When her lover had gone, a strong inclination came over Mary to be alone for a time, she felt so perplexed and yet so happy. Taking in her hand the nosegay of wild flowers he had gathered for her, she went off by herself for a stroll in the woods, to think quietly over all that had happened and that was to be. One moment the idea that she might some day call the man she loved so dearly by the sweet name of husband, made her heart beat quick with delight. The next moment her hope died out, and she shuddered as she thought of that secret of hers which must surely divide them for ever. How was it all to end? But, on the whole, she felt very happy. She could not feel miserable on this day. A great part of the shadow had already been cleared away. Possibly, but how she could not tell, the rest would go too—she even felt sure that it would be so soon.
She reached the river again, and sat down on a mossy bank by the side of it, and now the excitement of the day began to tell on her yet enfeebled brain.
Lulled by the slumberous hum of insects, the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead, and the dashing of the stream across its shingle bed below, a drowsiness, or rather a waking dream, stole over her senses—a delicious, weary calm full of changing visions.
It seemed to her as if the sky and hills and trees were furtheroff from her, vaster, lovelier than of earth; and a music of birds was in the trees such as might have charmed some grove of the innocent Eden. It was as if the trance of him who has eaten of the magical Indian herb had fallen on her—a trance magnifying, glorifying all her surroundings. The warm breeze was as a lover's kisses on her cheek and neck, so lovingly it played around her; an intoxicating delight was in the scent of the flowers; and the air she breathed was as liquid joy. And it seemed to her as if she were quite alone in the midst of this beautiful Nature. She forgot all about the picnic and the people that were not far from her, all about the great world beyond. She was a being alone, the solitary Eve of a lovely Eden—alone save for one god-like man who had just left her.
She felt the delight, the glory of the garden, and that was all; so, scarcely knowing what she did, she took off her shoes and stockings, and dipped her pretty feet and ankles in the stream as she sat by it, singing softly the while in a mellow, dreamy voice even such a chant as some lone Lorelei or sad, soul-less Undine might have sung by the sunny Rhine. Then she took up the primroses and hyacinths her lover had given her, and separated them; some she fastened in her straw hat, the rest she strewed in her lap.
She remembered that they had all been plucked by him, and she laughed low as she kissed them one by one. Then she threw them up so that they fell over her head and shoulders in a soft shower; and she sang again a song, not of words, but breathing forth inexpressible delight—a song that at times almost trembled into sobs with the very fullness of that delight.
She formed a beautiful picture indeed, as of a half-crazed Ophelia; but there was no occasional touch of sadness inhermood, for she knew that her love was true to her and kind, and the shadow was so far away now—away—away—beyond the glorious woods and gardens, below the faint horizon, sunkunder the world—and gone for ever, it seemed to her imagination—there would be no more shadow now.
But two fierce eyes were watching her unseen. Someone had approached noiselessly as a snake, and stood motionless a little way off, looking at the girl with a fixed and intent stare through the dense bushes.
The intruder was a woman with pale face and deep-sunk, flashing eyes, and with lips lined at the corners as with much anguish. She stood there concealed by the foliage, her fists clenched, her body leaning forward, rigid, as of a tigress ready to spring on its prey.
The happy girl sang on and played with the flowers unconscious of the danger near her.
The woman was Catherine King. She had come down as she had promised, to carry out the mandate of the Secret Society, with a Judas kiss to invite Mary to her destruction.
On reaching Mrs. White's cottage that morning, she was informed by the maid that all the family were away, that they had gone to picnic in the woods.
"They will be back early this evening, then?" asked Catherine.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well, I will wait for them," and she went into the little drawing-room.
She waited there for about half-an-hour. She sat first on one chair, then on another; then paced up and down the room quickly. She looked out of the window; she took up book after book, only immediately to put it down again unread. She could not read just then—she could not think—she felt she could not even wait idle in that room any longer, or she would go mad.
She was distracted by a feverish nervousness, which was ever intensifying. She felt that she must go to Mary at once anddo what was required of her—she must do it at once, before it became altogether impossible for her—so she rang the bell.
The maid entered the room.
"How far off is this picnic?" asked Catherine, curtly.
"About four miles I think, ma'am."
"Can you tell me the way there?"
"Yes, ma'am. You will have to walk along the road across the moor until you come to the bridge. If you cross the bridge, ma'am, and turn to the right, following the river, you will come to them."
"You are the only girl I ever met who could direct one clearly; thank you, I will go there."
She followed the maid's instructions and walked very fast all the way, in hopes that the rapid motion would drive away her nervousness.
At the bridge she stood still for a few moments, and drawing a bottle from her pocket which contained laudanum, or some other drug, she drank a small quantity of it.
Then she looked down the white road before turning off into the wood, and she saw in the distance a countryman dragging along a ram by a cord. The sight called up memories of old lessons of her childhood. She laughed bitterly to herself. "Ah! were I a Christian, I might accept that as a good omen. Jehovah found Abraham such a substitute at the last moment when he was about to sacrifice his only son. But for me, alas! there can be no such hope."
