Mr. Oliver Carmichael by Amyas Northcote

“Mr. Oliver Carmichael” is a short story taken from the Amyas Northcote story collection In Ghostly Company, first published in 1922 by John Lane, and subsequently republished by Ash-Tree Press (1997, 2012) and Wordsworth Editions (2010). More recently, “Mr. Oliver Carmichael” was included in the mixed-author anthology The Zaffre Book of Occult Fiction, published by Snuggly Books in 2023.

About Amyas Northcote

Amyas Northcote was the son of the politician Sir Stafford Northcote, 1st Earl of Iddesleigh, who had a great love of literature and a special interest in ghost stories, so there is little wonder that Amyas also developed an interest in ghostly tales. His style of writing has been compared with that of M. R. James, and it is interesting to note that both scholars attended Eton at the same time. However, if the two men were acquainted this has not been recorded and although M. R. James went on to become a well-known author whose work is praised to this day, Northcote remains a lesser-known author who many fans of genre fiction may not be familiar with.

Northcote’s only published one collection of stories: In Ghostly Company (1922). This appears to have been his first and only publishing endevor.  “Brickett Bottom” is generally considered the best story in the collection. It has been reprinted in a number of mixed-author anthologies, while most of the other 12 stories in the collection remain largely ignored or forgotten.

 

Mr. Oliver Carmichael

by Amyas Northcote

(Online Text)

Oliver Carmichael was one of the fortunate ones of the world. Of good family, he was the late born and only child of wealthy, cultivated and affectionate parents, under whose auspices he received the orthodox and pleasant education of an English gentleman. After happy, though not especially distinguished careers at Eton and Oxford, he had obtained an excellent berth in one of our minor government offices and had there settled down to the life of a worthy, if not hard worked Civil Servant. In addition to this occupation he had taken up as a hobby the collection of old silver, and in the pursuit of this found all the mental stimulus that he required.

Mr. Carmichael was not a society man, in fact, he rather avoided the companionship of women, preferring the seclusion of one of our best and most exclusive Clubs, where he spent much of his leisure time and where he possessed a number of acquaintances of his own sex. Amongst these he was popular enough, for, although perhaps slightly effeminate and by no means fond of masculine sports, Mr. Carmichael was a really good fellow, ready at all times to aid with advice or purse others less fortunate than himself.

In person, he was of middle size and distinctly good-looking, though of rather slight frame and with a faint touch of the feminine in him. He was, when his peculiar experiences began, about thirty-seven years of age.

In due course of time his parents died, sincerely mourned by Oliver, who presently parted with their old London house and moved into smaller quarters, where he settled himself down to lead an easy bachelor life, waited on by a staff of old family servants, some of whom he had known all his life.

This is but a brief and imperfect sketch of Oliver Carmichael, but it is intended to portray him as he was: an easy-going, high-minded, good fellow, who had never been confronted with any serious problem in life, and whose aim was to lead a quiet and honourable existence in charity with all men.

An event was now, however, about to occur, which brought about a fundamental change in his nature and in his outlook on the world about him.

One night Mr. Carmichael had a succession of unpleasant dreams. On waking in the morning, he could not recall their details, but he felt depressed and disturbed, and this depression and disturbance may have caused him to be a little less careful than usual over his toilet. For, whilst walking to his office— a custom which he kept up with meticulous care as being beneficial to his health—he suddenly became aware that he had left his pocket-handkerchief behind him. Though annoying, this was a matter easy to remedy, and Oliver sought out the nearest hosier’s shop and entered it to purchase the needed article.

The day was yet young and the shop was nearly empty of customers. Mr. Carmichael made his way to the counter indicated, and a young woman stepped forward to serve him. Instantly he experienced a most curious and unpleasant sensation for which there was apparently no reason. He felt an instinctive and violent repulsion to the girl; he glanced at her more closely, but there was little externally to account for his feeling. The young woman appeared to be of the usual shop-girl class, modest and demure in manner and neatly and quietly dressed. She was a tall and strongly built person, apparently about twenty-five years of age and—was actually ugly. Not only were her features unprepossessing, but there was an indefinable look about them of something evil, not in any positive sense, but rather negatively; it was the look of one whose thoughts and aspirations were set on a low and maleficent plane.

