CATHERINE'S DISCOVERY.
Catherine left the cottage with its uncongenial atmosphere of babies and
innocence, on the following morning, but before going she expressed a
wish to have a quiet talk with Mary.
They went out into the garden together, and sat down on the seat under
the great beech-tree. For some time neither spoke. Catherine was looking
across the moor to the lake, strangely softened by the beautiful view.
The sternness faded from her brow and mouth as she gazed at it, and her
thought travelled along gentle and unwonted ways for her.
But Mary sat motionless with downcast eyes, oppressed by a great fear.
It was a dreadful thing for her to think of the confession she was about
to make.
At last Mrs. King remembered that she had little time to spare, so broke
through the silence.
"Mary, dear! I wish to talk over a few necessary matters with you, that
is if you are sure you are strong enough now, if you think that
conversation won't hurt you."
Mary indeed felt very ill; a strange sensation came to her heart as if
it was about to stop, but she pressed her hand to it, and said firmly,
"I am quite well enough; I particularly wish to talk things over with
you, mother, for I have much to tell you. I have been so anxious to see
you and explain all to you--though I hardly dare--but I must, I must!"
"Don't be frightened Mary, don't be anxious! You must not worry
yourself. We wish you to get well; so put our secret entirely out of
your mind, at any rate for the present. You were very unhappy, dear,
when you were with me. I am not quite certain why, but I think I can
guess. Now, Mary, tell me if there is still anything on your mind, has
the weight, whatever it is, been removed?... Don't be afraid of telling
me all; I shall not blame you, poor child."
Very tender was the tone in which she uttered the last words as she saw
Mary's pale, frightened face.
The girl took the woman's hand in hers and kissed it. "Yes, mother," she
said in a scared excited manner, "there is still very much on my mind.
Oh! how can I tell it to you? What will you say? But I must, though I
know you will hate me when you hear it."
"You loved him then, Mary, loved him very much?" said Catherine sadly,
half reproachfully. "I think you ought to have confided in me, dear; but
never mind, don't cry, I am not angry with you, my poor child."
Mary looked up through her tears, and asked timidly, "Did he tell you
then, mother?"
"How could he have done so, Mary? I never saw him alive."
"Alive! but he is not dead--whom are you talking about, mother?"
"Why, of Mr. Hudson, to be sure! Good heavens! what a cruel fool I am! I
had no idea that they had not told you. Oh, Mary, I am so sorry!"
A very strange look came to Mary's face, half of bewilderment, half of
terror. She put both hands to her forehead, and her brows knit, as if
she were endeavouring to recall some terrible memory.
"Mr. Hudson!" she said in a dreamy voice as if speaking to herself.
"Yes, I know he is dead--but how do I know it? Who told me? I can't
remember. Something horrible happened to him--oh, my head, my head!"
and an expression of pain passed over her pale features.
Catherine kissed her forehead.
"O, Mary, what have I done? I ought to have known."...
The girl interrupted her. "But I did not understand you, mother. Did you
ask me whether I loved him very much?"
"Yes, darling! but let us not talk about this now!"
"You are mistaken," went on Mary quietly. "There never was any love
between Mr. Hudson and me. Why, I only saw him once. He was very kind to
me three years ago. I told you all about it. I was, of course, very
grateful to him, and liked him very much, but love never entered my
head."
"Is that so?" cried Catherine eagerly, clutching tightly the girl's arm.
"Is that so? Oh, I am so glad, Mary! If I had only known this all these
miserable weeks!--Oh, my darling, my darling, I have been so unjust to
you all this time! I believed that you loved this man, and I thought it
was so cruel, so wicked of you to keep this from me. I began to hate
you, Mary--ah! if you knew what I suffered all those sleepless nights
thinking how all that care and love of mine had been wasted on you. And
now to find I was wrong! Forgive me for suspecting you--Forgive me, my
darling! Oh! it nearly killed me when I discovered, as I thought, that
you loved him. I could have killed you, I hated you so. It was only
after I heard he was dead that I began to relent, and I did not forgive
you even then. No! not till I saw your poor, thin face in the hospital,
and I could hate you no longer. Oh, my darling--you have made me so
happy! Will you forgive me?"
A man who has had a serious quarrel with the woman he loves, and finds
that he was in the wrong, that he has behaved unjustly, could not have
shown a more passionate tenderness over the reconciliation than did this
strange woman. She was carried away by her joy; she looked pleadingly
into the girl's eyes as she seized her hands and begged for her
forgiveness.
Mary shrunk back from her. She was shocked and frightened at this
unwonted display of profound affection. She felt sick with shame and
sorrow, for she knew she did not deserve all this love; she knew that
when she told her story, all the woman's triumphant happiness would
change again to a bitterer misery and hate than ever. How to tell her
kind protectress that she had deceived her--that she did love--though
not Hudson, and that this was a live love, not a dead one! She could
never be forgiven for that. She would be spurned--hated; and she sobbed
as she buried her head in her hands, not daring to show her guilty face.
But she determined to deceive her no longer, so throwing herself at
Catherine's feet, she exclaimed wildly, "Oh, mother! mother! you are
killing me; don't talk about forgiving _me_! don't love me any longer!
don't speak to me kindly. I am a wicked bad girl and unworthy of your
love, indeed I am."
