"You stupid girl!" exclaimed Susan angrily, "do you not understand me? I tell you I have just seen your master; he knows that I am going to call on your mistress. Do you disbelieve my word?"
"No, ma'am, but—"
"But! But what?"
"I don't exactly know, ma'am, but—" the girl stammered, looking very confused and red, then suddenly her face brightened, and she exclaimed, "Ah! here is the nurse, ma'am; I will ask her about it."
For at that moment a comely-looking strong country girl came out of a door leading into the hall, carrying a little white bundle in her arms.
"Ah!" cried Susan, "is that dear Mrs. Duncan's little boy? Do let me see it!"
There could be no harm in allowing the strange lady to see the baby for a moment, at any rate, so the proud nurse drew back the clothes and disclosed a little sleeping face.
Susan felt her veins tingle with an excitement, the meaning of which she could not herself understand, as she approached and looked at the innocent features.
"Mary's child," she said, "Mary's child; dear me, how strange!" and she stooped to kiss him, as she knew it was her bounden duty to do, if she did not wish to offend the nurse beyond pardon, and so prejudice her chance of seeing the mother.
But just as her lips were about to touch the soft cheek, a sudden surprised cry from the housemaid made her raise her head again.
Then her cowardly spirit failed her, and she looked aghast at what was before her, motionless, save for the tremor that shook her frame.
A form more like a ghost than a living woman was hurrying down the stairs towards her, with arms outstretched, a form that seemed to glide rather than run, so evidently unconscious was its motion.
Clad merely in her white bed-clothes, with face as white as they, the mother was rushing to save her babe. Her expression was one of fixed intense horror; her lips were apart, hereyes dilated, but she spoke no word. She flew to the nurse and snatched her infant into her arms, pressing it against her breast, palpitating with her frightful emotion.
She stood erect and firm, but trembling in every limb, staring at Susan with the same fixed look. Her white throat rose and fell convulsively with the choking sensations that prevented her from speaking.
She stood thus an awful image for many minutes, the frightened servants gazing at her open-mouthed, not knowing what to do. At last she spoke; she raised her arm, and pointing at Susan, cried in a voice that did not sound like her own, so strange and hollow it was, "Go! Go!"
Susan hesitated, and seemed to be about to speak, when the mother made a step towards her, with so menacing a gesture, with such fury in her eyes—altogether so different a being from the timid girl of old—that Susan was quite cowed, and lost her presence of mind. She shrank back and tried to smile, but she could not manage it; the grin as of a wild beast at bay, full of rage and mortal fear, was the only result.
"Go!" cried the mother again.
Susan felt that she was beaten, she could do no more, she looked round at the group, and then without a word slunk out of the door, which the housemaid, recovering her presence of mind, slammed indignantly behind her.
Mary hurried upstairs with the baby, saying nothing, and went into her bed-room, the two women following, full of simple sympathy, yet knowing not how to show it.
Then to their astonishment the poor mother, with frantic haste, yet with tender care, pulled the clothes off her child, and laid him on the bed. With an eager anxiety that was painful to see, she examined all the little body, dreading lest she should find the small spot which showed that the accursed instrument of the Sisterhood had done its work.
But there was nothing to be seen. "Oh, my God! I thank Thee, I thank Thee. Oh, my God! My Christ," she cried, incoherently, as she fell weeping on the child, covering it with passionate kisses. Then she rose and said wildly, "Jane! Jane! please look and see that there is no mark—no wound—nothing. I cannot see, my eyes are so dim. Please look carefully, and make quite, quite certain of it."
The nurse, thinking to humour her poor crazed mistress, pretended to examine the baby, though her own eyes were really as dim with tears as were the mother's. "No, ma'am, I assure you that there is nothing at all—nothing. The little darling is all right; but now you must go to bed, poor dear; you will be very ill if you don't. For your little baby's sake go to bed, and try and rest."
Mary, now as docile as a child, allowed herself to be put into her bed, and sobbed herself asleep—a broken slumber full of frightful dreams, from which she awoke into as painful a delirium.
When Susan was outside Dr. Duncan's house, she walked away rapidly, careless whither, cursing and hating herself and all the world besides, in the sense of the ignominious manner of her failure in her plans.
