 5 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 recognized at last how useless it was to seek any longer for signs of the life that had fled, and I stood there in a day's 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 now 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 couldn't stir. I would wait a little longer still. There might, oh, 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—oh, 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 he did 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. But hardly had the impious words left my lips than I was appalled at my blasphemy, and implored that my creator would pardon me for even momentarily doubting his omnipotence, and show me of his infinite mercy and goodness, even now, little as I deserved it. And while I still knelt, the sun rose and shot a level ray of crimson gold into the room, suffusing Evelyn's pale, pure face with the hue of life and health. Until as I looked, the illusion was so powerful that I buried my face in the bed-clothes lest I might be cheated into hope. For I knew then, as I had known all the time, that I was asking the impossible, the age of miracles was past, the dead returned to us no more. I must try to bear my load of grief and remorse with patience, until heaven saw fit to let us meet again, and all would be understood and forgiven. But suddenly I became aware of a slight stir beneath the coverlet—a sound like the faintest sigh. I raised my head, hardly daring to hope that my senses had not duped me afresh, and then with the relief so acute and overpowering that it was almost agonizing, and a mental shock that numbed my brain for the moment, I saw Evelyn's breast heave, and her eyelids quiver, and her eyes light up with the life that a moment before seemed to have died out of them forever. I caught her slight unresisting form in my arms, and kissed the sweet, wandering face, calling her by the maddest fondest names, laughing and weeping beside myself with the unspeakable joy of finding her warm and living, who but just now had lain there dead and cold. She submitted to my caresses without returning them, seeming but half awake. A strange wonder still lingered in her eyes, as though they had looked upon the secrets of the life beyond, and could not forget them all at once. Her very smile was charged with mystery. Where am I? she said dreamily. How do I come to be here, and who are you? Evelyn, I cried. Don't you know me? I'm Stella, Stella Mabelie. Will say that you're beginning to remember that you forgive me for all I said and did last night. Last night? she repeated vaguely. But tell me, Stella, for I seem to have forgotten. Brokenly and incoherently I poured out my confession, keeping back nothing exaggerating rather than extenuating all my harsh words and evil thoughts. I told her of the cloral. I accused myself of being her murderous in all but deed. I described how I had read her letter, and come in, to find her lying there, to all appearances dead. She covered her eyes with her slender hands for a minute or so, as if to reflect and remember. And then she looked at me, still with that questioning scrutiny. I do begin to recollect now, she said slowly. What a fright you must have had, Stella. But what has become of the cloral? Oh, I see, you had the presence of mind enough to get rid of it as soon as you saw what had happened. That was prudent. The file was certainly gone, as I notice now for the first time. Evelyn, I cried, sorely hurt. You can't really suppose I could think of any danger to myself then, as if anything could matter but that I had lost you. I could only pray, and God heard me. He has let you come back to me. Oh, my dear, my dear, he has let you come back. She let her hands lie passively in mine, and lay smiling, with a soft gleam under her half-shut eyelids. He has let me come back, she said. How good of him! How grateful you must be! And what much greater care you will take of me for the future, will you not, Stella? There was something in her tone which was not exactly flippancy or mockery, but rather a touch of delicate irony, which however playful and affectionate jarred on me at such a moment. Irony of any sort was so unlike, Evelyn. But how could I give such a trifle more than a passing thought in the rapture I felt at having her back alive and well? I could only again protest my shame for having misjudged her, my willingness to be her devoted friend, her servant, her slave, anything she would permit me to be in future, and beg her for some assurance that I had not quite lost her confidence and affection, in spite of all my unworthiness. You must give me time, Stella, she said languidly. I don't understand it at all yet. There's a great deal that I have to get accustomed to. Everything seems strange, even this place, as if I had been away a long, long time. I want to be alone and think. I could readily understand that the effect of the opiate had not quite worn off as yet, and that she must have been shocked and bewildered too by my overstrung and hysterical confessions, so I left her to recover full possession of her faculties in peace. It was still early, but I was too excited and happy to sleep. I had my bath, dressed, and went down to the garden, to taste the full sweetness of the contrast between my present bliss and my condition when I last paced those paths in miserable uncertainty and dread a few short hours ago. Standing there, in the fresh morning air, watching the first spiral of smoke ascend from the old chimney-stacks into the golden blue sky, and hearing the cheerful sounds of awakening life from the offices and stables, it was impossible to retain the idea of any supernatural element in evil and recovery of animation. I could see now that no miracle had happened. The drug had thrown her into a sleep so profound that it had the appearance of death, and my conscious, stricken imagination had led me to believe the worst. But whether I had cause or not for gratitude, I did feel deeply thankful to heaven when I thought of the anguish and desolation which this day had seemed so certain to bring and which I had been spared. And soon even this was forgotten in the recollection of what Evelyn had told me of Hugh Dallas. I should see him so soon, this very afternoon perhaps, and she would have reassured him. He would understand at least that there was hope for him if he still cared to persevere. And if he did care, as I knew he would, I should act the woman's delicious comedy of seeming gradually to soften towards the man she secretly adores, here in this dear old garden world through the golden hours that were coming to me. A new radiance was on the familiar landscape. Everything I saw around me had become strange and wondrous and beautiful. The ripple of light and shade over the distant cornfields, the long violet shadows cast by the trees on the dew-silvered pastureland, the colour and fragrance of the flowers, the flitting of yellow butterflies about the lawn. Every common thing in short filled me with a keenness of delight that was like an additional sense. This state of rapturous ecstasy made me lose all count of time, and I was startled to find that I'd been roaming about for hours and that the gong was sounding for breakfast. Neither Evelyn nor her aunt had come down as yet, and as I waited for them, I wondered how I had never before appreciated the charm of the long, low-ceilinged morning-room with its panelled walls and stately old furniture. The sun had not as yet struck further in than the faded crimson of the window cushions, though it shone in full glare upon the conservatory at the further end, where