Introduction of the Statement of Stella Mabili. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anne Fletcher, Hobart, 2019. The Statement of Stella Mabili by F. Anstey. Introduction I, Stella Mabili, have determined to make a full statement of all the circumstances in my life, which led me to commit an act that in itself would seem a crime deserving of nothing but condemnation. I shall write it rather for my own satisfaction than that of others, for there may come a time when, as has been the case before, my memory grows confused, and I begin to wonder whether, after all, I may not have been mistaken, and what is more dreadful still, to doubt whether I am not actually as guilty as I have been made to appear. So, while my recollection is still vivid and clear, I am going to put everything down on paper as accurately and impartially as I can, so that if in the future these horrible doubts should again assail me, I shall be able, simply by reading this statement, to see exactly what I did, and the reasons I had for doing it. After I am gone, I should like others to read it too, probably very few will believe that what I am writing is the truth, but that will not matter to me then, and even already I have ceased to care very much what the world outside may think. Still, it pleases me to fancy that, perhaps here and there, someone who knew me once will read this, and believe that it is just possible that Paul Stella Mabally was more to be pitted than blamed. I shall begin my statement with some account of my childhood, not because it was eventful or interesting, but because without it, much that followed would seem less intelligible and excusable. End of introduction. Chapter 1 of the Statement of Stella Mabally by F. Anstey This Librivoque recording is in the public domain.  She and my father separated shortly after I was born, and remained apart till her death. She was extremely beautiful, as I know from a portrait that exists of her, but cursed, I believe, with so violent a temper, that it soon became impossible to live with her. When or how she died I don't know, for my father was always reserved on the subject, even when I was old enough to ask questions about her. But I can just remember the news coming that she was dead, and my nurse pulling down the nursery blinds, and telling me that I had lost my poor mama, and should have to wear black frocks. I cried bitterly, not because I understood my loss in the least, but because I hated dark rooms and being dressed in black. Within a year my father married again, and was much happier in his second marriage than I fear he could ever have been in his first. My stepmother was not unkind. I think she was prepared to treat me with as much affection as a child of her own, if I had responded at all to her advances. But she did not understand me. I was a difficult child to deal with, possessed as I was at times by twin demons of jealousy and solanness, which made me resist all her endearments. Possibly I was encouraged in this antagonism by my own nurse, who was devoted to me, and resented as such servants are apt to do, the fact that my importance was diminished by my father having taken a new wife, and by the second family that came in time. Between my half-brothers and sisters and myself, their mother never permitted herself to make distinctions, or if she did, it was in my favour. For she treated my outbreaks of defiance with more leniency than she would probably have shown to them, had they ever been capable of such rebellious rages as I flew into, on little or no provocation, so violent that they left me, when their force was spent, weak and exhausted for hours afterwards. Once I recall my father saying, after himself, and with a suppressed groan, when as a last resource I had been brought before him for reproof, God grant she may not grow up like her mother, which puzzled me, for my mother seemed to me from her picture very lovely. I know now that he was thinking of the want of self-control which had wrecked her happiness and his. As I grew older, these outbursts became less violent, or rather took the form of sullen and prolonged silences, during which I rejected all overtures, and even went without food for hours and hours to the distress and bewilderment of the younger children, who were too sweet-natured to comprehend an anger which lasted so long after its occasion. And yet, in the very worst of these black moods of mine, my heart was secretly aching to own myself in the wrong and be forgiven, and accept the love I knew was waiting for me. But I could not. I seemed to be in the grip of some paralyzing force which would not relax by any effort of my own will, which made me hard and cruel in spite of myself.  But it was not so. I had a physique too strong to be affected by my fits of passion and brooding. I was healthy and vigorous, fond of exercise and open air, with mental abilities that, when I chose to exert them, were rather above than below the average. And when my demons were not aroused, I was a natural, bright, impulsively demonstrative child who could both feel and attract affection. My half-brothers and sisters adored me and were my admiring little slaves as long as I chose to tyrannize over them. The servants would do more for me than for any of the other children. The governesses I had, though I made their lives so unendurable that not one of them could stand the strain for more than a few months, even they broke down when they had to leave and confessed that they felt the parting as bitterly as if I had been the best of pupils. I daresay they went away thinking me harder and more heartless than ever as I remained passive and dry-eyed throughout the leave-taking. They did not know—I took care that no one should know—that when my governess had driven away for ever, I would steal up into a box-room at the top of the house and set myself to recall every cruel and insulting speech of mine to her, and every instance of affection and forbearance she had shown me until my heart swelled with contrition, and I found that I too could weep when weeping was of no use. And yet, in spite of all my good resolutions, I would be just as perverse and willful and unmanageable to the next governess that undertook to instruct me as to her predecessor. This state of things could not go on. I had wearied out any affection my stepmother ever felt for me, and she was afraid of the example my insubordination might set to her own children. Oh! so she persuaded my father, and it was decided that I must be sent away to school. The school that was chosen for me was a fashionable and expensive establishment at one of the best known seaside towns. It was excellently conducted. The principal was an able and cultivated woman who took a real interest in the mental and moral training of every pupil. She was a firm disciplinarian, and for the first time I found myself under an authority which I could not defy with impunity. I took some pains to please her, and in time though I often vexed and disappointed her, she came to feel a certain fondness for me. My school fellows all belonged to the well-born and well-to-do class, and received me readily enough into their friendship. They were mostly pleasant, simple-minded girls, and there were few of them I actually disliked, though few were still with whom I was really intimate. Still I was very far from unpopular. In fact I soon found myself the unwilling object of a sort of cult. I had the kind of irregular beauty, the cleverness and audacity which girls admire in another, and I had too the crowning charm of uncertainty and caprice. Up to a certain age girls are frequently great heroin worshippers, and whether they transfer their idolatry later to one of the opposite sex or not, it is always rather increased than checked by being trampled upon. They adored me nonetheless for being disdainful and imperious. I am afraid I took a morbid pleasure in wounding or quarrelling with the friends I loved best for the mere emotional luxury of feeling miserable and alone and misunderstood, and I knew that they would always be only too delighted to be taken back into my favour. Perhaps all this may sound like conceit or arrogance, but I shall let it stand. I am far enough from feeling even a retrospective vanity, and such attractions as I possess, or may have once possessed, have brought me small satisfaction, as will be seen before I reach the conclusion of my story. I had one rival in the school who curiously enough perhaps was the only girl there for whom I felt anything like deep affection, and whom characteristically I treated with most unkindness. Her name was evil in Heseltine. She was an orphan, and would it was vaguely understood be immensely wealthy when she came of age. She was utterly unlike me in every respect, fair with a delicate spiritual beauty which corresponded to her gentle nature, incapable of an ill-natured speech or an ungenerous thought. It was a favourite device of my enemies, for I need scarcely say that I had enemies, to attempt to mortify me by declaring her to be far the loveliest and cleverest girl in the school, but in this amiable design they failed, for even I could not be jealous of Evelyn, perhaps because I felt that my superiority was never seriously questioned. I took the lead in all our amusements, in all our innocent scrapes or festivities, in our riding school parties on the downs, it was I who was always given the most spirited mounts. In the classrooms Evelyn had slightly the advantage, but she was naturally the more industrious, and even at work I could outshine her whenever I chose to take the trouble. She was not strong enough to excel in sports or games, timid and sensitive, but with a disposition so sweet that it was next to impossible to provoke her into a quarrel or even a retort, which often exasperated me into making cruel experiments upon her powers of forbearance. She had too much character nevertheless to be charred with incipidity, though even her strongest supporters confessed that she wanted one thing to be absolutely perfect, a spice of the devil. And even when I was most cruel I loved her. I felt instinctively that hers was a pure and noble influence, and I had the grace to be proud of her attachment to me, though with my old self-tormenting impulse I trifled with it until I was in danger of losing it altogether, but Evelyn always understood and bore with and pitted me up to the very end. I do not know how other women may regard their school days, but I look back upon mine as the happiest part of a life which it is true has not been either long or happy, and I was sorry rather than glad when they came to an end, and I returned home as I thought for good. For a while after I had come out and was entitled to take my part in such social events as were provided by the rather dull Hampshire neighbourhood in which we lived, I found existence fairly enjoyable. People made much of me and seemed glad to secure me for dinners and dances and garden parties. My father was proud of my success and indulged me in every wish. I had my train of admirers, more than one of whom did me the honour of proposing for my hand, but none of them touched my heart. They were the ordinary, well-groomed, sport-loving young Englishmen, not by any means intellectual, and who under the influence of sentiment seemed more stupid than they really were. I found them only a degree less wearisome than I had the silliest of my schoolgirl worshippers and treated them with much the same merciless ridicule, so that I soon earned a reputation in the county for heartlessness. I do not think I was more heartless than any other girl who is critical and fastidious and who has never met the man who answers at all to her secret ideal. But there seemed to me something at once absurd and irritating. In the spectacle of a passion I had never cared to inspire and could not return. And this prevented me from feeling or showing any sign of pity. Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, I became aware that my popularity was declining. I found chilly greetings and hostile looks at several houses where I had once been eagerly welcomed. I was made to feel by innumerable indications, slight but unmistakable, that I had given offence and was out of favour. This distressed me very little. I had soon tired of the neighbours around us and was glad of the excuse for indulging my growing distaste for society. By degrees I gave up going out, lived almost entirely to myself, and took all my rides and walks alone, and in directions where I was least likely to meet acquaintances. This passion for solitude in a young woman of my age and position, no doubt seemed unnatural and formed a fruitful subject for local gossip, but to that I was perfectly indifferent. However, it served to make my home life almost unendurable. For my stepmother, as I had begun to see of late, was secretly jealous of the preference my father showed for me, and the change in my habits gave her a pretext for coming between us, which she was not likely to neglect. I was forbidden to ride or walk without an escort, as though I had been a child, and my half-brothers and sisters were instructed to accompany me and act as spies, which I need not say destroyed any vestige of affection I felt towards them. Now that he could no longer take any pride in my social successes, my father was easily influenced against me. He expressed strong disapproval of my solitary pursuits and attempted to force me to go into society as I used to do, for he insisted that the slights and rebuffs which made the effort so impossible to me were exaggerated, if not purely fanciful, as if my powers of perception were not likely to be keener than his in matters which concerned me so closely. I yielded to his wishes to some extent, only to encounter further mortifications which cut me to the quick, so pride forbade me to betray it. I grew more and more unhappy and restless, and should have been utterly miserable if I had not found some distraction in writing. I had always had an ambition to be an author, and I wrote one or two short stories with a facility and fluency that gave me the hope of having found my vocation in life. The hope proved elusive. My manuscript returned to me again and again. Some editors admitted that they showed some fancy and imagination, but were too crude and inexperienced to be worthy of acceptance. I flung them into the fire at last in a fit of temper, and sullenly recognised that though I might be at least as well educated and original as some of the women writers who have sprung into popularity, literary distinction was not for me. I might persevere, of course, but the glow and the confidence had departed. It didn't seem worthwhile to court any further failures. And then something happened which turned my thoughts into a different channel altogether. One day my stepmother sent for me to her boudoir and told me that my father had just received news of the failure of a bank in Australia in which he was a large shareholder. What his liabilities were exactly he did not know as yet, but the greatest economy would be necessary if we were even to go on living in our present home. The horses and carriages must be sold, and we must all learn to do without the luxuries we had been accustomed to. She ended by suggesting that I should rouse myself from what she was pleased to call my selfish isolation and make some return for the expensive education I had been given by helping to teach my youngest sister and saving the cost of a governess. All this was said with an insidious show of affection which did not deceive me in the least. I knew perfectly well that she hoped to provoke me into some protest against such humiliation as the position of unpaid drudge in my own father's household. I saw too that even if I accepted the task she would take care that I did not succeed in it. She meant to drive me out of my home and out of my father's heart as well, if she could. So I answered that I quite understood that I was an encumbrance to them all and that I ought in future to support myself. But as to doing so by the means she suggested, she must be aware that the relations between her children and myself put that quite out of the question, as she herself had completely destroyed any influence I might once have had over them. And with that I left her and wrote at once to my old school mistress, recalling myself to her, explaining that I found myself compelled by family circumstances to go out into the world and earn my bread and asking her if she knew anyone to whom she could recommend me as a governess. I had an answer within two days. The letter began by an assurance that the writer remembered me perfectly and was sorry to hear of the change in my prospects. From what she recollected of my temperament a few years ago she doubted whether I was fitted for so trying a life as a governess is, but it so happened that a pleasanter and easier position might possibly be obtained if I cared to apply for it. The day before my letter arrived she had had a visit from a former pupil of hers and old school fellow of mine, Evelyn Heseltine, who had just returned to England after having been abroad for her health during the past few years. She was now recovered and intended to occupy a house in Surrey that belonged to her and had mentioned her desire to find a companion of about her own age who would come and live with her there. Evelyn had asked most affectionately after me and the writer felt sure she would be overjoyed securing the companionship of her old friend and school fellow if possible. I'd seen nothing of Evelyn since our school days, though we had corresponded for a time. After she went abroad our letters had gradually ceased and I had almost forgotten her existence till the letter reminded me of it. Now all the old times came back with a rush. I remembered Evelyn's goodness and sweetness and felt a great longing to see her again. She used to care for me, perhaps cared for me still, and I felt so alone and unloved at home. It seemed almost too good to be true that she and I might really be together again that I should leave the jangle and worry of home life, not for slavery among strangers, but a quiet and peaceful existence with the dearest friend I had ever had, the one friend I had left in the whole world now. I wrote to Evelyn that night as the principal had given me her address in Surrey and shortly after received an enthusiastic reply. Nothing could be more fortunate. I was the very person she would have most wished for. I was to come as soon as possible and she would do everything she could to make me happy. So I was able to forestall my stepmother's intentions and leave home of my own free will, not without some opposition from my father it is true, though he gave way when he saw that I was determined to carry my point. And here I will stop for the present, having arrived at the stage where my story may really be said to begin. CHAPTER 2 The day arrived on which I was to enter upon my new life, and during the tedious cross-country journey from my Hampshire home to the little village near the border of Kent and Surrey that was my destination, I had ample time for misgivings. Should I find Evelyn Heseltine the same as she was four years ago? Would she be quite unspoilt by wealth, quite unaffected by the relations of patroness and dependent that were now to exist between us? True, I could detect no shade of patronage in her letter, but she might betray it in her manner, notwithstanding. She had arranged to meet me at the station and any doubts I had were dispelled the moment I had alighted on the wind-stone platform and saw her coming eagerly towards me. I can see her still, tall and slender in the fawn-coloured surge, pale pink blouse, and the small sailor hat which were being worn that season, her soft hazel eyes shining with pleasure and welcome, her cheeks flushed with a delicate rose, and her bright hair slightly ruffled by the may breeze. Yes, she was unchanged, except that her former air of diffidence and timidity had been replaced by the ease and self-possession which a few years' experience of the world will give to the most unassuming. Even before she spoke my name with glad recognition and our hands met, I knew that she loved me as dearly as ever, and the joy and relief I felt almost prevented me from speaking. We were soon seated in the carriage with a pair of smart ponies which Evelyn drove herself, and as she had told the groom to follow behind with the luggage-cart, we were able to talk freely. It's so delightful to have you here, Stella, she said as soon as the ponies required less of her attention. And you're so exactly what I hoped you would be, only even more. Oh, but I forgot, you always hated to be told about your looks, didn't you? Did I, I said? At all events