It must have been many years since the head of the Secret Society had seen a naked baby, and now to come suddenly upon one, and with her favourite pupil tending it, too, forced her to realize, in a vivid way she had never done before, what her scheme meant. She felt a strange sickness and vertigo when she looked at the innocent being before her.
Mrs. White was not unnaturally very astonished at the curious manner of the meeting of this affectionate aunt and niece; but she came to her senses first, and as no one else seemed inclined to break through the awkward silence, said:
"There is the dear girl; she looks much better, does she not, Mrs. King?"
This broke the spell. Mary sprang to her feet and rushed into Catherine's arms, kissing her with great warmth.
Catherine returned the embrace in a shy manner that seemed cold; she was ashamed of being effusively affectionate, especially before strangers; but she felt as if her very soul was going out to the girl who hung about her neck.
She said in a quiet voice: "I should have come long ago, you know, Mary, but the doctor would not hear of it."
She still held the girl's hand in her own, unwilling to part with it.
"I know that. But, oh! I have so longed to see you, aunt dear—and I have so much to talk to you about!"
"We will have a long chat together to-morrow morning, Mary, before I go; but you must not tire yourself now. Indeed you do look better—much better," and she stepped back so as better to see her pupil. "What should we have done without you, Mrs. White? Ah! I have reason to be grateful to you for your kindness to my niece."
"But, oh! I am altogether neglecting Tommy!" cried Mary; "poor little chap, sitting there all alone, covered with nasty soap-suds!—no one paying the slightest attention to him! Aren't they naughty, Tommy? No wonder he cries, poor littleman!" She was beginning all her tender woman's nonsense with the child again, when her eyes suddenly met those of her mistress, and she became confused and silent again before that sad, puzzled gaze.
Catherine felt she ought to say something complimentary to the mother; it was the usual thing, she supposed; so she spoke in a curious, constrained tone, hesitating between the words as if repeating a half-learned lesson:
"That is your—youngest—I presume—Mrs. White? He is a—a fine—a fine boy."
Mrs. White smiled involuntarily at the stiff manner of the woman; could this be the kind, sympathetic aunt whom Mary had praised so warmly?
"Yes," she replied; "he is the youngest of the three—a great friend of Mary's; isn't he, Mary?"
"Ah!" ejaculated Catherine, and lapsed into awkward silence again. Everything was so strange to her that she could not collect her thoughts at all.
"Leave him to me, darling—I'll dry him," said the mother to Mary; and the little mortal was soon dried, chuckling and crowing again in a warm blanket.
He looked at the stranger and laughed, pointing to her with his chubby fist to attract her attention.
"He has evidently taken to you, Mrs. King," said the proud mother. "Isn't he a fine boy?" and she handed him to her—the baby stretching out his arms and kicking lustily in his eagerness to be taken up by a new friend.
Catherine mechanically took him in her arms and held him in a constrained, stiff way, looking at him as if he were some entirely new animal to her, and as if she did not know what to make of him, or whether he was dangerous or not.
It had doubtlessly been a long time since she had held a baby in her arms, though she discussed them a good deal in the abstract.
The extreme awkwardness of her position, and the uncomfortable look of her face, as she stood with the infant White in the middle of the room, would have made Mary laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, were it not that the hidden meaning of the scene made her heart bleed with pity and sorrow.
It was indeed a relief to Catherine when the baby was put to bed and they went downstairs into the drawing-room.
The invalid, tired out by the day's excitement, was sent to bed shortly after tea, and the two women were left alone. Notwithstanding the incongruity of the society, the evening passed pleasantly enough.
Catherine soon became herself again, now that distressing phenomenon, the baby, was no longer present.
Mrs. White, who could soon make anyone feel at home, discovered that her guest was very fond of chess, a game which she herself played a little. So after a long talk over Mary's illness, the chessmen were brought out and they sat down to a game.
But as they played, the thoughts of both wandered constantly to the same subject, one in which both were deeply interested—the fate of Mary Grimm. Both loved the girl, both were anxious about her future, and either dreaded the influence of the other.
Catherine King instinctively felt that her own influence over her pupil would be lessened by her association with Mrs. White; she dreaded that Mary's new surroundings would unfit her for her work in the Secret Society.
So, too, did Mrs. White fear Catherine. She knew how devoted Mary was to her aunt, how thoroughly she believed in her wisdom and goodness, and she also knew from her brother what objectionable views Catherine held on the subject of religion and morals. She felt how perilous it must be for a young girl to have faith in such a teacher.
Thus it happened that as they played at chess, the two womenwere playing another more subtle game at the same time. Each was endeavouring to sound the other as to her views and intentions with regard to the girl.
But both were cautious, and would reveal nothing of their plans.
At last, towards the end of the game, Mrs. White asked:
"Do you think it will be well for Mary to return to her hospital work after so serious an illness?"
"Check!" said Mrs. King. "You can only save yourself by sacrificing your bishop—I beg your pardon, Mrs. White, but I have not considered that matter yet. I shall certainly not permit her to return to the hospital for a long while yet."
After a few more moves, Mrs. White spoke again: "I hear that you are a great politician, Mrs. King?"
"I take deep interest in social questions, but I am afraid you would not consider my views quite orthodox, Mrs. White."
Another long pause ensued.
"That white knight of yours is much in the way of my schemes; but I think I shall get him out of the way very soon," said Catherine, who was deeply interested in the game, and was too confident of success to fear the result of thus disclosing her tactics to the enemy.
Mrs. White started; the words seemed ominous, for she was just then thinking what a dangerous foe to Mrs. King her own brother would prove, as Mary's lover, how he would frustrate her plans.