She was not yet fifty yards from the house, when she perceived, hobbling towards her along the pavement, the same stooping, shabby, old woman whom she had observed near Mrs. Harris's shop a few days previously.
In her irritable mood, Susan would not move aside for the old creature, but pushed roughly against her as she passed.
But to her surprise, the apparently feeble hag, instead of reeling aside, or even falling, as she had half expected her to do, suddenly extended her hand and seized Susan by the arm with so firm and nervous a grip that it stopped her short, notwithstanding the speed at which she was walking. Susan turned round fiercely to face her, and then was astonished to see every sign of decrepitude disappear from the woman who held her. The stooping back straightened; the hands no longer trembled with the weakness of extreme old age; it was a tall, middle-aged woman who stood erect before her; and she recognized the stern, pale face of Catherine King, whose eyes were looking intently into hers as if reading her inmost thoughts.
Unnerved by her recent discomfiture, Susan shrank beneaththe strong grasp and keen eye of her former Chief, and was too startled by her unexpected appearance to speak a word.
These few months had worked a great change in the features of Catherine King. She appeared much older; her hair was much whiter; and though her eye had lost little of its old fire, the light in it was unnatural as of fever, and there were several signs about her to indicate that some slow but fatal disease had taken hold of her.
She was indeed broken-hearted. She had lost Mary and the Scheme—the only two affections in the whole world for her; so she had gone away, as a wounded wild beast does, to die alone in some out-of-the-way spot in the wilderness of London where no one knew her. When she changed her residence, she left behind her no clue by which she might be traced. She avoided even her one faithful friend, Sister Eliza, whose society was now painful to her for the memories it called up—a standing reproach.
For a few moments Catherine King looked into Susan's face, a bitter smile playing on her lips the while, then she addressed her.
"And what are you doing in this part of the world, my old associate?"
"That is my business, Mrs. King, and not yours," hissed out Susan.
"Indeed, Sister Susan! I am not so sure of that," said Catherine, quietly. "But I have not come down here to argue with you, but to give you certain orders which you will have to obey."
"Orders! from you!—obey you! Why, you must be mad!"
"You think so!" continued Catherine, as quietly as ever. "Well, to begin with, I know why you have been down here so much lately. I know whom you are hunting down."
"Catherine King! too much learning has made you mad!" exclaimed Susan, with a derisive laugh which could not conceal the uneasiness she really felt.
"Mad, perhaps; but not so mad that I cannot put a stop—and at once, too—to all this plotting of yours, Sister Susan."
"I have no fear of you now, Mrs. King, I can assure you."
"But you have of the gallows."
"It strikes me that those same gallows would have to string you up as well, O my accomplice! O great centre of the Sisterhood!" replied Susan with a bow, and in tones of mock politeness.
Catherine looked at her contemptuously and said, "I am not a coward like you. Do you imagine that fear of death would deter me from anything? Life has nothing for me now. I tell you, woman! that if I was to be hanged to-morrow, the knowledge would trouble me far less than the discovery of one new grey hair in your head, or of one fresh wrinkle on your face, would trouble you. I may tell you that Iamdying. An incurable disease of the heart is hurrying me to the grave; and it is sweet to me to know this, I am so weary of this world. But enough of that—you know me by this time. Now, Susan Riley, I intend to prevent you from carrying out your scheme of vengeance against that girl. I warn you to desist, or I shall have to make matters very unpleasant for you."
Susan here made a gesture of impatience, and withdrawing herself from Catherine's grasp, commenced to walk down the road. The Chief let her go, but walked by the side of her and continued: "Very well, Sister Susan, we will walk on if you like it better. Certainly we will attract less attention than if we stand discussing in one spot—not that I care who sees, or even overhears us, for that matter."
"Be quick, then, and let me hear what you have to say—then leave me," said Susan, in a sullen voice.
"That is exactly what I intend to do. I shall leave you as soon as I have brought you to reason. Now mark me, Susan Riley! I intend to call on Dr. Duncan to-morrow. I shall tell him all about the Society—that is, all that is necessary for mypurpose—and without endangering anyone. I shall also tell him all your history, and acquaint him of your plots against his wife."
"And hang yourself as well as me!"
"Not necessarily. Dr. Duncan will not make use of his information except in self-defence. He will not molest you unless you become dangerous to him."