She walked along the narrow foot-path by the river-side for some way, when suddenly she heard a sweet human voice rising and falling in a song wild and untaught as a lark's, a song that seemed to ring with such ecstacy of pure happiness that she paused to listen. In her present mood the gladness of it stung her, and she ground her teeth in her agony.
Then she turned pale and listened intently—yes, the voice was familiar to her! Cautiously she approached, until shecame to some bushes, from behind which, herself concealed, she perceived Mary sitting on the river-bank close to her, singing and playing with the flowers.
The woman stood quite still and watched the girl for several minutes.
What a storm of passions was sweeping across her fierce mind, torturing the iron will! At first she felt nothing but a mad hate—the strong hate of jealousy. But the pathetic image of the happy, half-crazed girl soon raised other emotions. Love and hate together, joining in one new, wild passion rose to torment her. Ah, how she hated, how she loved, that weak child yonder! Her soul yearned upon her. Yet she longed to kill her then and there—to stab and then clasp the dying girl in her arms—to lie down by her, kissing the beloved lips—to drink her last breath and die with her! Ah! how sweet to die with her!—in one long, last kiss—kissing and stabbing her, loving and torturing her, at the same time. Strange, impossible fancies crowded on her mind. A passion that was not love, that was not hate, but the unnatural offspring of the two and fiercer than either, possessed her—such a discordant passion, as we are told by the Grecian myths, the Furies sow in the minds of men whom the Gods have doomed to destruction.
She looked, and she gnashed her teeth with hate; she looked again, and tears came into her hot eyes to see her Mary—the dear child—the sole human being she had ever loved! Yes! she must run forward to her, fall down and kiss those bare white feet, forego her vengeance and beg herself for forgiveness.
But no, no—it could not be. The girl loved a man. She had herself confessed to it. She must die.
Then her reason, if reason it could be called, returned to her for a moment. She hardened her heart. Was not Mary a traitor to the cause? The safety of the Sisterhood, the success of this grand scheme, called for her death. Shemustdie.
But yet, she thought, how was the poor child to blame forall this? Was it not her own cruel self—she, Catherine King—that had enticed Mary into the Secret Society, and led her into danger? But she smothered these fancies—steeled herself for her task. She hesitated no longer, and stepping out of her ambush, she stood before the girl.
As soon as Mary perceived her, she dropped the flowers and sprang to meet her with a smile of joyous welcome. She was not startled by Catherine's sudden appearance. Her happiness had been too deep to be disturbed in a moment by any fears. The discord that divided them did not occur then to her mind; she only remembered the old love between them.
But to the girl's surprise, Catherine did not return her fond caresses; she scarcely seemed to recognize her, but drew back averting her gaze, as if afraid of meeting those pleading eyes.
"Mother, dear mother!" cried Mary, looking up to her face as she put her arms about her. "What is it? Are you still angry with me?"
The woman took the girl's hands in hers, she could not help it, and spoke in dreamy absent tones, looking away from her the while across the river.
"No Mary, no! but I do not feel very well to-day."
"Poor mother! I am so sorry," Mary commenced, in a sympathetic voice.
Catherine could not bear this. She felt she must hurry through her duty, or else break down. She wished now that she had not come to see the girl, but had written to her, so she strove against the horror that was paralyzing her will and spoke again, but with a painful excitement which she could not suppress. Her words came hurriedly and confusedly.
"Mary, I must go in a few minutes—I have to catch a train—I wished to see you for a moment; I want to know if"——she almost broke down now—"if you will come and stay with me a week or two in town before—before—" ... but she could trust herself to say no more, and paused.
Mary was astonished at the strangely excited, yet constrained manner of her former mistress, but suspected nothing.
The woman waited for the girl's reply, waited breathlessly, hoping against hope that she would refuse the invitation. The pause seemed an eternity of agony to her, yet it was but of a few seconds.
Mary answered in a voice full of affection and confidence, "Dear mother! How can you doubt what my answer will be? I was afraid you would never be friends with me again. You know how glad I shall be to be with you." She was going to say more, but stopped suddenly, observing the terrible change, the expression of extreme anguish that crossed Catherine's face.
One choking sob escaped the woman, and feeling dizzy she sat down, almost fell, on the bank, and supporting her head on her hands gazed into vacancy with an awful look upon her fixed features, a look that told clearly of her soul's utter despair.
Mary ran up to her in great bewilderment and alarm, knelt before her, stroked her hand with her own, fondled her.
"Mother, my dear mother, what is it? What can I do?"
Catherine still answered nothing, but she slowly raised her now ghastly white face toward the girl's; turned her eyes that seemed dim, and to have no sense in them upon her; eyes that looked at her, yet appeared not to see, as those of one sightless; and the nervously twitching mouth moved as if speaking, but no words came forth.
