A very selfish love after all is this quasi-love of a man, however fierce, however self-devoted it appear; and women of the world such as the Riley know this well. Little wonder, then, that they laugh at their admirers behind their back; and determine to fleece them well before the inevitable weariness comes, and the men go off in search of newer loves.

These two contrived, however, to get on very well together, and their intimacy continued for month after month, involving much expenditure of hard cash on his side, of sighs and lies on hers.

The infatuation of the man increased. He would have thrown away his all, nay, his life, for this woman. He became her very slave; and yet all the while he felt that she was not a good woman; he was ashamed of his ign.o.ble pa.s.sion.

Disgusted at his own folly, he took to drink again; he broke through his resolution of reform, and, turning his face round, began to retrace his steps down the hill--this time never to come back.

Susan had wormed out of him all his history, and found that he had considerable prospects on the death of some relative, so she did not desert him when his rapidly-increasing drinking propensities made of him a not over pleasant companion at times; but she tried to play the part of reformer and beautiful guardian angel of the man.

In reality, she contrived to sink him further into the abyss, and by this means make him more and more her slave. While preaching to him like a saint about his bad habits, she would put in suggestions and tantalizing thoughts, despairs and regrets that she knew were calculated to make him unhappy and drink the deeper when she was not by him. She made up her mind to be indispensable to him; he should be a miserable drunkard when she was not by; he should not forsake her, at any rate till his property came in and she had taken her fair share of it.

Of all the circ.u.mstances that combined to drag this weak, vacillating creature down, none were so dire as his friendship with this fiend in the shape of an angel.

CHAPTER IX.

KILLING NO MURDER.

In the vicinity of one of our great London Hospitals, there is a pleasant Park. Very diversified in its character: laid out most artistically in shady groves, sloping lawns of soft gra.s.s, retired rockeries where water drips among giant ferns, and lakes winding in and out between banks covered with fine trees and exotic flowers. It is one of the most charming of the many charming oases in the vast Saharah of brick and mortar. And yet the fashionable world know nothing of it save by name. It is the playground of the people, and perhaps has never been visited by any of the daughters of Mayfair, except on the one occasion, when Royalty went down into that poverty-stricken quarter of the great city, to formally open these beautiful gardens to the humblest of its subjects.

But being within easy reach of the hospital, it was a common thing for the worn-out house-surgeons, the nurses and others connected with that n.o.ble charity, to s.n.a.t.c.h a few moments of fresh air in that pleasant place, in the intervals of their labour among the sick.

It was early in November, but the autumn had been so mild, and so free from the usual bl.u.s.tering South Westers, that the leaves were still on the trees, and the glorious colouring of the foliage was such as to remind Canadian visitors of their own mellow Indian summer.

Two young women were walking leisurely by the path which bordered the lake. The elder of the two, who seemed to be about twenty-five, was of middle height, well filled out, dumpy she might almost be called, not over much so, however, but to that extent only that many of the other s.e.x prefer in a woman. She was pretty, decidedly so, but not of a _good_ prettiness; she had the sort of evil beauty that tempted the old saints, the purely carnal attractiveness.

When a man's met her eyes, he was fascinated; but the thoughts that they excited in him were of madness and l.u.s.t, and not of the pure and chastening delight which the beauty of the true woman inspires.

Those eyes were large, languid, with full pupils, and lids that generally half closed over them--eyes that would not look frankly into yours, though they would voluptuously--eyes that to him who can read the tale the human features tell, betrayed the lascivious, deceitful, cruel temperament--the three qualities so often go together--and let the man that values his manhood avoid such eyes as he would the lord of h.e.l.l, who, as the hermits of old believed, created them.

If the affection of such a woman be cast upon a man he is lost; for it is not the sweet flower of love that they will enjoy together, but another, a flower indeed, but a flower of h.e.l.l.

The other woman was taller, slighter, much younger, and of a very different style of beauty; for this other was Mary Grimm, whereas her companion was Susan Riley.

The two would-be baby-killers were now members of an a.s.sociation of lady nurses, and were undergoing their training for ministry of the sick at the neighbouring hospital.

They were conversing: Susan in a flippant volatile fashion, not forgetting to cast sidelong glances of conquest through the corners of her eyes at the men that pa.s.sed her, as ever eager for admiration; Mary in an earnest manner, not observing the people, and while she talked, throwing, in an absent way, crumbs of bread she had brought with her for the purpose to the tame swans and ducks that swam on the artificial water.