"Traitor that you are and mad-woman!" cried Susan, passionately, "What are you doing? You inveigled us all into this precious scheme of yours, and then betrayed us on account of this miserable hysterical girl. And now—"
"Stop!" interrupted Catherine, sternly, "I never betrayed you. I would not sanction an unnecessary assassination; on this you all deserted me. But the work you are engaged on now is in no way connected with the Society, you are merely satisfying your private malice. I have been watching you for some time, Sister Susan; and I intend to take the sting out of you before I leave you to-day."
"I do not fear you," replied Susan with a forced carelessness of manner. "You have no hold upon me. Now come, Sister Catherine! after all, what could you prove against me that could do me much injury? Why, absolutely nothing!"
"So you think that, do you? so you defy my power!" said Catherine with the same quiet smile of assurance that had made Susan's heart sink before. "Well! I shall have to go into details, that is all. Now, listen to what I have to say, Susan! I am quite aware that little could be made out of your connection with the Society, seeing that we never carried our scheme into action, save on one occasion, by the way, I think you had something to do with that, a barrister was it not? Private malice was not the least of your motives then, too." She paused and seemed to enjoy the sight of Susan's blanching face. "But let that matter pass. It would be difficult to bring that home to you."
"Impossible," said Susan, recovering a little of her courage.
"I think you are right," went on Catherine in the same calm voice, "I am not so foolish as to threaten you with that charge; but I will go on to other little doings of yours which I imagine will be more to the purpose."
Susan looked up and felt all her courage ooze out again when she read the expression on her companion's face. She felt that Catherine was playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse, certain of being able to secure her prey when the fancy takes her to extend her claw.
The woman spoke again, but now in stern and earnest tones.
"Now, look you, Sister Susan; when you first came to us, I saw what sort of a woman you were. I knew that you might be of great service to us; I felt you might also prove to be exceedingly dangerous to us. Do you think I should have been so foolish as to admit you to the Inner Circle before I had carefully inquired into all your antecedents? Do you imagine that I did not make myself acquainted with your most secret history first? At all events, I gathered sufficient to satisfy myself that I could hold you in my power when necessity should demand it. I knew you had claws, so, before I would entrust our secrets to you, I learnt how to clip those claws, in case they ever showed themselves. I can prove all that I know, too. I can hang you, Miss Susan, for a very old crime committed long before you knew us."
She stood still, and facing Susan, continued in a louder voice than she had hitherto employed, "I know all about something that occurred in the little cottage near Bath. Do you remember the incident? Do you understand me, or shall I be more explicit?"
Susan started, and looked uneasily around her. She could not mask her terror now. Could Catherine King, indeed, know that black secret, which she had fondly imagined her own soul alone possessed? She said to herself it was impossible. How couldCatherine have foundthatout? So she tried to smile, and determined to brazen it out.
Catherine, who was scrutinizing her face, read the expression of it. So she came close to her and whispered into her ear for nearly a minute.
Susan caught every damning word of the story of her ancient crime, and her livid face and twitching lips confessed to her guilt.
Her accuser stepped back a few paces and smiled as she read the effects of the communication on the cowardly features, then she spoke again, this time aloud:
"Now, remember this, Susan Riley. If you ever again approach Mary Duncan—if you write letters to her, or annoy her in the slightest or most indirect manner—Scotland Yard shall know your little secret. Dr. Duncan shall know it to-morrow. He will use it to defend his wife, if you ever dare to renew your malicious cowardly attacks. You understand me, don't you?"
"I am not a fool," answered Susan in a voice choking with vain spite.
"And I have something more to say, you must leave London within four days. You must never return to it, nor come within a hundred miles of it. You will be closely watched. Remember that there is a mightier Society than the one you were initiated into; a Society of which you know nothing, though ours was in reality but a branch of it. It is a Society that has a myriad eyes, and a myriad secret weapons which it can use well against traitors. Remember that you have committed one of the greatest crimes that a member of a Secret Society can commit. You prostituted the methods of political execution to private malice, when you murdered the barrister Hudson. This has been marked down against you. You will have now to obey my orders; and take care that you do not slip again. Wherever you are, your every action will bewatched, you cannot escape. Why, fool! you little guessed that we have known all your doings for the last many years; your secret thoughts were hardly hidden from us. Now you have received your orders; will you obey them?"
