Catherine had broken down at last; she turned her head from them and made no reply to their salutations.

Sister Eliza looked at her Chief thoughtfully for a moment; then made a sign to Susan, and they went out together.

Catherine sat alone in her chair over the dead fire. For hours after they had gone she remained there brooding, motionless, in agony; and when at last she rose with a shiver to retire to her bed, it seemed as if many years had pa.s.sed over her head in that time, so old and haggard appeared her features. Her eyes were red but not with weeping--for she could shed no tear--but hot and dry with a tearless anguish that could never find relief.

But she determined--even if she died of the agony of it--that she would do her duty. "_My duty! My duty!_" she kept murmuring to herself in her fierce resolve; and she had strong need, indeed, to keep the Cause constantly before her mind, in order to enable her to do this thing she had to do--"My duty!--my duty!--but oh, it is hard--hard!"

CHAPTER XXII.

AN EVENTFUL DAY.

Mary's health improved rapidly after her interview with Catherine King, painful though it had been. A great weight was taken off her mind by the full confession she had made.

One day, about a week subsequent to that confession, as the weather was warm and seemed to be settled, Mrs. White, who was ever planning some little amus.e.m.e.nt or other to distract the girl from her gloomy thoughts, proposed that they should drive with the children the next morning to a certain pleasant wood on the banks of the Wey some five miles off, and take their lunch with them.

The children were delighted at the prospect of a picnic, and watched the preparations that were made for it during the afternoon with the keenest interest. When everything had been packed up ready for the morrow, a telegram was brought to Mrs. White.

She read it, and a smile of pleasure lit up her face. "Mary," she said, "I am afraid we must postpone our picnic after all. My brother Harry is coming down here to-morrow to see us."

Mary blushed slightly. "The poor children will be very disappointed if they do not have their picnic," she replied, feeling compelled to make some remark to cover the confusion which this sudden news produced in her.

The widow looked at her with rather an amused expression. "Well, Mary,"

she said "after all there is no great necessity for altering our plans.

Harry can come with us. I will telegraph to him that we will meet him at the station. It is a pity though that he has to return to town in the evening."

The morrow proved to be a beautiful day. It was in the month of May, and the pulse of young life beat with pleasurable quickness through all animate Nature.

Mary felt unusually well and happy as they drove through the fresh morning air to Farnham station, where Dr. Duncan was to be met. The spirit of the spring stirred her blood and exhilarated her in an unwonted fashion. She could have sung for joy. Her heart felt full of love for these innocent friends around her, for the glorious sunshine, and for the kind warm breeze that kissed her pale cheeks and ruffled her soft hair.

She wondered how it was that the Shadow seemed to be so far away. That sick dread, that terrible presence which she always felt to be so near, so ready to fall, even in her happiest moods, seemed this day to be removed to a vague and immense distance. It had never been so far off before. A presentiment came to her that it was soon to be removed altogether, that it would fall away from her, and that she would know peace at last. It was as if the happiness of death was coming over her, so deeply calm was her delight. She mused to herself how sweet indeed it would be to die on this delicious spring day, with the fresh breeze and the sunlight around her--to fade away and be at rest, ere the sun set and the darkness and the cold came on, bringing with them the shadow.

The carriage with its merry party at last reached Farnham Station. The train by which the doctor was expected had not yet come in, so they had to wait there for some minutes.

The cessation of the motion of the carriage turned the course of Mary's thoughts. Her happy dream pa.s.sed away. A vague uneasiness stole over her; and she began to realize, in a vivid manner she had not done so far, that this was to be an eventful day in her life--she was to see her lover. What could she reply if he asked again that question so sweet and yet so bitter that he had asked her on that misty autumn afternoon in London--so long ago it now seemed to her?

Things had much changed with her since then. She was no longer the infanticide, the atheist, the wretched being separated from all human sympathies. She asked herself whether marriage with the man she worshipped was now altogether so impossible a happiness as it had been then! She thrilled at the thought. What should she reply were he to ask that question again?

She knew not what she ought to do, all the future seemed still so unsettled and cloudy. It was true that she had told Catherine all--that she had abandoned the Sisterhood; but was that enough? The secret was still with her. The Society would some day commence its horrible work.

So her thought was confused between a great dismay, and a dream of wonderful delight, and her perplexed mind could make nothing of the puzzle. She could not marry this man with that secret on her mind--she ought not to keep that from him--yet how could she betray Catherine King and the Sisterhood.

The bell rang, there was a bustling of porters, and then the train from London thundered into the station.

Mary forgot her trouble for the time: with eyes dim with emotion, she looked out timidly yet eagerly from under the cover of her broad straw hat, as the pa.s.sengers trooped out into the white road.

