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 passed through the terrible ordeal, and the strange vicissitudes
of her life had produced an ennobling 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 coarsest 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 passed 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 amusement. They
were engaged at a little work-table strewed with account books and other
domestic documents, 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
anticipating 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 pass. 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 glass 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 passion
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 circumstance, 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 passed 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."
She stood still, watching the carriage with a wistful look in her eyes
as it drove down the road. "Ah! do I deserve such happiness as this?"
she said to herself with a sigh. She was about to return to the house
when she perceived the postman stop at the garden gate and drop some
letters into the box. "What a pity! Harry has just missed his letters,"
she thought as she walked down the drive and took them out.
There were two letters. She saw that one was addressed to her husband,
the other to herself. She looked at the last. It bore a London
post-mark. She at once recognised the dreaded hand-writing on the
envelope, and the colour left her cheeks. She knew that the woman who
penned that letter would not write to her save with the object of
inflicting pain.
She opened it with trembling hands and read the contents. They were not
quite so ingeniously cruel as might have been expected from the author
of them: yet they were well calculated to seriously alarm the young
wife, and wake her from her dream of happy security.
"DEAR MARY,--I write to warn you that you are in great danger. The
mouchards know all about a certain scheme. Some of the former
Sisters have blabbed. It has been falsely stated that you, Catherine
King, and myself are organising a new Society. There are certain
definite accusations against you which you will find it difficult to
disprove. It would be a good thing if you could go abroad for a
time. I warn and advise you, not because I love you, but because my
own safety depends on yours. There will be an exposure of all if you
neglect my advice. Above all, say nothing of this warning to your
husband. He must know nothing if he is questioned. Remember your
oath and the penalty. You are being watched. If you love your
husband you will be cautious and spare him _what may happen_."
There was no address at the head of this letter, nor signature at the
foot of it, but there could be no doubt as to the identity of the
author.
Susan Riley's first warning had been sent to Mary on that day when the
girl at last consented to become the doctor's wife. This was the second
warning, a malicious pack of falsehoods inspired by the sight of the
young wife's happy face in Regent Street. Susan Riley could not tell
whether Mary would place any credence in her alarming story; even if
that were the case, she hardly expected her to follow her advice and go
abroad; but she knew her letter could not fail to terrify and inflict
some mischief on her enemy, how much, chance would decide.
Mary was glad that her husband was not by to observe the scared look
which she felt had come to her face. She could think this letter quietly
over by herself for some hours before she saw him again.
She went into the drawing-room, and stood by the fire-place for some
time meditating, and unconsciously she tore the letter into minute
fragments and threw them one by one into the fire.
She felt very miserable and frightened: but the danger instead of
paralysing her mind seemed to stimulate it at first, and she met the
blow bravely. She considered the matter over with a calm resolution
which astonished herself.
She pondered what would be the right thing to do, the most Christian
course of action; for, as is the usual case with converts, religion was
a great reality to her now, a leading motive in her every deliberation,
even making her rather intolerant at times. She could not tell her
husband the contents of the letter without betraying her secret: that
she must not do for several reasons. Again, to fly abroad as Susan
suggested, was of course out of the question: besides, how could she
know that there was any truth in the statements of this wicked woman who
hated her so bitterly?
Had there been an address to Susan's letter she would have written to
her for a more definite explanation of this danger which threatened her.
She saw that her only course was to take no notice of the communication,
to wait and pray.
But, in spite of her bravery, the cruel letter did its work. The
uncertainty, the vague suspense, was more than she could bear. That day
she excused her paleness and distraught air by saying she had a
headache; but the next day she was no better; and after a week she
shuddered as she felt that the shadow was slowly gathering once again to
veil the happy sunshine of her life.
Her husband watched her with anxious eyes. "My poor darling!" he said
one day, "you are getting quite ill and pale again. We must take you to
the sea-side to bring the roses back to your cheeks."
She put her head on his shoulders and burst into tears.
"My dear little girl!" he said tenderly, as he stroked her hair, "what
is it? Is there anything that is making you unhappy?"
But to his questionings she would only reply that she felt nervous, and
suffered from fearful dreams. This was the truth, though she concealed
the cause of the disease.
There was one dream which occurred to her almost nightly, so full of
horror that she came to be afraid of going to bed, knowing what she was
to suffer. In this dream she found herself a prisoner at the Bar in a
dingy Law Court. She was on her trial as being an accomplice in an awful
crime. She looked around; and on the faces of the judge, and lawyers,
and jury, and witnesses, and lookers on, she saw only an intense
loathing expressed. No sympathy, no pity, hate alone was felt for the
abominable murderer of babies. Susan Riley, too, was standing in the
witness-box, her eyes glittering with malice, giving Queen's evidence,
nay, more, bearing false witness against her, weaving tissues of lies
around her that there was no disproving, cunningly making her to appear
more detestable a wretch than any criminal that had ever been tried
before in that accursed place through all its long annals of crime. And
her husband was there also, pale, haggard, his hair turned grey with
woe, his eyes cast down, not daring to raise them towards his guilty
wife. Oh, most horrible thing of all! even he, he whom she loved,
worshipped, turning away from her, disbelieving, despising, loathing
her!