Susan did not reply for some time; she hung down her head as she pondered over it all. She did not wish Catherine to see her face on which she felt that the anguish of defeat was too plainly written. All her brazen effrontery had vanished now. She knew that she could not fight longer against the heavy odds that were opposed to her. At last having succeeded in smothering her feelings to some extent, she replied to Catherine's question in a dogged voice,
"I must yield to the force of circumstances; I will go away from London."
"Very good!" said Catherine, "I will now leave you. We will never meet again. I cannot wish you a farewell—it would be a vain wish, for you will never know happiness again. I almost pity you sometimes—poor wretch! With that unfortunate temperament of yours, what a Hell you will make to yourself, and carry about with you in your mind wherever you go, now that you are getting old and ugly, now that those transitory joys which were your only joys have forsaken you! Your bitterest enemy could not wish you a more terrible retribution for your many sins. I almost think it would be a mercy to put you out of your agony at once, to hand you over to the police now."
She paused and looked into Susan's face, which was fixed in a strange half vacant stare, as if she were in a sort of cataleptic state.
"You don't look well. Ah, yes! I remember. You have already had two epileptic fits have you not, Susan? The strain of your amusements and your hates is telling on your nervous system. I suspect that that death in life in which the live mind burns in agony out of the dead body is not far from you, Susan. Poor butterfly! your summer day is over. Your wings are evennow faded and no longer beautiful; they will draggle impotently by your side soon, no longer able to carry you out into the delight of the sunshine. There will be no more sunshine for you, but cold darkness and biting pains. I must leave you now, wishing you a speedy release, and in the meantime do not forget your orders."
Catherine turned from her and walked away: but Susan did not move. Catherine took one glance over her shoulders as she went, and she saw that the fixed expression had not left Susan's face; the wretched woman was standing motionless and speechless, heedless of the sharp wind of March that swept by her; but two large tears were now hanging from her eyes. Catherine saw them and was touched. It was indeed so strange a thing to see tears inthoseeyes! and her heart smote her as she walked home, and she reproached herself that she had allowed herself to be carried away in the rage of victory to trample so ungenerously on a fallen foe, and inflict needless torture on one sufficiently punished.
When Dr. Duncan returned home, he found his wife suffering from a nervous fever, and in a delirious condition. The servants told him in what way it had been produced—how a lady who gave the name of Mrs. Riley had called at the house, representing that he had sent her; how Mary had heard her voice from upstairs, had hurried down and ordered her to go, exhibiting extreme agitation; and had been ill ever since. He closely cross-examined the two women who had been present at the interview, and learnt every detail of it; and it was perhaps well for Susan Riley that she was not by, so transported he was with grief and rage.
He watched by the side of his wife all the night, and on the following day, which was Sunday, he perceived that the crisis was past. But she was still delirious, starting up wildly at times to cry out that her baby had been murdered, and not being satisfied when it was even brought in and shown her.
Dr. Duncan began to suspect that there must be some cause in facts at the bottom of this fancy, that it was something more than the delusion of an unhinged brain; so he carefully listened to every word she dropped in her delirium, hoping to gather some clue to the mystery, which might enable him to take definite action against these enemies of his wife, and for once and all, remove the weight of terror from her mind. He determined that he would find out what this secret of hers was, what wasthis dread which was goading her to madness. To begin with, he would put detectives on the track of this Mrs. Riley—he would spare no pains or expense to discover whether Mary was the victim of a mania or of a foul conspiracy; he would no longer remain in this state of perplexity as to which it was.
On Sunday afternoon Mary fell into a refreshing sleep. Her husband sat by her bedside hour after hour watching and thinking over the problem which he had set himself to solve.
At last she woke with a sudden cry and looked round her with a puzzled frightened expression. Then her eyes met his, and a softer look came into them. She stretched out her arms feebly towards him and said in low half conscious tones, her mind still wandering, "Kiss me, Harry, dear;" he kissed her—she closed her eyes and continued in an intermittent dreamy way, "My love! my love! how delicious to be with you again after so long, so long—going through the green fields hand in hand with you plucking the pretty flowers. Ah! you told me of all this happiness in those dark old days in horrible London; but I never thought they would come. Do not let me go back there! Do not leave me, Harry! I am afraid!" She looked wildly around the room as she uttered the last words.
