Sometimes she thought of Mary, the girl she despised, who, she considered, had twice stood between her and her lovers, who had indirectly brought about the collapse of the Society. She thought of her as being now a young wife, happy, and loved, and the thought made her feel so absolutely ill with the intensity of her ungratified malice, that she was often obliged to withdraw her mind from the painful contemplation.

Now it happened one day, about six months after Mary's marriage, that Susan, being in a more restless and irritable mood than usual, deserted her counter, leaving the girl who a.s.sisted her in charge of the shop. It was a mellow October afternoon, and she walked to her favourite haunt of old at that hour--Regent Street.

The usual idle well-dressed crowd of men about town, lady-adventurers and so on, was taking its wonted promenade. In former days many of these men would have stared pretty hard at Miss Susan Riley, but now no one would notice her, or at most a gentleman would glance momentarily at her with a look void of admiration, and then turn his eyes to some more tempting object. She felt the humiliation of this bitterly, and her ill-temper was written on her mouth and brow, which rendered her less attractive than ever. She could have cried with rage.

At last she came to a well-known photographic establishment, and joined the throng in front of the window, contemplating the portraits of actresses, statesmen, professional beauties, bishops, and other celebrities, when she heard a merry laugh by her side that made her start.

She hated now to hear the glad innocent laughter of her fellows, but there was something in that laugh which she seemed to recognize. She turned suddenly and perceived Dr. Duncan and his wife walking away from the window.

She followed them for a short way, keeping a little to one side of them, so as to scan Mary's features without being herself observed. She contrived to catch a glimpse of her face; it was enough to show her that all the anxiety had died away from it. The face was not so thin as of old, it had more colour, it was prettier than ever.

The husband and wife were engaged in a lively conversation. Then Susan heard Mary laugh again, the same low happy laugh. Its gladness jarred upon her own black thoughts. She turned away suddenly, uttering a savage oath to herself.

The sight of her enemy's happiness goaded her into a state of great fury; she walked back to her shop as fast as she could. On entering it she found her a.s.sistant engaged in a mild flirtation with a customer across the counter.

Here was a pretext for venting her wrath on some one. She called the a.s.sistant into the back-room and reprimanded her in such insulting terms that the girl burst into tears and said she would leave her on the spot.

"Go at once then!" cried the enraged woman, "out with you into the streets. You'll find as many men as you want there."

Susan could not sleep all that night for malice; and from that day she was absorbed by her hatred for Mary. It was a hate that became a very monomania with her. It was the only pa.s.sion left to relieve the monotonous weariness of her existence, and it ever grew more intense.

She would rub her hands together and laugh in her excitement when she sat alone. "I have again something worth living for," she would mutter to herself, "I will ruin that girl's happiness--somehow--somehow," and her subtle mind pondered and plotted how to effect a sweet revenge.

But weeks pa.s.sed, and so far she had formed no definite plan, had discovered no safe but extreme torture, so she determined for the present to do all she could in a small way to annoy her foe periodically. She knew that with her devilish ingenuity she could not fail to find some method of undermining the young wife's happiness.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SECOND WARNING.

During these early months of her married life, Mary enjoyed an almost perfect happiness, for the first time of her short existence. She sometimes wondered and was afraid when she thought of it, looking upon herself as being altogether unworthy of so many joys.

She had pa.s.sed through the terrible ordeal, and the strange vicissitudes of her life had produced an enn.o.bling and refining effect upon her character, which was reflected on her beautiful face. She was, indeed, as sweet a woman as the soul of man could desire. There was something peculiarly winning about her now; every graceful movement, every word and smile told of a heart full of innocent gladness and love. There was a childish simplicity, there was a delightful playfulness about her, that yet betrayed profound depths of feeling. She fascinated all with the unconscious witchery of her manners. The coa.r.s.est man could not fail to feel better in her company; she could touch what good was yet left in his nature; it would seem to him as if she were surrounded by some subtle atmosphere that affected his heart somewhat in the way that beautiful music does, a hymn of perfect chastened joy breathing of the lost Paradise.

When the husband and wife returned from their honeymoon--a long leisurely ramble among Italian lakes--Mary entered into the spirit of housekeeping with great zest. It was pretty to observe the delight she took in her new duties. She was quite in love with the little villa in St. John's Wood, with its trees and garden and greenhouse, there was so much to look after and take a pride in, and she was always busy at one thing or the other, filling the house with her blithe song.

Mrs. White pa.s.sed some time with them at first to give the young wife some lessons in house-keeping, and very merry lessons they were.

One evening, the three were sitting in the drawing-room after dinner.

The doctor was pretending to read a newspaper, but was really, under cover of it, watching his wife and sister with quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. They were engaged at a little work-table strewed with account books and other domestic doc.u.ments, now chattering earnestly over them, now laughing together at Mary's blunders.