"Mother! mother!" cried the terrified girl. "Speak to me—are you ill—I will get you some water—wait for me, only a few moments and I will fetch assistance."
"No, no, no!" cried the woman in a spasmodic way. "No! I am better—it is nothing—stay here—fetch nobody—I have something to say to you."
She spoke with such a stem authority that the girl could not but obey.
Then came a long silence, a great suspense—the girl watching her mistress with open, frightened eyes; the woman sittingmotionless with a fixed inscrutable look again on her features, as if absorbed in painfully intense thought.
But Catherine King was not thinking at all. The image of Mary, the touch of the dear hand, had fascinated her, had paralyzed her brain for the time. She was conscious of no mental operations; memory and emotion were effaced. Her mind was a blank, or rather in a state of expectant attention, waiting for some accident to wake it again to a rush of thought; like a magazine of powder, inactive till the spark should come. Such a complete suspension of the mental faculties often succeeds to excessive excitement and conflict of ideas, only to precede another mightier wave of emotion, and fiercer gust of will, even as the calm precedes the storm.
Of a sudden the spark came, the mind was at work again. But a strange thing had come to pass. It seemed to Catherine as if her brain had become a mere machine. Will was dead; there was no deliberation, no weighing of conflicting motives; but some other power, some dominant idea that had come from outside, took the place of will, and worked the mind—drove it along one narrow groove, allowing it to go neither to the right nor to the left, but straight on, wandering into no side associations, hindered by no opposing fears, hopes, or memories.
It was if some demon had possessed her, before whom her reason bowed, a demon whose biddings she must obey without resistance.
She felt as if the chord of volition had snapped in her brain, when this strong impulse fell on it. So without hesitation, or thought of consequences, she obeyed the impulse and spoke what she was compelled to—spoke in a dreamy passionless voice at first, like one under the mesmeric influence. All the fierce love and all the fierce hate were slumbering for the time, the idea was alone in her mind.
She rose to her full height, and taking the girl's hand again in hers, the words, unpremeditated by her, came forth slowly.
"Mary, you have left us, but you have not betrayed us. I know you too well to suspect you of that. You are free. It is unnecessary to release you from your promises to us—you are free without that. Oh, Mary! my heart is broken. We have failed—failed miserably. Our Society is broken up. When it came to action, the weak women would not support me. The very object of the Society is no more. Everything has gone wrong. The Act of Parliament relating to the Tenure of Land on which all our hopes hung will not be passed after all. There are signs to show that the Radicals will not obtain that overwhelming majority we looked forward to at the coming elections. Our plans are postponed indefinitely, which means that all is lost. There is an accursed reaction in the country. It is all over, my scheme, my hopes. You are free—marry, do what you will. You need not fear the weight of the secret any more. You need not tremble to read in the papers accounts of our doings. It is all over, and there is nothing left me now but to die."
Thus had Catherine King been driven by the irresistible power to tell this comforting lie to the girl; all the ideas and plans that filled her mind when she came down having vanished completely as if they had never been. And she said the very thing that was alone needed to make Mary really free and happy. The girl had no further cause to fear the secret. It was a harmless secret now. The horrible work would not be done. Her conscience would not torment her for preserving a criminal silence, and so becoming the accomplice of assassins.
A light of supreme triumphant joy came to Mary's eyes. She could not speak at first, so moved was she, but stood with her hands clasped together, trying to realize all that those precious words meant for her.
Then Catherine was inspired once more by the power to speak—to complete her work.
"Mary! you must promise me one thing. Kneel down, girl,—kneeland swear by the God in whom you now believe that you will keep this promise."
She spoke in a terrible voice that compelled obedience. It was not herself butthatwhich possessed her, that cried through her mouth in such commanding accents.
Mary knelt down, pale and trembling.
"I swear it," she whispered.
"Remember! as long as you live, if I, or any of the Sisterhood, at any time, invite you to visit them or meet them anywhere—you must not go. Avoid us all for ever. If you act otherwise you will die."
"But, oh! dear mother! what a cruel promise to exact from me," and the girl embraced the woman. "I must seeyou, you cannot mean that."
Catherine drew herself back quickly, as if stung by the girl's affection. "You have sworn," she interrupted her in a hoarse voice. "I tell you girl that you will surely die if you do not observe that oath."
Mary approached as if to embrace her mistress once more, her arms stretched out towards her pleadingly; but Catherine seized, her by the arm and pushed her back savagely—she was coming to her senses, and began to realize all she had done.
"Keep away, girl; keep away!" she almost shrieked. "You don't know what I have sacrificed for your sake—accursed be the day I met you!—accursed be my own weakness! Keep away from me! Don't come fawning on me or I will kill you."