The contrast between the two was immense, and indeed they were at the opposite poles of womanhood.

Mary was speaking:

"And do you really find an absolute pleasure, as you say you do, in being in the possession of a secret like this, Susan? I cannot say that I do. It is necessary of course to work in the dark: but I should like so much better if we could work out our ends openly, before all the world, and not in round-about ways, in holes and corners."

Sister Susan laughed.

"You are not half a woman, Mary; why, you talk just like some silly young man might. Love a secret! of course I do. All women love secrets.

Anything that smells of mystery and intrigue exerts a fascination on the feminine imagination. I should not care a bit to be a leader of revolution in the face of all the world--but to be an executioner of the unknown terror, the pitiless secret punishment that works in silence, that strikes in the dark, unseen, unexpected. I must confess that has for me a delightful charm. It's quite irresistible."

Mary replied: "Yes, women may love secrets, but--"

Susan interrupted her with a hard laugh. "Love secrets! I should think so, indeed; why, a woman is so fond of a secret and considers it such a precious thing that she cannot even keep it to herself. She must needs go, unselfish generous creature, and share the treasure with all her friends. Nasty people hint so, anyhow. Now as you are not a bad little thing, though a little fool, I'll tell you a secret. I'm going to leave the hospital soon. I've got a very good _place_ through Sister Eliza."

"What are you going to do?" asked Mary, deeply interested, for she knew what "a place" signified, without the emphasis which Susan had laid on the expression.

"Nothing less than be a sort of nursery governess in Lord Doughton's house," was the reply.

"Lord Doughton!" exclaimed Mary. "Why, Sister Eliza says that he is the largest landed proprietor in England since his marriage with that heiress whose estates adjoined his."

"Sister Eliza is quite right," said Susan. "She makes it her business to keep a registry of all that concerns the great landed proprietors. Lord Doughton has been married eleven years; he has three children; the eldest is a boy of ten, a cripple. Think of that, no less than three to get rid of. Aren't you jealous?"

"But you don't mean that a child as old as that has to be--to be--"

"But of course I do," interrupted Susan sharply, then continued with her usual heartless flippant tones. "I'll tell you what it is, my girl, the sooner you get the rest of this sentimentality out of you, the better.

It's sickening."

"Surely there is a great distinction between removing babies just born, who have not really begun to live, and killing big boys and men."

Susan laughed.

"Bless me, here's a fine moral distinction! What _is_ the difference pray, Miss Casuist? But turn off here, across the gra.s.s. If we are going to talk of these things we had better go where there is no chance of eaves-dropping. Our conversation would rather surprise that shabby-looking old person there if he overheard it, wouldn't it? Let's go and ask him what is the latest age at which it is justifiable to put away a human being for the public good."

"For G.o.d's sake, Susan, let us talk seriously!" Mary said.

"For _whose_ sake? don't know him; but for your sake I'll be sober for a little time as you hate joviality; you'll be jovial enough though when you are as old as I am, and have gone through as much. It's by joviality people who have suffered plenty make up for it when it's all over.

You'll find that out. People who have lived untroubled lives are seldom jovial."

They walked on in silence a short distance, then Mary after looking around her said:

"There is no one about here; there is no danger of anyone overhearing us now."

"Right you are, Mary; so now I'll answer your question. _Did_ you ask me a question by-the-bye?"

"I don't think so; but we were talking about this boy of Lord Doughton's."

"Ah, yes! to be sure, the sprig of n.o.bility you thought was too old to die. I've heard of people being too young to die; but you seem to think that one gets a sort of prescriptive right of living, that life's like land out of which one shouldn't be turned if there have been so many years undisputed possession. Droll theory! But I see you are frowning, so I'll try to be serious. Now, what _is_ the difference between killing a baby or a ten-year-older? The latter doesn't feel more pain in the process of being put out of the way; why should his life be considered to be of more value? Why, bless the girl! We must kill all the _heirs_, whatever age they may be. Of course we must kill them as babies if possible, because it is easier to get at them."

Mary had been scanning with great curiosity the woman's face as she glibly chattered on in her flippant way.

"Susan," she asked, "_have_ you ever killed a child?"

"Yes, one," was the prompt reply, delivered in a cool matter-of-fact fashion.

"Lately."

"No, long ago; not for the cause, before I even joined the Sisterhood, or dreamed of all the theories and plots my head is now chokefull of. It was my own baby."