 Chapter 8 The Day Fixed for the Wedding, which was to be early in September, came nearer and nearer. Presence poured in. Arrangements for feasting, Q Dallas's tenantry, and the Winston 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 aroused my drugged conscience and convinced me that action and not weak cowardly resignation was required of me. The rector was publishing the bands of marriage between Hugh Dallas and Evelyn Heseltine for the third time, and as he uttered the solemn adoration to any of us who knew cause or just impediment why these 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 bands, I cried. I know of a cause which makes this marriage unholy in the sight of God, and I'm ready to declare it. The rector's face assumed a look of consternation that was almost ludicrous, he'd 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's 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 that they would produce. All too soon for me this sermon came to an end, and the congregation was dismissed. There was the scroop of the benches on the pavement at the back, the breath of cooler air as the doors were opened, the clatter of the choir boy's boots heard above the tones of the organ. All eyes were turned on me in passing, and the two church wardens 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 around 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. Cannon 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 worshipers. Nothing but the graver's 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 the young man's character and future by any charges which you are not fully prepared to prove. Many a man has been guilty 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. Oh, you're quite mistaken, cannon-broad-bent, I said. I bring no charge against Mr. Dallas. Oh, 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 evil in 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? Oh, 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'm not wondering from the point. I am coming to it. Was not the New Testament tellers 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. Now 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, and 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 evil in Heseltine is dead. She died in her sleep weeks ago, and the body she has put off forever is now inhabited by a lost soul, some foul and evil spirit which has taken her form for its own vile purposes. Oh, 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. Oh, 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? 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 can in broadband. 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 praying upon you. Lead as active a life as you can, and 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 love to the evil in 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 can in broadband 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 led 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 pitted. He lowered his voice, but I heard every word distinctly. I am indeed to be pitted, 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 threw the church yard 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. Evil in matters 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 bans, and I had to explain my reasons to Cannon 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! Oh, you couldn't have done this! Asked 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 strengths. The doctor came, and talked to rackular platitudes about nervous breakdown, and the necessity of absolute quiet, and freedom from excitement or worry, and I could have screamed with rage at his bland incompetence. But even he did not venture to pronounce me mad, for Cannon Broadbent had been discreetly silent about the denunciation I had made in the vestry, and my action in forbidding the bands was no doubt accounted for by some private jealousy. I knew that consultations and discussions were going on, and that some pressure had been put upon Evelyn to send me home to my family, or have me placed in a home where I should be under supervision, though I had gathered that she had insisted on my remaining at Tanstead for the present. She was more perfidiously affectionate and attentive than ever. She paid me frequent visits during the day, and studiously avoided any illusion to my outbreak, while my nights were no longer made a misery to me by her secret persecution. I almost began to think that she had relented at last, seeing how completely she had triumphed, and how feeble and how powerless I had now become. But I deceived myself. This clemency of hers was only apparent. She knew that I was not strong enough as yet to feel the full effect of her devilish tortures, and she did not intend to lose her victim until she had forced me to witness her final triumph. On the night before her wedding day, she came to me once more in her bridal attire, so lovely a vision that I was dazzled by her unearthly beauty. But the eyes that gleamed through