I'm glad you approve of me. And if we must talk about one another's appearance, you're looking wonderfully well, Evelyn. Far stronger than you ever promised to be. I was afraid from Mrs. Chitchester's letter that you were still delicate. Oh, I feel perfectly well just now, she answered. There was nothing seriously the matter with me. Only the doctor said I had a weak heart. I suppose I outgrew my strength at school. At all events they said I ought to live abroad for a time and avoid worry and excitement. I should have come home long ago, only I liked the life in Italy so, and no one can accuse existence here of being dangerously exciting. I'm only afraid you will find it dull. I protested with perfect sincerity that I should be quite contented if I never saw a strange face, and that I wanted no society but hers. Oh, it's not quite so bad as that, she exclaimed, laughing. My aunt, Mrs. Maitland, is living at Tonsted with us. We must have a chaperone of some sort, and of course there are people about who seem pleasant and friendly, and we shall have to see something of them. And the country is perfectly lovely. You and I will ride and drive every day when it's fine, and if we have to stay indoors we shall find plenty of things to do, music and books and work. You must try not to be bored while you're with me, though I'm afraid I shan't keep you very long. Oh, if it depends on me, I said, I'm not at all likely to wish to leave you. Why do you think I should? Oh, because, she replied, because of course I shall have to give you up to somebody sooner or later, Stella. You're much too beautiful not to be fallen in love with. Perhaps even now there's someone who—you won't mind telling me if there is, and then when the time does come I shall feel more prepared. There's nobody, I said. I have had one or two offers of marriage, but I never cared enough for any man yet to give up my life to him, and I don't believe I ever shall. Your heart will be touched some day, said Evelyn. Then you'll speak differently. I doubt it, I replied. I don't think my heart is capable of that kind of sentiment. Some women are born with no vocation for marriage, and I believe I'm one of them. And really, I added, if we are to be separated by one of us marrying, I am hardly the most likely person to be chosen. Who indeed you're wrong, Stella, if you mean that it is I, said Evelyn. I made up my mind before I came home, when we were in Italy, that I would never think of marrying unless I was sure. Oh, of what? I never can be perfectly certain of now. But how silly of us to be anticipating parting when we've only just met. It seems so wonderful are coming together like this, Stella. It was the merest accident that I told dear old Mrs. Chichester about my wanting to find somebody about my own age to come and live with me. I hardly expected she'd know of any one, and if I had, I never dreamed for a moment that you, of all people in the world, would have been obliged to try to earn my own living, I said, as she left the sentence uncompleted. I thought it unlikely enough once, but my father lost most of his money and my stepmother made me so miserable at home, I had no choice.   But you don't mind now you have come to me, do you? It isn't as if you were with strangers. Ten stead is to be your real home now, as long as ever you care to make it so. And my heart grew lighter and lighter as we drove on through the pretty, surly landscape, under the horse-chestnut trees with their tossing, creamy plumes, past cottage gardens and orchards where the fruit trees spread their branches, laden with rose-flushed snow against the pure blue of the sky, and the air was sweet with hawthorn and the fragrant gums of pines and larches. Presently we turned off the road through a gateway and under an ivy-covered arch, after which I saw my future home for the first time. Ten stead house was a delightful old Tudor, or Caroline mansion, I forget which, with barge-boarded gables and herring-bone brickwork filling up the spaces of the half-timbered Upper Story, which projected and was supported by carved corbels. It was not large, even with the additions that had been built some time in this century. I had a glimpse as I entered of long, low-ceiling rooms with spacious lattice windows, an impression of old-world potpourri mingled with the delicate scent of azaleas and the freshness of garden-flowers, and then Evelyn took me up at once to a pretty chintz-hung bedroom opposite her own. "'This is to be your room, Stella,' she said. "'I do so hope you'll like it. I want you so much to feel comfortable and at home here.' Then she left me to rest after the journey with an affectionate embrace and repeated assurances of her delight in having me with her. After she'd gone I went to the window and stood looking out on the velvet lawn below, with the fine old cedar ringed by a circular seat of faded blue. From the tiled roof over my head came the sleepy crooning and roo-koo-hooing of pigeons. In the garden, beyond the lawn, a whiplash fountain pattered and tinkled musically as a breeze drove its spray this way and that. It was all so restful and sweet. Such a haven of refuge for my wounded and troubled mind. It filled me with a great peace, a soothing sense of security. Here at least the black moods of depression and sullenness would have no power over me. No hateful suspicions could find lodgment. Now I had shaken off the demons which had made my life a burden. With such a home and such a friend, how could even I be anything but happy? I should have been insensible indeed if I had been unmoved by this, and if my heart had not been lifted up just then by a passion of love and gratitude towards her to whom I owed so much more than I could ever repay. I would, I vowed to myself, be worthy of her goodness. By no act or word of mine would I ever grieve that gentle nature. No friend evil in might have chosen could be more loyal and devoted than I would prove myself. Not a difficult resolve to make or keep for anyone of ordinary good feeling it would be thought. And yet I was destined to find it hard enough as those who have sufficient patience to follow my unhappy story will discover before very long. Sometimes I wonder whether by any effort of mine I could have overcome my nature altogether for long and how far our thoughts and feelings really are within our own control as we are so often told they are. I only know that these good intentions of mine were absolutely sincere at the time and indeed I honestly believe that I carried them out as faithfully as was possible to such a temperament as mine. Perhaps if things had only happened differently I should never have— oh, but it is idle to speculate on what might have been, and I must return to actual facts. When I went downstairs again I was presented to Mrs. Maitland, the aunt of whom Evelyn had spoken. She was a widow of about fifty, pleasant to look upon with a manner which though kindly and amiable was somewhat fussy and over-anxious, and as I soon discovered without an idea that was not absolutely safe and commonplace. I might have expected that she would look upon me as a rival and treat me with a certain reserve, if not with suppressed hostility, but her greeting was as cordial as it was obviously sincere.  In my day young girls weren't as highly educated as they are now, and I never was clever. And now we're at Tanstead there's so much that I have to see to that my time is almost entirely taken up. But it won't be dull for her any longer now you have come. Oh, Evelyn, my love, you may say what you like. I know very well you did find it dull. It was only natural, you should, and it's a great comfort to my mind to think it won't be so any longer. I shall be able to attend to everything properly without feeling uncomfortable about leaving you alone. And the good nature, gentle woman, proved perfectly content to act as a kind of superior housekeeper when her services were not needed as chaperone, so that for the earlier part of the day at all events Evelyn and I were left to the undisturbed enjoyment of each other's society. In spite of what I've previously said about my school days, I'm not sure that those first few weeks at Tanstead were not after all the most uninterruptedly happy period of my life. Evelyn grew dearer to me, and the sympathy and understanding between us more perfect with every hour we spent together. Even if I had never known her before, I couldn't have been so constantly with her without learning to love her now, and I was proud and glad to feel that she was as attached to me as I to her. The days passed quietly and uneventfully enough, but they never seemed long or monotonous. Evelyn was occupied with various charitable undertakings in the village in which I rendered her what assistance I could. We took up some of our former studies again, and read and practiced and sketched with a pleasant sense of our own virtue. There were delightful rides together through leafy lanes and over wild heaths and commons, and long intimate talks over old school memories, as we sat under the trees on the lawn of an afternoon, or paced the garden paths in the growing dusk. My spirits recovered their tone in this wholesome, peaceful atmosphere. I should have been perfectly happy with Evelyn as my sole companion, but of course we could not remain in absolute seclusion, and my former morbid dislike to meeting people seemed to have almost disappeared, as I found when I went with Evelyn to local gatherings that I encountered none of the slights and coldnesses which had made me shrink from such ordeals in my own set at home. All this I owed to Evelyn. She had made life seem fair and hopeful once more, and it would never be clouded again while she was with me, as of course she always would be now. Whether we lived on together all the years to come in this sweet old country home, or spent part of the time travelling abroad was perfectly indifferent to me, so long as I had her by my side. At times I fancied that she looked more fragile and delicate than when I first arrived, and seemed less and less inclined for exertion, but the excessive heat of that year's June was quite enough to account for it, and I felt no real uneasiness about her health, especially as she always declared she was perfectly well. And as it happened, when the day came which first shook my blind confidence in the future and revealed the fool's paradise in which