"Of what, my poor little pet?" he said, clasping her in his arms. "See, I am with you—there is no cause to be afraid."
"Ah! but, dear, I am afraid of all this great happiness—something will happen. See even now how clouded it is getting, and the green grass and the flowers are turning black and withering—and, oh! all those dead leaves whirling about! But I will not be afraid, I am with you. How nice to be in the fields once more with you and baby—and baby—baby! O God!" she started up in the bed, her eyes dilated and staring in a horrible fashion. "O God, my baby! oh, they have taken away my baby—Harry! Harry! where is my baby? She has got him at last, yes, she—that woman there—Susan Riley! Ah, my baby!" and her awful cry rang through the house and was even heard in the street,so that passers-by stopped and turned pale at the agony of it. "Oh, my beautiful baby! oh, give me back my baby! Pity me, Susan, I kneel before you—kill me—torture me in any way, but spare my baby! What have you done with him? Oh, do not smile that cruel smile—what do you mean? Oh, murderess! murderess!"
The very extremity of her anguish prevented its continuance. After this paroxysm she appeared dazed and was quiet for some time, then her mind commenced to wander in other channels. "Mrs. King! mother! do not look so coldly at me. Pity your poor little girl! you used to love me once. I have not betrayed you, mother. I have never breathed the secret that was killing me, even to my husband. I have given you my life."
Then she closed her eyes for a few minutes. She opened them again and looked wistfully at her husband. "Harry, kiss me—am I so ugly, dear? I think they have cut off all my hair; but they said I was ugly before that. Mrs. Grimm used to say I was ugly; but you don't think so, do you, dear?"
The man put his lips to hers and his tears fell on her cheek, he could not keep them back. Then her eyes lit up with a beautiful light of great love. "Kiss me once more, dear—I am dying; one last sweet kiss from you just as I am dying. I will die as you kiss, die in your dear arms, Harry," and she stretched out her hands to him.
He clasped her softly in his arms and kissed her hot brow. She lay there with a contented smile on her lips, her eyes closed, and in a few moments she fell into a deep tranquil sleep.
He did not move his arm away lest he should disturb her, and nearly an hour passed, and his heart became light within him, as he saw that the danger was passing, that in all probability she would awake refreshed and calm, with a sound mind.
At last there came a gentle tap at the door, and the nurse entered.
"Please, Dr. Duncan," she said, "there is a lady downstairswho has called to see you. I told her that you were engaged—as you ordered—but she will not go: she said she must see you, that her business is of the utmost importance."
"Tell her that I cannot possibly see her just now," whispered the doctor.
The woman went out but returned in a minute or so.
"Has she not gone?" he asked, an angry look on his face.
"No, sir! she won't go; she says she will wait for you till you can see her."
"What name did she give?"
"She wouldn't give her name, sir," replied the nurse, "she says you must see her, that she has come on a matter of life and death. She says that what she has to tell you is a secret that affects Mrs. Duncan." The woman hesitated as she continued, "She told me to tell you, sir, that she can save Mrs. Duncan's life. I think she is crazy, sir; but she looks as if she were very much in earnest."
The doctor pondered for a few moments, then seeing that his wife was still in a profound sleep, he drew his arm gently from under her head, and after whispering to the nurse to remain there until he returned, he noiselessly left the room.
On entering the study he saw Catherine King standing by the fire-place, erect as of old, but with a face deadly pale.
His brain had been rendered irritable by his anxious watching, and as soon as he beheld her a great rage seized him. He said to himself that it was this woman and her crew that had tortured, maddened his little wife: and now she, the worst of all, had even dared to beard him within his own doors.
Scarcely knowing what he did, he approached her, his arm doubled menacingly, and trembling with passion.
"What are you doing here, woman?" he cried. "Another of the accursed brood! Out, or I shall forget myself—out, I say! But no! stay here! you shall not go out," he went to the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. "You will haveto tell me what all this means before I let you go, Mrs. King."
"That is exactly what I have come here to do, Dr. Duncan," she replied quietly. She was standing firmly and proudly, meeting his furious look with a calm sad eye in which there was no wrath or fear, but a great pity.
He saw that look, and in spite of his strong prejudice against her, he felt the sympathy of it, so he checked himself and stood still, gazing at her with an expression of doubt and wonder on his face.