the transparent veil were as baleful and malignant as of old, and the soft lips dropped an even deadlier venom than before into my poor tortured brain. For she talked of Hugh, as he was now self-respecting, wholesome-minded, unsuspicious, hopeful of a long and happy married life with a companion who was his ideal of goodness and loveliness, and what he would become through her, disillusioned, perverted and degraded, loathing his bondage and yet unable to resist her power over his senses, acquiescing sullenly and cynically in his own shame and disgrace. She hated him now, she said, because he had loved me first, and might perhaps come to love me again, but I should never profit by it, after to-morrow he would be hers, and in a very short time I should be a prisoner within the impassable walls of an asylum, with lunatics and idiots for my only companions, and love, happiness and hope, shut out of my life forever. She told me how she would bring Hugh to see me, the wreck of my former self, my mind shattered, my beauty perished, and how he should learn that it was love of him that had made me thus, and she reminded me that I had brought my misery on myself, that if I had only restrained my groundless morbid jealousy of the girl who was dead, if I had only interfered when there was yet time to prevent her from taking that drug, all would have been different. Under the wretched, unloved, conscious, stricken woman I was now, I should be lying peacefully asleep or waiting in happy wakefulness for the morning to break which would bring my wedding day. There was more than this which I dare not repeat, and nothing I could say would give any impression of the awful wickedness, the ingenuity of cruel invention and suggestion which made these taunts so appalling. I cannot believe that even the guiltiest sinners in hell can be subjected to worse mental torment than she forced me to endure that night. It was terrible to feel that I was the object of such a deliberate and intense hatred. At last even her malignity exhausted itself for the time, but long after she left me, I lay tossing and writhing under the stink of those poisoned whispers, until it faded out into merciful sleep, and the dream which came to me was not frightful, but tender and pathetic. I thought that Evelyn, the real Evelyn who was now in heaven, came and sorrowed over me and comforted me, assuring me that she understood and forgave me and would willingly help me if she were allowed. I thought she told me not to despair, that evil would not triumph for ever, or perhaps for long, that my term of punishment was drawing to an end, and I woke crying for joy with the touch of her hair upon my cheeks and the pressure of her loving arm about my neck, and though I knew it was nothing but a dream, it left me strangely strengthened and consoled. That morning was to see Hugh's marriage, and yet my heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. I found myself hoping once more. As the hours passed I heard the bustle of preparation, and knew that Evelyn was being made ready for the ceremony, that she would soon follow her bridesmaid to the church. I believe she actually came in to see me before she left, but I feigned to be asleep, and she went away softly. Eventually the house became still. Most of the servants had probably gone to see their young mistress married. The nurse, who attended on me, had gone downstairs after locking my door, as if she thought I was likely to make my escape. It began to strike me that it was a considerable time since I had heard the carriage drive away. Surely before this the wedding bells ought to have peeled out, if nothing had happened to interrupt the marriage? And all at once I understood what this hope was that had come to me so unaccountably. I knew that it was not without some basis. There were things that even devils dare not do. I remembered that Evelyn had not attended church for some weeks. No, I was almost sure since the change. Would she venture now to cross the threshold of God's house? If not her terror must betray her as an unholy being, even to the most incredulous. The rector would have remembered my warning, her spells would be broken. The church was not so far away, but that the bells when rung could be distinctly heard across the fields. I went to the window and leaned out, holding my breath and straining my ears in the direction from which the sound should come. I heard nothing, but the whir and the click of the reaping machine among the corn, the calling of birds and the lowing of cattle. I waited until I could doubt no longer. Something had prevented this monstrous marriage. I fell on my knees and thanked God fervently, and treating his pardon for having supposed that he would suffer his temple to be so desecrated. And as I rose there was born on the breeze, faint but unmistakable, the ripple and clash of wedding bells. They were married. She had entered God's house, knelt before his altar, and he had not interposed. Perhaps there was no God, and if there were it mattered little, for