by F. Anstey
‘My happiness!’ I cried. ‘Ah, my God! if you knew—if I dared to tell you—but I am afraid. You would not listen to what I said—you would only tell her!’
‘If there is anything on your mind which it would be a relief to tell me, you may trust me not to speak of it—even to Evelyn.’
‘I will tell you!’ I cried; ‘I can’t bear it any longer. You shall know what this Evelyn who has bewitched you into loving her really is, whatever she makes me suffer for it.’
‘That is enough,’ he interrupted sternly. ‘I thought you wished to tell me something that concerned yourself. You don’t suppose I shall listen to any wild charges against her. If you are sincere, and really believe that poor Evelyn is a cruel tyrant, and the Lord only knows what else, why, in Heaven’s name, don’t you free yourself—why do you stay here at Tansted?’
‘Because I must,’ I said. ‘I have begged her to let me go away, but she will not.’
‘I will undertake that you are allowed to go if you wish it,’ he replied. ‘Anything would be better than this wretched state of affairs.’
‘You want to get rid of me!’ I said bitterly. ‘You do not care what becomes of me—it is nothing to you that I have nowhere else to go.’
‘You need not be afraid of being turned out into the world to shift for yourself,’ he replied. ‘Evelyn would see that your future was provided for. If she once understands that you are miserable in this house, and that nothing she can do will ever overcome the bitterness you have allowed yourself to feel towards her, she will agree with me that it is better for your happiness that you should leave her as soon as possible.’
It was humiliating, weak, inconsistent enough, I know, and yet I suddenly recognised that I could endure anything, even the secret torture, the consuming fever of jealousy and dread and impotent hate that were now my portion, rather than be banished from the only place where I could ever see and speak to Hugh Dallas. Besides, where could I go and hope for peace of mind? Where could I even be sure of being safe from her?
‘Mr Dallas,’ I said, ‘I—I did not mean all I said just now. I will try to behave differently to Evelyn, if—if only you will not say anything to her. You—you don’t know what harm you would do me if you told her that I had been complaining.’
‘I will say nothing,’ he replied, ‘but you must understand this: I will not have Evelyn worried and distressed by any more of these violent scenes and reproaches. Unless you can control these unreasonable tempers and make a better return for the affection and forbearance she shows you, your stay here must and shall end.’
‘Make your mind easy, Mr Dallas,’ I said. ‘You have shown me how mistaken I have been. I shall keep a stricter guard over my tongue for the future.’
‘That’s right,’ he replied cordially; ‘or rather, keep your mind from brooding over these fanciful wrongs of yours and you won’t need to curb your tongue. There, Miss Maberly, I’m quite sure you won’t oblige me to lecture you like this again—you are going to be sensible; let us shake hands over it.’
‘Yes, I am going to be sensible, I will give no more trouble,’ I said, and I gave him my hand and he held it in his firm warm one for just a second or so, and I turned away with an aching heart at the thought that this calm, friendly interest was all he would ever feel for me now.
I had done my best; I had tried to warn him of his danger, and it was useless. If I overcame my dread of Evelyn and attempted once more to open his eyes, I should only incur his anger as well as hers. I should only be rewarded by seeing his endeavours to drive me away.
He would not let me save him, and so I could only leave him in his blindness. For the remainder of that day I compelled myself to make more response to Evelyn’s simulated affection, and I hoped that she would not find out my attempt to defy and thwart her.
But though I am quite certain that it was not Hugh who betrayed me, she knew nevertheless, and taunted me with my failure that very night in one of those stealthy visits of hers, which thenceforward made me dread the approach of darkness and the mockery of lying down to rest.
For she would come almost every night now, in the small hours before daybreak, and sit by my pillow and whisper the most appalling threats and gibes in my reluctant ear. I did not dare to lock my door against her, and if I had, I knew that it would be but a vain protection. I tried to close my ears, but she caught my hands and held them fast, and I was forced to listen.