Mr. Carmichael purchased his handkerchief and paid for it by handing the girl a sovereign. Up to the present she had paid him no more attention than was demanded by her duties, but as she gave him his change she looked him straight in the face, and he saw, for an instant, a look of exulting triumph flash into her eyes. She instantly averted them. Oliver turned to leave the shop, feeling a faint sensation of fear, an indefinite fear of something that he could not understand. As he reached the door he turned and looked back; the girl was watching him steadily.

He proceeded on his way to the office revolving the little adventure in his mind. At first, he treated it but lightly and endeavoured to analyse the cause of his sudden aversion to a perfectly respectable and civil shop-girl. But gradually he found the affair taking on a more serious aspect: the personality of the girl began to oppress him, her image kept rising before him, and it was an image presaging ill and wretchedness to himself. All day the affair haunted him and, even in the evening at his Club and during his usual quiet game of bridge after dinner, that baleful look of evil triumphant in the girl’s eyes continued to obtrude itself. When at last he went to bed and finally fell asleep he dreamed again, and this time the recollection of his vision remained with him the next day. He dreamed that he was alone on an apparently desert plain, enveloped in a luminous grey mist, which whirled round him in sweeping masses ever driven by the wind. Across this plain he was journeying, exactly whither he knew not, but filled with a set purpose to reach his unknown destination. Suddenly out of the mist a figure loomed up, which he instantly recognized as that of the shop-girl. She came towards him, her eyes gleaming with an evil joy. In wild panic he turned and fled, forgetting his destination, careless of his fate, seeking only to escape from the swift moving figure which pursued him. The grey luminosity around him grew darker, his confusion increased, the threatening pursuer gained upon him. He woke with a cry; daylight was stealing into the room.

He rose that morning from his bed unrefreshed and still agitated over his dream. He endeavoured in the light of a new day to look at the whole episode more calmly, and gradually forced himself to believe that he had succeeded in stilling the nervous agitation that had possessed him the day before. He found himself presently walking to his office, but it was by a new, a pleasanter route as he fondly imagined; he laughed bitterly to himself as he gradually realized that he had selected this new route to avoid passing the hosier’s shop. All that day the thought of the girl haunted him and at last after much reflection he decided on a new means of obliterating her memory. His annual leave was soon due, affairs at the office were quiet, he would ask his chief to permit him to forestall his holiday, and would go away at once. No sooner decided upon than done. His chief readily gave the required permission, and Mr. Carmichael astonished his household by announcing on his return that evening that he was going to Brighton the following day, to remain there for a week before he proceeded on the round of quiet country house visits which he had arranged for his regular holiday.

To Brighton Oliver Carmichael went accordingly, but change of scene did not serve to distract him from his prevailing obsession. He thought very often of the girl, of whom he now had an unutterable loathing, and he also found himself pursued by other thoughts. Hitherto his life’s habits had induced in him a train of pleasant and amiable ideas, not perhaps marked by any special eminence in the way of ability, but the thoughts of a clean-minded, honourable man. Now he found himself imperceptibly drifting into other trains of thought: evil notions passed through his mind, views of humanity taken from a hostile and a wicked standpoint, impressions of the worst side of human nature obtruded themselves. He fought desperately against these new ideas, but he felt it was a losing fight; he began to lose all confidence in himself, his integrity, his honour; he began to despair.

He no longer dreamed of nights, but lay buried in profound slumber, slumber in which it may well be that the thing we call the soul may leave its earthly shell and wander to realms and seek affinities utterly unknown to our waking personalities.