So, from that moment, she began to take a peculiar interest in the game before her. She was possessed by a fancy that whoever would win that game, would win Mary. She remembered the old legend of the Angel and the Demon playing for the man's soul, and she felt a strange awe, when she looked at the dark frowning face of her adversary contemplating the pieces before her.
It was soon evident that the game was in Catherine's hands; a few more moves and the Mate was inevitable.
Mrs. White was filled with quite a superstitious terror and despair, as the end approached. She was ashamed of her folly, but could not help it in the presence of this woman.
Catherine had been observing her face with some amusement; she had, with her peculiar faculty of placing her mind in sympathy with that of another, half-read her thoughts. She divined that Mrs. White was identifying the game with another more important one that was yet to be fought out. Her eccentric mind was seized with a curious inspiration. She suddenly, as if by accident, upset the light chess-table with her elbow, and the pieces rolled rattling to the floor.
The eyes of the two women met.
Catherine smiled and said, "I should have won I think, but this accident makes it a drawn game.The Fates won't reveal their secret.But I must not keep you up any longer, Mrs. White; I know it is long after your usual bed-time," and she rose from her seat as she spoke.
"Why, the woman is a witch!" thought the startled little woman, as she showed her guest the way to her room; "but I believe the White Knight will be too strong for her game nevertheless."
Catherine left the cottage with its uncongenial atmosphere of babies and innocence, on the following morning, but before going she expressed a wish to have a quiet talk with Mary.
They went out into the garden together, and sat down on the seat under the great beech-tree. For some time neither spoke. Catherine was looking across the moor to the lake, strangely softened by the beautiful view. The sternness faded from her brow and mouth as she gazed at it, and her thought travelled along gentle and unwonted ways for her.
But Mary sat motionless with downcast eyes, oppressed by a great fear. It was a dreadful thing for her to think of the confession she was about to make.
At last Mrs. King remembered that she had little time to spare, so broke through the silence.
"Mary, dear! I wish to talk over a few necessary matters with you, that is if you are sure you are strong enough now, if you think that conversation won't hurt you."
Mary indeed felt very ill; a strange sensation came to her heart as if it was about to stop, but she pressed her hand to it, and said firmly,
"I am quite well enough; I particularly wish to talk things over with you, mother, for I have much to tell you. I have been so anxious to see you and explain all to you—though I hardly dare—but I must, I must!"
"Don't be frightened Mary, don't be anxious! You must not worry yourself. We wish you to get well; so put our secret entirely out of your mind, at any rate for the present. You were very unhappy, dear, when you were with me. I am not quite certain why, but I think I can guess. Now, Mary, tell me if there is still anything on your mind, has the weight, whatever it is, been removed?... Don't be afraid of telling me all; I shall not blame you, poor child."
Very tender was the tone in which she uttered the last words as she saw Mary's pale, frightened face.
The girl took the woman's hand in hers and kissed it. "Yes, mother," she said in a scared excited manner, "there is still very much on my mind. Oh! how can I tell it to you? What will you say? But I must, though I know you will hate me when you hear it."
"You loved him then, Mary, loved him very much?" said Catherine sadly, half reproachfully. "I think you ought to have confided in me, dear; but never mind, don't cry, I am not angry with you, my poor child."
Mary looked up through her tears, and asked timidly, "Did he tell you then, mother?"
"How could he have done so, Mary? I never saw him alive."
"Alive! but he is not dead—whom are you talking about, mother?"
"Why, of Mr. Hudson, to be sure! Good heavens! what a cruel fool I am! I had no idea that they had not told you. Oh, Mary, I am so sorry!"
A very strange look came to Mary's face, half of bewilderment, half of terror. She put both hands to her forehead, and her brows knit, as if she were endeavouring to recall some terrible memory.
"Mr. Hudson!" she said in a dreamy voice as if speaking to herself. "Yes, I know he is dead—but how do I know it? Who told me? I can't remember. Something horrible happenedto him—oh, my head, my head!" and an expression of pain passed over her pale features.
Catherine kissed her forehead.
"O, Mary, what have I done? I ought to have known."...
The girl interrupted her. "But I did not understand you, mother. Did you ask me whether I loved him very much?"
"Yes, darling! but let us not talk about this now!"
"You are mistaken," went on Mary quietly. "There never was any love between Mr. Hudson and me. Why, I only saw him once. He was very kind to me three years ago. I told you all about it. I was, of course, very grateful to him, and liked him very much, but love never entered my head."
"Is that so?" cried Catherine eagerly, clutching tightly the girl's arm. "Is that so? Oh, I am so glad, Mary! If I had only known this all these miserable weeks!—Oh, my darling, my darling, I have been so unjust to you all this time! I believed that you loved this man, and I thought it was so cruel, so wicked of you to keep this from me. I began to hate you, Mary—ah! if you knew what I suffered all those sleepless nights thinking how all that care and love of mine had been wasted on you. And now to find I was wrong! Forgive me for suspecting you—Forgive me, my darling! Oh! it nearly killed me when I discovered, as I thought, that you loved him. I could have killed you, I hated you so. It was only after I heard he was dead that I began to relent, and I did not forgive you even then. No! not till I saw your poor, thin face in the hospital, and I could hate you no longer. Oh, my darling—you have made me so happy! Will you forgive me?"
A man who has had a serious quarrel with the woman he loves, and finds that he was in the wrong, that he has behaved unjustly, could not have shown a more passionate tenderness over the reconciliation than did this strange woman. She was carried away by her joy; she looked pleadingly into the girl's eyes as she seized her hands and begged for her forgiveness.
