SHATTERED IDOLS.
About six months had passed away since the events narrated in the last
chapter. In that short time a considerable change had come over the
lives of the characters of this story.
Dr. Duncan and Mary were husband and wife, and had settled down in a
comfortable little house in St. John's Wood, in which district he had
purchased a practice.
As Susan Riley had foretold, the decay of the Secret Society commenced
on that day when the Chief had shown weak mercy to a deserter. Catherine
King gradually lost her hold of the wills of the Sisterhood. She was
changed; the difference might have been imperceptible to a casual
observer, but there it was. She was no longer infallible to her
followers; she was no longer believed in, because she no longer believed
in herself; and that subtle power which faith in self gives, and which
compels faith and obedience in others, had gone for ever. The magic of
her direct personal influence had been her best, perhaps her only true
qualification for the task she had set herself. She was wanting in the
faculty of organization, and was fully conscious of this; so when her
personal influence waned, the real instability of the Society soon
commenced to make itself manifest. Disputes and doubts arose, and many
of the Sisters having lost all confidence in their Chief, became timid,
and kept quietly away from the Society.
So far nothing had been done by this band of fanatics; the abominable
work contemplated by them had not yet commenced. They were waiting for
those expected changes in the laws relating to the tenure of land, which
were to be rendered more effective by their action.
With an intense anxiety did Catherine King await the general election.
All her hopes depended on that. Were the enemies of private property to
gain the day, were the desired act of Parliament to be passed, the
signal would be given to the Sisters to proceed at once upon their
labours. A new vitality would then stir the Society; the old enthusiasm
would return, and in the midst of the peril of the battle she would soon
regain all her lost influence. But she thought it best, in the present
temper of her associates, to keep aloof from them until the moment for
action came. She did not show herself to them, but entrusted Sister
Eliza to see that everything was prepared. It was a period of anxious
suspense, of oppressive inactivity for all.
At last the general election took place. An intense excitement pervaded
the whole country. Questions of the utmost importance were in the air.
The programme of one party was so violent and revolutionary, that its
supporters would, not so long since, have rendered themselves liable to
the penalties for treason; and all moderate men were filled with dismay.
Democrats of the extremest type seemed to be having it all their own way
in the land, if one could judge by their noise and confidence of
success. Several boroughs returned men of this stamp during the first
few days of the polling. Eagerly did Catherine snatch up the different
editions of the papers to follow the progress of each contest, and hope
and ambition returned to her as she read the results.
But after the first few days, matters did not look so bright for the
Radicals. The intemperance of their language, the wildness of the
reforms they promised, defeated their own ends. A reaction set in. The
great mass of Englishmen who are not led away by the impracticable
theories of political adventurers recorded their votes as usual for the
candidates of common sense belonging to both of the two great parties;
but that considerable army of vain men, who, though they possess
property, and therefore an interest in the order of the State, yet pose
as philosophical Radicals and talk communism without understanding what
they mean, became alarmed at the destructive programme of their
friends--they perceived that they themselves were threatened as well as
the lords and landed proprietors they hated and envied. So panic seized
them, and in their selfish fear they did exactly what might have been
expected from such creatures--they rushed to the opposite extreme,
babbled about Constitutionalism, and voted for ultra-Tories to protect
them.
And lo! instead of the Radical House that was to return the great Land
Act and other more startling measures, an assembly of which the large
majority held very different views indeed was elected, to the exceeding
surprise of the over-cute wire-pullers, who thought they had arranged
everything so cleverly.
Catherine stayed at home, greedily reading the papers, day after day,
and hope died away again and she became sick at heart. When at last
there could be no doubt about the result, she wrote to Sister Eliza and
asked her to come to her.
Her friend was shocked when she entered the little parlour in Maida Vale
to see how ill and worn her Chief was looking.
"Good-afternoon, Eliza," said Catherine in a feeble voice; "I sent for
you because you are the only one I could bear to see. You do not look at
me with reproachful eyes as the others do--and I am unwell and weak."
There was sympathy expressed on Sister Eliza's homely features as she
replied:
"No wonder, Sister Catherine, after what you have been suffering. But
brighter days will come."
"Never, never! Sister Eliza--but I have sent for you to learn the whole
truth. What has happened--what do _they_ say now?"
"Fools and cowards!" exclaimed the boarding-house keeper,
contemptuously; "they do not know their own minds."
"I thought it would be so; and what do they say? Tell me all!"
"The Sisters are in a very discontented mood; they grumble at
everything. Many have for the first time discovered that our whole
project is ridiculous in the extreme. They say that they have wasted
time and money for nothing."
"And whose fault is it that it has been for nothing?"
"Those who supplied the treasury of the Society with considerable sums
of money, notably Sister Jane, are clamouring for its restitution or a
full account of how it has been spent."
"They shall have neither," cried Catherine, indignantly.
"Some of the Sisters even hint that you have put by a pretty purse for
yourself out of the funds--those were the very words of one."
"They dare say that!--they dare accuse me of that!" exclaimed the Chief,
rising to her feet and walking impatiently up and down the room, her
eyes blazing with wrath and her fists clenched. "Cowardly wretches! are
these the earnest martyrs with whose assistance I hoped to forward the
emancipation of humanity?--and what more do they say?"
"One fool--it was Sister Jane, by-the-bye--even spoke of suing you for
the money she advanced, until I explained to her that Justice will only
listen to a plaintiff who comes into court with clean hands, and
reminded her that there were slight objections to her revealing in court
the objects for which she had advanced the money."
"Do you mean that she actually proposed to betray us?"