Mr. Carmichael, deep though his sleep might he, was now in the habit of waking unrefreshed and troubled, and though he exerted himself, both inwardly for the sake of his own peace of mind and outwardly for the sake of the conventions of life, to preserve his usual demeanour it was noticed later on by his friends that he seemed distraught and to have lost his former happy and placid content and generous instincts.

His holiday over, Mr. Carmichael returned to town filled with a new resolve. He would go again and see this ill-omened girl; he persuaded himself that her haunting personality would be dissipated by another sight of her in the flesh. He had made, he said to himself, a mountain out of a molehill; because he had taken a dislike to a girl’s face there was no reason that she should drive him into madness from thinking of her. A second inspection would, no doubt, show her to be just an ordinary plain-faced girl, full of her own affairs, who had never given another thought to the casual buyer of a handkerchief some weeks before. He resolved, therefore, once more to visit the shop on the pretext of making a small purchase, and, this decision being taken, he felt easier in his mind. The next morning he made the trial, and it was, it must be confessed, with a nervous although more hopeful heart that Mr. Carmichael pushed opened the shop doors and entered.

His first glance around did not disclose the girl, but when he had approached the well remembered counter she stepped forward quietly to meet him. As before she moved modestly and demurely; she glanced casually at him, her manner was that of an absolute and totally indifferent stranger. Carmichael felt reassured, he was right: he had made a fool of himself, the girl had never thought of him and did not now even remember him.

She asked him his needs, Mr. Carmichael hesitated and then blundered out the first thing he could think of: gloves. She produced them and asked him his size; Mr. Carmichael had forgotten, his valet usually bought such articles for him. Then she must measure his hand.

He held it out and she stooped to her slight task. As she stretched the glove across his hand she touched it with her own, momentarily, perhaps accidentally. The touch sent a shock as of electricity through him, all his self-possession vanished, all his belief in the unreality of the past few weeks. For one blinding instant he saw into deeps hitherto unsuspected and sensed a horror hitherto undreamt of. Scarcely knowing what he did he took the gloves, paid for them and stood for a moment looking at the girl.

So far her manner had been that of the shop assistant, doing her work carefully and politely but somewhat mechanically; she had shown no trace of recognition or of any sense of understanding. Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked straight into his own and once more he saw a blaze of exultation, a look of power light them up. She knew herself mistress of the situation; she knew and understood the secret links that bound him to her, links that he felt dimly controlled him, but the nature of which he could not comprehend.

All this passed in a moment, the girl averted her eyes and turned carelessly from him; Mr. Carmichael left the shop almost unmanned. He reached his office, but was utterly incapable of concentrating his mind upon his work, and presently his chief, seeing him to be unwell, advised him to go home. Mr. Carmichael leapt at the idea, he would go back to the shop, he felt he must go back to the shop, he would see her again, he felt he must see her again; perhaps she would explain things, perhaps he would see his way clearer. He put on his hat and left the office.

But on arrival at the shop he was doomed to disappointment; it was early closing day and all the assistants had gone home. He walked on towards his own house, in a state of mingled disappointment and relief. He felt he must see her, and yet he dreaded the interview; he knew it would be a decisive one, but how he would emerge from it he felt to be uncertain.

He found himself drawing near home and passing through one of our quiet London squares. As he turned a corner of it, he met his enemy, for so he felt the girl to be, face to face.

She was walking quietly towards him, neatly and modestly dressed, demure as ever in her expression, but with perhaps a shade of anxiety in it also. As they approached each other, she raised her eyes. There was no blaze of triumph in them now, they were deep and watchful as they rested on his face. Almost unconsciously he raised his hat; she acknowledged the salute and the next moment found him walking on beside her.

For a few minutes silence reigned, then Mr. Carmichael, collecting himself, began:

“I am glad to have met you, I was anxious to see you, I went by Messrs.——, and found the shop shut.”

He paused.

“Yes?” said the other interrogatively.

“I do not understand things,” went on Oliver. “Ever since that day nearly five weeks ago when I came into the shop to buy a handkerchief, I have been haunted by you. I have thought of you waking, I have, I know it now, been possessed by you in sleep.”

