At first he fought desperately against the hated invasion of his personality, but from the first he felt it to be a losing fight. He was unarmed and blinded against the attack of a skilled and watchful foe. In his waking hours he was never conscious of any hostile presence. Night and she were his enemies. He rested soundly, never dreaming, or rather never being able to recall his dreams. And yet he was well aware that it was during sleep that his soul, torn from his body by the powerful spirit of Phyllis Rourke, was dragged, resisting hopelessly, through the mire of spiritual degradation. He knew this, and nightly he summoned up his forces to this losing battle and daily realised he had taken another step on the downward path.
It is, perhaps, not accurate to say that his struggles were renewed every night; it is impossible to say, but it is certain that on some nights the battle was fiercer than on others, since he would wake on certain mornings, trembling, weary and bathed in perspiration, as if indeed he had but just emerged from a frightful ordeal. And he noticed that after each one of these dreadful nights he made a very distinct step forward in his knowledge and love of evil. His love of evil! It was with a frightful pang that once, when meditating on his fate and bemoaning his lost innocence, a still, small voice spoke within him, ‘With lost innocence you have gained knowledge.’ The thought had dwelt with him and slowly he had begun to realise that, deep within himself, he had begun to prefer vice to virtue, evil to good.
Ever since the hated invasion of his sleeping personality had begun, Oliver Carmichael had striven his hardest to repel the invader. He was, as we know, a man of high principles, if not of strong will, and his waking consciousness, aware of the hostile influences acting on his soul, had set itself to resist these influences as resolutely as possible, and at first during his daylight hours with no little success. Even up to that moment he had believed that these horrible thoughts were forced upon him and were external to his real self; he now perceived that on the contrary they formed part of himself and were knit into him inextricably. Phyllis Rourke had done her work well; she had not only captured his pure soul with her evil one, but she had even intermingled her wicked personality with his so that her thoughts and his own had become one, and it was impossible for him to decide whether the impulses and reasons which guided him were his own or hers. He had lost his identity together with his principles.
This last blow seemed likely to crush him. Hitherto he had vaguely hoped that death at any rate would put a period to his sufferings, and he had from time to time even dwelt on thoughts of suicide to escape from them. He had been restrained from this last step by a vague recollection of earlier religious training and by a fear that by violating a moral law he might end by making his condition worse. All hope of final relief, however, was now cut off, he had lost himself, he was one for ever with his evil genius.
* * *
Six months of mental and spiritual anguish elapsed and during this time Oliver Carmichael never felt the faintest desire again to see his tormentor, nor did her presence force itself upon him during his waking hours. It was only subconsciously that he was aware of her approach to him during sleep, though he never doubted that she was the cause and formed the larger part of his misery. But he would pass the shop of Messrs — , where he presumed her still to be employed, without concern and without ever desiring to ascertain whether Phyllis Rourke was still to be found there. Nor had he made any enquiries about her, her relation to him had no connection with the things of this world, but lay, as he well knew now, entirely on another plane.
This was the position when, about six months after the first meeting between Mr Carmichael and Miss Rourke, the former awoke one morning with the well-known signs of his nocturnal battle upon him. He was tired, trembling, bathed in perspiration, but somewhere deep within him he felt a new sensation, a sense of exhilaration; in that awful battle of the souls he had for once proved victorious. He knew it, though he knew nothing else, for throughout his long period of suffering, it must be carefully remembered, he never knew the details of those nightly happenings: he knew the results, not the causes.
Strangely gladdened he rose from his bed and dressed himself, meditating as he did so on what had happened, and even now vaguely beginning to hope that his trials might yet come to an end, and that he would, through the aid of some unknown power, be able to tear Phyllis Rourke from his personality. The day passed more happily than any had done since his first visit to the shop and on his homeward way he felt an impulse towards entering it and seeking out his enemy. He did not do so, however.
