by F. Anstey
‘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 have no audience here to be deceived by it. It is all wasted on me. Let us speak plainly now we are alone. Understand this: I will not stand by and permit such a marriage as this. Do what you will to me—and even you cannot 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 had roused in me, she still tried to keep up her assumed character. ‘You are not yourself,’ she said. ‘Stella, dear Stella, try not to give way to these moods; they—they frighten me.’
‘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 will 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.
‘Your hopes go farther 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 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 murderess, compelled to conceal her guilt by accepting such help as mine?’
‘I am not a murderess—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 are 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—you can imagine what he would think of you! But there, I am 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 Hugh to suffer.’
‘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. To-morrow 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 acknowledgment of my submission, and was gone, noiselessly and ghost-like 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, entreated 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 Whinstone 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 a 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 had offered to get her a Blenheim,11 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 chagrin 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, too, 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 are 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 comp
assionately, as if he were humouring a fractious child.
‘Come, Miss Maberly,’ 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 is incapable of harming any living thing. Why do you give way to such extravagant ideas? See how unhappy you are making her.’
‘If I could make her as wretched as she makes me,’ I cried, maddened by his tone, ‘but then—what is the use of saying any more? You will not see. By-and-by, when it is too late, perhaps, you will 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, silken 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 Stella?’ she began softly. ’You ought to have discovered by this time that it is 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’—she laid one white hand lightly 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. ‘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.
‘You devil!’ I cried at last, when all was over and the victim dropped, limp and still, from her grasp. ‘You cruel, malicious devil! Hugh shall hear of this—everyone shall know. Thank God, you have overreached yourself this time—you have shown yourself as you really are!’
She laughed 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 will 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 who, though 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 Evelyn Heseltine? Why, 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—Hugh and all—will think that you are insane, mad with disappointed love and jealous brooding. ‘Such a pity—a beautiful, spirited girl like poor Miss Maberly—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 Whinstone gossiping? And 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, know it is useless for me to contend against you. If—if I keep silence, if I tell nobody that you did this thing, you will not let the blame fall upon me? I could not bear him—or anyone—to think me 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 is nothing to me whether you accuse me or not—you will 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 interests, 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 Hugh’s 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 had 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-feigned 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. It 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 had told him, how far he believed her.
So I watched my opportunity of being alone with him, and then I challenged him pointblank.
‘Mr Dallas, I have noticed that you have been different to me of late. 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 anyone she loves.’
‘That is 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 are making your life a misery?’<
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‘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—perhaps she had 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—that it was I who killed your poor Beau? It is a lie!’
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who accuses you of any such thing? Not Evelyn—nor I!’
‘But you suspect me of it. You know you do! I warned you that he would not live long here. And it was in my room that he died!’
‘Was it?’ he said, as if I could not see that he knew it perfectly well. ‘I did not know. 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 you only choose. You must make the effort, Miss Maberly. 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 gallant, as he stood there that I could not find it in my heart to hate him any longer, if I ever had really hated him for his faithlessness to me. I could not even despise him for his blind belief in her; a great pity came over me, a longing to save him, if I could, from what he was drifting to.