Again he paused.

“Are you trying to make love to me?” said the girl with a short laugh.

This notion so astounded Mr. Carmichael that for an instant he was struck dumb. Then he ejaculated:

“Love! Make love to you! Oh, Heaven forbid!”

“You are not very polite,” said his companion. “Well, if you are not moved by love, perhaps you are moved by its opposite, and you hate me.”

She looked keenly at him, and Mr. Carmichael hesitated for a reply. She went on:

“You need not trouble to mince matters. I know your feelings, know them far better than you do yourself.”

By this time their wanderings had led them into the Park and the girl, motioning towards two vacant chairs, said:

“Let us sit down, there may be much to speak of.”

He complied without answering her and looked long and fixedly at her. As always, she looked calm, demure and mistress of herself; only in her eyes there burned a sombre light, powerful, mysterious, — She turned away.

“What has happened to me?” he said. “Who are you, what do you want of me? I am at sea.”

She answered slowly:

“You have asked several questions, the full answers to which you are not yet fit to understand, but I will tell you something. Who am I? Well, you will find out some day who and what I really am, but you may now call me by the name my parents gave me, Phyllis Rourke; I was not always, even here, what I now am, a shop-girl My father was a man of wisdom, a gentleman who taught me how to learn”—she hesitated—“many things, truths, facts, which are obscure to you and all your like. What do I want of you? Well, much, and much that you will dread to part with, but I hold you ”—she detached a blossom from her dress and held it in her hand—“like I hold this flower, and I can crush you as I do it.”

She suited her actions to her words and sat silently gazing at the ruined flower. Mr. Carmichael struggled between fear and anger. Who was this boastful girl, he thought; was he not a gentleman, a man of position, what had he really to fear from the threats of an unknown girl from a second-class shop? Summoning up his courage he answered:

“These are fine words, Miss Rourke, but you do not consider what I may do in the meantime. You indulge in threats to persecute me? Have you considered our relative social positions? Do you know I am Mr. Carmichael and a man of influence and reputation? In the last place have you considered—the police? Persons who annoy others are apt to find themselves in trouble.”

He spoke more bravely than he felt. As the words passed his lips he felt his courage evaporating. She listened unmoved, smiling, with something of the air of a cat watching a mouse. When he had finished, she waited a few moments and then in a low, intensely concentrated voice answered:

“Oh, you poor fool! How little you understand. Since that night five weeks ago when first I found you, before you saw my living face, have you learned nothing? You talk of your position, of your social influence; you prate of the police.” Her eyes, dark and gloomy, seemed to devour him as she went on: “What can you do? I hold you and shall always hold you. I may never see you again in this body, I want nothing of your material life, I want something more, I want you yourself, I want your soul.”

He shrank back in horror.

“Are you the Devil?” he said.

She burst into a fit of terrible, silent laughter.

“The Devil,” she said, “we are becoming quite medieval. Do you expect to see this foot,” and she pushed forward her own, “turned into a hoof? Are you waiting for me to take out a parchment to be signed in your blood?”

She laughed again.

“No, Mr. Carmichael,” She went on, “I am not the Devil. Perhaps you would be better off if I were.”

There was a silence. Mr. Carmichael felt like a bird in the presence of a snake. He was fascinated, he was filled with abhorrence: he wished to fly, he could not; he wished to fortify his spirit to resist, he felt it yielding and becoming more and more plastic under the influence of her personality.

Presently she spoke again.

“There is no more to be said now,” she began, “we have talked long enough. You understand as much as you are yet fitted to understand: you know now what you but feared before, that I control you, control you for a purpose clear to myself, if not to you. We need not meet again, I shall summon you when I choose, and you will come to me when I call you in the places of sleep.”