That night he dreamed, and on this occasion the dream remained with him at waking. He dreamed that he was himself again and walking in a fair country. Overhead the sun shone brightly, its rays tempered by a gentle breeze. Birds sang in the trees and hedgerows, rabbits played on the short turf and myriads of wild flowers blossomed and scented the air. In front of him a pair of lovers were strolling, arms interlocked, evidently out for a happy day. All was peaceful and serene and he walked onwards, cheery, good tempered and feeling in charity with all men. Suddenly he heard a cry, the singing of the birds was hushed, a hawk had swooped and borne off a hapless little creature in its clutches. The sight was unpleasant and marred the peaceful scene; he turned away his eyes, he was not to blame, it was Nature. At that moment there was a shrill scream, a stoat had sprung upon one of the rabbits, it clung to its neck viciously biting under the ear of the little beast, which struggled vainly to shake off its deadly rider. Mr Carmichael shuddered; scenes of blood and violence were repulsive to him; he hurried on. But the wind had dropped, the heat had become oppressive, the wild flowers, withering under the glare of the sun, drooped their heads. The beauty of the landscape faded, its outlines were still there, but they were obscured and blurred by a mist, like those which, rising from the sea, instantaneously blot out the distant, sunlit shipping. He turned a corner of the road; again he saw the lovers, but they had quarrelled, high words were passing between them; on seeing Mr Carmichael’s approach they hurried on, but their angry voices came back to his ears. Now the clouds had gathered, the sun was obscured, the heat was stifling; suddenly the storm burst, the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed and rain fell in torrents. Mr Carmichael sheltered himself and, the fury of the storm quickly passing over, he resumed his way. Refreshed by the rain the wild flowers again raised their heads and perfumed the air, the birds sang, and before him the lovers, reconciled, pursued their happy way. Trouble had come and had passed. He woke.
That morning among his letters he found one in a handwriting strange to him, but of whose authorship he had no doubts. It was from Phyllis Rourke. He hesitated for a few moments then, opening it, he read as follows.
Dear Mr Carmichael,
I greatly wish to see you again, if it be possible. Tomorrow I leave Messrs — early and shall walk in the Park near where I met you before. I shall be there by 4 p.m. and will wait.
Yours sincerely,
Phyllis Rourke
P.S. Do come.
Mr Carmichael felt no surprise at this letter. He knew now that he had expected it to come, but he was doubtful as to what course to follow. Miss Rourke evidently wanted to see him. Why should he do anything to oblige Miss Rourke? His anger against her rose, she was his worst enemy. He looked at the matter from another aspect. He glanced at himself in the glass, and saw himself a handsome, well groomed gentleman; it might be well to go and show Miss Phyllis that, at any rate, her evil deeds had not harmed his body. Undecided, he went to his office, and he was still undecided when he set out on his walk home after lunch. Almost unconsciously he found himself in the Park and near the well-remembered spot where he had talked with Miss Rourke six months before. He found two chairs, sat down and waited, and presently saw her coming towards him.
His heart throbbed with mingled excitement, fear and hatred. As she drew near he looked at her attentively and saw that she was somehow changed: her features were less harsh than formerly, her eyes looked softer; in her dress she was as always
neat and modest. She approached him quickly and quietly, there was pleasure in her face at seeing him. He rose from his seat and waited for her.
‘I am glad you have come,’ she said, omitting any more formal greeting, ‘very glad. There are things I have to say to you, knowledge I must impart.’
He looked coldly at her. ‘What can you have to say to me?’ he began. ‘Do you realise what you have done to me: to me who never injured you, to me a stranger to you, a harmless stranger, who sought but to live his life in peace?’
‘I know what has happened,’ she answered ‘and my knowledge goes further than your own. I know what you have suffered and the change that has come about in you.’ She stopped.
There was a short silence, then she resumed: ‘But if I know what has happened to you you are ignorant as to what has taken place in myself.’
‘I am indifferent as to that,’ said Mr Carmichael. ‘What have you to do with me?’