She would tell me with dreadful triumph that, though I was sane as yet, it would not be long before, thanks to her, I should be driven across the narrow line that still divided me from madness. She would declare what I had been hitherto unaware of, and do not even now believe—that my own mother had died in a private asylum, and that I should inevitably come to the same end. Or she would recall every act or speech of mine during the previous day that was capable of being distorted into evidence of mental disease, and gloat over my progress towards insanity.
Then she delighted in repeating all Hugh’s tender and adoring speeches to her, and every slighting or compassionate remark he and others had made about myself. And other things worse still—things the stain of which I would willingly wash from my memory if I could—she would murmur in caressing musical tones that made them the more hideous to hear.
All this, as she openly avowed, was deliberately done to render me gradually insane through mental anguish and loss of sleep, and it would hardly have been wonderful if her diabolical scheme had succeeded, and if, after a night of relentless persecution such as this, I had indeed broken forth the next day in some fashion that might seem madness to most ears.
But I knew how fatal that would be, and I was resolved not to gratify her hatred by any loss of self-command that I could possibly help. No one but myself ever knew how near I came to it at times, when I felt the blood surging and boiling up into my brain, and the control of speech and thought slipping, slipping away from me.
It was hard to have to endure Evelyn’s falseness, to notice the ostentatious pains she took in public to humour or calm me, to isolate me as much as possible from local society, while secretly, as I knew only too well, she was encouraging the idea that my mind was unhinged. When I went amongst people now I could see they looked askance at me. I could almost hear their whispers, and I was often sorely tempted to go up and ask them plainly why they were afraid of me, and give the lie boldly to the rumours that Evelyn had been treacherously spreading.
Still, I resisted all such impulses, feeling very certain that they would only answer me with smooth evasions or polite, lying denials, and then I might indeed have been stung into violent passion, which, of course, would be exactly what Evelyn hoped to effect.
VIII
The day fixed for the wedding, which was to be early in September, came nearer and nearer; presents poured in; arrangements for feasting Hugh Dallas’s tenantry and the Whinstone school children and poor were discussed and decided on, and though I could not help being aware of all this, I remained passive. Somehow I could not persuade myself that this iniquitous union would really take place.
One Sunday morning, however, the fancy seized me that I would go to church once more and try whether I might gain some little comfort and strength to endure my daily and hourly temptations and the torture of my nightly ordeal, and, for a wonder, I had been allowed to go, though not without Mrs Maitland as a keeper and spy over me.
For a time the familiar rhythm and wording of the noble liturgy, the rise and fall of the intoning, and the hearty ring of the responses, exercised a soothing effect upon me; I felt safe and comparatively at peace, content to trust the future in the hands of the God whom we were imploring to have mercy upon us, and who seemed so near and so ready to listen to our prayers just then.
And then suddenly I heard that which roused my drugged conscience and convinced me that action and not weak, cowardly resignation was required of me. The rector was publishing the banns of marriage between Hugh Dallas and Evelyn Heseltine for the third time, and
as he uttered the solemn adjuration to any of us who knew cause or just impediment why those two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony to declare it, I realised that this appeal was addressed to me alone, and that if I neglected it now, I should be answerable to Heaven for my silence.
So, the moment the rector’s voice ceased, I rose. ‘I forbid the banns,’ I cried. ‘I know of a cause which makes this marriage unholy in the sight of God, and I am ready to declare it.’
The rector’s face assumed a look of consternation that was almost ludicrous; he had only just been appointed to the living, and probably my face and identity were as yet unknown to him. For the moment he seemed at a loss what to say, and there was an audible stir and murmur among the congregation.
At length he said, ‘I cannot hear you now. Come to me in the vestry after service.’
Mrs Maitland, scarlet with flurry and distress, was plucking at my cape, and I sat down quietly, and the service proceeded as usual. But I heard nothing of it, nor of the sermon that followed, for my mind was occupied with the disclosures I was pledged to make, and the effect they would produce. All too soon for me the sermon came to an end, and the congregation was dismissed; there was the scroop12 of the benches on the pavement at the back, the breath of cooler air as the doors were opened, the clatter of the choir-boys’ booths heard above the tones of the organ. All eyes were turned on me in passing, and the two churchwardens held a whispered conference with Mrs Maitland, in which I gathered they were advising her to take me away, and offering to make some explanation to the rector.