Another shock passed through Oliver Carmichael. Like a lightning flash there passed across him the knowledge that in those deep sleeps he had had recently his soul, detached from his body, communed with that of Phyllis Rourke amidst strange and terrible surroundings. He resolved he must try not to sleep again; she answered his thought with a laugh.

“Oh yes,” she said, “you will sleep as well as ever. And now,” she added, “it is time to part. I live with my aunt in Fulham and the old soul will wonder where I am.”

She rose from her chair.

“Good-bye, Mr. Carmichael,” she said. “Au revoir, my dear affinity, till tonight.” She left him and Oliver remained sitting dazed, helpless and despairing, till a park keeper warned him of the closing gates.

Mr. Carmichael returned home in a state verging on stupefaction; the amazing conversation which had taken place, the force and malevolent disposition of Phyllis Rourke appalled him. He felt, as before said, like a bird fascinated by a snake, he desired to struggle, to escape from the toils which were closing round him, but no avenue presented itself. Vainly he racked his brains and vainly he tried to summon up will power sufficient to effect—he scarcely knew what. He was threatened from a quarter totally unguarded and by dangers the very existence of which he had never hitherto suspected. And he was threatened by what? That again he did not know. Tangible evils affecting his life or his possessions he would have known how to face or to endeavour to face, but this was an evil affecting his soul. Like many other people who have always led smooth and peaceful lives, the problems of the soul had never disturbed him. He was vaguely conscious of its existence, he had in his youth been an orthodox member of the English Church, but of late years he had slipped imperceptibly into a mild form of agnosticism and, while always ready to offer a helping hand to those needing his assistance, he had never really given any consideration to the problems of suffering or wrong. He had sought to avoid them; he knew of their existence, but only after an ill-defined fashion, and he had endeavoured to retain his own happy calm by minimizing them and hiding them from his consciousness as far as possible.

Now all was changed in an instant. He found himself in the grip of what seemed to him Evil incarnate. He knew the mind of the girl to be as fertile a field for evil as he had hitherto imagined his own to be for good, and he was powerless to resist her. What would become of him? Was she destined to drag him down to her own low plane and destroy that entity, his soul, which he now for the first time began clearly to realize existed?

He thought and thought, but little help came to him. Only one way finally illumined his darkness and this he well realized might prove awill-o’-the-wisp. The girl had threatened to seek him out in sleep. Well, he would turn night into day, he would watch at night and rest in the daylight hours, when he fondly imagined that she would be attending to her waking duties. Somewhat encouraged at having at least found a chance of salvation, he passed through the rest of the evening endeavouring to collect and control himself and at the usual hour for going to rest he made up his fire and selecting a book settled down to his nocturnal vigil.

But he found it impossible to concentrate on the printed page. His thoughts wandered to Phyllis Rourke. What was she doing, was she triumphing over him, was she even now striving to approach him? He tried to dismiss these thoughts; he resumed his book.

* * *

He woke with a start. The fire was out, the lamp had died down, daylight streamed into the room and he fancied as he regained his consciousness he heard Phyllis Rourke’s low, mocking laugh.

* * *

This night was the beginning of despair for Oliver Carmichael. His hope for protection against his unseen assailant had failed him, and he knew of no other help.

To detail the events of the next few months would be as difficult as useless; to the end of his life Oliver Carmichael looked back upon them as a descent into hell itself. It will suffice to summarize his experiences briefly.

After his one effort at an all-night vigil he decided it was useless to attempt to vary his ordinary form of life and he returned to it and lived it as heretofore. Dealing first with this external existence, it may be said, that his acquaintances found: him gradually changing, the differences were not very marked, but it was noticed that he did not take quite his old placid, kindly view of human nature. His judgment grew more bitter, he became prone to attribute bad motives rather than good to the actions of others; his good temper became less marked, his desire to help others faded, he became selfish, cold, unmerciful. Socially, he became more ambitious; he frequented parties, he entertained at home, but although he thus joined more in the life of the body politic, yet he was less popular than of old. His more intimate friends grieved over the change in him, endeavoured to reason with him and, failing to convince, drew gradually away from him. In his work he did well and earned the approbation, without increasing the affection, of his colleagues. So much for the outer Mr. Carmichael. It will be harder to paint the inner man.