She laughed a little, but not the mocking laugh he knew so well, and said: ‘When you know all you will not say that; but now look at me, can you see any change in me?’
Carmichael looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘you are changed.’ He hesitated. ‘You are changed – for the better,’ he went on.
She smiled again. ‘I am changed,’ she said, ‘and for the better, and this I owe to you. In the struggle that has taken place between us, I have gained much and perhaps you have lost – nothing.’
‘I do not understand you,’ said he.
She turned again and looked steadily at him. As he gazed at her a new man woke within him. He saw as in a glass darkly the blurred outlines of a mighty truth; he essayed to focus it, to make clear to his mind that which his subconscious self already perceived.
But he failed, the vision faded, he sighed and said, varying his previous words: ‘I cannot understand you.’
‘Not yet,’ she answered, ‘not yet. Your inner, your true vision is still clouded by the workings of your earthly mind. You cannot yet see clearly those wonderful affinities that exist between the souls of those we wrongly call individuals. Just as darkness and light combined make the perfect day, so do the intermingled spirits of man and woman form one perfect whole. Separated in past ages, as darkness and light were separated, for some mysterious purpose, the divided souls now seek each other throughout the ages, striving once more to unite. Some happy ones have achieved their purpose, although, clouded by earthly and external thoughts, they are as yet but dimly conscious of their triumph, but most are still seekers wandering in the night.’
‘I begin to understand you,’ he said.
‘Of those seekers,’ she went on, ‘I was one, and one of not the least wretched. In times far beyond our ken, Fate, Chance, what you will, severed our knit souls, and set yours on the paths of peace and joy, whilst, I, ill-fated, was turned towards the lower depths. I do not know how long I sought you, but I know that through the ages I sought in vain, and slowly there grew up in my inmost deeps a hatred of you, my joint spirit, a hatred bred of envy and despair. At last I found you, before ever you saw me in the flesh I found you in the spirit – and when you came that first day to the shop, my soul rejoiced, for I knew that I had succeeded and that you were mine. Then I began my work, to drag you down and plunge you into the abyss of those lost souls, wherein I felt myself to be. I sought to blacken you.’ She paused, and after a few moments, went on in a lower voice: But I forgot that black mingled with white forms grey, and that grey may at last bleach in the sunlight to purest white.’
There was a long silence; slowly the truth possessed him, the knowledge already buried in him arose and, passing through his consciousness, filled him with content.
‘I think I understand you,’ he said.
Phyllis went on: ‘And now the fight was joined and triumphantly I watched your struggles, your slow fall. Joy possessed me, the joy of evil victorious, but gradually with that joy ill ease mingled. Gradually, imperceptibly to myself even, my onslaughts slackened, and your resistance increased. Of those dreadful, silent battles of the night your earthly sense knows nothing, but even before that recent morning when you awoke victorious I knew that I had failed and, failing, I rejoiced. As you sank, I rose and, rising, helped you to rise again.’
Again she stopped and again went on: ‘Now you know all, and now you know that, separated once, we are once more knit together for ever. In this existence we shall meet no more, it will be better so, but do you go back and take up your daily life, your work, resume your friends, rejoin your family, if you have one. As for me, a small legacy has come to me, and I have persuaded my aunt to leave London and live with me in the country, where I can pass this life in quiet and thought. We have both a battle still before us, you to regain, I to attain, merit, but let us both strive after that knowledge which brings Peace, which is God.’
Again there was silence, then she rose and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Carmichael,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’
He rose also and held her hand an instant. ‘Au revoir,’ he said, ‘till we meet again in sleep.’
They parted and went upon their separate ways.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
IN GHOSTLY COMPANY
Brickett Bottom
Mr Kershaw and Mr Wilcox
In the Woods
The Late Earl of D.
Mr Mortimer’s Diary
The House in the Wood
The Steps
The Young Lady in Black
The Downs
The Late Mrs Fowke
The Picture
The Governess’s Story
Mr Oliver Carmichael
In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) Page 17
