THE THIRD WARNING.
Susan saw that her opportunity had arrived. She conceived the devilish
plan of striking another blow at Mary, while she was in the sensitive
condition of approaching maternity.
So maddened by her hate was this woman that she even thought of gaining
access to her enemy's baby when it was born, and stealing it from her,
or, perhaps, killing it; but she dismissed this as too perilous to be
practicable; for her malice had not made her altogether reckless of
consequences.
She felt that there must be some other method as sure, though free from
danger to herself, by which she might attack the mind of Mary with a
sudden shock from which she could never recover. But how to carry out
this design? To write another letter was out of the question. Susan
Riley dared not commit to writing the venom with which she determined to
complete her work.
Time passed by and she felt greatly disgusted with herself that she had
so far been unable to devise anything. All her ingenuity could not
discover a means of satisfying her hate, tempered as it was by
cowardice.
One morning she read the announcement of the birth of Mary's child in
the papers--"The wife of Dr. H. Duncan of a son." The words seemed to
burn themselves into her brain.
So entirely was she the slave of her mania of hate that she now
neglected her business and employed the greater portion of each day in
watching the home in St. John's Wood.
She did not herself question the doctor's servants, as it might stand in
the way of future plans to be recognized by them, but she discovered
several shops at which the family dealt, and would go into these under
the pretext of buying some small article, and elicit a good deal of
information by means of casual inquiries about Mrs. Duncan.
She learnt that Mary was "doing well, but suffering from great
weakness."
There was one old woman who kept a newspaper shop. She was very fond of
a gossip with a customer, and was also wont to take a deep interest in
all her neighbours' affairs, prying assiduously into them whenever
possible.
Susan had soon discovered these useful traits in the old woman's
character, so often called on her with the object of sounding her.
One day, about a week after the birth of Mary's child, Susan went into
the shop and purchased a copy of _The Guardian_ newspaper.
"Good morning, Mrs. Harris," she said, "I have not seen you for some
days; I hope you are well."
"As well as can be expected, Miss, in this world of misery and trouble."
"Why, Mrs. Harris, I should not have thought that the world was using
you very hardly. But I suppose when one is a sympathetic soul like you,
ever thinking over other people's woes, one gets through a good deal of
suffering by proxy."
Mrs. Harris hardly understood the meaning of the words, certainly not
the sarcastic drift of them, but took them as a complimentary tribute to
the tenderness of her heart; so she shook her curls slowly backwards and
forwards and looked mournful.
"Ah yes, Miss!" she said, "I really do think that I take as much
interest in other peoples' sorrows as in my own."
"As a true Christian should," replied Susan, biting her lips to conceal
the smile she could scarcely keep down. "I noticed how feelingly you
spoke about that poor lady who had the baby the other day--the doctor's
wife--Mrs. Duncan I think her name was. How is she getting on now, by
the way, Mrs. Harris--have you heard?"
"Poor thing! Poor thing!" said the old lady in a lackadaisical voice,
putting on a very solemn expression and shaking her corkscrew curls
again.
"Is she worse then?" asked Susan.
"No, no! It is not that--at least not exactly that. I believe that her
confinement has passed by in a very satisfactory way; but--" and she
shook her head yet once again in a mysterious fashion.
"I do not quite understand you," observed Susan.
"If I were a gossip, which I am glad to say I am not," spoke up Mrs.
Harris in deliberate tones, "I might say strange things about that
house."
"Good gracious! what _do_ you mean?"
"Her husband is a popular man hereabouts it is true--but--" and Mrs.
Harris shut her mouth with a snap, as if determined to say no more.
"You don't mean to say that her husband ill-treats her!"
"No, Miss! I don't exactly say that, I don't know that he does. All I
say is that it is very, very strange, but I'd rather say nothing more
about it, Miss."
Susan made no further remark just then, but proceeded to select and
purchase a few copies of _The Family Herald_; she knew that if she
waited a little longer, the old lady's gossiping instincts would compel
her to tell all her story, even without any questioning.
"Do you think, Miss," Mrs. Harris recommenced at last, "that a lady with
everything she can have in the way of comfort around her, could get pale
and melancholy and hardly ever speak a word to anyone for weeks,
without any reason at all?"
"No, I should think not--that is unless she is becoming mad," replied
Susan.
"Now that's exactly it, Miss! _Is_ she becoming mad, or is she
ill-treated by her husband--it's one or the other--now which is it?"
"Did you say that they quarrelled?"
"I have spoken with the servants--they come over here to get a paper now
and again. _They_ say there never was a kinder husband than the
doctor--but they can't tell--it may be all his deceit like. I once read
of a husband--he was a doctor too--and his wife began to ail; she got
paler and thinner and weaker every day. He pretended to love her so
much, and was so concerned about her, and he nursed her himself, and
allowed none but himself to prepare her food. Well do you know, Miss, at
last she died--and what do you think was discovered afterwards?" At this
point of her narrative she put on her spectacles and looked steadfastly
at Susan.