At last Mary caught her husband's eye; she stamped her foot in simulated anger, "You must not watch me, sir!" she cried. "This is not your business. If you confuse me by looking over me, all the accounts will get muddled, and then you'll be complaining of my extravagance."

"You are ruining me as it is, Mary," he replied, laughing. "You won't let me do anything for myself--you are always running here and there antic.i.p.ating all my wants. Do you know you are spoiling me? I am becoming quite lazy and good-for-nothing in consequence of your treatment."

"Don't talk nonsense, sir, or I shall come and kiss you."

"Then I certainly shall talk nonsense," he emphatically exclaimed, putting down the newspaper.

"No one would imagine you had been married so long, Harry--you ought to have become more staid by this time."

"So long! Why we have not been married six months yet."

"Well it does seem a long long time to me. I suppose it is because all my life has been so different, Harry--but I threatened to kiss you if you talked any more nonsense, and I shall keep my word," and she walked towards him and inflicted the threatened punishment.

He seized her and made her sit on his knee. "You dear little wife," he said, "I thought you were perfect before I married you, but every day I see something new in you to love; I get quite afraid of you, I begin to think you are some sort of spirit, and will suddenly fly away from me one of these days."

She put her hand upon his lips, "No more of this nonsense, sir!--Now let me go. It is time for you to have that horrid grog of yours--I will ring the bell for the hot water--then we will leave you to read the paper by yourself--I am sure that is more instructive for you than watching us adding up butcher's bills."

"But not half so amusing. I am sick of these elections--the papers are full of nothing else. I am glad though that these detestable Radicals have been so well thrashed."

"Is that so then, Harry?" asked Mary becoming suddenly serious, and sitting again on his knee from which she had just commenced to rise.

"Yes, Mary, and it is their own fault too, they boasted too much about the revolutionary measures they intended to pa.s.s. They were going to confiscate the land and do all sorts of wild things, so people got frightened and would not vote for them."

A thoughtful look came to Mary's face; she said nothing more about the elections, but became unusually quiet for the rest of the evening. Soon Mrs. White retired to her room, and Mary mixed her husband his gla.s.s of punch. She sat by his side nestling close to him, placing her hand in his.

He drew her head to his shoulder and stroked her soft hair as he gazed down at her pensive face. "Mary," he said at last, "what is it, my pet?

How quiet you are! and you look quite sad."

Her eyes filled with tears, and he was startled by the vehement pa.s.sion with which she spoke. "It is--because I love you so! I cannot help being sad sometimes--Oh, Harry! Harry! I _do_ love you so!" and she put her arms round his neck and began to sob.

"You curious little pet!" he said tenderly.

"Oh, Harry!--If I could only tell you my secret!--I wonder if you would still love me, if you would ever forgive me, were you to discover it."

"My darling! I thought we had settled that matter long ago. Really it is very silly of you to worry yourself about it."

"I cannot help it sometimes, Harry--but I will be good now, and think no more about it," she said, smiling through her tears and kissing him.

This was the one thorn in her happiness which still troubled her occasionally. Now and then, some circ.u.mstance, such as her husband's chance allusion to the elections on this occasion, would recall memories of her dark past. She could not tell him all. It was true that she was not deceiving him. He knew she had this secret, and he quite approved of the scruples that forbade her to confide it to him. But yet--there was this secret between them; and to her simple heart this was a terrible thing to be. There should be nothing of this kind, she told herself, between husband and wife. In her sensitive affection she imagined that the existence of a secret could not but separate them, though it were by an imperceptible distance only, that his love for her could not be quite perfect so long as this one chamber of her mind had to be kept shut to him.

It was, perhaps, an unnecessarily morbid view to take of the matter, but it caused her some painful reflection. However, it was but rarely that even this small cloud came to mar the serenity of her life.

The happy summer had pa.s.sed away, and autumn had come again. One morning, after breakfast, Mary, who was in an exceptionally gay mood, insisted on taking her husband by the hand and leading him into the greenhouse, where she was about to gather the nosegay of flowers which it was her custom to give him every day to carry with him in his carriage on his round of visits.

"What a shame!" she exclaimed as she plucked the sober-hued autumnal blossoms. "The flowers that are out now are such dowdy-looking things. I can't give you the bright-looking bouquets you used to like so much a month or two ago, Harry."

"Why, this is very nice, pet; look what rich colours your chrysanthemums have! I often wonder how you manage to keep up such a brilliant show of flowers here at all seasons. I believe it will be just the same in mid-winter."

"I shall try my best; but here is your bouquet all ready; so take it and be off, sir," she said playfully. "You are late, the carriage has been at the door these ten minutes."

"Good-bye, dear!" he said taking the bouquet and kissing her, "I shall be back early to-day."