Then without another word she turned and walked away rapidly through the woods and was lost to sight, leaving Mary confused, dazed, and full of compassion for the miserable woman whom she had loved so well; but after a few moments all other ideas vanished before the great happiness that had come to her.
The shadow had gone.
Oh, the blessed relief to the poor distracted soul! It was too intense a joy for her to bear! She lay down on the grass, andsobbed wildly, until Mrs. White, who had become anxious about her, came and found her there. Then the girl rose, and placing her arms round her friend's neck, cried with an hysterical laugh, "Dear, dear, Mrs. White! the kind God has answered your prayers for me."
That very evening, as soon as she reached Mrs. White's cottage, Mary wrote her first letter to Dr. Duncan, the first love letter of her life. It was a very short one.
"My love, Come to me as soon as you can,"Your loving,"MARY."
"My love, Come to me as soon as you can,
"Your loving,"MARY."
"What have I done? what have I done? Am I mad?" asked the wretched woman of herself, as she rocked herself to and fro uneasily, sitting in an arm-chair by the fire. The weather was warm but Catherine King had lit the fire; she felt chilly and ill, and could not bear to be left alone in that still room without some moving thing by her, were it only the leaping flames.
It was early in the evening of the day after her interview with Mary Grimm. She sat in the little parlour of her house in Maida Vale gazing at the red embers, waiting for the arrival of the two leading Sisters of the Inner Circle. They were coming to learn from her own lips the result of her visit to Farnham, to prepare for the execution of the traitor.
How could she meet them, how to tell them what she had done? She could not herself distinctly call to mind how it had all happened. She had gone down to the country with a firm resolve, and had been driven by she knew not what to act in direct opposition to that resolve and strong desire. She had done what she now cursed herself for doing.
"Yes, I am mad—I must be mad to have done this thing!" she muttered to herself with impatient fury. "With my own hands I have ruined the Cause. It is all over. I am mad."
As the time of the appointment drew near, the repugnance she felt to entering into a personal explanation with the Sisters intensified. No! she dare not meet them—she would write tothem; so she put on her bonnet and cloak, and was just about to leave the house when a ring came at the street bell, and the maid-servant announced Sisters Susan and Eliza.
"Good-evening, Sisters," said the Chief, "I did not expect you so soon; you are before your time."
"I think we are," said Sister Eliza. "The fact is, we were anxious to learn how you fared at the cottage yesterday."
"Fared!" exclaimed Catherine bitterly.
"Yes, Sister Catherine," Susan said, "we are very anxious to get that girl up here as soon as possible. For my part, I cannot feel safe as long as she is away."
"Then I am afraid you will never feel happy again, Sister Susan," Catherine replied with a mocking ring in her voice.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Susan.
"Sit down—sit down, Sisters! I think you had better hear the worst at once," said the Chief with a reckless laugh.
The other two women looked at each other when they heard these discouraging words; Susan's face turned very pale.
Catherine observed her and laughed again. "No, no! Susan, it is not so bad asyouthink—we are not betrayed—your pretty neck is not endangeredyet."
The strange manner of the Chief—the savage despair of her tones were so different from anything they had ever noticed with her before, that the women were too startled to question her. They sat in awed silence while Catherine paced up and down the room restlessly. Suddenly she stopped, and turning to the elder of her two accomplices said, "Sister Eliza! I will tell you what I have done—I will hide nothing from you—I am too maddened to care what you may think. I know after this, all my influence will be lost, but it matters not now. I have seen Mary Grimm. I have done exactly the reverse of what I went down to do. I did not invite her to town—but I made her swear to keep out of our way. I have given her her freedom. I told her the Society was broken up, that we should need her nolonger, I did all this—What do you think of it? Eh! What do you think of it?"
She spoke very rapidly and wildly; then she sat down in the chair by the fire and turned her head away from them.
For several minutes there was a complete silence in the room, none of them made the slightest movement. At last Catherine turned abruptly and exclaimed with passionate vehemence, "Are you both dumb? Can you not say anything?"
Sister Eliza first recovered her composure. "Sister Catherine," she said, "I do not understand you. You are not yourself this evening. You are ill and excited. We will wait until to-morrow morning, then you will explain this matter to us. I have sufficient faith in you to know that you have acted for the best."
"And I," exclaimed Susan with a contemptuous bitterness in her voice, "believe that this is the beginning of the end. I foresee that the Society has received its death-blow. This weakness of yours will leak out, Sister Catherine. Oh, yes! I understand what you have done. Youmustknow what will happen now. When the Sisters discover that the Chief has so little care of their safety, that she refuses to remove a great danger, because forsooth to do so stands in the way of her private affection, do you think they will believe in her any more, trust her again? Why, they will never know from what side to expect danger next. They will desert the Cause in panic, seeing that their very general has betrayed them."
Catherine paid no heed to Susan's angry words, but rose slowly from the chair, and said in an absent weary way, "I wish to be alone. I have told you everything. If you desire to know more come to-morrow—but leave me alone now, I pray you—good-night!"