And then she would wake up with a start, with cries and tears, to find
her husband by her side, soothing her with loving words and fondling her
as she lay sobbing on his breast.
She knew that she had an implacable enemy. She could not tell in what
way Susan would work her harm, but she was only too certain that the
malicious woman would do so to the utmost of her ability. The shadow
darkened around Mary as she waited for the blow to strike, not knowing
at what moment it might come. Yet how to prevent it! What to do!
In a fortnight after the receipt of the letter, a great change had come
over her. All the innocent gladness had forsaken her. She wandered about
the house a pale and listless being, taking no interest in the pursuits
she once loved. Her great delight had been to take the green-house
completely under her care; she had been very proud of it, and would
allow no one else to interfere in its management. But now it made the
doctor's heart bleed to see its neglected condition, its melancholy show
of withered leaves that lay unswept, and faded blossoms on the untended
plants, a sure sad sign to him of the darkness that was coming to his
young wife's mind.
It was in vain that he tried to discover the cause of this change: his
questions could elicit nothing from her. One evening towards the end of
this miserable fortnight, they were sitting together in the
drawing-room. He drew his chair close to hers, and after some
conversation in which he did his best to coax her with affectionate
words into her happy confiding mood of old, he said:
"Mary, dear! I know that there is something on your mind, you are just
as you used to be in those sad days when I first knew you. You know I do
not wish you to tell me your secret: but there can be no harm in your
saying if your present trouble is connected with it in any way."
She moved uneasily in her chair, as if afraid of his earnest gaze, and
replied with hesitation, "I don't know, Harry, I can't say. But there is
no good in talking about it. I shall grow out of this nervous state
again soon, I suppose."
"But there _is_ good in talking about it. I want to understand what to
do with you, how to make my poor little pet happy again. Here you are,
getting sadder, and paler, and thinner, every day, and you will give me
no clue to all this. You will not allow me to help you. Do so, Mary,
please now! for my sake if not for your own. You don't know how
miserable I am all day thinking of you."
"You promised not to ask me my secret," she replied in wretched accents.
"Besides," she continued in desperation "what is the matter with me now,
has nothing to do with my secret," and she could have bitten her tongue
out immediately afterwards that she had uttered the untruth.
"Then _what_ is it?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied in a sullen voice.
"My darling," he said sadly, "I don't think you are treating me quite
fairly."
"Don't you believe what I say?" she said, half crying.
"Mary! I did not imply or mean that, and you know it. It is my love for
you that makes me speak, and it is hard that you should reply to me as
if I was trying to extract some secret from you out of mere curiosity."
"Oh, Harry! it will do me no good to worry me in this way. Please let us
change the conversation."
She spoke in a pettish way, almost angrily, feeling the while bitterly
ashamed of herself, knowing that she was in the wrong. She hated herself
for having told a falsehood to her husband, and she revenged her misery
on him. It is the way of our poor human nature when we hate ourselves,
to torture those we love the most.
He thought in silence for a few minutes and then said sadly, "I don't
understand you to-day, Mary; but I will ask you no more questions now."
Here the conversation dropped and a painful silence followed. Both were
very miserable. It was the first approach to a quarrel that had occurred
between them, and though slight, was keenly felt by natures rendered
delicately sensitive by the great love that bound them together.
* * * * *
Dr. Duncan could not understand the change that had come over his wife.
He saw that some sorrow preyed upon her health, that she was not
suffering from mere bodily illness, though she would often impatiently
deny this.
Occasionally he spoke to her in terms of mild annoyance. This stung her
to the quick; she would become moody, and sink into stubborn silence.
Sometimes she would prevaricate when he questioned her, for her mental
and moral strength were gradually failing beneath the great strain.
He perceived that her manner towards him was not sincere as of old. This
caused him great uneasiness. Vague suspicions that assumed no definite
shape crossed his mind, and by degrees a sort of estrangement really
sprang up between them. Not that they were less affectionate than
before; they were even more so, but by fits only, divided from each
other by periods of coolness felt instinctively rather than openly
shown, arising from mutual misunderstanding.
A really serious secret existing between a husband and wife cannot fail
to bring about this result. It is more than can be expected from human
nature, that such a mystery should not call up some doubts, though to be
indignantly put away as soon as they have risen. But the doubts _did_
rise and that was enough to work much mischief.
So on one side there was the doubt, and on the other side, indignation
at being doubted, and shame, and sorrow, and dread foreboding. Susan
Riley's second warning did its work well, and had cast a shadow on the
happy home.