I was living, the incident, if I may call so slight a thing an incident that brought this about, had nothing to do with the state of Evelyn's health. It happened a late one afternoon. We were to have gone to a garden party at the hall, but Evelyn had not felt equal to it at the last moment, and as I was not disposed to shelter myself under her aunt's two-fluttering wing, I preferred to stay at home, too, and leave Mrs. Maitland to go alone and make our excuses. We were still sitting on the lawn, though the first dinner-bell had rung, when the carriage returned with Mrs. Maitland, who joined us with a little air of suppressed importance. Such a pleasant party, Evelyn, she began, though almost too hot to move about. The holliers were so disappointed not to see you. They sent the kindest messages. And really, I'm quite glad I went, for I've got a piece of news that I think you'll be pleased to hear. Whom do you think I met there? You'll never guess. That nice Mr. Dallas we saw so much of at Florence. And just fancy, he has a place only a few miles from here, Lailam Court. Did you know that? Mr. Dallas exclaimed Evelyn, with more animation than she'd shown all day. No, Aunt Lucy, I had no idea of it. I never thought of him somehow as having any fixed home. How strange that you should have met him again like this. My dear, we live in a small world after all, said Mrs. Maitland, with an evident sense of her own aphoristic originality. I quite expected we should come across him again sooner or later. And he is most anxious to meet you again, my dear. I thought I might tell him you would be charmed to see him, and he's going to ride over some afternoon soon. Oh, I hope I did right, Evelyn. You will be glad to see him, won't you? Very, said Evelyn softly. I liked Mr. Dallas. Oh, I hope he will come. I want you to meet him, Stella. She added, turning to me, I know you have rather a contempt for young men in general, but I think you will admit that he is an exception. She spoke naturally enough, but there was a tender light in her eyes, and a slight increase of colour in her cheeks that made my heart sink. Why was she so anxious to prejudice me in this man's favour? Why did she look at me in that wistful, almost pleading way, unless she wished to prepare me for something that might, that she hoped would, happen? Evelyn went indoors shortly after, and Mrs. Madeland and I were left together, when the suspicions I had already formed were more than confirmed. Has dear Evelyn ever happened to mention this Mr. Dallas to you, she asked? No. Oh, how very curious. I should have thought—but she is strangely reserved about some things, and really I think she seemed pleased at the idea of meeting him, don't you? Strictly between ourselves, Miss Mabelie, I have a strong impression. Indeed, when we were at Florence, I felt almost sure that on both sides— but though he was so much with us, there was hardly time for it to develop into— still, now he is actually in the same neighbourhood, it does seem quite possible that— oh, but of course it's too soon to speak as yet. It would be such a good thing. He's a great favourite of mine, most charming and very well off. I hear Layland Court is quite one of the show places here. Everyone seems to think so much of him too. Exactly the kind of man I should wish to see dearest Evelyn married to. These incoherent confidences were poured out on our way to the house, and I was soon able to escape to my room and think over all that they pretended. I felt almost stunned at first. It may seem strange, but the possibility of Evelyn's marrying some day had never struck me as anything but remote since we had been associated. I had suggested it the first afternoon while we were driving from the station, and she had repudiated any intention of marriage with a sincerity which would have reassured me subsequently had it occurred to me to feel any serious alarm. But it did not, partly because Evelyn's nature seemed too spiritual somehow to be associated with earthly passion, partly because she had wound herself so closely round my heart that I instinctively shrank from the mere thought of losing her in such a way. Now for the first time I had to face the fact that this was not only merely possible, but probable. I remember now that even when she declared that she had decided never to marry she had done so with a reservation to which her aunt had just given me the clue. Evidently this Mr. Dallas had made no ordinary impression upon Evelyn though for some reason he had gone away without declaring himself. She had believed him indifferent and that they were unlikely to meet again, but she had always had the faint hope that she might be mistaken, and this was the contingency which might make her reconsider her resolve to remain unmarried. How I constructed all this out of so little I can hardly say, but I knew it as certainly as if she had told me so in words and foresaw the almost inevitable future. This man would appear sooner or later. The sight of Evelyn would revive his interest in her, if it had ever faded. Their intimacy would be taken up again at the stage at which it had been interrupted, and step by step he would usurp my place in Evelyn's heart. I should have no right to complain. It would only be natural that she should put her lover before her friend. No doubt she would assure me that even marriage would make no difference in her affection for me, that next to her husband I should always be dearest in the world to her. But even if this were true, it would not satisfy me. I could not be content now with any place but the first, and I already hated this unknown prince charming who was coming to thrust me into the background. I felt a dull resentment against Evelyn too, which was all the deeper, because at the bottom of my heart I knew it was unreasonable. She might, I thought, have been more open with me. I had believed there were no secrets between us, and all the time she'd kept this passage in her life to herself. I had a right to feel hurt and angry. But I would not let her see how sorely I was wounded. I would not condescend to a word of reproach, or any sign that I foresaw how speedily I should be abandoned. If she could be reserved, I would be still more so. And besides, it was only prudent to steal my heart against her for the future, so as to be better able to bear to do without her when the time came. For if I was to be less than all in all to her, I would determine to be nothing. So from that evening I began almost insensibly to alter in my manner towards Evelyn, and to put a certain distance between us. I said and did nothing which could give her an excuse to protest or ask for explanations. I kept up all the forms of our ordinary intercourse. But still, by slight, almost imperceptible gradations, I withdrew from our former comradeship. So sensitive a nature as hers could not help being affected by this, and I could see that she was vaguely uneasy and distressed by the consciousness of some unseen barrier between us. But I found a somber satisfaction in the ingenuity with which I baffled all her advances while still leaving her unable to determine precisely where or if she had been repelled. It is strange how soon such a mental attitude as mine becomes rigid until it is only to be relaxed by some extraordinary effort of will. I nursed my secret grievance against Evelyn until it was an absorbing and imperative necessity to find fresh food for it, and I was impatient for this friend of hers to appear and proved to me that my jealousy was only too well justified. I had not to wait long. Mr. Dallas rode over to call one afternoon that week, and I made my first acquaintance with the man who was to separate me from the only friend I had in the world. As he came towards us across the lawn, my first impression was of a tall, well-built figure, a dark, smooth, shaven face, neither plain nor handsome, but with a look of undeniable distinction on it. When he glanced at me as Evelyn introduced him, I saw that his eyes were grey and calmly observant. He had an easy, quiet manner and a remarkably pleasant voice. He made no secret of his pleasure at seeing Evelyn again, and she was equally frank in her welcome of him. They were soon deep in their Italian reminiscences, and as I was necessarily unable to take more than a listener's part in the conversation, I was the better able to watch them both. But whether my presence acted as a restraint upon them, or whether as yet they had not gone beyond the stage of friendship, I could detect nothing on his part or hers that absolutely bore out my suspicions. He talked well with an occasional touch of humour, and everything he said indicated considerable knowledge and culture without a trace of priggishness or showing off. He was certainly as different as possible from the rather heavy-witted young sportsman whose conversation I had found so wearisome, and I couldn't help reluctantly admitting to myself that, dislike him as I might, there was something strangely attractive in his personality. Occasionally, courtesy obliged him to include me in the conversation, or explain some illusion for my benefit.  