"This is the shortest meeting we have ever had," said Susan with a sneer; "but if the business of the Society is to be transacted in this way, it looks as if we are likely to have a lastshorter meeting still some day—one in front of the gallows. Treachery—"
"Silence, Sister Susan!" interrupted the boarding-house keeper, sternly. "Let us go. Sister Catherine, I will come here to-morrow morning. Good-night! you want rest; sleep will do you good."
"Sleep!" echoed Catherine in a despairing voice. Sister Eliza looked over her shoulder anxiously at her Chief, as she went out of the room with Susan Riley, and the woman was once more left alone with the thoughts that were killing her.
Sister Eliza and Susan Riley walked together down the Edgware Road. For some time neither spoke. Each in her different way was dismayed at the prospect before the Secret Society, and was pondering over the situation.
Susan felt absolutely ill with rage and disappointment. Her scheme of vengeance against the girl she hated had been frustrated, at any rate for the time. But this was not all. She clearly saw that the Chief's line of conduct with regard to Mary, boded great peril to the Society. She felt that Catherine King would never recover her self-esteem and consciousness of power. She knew the woman's character too well. And she was well aware what an unstable institution that Society was, how soon it would be scattered when the master-mind failed to hold its sway. Susan's passion for intrigue and conspiracy had made her an enthusiast a selfish one it is true, of the Cause. It had now become a necessity of her life, and she trembled as she thought how near the collapse of it threatened to be.
She spoke in a low voice to her companion as they walked along: "Eliza! the Chief will never recover from the results of this piece of folly. I know her: she is lost, and after her the Cause."
"I don't know," replied the boarding-house keeper. "She has not fully explained her motives to us yet. Wait until to-morrow, then we will understand everything. I cannot believethat she has not acted for the best. Her wisdom is not ours, Susan."
"Ha!" laughed Susan, contemptuously, "I understand you. You amuse me. You remind me of what happened a few years back when the prime minister, that then infallible idol of England, committed that terrible mistake in his foreign policy. Do you remember how all the thinking men of his own party, though they perceived his errors, tried to stifle their convictions and reason? You remember with what timid vague speeches, men who ought to have known better, defended that suicidal policy in the House. They thought that venerated man, whose gigantic intellect so towered above their own, could not be at fault. They said to themselves that he must be right in everything. He doubtlessly saw what they could not. Who were they to question his wisdom? Well, Eliza, that's exactly the way you always think and talk about your infallible idol, our Chief. You believe she must be right somehow, though you can't see how, though she seems to be acting as wrongly as possible. But you will soon find it out, Sister Eliza, very soon. Catherine King will never again hold up her head, and dictate to the Sisterhood as she could two days ago. Her power of compelling them to believe in her, will all go. You will see it, I tell you—you will see it."
Susan spoke excitedly. Sister Eliza's sinking heart told her that the words were true, but she was unwilling to confess this. "Take care, Susan," she said, wishing to turn the conversation. "The street is rather too crowded for discussion of these matters. We shall be overheard, if you don't take care."
"Trust me," was the reply, "I'm keeping my eyes open; besides, I shall say nothing that can possibly be understood by passers-by. But tell me, Sister Eliza, don't you agree with what I said?"
"No! I cannot yet see wherein lies the very great danger of sparing this wretched girl."
"Not see it! but this is absurd, you do see it. You know what she now is, religious, love-sick, and a lunatic to boot. How can you expect such a one to keep a secret like ours? Sister Eliza! you must understand as well as I do, the meaning of what has happened. You see that the Chief has sacrificed the Cause to her private feelings. You know how she will hate and despise herself when she awakes from her folly, and then she will be as weak as Samson after the loss of his locks; for she will have lost what isherstrength,hersecret of success—belief in herself. And without Catherine King what do you think will happen to the Cause?"
"I am afraid, without her, it will be lost."
"Of course it will. But we must do our best. Even the Inner Circle must not know how it is that the judgment on Mary Grimm has not been executed. We must see Catherine to-morrow. We must concoct between us some plausible lie for the Sisters. We might make them believe that the girl is dead, anything rather than let them guess the fatal weakness of the Chief."
"That does seem the only thing to do," said Sister Eliza, thoughtfully. "I will try and think the whole matter over to-night."
"There is one other way out of the difficulty."
"And what is that?"
"Cannot we execute this judgment still, without consulting Catherine King? But, no, no!" she continued, in tones of suppressed rage, "that is too dangerous now; she told us that she has actually warned the girl against us. Why, the Chief herself is a traitor!"
"Sister Susan, I should advise you to take care what you say," quietly observed the boarding-house keeper.
"Ah! yes, I know," said Susan, contemptuously. "You are a strong friend of hers, you will stick to her through anything. You believe in all she does."
"Well, here we are in Oxford Street," interrupted the other,"I think I shall get into this omnibus. I will call on you early to-morrow morning, and we will talk over everything before we see Catherine King."