At first he fought desperately against the hated invasion of his personality, but from the first he felt it to be a losing fight. He was unarmed and blinded against the attack of a skilled and watchful foe. In his waking hours he was never conscious of any hostile presence. Night and she were his enemies. He rested soundly, never dreaming, or rather never being able to recall his dreams. And yet he was well aware that it was during sleep that his soul, torn from his body by the powerful spirit of Phyllis Rourke, was dragged, resisting hopelessly, through the mire of spiritual degradation. He knew this, and nightly he summoned up his forces to this losing battle and daily realized he had taken another step on the downward path.

It is, perhaps, not accurate to say that his struggles were renewed every night; it is impossible to say, but it is certain that on some nights the battle was fiercer than on others, since he would wake on certain mornings, trembling, weary and bathed in perspiration, as if indeed he had but just emerged from a frightful ordeal. And he noticed that after each one of these dreadful nights he made a very distinct step forward in his knowledge and love of evil. His love of evil! It was with a frightful pang that once, when meditating on his fate and bemoaning his lost innocence, a still, small voice spoke within him, “With lost innocence you have gained knowledge.” The thought had dwelt with him, and slowly he had begun to realize that, deep within himself, he had begun to prefer vice to virtue, evil to good.

Ever since the hated invasion of his sleeping personality had begun, Oliver Carmichael had striven his hardest to repel the invader. He was, as we know, a man of high principles, if not of strong will, and his waking consciousness, aware of the hostile influences acting on his soul, had set itself to resist these influences as resolutely as possible, and at first during his daylight hours with no little success. Even up to that moment he had believed that these horrible thoughts were forced upon him and were external to his real self; he now perceived that on the contrary they formed part of himself and were knit into him inextricably. Phyllis Rourke had done her work well; she had not only captured his pure soul with her evil one, but she had even intermingled her wicked personality with his so that her thoughts and his own had become one, and it was impossible for him to decide whether the impulses and reasons which guided him were his own or hers. He had lost his identity together with his principles.

This last blow seemed likely to crush him. Hitherto he had vaguely hoped that death at any rate would put a period to his sufferings, and he had from time to time even dwelt on thoughts of suicide to escape from them. He had been restrained from this last step by a vague recollection of earlier religious training and by a fear that by violating a moral law he might end by making his condition worse. All hope of final relief, however, was now cut off, he had lost himself, he was one for ever with his evil genius.

* * *

Six months of mental and spiritual anguish elapsed and during this time Oliver Carmichael never felt the faintest desire again to see his tormentor, nor did her presence force itself upon him during his waking hours. It was only subconsciously that he was aware of her approach to him during sleep, though he never doubted that she was the cause and formed the larger part of his misery. But he would pass the shop of Messrs.——, where he presumed her still to be employed, without concern and without ever desiring to ascertain whether Phyllis Rourke was still to be found there. Nor had he made any inquiries about her, her relation to him had no connection with the things of this world, but lay, as he well knew now, entirely on another plane.

This was the position when, about six months after the first meeting between Mr. Carmichael and Miss Rourke, the former awoke one morning with the well-known signs of his nocturnal battle upon him. He was tired, trembling, bathed in perspiration, but somewhere deep within him he felt a new sensation, a sense of exhilaration; in that awful battle of the souls he had for once proved victorious. He knew it, though he knew nothing else, for throughout his long period of suffering, it must be carefully remembered, he never knew the details of those nightly happenings: he knew the results, not the causes.

Strangely gladdened he rose from his bed and dressed himself, meditating as he did so on what had happened, and even now vaguely beginning to hope that his trials might yet come to an end, and that he would, through the aid of some unknown power, be able to tear Phyllis Rourke from his personality. The day passed more happily than any had done since his first visit to the shop and on his homeward way he felt an impulse towards entering it and seeking out his enemy. He did not do so, however.