She spoke again: "Dr. Duncan, you will understand me soon. You altogether mistake my intentions now, and no great wonder is it that you do. Dr. Duncan, believe me, I have come to save your wife, to bring her happiness back to her, to make reparation for a great wrong, before I die."
He looked at her face and clearly perceived the signs of fatal illness on the passion-lined features. He was touched. He felt that the woman was speaking the truth; he imagined that he might be wrong after all in his suspicions of her—she might have come as a friend and not as a foe.
"Take this chair, Mrs. King," he said kindly. "You look very tired. I apologize for my ungentlemanly rudeness, but I am off my head almost with worry and anxiety. I am very glad you have come. You can throw some light on all this. I must tell you"—and he scanned her face earnestly as he spoke—"that certain circumstances have made me suspect that you have something to do with the cause of my wife's illness."
"I have all to do with your wife's illness. I am the cause of it," Catherine replied, meeting his eye fearlessly. "Dr. Duncan, I have much to say to you. I will help you to understand Mary's illness. I will teach you how to ward off all danger from her for the future, and I will bring peace to her mind."
She placed her hand to her heart, as if in pain, and looked soill that he exclaimed, "Mrs. King, you are seriously ill—you must not excite yourself—speak quietly, I entreat you."
"I know that—I am dying; but I have come to save Mary's life."
She dwelt lovingly on the beloved syllables of the girl's name, and she closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the present, as the picture of the old happy days, when her darling lived with her, rose to her memory.
Seeing how weak she was and how weary were her tones, he mixed her a draught to ease the labouring of the strained heart and persuaded her to drink it.
"I feel better now," she said with a sigh of relief. "Doctor,"—she then continued quickly as if in fear that something might occur to prevent her from completing the long explanations which was before her. "Dr. Duncan, your wife has a secret—she cannot tell it you—it is this that troubles her."
"It is so."
"I will tell it to you."
He drew a chair to the table opposite to her, and leaning his head on his hand gazed into her face, as he listened to her narrative with so intense an attention, that he found himself holding his breath at times lest his own heart should beat too loudly, and he should miss one word.
Then she told him the whole strange story from the beginning to the end—of her scheme—its failure—of her love for Mary—of her intention to kill the girl—of her repentance at the last moment—of Susan and her crimes and plots—she omitted nothing.
When she had come to the end of it she said, "Now you know all. I dragged poor Mary into this against her will. I loved her, yet I would have destroyed her. The only wish I have left now in the world is to make atonement, to take away all this weight from her, and make her life happy. You may not believe me, but it matters not—I care not—if I can only save her."
But Dr. Duncan did believe her. He listened to her and he understood all now. He pitied the brave and generous, though misguided woman before him. In his joy at what he had heard, he forgave her everything for her great unselfish love for his darling. A crowd of thoughts rushed across his mind. He recalled many remarks of his wife that corroborated this story. He remembered how she had ever expressed love and admiration for Catherine King. Yes, this was the Secret!—and what did all this confession of Catherine mean to him? Why! that his wife had not been the victim of delusion—that she was not drifting as he so much feared, into some terrible and incurable form of insanity. Her fears had been but too reasonable—and now it needed but a few words to clear the shadow from her mind for ever! All this trouble was over now. In the excess of his delight he could bear no ill-will to the bringer of such good tidings, he could not reason calmly about her crimes and errors.
He rose from his chair, and approaching Catherine he seized her hand and said with a deep emotion, "Mrs. King, I have misjudged you. In spite of all you have confessed, I believe that you are a good—a noble woman. I should like you to consider me as your friend."
She took his proffered hand without saying a word. He continued, "Ah! Mrs. King, you have told me what will save my darling's life. How can I thank you sufficiently?"
"You can do one thing for me," she replied anxiously.
"What is it?"
She clasped her hands together. "Oh, Dr. Duncan!" she cried imploringly, "let me see her sometimes. I must be vile in her sight, and you too must hate me, though you speak so kindly. But I will do you no more harm—you know that. I nearly brought her to ruin; but you need not fear me now. Oh, Dr. Duncan! you do not know how I love her, how my heart yearns after her—you yourself do not love her more. Icannot live much longer—you can see that yourself. Let me see her now and then during the short remainder of my life! For your God's sake be merciful to me; have pity on me and grant me this thing!"