"I feel very upset," said Susan to herself after they had separated. "All seems to be going wrong just now; but it won't do to worry—worry brings grey hairs. I must amuse myself—I must have dissipation to-night to keep the blues away. Let me see, it's only six o'clock now; a stroll in the Burlington, and a few glasses of sherry, will be a good beginning." So she got into a hansom and drove to Piccadilly, touching up her complexion on the way, with the apparatus she carried in her little hand-bag.
She sauntered up and down the Arcade several times, looking into the shop windows, and feeling quite happy again when she perceived that she attracted a satisfactory share of the attention of the men.
"How do you do, Miss Riley?" said a quiet voice by her side.
She started, and turning round saw Dr. Duncan.
"Why, doctor!" she exclaimed, rather confused. "You are the last person I should have expected to meet here."
"Well, it is not very often I am to be seen in the Burlington," he replied; "but as it happened to lie on my way, I am strolling through it."
"And I," she said, with a laugh, "have been calling on my bootmaker."
"I have not seen you since you left the hospital, Miss Riley."
She saw that he glanced with some surmise at her fashionable and expensive attire, so different from the simple dress of the hospital nurse he had always been accustomed to see her in. It might prove inconvenient to her, at some future time, were this man to entertain any suspicions as to her mode of living, so she said, with a pretty attempt at a bashful smile, "You must not call me Miss Riley now, Dr. Duncan. I have changed my name."
"Let me congratulate you? May I ask by what name I am to call you for the future?"
"Well I have changed my name and yet not changed it—I am Mrs. Riley—I have married a cousin. But, doctor! I am so glad to have met you, I am anxious to know how poor Mary Grimm is now. Have you heard from your sister lately?"
"I am very glad to have good news to tell you, Mrs. Riley. I saw Miss Grimm yesterday. Her health is certainly improving very rapidly. I am looking forward to her complete recovery, at an early date."
"Ah! you saw her yesterday; did she say whether her aunt had been there lately?"
"I don't think Mrs. King has been down there for about a week."
"Indeed! She told me she was going to Farnham yesterday."
"She was certainly not there before I left, and that was late in the afternoon."
"And shall you see Mary again soon, doctor?"
Mary's letter was in his pocket; he had received it that morning, and had been beside himself with delight ever since. His exultation rang in his voice as he replied:
"I am going to see her to-morrow morning."
Susan perceived the expression in his eyes, and his joy irritated her excessively. "Well, good-night, Dr. Duncan," she said, in a harder tone. "Thank you for your good news. When you see Mary, to-morrow, give her my love, and please tell her that I inquired about her. Say that I have not forgotten her and won't. Don't forget will you, doctor?"
"I don't like that cunning face of yours, Mrs. Riley," he said to himself when she had gone. "I distrust you. It is foolish of me, but I cannot help it. I cannot help imagining you dislike my poor little bird down there—and yet you seemed veryanxious about her when she was ill. There is thorough malice in your voice and eye, but we don't fear you."
His love for Mary had inspired him with a subtle instinct, that told him when danger to her was near; and he felt a strong antipathy for the pretty woman with the wicked languishing eyes.
On the following morning Dr. Duncan took the train to Farnham, and full of delightful anticipation walked over to his sister's cottage.
It was the most lovely spring day imaginable. The young vegetation glowed beneath the bright sky, and a warm fresh breeze stirred it to happy music. It was, indeed, the very morning to go a-wooing. All nature was in harmony with the man's feelings, and he felt all its joyous sympathy as he walked with buoyant step along the fair English lanes, and the open moorland tracks, with fancies exultant and blithe as a lark's morning song.
At last he reached a little iron gate that opened on to the grounds of the cottage. He passed through it, and followed the path that clove the shrubbery, whose waving blossoms of lilac and laburnum seemed to whisper a glad welcome to him. Then, his heart beating fast, he walked on, till turning round a corner of the bushes, the lawn opened out before him, with the creeper-covered cottage beyond it.
And then he saw a sight that made him stand quite still suddenly, and hold his breath with keen emotion.
One who loved him had been watching for him, and had seen him from her window coming down the road, then she had gone out to meet him.
He saw the young girl walking towards him across the freshdaisy-sprinkled grass which still sparkled with dew at her feet. Her hands were slightly extended as if eager to greet him. She wore a morning dress of white muslin. There was no hat on her head, and the sunshine gleamed in her tresses. A faint blush lit her cheek, and on her lips played that smile of pleasure which, when a lover finds his presence brings it to his mistress, makes him know the most exceeding happiness this world can give.
He did not move, but stood still, wishing to prolong each stage of his delight, gazing with adoration at the lovely figure as it approached. So ethereal a being did she appear in that white robe, with her face pale save for the faint glow of joy that flushed either cheek; so fair, so fragile a creature, that she seemed to her lover as of some sweet noble order of spirits, too high, too pure, for the coarse affections of this earth; and tears came to his eyes with the tenderness he felt in his worship of this delicate girl.