"No! she spoke wildly, not thinking of what she was saying. She dare not
be a traitor."
"And what does Susan Riley and the others of the Inner Circle say?"
"They, of course, dare not desert the Cause; but they hint that it
would be as well to dissolve the Society, now that the object of it has
been indefinitely postponed by this unfortunate election. They say it
cannot hold together much longer."
"And Sister Susan says this, too?"
"She has virtually left us; at any rate she keeps away now, and seems to
take no interest whatever in the Society," replied Sister Eliza in
scornful tones.
"And it has come to this, then!" said Catherine, musingly; then she
turned and asked abruptly, "and what do you think about it?"
"I don't know what to think. I should like to make an example of a few
of the wretches, curse them!" muttered Eliza between her teeth, feeling
a bitter indignation as she thought of the meanness of her associates.
"Ah! they are unworthy to follow you, Sister Catherine."
Catherine sat down again, and was silent for several minutes. A black
despair settled down upon her mind. She saw that it was all over--the
Cause had received its death-blow. Of all her friends and disciples, but
one was left her--this faithful Eliza, who would, if she let her, cling
all the closer to her fallen Chief. It was all over--the hopes, the
doubts, the suspense, were gone; and when she spoke it was in a quite
calm and passionless voice.
"I understand now, Sister Eliza; I will give my last order to the
Sisterhood. Go to them and tell them the Society is dissolved--they may
all go their separate ways. Remind them that they must, throughout their
lives, observe their oath of secrecy--that is all I ask of them. If they
fail to do this, a higher Society will know how to punish traitors. Tell
them that I will render no account of the moneys that have passed
through my hands. I have never taken one penny of the fund for my own
use. Whatever balance there is I will send to another Society--a Society
of men, not of cowardly women--who will make good use of it. This is my
last message to the Sisters."
"But if--" her amazed listener was commencing in a faltering voice.
"No, no! Eliza," interrupted Catherine, impatiently; "no buts and
ifs--it is too late for them. I do not wish to discuss this matter. I do
not wish ever again to hear the Society mentioned before me. To think of
it maddens me. Please do not talk to me about it. Let us change the
conversation; I will ring the bell for some tea."
The strong green tea was brought up. Sister Eliza sipped hers in
silence, gazing sadly at her broken-hearted Chief.
Soon Catherine got up from her chair, and going to a cupboard, drew out
a small bottle. She laughed a little hysterical laugh--one of those
laughs that have more pain in them than any sob--and said:
"I am taking a leaf out of our friend Susan Riley's book. She found
laudanum useful. A little mixed with one's tea is good; at any rate it
prevents rage from driving one quite mad," and she poured some of the
contents of the bottle into her cup.
"It is a dangerous practice though," observed her friend.
"Dangerous! how so? What have I to fear? The habit of laudanum-tippling
soon spoils a young woman's beauty. Look at Susan, it has made her
vanity suffer somewhat, I know; but it can't hurt me in that way, or in
any other way, for the matter of that," and she laughed that terrible
laugh again.
Sister Eliza felt a sincere sorrow for this one human being she admired;
she saw that Catherine ought not to be left alone in her present wild
state of mind. "I should like to come and see you often, Sister
Catherine," she ventured to say.
"It is very kind of you, Eliza, but it cannot be a good thing for you,
as I don't feel like being a very pleasant companion just now. I leave
town to-morrow, perhaps for years, and I cannot tell you where I am
going."
Sister Eliza found that her presence, far from soothing, only irritated
the more the miserable woman. Catherine would not be comforted. She was
in that mood when the mind rejects all consolation, and loves to torture
itself--when one purposely hurts the feelings of one's best friends to
make one's own heart bleed the more; so Sister Eliza, seeing that no
good would be effected by staying longer, bade her good-bye and left
her.
* * * * *
The Sisterhood was no more. Susan Riley, like a rat, had early deserted
the falling house: unlike the Chief, she had profited not a little in
various ways from the Society, and had been in receipt of a salary as
one of the officers; but gratitude was not one of this young lady's
characteristics. Having saved some money, she now took a small
tobacconist's shop in the neighbourhood of the Strand. She thought it
would be the very business to suit her, genteel, idle, and affording
excellent opportunities for flirtations and intrigues with such of her
customers as were possessed of more money than brains.
But there was little store of happiness for Susan now. The gay butterfly
portion of her life was over, and weary ennui, alternating with bitter
reflections, filled most of her long hours. For it happened that in the
course of a few months her beauty had faded rapidly. Bad temper and
laudanum had deepened her wrinkles, sallowed her complexion, and even
scattered a few grey hairs through her once lustrous locks.
All the object of her life had gone from her. She perceived that men no
longer admired her, she was old, she was ugly, there was nothing sweet
in the whole world for her now, she hated life, but, still more, she
feared the grim phantom death. A restless nervousness tormented her. She
became subject to what she would herself describe as "the blues," a
despondent fearful condition peculiar to temperaments such as hers.
She was in a miserable state--a state not uncommon though among the men
and women of luxurious cities, whose lives have been devoted to selfish
indulgence only, when they have exhausted every joy, and dull satiety
alone remains. Such a melancholy darkened the last days of many a
worn-out voluptuary of ancient Rome, driving him to insane deeds of
cruelty, and orgies of strange vices in vain hope of relief.
In this condition a man or woman is tortured by observing the happiness
of others in contrast to his own misery. Susan hated youth, beauty,
virtue, happiness, with a bitter hate.
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 assisted 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 assistant 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
assistant 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 passion 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 passed, 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.