Not that it mattered, of course. To him, if indeed he gave me a thought, I was merely the salaried companion who was not expected to be brilliant or original. Why should I care about the opinion of a man to whom I was bound to be indifferent, and who was so evidently here for the sole sake of recommending himself to Evelyn? She irritated me by the serenity with which she received all his attentions, as if she imagined I did not know how triumphant she felt at seeing him return to her, as if she could really be so insensible as she seemed to his personal charm. It would have galled me even more, I dare say, if I could have surprised her in some self-betraying look or intonation. But my resentment against her had gained too strong a hold to make me care whether I was consistent or not, so long as I found fresh grievances to keep it alive. He went away at last, and as I heard the sound of his horse's hooves departing down the drive, the gardens seemed to me to have grown dreary and deserted, and Mrs. Maitland's chatter more unendurable than ever. Well, Stella, said Evelyn softly, looking at me with an expectant appeal in her eyes, I knew she wished to hear me praise this lover of hers, and I would rather have died just then. Well, Evelyn, I returned. What do you think of him? Of Mr. Dallas? What should I think? I accept that he is the most irresistibly charming and accomplished and generally delightful person I ever met outside a novel. Her face clouded. If you talk in that ironical tone about him, she said, I shall begin to think you dislike him. And yet I don't know why you should. Why should you care whether I like him or dislike him, my dear? I replied. What possible difference can it make to you anyone else? I looked her in the face as I spoke and saw that for the first time she hesitated and seemed confused. None, perhaps, she said, and yet I shall be disappointed if you don't, Stella, but I believe you will when you come to know him better. I shall have plenty of time to study his many excellences, I said, if his visits are all as long as this one. I began to think he'd never would go. I didn't think he stayed at all too long, said Evelyn. Then, of course, my dear Evelyn, he didn't. I retorted as I rose. But all the same he has contrived to give me a headache and I must go indoors and lie down if I am to get rid of it by dinner-time. When I got upstairs I did not lie down, though my plea of a headache was not altogether a subterfuge. I paced the room, trying to realise what I actually felt towards this man. Why was it that the chief bitterness in my heart seemed concentrated upon Evelyn when I had at least equal reason to hate him? And suddenly the humiliating reason forced itself upon me, obstinately as I sought to keep it back. I was no longer jealous of Hugh Dulles. I was jealous of Evelyn. And as I realised all that this implied, I hid my burning face in my hands for very shame, though there was none to see. I had only met Hugh Dulles once, and yet I was already trying to recall his exact image, the tones of his voice, the least thing I had heard him say. My heart was aching with the longing to see him again. My pride rebelled against it. I couldn't understand how this should have happened to me. How in one short hour the pivot of all my thoughts and hopes seems to have shifted, or even what precise qualities he had which appealed to me so powerfully. Does one ever reason or analyse in such cases? I only knew I loved him, and he felt nothing but indifference towards me, and probably had not noticed whether I was young or old, pretty or plain. How should he when all his thoughts were so evidently occupied with Evelyn? I went to my mirror and studied myself curiously and dispassionately. I had certainly been looking my very best that afternoon. Surely the oval olive-tinted face I saw reflected there with the crown of soft dark hair, the imperious mouth and the deep brown eyes that looked wistful and proud and sad, had a character and charm of its own which could bear comparison even with Evelyn's more fragile and spiritual loveliness. I was taller than she was. I was as shapely as well-born and cleverer in some respects. Where should I despair? He was not hers yet. Was it so impossible that if I chose I might compel him even now to transfer his homage? Oh, and yet I knew that I couldn't really sink to such baseness. After all, Evelyn had been good to me. I had loyalty and gratitude enough in me still to recognise that. I would never repay her by robbing her of the love that was rightfully hers. But as I registered this vow I saw with a bitter laugh at my own vanity how ludicrously superfluous and cheap this magnanimity of mine was. For what had Evelyn to fear from me? She was everything to him already, and if she were not she had the advantage of her wealth. It was not likely that Hugh Dulles would ever turn from the heiress to her penniless companion. It was not truly generous to renounce what I had not the remotest chance of ever possessing. No, such a lover's mind was hopeless. The only course left to me was to preserve my self-respecting future by preventing him from ever suspecting my unhappy secret. The surest way was to leave the home at once, and how often now I wish I had had the courage to do so. But I couldn't. The issues could I give Evelyn for leaving her so suddenly. She'd guess my real reason. And I shrank from returning home and facing the astonishment and curiosity of my family. Where else was I to go? I would stay at Tans dead until I could remain no longer. I clung to the mere prospect of seeing him again. Anything was more bearable, even having to stand and look on at the rapid growth of his attachment to another, than going away and imagining it all. So I stayed on and hid the fox that was gnawing at my heart, being sustained as I then thought by womanly pride, though I believe I was as much influenced by the old self-torturing impulse which led me to seek rather than shun the emotional excitement of misery. Evelyn had no suspicion of my mad jealousy or the envy that jaundiced my every thought of her. As before, I took care to make any real confidence between as impossible without allowing her to feel that I was estranged from her. She merely considered, as I knew she would, that I was suffering from a return of the old, causeless depression that attacked me even in my schoolgirl days, and that it was wiser and kinder to leave me to fight it alone. But the part I had resolved to play was more difficult and painful than I could have realised. Hugh Dallas became a more and more frequent visitor at Tanstead. He had originally intended only to spend wits and tide at Laylam, but he stayed on and seemed fully resigned to lose the remainder of the season in town. He had some idea, he said, of standing for his division at the next general election, and it was necessary to cultivate his future constituents. How far he did this I could not tell, but he apparently found time to attend every social event at which there was any chance of Evelyn being present, and we were constantly meeting him at the various houses around Winston. At first he took some pains to be agreeable to me, as Evelyn's most intimate friend and a person whom it was desirable to have on his side. But the mockery of this careless kindness was more than I could bear. I was afraid of betraying in some unguarded moment how deeply his presence agitated me, and I hid my feelings under a stony indifference or cutting speeches at which my own heart bled while I was making them. I avoided him as much as I could, for it was better that he should believe I had an aversion for him than guess the truth. I could see that he was hurt as well as surprised by my treatment and that Evelyn too was distressed, and I felt a fierce satisfaction in knowing it. It was only fair that they should suffer a little when I was suffering so much. She made tentative approaches to the subject when we were alone, but Evelyn was always easily repelled, and she soon saw that I did not intend to discuss it and gave up the attempt with a sigh. The consciousness of the growing shadow between us was telling on her spirits as I noticed, and every evidence of my supposed antipathy to Hugh Dallas was a fresh grief and anxiety to her. I imagined that it was this which made her still hesitate before definitely accepting him and that she did not love him enough as yet to brave my disapproval. This impression of mine was strengthened by what I saw of their demeanour when they thought themselves alone and unobserved. For though I slipped away to my room at the first opportunity I could not resist watching them whenever they were in the garden together and came within sight. They were always talking earnestly and confidentially. He, from his expression, seemed to be pressing her for a decision, and she gently putting him off without forbidding him all hope. Once or twice as they passed below my window I was almost certain I heard my own name. I was the obstacle I knew, but sooner or later he would succeed in persuading her to disregard my prejudices, though the suspense was so long drawn out that I almost fancied I should be glad when the comedy was over and the inevitable denouement reached. Even Mrs. Maitland began to grow a little uneasy and impatient. I suppose it is really all right, she said to me one afternoon, though I think she'll take so long to come to an understanding. I often feel tempted to try whether I can find out from dear Evelyn whether there is anything, actually, but— I might do more harm than good by interfering.  Don't you think that if you were to speak to her? I gave the good lady to understand that I knew nothing and wished to know nothing and that Evelyn was surely capable of managing her own affairs. I'm afraid you're getting to live far too much in a world of your own, my dear. She retorted, with a slightly ruffled air. I thought you'd take more interest in what concerns her happiness. But perhaps you don't feel it liberty to repeat confidences and no doubt you are right, though I have some claim to be told, I consider, and you can certainly depend upon my discretion. She paused, invitingly, but I saw no reason to gratify her curiosity, particularly as I knew no more than she did, and I remained silent. Oh, well, she continued. I certainly expected it would all have been settled long before this. But it's only a question of time, after all. If she meant to refuse him, she would not let him be so much with her as he is. She's far too conscientious for that. But as the time went on and nothing happened, I felt a growing dread of the day when the blows should fall. Even this uncertainty had its compensations. I could still indulge in faint, delusive hopes. But when I knew that all was over, that there were definitely engaged, when I should have to witness their ecstasies to sympathise, congratulate, when I found myself condemned to loneliness and dependence again without even the excitement of occasional contact with him, how could I bear it? How could I live through it? And then the thought came to me. Why should I live through it? Why not escape from it all as soon as the misery became past all-bearing? They wouldn't miss me at home. Evelyn might be a little sorry at first, but not for long. He would not care. And I should have done with suffering and be at rest. I found a medical work in the library which treated of poisons.  