the devil was master in this miserable world. The last thing I was conscious of that day was the clang of those triumphant derisive bells which seemed to be battering my brains into a throbbing pulp. I must recall a long confused nightmare through which I was making the most superhuman efforts to prevent Hugh's marriage, pursuing him and Evelyn to the furthest ends of the earth, always on the verge of overtaking them, always hindered by every conceivable obstacle and delay, trying to rouse everyone I met to see Hugh's danger and help me to avert it, and telling my story over and over again. And then, just as I seemed to have succeeded, hearing those dreadful bells which told me that it was too late. This must have gone on for some weeks, for when the fever left me and I was once more able to notice the common things around me, I saw that the roses I had last seen climbing round my casement had turned to scarlet pods, and the buds were too shriveled and nipped to unfold themselves. From my window I looked out upon a late autumn landscape of russet and orange, and the lawn was littered with fallen leaves, and the paths white with hoar frost. I knew I must have had a long illness, but I was too weak and my mind too sluggish as yet to make any effort to remember what had brought it on. I was content for the time to lead a sort of animal existence, and to find a negative comfort and even enjoyment in the little luxuries the trivial incidents of convalescence. And then, when it all came back, Evelyn's death and strange resuscitation, her treachery and malignity, and the arts by which she had beguiled my lover from me, it seemed too fantastic, too unreal to be anything but the perverted imaginings of delirium. I knew that Hugh and Evelyn were married, but I no longer cared. My passion for Hugh seemed to have burnt itself out. Even my terror of Evelyn was left me—oh, so at least I persuaded myself. As I grew stronger, I asked for news of them, and found that they had already returned from their wedding journey, and were now at Laylam Court. It seemed to me a little strange that Evelyn had not yet come over to see me, and I said as much to Mrs. Maitland, and told her how I was longing to see her again. This was quite true, for I was anxious to be quite sure that my hallucinations were indeed cured, and I could not be that until I met Evelyn. Mrs. Maitland put me off with palpable excuses. It was better that I should not see Evelyn just yet, until I was perfectly strong and well again. I am almost well now, I said. I am quite able to see her if she cared enough about me to come. To this Mrs. Maitland replied that Evelyn herself had not been strong enough to go out at all of late. Then let me go and see her! I pleaded. You think so you had better not meet just yet? She said. He is quite distressed about the change in her. It's making him absolutely miserable. You're keeping something from me, I said suddenly. Don't you see, unless you want me to be ill again, you'd better be quite frank. I have had ideas, strange, horrible fancies about Evelyn, and they will never quite leave me until I see her again. Oh, my dear! She said. I think I can guess, from certain things you talked of in your delirium, what those ideas are. You seem to be under the delusion that you'd given Evelyn cloral on some occasion, and that she had died of it. Oh, surely you know now that it was all a dream, that nothing of that sort ever happened? Well, isn't it true, then, that you came downstairs that evening last June, and asked me if you might give Evelyn a few drops of the cloral you knew I had, and whether it would do her any harm, and that I said it would not? Did I imagine that? Oh, no, my dear! That is all true. I thought she seemed excited and wanted something to make her sleep. Oh, God! Help me! I cried. You brought it all back. I knew that cloral was dangerous to anyone with a weak heart. I had read it in some medical book, and I let you give it to her, and I remember now. Oh, you poor thing, and you've been allowing this to prey on you, oh, when if I had only known I could have relieved your mind at once. Why, my dear, you have nothing to accuse yourself of. The fact is, I never gave Evelyn any cloral at all. When I went into her room she was already dozing, and I waited until she'd fallen into a good sound sleep, and then I put out the lights, and came away without even opening the bottle. Luckily I believe I can prove it. She went out, and presently returned with a small fluted file. See, here is the very bottle, with a cover still round the stopper, just as it left the chemist. Oh, no, my dear, I hope you realise you've been tormenting yourself for nothing at all. Oh, if only I had known this at the time, I cried. Why, why didn't you tell me? Well, Evelyn told you that morning that the bottle was in my keeping, and afterwards she expressly warned me not to mention the subject again, in case you might ask me to give it back to you. We both hoped you'd forgotten all about it. Oh, of course dear Evelyn had no more