"I really cannot imagine--what was it?"
"He had been poisoning her all the time for her money--There!" whispered
Mrs. Harris in a melo-dramatic voice.
"Dear me! how shocking! you make my flesh creep. And do you really think
that this Dr. Duncan is doing the same?" asked Susan, much amused at the
old woman's folly.
"No, no, Miss, don't go away and think I believe that," Mrs. Harris
exclaimed in alarm; "all I say is that it's strange--very strange
indeed."
"And what do the servants think about it?"
"They think that there's something wrong here," and she tapped her
forehead. "The maid says she's got the horrors like. She's very afraid
about her baby; she seems to think that there's some harm coming to it;
she won't let it out of her sight, and when anyone comes into the room,
she starts and trembles fearful. They say, Miss, that it's just as if
she had a delusion that everyone wanted to murder the child. Now that
ain't natural like, allowing for all a mother's affection."
"It is indeed very strange," said Susan musingly; "but I must not waste
your time any longer, Mrs. Harris--I am a sad gossip. Good morning to
you, I will see you again soon."
So this was Mary's vulnerable point. Susan had suspected as much. She
fancied that it would not be very difficult to make use of this extreme
anxiety of the mother for her child.
As she came out of the shop she noticed an old woman, shabbily dressed
in black and much bent with age, tottering feebly along the pavement on
the opposite side of the street with a large basket on her arm.
Had Susan kept her eyes as open as usual during these expeditions to St.
John's Wood, she would have observed, before this, that she herself was
not the only person who was acting the detective round Dr. Duncan's
house. On nearly every occasion that she had come to the neighbourhood,
the shabby old woman had been there too, dogging her footsteps, watching
her movements unsuspected, spying the spy.
Susan had contrived to discover that Dr. Duncan was in the habit every
Saturday of visiting a patient who lived a considerable way out of
London. Failing, as I have said, with all her cleverness, to mature a
definite plan of action, she determined to risk all, and call boldly on
Mary while her husband was away on the following Saturday.
She had a great confidence in her luck; she felt that something would
turn up to favour her purpose, if she once gained admittance into the
house. Knowing Mary as she did, she considered that it would not be
difficult to terrify her again into her former crazed state.
For a few days prior to her contemplated visit Susan was very fidgety;
so to occupy her mind and prevent it from dwelling too anxiously on the
perils of her task, she employed herself in a way which was peculiarly
congenial and interesting to her. She set to work to forge as well as
she was able--and she succeeded very fairly--a variety of documents;
some purported to be letters from Catherine King, and other members of
the late Secret Society; there were copies too of imaginary warrants for
the arrest of unknown persons, whose appearance was carefully described.
All these pointed to a great danger which threatened those who had been
connected with the Sisterhood, especially Mary Duncan. There were other
papers too which tended to show that the members of the Society
attributed their peril to the treason of one of their number--clearly
Mary--who was accused of having made certain disclosures to the
authorities. They were alarming documents, intended to prove clearly
that the young mother was suspected by both sides, was being hunted down
by both the police and by her old associates.
Susan would laugh to herself as she completed each of these works of
art, and would look at them with no small pride. "I wonder if she will
be fool enough to swallow all this?" she asked herself. "And yet why
not? If she does believe in them, she will see that one course only is
left to her--to fly from England, to desert her husband and her child,
so as not to bring disgrace upon their heads. I believe I am on the
right track at last. Ah! Susie, you have not forgotten your cunning
after all!"
At last the fatal Saturday arrived, and she started for St. John's Wood,
armed with her papers, intending to show some, all, or none of them, to
Mary, exactly as circumstances should make expedient.
She prowled about in the neighbourhood of the house, till she saw the
doctor go out. She followed him to the railway station and satisfied
herself that he had started; but she did not observe that the shabby old
woman with the basket was following her also, though at a long distance,
never losing sight of her.
Susan walked back to the doctor's house, reaching it about ten minutes
after he had left it, and rang the bell.
The housemaid opened the door.
"How is Mrs. Duncan to-day? I have called to see her," Susan said.
"Mrs. Duncan is very ill, ma'am, and she is not allowed to see anyone."
"Oh! but it is all right," Susan explained, "I am Mrs. Duncan's oldest
friend. I have just met the doctor on my way here. He would have come
back with me; but he said he had no time to do so, as he was obliged to
catch the train to P----"
"Did Dr. Duncan know that you wished to see my mistress, ma'am?"
"Indeed he did. He particularly asked me to see Mary--Mrs. Duncan I
mean, he thinks it will do her good. Will you kindly tell your mistress
that Mrs. Riley has called to see her, that the doctor has sent me to
see her. Kindly tell her also that I have some news of great importance
to communicate to her."
