to the place the soulhad known in the years when it looked out upon the world from the bodyof an animal.
That first day on the terrace instinct stirred in its sleep, opened itseyes, gazed forth upon me wonderingly, inquiringly.
Margot's faint remembrance of the terrace walk, of the flower-pots, ofthe grass borders where the cat had often stretched itself in the sun,her eagerness to see the chamber of death, her stealthy visits to thatchamber, her growing uneasiness, deepening to acute apprehension,and finally to a deadly malignity--all lead me irresistibly to oneconclusion.
The animal's soul within her no longer merely shrinks away in fear ofme. It has grown sinister. It lies in ambush, full of a cold, a stealthyintention.
That curious, abrupt change in Margot's demeanour from avoidance toinvitation marked the subtle, inward development of feeling, the silentpassage from sensation only towards action.
Formerly she feared me. Now I must fear her.
The soul, Crouching in its cage, shows its teeth. It is compassing mydestruction.
The woman's body twitches with desire to avenge the death of theanimal's.
I feel that it is only waiting the moment to spring; and the inherentlove of life breeds in me a physical fear of it as of a subtle enemy.For even if the soul is brave, the body dreads to die, and seems atmoments to possess a second soul, purely physical, that cries outchildishly against pain, against death.
Then, too, there is a cowardice of the imagination that can shake thestrongest heart, and this resurrection from the dead, from the murdered,appals my imagination. That what I thought I had long since slain shouldhave companioned me so closely when I knew it not!
I am sick with fear, physical and mental.
Two days ago, when I unlocked my bedroom door in the morning, and sawthe autumn sunlight streaming in through the leaded panes of the hallwindows, and heard the river dancing merrily down the gully among thetrees that will soon be quite bare and naked, I said to myself: "Youhave been mad. Your mind has been filled with horrible dreams, that havetransformed you into a coward and your wife into a demon. Put them awayfrom you."
I looked across the gully. A clear, cold,-thin light shone upon thedistant mountains. The cloud stacks lay piled above the Scawfellrange. The sky was a sheet of faded turquoise. I opened the window fora moment. The air was dry and keen. How sweet it was to feel it on myface!
I went down to the breakfast-room. Mar-got was moving about it softly,awaiting me. In her white hands were letters. They dropped upon thetable as she stole up to greet me. Her lips were set tightly together,but she lifted them to kiss me.
How close I came to my enemy as our mouths touched! Her lips were colderthan the wind.
Now that I was with her, my momentary sensation of acute relief desertedme. The horror that oppressed me returned.
I could not eat--I could only make a pretence of doing so; and my handtrembled so excessively that I could scarcely raise my cup from thetable.
She noticed this, and gently asked me if I was ill.
I shook my head.
When breakfast was over, she said in a low, level voice:
"Ronald, have you thought over what I said last night?"
"Last night?" I answered, with an effort.
"Yes, about the coldness between us. I think I have been unwell,unhappy, out of sorts. You know that--that women are more subject tomoods than men, moods they cannot always account for even to themselves.I have hurt you lately, I know. I am sorry. I want you to forgiveme, to--to"--she paused a moment, and I heard her draw in her breathsharply--"to take me back into your heart again."
Every word, as she said it, sounded to me like a sinister threat, andthe last sentence made my blood literally go cold in my veins.
I met her eyes. She did not withdraw hers; they looked into mine. Theywere the blue eyes of the cat which I had held upon my knees years ago.I had gazed into them as a boy, and watched the horror and the fear dawnin them with a malignant triumph.
"I have nothing to forgive," I said in a broken, husky voice.
"You have much," she answered firmly. "But do not--pray do not bearmalice."
"There is no malice in my heart--now," I said; and the words seemed likea cowardly plea for mercy to the victim of the past.
She lifted one of her soft white hands to my breast.
"Then it shall all be as it was before? And to-night you will come backto me?"
I hesitated, looking down. But how could I refuse? What excuse could Imake for denying the request? Then I repeated mechanically:
"To-night I will come back to you."
A terrible, slight smile travelled over her face. She turned and leftme.
I sat down immediately. I felt too unnerved to remain standing. I wasgiving way utterly to an imaginative horror that seemed to threaten myreason. In vain I tried to pull myself together. My body was in a coldsweat. All mastery of my nerves seemed gone.
I do not know how long I remained there, but I was aroused by theentrance of the butler. He glanced towards me in some obvious surprise,and this astonishment of a servant acted upon me almost like a scourge.I sprang up hastily.
"Tell the groom to saddle the mare," I said. "I am going for a rideimmediately."
Air, action, were what I needed to drive this stupor away. I must getaway from this house of tears. I must be alone. I must wrestle withmyself, regain my courage, kill the coward in me.
I threw myself upon the mare, and rode out at a gallop towards the moorsof Eskdale along the lonely country roads.
All day I rode, and all day I thought of that dark house, of thatwhite creature awaiting my return, peering from the windows, perhaps,listening for my horse's hoofs on the gravel, keeping still the longvigil of vengeance.
My imagination sickened, fainted, as my wearied horse stumbled alongthe shadowy roads. My terror was too great now to be physical. It was aterror purely of the spirit, and indescribable.
To sleep with that white thing that waited me! To lie in the dark by it!To know that it was there, close to me!
If it killed me, what matter? It was to live and to be near it, with it,that appalled me.
The lights of the house gleamed out through the trees. I heard the soundof the river.
I got off my horse and walked furtively into the hall, looking round me.
Margot glided up to me immediately, and took my whip and hat from mewith her soft, velvety white hands. I shivered at her touch.
At dinner her blue eyes watched me.
I could not eat, but I drank more wine than usual.
When I turned to go down to the smoking-room, she said: "Don't be verylong, Ronald."
I muttered I scarcely know what words in reply. It was close on midnightbefore I went to bed. When I entered her room, shielding the light ofthe candle with my hand, she was still awake.
Nestling against the pillows, she stretched herself curiously and smiledup at me.
"I thought you were never coming, dear," she said.
I knew that I was very pale, but she did not remark it. I got into bed,but left the candle still burning.
Presently she said:
"Why don't you put the candle out?"
I looked at her furtively. Her face seemed to me carved in stone, it wasso rigid, so expressionless. She lay away from me at the extreme edge ofthe bed, sideways, with her hands toward me.
"Why don't you?" she repeated, with her blue eyes on me.
"I don't feel sleepy," I answered slowly.
"You never will while there is a light in the room," she said.
"You wish me to put it out?"
"Yes. How odd you are to-night, Ronald! Is anything the matter?"
"No," I answered; and I blew the light out.
How ghastly the darkness was!
I believed she meant to smother me in my sleep. I knew it. I determinedto keep awake.
It was horrible to think that, as we lay there, she could see me all thetime as if it were daylight.
The night wore
on. She was quite silent and motionless. I lay listening.
It must have been towards morning when I closed my eyes, not because Iwas sleepy, but because I was so tired of gazing at blackness.
Soon after I had done this there was a stealthy movement in the bed.
"Margot, are you awake?" I instantly cried out sharply.
The movement immediately ceased. There was no reply.
When the light of dawn stole in at the window she seemed to be sleeping.
*****
Last night I did not close my eyes once. She did not move.
She means to tire me out, and she has the strength to do it. To-night Ifeel so intensely heavy. Soon I must sleep, and then----
Shall I seek any longer to defend myself? Everything seems soinevitable, so beyond my power, like the working of an inexorablejustice bent on visiting the sin of the father upon the child. For wasnot the cruel boy the father of the man?
And yet, is this tragedy inevitable? It cannot be. I will be a man. Iwill rise up and combat it. I