She remembered that they had all been plucked by him, and she laughed low as she kissed them one by one. Then she threw them up so that they fell over her head and shoulders in a soft shower; and she sang again a song, not of words, but breathing forth inexpressible delight--a song that at times almost trembled into sobs with the very fullness of that delight.

She formed a beautiful picture indeed, as of a half-crazed Ophelia; but there was no occasional touch of sadness in _her_ mood, for she knew that her love was true to her and kind, and the shadow was so far away now--away--away--beyond the glorious woods and gardens, below the faint horizon, sunk under the world--and gone for ever, it seemed to her imagination--there would be no more shadow now.

But two fierce eyes were watching her unseen. Someone had approached noiselessly as a snake, and stood motionless a little way off, looking at the girl with a fixed and intent stare through the dense bushes.

The intruder was a woman with pale face and deep-sunk, flashing eyes, and with lips lined at the corners as with much anguish. She stood there concealed by the foliage, her fists clenched, her body leaning forward, rigid, as of a tigress ready to spring on its prey.

The happy girl sang on and played with the flowers unconscious of the danger near her.

The woman was Catherine King. She had come down as she had promised, to carry out the mandate of the Secret Society, with a Judas kiss to invite Mary to her destruction.

On reaching Mrs. White's cottage that morning, she was informed by the maid that all the family were away, that they had gone to picnic in the woods.

"They will be back early this evening, then?" asked Catherine.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well, I will wait for them," and she went into the little drawing-room.

She waited there for about half-an-hour. She sat first on one chair, then on another; then paced up and down the room quickly. She looked out of the window; she took up book after book, only immediately to put it down again unread. She could not read just then--she could not think--she felt she could not even wait idle in that room any longer, or she would go mad.

She was distracted by a feverish nervousness, which was ever intensifying. She felt that she must go to Mary at once and do what was required of her--she must do it at once, before it became altogether impossible for her--so she rang the bell.

The maid entered the room.

"How far off is this picnic?" asked Catherine, curtly.

"About four miles I think, ma'am."

"Can you tell me the way there?"

"Yes, ma'am. You will have to walk along the road across the moor until you come to the bridge. If you cross the bridge, ma'am, and turn to the right, following the river, you will come to them."

"You are the only girl I ever met who could direct one clearly; thank you, I will go there."

She followed the maid's instructions and walked very fast all the way, in hopes that the rapid motion would drive away her nervousness.

At the bridge she stood still for a few moments, and drawing a bottle from her pocket which contained laudanum, or some other drug, she drank a small quant.i.ty of it.

Then she looked down the white road before turning off into the wood, and she saw in the distance a countryman dragging along a ram by a cord.

The sight called up memories of old lessons of her childhood. She laughed bitterly to herself. "Ah! were I a Christian, I might accept that as a good omen. Jehovah found Abraham such a subst.i.tute at the last moment when he was about to sacrifice his only son. But for me, alas!

there can be no such hope."

She walked along the narrow foot-path by the river-side for some way, when suddenly she heard a sweet human voice rising and falling in a song wild and untaught as a lark's, a song that seemed to ring with such ecstacy of pure happiness that she paused to listen. In her present mood the gladness of it stung her, and she ground her teeth in her agony.

Then she turned pale and listened intently--yes, the voice was familiar to her! Cautiously she approached, until she came to some bushes, from behind which, herself concealed, she perceived Mary sitting on the river-bank close to her, singing and playing with the flowers.

The woman stood quite still and watched the girl for several minutes.

What a storm of pa.s.sions was sweeping across her fierce mind, torturing the iron will! At first she felt nothing but a mad hate--the strong hate of jealousy. But the pathetic image of the happy, half-crazed girl soon raised other emotions. Love and hate together, joining in one new, wild pa.s.sion rose to torment her. Ah, how she hated, how she loved, that weak child yonder! Her soul yearned upon her. Yet she longed to kill her then and there--to stab and then clasp the dying girl in her arms--to lie down by her, kissing the beloved lips--to drink her last breath and die with her! Ah! how sweet to die with her!--in one long, last kiss--kissing and stabbing her, loving and torturing her, at the same time. Strange, impossible fancies crowded on her mind. A pa.s.sion that was not love, that was not hate, but the unnatural offspring of the two and fiercer than either, possessed her--such a discordant pa.s.sion, as we are told by the Grecian myths, the Furies sow in the minds of men whom the G.o.ds have doomed to destruction.