I chose chloral as the easiest to procure and the most likely to give the impression of an accidental overdose rather than deliberate suicide, so that I could go out of life carrying my secret with me. It wasn't difficult to induce the chemist in the nearest market-town to let me have enough for my purpose. I had dealt there before, and he was satisfied with entering my name and address and mildly cautioning me against the danger of fighting insomnia—I told him I was suffering from sleeplessness—with so treacherous an ally. So now that I had the means at hand of procuring my own release whenever I chose, I felt calmer and more resigned. One afternoon I was sitting in my room, absently wondering, as I fingered the fluted blue file on my dressing-table, how long it would be before I broke the seal, and whether it was possible that I should repent as I felt the first approach of the sleep which would be my last. When I was startled by finding that Mrs. Maitland had entered by the door, which I fancied I had locked, I'm afraid I disturbed you, my dear, she began, but I knocked three times, and as you didn't answer I ventured to peep in, for you have been so unlike yourself lately that I really feel quite anxious about you. Why? she broke off as her eyes caught the file, which I had not had the presence of mind enough to hide in time. Surely that bottle is labelled poison. Now what can you possibly want with such a thing? I laughed. Oh, don't be alarmed, I said. It's only a very ordinary sleeping-draft. There obliged to label it like this, but as a matter of fact it's perfectly harmless, so long as the proper dose is not exceeded. I got it because I have been afraid lately that I was in for a bad attack of neuralgia, and I thought I'd have a remedy at hand. Neuralgia is a dreadful thing, I know, she said, taking up the bottle and examining it. Ah, I see, it tells you how many drops to take. Only I do hope you'll be very careful, my dear, and not take more than is safe. One hears of so many accidents. If it will make your mind easier, I said, I'll promise to take no more than is necessary if I am ever reduced to taking it at all. Oh, thank you, my dear. So long as you keep to that and don't let yourself get dependent on it, I daresay. But I came up to tell you something, and I declare this has driven it quite out of my mind. No, what was it? I was naturally unable to supply the answer, and I daresay I looked as if I could see no reason why she should have invaded me at all in this unceremonious way. Oh, I remember now, she said.  Mr. Dallas is here again, and though goodness knows I was never an eavesdropper, I really couldn't help overhearing part of what he was saying to Evelyn just now. And from what I could make out, there is a hitch. And in some way it depends on you, my dear Miss Mabel, to put it right. It seems she's got it into her head that you disapprove of him. Which, of course, is nonsense. And he was urging her to let him have an opportunity of seeing you. And I think she is willing to accept him if only he can succeed in getting you on his side. Though why, as she is evidently fond of him, she should let anyone else, even you, my dear, dictate her answer to her, I don't know. But there it is, and though I'm sure that you see as well as I do myself what a thousand pitties it would be if such a perfectly suitable match were broken off for some fanciful scruple, and I know you will make dear Evelyn understand how mistaken she is in thinking you could be opposed to anything so obviously for her happiness, I thought I had better give you just a hint how matters stand. And now I've done it. I'll go away and not worry you any longer, for I see you're thinking me a tiresome old woman. She fussed out of the room, highly satisfied I've no doubt with her own consummate diplomacy, and I was left to think over what she had told me. Part of it I had already guessed for myself, but it had never occurred to me that Evelyn would actually leave it to me of all people to decide what her answer should be. Such self-abnegation was unnatural. It could not be sincere. She had made up her mind to accept him long since, but she wanted to gain my formal approval to satisfy her own conscience, and she felt confident that I could not well refuse it. And she had allowed him to plead to me, the man who would lacerate my heart by every word that showed how ardently he loved her. Could she really be so selfishly blind? After all, she was a woman. She ought to have—she must have read me better, in spite of myself, than to have no suspicion that it was not dislike that had made me shun him as I had. She had too much insight not to see if she had cared to see, the cruelty of forcing me to figure like this in her triumph. Still, I would go through this final ordeal. The fierce indignation I felt against both of them gave me strength to play my part to the end without faltering or betraying myself. He was there in the house now. If I chose to go downstairs, I might get this interview over. I had never been alone with him yet. I felt a kind of eagerness for the exquisite suffering of hearing the avowal of his love for Evelyn from his own lips. Death would be all the easier afterwards. And so, though he would not notice whether I was looking ill or well, I hastily bathed my hot eyes and rearranged my disordered hair, and feeling defiantly sure of myself, I went down to the drawing-room where I knew he and Evelyn would probably be. As I expected, I found them together in the drawing-room, Hugh Dallas seated in the window-bay, and Evelyn at some distance from him. His troubled, despondent look was certainly not that of an accepted lover, and there was an air of constraint and consciousness in them both as I entered, from which I guessed that the conversation I had interrupted was chiefly about myself. We talked for a while in a rather perfunctory manner, and I think that I was the most self-possessed of the three, and succeeded perfectly in hiding my torment of jealousy and suspense behind the mask of indifference that I had schooled myself to wear in his company. At last Evelyn made some pretext for quitting the room, and as she did so I saw the glance of secret encouragement she threw him. We were alone together, he and I, for the first time since we had met, and I could hear the beating of my heart, even above the patter of the fountain on the lawn outside, in the silence. I watched him covertly as he sat there, moodily pulling about some flowers in a vase which stood on the window-sell. I knew he was nerving himself to make an appeal to me. I knew, or thought I knew, what that appeal would be, and suddenly I felt I could not trust myself to listen to it. I had overrated my courage, and the one thing I desired now was to escape before the words were spoken. I had already risen with some incoherent excuse for joining Evelyn when he stopped me with a mastery I felt powerless to defy. You will not go to Evelyn yet, he said. I have something to say to you first, and you must hear it, Miss Mabelie. Surely you will not refuse me so small a thing as that. There was a suppressed passion in his tone that thrilled me. For the moment I could almost have believed that it was I whose love he was seeking, and even though I knew how cruelly fleeting such an illusion would prove, I surrendered myself to it. I will hear anything you wish to say to me, I said. I want to know first, he said, why you persist in looking upon me as an enemy. Have I given you any reason for supposing so? I asked. I don't think so. Any reason, he repeated, have you ever condescended to be commonly civil to me? Would you speak to or look at me? Would you be here in the same room with me if you could help yourself? Do you suppose I am too dense to see that? Perhaps enemy is too strong a word. You may not think me sufficiently important to deserve even such a title as that. But you have taken very little trouble to hide the fact that you dislike me about as thoroughly as one human being can dislike another. You will not deny that. At least I had kept my wretched secret from him. It was some comfort even then. And if I do not deny it, I said, what then? I have the right to ask what I have done to deserve it, and I do ask. I can give you no answer, except that liking and disliking are sentiments beyond one's control. Justice ought not to be at all events, he retorted. Can you not be just to me? I don't claim to be a better sort of fellow than my neighbours, but I can honestly say that there is nothing in my life which makes me unworthy of any woman's friendship. I didn't need to be told that, though he might have been the worst of men, and I should have loved him just the same. It was hard to see him standing there, pleading with me to lay aside what he supposed to be a rooted antipathy, and not to undeceive him by some mad words which would force him to understand my real feelings. Why should you wish to gain my friendship? I said, it can make no difference to you whether you have it or not. It makes this difference, he said, that unless I have it, I must keep away from Tanstead for the future. And you think Evelyn would be willing that you should go? I said incredulously. Oh, she would be sorry, of course, but you must know that you have the first place in her heart. It distresses her too much to see as she cannot help seeing that my presence here is distasteful to you, that for some reason or other it has brought about a change in your feelings for her. So she has sent you to me to try whether you cannot overcome my prejudices. Is that what I am to understand? She thought that if I spoke to you and could get you to tell me plainly what you have against me, I might possibly succeed in showing you that you have judged me too harshly, he replied. Look here, Miss Mabelie, why can't you bring yourself to think of me as at all events a possible friend? Why do you wish to drive me away from Tanstead altogether? I shall not drive you away, I said. It is I who will leave Tanstead, and then you will be able to come here as before. As if Evelyn or I would permit that. If you really detest me so much that rather than endure the sight of me, you would separate yourself from such a friend as Evelyn. There's no more to be said. I must go away. Give up all hope of happiness here. Is that what you wish? It rests with you. It does not rest with me, I said angrily. I will not have the responsibility thrust on me, and it's all so hollow and insincere. If Evelyn wishes to keep you, she will, whether I approve or disapprove. It is a mockery to leave it to me like this. I have already told you that Evelyn's first consideration is your happiness and