idea than I had that you were brooding over it like this, or we should have put it right at once. The good simple-minded lady was under the impression she had set my mind entirely at rest, whereas she had only succeeded in convincing me that the thing which I was again beginning to consider a delusion was an awful reality. What did it signify that the Cloral had not been administered? It was nonetheless true that I had found Evelyn dead the next morning, that in my madness I had invoked some hellish spirit to save me from the consequences of my supposed guilt. I saw now how I had been tricked and betrayed from the first, how the cunning fiend had used my confession against me, compelling me in self-protection to serve her wicked purpose. Perhaps, even if I had known the truth then, and refused to acknowledge her at the first, the result would have been the same, but at least I should have been spared the load of needless guilt and shame, the humiliation of feeling myself indebted to such protection as hers. How I hated this merciless devil for all the want and unnecessary suffering she had made me endure, and how it maddened me to think of what Hugh Dallas must be going through by this time. If I had been eager to see them before, judge how intensely I desired it now, how I burned to discover for myself how far she had revealed her true nature to him, and how he had been affected by so terrible a disenchantment. But I have considerable power of self-control when I choose to exercise it, and I knew how necessary it was for his sake to disguise my anxiety. I managed to make Mrs. Maitland believe that I had entirely thrown off what she would have considered my delusion. Outwardly I was quite calm, and I was soon allowed to come downstairs and resume my share in the quiet everyday routine of the house, working and reading and walking with Mrs. Maitland as I had once done with Evelyn. I discovered that she and Hugh were living at Laylam Court in the strictest seclusion. No callers had succeeded in seeing her since her return. It was understood that her health was not strong enough to allow her to accept invitations, and he himself was said to be too much concerned about his wife to leave her, except when absolutely compelled by his duties. To me all this was full of sinister significance, and only heightened the suspense in which I lived. But I bided my time, feeling certain that sooner or later Hugh and I would meet, and the first glance at his face would tell me all I longed to know. In one afternoon I was told that he was in the drawing-room and wished to see me, and though my heart leapt wildly at the news, and my head swam at the thought that I was really to see him at last, really to have an answer to the fear that gave me no rest, I went in and met him with perfect self-possession. How woefully he had changed! There was a grey pallor on his face that made him look prematurely old and haggard. His eyes had an expression of suppressed despair. His manner was restless and nervous. It was only too plain that already the iron had entered into his soul, and that if possible he was as wretched as I, and yet stricken and changed as he was, the sight of him revived the old mad passion which I thought was dead. I loved him more intensely and devotedly than ever. I would have died for him willingly if my death could give him back all this fiend had robbed him of. The beginning of our conversation was commonplace and conventional enough. He said he was glad to find that I had so completely recovered from my illness. I replied that I was perfectly well now, but was sorry to hear such unfavourable accounts of Evelyn. I watched his face narrowly as I spoke, and saw a spasm come across it at her name. I am unhappy about her, he said, more unhappy and anxious every day. I can hardly speak of it. Oh, do you think I don't know how terribly you're suffering, I said gently? Do you think I don't feel for you? Oh, God knows it is hard, he said with a half-grown, when I look back on what she was and what I hoped she would be, and know what I can't help knowing, struggle against it as I may. And I'm so helpless, so utterly powerless to keep this misery from coming upon me. I can only wait and feel there is no hope. She talks sometimes as if we were to be together for many years to come, and it's almost more than I can bear. The irony of it all. Oh, but I didn't mean to speak of all this, I have a message to you, from her. She is very anxious to see you again. I had to promise I would tell you, and bring you back with me, if you feel able to come. What new device, I wondered, had she invented to torture me? I could see he only delivered the message with the greatest reluctance, as if he would have spared me if it had been in his power. I will gladly come, I said, if you wish it. If you think I can be of use to you. I did my best to dissuade her, he said. I was afraid of the consequences if I let you see her just now. She has so set her heart on seeing you that I dared not risk refusing her. And now I have seen