the masses of bloom and transparent green foliage made a vivid contrast to the cool, subdued light of the room itself. The very breakfast table, with its dainty china and gleaming silver, heightened the luxurious sense of well-being and the delightfulness of mere existence which made the world seem so good to live in that morning, and yet when Evelyn appeared, as she did presently with Mrs. Maitland, I felt almost from the moment she entered, as if my exhilaration had received an unaccountable check. Why, I could not understand, she was looking brighter and fresher than she had done for weeks. She greeted me with a gaiety and good humour that seemed to ignore all that had happened, and yet I could not resist an uneasy fancy that in some way her attitude to me had changed, that my impulsive confession had killed forever the guileless trust and affection she had given me before. After we had sat down to breakfast and the butler had left the room, she said, Aunt Lucy has been paying me the most extravagant compliments on my appearance, Stella. I hope you see an improvement in me, too. Well, you're looking wonderfully well, dear Evelyn, I said. Better than I could have hoped. Hoped when, she said, last night, or early this morning? I couldn't answer. The tone in which she asked the question rather than the question itself sent a chill to my heart. I could not have believed that she would treat so lightly what had passed between us. Stella came into my room this morning, Aunt Lucy, and found me so sound asleep that she fented I was never going to wake again, she explained. Indeed, my dear, you were only half awake when I came in to see you just now, said her aunt, for you didn't know me in the least. I assure you, Miss Mabel, I positively had to tell her who I was. Wasn't it stupid of me, said Evelyn, and I frightened poor Stella so that she said the wildest things. She was quite persuaded that she'd killed me. Why is more than I quite understand even now? What made you imagine yourself so guilty, Stella? I looked at her appealingly. Her eyes met mine with a malicious challenge in them, which I knew I could not avoid by silence. I told you, I said, in a voice I couldn't steady. I told you that I thought the Chloral. I could not finish the sentence. The recollection of all the agony of those minutes overpowered me. Oh, the Chloral! I remember now, she said. Aunt Lucy tells me she took it away last night, and it will be a great relief to me, Stella, if you will let it remain in her keeping. It is such a dangerous drug that I do trust you will have nothing to do with it in future, one so easily makes mistakes. I couldn't trust myself to reply. I knew too well that all these speeches, though worded so as to convey nothing of their real significance to any ear but mine, were so many deliberate taunts. Why did she take this cat-like pleasure in torturing me? She who had never before uttered a cruel word. Any other sign of estrangement I could have understood, but this was too utterly foreign to all my conceptions of her. Mrs. Maitland saw, I think, that this subject was distressing to me, and with her usual good nature turned it off by remarking how delighted she was to see that Evelyn had at last recovered her appetite. I had already noticed that Evelyn was eating more heartily than I ever remembered to have seen her, and with a daintily sensuous enjoyment, which somehow made her seem more charming. I'm ravenous this morning, she said. I feel as if I'd eaten nothing for ages. You must try not to feel horrified, both of you. Oh, my dear, replied her aunt, I'm sure we're both only too pleased to see such a change. I really think this country life has begun to do you good at last. You have certainly come down quite a different creature this morning. A different creature, she repeated with a gay little laugh. Is that your opinion of me, Stella? You're bound to put up with me at all events, are you not? Whatever I am. When breakfast was over and she and I were in the room alone together, she wound her arm round me and drew me up to an old-fashioned mirror in a tortoise shell frame that hung on one of the walls. Come and help me to make the acquaintance of my new self, she said. I want to know whether you approve of me. Really, I think you ought to feel satisfied. I do. As I stood there and saw our two faces reflected side by side, I thought that surely Evelyn had never looked so lovely before. Her cheeks had never worn so vivid a rose, her eyes had never shone with that starry radiance, her smile had never been so dazzling, and yet, even while I felt her arm pressing me closer to her, I could not prevent a shiver of apprehension, a growing distrust and dread which I knew to be unreasonable. She noticed the pallor and trouble in my face, the uncontrollable shrinking under her embrace. Why stiller, she said, in a tone between amusement and concern. You're trembling. Is it possible that you can be afraid of me? I don't know, I faltered. I don't think I'm afraid. I don't want to be. Up there, in that room, you promised to love me more devotedly than ever, she said softly. Is this how you begin? You won't let me, I cried. You have not forgiven me. If you had, you would not delight in reminding me of what you know must give me pain, of what I would willingly forget. You don't look at me as if you loved me, and it frightens me, Evelyn. There is a change in you, and I see it. She shrugged her shoulders. Naturally there's a change after what has happened, she said. But think, would you rather that your beloved Evelyn was lying white and cold and silent forever upstairs at this moment than have me here by your side? What is done cannot be undone, and it will be wiser of you to accept me as I am. You can't believe that I'm anything but unspeakably glad and grateful that you are spared to me, whether you love me or not, I cried passionately. Say at least, at least that you don't doubt that. I do not doubt it, she replied. You have too much reason to be both, my dear. Only I expect to be given proofs of your sincerity. That's all. Oh, there, don't distress yourself any more about it. I have no ill feeling whatever towards you. Why should I? She kissed me with a kind of careless, half-contemptuous clemency as she spoke, but I could not feel consoled or reassured. It was too plain that the sudden discovery of my baseness had for the time shaken her faith in friendship, and driven her into cynical disbelief in any disinterested affection. I'd tried her too far, and done harm that it would be long before I could entirely repair, if it ever could be entirely repaired. It was my punishment, and I must accept it, since I had deserved a far heavier penalty even than the forfeiture of Evelyn's confidence. I might have lost her. A little later we were in the garden when Mrs. Maitland came out. I only wanted to know, dear Evelyn, she said, before I saw the cook, whether it is at all likely that Mr. Dallas may dine with us this evening. Oh, that is, if he is, coming over this afternoon? There was an irrepressible curiosity in her eyes as she looked at Evelyn, which showed that her question was not wholly prompted by household considerations. Mr. Dallas, said Evelyn with apparent unconcern, is he coming over? Oh, very likely he may. You had better ask Stella, had you not. Nonsense, my dear, said Mrs. Maitland with some irritation. It is a question for you and nobody else. Really, I think it is time you took me a little more into your confidence, and I must have a little private talk with you on the subject. I am sure Miss Mabally will excuse us. She drew Evelyn away, and I heard no more, but