Mary shrunk back from her. She was shocked and frightened at this unwonted display of profound affection. She felt sick with shame and sorrow, for she knew she did not deserve all this love; she knew that when she told her story, all the woman's triumphant happiness would change again to a bitterer misery and hate than ever. How to tell her kind protectress that she had deceived her—that she did love—though not Hudson, and that this was a live love, not a dead one! She could never be forgiven for that. She would be spurned—hated; and she sobbed as she buried her head in her hands, not daring to show her guilty face.
But she determined to deceive her no longer, so throwing herself at Catherine's feet, she exclaimed wildly, "Oh, mother! mother! you are killing me; don't talk about forgivingme!don't love me any longer! don't speak to me kindly. I am a wicked bad girl and unworthy of your love, indeed I am."
"These people have been spoiling Mary with their religion and sentimental nonsense," thought Catherine as she observed the girl. "She has been brought round to feel a horror for our work. She wishes to be absolved from her duty, and she is afraid of my anger if she asks me to free her."
Then she said aloud, "Mary, dear, I know all; but don't worry about that now. You have come to feel a horror of the work we have to do. You are weak, but I cannot blame you, poor girl. You wish to leave us, to be free. We will see what can be done. For the present do not worry at all about the matter."
Catherine was so overjoyed at finding her suspicions with regard to Mary's love affairs unfounded, that she now said a good deal more than she really meant. She never for a moment entertained the idea of freeing Mary. The girl would be far too useful to the Society, for the carrying out of that scheme that was dearer to the woman than was even the happiness of her darling. But it was well, she thought, to humour her now that she was ill. It would hasten her recovery to remove this weightof anxiety from her for the time. When this weakness was passed the girl would see clearly again, be brave once more, and return to her allegiance.
"Oh, mother," cried Mary, "you are so generous, so unselfish, I don't know how to tell you all; you will, I know, be angry; but I must tell you now. I cannot deceive you that have been so kind, so good. You don't suspect the half of what is on my mind."
"Well, dear, tell me then. It will do you good to relieve your mind of it."
Then the girl steeled herself for her task, and continued in a calm though tremulous voice, casting down her eyes, not daring to meet the woman's gaze. "Mother! I have changed—I have come to think that perhaps we are all wrong. We that know so little, are we not rash in believing that good will come of what we propose to do? May it not be altogether bad from every point of view to do this terrible thing, even if it does produce a great good in another direction? Oh, mother! I have come to see what love is, I have come to see how these Christians love. It is not as you taught me they did. I cannot believe all these instincts are false." She paused; though she was determined to tell the secret of her heart to Catherine King, she could not bring herself to do it; the words would not come.
"The poor little children, mother!" she cried passionately, raising her head, "Oh! since I have been living among them—if you had been living among them you too would have felt as I do. Oh, mother, mother!"
The girl's excitement overcame her, she could speak no more for the choking sensation in her throat.
Her words stung Catherine. "You have indeed changed!" was all she could reply, in a dry, stifled voice.
"Ah! but that is not all," cried Mary. "Oh, my God! my God!" and she wrung her hands with anguish as she met the stern glance of the Chief. The girl's new faith and love werecontending with the strong influence of her old mistress, and the conflict seemed to tear her heart.
"Go on!" said Catherine, in the same tones as before. "What more have you to say?"
Mary endeavoured to proceed—to confess her love for Dr. Duncan without further hesitation or digression. She made a great effort. But the weak brain could do no more. It became suddenly paralyzed. Her thoughts froze within her, and she could not utter a single word. A dazed look came to her eyes. She looked at Catherine with a vacant smile. All memory of the subject of the conversation vanished in a moment from her mind.
Bitter indeed was the resentment and disappointment of Catherine, as she listened to what Mary had said. She had not suspected that matters were so bad as this. She clearly saw that her pupil had definitely deserted the Cause—that she had become a Christian.
But she noticed the girl's condition. She saw it was impossible to discuss the question further then, so said, in as collected a manner as her conflicting emotions allowed:
"I must leave you now—good-bye, Mary, good-bye. I will write to you—I must think about all this. I don't know what to say now."
She kissed the girl, rather coldly this time, and turned to go.
Mary stood quite motionless during the embrace, as if in a state of unconsciousness.
But after Catherine had gone a few yards across the lawn, the girl awoke suddenly from her stupefaction. She took two or three rapid steps in the direction of the retreating figure, then feeling her strength fail her she stood still, and stretching out her arms, shrieked out, "Stop! stop! stop!"
Catherine was startled by the wildness of the cry, and turned round and looked at her.
"Stop!" once more cried the girl with fierce energy as sheapproached the woman. "Youshallknow before you go—Idolove him—not Mr. Hudson—but another—Dr. Duncan!"
It had come at last.
Catherine strode up to her and grasped her by the arm.
"Do I hear you aright? You tell methat—you love him?" she exclaimed savagely.
Mary gave one low wail and fell fainting to the ground.
One of the little children who was at the other end of the lawn saw her fall, and ran indoors to tell her mother.
Mrs. White was soon on the spot. She found Mary lying insensible on the grass, and standing by her, deadly pale, with her fists clenched, and a fierce glare in her eyes, Catherine King.
"What was the cause of this?" asked the little woman, as she administered restoratives to the girl.
Catherine made no reply. The Fury of despairing jealousy had possessed the woman; she scarcely knew where she was, in the first burst of her mad anger; but after a few moments she recollected herself, and said in a hard voice that concealed every emotion:
"My presence seems to do her harm. I will go away. Good-bye, Mrs. White; I see the fly has arrived," then abruptly, without another word, she walked out of the cottage gate and was driven off. She never so much as once turned her head to look at the insensible girl.
Mrs. White was intensely amazed. "And this," she thought, "is the aunt Mary describes as having so much affection for her!"