I refused to listen to her entreaties to allow her to see the rector privately first, or accompany me to the vestry, and when she saw that I was perfectly calm and determined to carry out my intention unhindered, she gave way. The church was empty now, though a few inquisitive persons still hung about the porch, and presently a little round-eyed chorister came down to tell me that the rector was ready to see me; so, leaving Mrs Maitland on a seat in the chancel, I went into the vestry alone.
Canon Broadbent, the rector, was a churchman of the suavely ecclesiastical type, portly and of goodly height and appearance; he received me with a grave courteousness, though I could see that he was displeased and anxious to get through what he evidently felt would be a painful interview.
‘I will hear anything you have to tell me,’ he began, ‘though you must see, my dear young lady, how wrongly you have acted in disturbing the service of God and turning away the thoughts of his worshippers. Nothing but the gravest necessity can justify such conduct.’
‘You called upon anyone who knew any cause against that marriage to declare it,’ I said. ‘How could I remain silent, knowing what I do know?’
‘Reverence, common decency, should have prompted you to wait for a more convenient occasion,’ he said. ‘However, if you were really impelled by some overmastering sense of duty, and if the reason should prove sufficient, you may be held excusable. But let me warn you solemnly, before you say a word of what you have come to say, of the wickedness of attempting to blast a young man’s character and future by any charges which you are not fully prepared to prove. Many a man has been guilty of—of indiscretions, of which he sincerely repents later, which it would be cruel to rake up against him in order to prevent him from ever leading a clean and reputable life. Think, then, whether your motives are indeed pure and high, or whether, in accusing him, you are influenced by some mean, unworthy feeling of which you should feel heartily ashamed. And if conscience tells you that it is so, let your charge remain unspoken.’
‘You are quite mistaken, Canon Broadbent,’ I said. ‘I bring no charge against Mr Dallas. For all I know, his past may be quite stainless—and a man’s record would have to be black indeed before the Church would refuse to celebrate his marriage with the most innocent girl. But it is not a case of that here, and yet I begin to see how hard it will be to make you believe my story.’
‘You cannot possibly mean to imply that Miss Heseltine——’ he was beginning.
‘I tell you that if you knew who and what she is who passes as Evelyn Heseltine, you would be the first to say that this marriage is too impious and blasphemous to be sanctioned by any priest.’
‘These are strange words,’ he said uneasily. ‘I would gladly hear no more, but my duty compels me to ask you to explain them—if you can.’
‘First let me ask you a question,’ I said. ‘Do you believe that an evil spirit may be permitted to enter into a human body?’
‘Really, really,’ he said, ‘I cannot discuss such a subject with you—let me beg you to keep to the point, or I cannot allow you to remain here.’
‘I am not wandering from the point—I am coming to it. Does not the New Testament tell us of devils being cast out of men and suffered to enter a herd of swine? Is that true, or false?’
‘We must not apply too literal an interpretation to what is figurative or mystic,’ he said. ‘And once for all, I decline to be led into these unprofitable arguments. Do you or do you not know any reason which renders Miss Heseltine—a young lady who, from my slight acquaintance with her, seems to be endowed with every good and endearing quality—an unfit person to contract holy matrimony? And by reason—I mean such reason as the law of the land would compel me to recognise—anything less is a matter which I do not feel called upon to inquire into, which I shall refuse to listen to.’
‘If the law permits a man to go through the mockery of marriage with a devil incarnate, a fiend in human shape, will the Church perform such a ceremony?’ I said. ‘I declare to you, Canon Broadbent, as I hope for mercy and pardon hereafter that the real Evelyn Heseltine is dead. She died in her sleep weeks ago, and the body she has put off for ever is now inhabited by a lost soul, some foul and evil spirit which has taken her form for its own vile purposes. You do not believe me, I see that, and yet the faith you hold bids you to believe that such things were not only possible but actually happened, not once but again and again, in the past. Why should you reject my story now as incredible?’