She came up to him, and placed her hands in his. He held her at his arms' length for a few moments, saying nothing, feasting his eyes with her beauty; then he drew her close to him and kissed her passionately.
She tried to free herself from his grasp with a little low laugh that only encouraged him to hold her the closer, and they felt their hearts beat against each other.
When he released her there was a deep colour on her face, and she looked up at him with a pretty expression, a half smile, half-pout upon her mouth, as if she did not quite know whether to laugh or cry, be pleased or angry.
He led her to the bench under the beech-tree, and when they were seated spoke to her, her hands still held in his.
"My darling! so you have sent for me. Oh, my love! I can see that it is good news you have to tell me this day."
She made no reply, but he felt her hand tighten its grasp of his.
"Mary! dare I hope at last, that you will allow me to beyour friend, your husband? Have all the difficulties you spoke of been removed?"
"Harry! the shadow has gone from my life. What I feared would be done will not be done. You were right in what you said. To reveal my secret now would do no harm nor good to anyone. The mischief of the secret has gone for ever."
"Thank God!" cried her lover excitedly; "and now, Mary, there is nothing between us. Keep the secret; do not betray your friends. I do not care to know it. I understand you, this precious scheme, whatever it was, has come to nothing, has been abandoned. My darling! What do I care what it was? I know well it is nothing that should bring blame to your innocent soul. Poor child! that you should have become the tool of these wicked designing wretches! But now it is all over. You trust me, Mary, don't you?"
Another pressure of the hand was a sufficient answer to him.
"Then, Mary, the whole of my life will be devoted to your happiness. Ah! I never imagined that I could ever love a woman as I do you! Oh, Mary, Mary! I do not deserve to have been made so happy by you. And you really will have me as a husband? This is not a dream is it?"
"If you wish it," she whispered; "I will do all you wish."
"AllIwish, that is how you always speak; but what doyouwish?"
She raised her eyes till they met his, and whatever doubts he might have held about her feelings towards him, were dispelled by that soft, yet passionate look.
"Mary, Mary, my love!"
"Harry! my love! my husband! You ask me for my love. Ah! indeed, you know you have it. Oh, Harry, do you think that all women feel this, do they love their husbands as dearly as I love you? It seems all so strange, so wonderful."
He drew her head towards him and kissed the tears from her tender eyes; suddenly she started.
"Harry!"
"Yes! my dear little girl."
"I must pray."
He looked at her with some surprise. There was a great earnestness in her eyes as she clung to his hand and exclaimed, "Oh, Harry! you know how wicked I have been. You know how for many years I did not even believe in God. I was an atheist!" She shuddered as she uttered the word in accents of loathing. "And yet, see! he has sent me this wonderful happiness, this sweet, sweet love. How good this God must be! He is kind even to me, to me! Do you think he will hear me, will he be pleased if I pray to him, Harry, if I thank him for all that he has done?"
Her wistful look, the simple pathos of her speech touched the man's heart and his eyes dimmed, as he cried out passionately in reply, "Oh, my darling! my dear, dear, little sweetheart! You wicked, indeed! If God does find pleasure in any prayer, he must surely do so in such true, pure prayer as yours. You are right, Mary, you are right. We ought, indeed, to thank God together for having filled our hearts with this delicious love. I even more than you; for unlike you I have had everything in my favour, and yet I have lived an irreligious wicked selfish life. You have taught me a lesson, oh, my sweet little wife!"
Can Heaven itself disclose greater delights than did this glorious May day for these two! Ah! those golden hours; how the one, who later on will be left alone in the cold world will recall the magic rapture of them! Ah, precious hours, glimpses of Paradise, of which so few come to brighten the long dark days of most of us.
After a time the lovers went indoors, and the doctor told his sister everything. Poor little Mrs. White, how fussy andexcited she was all that day! I verily believe she was happy as were they themselves on seeing that matters had been settled definitely at last between these two people whom she loved so dearly.
At lunch exceedingly high spirits prevailed, high spirits that were not far removed from tears at times, from so profound depths they sprung. The little children caught the contagion from their elders and became very unruly in their merriment; and yet they were not reproved by their mother, who seemed to have lost her head in the excess of her gladness, and laughed so much at their pranks that their quick perceptions grasped the situation in a way; they saw that some very joyful thing had happened, and that discipline was to be ignored for the day; they discovered that mother, uncle, and "Auntie Mary," would tolerate anything, and they profited by the occasion.
"Uncle Harry, have you brought me some chokkies?" asked the little boy, and was not even rebuked for his rudeness.
Uncle had forgotten all about chocolates this time, but replied, "Bobby, I'll send you pocketsful of chokkies to-morrow."
"And a boat, Uncle Harry?"