I could see them walking up and down the paths in the fruit garden, Evelyn bending her graceful head into mure attention, or occasionally stopping to strip off a bunch of currents as she passed, and Mrs. Maitland talking earnestly and emphatically. Presently Evelyn returned alone, and threw herself into a chair by my side. Have you told her? I asked impulsively. I think my invaluable Aunt Lucy monopolised the conversation, said Evelyn, smiling more to herself than to me. She was most informing. Have I told her what, Stella? Oh, you know, I exclaimed. And don't you see that Mrs. Maitland believes that you, Mr. Dallas, is in love with you. She made no secret of it, said Evelyn. And if he is my dear, what then? Can you ask, after the letter you wrote me only last night, you cannot have forgotten? Absolutely. My mind is a perfect blank on the subject. I gather from you that you and I quarreled last night, rather seriously. Was it about this Hugh Dallas by any chance? You only pretend to be ignorant to punish me. You must remember. All that happened before this morning, my dear Stella. I can remember nothing until I'm reminded. Show me this letter, and no doubt it will enlighten me. It was not altogether surprising that the draft should have left a cloud upon her memory. I went up to my room and got the letter, which I gave to her without a word, and knelt by her chair as she turned the pages and read to the end, with slightly raised brows and eyes, in whose brightness there was no touch of softening. Rather a sentimental effusion, she said at length. Am I expected to be responsible for it? Oh, for God's sake, don't sneer at it, I exclaimed, on the verge of a flood of tears. It was written from the noblest and most generous impulse any woman could feel. I know it's all different now. I've lost your respect, and you despise me. Oh, Evelyn, don't abandon me altogether. Don't take this away from me, too. You promised. You promised. You know I can't speak to him myself, and if you do not, he will go, and I shall die. Oh, need we be quite so tragic over this affair, she said. I've never said that I was unwilling to carry out the promise in this letter. I have no animosity against you. On the contrary, I feel considerably indebted to you, as you may understand. And if this lover of yours is really so faint-hearted or stupid as to need any encouragement from me, he shall have it. What do you wish me to tell him? Tell him what you will, I said. I'm below pride now. Tell him that I love him with all my heart, as he loves me. Evelyn, I broke off as a sudden terrible doubt struck me. You didn't write this to mock me. You are sure he does love me. Is it true that he told you so with his own lips? As true as that I wrote this letter, she said. Which, by the way, is not worth preserving. And she tore it up as she spoke. Leave it to me, my dear. If there's anything I can do to bring about a better understanding between you and this Hugh Dallas, it shall be done. I couldn't look into her candid eyes and doubt her any longer. I wondered how I could ever have felt even a passing distrust. I had disappointed her, shaken her faith in me. But hers was not the nature to allow that to affect her conduct. My future was as safe in her gentle hands as before. I ought to have known, I said gratefully. You are too sweet and generous not to forgive. But you will tell him soon, will you not? You won't keep me or him longer in suspense than you can help. Well, isn't he coming this afternoon? She said lightly. I suppose I shall have an opportunity of seeing him then. And in the meantime, my dear, you must contrive to control your impatience. Hugh Dallas did come that afternoon to find us sitting on the lawn in the shade, as on his first visit to Tancred. I thought him paler, and though we shook hands as if we had parted on the most ordinary and amicable terms, he avoided looking at me, and preferring it seemed to read his answer in Evelyn's face rather than mine. But for this I was grateful, for I had been afraid that my countenance would betray me only too clearly. It was evident that he was struck at once by her marvellous recovery of health and animation. I thought he gathered that it was of a good omen for him, for he scarcely took his eyes from her face, and his own brightened. Hugh looked at me as if he had never seen me before, she said, laughing. I could almost believe some miracle had happened to you, he replied. I certainly never saw you looking so wonderfully well before. I feel as if I had been given a fresh lease of life, she said. But if there has been anything miraculous about it, it is stellar you have to thank for it. Miss Maybully, he cried, and then he looked at me for the first time, and I saw anxiety bewilderment. I know not what conflict of hope and fear passing over his face before I turned my eyes away. He said something to her in so low a tone that it escaped me, but I gathered that she was plainfully declining to enlighten him any further just then, and shortly afterwards tea was brought out and Miss Maybully joined us when he was obliged to wait for a more convenient moment. I sat silent, but very happy, especially after I noted the eagerness with which he accepted Evelyn's invitation to die in at Tanstead that evening. I knew that I should not have to be cruel to him or to myself very much longer. I laughed inwardly when Miss Maybully, under the transparent pretext of consulting me on the arrangement of flowers at the table, drew me into the house. I thought we would leave them to themselves a little, my dear, she confided to me, because this time I really think— this wonderful change in her, you know, depend upon it she's been fretting and making herself ill all this time because she couldn't make up her mind whether she cared enough for him, and now her last doubts have disappeared, her health and spirits have come back immediately. Last night was evidently the crisis. I humoured her with a secret enjoyment of the surprise that awaited the unsuspecting lady, and of the very different result that she was so innocently helping to further, but I was only too glad to leave Hugh in Evelyn's hands. An hour or so later I watched him from my window riding down the avenue on his way home to dress, and thought I detected a buoyant hopefulness in the air with which he sat his horse. He knew the truth now, or as much of it as Evelyn had thought fit to tell him. He understood at last that he need not fear another repulse from me. Oh, how lovingly I lingered over dressing that evening, with a tender, unfamiliar delight in adorning myself for his eyes. I put on my prettiest gown. I felt a glad pride in the knowledge that I was looking even better than I could have hoped. I was ready. I went across to Evelyn's room and found her standing before the long mirror. I was positively startled as I realised how wondrously lovely she was in her pale, shimmering gown, her fair neck and shoulders set off by deep flounces of lace which fell over her breast and arms, one hand hovering like a white butterfly over her golden head as she gave the final touch to the ornament in her hair. I had never seen her look so bewitchingly beautiful, even the maid who stood by was staring at her in a sort of fascination. When she had been sent out of the room I went up to Evelyn and put my hands on her shoulders. Does he know, I whispered. You have told him? She laughed. I could hardly tell him you were dying of love for him, could I stellar? But I said as much as I could for you, and I fancy he is beginning to suspect that he has been extraordinarily blind. I should not be surprised if he found an