you, I can't think there's any danger. Only you must promise me that you will say nothing to disturb her. Above all, you must not let her know that I have spoken to you like this. Can I trust you? Are you quite sure that you can depend on yourself? His voice shook with an anxiety he dared not confess in words. I knew well that it was not for himself he feared, and it touched me more than I can say to feel that he could think of me just then. You need not be afraid of my account, I said. I can't explain it, but I feel as if in some way I don't understand at present I shall be able to help you by this meeting. Perhaps even free you from this awful shadow that is darkening your life. It's too late for that, he said sadly. When you see her you will understand what little hope there is for me. Can you come with me now? I have the faith in here and it need not take you very long to get ready. In a few minutes more we were in the carriage together on our way to Lailam. Godover spoke much or except on ordinary topics. It seemed as if we both shunned by common's consent any further reference to the subject that was really engrossing our thoughts. But to me there was an exquisite, pathetic happiness in being with him and knowing that though he could not tell me so in words he understood me now as he had never done before, that we were drawn to one another by the fellowship of secret suffering. And all the way I was racking my brain to find some means of delivering him. I felt prepared to run any risk, make any sacrifice, if only I could induce the evil spirit to give up her prey. And yet what arguments or threats or prayers that I could use would have any effect upon her. I saw how unlikely it was that I could prevail against such an antagonist. But nevertheless I looked forward to the contest without fear, with even a strong hope that I might be unable to find some vulnerable place in her armour. Hugh drove first and it was still quite light when we entered the gates of her park and reached the stately Elizabethan house which was Lailam Court. As soon as we were inside he led the way up a wide staircase and along a corridor to Evelyn's sitting-room. She was lying on a couch near the fire and the face she turned to us as we entered told its own tale. All the softness and girlishness had gone from it. There were circles round the eyes which glittered with a strange brilliance. Her cheeks were sharpened in outline and sunken. The mouth had a hard, drawn look. It was terrible to see how soon the evil soul had set its impress on the features that had once been so fair. She had not lost her old malicious pleasure in torturing me by mock endearments. Oh, dear Estella, she began, I have thought of you so often, and longed to come over and see you, but they wouldn't let me. So as soon as I heard from Aunt Lucy that you were quite well again, I insisted on Hugh's bringing you here. I have been ill myself, as I dare say you know, but I'm ever so much better now, any rather weak still. I really believe poor Hugh fancied he was going to lose me at one time, but I tell him I'm not so easily got rid of. I'm much too fond of Laylam, and perhaps a little of him, too, to bear to give it all up just yet. I mean to live for years and years to come. I glanced at Hugh whose face she could not see, and the agony I read there rung my heart. Oh, I'm glad you sent for me, I said quietly. I have been wishing to see you, too, for a long time. We have a great deal to say to each other. Yes, she said, a great deal. Hugh, you won't mind leaving Stella with me for half an hour, will you? It's so long since we had a real talk. I think, he said slowly, I had better stay, and see that you don't tire yourself. Oh, what nonsense! She exclaimed with a touch of anger. I'm not an invalid now, and it won't tire me to talk to Stella. Then, he said with a fourth playfulness, I'll stay to protect Miss Mabily. She's been ill, too, remember? Oh, can't you see you're not wanted? She said. Oh, Hugh, how dense you're getting! I insist on your leaving us to our two cells at once. I tell you I wish it, and you know how dangerous it is to refuse me anything I've particularly set my heart on. Go, I whispered, as he still seemed to hesitate. You will only do harm by opposing her. You need not be afraid to leave me here. You will not forget my warning, he replied in an undertone. You will be careful, will you not? Oh, you may trust me, I said. I'm not the weak, unstrung creature I used to be. I don't thwart her now, he said, after himself, and after all, what possible danger. He went up to Evelyn and kissed her, which I knew he would not have done but for his anxiety on my account. There, he said, you shall have your own way. I'll leave you for a little while, but remember, I shall be within call if you want me. This last sentence, as I perfectly understood, was really meant for my ear. He obviously suspected that she had some evil object to gratify, and he wished me to feel that help was at hand. He thinks I can't possibly get on long without