"Mrs. King, believe me, when I tell you that I bear you no ill-will whatever, very much the reverse indeed; and Mary has always spoken of you in terms of the deepest affection. If all goes well now, as I fully expect it will, you may come as often as you like to see Mary, and you will be really welcome. I shall be very glad if you will call to-morrow afternoon. By that time I shall have told Mary all; and I think she will be well enough to see you."
"Thank you very much, Dr. Duncan!" said Catherine simply, but with a grasp of his hand that fully expressed the depth of her gratitude. "I will go now and I will come again to-morrow afternoon."
When Mary woke she found her husband sitting by her bedside, with the light of such a great joy in his eyes, that a glad wonder at once came into her own. She felt that some very happy thing must have come to pass, and she raised herself in the bed, and, taking his hand in hers, she gazed expectantly into his face.
"Mary, I have some very good news indeed for you," he said gently but very earnestly.
"I knew it! I knew it!" she exclaimed, trembling violently.
"Mary, can you bear to hear it now?—how do you feel?"
"Oh, now—now!" she cried vehemently. "Tell it to me now, at once, before I go away again. Oh! Harry—you don't understand—sometimes the whole world seems to slip away from me. I feel as if my soul was being carried right away into some dark place—and I leave memory and love and everything but sensation behind me—I cannot think then, Harry. Tell me quick,for I can understand now. Tell me at once, or the darkness will come again, and it will be too late!"
"My darling! my darling! The darkness will never come to you again. Mary, dear, listen to me. I know your secret, and your enemies can never trouble you more."
She passed her hand across her brow several times, then said in a feeble puzzled voice, "You cannot know all, or you would hate me."
"I do know all, and I love you more than ever!" he exclaimed passionately as he put his arms about her and kissed her.
She hid her head on his breast and sobbed in the fulness of her great joy.
"Mary," he continued, "you need no longer fear Susan Riley's plots. She will never molest you again. And who do you think is the friend who has saved us? It is Mrs. King—she is coming to see you to-morrow."
Gradually he told her all that Catherine King had revealed to him. At first she could not bring herself to believe that this was more than a very happy dream; she feared she would awake again soon and find herself in the presence of the shadow. But before he left her, she had realized all that had happened on that day; and with tears and inarticulate prayers of gratitude to the God who had not deserted her, she relieved her o'er-wrought spirit, until a sweet sleep closed her weary eyes.
Catherine King called as she had promised on the following afternoon. "How is she? Shall I be able to see her?" she asked anxiously, as soon as the doctor came into the room.
"Mary is very much better. Indeed there is very little the matter with her now," he replied. "But I wish to say a few words to you before we go upstairs. Mrs. King, I have had a long talk with Mary about you. My dear friend!—I hope you will allowme to call you that now—we have decided that you are to stay with us; you must live here with Mary. She insists on it. You know how she loves you—it will be cruel of you to refuse. It has been settled that you are not to leave us even this night. The weather is very bad, and you are too ill to be out in it. Indeed you must be looked after. A room has been got ready for you, and to-morrow you can give up your lodgings. No! No refusal! I am your doctor now, and my orders are peremptory. You will be happy yet and live long with us."
She shook her head and smiled. "I will not trouble you long. But oh, Dr. Duncan!" and she stooped and kissed his hand in the fervour of her gratitude, "I thank you from my heart for what you have done this day. Oh, generous man! I have not deserved this kindness. I have done much wrong to Mary and you, and yet you forgive me like this. Ah! if a dying woman's true gratitude be of any good, you indeed have it now."
Catherine followed the doctor upstairs. Mary was slightly hysterical at first with the excitement of the meeting. She put her arms round Catherine's neck and cried, "Oh, mother! dear mother! You too! you too! and I loved you so. But you have forgiven me now, and you will not hurt my baby, my poor little baby!"
Catherine wept. Her heart had been softened by her lonely misery of the last few months—she wept, and stooping she kissed Mary's forehead and said, "My darling, I will love your baby, even as I love you."
Mary soon entirely recovered her health. This was her last shock. The terror was no more, the shadow had disappeared for ever; and the knowledge that there was now no secret between her husband and herself, removed the last cloud from her mind. She went through life with him along a smoother way, a happy wife and mother.
