could she mean by it? He stood up and glared at her, speechless.
‘What, no kiss!’ she laughed. ‘Give me that hand again, I’ll use my teeth this time!’
She made no move to take it, but he stepped back involuntarily. Thoroughly annoyed, he was determined to prize some answers from her, but hardly knew how to attempt it. So he left the room, taking long strides until he found Mrs. Prothero, who was minding her own business by the parlour fire.
‘What’s this all about?’ he began directly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Mrs. Prothero looked up from her newspaper in astonishment. ‘Silas! You’re white as a sheet! Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Don’t you dodge my questions! What happened to her? Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t shake your head and pretend you don’t understand! For God’s sake, you let me believe she was dead, and then let me walk in to find her there!’
‘If you weren’t so furious, I’d laugh in your face, Silas— but I know that would only make you worse. What is it you’re so vexed about? Who have you found?’
‘This is beyond bearing! Bianca, of course! Bianca, my own wife, is sitting in your Breakfast Room, and you act as if it’s a joke!’
‘It would be no joke if it were true, Silas, it would be a miracle. Calm down. Your imagination’s run away with you. It’s only Smithy— Smith Harvey— she’s the woman in the Breakfast Room.’
‘Smithy? Smith? What are you talking about?’
‘Bianca’s cousin, Smith Harvey. You must have met her before— or at least heard of her, with a first name like Smith. What her parents were thinking, I can’t imagine— I suppose they wanted a boy, or a brand. You may be sure I didn’t name her, though I am her godmother.’
‘What on earth are you prattling about?’ Silas insisted. ‘It’s Bianca— I’ve seen her, Bianca living and breathing.’
‘I never “prattle”,’ sniffed Mrs. Prothero. ‘I converse succinctly at all times. But you should listen to yourself before you accuse me. Bianca is no longer with us, as you well know. You’re mistaken, Silas— you’re dreaming again.’
At that he brushed aside her newspaper and seized her hand. ‘Am I!’ he cried. ‘If I’m dreaming, you’ll dream it too. Come on. You look at her and tell me she’s not my wife, if you’ve the gall to maintain this charade.’
He dragged her firmly with him back into the sunlit chamber, ignoring all incredulous protests. The languid figure was still lounging on the sofa, and had relapsed into her doze. Silas halted at the open door, and, disconcerted once again by the sight of that too-familiar form, lowered his voice, as though to disturb her repose would dissipate the mirage.
‘Well?’ he urged to Mrs. Prothero. ‘What do you say now?’
She sighed sharply, and eyed him with concern. ‘Just as I said before. It’s no-one but Smithy.’
‘“Smithy”? “Smithy”? Have you lost your mind? It’s Bianca! Look at her! Look at her face!’
‘There is a resemblance, I’ll grant, but you’ve lost your mind if you can see Bianca.’
‘Her face, Mrs. P! Her hair, her hands! A resemblance? It’s her!’
‘Come now, Silas, it isn’t at all, you must realise that. Bianca never wore her hair parted to one side, for a start. Smithy grooms herself like she means to be filmed in black and white. And did you ever know Bianca to wear fur? That’s a real fox around her shoulders, she insists on wearing it to provoke me. Bianca would have shuddered! Now, Silas, really.’
‘Her hair and clothes may have changed, but she’s the same in every detail— the colour of her eyes, the sound of her voice—’
‘Oh, so you have spoken to her, then?’ interrupted Mrs. Prothero. ‘I don’t suppose she told you she’s your late wife?’
‘No,’ Silas faltered. ‘She’s playing the same cruel game as you.’
The elder woman advanced towards the reclining younger, and addressed her plainly. ‘Smith, are you listening to us? Sit up. What yarn have you been spinning to Silas? You’ve half-convinced him you’re Bianca.’
The image on the sofa stretched her limbs and glanced out from under half-closed lids. ‘Bianca, Bianca, Bianca! Everyone’s Bianca-mad today. She never stirred up such a craze when she was alive. Honestly, dying was the most interesting thing she ever did.’
‘Don’t be spiteful, Smithy.’
‘All I’m interested in is an explanation,’ said Silas. ‘Why are you pretending to be someone you’re not?’