him, she exclaimed, with a mocking little laugh. But I knew stellar before I knew you, my dear Hugh, so you mustn't be too conceited, and now go down to your own den, and don't come back until you're sent for. He looked searchingly at me once more, and then seeing that I remained quite calm and mistress of myself he went, though I fancied that he still had misgivings. There was no need, for I felt absolutely unafraid, as if in some way the spell that Evelyn had exercised over me all those wretched weeks had been broken. As soon as he had gone I turned to Evelyn and fixed my eyes steadily on her face. I'm wondering what you want with me now, I said quietly, what made you send him to fetch me like this? What reason could I have? was a smooth false answer, except that I was longing to see you again, dearest Stella, and satisfy myself that you were quite strong and well again. Oh, yes, I'm strong now, I said. You cannot torment me any longer as you used to. I know at last what you cunningly kept from me, that I never was the murderous by proxy you taunted me with being, that the Chloral was never given. She started, the Chloral? Why, of course it was not, she cried. Oh, Stella, can't you forget all those dreadful ideas? Don't you understand how incapable I am of tormenting or taunting you now? I'm sure you wouldn't wish to distress me by talking like this when you see that I'm not quite strong enough to bear it yet. You're trying to delude me again to put me off my guard, but you will not, I said. I am not to be deceived. Even though you look like a woman who is dying fast, I know very well you will not die yet. Die? She repeated with a shudder, oh no, oh no, I can't die now. Not so soon. I won't die. Life is so beautiful. I couldn't leave you. Do you mean, I said, that you love him? You? Do I love him? Oh, better and better, every day I live. You did not love him when you bewitched him into caring for you. You meant to drag him down to your level and delight in his degradation. And now you have discovered that though you may break his heart, and lacken and befoul all that he held fair, you cannot debase him. His nature is too high for that. And so you have ended by loving him when his own love is dead, changed loathing and hate. Yes, you've been caught in your own devilish snare. The life you snatched at so greedily has become a worse hell than that you escaped from. Oh, there is a God after all, and he is punishing you here in the world where you have no right. Stiller! she cried trembling. I cannot let you say these violent things to me. They're horrible and untrue. Please, please go away if you can't be kind and gentle. You're making me ill. Have you no pity? What pity had you on me, I said. You came between you and me, and you took him away from me, did your best to wreck his life and mine. If it's in my power now to make you suffer in your turn, why should I spare you? There was a small mirror lying on a table close by, and I took it up and held it before her. Look in this, I said. Is that the face that bewitched you? The face is what the soul makes of it, and even in this short time yours has begun to betray you. You boasted that your beauty would keep him your slave in spite of all he knew, and see even your beauty is changing, passing, perishing. Soon the terrible signs he has learned to read in those lines and hollows will be written more plainly still, so that none can mistake their meaning. Will that be better than death itself? She pushed the mirror away with a passionate gesture. I don't want to look, she cried. I know I'm altered, but I'm not going to die, and Hugh loves me. He does. Whatever you may say. Why should I care, only that you should be so cruel to me, Stella? Just when I thought, oh, it's that that almost breaks my heart. Her grief was so naturally feigned that for the moment I myself felt a prick of shame and compunction, as though it were some tender, innocent creature that I'd been hurting, and not a corrupt and subtle spirit baffled in indesperate straits, but still capable of evil. If I seem cruel, I said, I have a motive. I want to make you see how worthless this life is you cling to so desperately, that though you may not die, your life will only become a greater burden and misery every day you live. If you really and sincerely loved Hugh, you would prove it by setting him free. Who knows that if you voluntarily quit this frame and return to your former state, there may not be mercy and pardon for you even now. What possible attraction can there be in such a life as yours? Life is sweet, she replied. I may never be what I was. I may not have long to be here, but I want to live as long as possible. At the words a sudden idea came into my mind. I saw at last a means of saving Hugh. You wish to live, I said. Because you were offered not only life, but health, strength, the beauty you value so much on one condition. Would you accept it? Listen to me. I love Hugh as you know, but I am willing never to see him again, to forfeit all hope of happiness here and for all