That night he dreamed, and on this occasion the dream remained with him at waking.

He dreamed that he was himself again and walking in a fair country. Overhead the sun shone brightly, its rays tempered by a gentle breeze. Birds sang in the trees and hedgerows, rabbits played on the short turf, and myriads of wild flowers blossomed and scented the air. In front of him a pair of lovers were strolling, arms interlocked, evidently out for a happy day. All was peaceful and serene and he walked onwards, cheery, good-tempered and feeling in charity with all men. Suddenly he heard a cry, the singing of the birds was hushed, a hawk had swooped and borne off a hapless little creature in its clutches. The sight was unpleasant and marred the peaceful scene; he turned away his eyes, he was not to blame, it was Nature. At that moment there was a shrill scream, a stoat had sprung upon one of the rabbits, it clung to its neck viciously biting under the ear of the little beast, which struggled vainly to shake off its deadly rider. Mr. Carmichael shuddered; scenes of blood and violence were repulsive to him; he hurried on. But the wind had dropped, the heat had become oppressive, the wild flowers, withering under the glare of the sun, drooped their heads. The beauty of the landscape faded, its outlines were still there, but they were obscured and blurred by a mist, like those which, rising from the sea, instantaneously blot out the distant, sunlit shipping. He turned a corner of the road; again he saw the lovers, but they had quarrelled, high words were passing between them; on seeing Mr. Carmichael’s approach they hurried on, but their angry voices came back to his ears. Now the clouds had gathered, the sun was obscured, the heat was stifling; suddenly the storm burst, the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed and rain fell in torrents. Mr. Carmichael sheltered himself and, the fury of the storm quickly passing over, he resumed his way. Refreshed by the rain the wild flowers again raised their heads and perfumed the air, the birds sang, and before him the lovers, reconciled, pursued their happy way. Trouble had come and had passed. He woke.

That morning among his letters he found one in a handwriting strange to him, but of whose authorship he had no doubts. It was from Phyllis Rourke. He hesitated for a few moments then, opening it, he read as follows:

 

“Dear Mr. Carmichael,

“I greatly wish to see you again, if it be possible. Tomorrow I leave Messrs.—— early and shall walk in the Park near where I met you before. I shall be there by 4 p.m. and will wait.

‘Yours sincerely,

“PHYLLIS ROURKE.

“P.S. Do come.”

 

Mr. Carmichael felt no surprise at this letter. He knew now that he had expected it to come, but he was doubtful as to what course to follow. Miss Rourke evidently wanted to see him. Why should he do anything to oblige Miss Rourke? His anger against her rose, she was his worst enemy. He looked at the matter from another aspect. He glanced at himself in the glass, and saw himself a handsome, well groomed gentleman; it might be well to go and show Miss Phyllis, that, at any rate, her evil deeds had not harmed his body. Undecided, he went to his office, and he was still undecided when he set out on his walk home after lunch. Almost unconsciously he found himself in the Park and near the well-remembered spot where he had talked with Miss Rourke six months before. He found two chairs, sat down and waited, and presently saw her coming towards him.

His heart throbbed with mingled excitement, fear and hatred. As she drew near he looked at her attentively and saw that she was somehow changed: her features were less harsh than formerly, her eyes looked softer; in her dress she was as always neat and modest. She approached him quickly and quietly, there was pleasure in her face at seeing him. He rose from his seat and waited for her.

“I am glad you have come,” she said, omitting any more formal greeting, “very glad. There are things I have to say to you, knowledge I must impart.”

He looked coldly at her.

“What can you have to say to me?” he began. “Do you realize what you have done to me: to me who never injured you, to me a stranger to you, a harmless stranger, who sought but to live his life in peace?”

“I know what has happened,” she answered “and my knowledge goes further than your own. I know what you have suffered and the change that has come about in you.” She stopped.