The girl hesitated. She had received strict injunctions to admit no
visitors to her mistress. But she could scarcely discredit the statement
of this lady, who, she reasoned, must certainly have conversed with the
doctor on his way, else she could not have known his destination.
But then she remembered that Dr. Duncan had enjoined her not to take any
letter or message to his wife under any circumstances whatever, so she
replied: "It is very difficult for me, ma'am, to do as you wish. I have
received such strict orders from my master not to carry any message from
anyone to my mistress. Could you not call to-morrow, ma'am, when my
master will be here."
"You stupid girl!" exclaimed Susan angrily, "do you not understand me? I
tell you I have just seen your master; he knows that I am going to call
on your mistress. Do you disbelieve my word?"
"No, ma'am, but--"
"But! But what?"
"I don't exactly know, ma'am, but--" the girl stammered, looking very
confused and red, then suddenly her face brightened, and she exclaimed,
"Ah! here is the nurse, ma'am; I will ask her about it."
For at that moment a comely-looking strong country girl came out of a
door leading into the hall, carrying a little white bundle in her arms.
"Ah!" cried Susan, "is that dear Mrs. Duncan's little boy? Do let me see
it!"
There could be no harm in allowing the strange lady to see the baby for
a moment, at any rate, so the proud nurse drew back the clothes and
disclosed a little sleeping face.
Susan felt her veins tingle with an excitement, the meaning of which she
could not herself understand, as she approached and looked at the
innocent features.
"Mary's child," she said, "Mary's child; dear me, how strange!" and she
stooped to kiss him, as she knew it was her bounden duty to do, if she
did not wish to offend the nurse beyond pardon, and so prejudice her
chance of seeing the mother.
But just as her lips were about to touch the soft cheek, a sudden
surprised cry from the housemaid made her raise her head again.
Then her cowardly spirit failed her, and she looked aghast at what was
before her, motionless, save for the tremor that shook her frame.
A form more like a ghost than a living woman was hurrying down the
stairs towards her, with arms outstretched, a form that seemed to glide
rather than run, so evidently unconscious was its motion.
Clad merely in her white bed-clothes, with face as white as they, the
mother was rushing to save her babe. Her expression was one of fixed
intense horror; her lips were apart, her eyes dilated, but she spoke no
word. She flew to the nurse and snatched her infant into her arms,
pressing it against her breast, palpitating with her frightful emotion.
She stood erect and firm, but trembling in every limb, staring at Susan
with the same fixed look. Her white throat rose and fell convulsively
with the choking sensations that prevented her from speaking.
She stood thus an awful image for many minutes, the frightened servants
gazing at her open-mouthed, not knowing what to do. At last she spoke;
she raised her arm, and pointing at Susan, cried in a voice that did not
sound like her own, so strange and hollow it was, "Go! Go!"
Susan hesitated, and seemed to be about to speak, when the mother made a
step towards her, with so menacing a gesture, with such fury in her
eyes--altogether so different a being from the timid girl of old--that
Susan was quite cowed, and lost her presence of mind. She shrank back
and tried to smile, but she could not manage it; the grin as of a wild
beast at bay, full of rage and mortal fear, was the only result.
"Go!" cried the mother again.
Susan felt that she was beaten, she could do no more, she looked round
at the group, and then without a word slunk out of the door, which the
housemaid, recovering her presence of mind, slammed indignantly behind
her.
* * * * *
Mary hurried upstairs with the baby, saying nothing, and went into her
bed-room, the two women following, full of simple sympathy, yet knowing
not how to show it.
Then to their astonishment the poor mother, with frantic haste, yet with
tender care, pulled the clothes off her child, and laid him on the bed.
With an eager anxiety that was painful to see, she examined all the
little body, dreading lest she should find the small spot which showed
that the accursed instrument of the Sisterhood had done its work.
But there was nothing to be seen. "Oh, my God! I thank Thee, I thank
Thee. Oh, my God! My Christ," she cried, incoherently, as she fell
weeping on the child, covering it with passionate kisses. Then she rose
and said wildly, "Jane! Jane! please look and see that there is no
mark--no wound--nothing. I cannot see, my eyes are so dim. Please look
carefully, and make quite, quite certain of it."
The nurse, thinking to humour her poor crazed mistress, pretended to
examine the baby, though her own eyes were really as dim with tears as
were the mother's. "No, ma'am, I assure you that there is nothing at
all--nothing. The little darling is all right; but now you must go to
bed, poor dear; you will be very ill if you don't. For your little
baby's sake go to bed, and try and rest."
Mary, now as docile as a child, allowed herself to be put into her bed,
and sobbed herself asleep--a broken slumber full of frightful dreams,
from which she awoke into as painful a delirium.