opportunity of coming to a better understanding with you before long. Oh, how can I thank you? I shall owe it all to you. Oh, and I love him so much, Evelyn. If I could make you understand what it means to me. My dear, she said, I understand. You owe me nothing at all. And as those are probably the wheels of his dog-cart I hear, perhaps you will leave off crushing my poor lace and we'll go downstairs. I was hoping that there would be something, a glance, a pressure of the hand, by which Hugh Dulles would convey to me when we met that he was conscious that the cloud between us had lifted. Though as I told myself the moment after, I might have guessed that delicacy would prevent him from seeming to take anything for granted until he had heard it from my own lips. It might have been my own fault, too, for I was oppressed then, and throughout the dinner by the old constraint, which I was furious with myself for being unable to conquer. I was horribly nervous, and he seemed scarcely less embarrassed. Now and then I could see him glance at Evelyn with an air of appeal and almost reproach, as if he suspected that she had misled him by giving any encouragement. But I'm not sure that I didn't find, before the meal came to an end, that the artificial constraint between us had a subtle charm of its own, which I would not have lost just yet. So soon now, perhaps before the last sunset gleam had quite died out of the sky, all misunderstanding would be removed. There was a pecancy in keeping up this pretense of coldness until the last moment, a delicious flattery in the sight of the suspense and anxiety from which he so evidently suffered. And at last the moment came. Evelyn had proposed that we should go into the garden after dinner, and linking her arm in Mrs. Maitland's, she had contrived to draw her away to a distant part of the grounds, so as to give Hugh the opportunity she'd promised. He was not slow in availing himself of it. He came over to the corner of the lawn in which I was sitting, drew up a chair beside mine, and sat down. For some little time he was silent, and though I could scarcely see his face in the deepening shadow under the branches, I could tell that he was deeply moved. I felt no impatience for him to speak. It was enough that he was there, close by me. I lay back in my chair in dreamy content. The western sky was passing from saffron to citron green and deep luminous blue. The flower-boarders glowed dimly through the falling veil of dusk. The martins were flitting noisily in and out of their nests under the gables. A cricket chirped incessantly somewhere in the house, and the bats swooped and wheeled through the warm air, uttering tiny shrill cries. It all seemed a sort of peaceful prelude to the supreme hour at hand, the hour that was to bring me the full assurance of the love I had hungered for. And presently he spoke, in a low voice which trembled and faltered at times, as if even yet he could hardly believe in his good fortune. Tell me, he began, is it true, what I have heard this afternoon, that you are no longer my enemy, that in spite of what happened yesterday afternoon, were to be friends after all? I never was your enemy really, I said. It was all a mistake. I misunderstood. I asked Evelyn to explain it to you. What can I say to you? You have made me very happy. If you knew what despair I was in last night, how little I thought that there was any hope of gaining your approval. Forget yesterday, I said softly. Forget what I have been to you before you knew. Only tell me that Evelyn has made you understand, that you really are the happier for it. I want to be quite, quite sure of that. And then he began to speak of Evelyn, and gradually as he dwelt on her sweetness and fascination, a deadly suspicion stole over me, that I was duping myself once more, that in some way Evelyn had played me false. For some time I tried to think that I must have heard wrongly. Nothing so hideous could be. I kept myself under control and drew him on until I knew the truth. I don't remember the exact form in which he conveyed it. He was very diplomatic. He did not say in so many words that his love for me had been a passing fancy, that he accepted his rejection as final, and was grateful to me for reading his heart more truly than he had known it himself. But that was what he made me understand, nevertheless. I had to hear how in that single afternoon Evelyn had beguiled and enslaved him utterly, how all his hopes now lay in winning her, and how he felt notwithstanding that there was some indefinable change in her attitude towards him, which made him despair of touching her heart. And I listened to all these rhapsodies of his, which were not for me. I listened, and gave no sign of suffering, though the solid earth seemed sinking away beneath my feet, and the sky above the black treetops to open and shut in livid fire. There was a loud ringing in my ears, and I found myself gripping the arms of my chair with such force that the bamboo splinters pierced the palms of my hands, and perhaps kept me from fainting, which was my dread. No, I would not faint. He should not have the satisfaction of seeing that I cared. It was all over. Whatever he had felt for me he felt it no longer. Whether Evelyn had deliberately fooled and betrayed me or not, it could make no difference. She had won him from me all the same. My short, mad, beautiful dream was dead now, and nothing, nothing would bring it back. So I schooled myself to make such replies as were necessary. I spoke and even laughed once or twice, and my voice sounded quite naturally. Or if there was a note of heartbreak at times, he was not likely to detect it. How should he when his thoughts were so far from me? I think I was glad when Mrs. Maitland came towards us. Evelyn asked me to fetch her a cloak, she said. Shall I bring you out yours too, Miss Mabily? Thank you, no, I said. I'm quite happy and comfortable without it. And why should you go, when I daresay Mr. Dallas will take Evelyn her cloak, spare you the trouble. I had no desire to keep him there any longer. I believe I wanted to torture myself by seeing how eagerly he would accept a pretext for rejoining Evelyn. And if so, I was gratified. How good you are to me, he said in an undertone as he rose, and Mrs. Maitland sank into a chair he had left, and began to purr apologetically. It was really getting so late, my dear, she said. I felt it was time to do something. Dear Evelyn seems so strange tonight. This afternoon I was almost certain she decided to take him, and now she's been positively neglecting him all this while. However, it's a comfort to see you have got over your dislike to him. You seem to be quite good friends now. Oh, quite, I said. Oh, it was so clever and sweet of you to understand my little hint about the cloak and send him to her. I looked across the lawn, and saw his indistinct form hastening to the spot where Evelyn's gown glimmered faintly through the gloom. He was only too glad to go, I said. Oh, yes, poor fellow, he is more hopelessly in love than ever. It's Evelyn I can't feel certain about. She's been talking so lightly and capriciously about him, so unlike her usual self. Still I hope and believe it will all end in the right way. And now she can feel that he has your approval. It must have a great influence on her. Don't you think so, my dear? So Mrs. Maitland flowed on in conjecture and comment, and I sat and answered automatically with an icy ache at my heart. And yet even then I had not lost faith in Evelyn. She could not have deliberately misled me. She would be horrified and indignant when she discovered the change in his