She looked him full in the face with a casual smile. ‘Well, it just so happens I’m not in the mood for explanations— and I am in the mood to be spiteful.’ —This last with a defiant nod to Mrs. Prothero. ‘Since you think I’m pretending to be Bianca, and you think I’m pretending not to be, I think I’ll carry on with my nap until you two decide the matter between yourselves.’
This decision brought down a hail of protests on her, of course, but she seemed quite complacent about it, and settled her head on a cushion to watch them. Mrs. Prothero quickly put a question to her increasingly irate godson.
‘Silas, be reasonable. If she was Bianca, why would she deny it? Why would she feign death for a whole year, only to meet you again and say she’s a stranger?’
‘To test me— to punish me— I don’t know!’ He pointed to the indifferent girl before him in angry confusion. ‘Ask her!’
A long, thoughtful look was all the response he got, however, until she finally concluded her scrutiny with: ‘You get a deep line between your brows when you frown— it matches the cleft in your chin. Like someone’s tried to fold your face in half.’
He gaped at her in frustration, acutely aware that that frown-line was deepening every moment. ‘That’s enough,’ he muttered, his patience expended, and left the room.
The women watched him leave, one with idle interest, the other with a sad shake of her head.
‘Poor Silas,’ said the latter. ‘A year’s done nothing for him, I’m afraid. He’s as grief-stricken as ever.’
‘Guilt-stricken, too, don’t you think? “To punish me” he said— why would Bianca want to punish him? Was she vengeful?’ She savoured the idea mischievously.
‘I wish you’d known your cousin better, Smith. Some of her good nature might have rubbed off on you.’
‘Or some of my bad nature may have rubbed off on her, and done her some good. She should have punished him while she had the chance. I can’t think of anything more tempting than a man who wants punishing.’
‘Leave him alone, Smithy— and keep your thoughts to yourself, he’ll hear you. He’s just stopped outside the door.’
Silas had indeed paused to collect his bewildered thoughts, and overheard their exchange. ‘Why are they doing this?’ he asked himself. ‘Why do they want me to believe she’s not Bianca? It must be a test— but of what? And why?’
IV
He went upstairs to his bedroom, uncertain of everything. If it was Bianca, then why had he been told a lie about her death? And since he had believed that so completely, why replace it with such an unconvincing lie now? Surely it was some bizarre trick— perhaps even his dream on the hilltop was no actual dream, but the real woman, his wife, seen while half-awake, laying the groundwork for this— this plot.
But on the other hand, if he was mistaken, if this ‘Smith’ really was Bianca’s cousin, why was he so convinced otherwise? Was he deluded by hope, by longing— by guilt, as he had heard her speculate? Was his dream an omen of his sanity disintegrating? Or was it simply coincidence, an astonishing likeness in the wake of a vivid memory?
He felt exhausted by doubts, and lay down on the bed. When Mrs. Prothero came and knocked softly at the door, he did not answer; and when she came again later to tempt him to eat, he barked that he was not hungry.
Meanwhile the house was bustling around him. Guests arrived in advance of the wedding, chatter filled the stairways and passages, but Silas had no inclination to socialise. Night fell, and advanced; he heard the household retiring to their bedroom
s— and his feelings and conjectures hurried in turmoil all the while.
As on the previous night, he did not expect to sleep; but at length fatigue overtook him in any case, and he dropped into a profound and dreamless slumber. And again, as during the previous night, he was awoken from it by an unsettling sensation— this time of a light shining strongly in his face. Without stirring, he opened his eyes slightly to peek out between his lashes. A milky light was indeed pouring upon him, in a bar across his pillow. He had not drawn the curtains, and could see a potent moon directly through the window. The blue-ish white glow also picked out edges and gleaming surfaces in the room, all as he had left it, and then— a shifting shimmer of movement.
He tensed, and his heart began to judder almost audibly in his chest. Still motionless, still half-closing his eyelids to feign continued sleep, he switched his gaze to discern the person in the room with him. It was Bianca again— unmistakably, though turned away from the moonlit window so that her face was in shadow. But she was moving her head towards him, so that a silvery line described her profile distinctly. He did not flinch, nor speak, intrigued to know what she would do, and moreover absorbed in steady and amazed contemplation of her beauty. She was radiant, even in darkness, as she had been the night before; vivid, and yet suffused with a remote grace altogether missing from her appearance downstairs that morning. He felt that he intended to stay still and watch his moment to address her, but