peace of mind, he said. I'm bound to respect her feelings in the matter, to say nothing of yours, so I ask you once more whether I am to go or stay. What is it to me which you do? I cried wildly. Do I not know that whatever I say it will make no difference? Evelyn will be willing enough to make you happy when I am once out of the way. Why should you not marry when you are so plainly intended for one another, and I shall not care? Do you understand that? I am utterly indifferent. Why should it matter to me, so long as I never see you again? There. I've given you your answer. Now, let me go. Yes, I have had my answer, he said. I hoped it would have been a kinder one, but I suppose I had no right to expect anything else from you. Our interview, he added grimly as he held open the door for me, has not been such a pleasant one that I should wish to prolong it. Goodbye, Miss Mabally. You need not be afraid of any further persecution from me. You've shown me plainly enough that your decision is final. I passed out without venturing to look at him, and went up to my own room. I felt relieved, elated, at having triumphed over my own weakness. I had met him face to face and without faltering. He would never suspect now my real feelings towards him. I could almost believe that I really had ceased to care. Oh, how came it that my suicidal intentions of an hour or so ago seemed only cowardly and sentimental? I had courage to go on living now, if only to see how Evelyn would act when she found that I could not be cajoled into sanctioning her desertion of me, and how long it would be before her pretended scruples were thrown to the winds. We did not meet again till dinner, when although we were obliged to keep up some sort of conversation on indifferent topics, I could tell by her troubled expression that Hugh Dallas had informed her before leaving of the result of his appeal. I evaded our usual after-dinner stroll in the garden by pleading that I had a headache and wished to be quiet, so she and Mrs. Maitland went without me. I sat in the drawing-room, in the same seat in which I had listened to him, and tried to imagine him there in the window-bay, and to live through the scene again, sentence by sentence. The butler brought in the lamps without disturbing my reverie, and the trees outside were becoming a blurred bronze against the violet evening sky before I heard Evelyn enter the room softly. Is your head better now, Stella? she said, coming up to me and laying one hand on my shoulder. Because if you let me, I want to talk to you about—oh, about somebody. I shrank involuntarily from her light touch. I know what you want to say, I said, and it will be no good. You will only waste your words. But you will hear me, dearest, she said. We've been such friends till something came between us. Don't harden yourself against me now. You must know how I love you. Stella, you sent Hugh away this afternoon very unhappy. It makes me miserable, too, to find that you're so bitterly prejudiced against him. I like him very dearly. Can't you try to like him a little, for my sake? It will grieve me to have to send him away, but if you really cannot bring yourself to tolerate him, what else can I do? Why do you insist on making me responsible, I said, except to put me in the wrong? I tell you I will have nothing to do with it. You're your own mistress. Do as you choose. How can I choose to make you wretched and uncomfortable, Stella? This is your home as well as mine, and as long as you and I are together, I want you to be happy here, as you were at first. And though I was afraid to say anything, I have fancied lately that you are not happy with me. Was I right? I never am happy long anywhere, I said impatiently. I get unsettled and restless, and I don't think this place agrees with me quite. I shall have to leave you sooner or later, Evelyn. It had better be soon. Leave me, Stella? She exclaimed. I hope that nothing would ever separate you and me. Did she actually imagine that I could live in the same house with them? Not even Hugh Dallas, I said sardonically. Laylam is not so far from here. We shouldn't be separated even then. But you say you dislike him so. I begin to wonder, Stella, whether you're not the least bit jealous. I felt myself turning hot. Jealous, I cried. What do you mean, Evelyn? Do you suppose? Oh, don't be jealous any more, dear. There's no need. I do like him very much. He is so manly and honourable. I feel sure that he will make the woman he loves very happy, Stella. But still—but still he can never be what you are to me.  You don't mean it, and you know you don't. She flushed painfully. You're very strange tonight, Stella, she said. I don't know why you should think I'm not sincere. But I would rather see the two dearest friends I have liking and respecting one another. And I do want you to make an effort to overcome this antipathy so that we could all three be happy. After all, you can have no real reason for it. You've got some morbid, fanciful idea into your head about him, which I know I could convince you in a moment was unjust. Trust me, Stella. Tell me why you dislike him. I will not be catechised like this, I said, writhing in impotent anger. It's too humiliating. You are simply trying to exasperate me. You do understand.  Am I selfish and blind too, she said slowly? Tell me how, Stella. It is the least you can do. Very well, I will tell you, though you know it already, you're not a fool, Evelyn, and even a fool might have guessed that if I avoided him and made him believe I detested the very sight of him, it was because I was afraid of myself. Do you want me to go on? Stella, she exclaimed. Oh, you were right. I have been blind. If you had only confided in me. I had some pride left, I retorted. I would have kept it from every living soul if I could, and now you have succeeded in ringing it out of me. Be satisfied with that and leave me in peace. Oh, you don't understand, she cried. It's so sudden and bewildering that I—but I shall be able to tell you in a moment how the less we say now, the better it will be for us both, I said. You see now what a mockery the word friendship is between us, and how necessary it is that we should part. We need not, she cried. Oh, Stella, did I not tell you all I cared for was your happiness? Well, oh, for heaven's sake, don't go through the farce of offering to give him up, I said scornfully, as if he would be likely to allow himself, as if I would accept. I will listen to no more of this hypocritical cant. See, I have stopped my ears. Say what you please now. I shall hear nothing. She caught my hands in hers and drew them down.  I won't let you wreck your own life like this. I wrenched myself free with such violence that she staggered back and fell into a couch, on which she lay white and panting, looking up at me as I stood over her in a tempest of ungovernable fury. Be silent, do you hear, I said. I warn you that if you say a single word more just now, I can't answer for what I may do.  If you're wise, go away and leave me to myself. Go away!" She rose to her feet unsteadily, her eyes misted over with pain and apprehension and appeal as they met mine.  Everything was at an end between us, meek and spiritless as she was, she must recognise that we could never be the same to one another again, that my confession had made a chasm that nothing could ever bridge. It was a relief to have delivered my soul, to have done with all dissimulation, and yet I cursed my insane folly in allowing the one thing I was bound to conceal to be extorted from me, and I hated evil in for having driven me beyond prudence. She had been so irreproachably correct throughout, so maddeningly forbearing and gentle, she had put me so hopelessly in the wrong, and now I was at the mercy of her discretion, and some day or other she would infallibly confide my secret to him, and he would despise and pity me. At least I wouldn't be there to see it. I'd leave Tanstead the very next day, even if, which was not likely, Evelyn tried to keep me. Any place was better than this now. How long I sat nursing these bitter and angry thoughts I don't know. It was late, and the servants had locked up and gone to bed before I heard footsteps descending the stairs and entering the room. Could it be Evelyn coming to patch up a piece? I'd have none of her forgiveness. She should know how I hated her, and how determined I was that this should be the last night I ever spent under her roof. But the footsteps were not light enough for Evelyn's. When I turned, it was to see Mrs. Maitland in a loose wrapper with a look of severity and decision that was unusual on her flaccid, good-natured countenance. I came down, Miss Mabally, she said, to ask you to tell me what is wrong with Evelyn. I can get nothing from her, and you can probably enlighten me if you choose. Has she made up her mind to refuse Mr. Dallas, or has she not? If she has, and you have induced her to do it, may heaven forgive you. I know no more about her intentions than you do," I replied haughtily. If she refuses Mr. Dallas, it will not be through any inducements of mine, and it's useless to demand explanations from me in that very peremptory tone. She changed her manner at once. Was I peremptory, my dear? I'm sure I didn't intend to be, and I beg your pardon. But I'm so worried and uneasy about it, and I thought perhaps you— The poor child is dreadfully distressed about something. I was quite shocked when I went in to see how ill she was looking, and I'm sure she'd been crying. She's been trying to write a letter to Hugh Dallas, I'm afraid, and she is really unfit for it just now. Writing to him—writing to tell him, of course, from the highest and most unselfish motives, what she had just wormed out of me, to propose that impossible renunciation to him. Could the most feline malice invent a more crushing and humiliating revenge? Trying to write, I repeated. Then she has not written yet. I think she's made one or two attempts and torn them up. Oh, don't let her write to night, I said. Persuade her to give it up and go to bed. My dear, I tried, but she declared she can't sleep until she has written. I wonder, she added, whether if I gave her just a few drops of that sleeping-draft do you have? Do, I said eagerly, you will find it on my table. Make her take some at once. You're sure it's quite safe. Oh, yes, yes, perfectly. It can do her no harm. The dose is on