feelings. She would remonstrate with him, do all in her power to check and cure his infatuation. Perhaps who knew he would come back to me in time? So I longed to tell her everything, and to have the assurance that if I had lost all else, her loyal and tender sympathy was still left. Later that evening, after Hugh Dallas had started to drive home, the opportunity came. Mrs. Maitland had gone upstairs, leaving Evelyn and myself in the drawing-room. She was moving about the room, restlessly taking up and replacing books and knickknacks, and singing little snatches of song under her breath, with occasional side glances at me of curiosity or challenge, until I could bear the suspense no longer. Oh, sit down! I cried. You know there's something we must talk over together. So late, she said, and after such an exhausting evening, I warn you, Stella, that if it's anything very serious, I shall in all probability fall asleep. She let herself sink gracefully into the nearest couch, with her hands lightly linked behind her neck and her eyes gleaming through their narrowed lids. It is serious enough for me, I said. Evelyn, I have found out tonight that Hugh doesn't love me any more. It's all over. Oh, after proposing and being rejected, let me see. Only yesterday, wasn't it? It seems an unusually rapid recovery. I'm afraid you must have put your refusal in such plain words that his vanity was too much for his passion. I never meant to refuse him. You know all that was a mistake. It is very unfortunate, but if he has chosen to take you at your word, I scarcely see what is to be done. You promise to make him understand that that you haven't told him. He understands that you have reconsidered your disapproval of him and are ready to look upon him as a friend. And was that all you told him? Would you have had me tell him more when he was so obviously contented with less? I left it to you to attempt to relight his burnt-out fires, my dear, and I regret to find that you do not appear to have been successful, though you will do me the justice to admit that I gave you an excellent opportunity. I didn't try, I said. He made me see that it was quite useless. Evelyn, he told me that it is you he loves now. That is very interesting, though I'm afraid it's not such a surprise to me as it evidently is to you. But you won't let him. How can I prevent it? It's bad taste on his part, no doubt, but you have given him his liberty. I didn't know what I was doing. Evelyn, you know I never meant it. And I love him. I can't live without him. I'll give him back to me. Is it not just possible he may not wish to be handed over? It's not too late even yet, I pleaded. You could make him come back if you would, if you only would. Why should I? He happens to be quite the best looking and most attractive person I've met for a long while. And if he pays me the compliment of falling in love with me, I at all events don't intend to reward him with frowns. You've made him fall in love with you, I said violently. You set yourself to be witch him, to make him forget me. I trusted you and you betrayed me. Oh yes, I see that now. She unlaced her hands and lent forward with her eyes wide open and fixed on me with malicious mockery. Are you quite the person to reproach anybody with treachery? She asked. What do you mean? I stammered. Well, merely that I think I remember hearing only this morning of a person who for reasons of her own, allowed with full knowledge of the consequences her dearest friend to be given a drug that would probably prove fatal. I shrank back under the gaze of those brilliant malignant eyes. Evening, I cried, as heaven is my judge. I didn't know. I did not think of the danger until it was too late. Huh? Qui veut la fin? Veux les moyens? She said, if your conscience acquitted you, why did you accuse yourself of the crime as you did this morning? You cannot be cruel enough to use my own words against me like that, I said, trembling violently. Whatever I accused myself of in the state of mind I was in then, it went no further than a passing thought. How could it be called a crime when I did nothing? I'm not an authority on morals, she said, but the distinction between actually administering a poison and allowing it to be given by another, when a word would have prevented it, seemed to me rather fine-drawn. I'm afraid that, morally speaking, you must be considered a murderous, my dear Stella, a very charming and interesting one, I admit, but still a murderous. You know I'm not that. Why, you're better and stronger today than you have ever been. The chloral has done you no harm. Me, she said, smiling, none whatever. But that does not affect the main fact. I threw myself at her feet sobbing, even in I can't bear it, I can't, I can't. What has changed you like this and made you hard and cynical when you were so forgiving and sweet only a few hours ago? Is it I who have done it all? Oh, for pity's sake, don't say those cruel, terrible things to me, not even if I have deserved them. I won't reproach you any more. I will own that you are not to blame if you have come to love you best. I give him up. I will be content if only I have you. Be a little kind to me, Evelyn. Don't taunt and torture me with the past. Try to forgive me. Tell me that I have not lost the dearest, the only friend I had in the world. Be my own, dear Evelyn, once more. She thrust me away from her with a little gesture of petulant anger. Oh, get up, stellar, she said. Why do you talk this nonsense to me? What is the use of pretenses between us? Are you really such a fool as to try to deceive yourself? You know very well that I can never be your own dear Evelyn, as you call her now. You know very well why. Oh, she added with a sudden peel of pitiless laughter. Is it really possible that you have failed to grasp the situation yet? Is this ignorance of yours genuine? Let me look at your face and see. She sees my wrist in her light cool grasp and attempted to draw me towards the lamp light. 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'm afraid. I'm so afraid. You fool, she said angrily. You've nothing to fear from me. I'm not your victim, the innocent, trustful girl whom you allow 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 couldn't 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'll 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 evil in 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'd 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. End of chapter 5. 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 ceilings 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 her 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've 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're quite recovered by this time. I have had a bad night, I think, I said, but I've 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 stellar, 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. Oh, I remember, I cried. My God, it was no dream. It's true, true. I know you now. You're not my Evelyn. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. I'm my dearest stellar, she said soothingly. What does all this mean? What extraordinary ideas take and 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 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'm wicked at all? Will you dare to pretend that you're Evelyn Heseltine, I said? It will be useless after what you said last night. As you please, she said, I'm 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'd 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'm young, I seem to be rich, I'm 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'm 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. Well, 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 to 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'm not your own, dear 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 couldn't 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. 