Part 20 (2/2)
But it could not be; she must not love him; she, one of ”the Sisters,”
committed to a Cause that killed its children! No, it could not be! She must suffer and endure in silence, but never know love.
A first, great love filling her being and a fearful consciousness of its hopelessness--so great a delight within her grasp and duty preventing her from seizing it--such was the mental conflict, full of agony, that had now come to her young life.
Her feverish restlessness undermined her health. When alone at night, she would sob through the long hours in broken-hearted despair. She would go through her duties by day with a listless languor.
Catherine King noticed how pale and thin and sad the girl was becoming; but shrewd as she was, she had no suspicions as to the true cause of this change.
I have said that a great affection had sprung up between the Chief of the Secret Society and her disciple. This affection was ever deepening.
The relation between them had long ceased to be that of mistress and servant; it was no longer merely that of teacher and pupil; but they had become to each other as mother and daughter. Catherine represented to the outside world that Mary was her niece; but the girl had of late fallen into the way of calling her protectress, when they were alone together, by the more affectionate name of mother.
One dismal November afternoon, before the lights were lit, Catherine King was sitting in her chair by the fire sewing. Mary was sitting by the window, listless, motionless, looking out to the street with a strange, sad air, as of one that despaired yet was resigned.
The elder woman occasionally cast keen glances towards her, and at last, putting down her work, said, ”Mary!”
”Yes, mother!” replied the girl, starting suddenly from her reverie, while a bright flush came to her pale cheeks for a moment.
”You seem ill, Mary.”
”Yes, mother; I am not very well,” she replied in a low, apathetic voice.
”What is it? There seems to be something on your mind. Is it the idea of the work that has to be done soon that is weighing on you?”
”No, no! I know it is my duty, mother. I am proud to be a helper in the Cause. Oh, no! mother, it is not that.... I don't know what it is; but I fear I am weak and foolish. I am getting nervous.... I am a coward and unfit for so great a mission.”
”Strange! that is not like you! I think a little change of air would do you good. We will take a holiday, Mary, and go to the sea-side.”
”Thank you, mother; how very kind you are to me! but indeed I do not deserve it.”
”You are a good girl, Mary. Happy for me was the day on which I first met you. Your companions.h.i.+p has been very dear to me. I, who thought that I had altogether given up tender emotions, that my whole being was absorbed in my work for Humanity, that I would never again care for any individual--I have come to love you dearly.” She continued absently, not intending her words for the girl's ears: ”Yes! I half regret sometimes that you should have to be one of the workers, poor girl”--then recollecting herself again, and putting aside her unwonted softness for her usual exalted zeal for Humanity that over-rode all lesser sentiments--”but this is nonsense. How n.o.bler our lives, how happier even, though severing us from mankind and human sympathies, than the weak loves and affections of the ordinary men and women! How glorious to feel we are so far above them!”
She did not suspect how she sent the arrow home to Mary's heart. Tears came to the girl's eyes. The sacrifice of human affections might be a little thing to the enthusiast, but to her, alas! it meant death. But she had determined that she would not waver in her allegiance; for the wild theories were to her great truths. She had such entire faith in her protectress, that she would not have hesitated to tear her heart out for the Chief and the Cause.
”Mother!” she cried out at last. ”Oh, mother! you _must_ love me! I am so weak, I do not feel fit for the life that is before me. By myself I can do nothing. I shall be stronger if I may lean on you--if I may see you often--if you will let me love you. I cannot explain what I mean--I do not understand it myself.” She spoke in a pitiful voice that expressed the great yearning that was in her.
Catherine King looked at the girl in silence for some moments, and the quivering of her lips showed that she was struggling with some strong emotion; then she said:
”I fear we are entering on a dangerous path--but, Mary! Mary! I do love you ... very much indeed--dear”--she hesitated over the last word as if ashamed of using it; she had never used it before--”too well, perhaps ... for it is our duty to look far beyond individual sympathies; we must steel our hearts; we must be of stern stuff; but I do love you, child. Come here, that I may kiss you!”
Mary knew what deep affection it must be to make this woman confess to such weakness. She came up to the chair where Catherine was sitting, and knelt before her. The woman kissed her on her forehead, and gently stroked the soft hair of the girl, feeling a tenderness in her heart that she had not known for many long years.
”There can be no harm in our loving each other, I think, Mary,” she said, doubtfully, and with a tremulousness in her one as of consciousness of guilt, as of one hesitating on the brink of some sweet, strong temptation to crime--”no harm--but we must not be too affectionate; we must not fear for each other, or we shall be unnerved when the battle begins. Now, Mary! don't! don't! My dear child, I cannot bear it!” for the girl had seized her hand and was kissing it pa.s.sionately, while she shook with a paroxysm of sobs.
”Oh, mother! mother! I am so miserable--without your love I should die!
It is the only thing that makes life bearable. I cannot be strong and brave like you”--raising her head and looking admiringly at her through her tears--”but your love will make me braver too. Why are you not angry with me for being so silly and so weak?”
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