Part 27 (2/2)

Susan was exceedingly anxious that she alone should sit by the bedside of the sufferer, and overhear her ravings. She begged so earnestly for this that she was allowed to have the special nursing of Mary.

Her behaviour on this occasion quite won her the esteem of Dr. Duncan, who naturally could not divine the real motives of her anxiety for her friend. She was so untiring in her attention, so jealous of anyone else relieving her, and was so evidently upset by the critical condition of the girl, that the doctor could not but put it all down to a real affection. He came to the conclusion that he had greatly misjudged this woman, and he began to entertain a respect and liking for her.

Susan was indeed too anxious, and her health began to suffer in consequence. She did her best to conceal her nervous state; but at last it was so patent that Dr. Duncan, in spite of her protestations, insisted on her abandoning her work of love (or rather of fear), and ordered her away for a holiday.

She seemed almost heartbroken at having to part from her friend, and the doctor was more surprised than ever to find that the frivolous woman could exhibit so much devotion.

So within a fortnight from the commencement of Mary's illness, Susan, prostrated by sheer terror, and with her nerves thoroughly unstrung, went down to a little sea-side village by herself, to recover her strength.

And even there she ate out her heart with that perpetual fear. She was no longer the same woman. She did not flirt with men. She avoided her fellow-beings. When indoors she would sit brooding, with knit brows, starting and trembling at every noise. When out of doors she would wander up and down unfrequented portions of the beach, pale and haggard, and make a long circuit when she saw anyone in the distance, were it only a fis.h.i.+ng-lad, so as not to pa.s.s within recognisable distance of him.

For a strange thing had come to Susan Riley. It will be remembered how she explained to Mary, in the course of a conversation, that the experience of all Nihilists was as follows: They suffered from the horrors _before_ committing the deed. They were wont to fear that, as soon as their hands were red with a first murder, some frightful bogie, some maddening remorse, worse than anything imaginable before, would leap up and seize them; but as soon as they _had_ committed the deed, they were so agreeably surprised to find that this dreaded bogie did not appear, that a delightful reaction would at once set in, they became mad with joy. ”As soon as you have killed your first baby,” she told Mary, ”your horrors will all go. You will experience immediate relief. It's like having a tooth out.”

But now Susan, in her own person, found this process altogether reversed.

She had felt no compunction, no horror, before the deed. She had murdered her lover, the barrister, with a light heart. But, lo! now that she _had_ done the deed, she was haunted by the terror--the avenging Furies never left her. She was consumed by a perpetual and awful fear.

She would start out of her disturbed sleep, twenty times in a night, to see distinctly before her the disfigured face of her victim, looking into her very soul, even as he had looked that last time in the hospital ward, with his one unbandaged eye.

In her first panic she thought of leaving the country and concealing herself in some foreign town. But she soon perceived that this would be a most imprudent step. The chances were, after all, that her crime would not come to light. Even if Mary or the barrister did accuse her, it would be better for her to remain at home and brazen it out than to invite suspicion by flight.

Besides, she remembered that though it might be comparatively easy to hide herself from the justice of the law with its clumsy machinery, it would be altogether impossible to escape from the vengeance of the secret societies.

She knew that, if Mary accused her of murdering the barrister--if the Sisters discovered that she had made use of the secret of the society to satisfy her own private malice--her fate was sealed.

She knew how the Nihilist societies all over the world were connected with each other. She knew that wherever she might hide herself, she would be hunted down and executed by their agents: first, because death was the punishment always awarded to one who prost.i.tuted the methods of the societies to work his own private ends; and secondly, because the Sisterhood would decree her removal in their own defence, so as to antic.i.p.ate the law, and obviate all chance of her betraying them, did the police succeed in tracking and arresting her. She saw clearly that flight was worse than useless, so remained where she was.

Dr. Duncan had promised to write to her every day and report the progress of Mary's illness.

On one fine Sunday morning, a few days after her arrival at the sea-side, she received a letter from him, which considerably allayed her fears for the time. She felt almost cheerful after reading it, and ate her breakfast with some semblance of appet.i.te, to the delight of her landlady, a sympathetic soul, who pitied and took great interest in her sick lodger.

For in the letter occurred the following pa.s.sage:

”That poor Mr. Hudson died this morning. His const.i.tution seemed unable to rally after his last attack. He never spoke a single word since you saw him last. He became totally paralysed. His case, indeed, was a very unusual one in some respects.”

”Ah, then, she was safe,” she said to herself. ”He was dead--had died without revealing anything--there could not be produced a t.i.ttle of evidence against her now--he would be buried by this time--even if they dug him up again,” she chuckled to herself. ”No examination could betray her work. The poison of the Sisterhood was too subtle.”

Again, even if Mary disclosed what she knew, who would believe her? Her story would be put down as the delusion of a madwoman. Yes! she was safe now.

She felt then quite her own self again, and was so full of will joy, that she must needs put on her bonnet and start out for a long walk across the sands--she was too jolly to be still.

”Take care now, Missy, take care,” said the motherly old landlady in a warning tone as she observed her flushed cheek and sparkling eye. ”You have had good news in that letter, but that doesn't make you strong and well all of a sudden, though you feel so just now. Don't go and tire yourself, or you'll be as bad as ever again to-night.”

”Nonsense!” replied Susan impatiently as she tripped merrily down the stairs.

As she walked down the village street, she met all the people going to church, and being a stranger she was naturally thoroughly inspected and criticised. She soon noticed this, and fear having been driven away, up came her old vanity again, and she ogled the men unmercifully.

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