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, 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, and 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 today, 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. Oh, 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. Oh, 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're afraid to stop. I'm quite able to take care of myself. I was afraid, terribly afraid. The effect which her presence produced on the collie, as gentle and good-tempered a creature in ordinary 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, stellar, you're actually trembling still. What a coward you are! What is there to be so afraid of? The dog knew. I answered hoarsely. What's the use of my being silent? You'll never silence him. He's 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 prusic acid 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 had gone. Miss Evelyn, I can't account for his breaking out as he did. No, I can't. Taint as if he'd shown any sign of it before. 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, stellar? 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 the 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. It was in vain to delude myself any longer. Whatever spirit this might be that war evil in 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, a 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. 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 delusions so skillfully worded that I alone felt their sting. Is it any wonder if sometimes these diabolical tactics of her 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 moor 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, an 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. 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 undulating 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, and 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 Houdalus 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 exultation 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 any one but me. Be kind to me now, Stella. Don't be hard and bitter when I'm so happy. So very, very happy. You will guess why, I think. You has asked me to be his wife. His wife, I cried. But you have not said yes. Oh, don't tell me you've said that. But I have, Stella. What else could I say when I love him with all my heart? Why, I thought, she added, with the most perfect assumption of unconsciousness, I thought you no longer disliked him. I hoped you would be just a little glad. You hoped no such thing. You know as well as I that the very name of love is a lie and a mockery on such lips as yours. She looked plaintive, bewildered. I don't understand you, Stella. You can't really mean such a cruel speech. Oh, why do you play this comedy of innocence now, I cried impatiently. You know audience here to be deceived by it. It's all wasted on me. Let us speak plainly now we're alone. Understand this. I will not stand by and permit such a marriage as this. Do what you will to me, and even you can not make me much more miserable than I am. I will prevent you from blighting Hugh Dallas's life. It was curious to see how, though obviously uneasy at the opposition she'd roused in me, she still tried to keep up her assumed character. You're not yourself, she said. Stella, dear Stella, try not to give way to these moods. They frighten me. Hmm, if they do, I said, so much the better. Be warned, for I mean what I say. Unless you give up this wicked design of yours, I'll tell Hugh what you are. Let it cost me what it will. He shall know that it is not Evelyn's spotless soul that makes her form seem so wondrously fair, but a devil, a vile and fiendish spirit that has taken possession of her lifeless shell. She made no reply, but retreated a step or two and stood gazing at me with dilated eyes. I believe that for the moment at all events she really was alarmed, and so I left her, feeling that for once the advantage was with me. Fool that I was to suppose that I was any match for her! That same night she glided into my room and stood by my bedside, like some lovely apparition in her white robe and with her fair hair floating loose about her shoulders. She bent over me in the attitude of a guardian angel, and laid her soft cool palm on my burning forehead. But the mocking curve of her lips and the sinister glitter in her eyes told me that the mask was dropped, and my heart sank with a slavish dread. You were very bold, Stella, she said in a soft deliberate whisper. Your threats sounded quite determined, and yet you know and I know that you will never carry them out. No, you will never find the courage to enlighten Hugh Dallas. What can you hope to gain by it? I should save him from you, I said. Oh, your hopes go further than that. You are still clinging to the idea that if he knew me as I am, he would come back to you. You cannot deceive me, you see. But have you reflected that you cannot convince him of what I am without confessing to what you are? Are you really sanguine enough to believe that though he is utterly indifferent to you now, his passion will revive when he sees you in your new character, a jealous, treacherous, murderous, compelled to conceal her guilt by accepting such help as mine? I'm not a murderous. He will never believe that of me. Oh, no, he will not believe it. He will not believe a single word of your confession, denunciation, whatever you prefer to call it. He will merely regard it as an exhibition of hysterical spite and jealousy. His masculine vanity will be tickled by the discovery that you are still passionately in love with him. He will pity you, perhaps, but he will certainly despise you. Will you be satisfied then? He shall never pity me, I cried, and you're wrong. I love him no longer. I hate him. Yes, I hate him. And yet you would try to save him from me. It is not as if you would succeed. You would only humble yourself in vain. He would think—oh, you can imagine what he would think of you. But there I'm not afraid of you, Stella. You have too much pride to make yourself contemptible in his eyes for nothing. You are passionate too. You would like to see this man suffer as he has made you suffer. Leave him in my hands, and I will avenge you. Do you think he will be happier or better for loving me? Could you wish for a more complete revenge than to see this faithless lover of yours kneeling at my feet? I do not want revenge, I said. I do not want you to suffer. Oh, then you are more superhumanly magnanimous than I gave you credit for being, she said. But whether that is so or not, it comes to the same thing in the end. Hugh Dallas is mine, and you will not interfere between us. You have neither the courage nor the power, nor even the will. Tomorrow you will have come to your senses. You will keep a strict guard over yourself, and behave both to Hugh and me, as if you entirely approved of our engagement, and heartily rejoiced in the happiness of your dearest friend. That is what I came to say to you, my beloved Stella. And now it is said, I will leave you in peace. She gave me a cruel little kiss, as though in half contemptuous acknowledgement of my submission, and was gone, noiselessly and ghostlike as she had come in. And the next morning I did exactly as she had predicted. She was all