The White Knight had indeed considerably foiled Catherine King's scheme. It even looked as if he would checkmate her soon.
It was evening, in Mrs. King's parlour in Maida Vale. Darkness had set in, but the wretched woman who was sitting over the neglected and nearly extinct fire, alone with her gloomy thoughts, did not rise to light the lamp.
After nearly a week of stormy and conflicting emotions and ever-changing plans, the troubled mind had calmed somewhat. Catherine had decided to put the matter of Mary's desertion before the Inner Circle, and was even then awaiting the arrival of Sisters Susan and Eliza, whom she had summoned for that object.
Mary must die! Looking at it from every point of view, she could see no other way out of the difficulty. The girl could not be a wife and a baby-murderer, or even an innocent accomplice of baby-murderers at the same time. Yes, Mary must die! But Catherine could not trust herself. She could not look at Mary's case with an unbiassed mind. Her great hate and love of the girl prevented her from considering the question merely as it affected the interests, the safety of the Secret Society. She felt this keenly, so, as she above all things desired to act with strict justice, and knew that her present mood might as readily drive her to undue leniency as to unnecessary sternness, she determined to leave the judgment of Mary entirely in the hands of the other sisters of the Inner Circle. She would put the whole case before them: she would abide by their unimpassioned verdict.
But yet she could scarcely doubt what that verdict would be. How could such a society exist unless deserters were removed beyond all possibility of their becoming traitors?
So Catherine sat in the deserted room awaiting the two Sisters who were to decide her darling's doom. How dreary that room now appeared to the miserable creature! There was no Mary there now to lighten it, and she knew that there never again would be. The only human affection of her heart had been ruthlessly trampled upon. Were it not for the scheme she would have died; but she still had that to care for, and for that alone she must live for the remainder of her loveless life.
At last there came a ring at the street-door bell. She started, she felt fearfully nervous now that the interview on which so much depended was so near.
The maid-servant ushered in Sister Eliza and Sister Susan.
Sister Eliza, fresh from the comfortable and substantial dinner, at which she had just been presiding in her Bayswater boarding-house, looked stout and beaming as usual; but Susan Riley looked pale and ill, her eyes, surrounded by dark circles, glittered strangely, and their contracted pupils showed that she had not yet abandoned her practice of laudanum-drinking. She was even then excited with the drug; her brain was on fire with it.
Catherine rose and motioned the women to two chairs. Until the indispensable green tea came up they spoke little and on indifferent matters. The anxiety and nervousness of the Chief communicated itself to the others: even the volatile Susan was subdued in her manner.
The servant brought up the tea and went downstairs. Then there was a complete silence for some minutes, each waiting for another to speak first. Catherine was staring fixedly into the fire, with a look on her face that awed the two women, they imagined that some great calamity must of a certainty have befallen the Cause.
At last Sister Eliza spoke, she could bear the suspense no longer.
"Sister Catherine, you say you have summoned us to discuss some important matter?"
The Chief looked up, and replied with a forced calmness in her voice: "Yes; I wish to put before you the conduct of one of the Sisterhood—of Mary Grimm, in fact."
"I suspected her!" put in Susan eagerly, the shadow of fear passing from her face; she had not forgotten her hatred for Mary, though so far she had found no opportunity for gratifying it.
"Mary wishes to leave us," continued the Chief.
"So I suspected," broke in again the exultant voice of Susan.
"I have discovered that she has formed an attachment with a man."
"I knew it, and you have called us here to decide what shall be done with the traitor?"
"She is not a traitor yet."
Sister Eliza spoke next. "But if you do not take care, she soon will be a traitor, Sister Catherine. I too have heard something of this before; she is in love with that doctor. You should not have allowed her to go to his sister's house at Farnham. I thought at the time it was very imprudent."
"It was the inevitable, Sister Eliza—the girl was dying," replied the Chief.
"It would have been safer had she died."
"Perhaps so; but the question before is, what is to be done now?" Catherine spoke sharply. She was considerably nettled at the cool and unfeeling way in which the sisters entered on the discussion, though she knew that it was unreasonable on her part to expect anything else.
It was Susan's turn to speak, and she did so in an irritatingly calm and business-like voice.
"I can only see one answer to that question."
"Well!"
"Mary must be put out of the way."
A long pause followed; the three women sipped their strong tea in silence.
Then Catherine said, "That is dangerous—now is it necessary?"
Sister Eliza raised her eyes in wonder. What was the Chief hesitating about? what doubt could there be?
"Necessary! of course," said Susan. "We cannot allow her to leave us and betray us to her lover the doctor."
"She is no traitor," exclaimed Catherine indignantly; "whatever happened she would never betray us."
"I am not so sure of that," said Sister Eliza. "Mary is no traitor; she is devoted to you, Sister Catherine, and to the Cause. I know all that. But now consider the facts: She loves this doctor. She is surrounded by a religious family. May she not, too, come to accept this religion in time? Why, she is sure to do so! The influence of those she loves, and with whom alone she associates, must mould her opinions. Now, when shehasbecome religious, do you think she will quietly read in the papers the accounts of our doings—murders as she will call them, and do nothing—hold her tongue? Of course not! Religion will command her to save the children by betraying us. It cannot be otherwise. However much she loves you, Sister Catherine, let her once come to look on our Cause as wrong, duty will force her to tell all. That religion which enjoins its followers to abandon wives and children for its sake, will not allow your safety to stand in its way. You must not leave her at Farnham."
Too well did Catherine know how true all this was, but in her anxiety to be strictly neutral and unprejudiced, she would not allow herself to be convinced yet, she would even plead for the girl, and endeavour to find any arguments that might tell in her favour.