But Catherine's health grew rapidly worse. Soon she wasconfined to her bed, peacefully, painlessly, fading away, and Mary nursed her.
Her last days were made even delicious to her by the love of her two friends. She was very happy in that she had saved Mary, happier than she had ever been before—even in the old time when she had been drunk with the glory of her visionary scheme. She had learned at last that highest, intensest of pleasures—self-sacrifice for those we love. No shadow came across the glory of those last bright days. She was so grateful, so full of love, so peacefully happy, and at last she died even as a saint might have died with Mary by her side.
The noble, erring soul had gone to find Divine mercy. Her last words were, as she turned her eyes to Mary with a wistful look, "Mary! I feel that I know nothing about it, it is all a mystery. But it may be that there is another world, the other side—pray for me, Mary! pray for me! I cannot pray for myself; for if there is another world I do so want to meet you again there, my darling! my darling! but it is all a mystery—all a mystery. Kiss me, Mary!"
The funeral of Mrs. King took place on one wild winter's day. Dr. Duncan accompanied it as the only mourner. But on reaching the cemetery he perceived there a woman dressed in black and closely veiled.
She stood by the grave as the coffin was being lowered, and was evidently weeping bitterly.
He wondered who she could be, but she carefully concealed her face, and went away without disclosing her identity.
It was the boarding-house keeper of Bayswater, Sister Eliza, of the Secret Society, who, after much vain search, had only two days before discovered where her beloved Chief had gone.
42, Catherine Street, Strand,May, 1885.
VIZETELLY & CO.'S NEW BOOKS,AND NEW EDITIONS.
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Second Edition, in Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, price 12s. 6d.A JOURNEY DUE SOUTH;TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF SUNSHINE.By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
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Two Vols. large Post 8vo, attractively bound, price 25s.UNDER THE LENS:SOCIAL PHOTOGRAPHS.By E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY.
ILLUSTRATED WITH ABOUT 300 ENGRAVINGS BY WELL-KNOWN ARTISTS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
JILTS:—Mrs. Pinkerton—A Western County Belle—Zoe, Lady Tryon—An Inconsolable Jilt—A Jilted Drysalter—Love and Pickles—An Entr'acte—Mrs. Prago and Miss Daisy Caunter—A Widow with a Nice Little Estate—An Unmercenary Pair of Jilts.
ADVENTURERS AND ADVENTURESSES:—Of the Genus Generally—Matrimonial Adventurers—The Joint Stock Company Chairman—A Financial Adventurer—A Professional Greek—The Countess D'Orenbarre—Lady Goldsworth—Mirabel Hildacourse—Lily Gore—Bella Martingale—Pious Mrs. Palmhold—Mrs. Decoy—Mrs. Lawkins.
PUBLIC SCHOOLBOYS AND UNDERGRADUATES:—Drawbacks of Eton—Of Various Eton Boys—Rugby and Rugbeians—Harrow, Winchester, Westminster—Oxford Undergraduates—University Discipline—Sporting and Athletic Undergraduates—Reading and Religious Undergraduates.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
SPENDTHRIFTS:—Prefatory—The Gambletons—Lord Charles Innynges—Lord Luke Poer—Lord Rottenham—Lord Barker—The Marquis of Malplaquet—The Lords Lumber—Sir Calling Earley—Tommy Dabble—Dicky Duff.
HONORABLE GENTLEMEN (M.P.'s):—Preliminary—Erudite Members—Crotchety Members—Free Lances—The Irish Contingent—Very Noble M.P.'s—Money Bags—Beery M.P.'s—Workingmen M.P.'s—Party Leaders—A Seatless Member.
SOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN:—An Ex-Beauty—Miss Jenny—Mademoiselle Sylvie—Miss Rose—Madame de l'Esbrouffe-Tourbillon.
ROUGHS OF HIGH AND LOW DEGREE:—How Roughs are Made—The Nobleman Rough—The Foreign Garrison Rough—The Clerical Rough—The Legal Rough—Medical Roughs—The Rough Flirt—The Wife-Beating Rough—Vandal Roughs—The Tourist Rough—The Nautical Rough—The Professional Bruiser—The Low-Class Rough—Women Roughs.