I know hereafter, if only I can feel that I have freed him from you for ever. You say you love him, but it's life you really love. You dread going back to what you were. This is my proposal. Tonight, before the clock has struck twelve, I promise that I will find some means of passing out of this body for ever, leaving it for you to enter, provided that you undertake to abandon your present form and never seek to entangle Hugh in any way whatever. Do you agree? She gave a sort of hysterical sob. Stare, she cried. You can't be in earnest. Surely you know that what you're saying is sheer madness? Oh, I'm not mad, I said. You used to threaten to drive me into an asylum, but you could not. I am perfectly reasonable. I'm not proposing anything that's impossible. If you were able to re-animate one dead body, you can surely take possession of mine after I have left it. And it is young and strong. It will live for years. You will gain by such an exchange. Once more, I ask you, do you accept my terms? She looked wildly all around her, panting like a thing at bay. What am I to say? She cried. Yes, yes, I accept. I agree to anything, anything. Will you swear to me, by the power you serve, that you will abandon this body to-night, and that astellamably you will trouble Hugh no more? Have I not said so? She asked hoarsely. Now you're satisfied. Leave me. Something in her manner excited my suspicions. How can I be sure you're not tricking me, I said? Perhaps even this illness of yours is only some cunning device. What if I kept my part of the compact and you broke yours and lived on, to torture Hugh and mock at me for being fool enough to imagine that any oath had power to bind you? I believe you mean treachery. I see it in your eyes. Oh, no, no! She cried, wringing her hands. Indeed, indeed, I'm not treacherous. Don't fright me any more, stellar, only go now. It occurred to me that there was an easy way of putting her to the test. Why should we wait, I said? Why should we not both kill ourselves, here, now? Oh, not yet, she said. How can we? We have no weapons. Did I not see some oriental swords and daggers on the wall in the corridor outside as I came here? I asked. Yes, she cried, you'll find them at the end of the passage. Bring two, or I know where they are. Let me go and fetch them. I laughed. Liar! I said. There are no weapons hanging there. I said it to try you. I know what was in your mind. You would have locked yourself in here, or rushed downstairs and given the alarm. She sank into a seat trembling. It doesn't matter, I said. I know what I wanted to know. I've changed my mind. My plan that we should both commit suicide was absurd. I see that now. I give it up. Her face relaxed. Oh, I was sure you'd see how impossible it was. She said faintly and with difficulty. Oh, I do see it, I agreed. You would never have killed yourself. You refuse to release you. You mean to go on torturing and maddening him as you tortured me for years. But you shall not. When I came here I thought that being effeined in human form you couldn't be killed. But if that was so you wouldn't be afraid of me. And you are. You are. So I am going to try. Call for help, if you like. It'll be useless. Both these doors are bolted and locked, and I have the keys. She opened her dry lips as if to scream for help. But her voice seemed paralysed by fear, for no sound came from them as she crouched there, with her great eyes fixed on me and her hands pressed close against her heart. Suddenly she made a spring towards the bell-rope, but I was too quick for her. Before she could reach it I seized her slender neck with both my hands, and forced her back upon the couch, gripping her throat with all my might, harder, harder and harder still, until she ceased to resist. Up to that moment I had not been certain that any force of mine could drive this devil forth against her will, and half expected she'd escape and mock me after all, but I felt armed with irresistible strength just then, and soon, sooner than I expected, the thing was done. As I relinquished my hold, and the form sank down in a huddled heap among the cushions, I had a vision of a shape, with a wicked, beautiful face that was not Evelyn's, distorted with impotent rage and terror and despair, which stood there in the waning light and seemed to be striving to revenge itself upon me before it fled to its doom, and I owned, for one dreadful instant, I was in deadly fear. And then, just as I gave myself up for lost, the shape appeared to quiver and melt away into nothingness, and I was alone with Evelyn's dead body. I raised it gently, and arranged the cushions under the head, so that she lay as if asleep, exactly as she had lain that summer morning. The face was calm and pure and sweet once more, the very face of the girl I loved. Do you understand, I whispered, as I bent over her and kissed her softly on the forehead, the evil thinker's left you for ever, you poor, innocent clay. Deep in peace, for you are all Evelyn's now. Then I went out, and half-way down the corridor I