some outbreak by apparently innocent remarks and allusions, so skilfully worded that I alone felt their sting.
Is it any wonder if sometimes these diabolical tactics of hers succeeded, and if under the strain I forgot all my prudent resolves to keep calm, to avoid playing into her hands by some violent retort which would merely put me more hopelessly in the wrong?
Occasionally, as I surprised her pathetic moue10 of distress at my hardness of heart, and his answering look of sympathy and admiration of her angelic forbearance, or when I noted the alteration in his tone to me, his grave concern at my insensibility and incredulous wonder that any person could resist such sweetness as hers, occasionally a sense of a certain ghastly humour in the situation would seize me, and I would burst out laughing—hollow and mirthless laughter though it was—in his astonished face, which no doubt lowered his opinion of me more than ever.
I knew well enough that every scene of this sort left him more enraptured with Evelyn’s incomparable excellence, more devoutly thankful for his lucky escape from such a warped and soured nature as mine, and I almost, if not quite, hated him for such infatuation, such blindness.
To him she was a pure and saintly being whom he felt unworthy to approach with earthly passion; he never saw, as I saw, that each shy, soft glance of hers, each dainty posture and slow, undulat
ing movement was deliberately and cunningly calculated to increase the sensuous, intoxicating effect she produced.
It was bitter enough to be condemned to bear all this, and yet there was just one hope which sustained me. Such a nature as hers must be incapable of love; she could not be anything but indifferent to him; she would not have gone on playing with his feelings so long except for the pleasure she found in seeing how it tormented me. If I only restrained myself she would tire of her amusement in time, tire of her saintly pose, tire of his reverence and devotion, she would reveal herself to him as she really was—false, corrupt, cynical, cruel, and he was hardly the man whose love would survive such a shattering of his ideal. And if it did not, who could tell what might happen? He might come back to me—even yet.
I did not know myself how desperately I wished him to come back. I thought I hated and despised him too much to care now whether he did or not—it was only when this last poor hope was taken from me that I realised how much I had come to depend on it.
One evening, after Hugh Dallas had gone, Evelyn came into the room where I was sitting, knelt by my chair and turned her pleading face up to mine with an expression of such exaltation and tenderness and purity that for the moment I could again have almost believed that, in some wonderful way, my own dear Evelyn was restored to me.
But only for a moment—for, even as I gazed into those deep and lustrous eyes of hers, I saw the cunning, malignant devil I feared lurking there still, and I knew that some new scheme was on hand and that I must be on my guard.
‘I’ve come to tell you something,’ she began, and the pretty shyness and timidity in her voice and looks would assuredly have deceived anyone but me. ‘Be kind to me now, Stella, don’t be hard and bitter when I am so happy—so very, very happy. You will guess why, I think. . . . Hugh has asked me to be his wife.’
‘His wife!’ I cried. ‘But you have not said yes? Don’t tell me you have said that.’