Susan spoke next with tones of ill-concealed malice. "I tell you, Sister Catherine, that this Mary among the buttercups and babies down there at Farnham, cannot but be a fearful danger to us. Buttercups and babies are frightfully demoralizing to soft-hearted novices like that weak girl. Sister Eliza is right. There are but two alternatives. She must give up her doctor. She must leave his people in the country, and come back to us in London, or she must be removed. She is weak—she is in love—weakness and love make religion and treason."
Catherine shook her head as she answered, "You know well, Sister Susan, even as you speak, that the first of your alternatives is quite out of the question. To come back to us would kill her. She will never do our work. She is unfit for it. She is not of the proper stuff. We must, whatever we do, absolve her of her engagements. We must abandon all hope of her becoming one of us again."
"Abandon your favourite pupil!" exclaimed Sister Eliza, "but is it really as bad as this? Are you sure she cannot be brought back?"
"You know, Sister, what it must mean to me to abandon her," replied Catherine. "You must know. But I see no remedy. It is useless to force her. If I asked her, she might, but I doubt it, return to us, only to die of a broken heart."... She paused till she could command her emotion, and till the pain at her heart subsided, then commenced again in a calm and proud voice: "Now that I have heard your opinions I will tell you all. Sister Eliza, what you have just foretold as likely to happen, has happened. Not only is Mary in love with the doctor, but her love and her new associationshave, as you said they would, made her look with horror on our Cause. Shehas, in her weakness of mind, forgotten all the teachings of years; shehasaccepted the religious creed of fools; shehas" ... but she paused suddenly, her fury was carrying her away; with a great effort of will she calmed herself once moreand concluded, "Such being the state of things, I ask you, Sisters, what must be done?"
Sister Eliza replied in a serious voice: "There can be no mercy shown in this case, we cannot risk the whole of this glorious fabric we have built up with such toil and care, we cannot endanger our great Cause for one weak girl's sake. She must die."
"I agree with you," said Catherine slowly and still quite calmly.
"She must die," said Susan with a slight ring of exultation in her cold voice.
Catherine rung the bell and the maid brought up a fresh supply of green tea.
There was a silence for some minutes—during which the Chief looked broodingly into the ashes of the now extinct fire.
Susan broke the silence. "The next question is—how—"
Catherine started from her black reverie. "How what?"
"How the deserter is to be removed with the greatest safety and expedition."
Catherine shuddered visibly, then she spoke again—"Sisters, you have never known me weak or vacillating or cowardly."
"Had you been so, you would not have gained the confidence of such a Sisterhood as this is," replied Sister Eliza.
"No! I thought I was above all foolish weakness, but I find I am not so. This is the first time that we have had to take away life for the Cause, but do not imagine that I shall ever again behave in this manner. I confide this to you two, for you will understand me—you will not consider I have forfeited my right to be the Chief of the Sisterhood, because on one exceptional occasion I cannot be altogether as I would be. Think of it!—This girl has lived with me so long. I believed I had in her one who would have been of the very highest service to the Cause—I am disappointed—I feel this more than you suppose. Now, I wish to have nothing personally to do with the—theremoval of this girl," she could not bring herself to utter Mary's name now. "Arrange it among yourselves. Tell me when it is all over. I do not feel strong enough to go into this matter—besides, it is not necessary I should. But after this," and she raised her voice to tones of haughty determination, "no one will ever see me weak again. Unpitying stern justice should be the only sentiment of one who aspires to lead such a Cause as ours."
But Susan, who was full of malicious ecstacy this evening, did not feel inclined to spare her Chief all further pain. She was filled with a delicious lust for torturing anything that came across her. It was her way when she felt happier than usual, so she said, "But, Sister Catherine, we must at any rate have your advice. This is a very delicate task we have to perform. How are we to get at Mary while she is in the country? It will not be easy. She knows our rules, our methods of doing things. A very slight mistake and we are lost. Who can we send down to do this thing? I would go myself, but she knows me, dislikes me, and would at once divine my object. Now I have a plan by which she can be removed with the very least amount of danger."
Catherine felt sick with disgust and horror, but she could not refuse to listen—it was her duty—her duty!she had to keep that idea constantly before her during the interview, so that she might not fail in this terrible ordeal.
"What is it?" she asked in a feeble voice—she could not bear this torture much longer.
Susan spoke deliberately and without making any effort to gloss over the horror of her proposal.
"There is only one of us that Mary loves and trusts—that is yourself, Sister Catherine; is it not so?"
"It is."
"Well," continued the torturer, "as you alone of us would have any chance of seeing her at Farnham—"
"Impossible," interrupted Catherine with a smothered shriek, as she rose from her chair, her hands clenched, quite forgetting herself beneath the scourges of that devil's tongue.
Susan smiled—"You understand me, Sister Catherine—I do not propose, after what you have said, that you should do the deed. I will do it myself if you will it. But what I mean is this: To effect this removal with safety, Mary must be induced to leave the country—she must be brought to town, to some house, where she can have a relapse, and where we can nurse the invalid." The woman smiled again her evil smile as she watched her Chief writhe beneath the words—"Once in town, in this or some other safe house, I will guarantee to produce a relapse, and that once produced, it would be hardly difficult to administer Sister Jane's preparation, without ever arousing the patient's suspicions. Then we can call in the doctors—even her own dear doctor—without fear. They won't be able to bring her round from that relapse I think."
Sister Eliza, after a little thought said, "I quite agree with Sister Susan. This is the only really safe method before us, and there is absolutely no risk in it if we work carefully. It is true that you alone, Sister Catherine, have sufficient influence over the girl to bring her to London. It will be well for you to write to her. I should suggest you tell her that, seeing how her views have altered for good, you have decided to absolve her from her vows. Ask her to come up and stay with you for a few weeks. Write in affectionate terms. She is sure to come, and she will do so for none else."