"Yes, and a nice boat, and a new rocking-horse."
The children clapped their hands and shouted with delight; they thought their elders had surely gone mad, and that the Infant Millenium had come.
"And a new dolly for me?" cried the eldest girl.
"Yes! and a doll's house too, with lots of furniture," immediately responded the evidently insane uncle.
But, at last, the nurse, a worthy female, who alone in the establishment had not altogether lost her head, thought fit to come down and intervene, and she marched the reluctant youngsters off.
Mrs. White had to attend to her household cares, so the lovers were again left alone. They had somewhat settled down to their new relations by this time, so they sat side by side andtalked over the vague bright future before them. They arranged where they would live and so on, and formed all manner of plans, as is the way of young people in their situation.
"Why, I feel quite like an old married woman already," said Mary at last, with a smile.
"You see we know each other pretty well by this time—we are not strangers to each other," he replied.
"No, Harry! but I can hardly realize all this yet. Poor Mrs. King! what will become of her?" she exclaimed suddenly, as the recent events flashed across her mind.
"Oh! she will be all right, I suppose," replied the doctor, who could hardly be expected to take much interest in Catherine's welfare.
"She was very good to me," said Mary, thoughtfully. "We loved each other very much."
"How came you to live with her, Mary? I beg your pardon; that may be part of your secret."
"Oh no! It is not. I can tell you all about that. In fact, I had made up my mind to tell you some time to-day. You ought to know something about me before you make me your wife, dear."
"I know quite enough about you, my darling, to know that I shall always love you very much, and that you deserve the love of a better man than me," he replied, kissing her.
"Ah! but you will be ashamed of me when I tell you this. Harry, I have deceived you. Mrs. King is not really my aunt."
"So much the better, my pet. I am very glad to hear it."
"I must tell you who I am, Harry. It has been on my mind for a long time to do so. Now listen, and don't interrupt me till I have finished."
Dr. Duncan had never before inquired into her history, and now, for the first time, she told him who her parents were,of her life at Brixton, how she had run away from home, how she had been kindly treated by the unfortunate barrister, and how, at last, she had met Catherine King and had been adopted by her.
When she had completed her narration, she sobbed and covered her face with her hands. "Ah, Harry!" she cried, "now you know what a wicked girl I have been. You will not put trust in me any more. Do you hate me now, Harry?"
"Hate you!" he exclaimed, taking her hands from her face and kissing it. "You silly little thing! you say that to tease me." He paused a little, looking into her eyes as he held her head, and then continued in a voice that shook with strong passion, "You know I trust you—trust you as I would—as I would—yes!—even as I would trust the good God himself, who created that pure soul of yours, my queen! Ah! Mary, Mary, you do not half understand how dear you are to me now!"
"Yes I do, Harry; I have only to think of what you are to me, to understand it," she said, smiling through her tears.
"Itisdelicious to hear those words from your lips, Mary!"
"And you are not ashamed of me then, dear, after what I have told you?"
"Ashamed of you? No! prouder of you than ever. It is a strange history this of yours, Mary. Very few could have come out of such an ordeal unscathed, as you have done."
"I wish I could tell you all the rest too, dear; I do so wish you knew my secret. But I have sworn not to reveal it."
"There is now no object for revealing it, pet, except to gratify my idle curiosity; and I would not have you do that. But I have an important question to ask you."
"What is it?"
He put his arm round her and drew her close to him. "When are we to be married?"
"Oh! I have not thought of that yet."
"Well, it is rather sudden; but, Mary, it will do you somuch good to go abroad for awhile. Now, if we are married soon, we can go away together for a long holiday. I can get someone to do my work for me in my absence."
So it was settled that the marriage should take place in the course of a few weeks; and when the sun set that evening, and the lights were lit in the cottage, there were no happier people in all merry England than the doctor, his sweetheart, and his sister.
But even on that, the first evening of unalloyed happiness for the lovers, the stern Fate that seemed to hunt relentlessly the unfortunate girl put forth her grim finger in warning. While the three were sitting down in the cosy drawing-room after dinner, the postman's knock was heard at the door and the maid brought Mary a letter.
"A letter for me!" she exclaimed as she took it, and her face paled, and a shiver ran through her body as she turned it over in her hands uneasily without opening it. No one ever wrote to her, and she felt a foreboding of some great ill. Instinctively she moved her chair a little nearer to her lover, who was sitting by her, as if to lean upon him for protection against the unknown danger. He understood that pleading gesture, and placed his arm firmly round her.
Then she opened the letter, she turned to the signature at the end of it and saw that it was from Susan Riley. She dropped it again on her lap.
"Harry," she said, "I feel that I am going to read something terrible. All through this bright day I have felt that such perfect happiness could not last long, that some misfortune must soon follow."
"Read the letter, dear, and don't be so superstitious," said Mrs. White.
She took it up again and read steadily through it. It ran thus—