gentleness and affection, and when I began to refer to the scene between us the night before, and treated me to forget it, everything was forgotten and forgiven, and I was her own dear Stella again. I had to listen and respond to Mrs. Maitland's ecstasies at the fulfilment of her dearest wishes, which she evidently imagined she had brought about by her own diplomacy. I had to see Hugh Dallas arrive in all the pride and glory of an accepted suitor. I even congratulated him, and I believe, without betraying by voice or manner the horrible suffering it cost me. The news of the engagement seemed to give general satisfaction. Hugh was popular in the county, and Winston's society was full of praises of Evelyn's beauty and sweetness and charm. No one for a moment suspected the secret change in her. She played her part with such consummate skill, that, as I have already said, even I was sometimes tempted to an involuntary forgetfulness of the ghastly reality. And so for days I stood by and held my peace, despising myself for my cowardice, and yet powerless to utter even a hint of what I knew. Until at last something happened which loosened my tongue, in spite of every reason for prudence and self-restraint. Hugh had heard, of course, of the narrow escape which Evelyn had had from being bitten by Roy, and with the over-anxiety of her lover had made her promise, he little knew how superfluous such a precaution was, that she would not have another collie. By way, I suppose, of a safer substitute, he'd offered to get her a blenim, and one afternoon, when he drove over, he brought with him a tiny liver and white spaniel which he presented to her in the garden. I was with her at the time, and noticed with a thrill of secret gratification the look of chagran and dismay on her face when the little creature cowered away from her endearments with every sign of abject terror. He won't come to me, Hugh, she exclaimed, glancing up at him with piteous eyes and quivering lips like a child on the brink of tears. Look, he declines to have anything to do with me. Hugh laughed and said something about all dogs being shy at first. Beau will very soon discover that he is a very fortunate animal, he said. I felt strangely irritated by this denseness of his. Perhaps to the sight of the horror with which the animal shrank from her touch filled me with shame at my own more cowardly submission. At all events I could not keep back the words which rushed to my lips. You're wrong, Mr. Dallas, I said. Evelyn will never succeed in persuading that creature to trust her or be friendly with her. Dogs have instincts of their own, and are not to be deceived even by her. I saw the indignation and surprise in his handsome face, the sudden change in hers, and I went on recklessly. He hates you, Evelyn. He sees more clearly than others, though he is only a dog. But perhaps you will call him mad, too, like poor Roy whom you had put out of the way. Yes, Mr. Dallas, I warn you not to leave that dog here. He will not live long in this house. She will take care of that. He raised his eyebrows as he looked at her with a sort of troubled inquiry, and then he answered me quietly and compassionately, as if he were humoring a fractious child. Oh, come, Miss Mabelie, he said. You don't really believe what you say? You know perfectly well that Beau could not be in kinder hands than Evelyn's, and that she's incapable of harming any living thing. Why do you give way to such extravagant ideas? See how unhappy you're making her. If I could make her as wretched as she makes me, I cried, maddened by his tone. Oh, but then what is the use of saying any more? You will not see. By and by, when it's too late, perhaps, you'll remember that I tried to warn you. And I left them standing there, pale and mute, and I knew that it would be some time before either of them recovered their equanimity. When Hugh went away that evening, Beau made a desperate attempt to follow and refused to be comforted for his former master's desertion. Curiously enough, for I have no natural inclination to purely useless pets, it was to me that he came for protection, and I was so far touched by the poor beast's confidence that I insisted on keeping it with me for the night at least, since it would not allow Evelyn to touch it. In its dumb, foolish way it loved Hugh, and perhaps even though I told myself that I hated him now, that gave it a certain claim upon me. I took it up to my room, and it slept there at the foot of my bed, where as I lay awake through the night I listened for its soft breathing, and even now and then bent forward to touch its smooth silk and head, and assure myself that it was still there and safe. And at daybreak I woke from a short and troubled sleep, with a sense that evil eyes were looking down on me, and when I looked, Evelyn was standing there. Do you know you were very imprudent yesterday? You poor impulsive stellar! she began softly. You ought to have discovered by this time that it's unwise to try to defy me. I really think you deserve some slight punishment, just as a lesson to avoid these indiscretions for the future. Was it quite wise to warn Hugh that this little creature, as she laid one white hand likely on the spaniel, which moaned and shivered in his sleep, would never consent to make friends with me? Whether it was wise or not to say it, it was the truth. You know it was true, I said. You went further than that, she said. You hazarded a prediction that the animal would not live long if left to my tender mercies. You would probably not be sorry to see your anticipation fulfilled, like most prophets of evil. What do you mean? I cried. Oh, my God, what are you going to do? Only to convince our excellent Hugh of your skill in prophecy, she said, and with that she seized the wretched spaniel and deliberately strangled it before my eyes. I lay there, too paralysed by horror and pity to move or cry out. I could only look on as the poor little life ebbed slowly away between those slender, pitiless hands. Hugh, devil! I cried at last, when all was over and the victim dropped limp and still from her grasp. Hugh, cruel, malicious devil! Hugh shall hear of this, every one shall know. Thank God you've overreached yourself this time. You've shown yourself as you really are. She left with an infernal glee and triumphant wickedness which made my blood run chill. You are too hasty as usual, my dearest Stella. It is not I who have overreached myself. If you reflect for a moment, you'll see that you are the only person who can possibly be connected with this incident. It was you who foretold that the dog would come to a tragic end. You, although you avowedly dislike such creatures, took him up into your own room. You, who have made no secret of your jealousy of me and your hatred of Hugh. What more natural than that in a sudden burst of frenzy you should have carried out your own prediction? Who will suspect harmless, innocent evil in Heseltine? For you fool, I shall come down in a few hours, having slept peacefully all night, and utterly ignorant that any harm has happened to the dog that was given me only yesterday by my beloved Hugh. If you accuse me, do you know what will be said? Everyone, at Hugh and all, will think that you are insane, mad with disappointed love and jealous brooding. Oh, such a pity, a beautiful spirited girl like poor Miss Mabelie, most distressing case, such a shock to her friend Miss Heseltine, who was absolutely devoted to her. But really, for everybody's sake it would be better if some steps were taken. Can't you hear the good folk of Winston gossiping? At all your own doing. You thought you could