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Return of the Soul, The

<h2> IV. </h2> <h3> Friday Night, November 6th. </h3> I fastened my door, and when I went to bed lay awake for hours listening. A horror was upon me then which has not left me since for a moment, which may never leave me. I shivered with cold that night, the cold born of sheer physical terror. I knew that I was shut up in the house with a soul bent on unreasoning vengeance, the soul of the animal which I had killed prisoned in the body of the woman I had married. I was sick with fear then. I am sick with fear now. To-night I am so tired. My eyes are heavy and my head aches. No wonder. I have not slept for three nights. I have not dared to sleep. This strange revolution in my wife's conduct, this passionless change—for I felt instinctively that warm humanity had nothing to do with the transformation—took place three nights ago. These three last days Mar-got has been playing a part. With what object? When I sat down to this gray record of two souls—at once dreary and fantastic as it would seem, perhaps, to many—I desired to reassure myself, to write myself into sweet reason, into peace. I have tried to accomplish the impossible. I feel that the wildest theory may be the truest, after all—that on the borderland of what seems madness, actuality paces. Every remembrance of my mind confirms the truth first suggested to me by Professor Black. I know Margot's object now. The soul of the creature that I tortured, that I killed, has passed into the body of the woman whom I love; and that soul, which once slept in its new cage, is awake now, watching, plotting perhaps. Unconsciously to itself, it recognises me. It stares out upon me with eyes in which the dull terror deepens to hate; but it does not understand why it fears—why, in its fear, it hates. Intuition has taken the place of memory. The Change of environment has killed recollection, and has left instinct in its place. Why did I ever sit down to write? The recalling of facts has set the seal upon my despair. Instinct only woke in Margot when I brought her to the place the soul had known in the years when it looked out upon the world from the body of an animal. That first day on the terrace instinct stirred in its sleep, opened its eyes, gazed forth upon me wonderingly, inquiringly. Margot's faint remembrance of the terrace walk, of the flower-pots, of the grass borders where the cat had often stretched itself in the sun, her eagerness to see the chamber of death, her stealthy visits to that chamber, her growing uneasiness, deepening to acute apprehension, and finally to a deadly malignity—all lead me irresistibly to one conclusion. The animal's soul within her no longer merely shrinks away in fear of me. It has grown sinister. It lies in ambush, full of a cold, a stealthy intention. That curious, abrupt change in Margot's demeanour from avoidance to invitation marked the subtle, inward development of feeling, the silent passage 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 my destruction. The woman's body twitches with desire to avenge the death of the animal's. I feel that it is only waiting the moment to spring; and the inherent love 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 at moments to possess a second soul, purely physical, that cries out childishly against pain, against death. Then, too, there is a cowardice of the imagination that can shake the strongest heart, and this resurrection from the dead, from the murdered, appals my imagination. That what I thought I had long since slain should have 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 saw the autumn sunlight streaming in through the leaded panes of the hall windows, and heard the river dancing merrily down the gully among the trees that will soon be quite bare and naked, I said to myself: "You have been mad. Your mind has been filled with horrible dreams, that have transformed you into a coward and your wife into a demon. Put them away from you." I looked across the gully. A clear, cold,-thin light shone upon the distant mountains. The cloud stacks lay piled above the Scawfell range. The sky was a sheet of faded turquoise. I opened the window for a moment. The air was dry and keen. How sweet it was to feel it on my face! 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 the table 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 colder than the wind. Now that I was with her, my momentary sensation of acute relief deserted me. The horror that oppressed me returned. I could not eat—I could only make a pretence of doing so; and my hand trembled so excessively that I could scarcely raise my cup from the table. 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 to moods 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 forgive me, to—to"—she paused a moment, and I heard her draw in her breath sharply—"to take me back into your heart again." Every word, as she said it, sounded to me like a sinister threat, and the last sentence made my blood literally go cold in my veins. I met her eyes. She did not withdraw hers; they looked into mine. They were 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 dawn in 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 bear malice." "There is no malice in my heart—now," I said; and the words seemed like a 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 back to me?" I hesitated, looking down. But how could I refuse? What excuse could I make 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 left me. I sat down immediately. I felt too unnerved to remain standing. I was giving way utterly to an imaginative horror that seemed to threaten my reason. In vain I tried to pull myself together. My body was in a cold sweat. All mastery of my nerves seemed gone. I do not know how long I remained there, but I was aroused by the entrance 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 ride immediately." Air, action, were what I needed to drive this stupor away. I must get away from this house of tears. I must be alone. I must wrestle with myself, regain my courage, kill the coward in me. I threw myself upon the mare, and rode out at a gallop towards the moors of Eskdale along the lonely country roads. All day I rode, and all day I thought of that dark house, of that white creature awaiting my return, peering from the windows, perhaps, listening for my horse's hoofs on the gravel, keeping still the long vigil of vengeance. My imagination sickened, fainted, as my wearied horse stumbled along the shadowy roads. My terror was too great now to be physical. It was a terror 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 sound of 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 me with 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 very long, Ronald." I muttered I scarcely know what words in reply. It was close on midnight before I went to bed. When I entered her room, shielding the light of the candle with my hand, she was still awake. Nestling against the pillows, she stretched herself curiously and smiled up 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 was so rigid, so expressionless. She lay away from me at the extreme edge of the 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 determined to keep awake. It was horrible to think that, as we lay there, she could see me all the time 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 I was 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. <hr /> 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 I feel so intensely heavy. Soon I must sleep, and then—— Shall I seek any longer to defend myself? Everything seems so inevitable, so beyond my power, like the working of an inexorable justice bent on visiting the sin of the father upon the child. For was not the cruel boy the father of the man? And yet, is this tragedy inevitable? It cannot be. I will be a man. I will rise up and combat it. I will take Margot away from this house that her soul remembers, in which its body so long ago was tortured and slain, and she will—she must forget. Instinct will sleep once more. It shall be so. I will have it so. I will strew poppies over her soul. I will take her far away from here, far away, to places where she will be once more as she has been. To-morrow we will go. To-morrow—— <hr /> Ah, that cry! Was it my own? I am suffocating! What was that? The horror of it! The pen has fallen from my hand. I must have slept; and I have dreamed. In my dream she stole upon me, that white thing! Her velvety hands were on my throat. The soul stared out from her eyes, the soul of the cat! Even her body, her woman's body, seemed to change at the moment of vengeance. She slowly strangled me, and as the breath died from me, and my failing eyes gazed at her, she was no longer woman at all, but something lithe and white and soft. Fur enveloped my throat. Those hands were claws. That breath on my face was the breath of an animal. The body had come back to companion the soul in its vengeance, the body of—— Ah, it was too horrible! Can vengeance for the dead bring with it resurrection of the dead? Hark! There is a voice calling to me from upstairs. "Ronald, are you never coming? I am tired of waiting for you. Ronald!" "Yes." "Come to me!" "And I must go." <hr /> Just at the glimmer of dawn the first pale shaft of the sun struck across a bed upon which lay the huddled and distorted corpse of a man. His head was sunk down in the pillows. His eyes, that could not see, stared towards the rising light. And from the open window of the chamber of death a woman in a white wrapper leaned out, watching eagerly with wide blue eyes the birds as they darted to and fro, rested on the climbing creepers, or circled above the gorge through which the river ran. Her set lips smiled. She looked like one calm, easy, and at peace. Presently an unwary sparrow perched on the trellis beneath the window just within her reach. Her white hand darted down softly, closed on the bird. She vanished from the window. Can the dead hear? Did he catch the sound of her faint, continuous purring as she crouched with her prey upon the floor? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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