She looked, and she gnashed her teeth with hate; she looked again, and tears came into her hot eyes to see her Mary--the dear child--the sole human being she had ever loved! Yes! she must run forward to her, fall down and kiss those bare white feet, forego her vengeance and beg herself for forgiveness.

But no, no--it could not be. The girl loved a man. She had herself confessed to it. She must die.

Then her reason, if reason it could be called, returned to her for a moment. She hardened her heart. Was not Mary a traitor to the cause? The safety of the Sisterhood, the success of this grand scheme, called for her death. She _must_ die.

But yet, she thought, how was the poor child to blame for all this? Was it not her own cruel self--she, Catherine King--that had enticed Mary into the Secret Society, and led her into danger? But she smothered these fancies--steeled herself for her task. She hesitated no longer, and stepping out of her ambush, she stood before the girl.

As soon as Mary perceived her, she dropped the flowers and sprang to meet her with a smile of joyous welcome. She was not startled by Catherine's sudden appearance. Her happiness had been too deep to be disturbed in a moment by any fears. The discord that divided them did not occur then to her mind; she only remembered the old love between them.

But to the girl's surprise, Catherine did not return her fond caresses; she scarcely seemed to recognize her, but drew back averting her gaze, as if afraid of meeting those pleading eyes.

"Mother, dear mother!" cried Mary, looking up to her face as she put her arms about her. "What is it? Are you still angry with me?"

The woman took the girl's hands in hers, she could not help it, and spoke in dreamy absent tones, looking away from her the while across the river.

"No Mary, no! but I do not feel very well to-day."

"Poor mother! I am so sorry," Mary commenced, in a sympathetic voice.

Catherine could not bear this. She felt she must hurry through her duty, or else break down. She wished now that she had not come to see the girl, but had written to her, so she strove against the horror that was paralyzing her will and spoke again, but with a painful excitement which she could not suppress. Her words came hurriedly and confusedly.

"Mary, I must go in a few minutes--I have to catch a train--I wished to see you for a moment; I want to know if"----she almost broke down now--"if you will come and stay with me a week or two in town before--before--" ... but she could trust herself to say no more, and paused.

Mary was astonished at the strangely excited, yet constrained manner of her former mistress, but suspected nothing.

The woman waited for the girl's reply, waited breathlessly, hoping against hope that she would refuse the invitation. The pause seemed an eternity of agony to her, yet it was but of a few seconds.

Mary answered in a voice full of affection and confidence, "Dear mother!

How can you doubt what my answer will be? I was afraid you would never be friends with me again. You know how glad I shall be to be with you."

She was going to say more, but stopped suddenly, observing the terrible change, the expression of extreme anguish that crossed Catherine's face.

One choking sob escaped the woman, and feeling dizzy she sat down, almost fell, on the bank, and supporting her head on her hands gazed into vacancy with an awful look upon her fixed features, a look that told clearly of her soul's utter despair.

Mary ran up to her in great bewilderment and alarm, knelt before her, stroked her hand with her own, fondled her.

"Mother, my dear mother, what is it? What can I do?"

Catherine still answered nothing, but she slowly raised her now ghastly white face toward the girl's; turned her eyes that seemed dim, and to have no sense in them upon her; eyes that looked at her, yet appeared not to see, as those of one sightless; and the nervously twitching mouth moved as if speaking, but no words came forth.

"Mother! mother!" cried the terrified girl. "Speak to me--are you ill--I will get you some water--wait for me, only a few moments and I will fetch a.s.sistance."

"No, no, no!" cried the woman in a spasmodic way. "No! I am better--it is nothing--stay here--fetch n.o.body--I have something to say to you."

She spoke with such a stem authority that the girl could not but obey.