match yourself against me, and you see you have failed. I recognised the frightful truth in what she said. Appearances were all in her favour and against me. Devil that she was, she had me at her mercy, and I had no choice but to submit. I know, I said, I know it's useless for me to contend against you. If I keep silence, if I tell nobody that you did this thing, you'll not let the blame fall upon me. I could not bear him or anyone to think be capable of such horrible cruelty. I should have imagined, she said, that this was the merest trifle compared to the charge that might be brought against you. It's nothing to me whether you accuse me or not. You'll only injure yourself. Still, as you seem to have learnt your lesson, you shall be helped out of the difficulty for once. If you like to tell me at breakfast that your protégé had a fit during the night and died, I shall be too simple-minded and guileless to doubt your story, and there will be no questions asked or fuss of any kind. That is what, in your own interest, I should advise you to do. But, of course, you will follow your own judgment. I know it was a despicable surrender, and yet what else could I do? Anything seemed better just then than the thought of having to endure huge scorn and loathing as a monster of cruelty, or which was even worse, being shunned as a madwoman. It was hard to believe that the girl I met at the breakfast table that morning, so fair and fresh and dainty, could have possibly committed that cold, blooded act a few hours before. I told the tale she'd suggested, though it sounded lame and unconvincing enough, and I feared that Mrs. Maitland's suspicions must be excited by my manner. But for Evelyn I think they would have been, but she came to my assistance, as she had promised. And after the first well-famed outburst of surprise and distress and pity, she contrived to convince the elder lady that the spaniel's death was due to purely natural causes, and to make her understand that I was not well enough just then to be worried about what was probably a painful and disagreeable experience, and so the matter passed over. Mrs. Maitland had not heard my reckless warning to Hugh about the danger of leaving the dog in Evelyn's hands, so that she was the less likely to see any significance in its speedy death. I was not present when Evelyn told Hugh. I dreaded, lest I might see in his face that he suspected me, and I could not have borne that. Still, I trusted that Evelyn would remove any suspicions he might have. Did not enter my head then that she would be vile and false enough to encourage or much less suggest them. But as the days went on, I became aware of a change in his manner to me, a repressed aversion, which he had certainly never shown before. I could see quite plainly that he disliked to see Evelyn with me, though he might have discovered from my cowed, spiritless bearing, if he had cared, how hateful and heavy I found my yoke. I knew, by a sort of instinct, that she was playing me false. She was filling his mind with lying impressions, and I was determined to find out how much she told him, how far he believed her. So I watched my opportunity of being alone with him, and then I challenged him point-blank. Mr. Dallas, I've noticed that you have been different to me, have late. Oh, don't trouble to deny it, I know it perfectly well, and I know the reason. Evelyn has been saying things against me. Evelyn is not given to speaking or thinking unkindly of any one she loves. Oh, that's not an answer. She does not love me. What has she been telling you? Why do you harbour such thoughts? Don't you see that you're making your life a misery? My life is made a misery, but not by me. It's sheer perversity, he said. You could conquer these ideas of yours if you only made an effort, but if you insist on seeing enemies in those who care for you, no one cares for me now, I said. You did once, or thought you did for a time, until she came between us. He chose to ignore. Oh, perhaps she'd actually made him forget that there had ever been a time when he believed that he loved me. That's nonsense, he said shortly, though his manner prevented the words from seeming brutal. I am as ready to be your friend now as ever I was. More ready indeed. And so, as you ought to know very well, is Evelyn, whom you are doing everything you can to make miserable. I was sure of it, I cried. She has been talking to you about me. Mr. Dallas, has she dared to tell you that it was I who killed your poor bow? It's a lie. Good heavens, he exclaimed. Who accuses you of such a thing? Not Evelyn, nor I. But you suspect me of it. You know you do. I warned you he wouldn't live long here, and it was in my room that he died. Was it, he said, as if I couldn't see that he knew it perfectly well. I did not know. Oh, and if so, what of it? There's no earthly reason why you should make yourself unhappy about that. No one supposes that you are responsible. There it is. You don't consider me responsible for my actions. Evelyn has been telling you I am not. You believe that I am mad. He made a gesture of angry despair. How you twist the most ordinary words. I do not believe you are mad. If I did, it would be some excuse for you. But you are quite able to control yourself if only you choose. You must make the effort, Miss Mabily. Throw off these morbid fancies of yours, and you will see Evelyn as she really is. A loving devoted friend who wishes nothing but your happiness. His tone was gentler. He looked so honest and wholesome-minded, so manly and glant as he stood there that I couldn't find it in my heart to hate him any longer. If I ever had really hated him for his faithlessness to me, I couldn't even despise him for his blind belief in her. A great pity came over me, alonging to save him if I could from what he was drifting to. My happiness, I cried. Oh, my God! If you knew, if I dared to tell you, but I'm afraid, you wouldn't listen to what I said. You'd only tell her. If there is anything on your mind which it would be relieved 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 Tanstead? Because I must, I said. I've 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 don't care what becomes of me. It's nothing to you that I've 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 that you've 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 didn't mean all I said just now. I will try to behave differently to Evelyn, if only you will not say anything to her. You don't know what harm you could do me if you told her that I'd 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've 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 Mabily, I'm quite sure you won't oblige me to lecture you like this again. You're going to be sensible. Let us shake hands over it. Yes, I'm going to be sensible. I'll 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'd done my best. I had tried to warn him of his danger, and it was useless. If I overcame my dread of eviling 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 hope that she would not find out my attempt to defy and thwart her. But though I'm quite certain that it was not you 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 jibes in my reluctant ear. I didn't 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 Hughes' tender and adoring speeches to her, and every slighting or compassionate remark that 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 persecutions 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 pain 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 that they looked to scan sat 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.