There was a short silence, then she resumed:

“But if I know what has happened to you, you are ignorant as to what has taken place in myself.”

“I am indifferent as to that,” said Mr. Carmichael. “What have you to do with me?”

“She laughed a little, but not the mocking laugh he knew so well, and said:

“When you know all you will not say that; but now look at me, can you see any change in me?”

Carmichael looked at her.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “you are changed.” He hesitated. “You are changed—for the better,’’ he went on.

She smiled again.

“I am changed,” she said, “and for the better, and this I owe to you. In the struggle that has taken place between us, I have gained much and perhaps you have lost—nothing.”

“I do not understand you,” said he.

She turned again and looked steadily at him. As he gazed at her a new man woke within him. He saw as in a glass darkly the blurred outlines of a mighty truth; he essayed [1] to focus it, to make clear to his mind that which his subconscious self already perceived. But he failed, the vision faded, he sighed and said, varying his previous words:

“I cannot understand you.”

“Not yet,” she answered, “not yet.”

Your inner, your true vision is still clouded by the workings of your earthly mind. You cannot yet see clearly those wonderful affinities that exist between the souls of those we wrongly call individuals. Just as darkness and light combined make the perfect day, so do the intermingled spirits of man and woman form one perfect whole. Separated in past ages, as darkness and light were separated, for some mysterious purpose, the divided souls now seek each other throughout the ages, striving once more to unite. Some happy ones have achieved their purpose, although, clouded by earthly and external thoughts, they are as yet but dimly conscious of their triumph, but most are still seekers wandering in the night.”

“I begin to understand you,” he said.

“Of those seekers,”’ she went on, “I was one, and one of not the least wretched. In times far beyond our #ken, Fate, Chance, what you will, severed our knit souls, and set yours on the paths of peace and joy, whilst, I, ill-fated, was turned towards the lower depths. I do not know how long I sought you, but I know that through the ages I sought in vain, and slowly there grew up in my inmost deeps a hatred of you, my joint spirit, a hatred bred of envy and despair. At last I found you, before ever you saw me in the flesh I found you in the spirit—and when you came that first day to the shop, my soul rejoiced, for I knew that I had succeeded and that you were mine. Then I began my work, to drag you down and plunge you into the abyss of those lost souls, wherein I felt myself to be. I sought to blacken you.” She paused, and after a few moments, went on in a lower voice: ‘‘But I forgot that black mingled with white forms grey, and that grey may at last bleach in the sunlight to purest white.”

There was a long silence, slowly the truth possessed him, the knowledge already buried in him arose and, passing through his consciousness, filled him with content.

“I think I understand you,” he said.

Phyllis went on:

“And now the fight was joined, and triumphantly I watched your struggles, your slow fall. Joy possessed me, the joy of evil victorious, but gradually with that joy ill ease mingled. Gradually, imperceptibly to myself even, my onslaughts slackened, and your resistance increased. Of those dreadful, silent battles of the night your earthly sense knows nothing, but even before that recent morning when you awoke victorious I knew that I had failed and, failing, I rejoiced. As you sank, I rose and, rising, helped you to rise again.”

Again she stopped and again went on:

“Now you know all, and now you know that separated once we are once more knit together for ever. In this existence we shall meet no more, it will be better so, but do you go back and take up your daily life, your work, resume your friends, rejoin your family, if you have one. As for me, a small legacy has come to me, and I have persuaded my aunt to leave London and live with me in the country, where I can pass this life in quiet and thought. We have both a battle still before us, you to regain, I to attain, merit, but let us both strive after that knowledge which brings Peace, which is God.”

Again there was silence, then she rose and held out her hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Carmichael,” she said, “Good-bye.”

He rose also and held her hand an instant.

“Au revoir,” he said, “till we meet again in sleep.”

They parted and went upon their separate ways.

Amyas Northcote (1864 — 1923)

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1. Although it is no longer common to use the word “essayed” in this way, it can replace the words “tried” and “attempted.” ↩

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