"Like Judas Iscariot betraying her with a kiss," said Susan, who could not resist the dear temptation of giving this thrust.
Catherine started as if stung but said nothing. Sister Eliza frowned, and her face flushed with indignation, when she heard this gratuitously unpleasant remark.
"What do you think of my proposal, Sister?" inquired Susan of her Chief, eyeing her furtively.
Catherine pondered in silence for a while. She saw that this was, indeed, the only safe method; she would have liked to have had nothing to do with the execution of this just decree—but that, she said to herself, was cowardice on her part. Her instrumentality was necessary, at any rate to bring the girl to town, so she replied in a low weary voice: "So be it—you are right—but there is one thing"—and her voice trembled—"she must not come to this house—I must be spared that."
"You need not even see her, Sister Catherine," said Eliza. "I know a little furnished villa on the Thames. We can take it for a couple of months. Persuade her to come there for a visit. It is just the place that a convalescent would be taken to. You will only require one servant, I can supply you with one from the Sisterhood. Leave all the rest to Sister Susan and myself; I understand your feelings on this matter—I do not think you need be ashamed of them. It is the first time I have ever seen emotion come in the way of your duty, and you have resisted it nobly, Sister."
"Then," said Sister Susan, "all is settled. The cottage by the Thames shall be hired. Can we get it at once, Sister Eliza?"
"It is ready for immediate occupation: we can enter the day after to-morrow."
"Good; then you will write to Mary," said Susan turning to the Chief. "The sooner this business is completed the better for us all."
Catherine was not listening; she was staring again into the embers, her brow knitted into a deep frown of pain. The image of her pupil—her Mary whom she was about to sacrifice—rose before her. She yearned to see the girl once more—only once more before she betrayed her to the executioners. She could not strive against this great desire, so she said:
"Sisters, I will not write, I will go myself down to Farnham—I will see her—I will ask her with my own lips to come; she will not refuse then—I know."
"Can you trust yourself?" asked Eliza doubtfully, and scanning the woman's sad face, keenly.
"I should not advise that measure," urged Susan, apprehensively.
But the masterful spirit had come back again to Catherine, and she said sternly and with authority, "I will do as I say, Sisters."
Eliza knew by the tone that the Chief was in no humour to listen to contradiction now, so she rose and said:
"Then all is settled—I will at once take the cottage. Write to me, Sister Catherine, and let me know exactly when Mary is to arrive in town. I will meet her at the station, make some excuse for your absence, and take her with me. I think I can do that better than anyone else. As Susan herself allows, Mary dislikes her, so she had better not appear on the scene at first. We will now leave you. Good-night, Sister! rememberCourage and the Cause, but I need not repeat that to you. Good-night!"
"Good-night, Sister!" said Susan with a happy smile.
Catherine had broken down at last; she turned her head from them and made no reply to their salutations.
Sister Eliza looked at her Chief thoughtfully for a moment; then made a sign to Susan, and they went out together.
Catherine sat alone in her chair over the dead fire. For hours after they had gone she remained there brooding, motionless, in agony; and when at last she rose with a shiver to retire to her bed, it seemed as if many years had passed over her head in that time, so old and haggard appeared her features. Her eyes were red but not with weeping—for she could shed no tear—but hot and dry with a tearless anguish that could never find relief.
But she determined—even if she died of the agony of it—that she would do her duty. "My duty! My duty!" she kept murmuring to herself in her fierce resolve; and she had strong need, indeed, to keep the Cause constantly before her mind, in order to enable her to do this thing she had to do—"My duty!—my duty!—but oh, it is hard—hard!"
Mary's health improved rapidly after her interview with Catherine King, painful though it had been. A great weight was taken off her mind by the full confession she had made.
One day, about a week subsequent to that confession, as the weather was warm and seemed to be settled, Mrs. White, who was ever planning some little amusement or other to distract the girl from her gloomy thoughts, proposed that they should drive with the children the next morning to a certain pleasant wood on the banks of the Wey some five miles off, and take their lunch with them.
The children were delighted at the prospect of a picnic, and watched the preparations that were made for it during the afternoon with the keenest interest. When everything had been packed up ready for the morrow, a telegram was brought to Mrs. White.
She read it, and a smile of pleasure lit up her face. "Mary," she said, "I am afraid we must postpone our picnic after all. My brother Harry is coming down here to-morrow to see us."
Mary blushed slightly. "The poor children will be very disappointed if they do not have their picnic," she replied, feeling compelled to make some remark to cover the confusion which this sudden news produced in her.
The widow looked at her with rather an amused expression. "Well, Mary," she said "after all there is no great necessity foraltering our plans. Harry can come with us. I will telegraph to him that we will meet him at the station. It is a pity though that he has to return to town in the evening."
The morrow proved to be a beautiful day. It was in the month of May, and the pulse of young life beat with pleasurable quickness through all animate Nature.
Mary felt unusually well and happy as they drove through the fresh morning air to Farnham station, where Dr. Duncan was to be met. The spirit of the spring stirred her blood and exhilarated her in an unwonted fashion. She could have sung for joy. Her heart felt full of love for these innocent friends around her, for the glorious sunshine, and for the kind warm breeze that kissed her pale cheeks and ruffled her soft hair.