"These people have been spoiling Mary with their religion and
sentimental nonsense," thought Catherine as she observed the girl. "She
has been brought round to feel a horror for our work. She wishes to be
absolved from her duty, and she is afraid of my anger if she asks me to
free her."
Then she said aloud, "Mary, dear, I know all; but don't worry about that
now. You have come to feel a horror of the work we have to do. You are
weak, but I cannot blame you, poor girl. You wish to leave us, to be
free. We will see what can be done. For the present do not worry at all
about the matter."
Catherine was so overjoyed at finding her suspicions with regard to
Mary's love affairs unfounded, that she now said a good deal more than
she really meant. She never for a moment entertained the idea of freeing
Mary. The girl would be far too useful to the Society, for the carrying
out of that scheme that was dearer to the woman than was even the
happiness of her darling. But it was well, she thought, to humour her
now that she was ill. It would hasten her recovery to remove this
weight of anxiety from her for the time. When this weakness was passed
the girl would see clearly again, be brave once more, and return to her
allegiance.
"Oh, mother," cried Mary, "you are so generous, so unselfish, I don't
know how to tell you all; you will, I know, be angry; but I must tell
you now. I cannot deceive you that have been so kind, so good. You don't
suspect the half of what is on my mind."
"Well, dear, tell me then. It will do you good to relieve your mind of
it."
Then the girl steeled herself for her task, and continued in a calm
though tremulous voice, casting down her eyes, not daring to meet the
woman's gaze. "Mother! I have changed--I have come to think that perhaps
we are all wrong. We that know so little, are we not rash in believing
that good will come of what we propose to do? May it not be altogether
bad from every point of view to do this terrible thing, even if it does
produce a great good in another direction? Oh, mother! I have come to
see what love is, I have come to see how these Christians love. It is
not as you taught me they did. I cannot believe all these instincts are
false." She paused; though she was determined to tell the secret of her
heart to Catherine King, she could not bring herself to do it; the words
would not come.
"The poor little children, mother!" she cried passionately, raising her
head, "Oh! since I have been living among them--if you had been living
among them you too would have felt as I do. Oh, mother, mother!"
The girl's excitement overcame her, she could speak no more for the
choking sensation in her throat.
Her words stung Catherine. "You have indeed changed!" was all she could
reply, in a dry, stifled voice.
"Ah! but that is not all," cried Mary. "Oh, my God! my God!" and she
wrung her hands with anguish as she met the stern glance of the Chief.
The girl's new faith and love were contending with the strong influence
of her old mistress, and the conflict seemed to tear her heart.
"Go on!" said Catherine, in the same tones as before. "What more have
you to say?"
Mary endeavoured to proceed--to confess her love for Dr. Duncan without
further hesitation or digression. She made a great effort. But the weak
brain could do no more. It became suddenly paralyzed. Her thoughts froze
within her, and she could not utter a single word. A dazed look came to
her eyes. She looked at Catherine with a vacant smile. All memory of the
subject of the conversation vanished in a moment from her mind.
Bitter indeed was the resentment and disappointment of Catherine, as she
listened to what Mary had said. She had not suspected that matters were
so bad as this. She clearly saw that her pupil had definitely deserted
the Cause--that she had become a Christian.
But she noticed the girl's condition. She saw it was impossible to
discuss the question further then, so said, in as collected a manner as
her conflicting emotions allowed:
"I must leave you now--good-bye, Mary, good-bye. I will write to you--I
must think about all this. I don't know what to say now."
She kissed the girl, rather coldly this time, and turned to go.
Mary stood quite motionless during the embrace, as if in a state of
unconsciousness.
But after Catherine had gone a few yards across the lawn, the girl awoke
suddenly from her stupefaction. She took two or three rapid steps in the
direction of the retreating figure, then feeling her strength fail her
she stood still, and stretching out her arms, shrieked out, "Stop! stop!
stop!"
Catherine was startled by the wildness of the cry, and turned round and
looked at her.
"Stop!" once more cried the girl with fierce energy as she approached
the woman. "You _shall_ know before you go--I _do_ love him--not Mr.
Hudson--but another--Dr. Duncan!"
It had come at last.
Catherine strode up to her and grasped her by the arm.
"Do I hear you aright? You tell me _that_--you love him?" she exclaimed
savagely.
Mary gave one low wail and fell fainting to the ground.
One of the little children who was at the other end of the lawn saw her
fall, and ran indoors to tell her mother.
Mrs. White was soon on the spot. She found Mary lying insensible on the
grass, and standing by her, deadly pale, with her fists clenched, and a
fierce glare in her eyes, Catherine King.
"What was the cause of this?" asked the little woman, as she
administered restoratives to the girl.
Catherine made no reply. The Fury of despairing jealousy had possessed
the woman; she scarcely knew where she was, in the first burst of her
mad anger; but after a few moments she recollected herself, and said in
a hard voice that concealed every emotion:
"My presence seems to do her harm. I will go away. Good-bye, Mrs. White;
I see the fly has arrived," then abruptly, without another word, she
walked out of the cottage gate and was driven off. She never so much as
once turned her head to look at the insensible girl.
Mrs. White was intensely amazed. "And this," she thought, "is the aunt
Mary describes as having so much affection for her!"
The White Knight had indeed considerably foiled Catherine King's scheme.
It even looked as if he would checkmate her soon.