Yes! there he was at last, handsomer than ever, he seemed to her, and she was filled with pride to see how his n.o.ble head towered above all the men by his side.

He came out and joyously saluted his sister and her children, then he shook hands with Mary quietly, his clasp of the little hand that was so dear to him lingering almost imperceptibly, and he felt that she was trembling.

But it was no time just then for love-making. The children were cl.u.s.tering round their uncle, pestering him for the chocolate or other delicacies which they knew he would have brought down for them. So laughing and joking, the merry party drove off at a rapid pace along the dazzling white roads that wound among the pleasant Surrey hills, until a spot was reached where the carriage had to be left. Then they carried the kettle and provisions for a hundred yards or so through the woods, till they came to a place on the river bank where a huge oak tree spread its branches over a s.p.a.ce of soft green turf. Here they pitched their camp and lit their fire.

Beautiful indeed is this portion of the county of Surrey. Between Farnham and G.o.dalming the river Wey, whose surface is here never disturbed by the frailest boat, winds down a valley of great loveliness.

Steep hills descend to its waters, clothed with fine trees and close bushwood; the mossy inters.p.a.ces being glorious with a profusion of wood-anemones primroses and hyacinths in the early part of the year, and of purple foxgloves in the ripe summer. For a considerable distance no road is visible to one following the river, nor any sign of man's presence. Indeed so wild and lonely is the scenery, that one might easily imagine oneself to be on some unexplored stream of the Western World, instead of being in the county of Surrey, an easy day's march from Charing Cross.

It was a day to be remembered by all of that party as a happy one. To Mary it was to be the sweetest so far of her young life.

After lunch the two lovers separated from the others. They walked together through the woods by the river bank, and he gathered for her a nosegay of the wild spring flowers.

After a short time he stood still, and turning to her said, "Ah, Mary!

how I have looked forward to seeing you again! And how well you are looking! I did not dare to hope that you would recover so quickly. You know how impatient I must have become at being so long banished from your side; but I thought it better not to come here till you were much stronger. It would have been cruel to come and trouble you before!"

"Trouble me!" she exclaimed raising her eyes to his with a look of surprise.

"Yes, Mary!" he continued sadly, "for whenever I saw you before, my presence seemed to cause you pain and sorrow."

She turned her eyes from him and gazed pensively towards the distant hills beyond the river.

He spoke again in a troubled voice, "Mary, oh, Mary! do not turn away from me. Look at me and reply to the question I am going to ask. You must do so!" he raised his voice in pa.s.sionate earnestness and seized her hand. "You must reply, this last time, I know you will; for you are too kind and womanly to torture me any longer with suspense."

She looked up at him without speaking, but he read encouragement in the look and continued, "Mary, I must speak to you again of my love. It grieved you once. You told me all hope was impossible. You implored me, in a manner that terrified me, never to speak to you of love again; but you confessed you loved me a little."

He hesitated when he uttered the last words, and waited with an intense anxiety for her reply.

"I do!" she said with a simple earnestness, "I love you very much."

"My darling!" he cried, "my whole life is yours. Even if you still refuse to marry me, I can never again love another after loving you. But what did you mean by those cruel words you spoke before? You told me to go from you, never to see you again. You said love between us was altogether impossible. You do not still think that? Oh, tell me, Mary.

It is cruel to leave me in this fearful suspense."

She looked down on the ground and said mournfully, "I don't know--indeed I don't know."

"But it is not so impossible now as it was then?" he cried eagerly.

"No! it is not," she said in a low voice speaking to herself rather than to him.

Then an infinite joy rushed into the man's soul, and his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed. He had come down here in an almost hopeless spirit; he remembered how emphatic she had been before in refusing his love--with what horror and vague hints of an impa.s.sable barrier between them she had rejected him--and, lo! now she had allowed that his heart's sole desire was no longer impossible of attainment--there was hope for him, nay more, there was certain victory!

He raised her face to his and kissed her pa.s.sionately on her mouth and eyes. This time she did not tear herself away from his embrace, but remained in his arms trembling.

He released her and gazed with keen delight at her beautiful flushed face.

She was frightened at his pa.s.sion, and was filled with wonder that he should feel thus towards her. She understood how she or any woman could love this good and n.o.ble man; but why should he worship in this way one so unworthy as her! He must surely have mistaken her true nature; she must in some way have unwittingly deceived him.

"Then I may hope to make you my wife?" he asked in a voice of ecstacy.

She lowered her eyes again. "You ought not to make _me_ your wife. You deserve a good woman," then she continued timidly in a low voice that was delicious to him, "Would it make you much happier, dear?"