met Hugh. He seemed glad to see me safe and unharmed. I was just coming up to carry you away, he said. I was getting anxious, but I might have known I could trust you. But there's nothing wrong, he added. She—she's not worse. Oh, no, no, I said. She is well. Oh, quite well now, Hugh. Dear, dear Hugh, all this long misery is over for you and for me. I was determined to free you from the horror that has been hanging over you, if I could, and God has helped me, Hugh. It is gone, gone for ever. He couldn't believe it at first. Gone? He cried. What do you mean? Oh, go to her, I said gently, and you will understand. I saw him rush to the door of her room and go in, and then, feeling that he must be left to himself just then, I went down the staircase and into a big hall which seemed to be used as a morning-room. I could not rest. I paced up and down in a kind of mystical exultation. The old portraits in rough and doublet looked down on me with grim approval from the walls. The armorial shields in the aural window glowed like blood in the last gleams of the sunset. I heard bells being rung furiously, hurrying footsteps, cries and commotion, but no one came near me, though I still felt no remorse, and knew that I had only done what was just and righteous. I began by degrees to be afraid of the solitude there in the slowly darkening hall. I wanted to see Hugh, to hear him thanking me for his deliverance, vowing to prove me guiltless in the eyes of all the world, to stand by me to the last, when once I had seen that in his face, as I did not doubt I should, the others might condemn me as a murderous, imprison me and take my life, and I should not care. I should have had my reward. At last I could not bear to be alone any longer. I felt I must go to Hugh. The old house had settled down into a dead stillness that yet was not quiet, only a breathless waiting for something that was about to happen. I passed into the entrance hall and met a footman coming down one of the passages with a lighted lamp. He started as he saw me and his face went white, and he nearly dropped the lamp for terror. He had not been at the door when I arrived, and probably imagined I was a ghost. Where is your master? I said, I am Miss Mabery, and I wish to see him. Mr. Dallas is in the library, Miss, he answered, but he doesn't wish to be disturbed just now. I was bringing in this lamp, but he told me to take it away and leave him alone. Oh, he'll see me, I said, show me where the library is. He put down the lamp and led the way to a door which he tried to open. It's been locked since I went in, he said. Perhaps you haven't heard that there's trouble in the house, Miss. He added in a lowered voice. Oh, I know, I replied, but Mr. Dallas will open the door to me. That'll do, you can go. I knocked softly at the door. You, I said, I'm here, stellar, won't you let me in? And there was silence for a moment, though I thought I heard him moving as if to open the door, and then a terrible sound rang out within the closed room. The report of a pistol, and I knew that my sacrifice had been in vain. Here this statement shall end. I have had much to undergo since, indignities of every kind, confinement, long and purposeless examinations, odious charges and misconstructions, and then the mockery of mercy which consigned me to the place where I am now, and where I suppose I shall remain till death releases me. But why should I write of it all? Nothing seems worth resenting, telling, remembering even, that followed the terrible moment when I realised that he had deserted me, leaving me to bear my penalty alone. What led him to do so, in the very hour of regaining his freedom, and when he must have known that he was the one person whose evidence could have placed my conduct in its true light, I do not understand. I never shall understand here. But I've never blamed him. I feel certain that he could never have been a coward, or intentionally disloyal and ungrateful to the woman who had risked everything for his sake. It's far more probable that the evil spirit which hated me contrived to avenge her defeat by some last effort of devilish malignity, and whatever the explanation may be, I know that Hugh will make it all clear to me himself some day, when we are reunited, and nothing wicked and malevolent can come near us any more. And so I am seldom unhappy, even in the daytime, while the night no longer brings terror with it, but only consolation and peace. For although, whenever I dream at all, I am back at Tans dead once more, somehow it's always those days of early June that I live over again in the old garden and house. The Evelyn whom I find there is my dearest friend, and the perfect sweetness of our intercourse is never marred by any haunting half-consciousness of misery and horror to come. This is a mercy which I know I do not deserve, and for which I trust I am not ungrateful, and yet I long impatiently for the day when all suspense and uncertainty and bewilderment will end, and I shall rest and understand, for I am very weary of waiting.