She wondered how it was that the Shadow seemed to be so far away. That sick dread, that terrible presence which she always felt to be so near, so ready to fall, even in her happiest moods, seemed this day to be removed to a vague and immense distance. It had never been so far off before. A presentiment came to her that it was soon to be removed altogether, that it would fall away from her, and that she would know peace at last. It was as if the happiness of death was coming over her, so deeply calm was her delight. She mused to herself how sweet indeed it would be to die on this delicious spring day, with the fresh breeze and the sunlight around her—to fade away and be at rest, ere the sun set and the darkness and the cold came on, bringing with them the shadow.
The carriage with its merry party at last reached Farnham Station. The train by which the doctor was expected had not yet come in, so they had to wait there for some minutes.
The cessation of the motion of the carriage turned the course of Mary's thoughts. Her happy dream passed away. A vague uneasiness stole over her; and she began to realize, in a vivid manner she had not done so far, that this was to be an eventfulday in her life—she was to see her lover. What could she reply if he asked again that question so sweet and yet so bitter that he had asked her on that misty autumn afternoon in London—so long ago it now seemed to her?
Things had much changed with her since then. She was no longer the infanticide, the atheist, the wretched being separated from all human sympathies. She asked herself whether marriage with the man she worshipped was now altogether so impossible a happiness as it had been then! She thrilled at the thought. What should she reply were he to ask that question again?
She knew not what she ought to do, all the future seemed still so unsettled and cloudy. It was true that she had told Catherine all—that she had abandoned the Sisterhood; but was that enough? The secret was still with her. The Society would some day commence its horrible work.
So her thought was confused between a great dismay, and a dream of wonderful delight, and her perplexed mind could make nothing of the puzzle. She could not marry this man with that secret on her mind—she ought not to keep that from him—yet how could she betray Catherine King and the Sisterhood.
The bell rang, there was a bustling of porters, and then the train from London thundered into the station.
Mary forgot her trouble for the time: with eyes dim with emotion, she looked out timidly yet eagerly from under the cover of her broad straw hat, as the passengers trooped out into the white road.
Yes! there he was at last, handsomer than ever, he seemed to her, and she was filled with pride to see how his noble head towered above all the men by his side.
He came out and joyously saluted his sister and her children, then he shook hands with Mary quietly, his clasp of the little hand that was so dear to him lingering almost imperceptibly, and he felt that she was trembling.
But it was no time just then for love-making. The children were clustering round their uncle, pestering him for the chocolate or other delicacies which they knew he would have brought down for them. So laughing and joking, the merry party drove off at a rapid pace along the dazzling white roads that wound among the pleasant Surrey hills, until a spot was reached where the carriage had to be left. Then they carried the kettle and provisions for a hundred yards or so through the woods, till they came to a place on the river bank where a huge oak tree spread its branches over a space of soft green turf. Here they pitched their camp and lit their fire.
Beautiful indeed is this portion of the county of Surrey. Between Farnham and Godalming the river Wey, whose surface is here never disturbed by the frailest boat, winds down a valley of great loveliness. Steep hills descend to its waters, clothed with fine trees and close bushwood; the mossy interspaces being glorious with a profusion of wood-anemones primroses and hyacinths in the early part of the year, and of purple foxgloves in the ripe summer. For a considerable distance no road is visible to one following the river, nor any sign of man's presence. Indeed so wild and lonely is the scenery, that one might easily imagine oneself to be on some unexplored stream of the Western World, instead of being in the county of Surrey, an easy day's march from Charing Cross.
It was a day to be remembered by all of that party as a happy one. To Mary it was to be the sweetest so far of her young life.
After lunch the two lovers separated from the others. They walked together through the woods by the river bank, and he gathered for her a nosegay of the wild spring flowers.
After a short time he stood still, and turning to her said, "Ah, Mary! how I have looked forward to seeing you again! And how well you are looking! I did not dare to hope that you would recover so quickly. You know how impatient Imust have become at being so long banished from your side; but I thought it better not to come here till you were much stronger. It would have been cruel to come and trouble you before!"
"Trouble me!" she exclaimed raising her eyes to his with a look of surprise.
"Yes, Mary!" he continued sadly, "for whenever I saw you before, my presence seemed to cause you pain and sorrow."
She turned her eyes from him and gazed pensively towards the distant hills beyond the river.
He spoke again in a troubled voice, "Mary, oh, Mary! do not turn away from me. Look at me and reply to the question I am going to ask. You must do so!" he raised his voice in passionate earnestness and seized her hand. "You must reply, this last time, I know you will; for you are too kind and womanly to torture me any longer with suspense."
She looked up at him without speaking, but he read encouragement in the look and continued, "Mary, I must speak to you again of my love. It grieved you once. You told me all hope was impossible. You implored me, in a manner that terrified me, never to speak to you of love again; but you confessed you loved me a little."
He hesitated when he uttered the last words, and waited with an intense anxiety for her reply.
"I do!" she said with a simple earnestness, "I love you very much."
"My darling!" he cried, "my whole life is yours. Even if you still refuse to marry me, I can never again love another after loving you. But what did you mean by those cruel words you spoke before? You told me to go from you, never to see you again. You said love between us was altogether impossible. You do not still think that? Oh, tell me, Mary. It is cruel to leave me in this fearful suspense."
She looked down on the ground and said mournfully, "I don't know—indeed I don't know."
"But it is not so impossible now as it was then?" he cried eagerly.
"No! it is not," she said in a low voice speaking to herself rather than to him.
Then an infinite joy rushed into the man's soul, and his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed. He had come down here in an almost hopeless spirit; he remembered how emphatic she had been before in refusing his love—with what horror and vague hints of an impassable barrier between them she had rejected him—and, lo! now she had allowed that his heart's sole desire was no longer impossible of attainment—there was hope for him, nay more, there was certain victory!
He raised her face to his and kissed her passionately on her mouth and eyes. This time she did not tear herself away from his embrace, but remained in his arms trembling.