the label, and she ought to get to sleep at once, and not think about that letter till morning. Well, she will be really ill to-morrow, unless she can have a good night's rest, and I've no bromide or sulfonol or anything. I really think I heard better. On your table, you said? Oh, then, good night, my dear, and don't sit up too late yourself, for I'm sure you look as if you needed sleep, too. She left me to myself, and for the first time I was thankful for her fussiness, for her suggestion of the sleeping-draft would effectively prevent that letter from being written that night. Tomorrow I would see Evelyn, and compel her by every argument I could think of to abandon her quixotic intention. If she could only be induced to take the draft at once, I wanted to be sure. I felt stifled indoors. Outside there would be air, and I might find out what I was so anxious to know. It was easy to slip back a bolt or two on the whole door, and soon I was outside in the warm darkness. From the lawn I could see Evelyn's window. The curtains were drawn, but above the mud-slender bar of light told me that she was still up. Perhaps the letter was now being written, that would present her to him as more angelic and adorable than ever, and render me odious and despicable in his eyes. Oh, how intensely I hated her at that moment! Whether she believed herself sincere, or whether she was the most consummate of hypocrites, she was equally betraying my secret, exposing me to the ignominy of being refused by the man to whom I had given my heart unasked. Was it then, as I stood there under the cedar, that it flashed across my mind, that in the medical book I had consulted I had read a statement that Chloral, even in the smallest doses, was extremely dangerous in any case of weakness of the heart, and had not Evelyn, that first afternoon as we were driving from the station together, told me that once at all events her heart had been considered to be affected? I had tried and tried in vain to be quite clear when this first occurred to me. There are even times when I have terrible doubts whether both these facts may not have been present to my mind from the very first, even when Mrs. Maitland was suggesting Chloral. I cling to the hope that, bitter as my feelings were towards Evelyn, I was guiltless even in thought of such wickedness as that. I cannot believe that I was really capable of willfully allowing her to encounter any peril which I could have prevented. I have enough to reproach myself with God knows without that. No, it was not till later, I'm sure of that. Not till the moment when, as I stood watching, I saw the bar of light suddenly die out. And then, as soon as I realised the danger, my first impulse was to rush up, arouse Mrs. Maitland, find out whether the drug had been taken as yet, and what could be done. But if Evelyn had already taken the Chloral, it would be too late to interfere. She might not have needed it at all. In any case, was it certain that it would do her the slightest harm? People outgrew weakness of the heart. She was no longer an invalid. Perhaps she'd never even had anything really wrong with her heart. Young girls often like to fancy their suffering from some interesting malady. Doctors can make mistakes. And if I alarmed Mrs. Maitland by my misgivings, what would she think? Why, that I had really been contemplating Evelyn's death, and was seized with a tally remorse. I should be exposing myself to the most dreadful suspicions. All for a risk which most likely only existed in my overexcited imagination. I argued all this with myself over and over again, as I walked the lawn feverishly backwards and forwards, unable to arrive at any conclusion for long, until at last, too exhausted bodily and mentally to go on thinking, I sank into one of the wicker seats that had been left in the garden. I torment myself any longer when no action was possible. It was out of my hands now, and besides, nothing would happen. And then I was so worn out by all I had gone through since that afternoon that I suppose I must have fallen asleep in the chair, for I was not conscious of anything more until I was roused by a sense of chillness in the air. And I opened my eyes to see the eaves and gables of the old house before me, looking unnaturally sharp and distinct in the livid light of approaching daybreak, and the sky above already starless and mottled with pearl and opal clouds. I rose shivering and went indoors, still overcome with drowsiness, and once in my room threw myself on my bed without undressing, in the hope that sleep would come when I closed my eyes. But I only succeeded in dozing for a few minutes at a time, and soon the daylight that filtered in through my blinds and the first feeble cheeping of the birds outside made even this impossible, and I lay there, trying wearily to identify the various objects in the room, and strangely baffled and irritated by being unable to account for a grey square on my table that seemed unfamiliar. As the light increased it revealed the square as a letter, and with an irrational hope of finding it a note from Mrs. Maitland to tell me that she had not given evil in the chloral, I sprang up and drew the curtains in order to read it, then my mind would be set at rest and I could sleep. But when I tore the envelope open it was evil in's handwriting that I saw, and though it is long since I last had that letter in my hands, I believe I can remember it almost word for word as I read it then. I have begun this several times, she wrote, and tore it up, and yet I can't sleep until I've put an end to all this misunderstanding. I know so well that you will be even more wretched than I am, you poor self-tormenting stellar. I would have told you, but you were not yourself, you would not have listened, and I was afraid of driving you into saying or doing something you would regret if I tried any more just then. But now I have a superstitious feeling, that if I don't tell you at once this very night something that will change all your thoughts of me, you may never know, and so perhaps miss a great happiness. Hugh is nothing to me, stellar, has never been anything but a very dear friend. Oh, perhaps at one time at Florence he might, but I felt that my hold on life was so slight then that I had no right to let him care for me in that way. And since then, where were your eyes, stellar, that you couldn't see how devotedly he has come to worship you, though he almost despaired of ever touching your heart? You were so proud, so resolute in keeping him at a distance that you misled us both. I quite believe that you had taken one of your obstinate dislikes to him, and that his only chance was in time and patience. We had long and anxious consultations over it, and I could only promise that I would do my best for him when all the time, or if you had only let me talk to you about him, only shown the slightest sign of interest. I would have told you how it was my dearest wish ever since I first heard he was a neighbour of ours, that you and he might make each other happy. But I know now, and I understand, that you were silent out of loyalty to me, and I love and admire you all the more for it, and I mean to make you happy in spite of your wilful obstinate self, for I made him promise to come over tomorrow as usual in case I could induce you to relent. I can tell him now, though you may be sure that I shall not say a word you would not wish me to say, but I can let him understand that you feel you have been too hasty and that you need not give up all hope just yet. As for you and me, Stella, let us forget that this cloud has ever come between us. We will never speak of it, never think of it again, unless to rejoice that it has passed and left our love all the firmer. There's so much I want to say, but I'm too tired to sit up any longer, and I feel I shall sleep soundly now.  And now good night, Stella. Love me always, and never, never have bad thoughts about me again. Not even my hard and embittered heart could be proof against the love and generosity and delicacy which spoke in every sentence of this letter and overwhelmed me with shame and contrition. Was there ever such perversity of misconstruction, such readiness to impute my own base thoughts to others, such ingenuity in making myself and them miserable as I had been guilty of all these wretched weeks? What could I ever say and do to show Evelyn how sincerely I repented, that though she had forgiven me I could never entirely forgive myself? How long would it be before I could go to her room and pour out all my penitence and gratitude? How impatiently I realised that it was too early as yet that I must not venture to disturb her slumber for several hours to come. And after the first sharpness of shame and remorse, I began to feel the exquisite thrill of a joy that would not be quite suppressed. In vain I tried to think only of my wickedness and folly. My heart would throb wildly with the knowledge that Hugh Dallas loved me, all unlovable as I was, that an immense, unhoped-for happiness was coming to me with the brightness of the summer morning and the expanding flowers and the triumphant trilling and piping of birds. At last I could resist the impulse to go to Evelyn no longer. If she was asleep I would sit beside her and wait until she awoke. I might find her awake already. I went to her door and opened it softly. The curtains were thick and shut out the light so effectually that all was grey and indistinct at first. But I could see that Evelyn was still asleep, lying with her face turned from me and her right hand extended, palm upwards, as if seeking to be clasped. I laid mine upon it. Was it my fancy that made it seem so strangely chill and unresponsive? Why could not my ear detect any sound of breathing? I recollected the chloral. No doubt that would have produced deeper sleep than usual. I was giving way to fanciful terrors again. When I had let in the light, the reassuring everyday light, I should see that all was well. I drew the curtains, softly, for fear of waking her. The light poured in, and the cool air of morning met my cheeks through the open casement. Thrushes were hopping about the turf, and the sky between the cedar branches was tinged with saffron and rose. And I turned and saw Evelyn's face, and realised the cruel and awful truth. Nothing would wake her any more. No words of love and sorrow would ever reach her. She was dead.