He shielded his face with his hand for a moment; when he spoke again his voice and manner were completely changed. ‘My poor child,’ he said, ‘if I had had any idea of this I should not have spoken so harshly. I pity you from my heart. It is dreadful to think that you should be haunted by such a delusion as this. Will you try to believe me when I assure you that it is nothing more—it is simply the effect of ill-health, a disordered imagination, overwrought nerves.’
I saw that his hand was shaking and his mouth twitching, that he avoided looking me in the face.
‘I am not ill,’ I said. ‘I am as well as I could hope to be under such persecution as I have had to bear, day after day, night after night. And my mind is as clear as yours, Canon Broadbent. I think my nerves are the steadier just now. I did not come to you for pity. I want help, counsel; have you none to give me?’
‘I can only pray for you,’ he said, ‘pray that God may see fit to remove this cloud from you. But you yourself must do something, too, to prevent these ideas from preying upon you. Lead as active a life as you can, try to take up some pursuit—work, play, anything but brood—and by-and-by, very soon, I trust, the sunshine will come back. You will recover your mental tone and see how morbid and imaginary the terror is that now seems so real and vivid.’
‘All words,’ I said, ‘empty phrases. Do you really suppose they can help or comfort me? I loved the Evelyn Heseltine that was—loved her dearly, little as I did to show it. Is it likely that I should imagine or invent this hideous thing about her, or that I should loathe and dread her as I do unless I had been given the strongest cause? I know that I am under no mistake, and in your heart, Canon Broadbent, you know it too. You do believe my story, only you dare not admit it, for fear of the consequences. You clergymen are cowards after all. When you come upon the devil you profess to fight, you prefer to turn aside and let him go his way unhindered!’
He did not attempt to answer me, but opened the door that le
d into the chancel and called to Mrs Maitland.
‘I think,’ he said to her, ‘you had better take your friend home at once, and if you have not already called in medical advice, it might be advisable, if this mental agitation does not pass off soon. Poor young creature, she is greatly to be pitied!’
He had lowered his voice, but I heard every word distinctly.
‘I am indeed to be pitied,’ I said, ‘when the priest who represents Heaven here, delivers me over to the powers of Hell.’
My shaft went home, I know, but he merely bowed his head without reply, as he accompanied us down the nave and through the churchyard to the gate, where our carriage was waiting for us; and Mrs Maitland and I drove back through the deep dusty lanes in silence, for both of us, I daresay, felt that any speech was dangerous just then.
Evelyn met us as we entered the house. ‘How late you are!’ she cried. ‘What can have kept you so long?’ I looked her full in the face, and I saw by her eyes that she knew, or at least guessed, that I had made one more attempt to defy and thwart her.
‘We are late,’ I replied calmly, ‘because I forbade your banns and I had to explain my reasons to Canon Broadbent afterwards in the vestry.’
She started, as if my courage took her by surprise, as probably it did. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said innocently. ‘Oh, Stella, what have you done? I can’t believe it—you couldn’t have done this!’
‘Ask Mrs Maitland,’ I said as I passed up the staircase, and before I reached my room I heard Evelyn’s low weeping. What could I do against such black hypocrisy? How could I hope to overthrow an adversary who had all the forces of the world, the flesh and the devil at her disposal?
I did not go down again all that day, and for many days afterwards I kept my room. The reaction after the scene I had gone through, the sense of utter failure and defeat, and the dread of the consequences proved too much for my strength. The doctor came and talked oracular platitudes about nervous breakdown and the necessity of absolute quiet and freedom from excitement or worry, until I could have screamed with rage at his bland incompetence. But even he did not venture to pronounce me mad, for Canon Broadbent had been discreetly silent about the denunciation I had made in the vestry, and my action in forbidding the banns was no doubt accounted for by some private jealousy.