He released her and gazed with keen delight at her beautiful flushed face.
She was frightened at his passion, and was filled with wonder that he should feel thus towards her. She understood how she or any woman could love this good and noble man; but why should he worship in this way one so unworthy as her! He must surely have mistaken her true nature; she must in some way have unwittingly deceived him.
"Then I may hope to make you my wife?" he asked in a voice of ecstacy.
She lowered her eyes again. "You ought not to makemeyour wife. You deserve a good woman," then she continued timidly in a low voice that was delicious to him, "Would it make you much happier, dear?"
"Dear!" How that word coming from her lips for the first time stirred him!
"Happier!" he cried. "Oh, my darling! my darling!"
A blush half of joy, half of shame, again suffused her cheeks, and she said, "For your sake, to make you happy, I would do all you willed; but still—still—I doubt very much—whether I should make you happier if I consented to be your wife."
"I have no doubt at all about it, my darling," he exclaimed; "but I don't want you to marry me, to pleasemeonly;" then looking at her face he was satisfied on that point and said no more.
He seized her hand, and they walked on through the green woods hand in hand, now conversing in low tones, now in happy silence.
They acted as most true lovers do under like circumstances, and felt, as most true lovers do, that no others since the world began could have loved so well as they. It was all so strange to Mary; too sweet, too near Heaven to endure long, she fancied. It was the first real love-making that had passed between these two. Never had their spirits been so near before; they understood each other now, and each confessed that they must for the future be all in all to each other, come what might, but Mary would make no promise to marry him yet.
He perceived that it was not mere maidenly coyness that prompted this refusal, and that there was some serious reason for it; but he was content, she loved him, loved him in a way that shut out all other possibilities of love for both.
"I will be your wife or no one's, Harry," she at last replied to his passionate pleading, and they sealed the compact in a long delicious kiss.
"Mary!" he said, "I do not know why you will not promise to marry me by-and-bye, but I will not press you for your reasons now. There is plenty of time to do that, and I know you will give in at last. Oh, my sweet! it is enough, it is more than I deserve, to know that you love me, to know that you will not drive me from you, that I may often be with you. Do you remember how cruel you were in London, when youtold me to go away from you for ever, when you forbade me ever to speak to you of love again?"
"Yes, but it is different now," she said gently.
"And you really love me?"
"Why do you ask me what you know so well?"
"And I may come and see you as often as I like?"
"I did not say that."
"But I may."
There came a pause, then she said, "Promise me something, Harry."
"I will promise anything you wish."
"I want you to promise me not to come here again until I write to you."
"How cruel!"
"No! I am not cruel, Harry, you do not understand; but I must think over all this, I do not see things clearly yet, I must think," she stopped in the middle of the sentence, and an expression of agony passed over her face, as the memory of her secret came to her mind.
"Oh, Mary! don't you love me well enough to trust me yet?" he asked reproachfully.
"It is you who are cruel now. Oh, Harry, you know it is not that. You know how I should like you never to leave me at all, you know that, but...."
"Iamcruel! Tears in my poor little pet's eyes too, and I have brought them there by my brutality," and he stooped to kiss her eyelids.
"Harry! Harry! Ah, if you knew what makes me hesitate! If you knew and could help me! But there is no one that I can go to for advice—no one!"
There was a keen anguish in her voice as she uttered these words.
He seized her hands. "Mary, my love, cannot you come tomefor advice?"
"I cannot without betraying the secrets of others."
"Is it this secret then that prevents your marrying me?"
"Yes," she said sadly.
"You think that you ought not to marry me without revealing it to me, and yet you cannot reveal it; is that it?"
"Yes, Harry."
"Why, you silly little pet," and he kissed her, "is that all the difficulty? We can soon get out of that. Don't tell me the secret. I am not such an ogre that I wish to know all my little wife's secrets. Is it your idea that a wife is bound to tell her husband every single thing? I am afraid few wives take that view. Anyhow, I will relieve your conscience by ordering you not to tell me that particular secret. I shall be very angry—oh! I can be very angry, if you ever dare to let out a word of it." He spoke playfully and kissed her again. "Now, are you satisfied, pet?"
"But, oh! that is not all, Harry. Supposing this secret is one that I cannot reveal, and yet one which I ought to reveal, as it affects the happiness of many other people. Supposing that by saying a few words I could save much misery to hundreds. Oh! what can I do? WhatamI to do? How can I live happily with this awful thing on my mind?"
She uttered these words in accents of the wildest misery. He looked puzzled and very grave. He suspected that some mad socialist scheme of Catherine King was at the bottom of this mystery, but he was, of course, far from having the faintest idea of the real nature of it.
"Mary," he said, "I have more than a suspicion that Mrs. King has admitted you into some wild Political Secret Society, that is destined to regenerate the world in some way or other. If that is your secret I think you can keep it to yourself with an easy conscience. These people talk a good deal of sedition, but have not the pluck to carry out their preaching. They will never do any harm, you will see."
"You do not know, you do not know," she said hurriedly and alarmed that she had allowed him to guess even so little as he had; "but I must not say more now. Do not talk about this now, Harry, please. I will think over what you have said. In a day or two I shall see things more clearly, and I will write to you."
"And say in your letter 'Come to me.' Will you promise that."
"When I write it will be to ask you to come to me, Harry."
"That will be delicious! to receive from you, your first love-letter, and with that sweet invitation in it, too. How anxiously I shall look for it each day!"
He gave her the nosegay he had gathered, and slowly they retraced their steps to the merry party under the great oak tree. Then the doctor had to leave them to catch his train to town, and he walked off with the proud step and the glad eye of a true man who has won his sweetheart.