Part 35 (2/2)
The girl interrupted her. ”But I did not understand you, mother. Did you ask me whether I loved him very much?”
”Yes, darling! but let us not talk about this now!”
”You are mistaken,” went on Mary quietly. ”There never was any love between Mr. Hudson and me. Why, I only saw him once. He was very kind to me three years ago. I told you all about it. I was, of course, very grateful to him, and liked him very much, but love never entered my head.”
”Is that so?” cried Catherine eagerly, clutching tightly the girl's arm.
”Is that so? Oh, I am so glad, Mary! If I had only known this all these miserable weeks!--Oh, my darling, my darling, I have been so unjust to you all this time! I believed that you loved this man, and I thought it was so cruel, so wicked of you to keep this from me. I began to hate you, Mary--ah! if you knew what I suffered all those sleepless nights thinking how all that care and love of mine had been wasted on you. And now to find I was wrong! Forgive me for suspecting you--Forgive me, my darling! Oh! it nearly killed me when I discovered, as I thought, that you loved him. I could have killed you, I hated you so. It was only after I heard he was dead that I began to relent, and I did not forgive you even then. No! not till I saw your poor, thin face in the hospital, and I could hate you no longer. Oh, my darling--you have made me so happy! Will you forgive me?”
A man who has had a serious quarrel with the woman he loves, and finds that he was in the wrong, that he has behaved unjustly, could not have shown a more pa.s.sionate tenderness over the reconciliation than did this strange woman. She was carried away by her joy; she looked pleadingly into the girl's eyes as she seized her hands and begged for her forgiveness.
Mary shrunk back from her. She was shocked and frightened at this unwonted display of profound affection. She felt sick with shame and sorrow, for she knew she did not deserve all this love; she knew that when she told her story, all the woman's triumphant happiness would change again to a bitterer misery and hate than ever. How to tell her kind protectress that she had deceived her--that she did love--though not Hudson, and that this was a live love, not a dead one! She could never be forgiven for that. She would be spurned--hated; and she sobbed as she buried her head in her hands, not daring to show her guilty face.
But she determined to deceive her no longer, so throwing herself at Catherine's feet, she exclaimed wildly, ”Oh, mother! mother! you are killing me; don't talk about forgiving _me_! don't love me any longer!
don't speak to me kindly. I am a wicked bad girl and unworthy of your love, indeed I am.”
”These people have been spoiling Mary with their religion and sentimental nonsense,” thought Catherine as she observed the girl. ”She has been brought round to feel a horror for our work. She wishes to be absolved from her duty, and she is afraid of my anger if she asks me to free her.”
Then she said aloud, ”Mary, dear, I know all; but don't worry about that now. You have come to feel a horror of the work we have to do. You are weak, but I cannot blame you, poor girl. You wish to leave us, to be free. We will see what can be done. For the present do not worry at all about the matter.”
Catherine was so overjoyed at finding her suspicions with regard to Mary's love affairs unfounded, that she now said a good deal more than she really meant. She never for a moment entertained the idea of freeing Mary. The girl would be far too useful to the Society, for the carrying out of that scheme that was dearer to the woman than was even the happiness of her darling. But it was well, she thought, to humour her now that she was ill. It would hasten her recovery to remove this weight of anxiety from her for the time. When this weakness was pa.s.sed the girl would see clearly again, be brave once more, and return to her allegiance.
”Oh, mother,” cried Mary, ”you are so generous, so unselfish, I don't know how to tell you all; you will, I know, be angry; but I must tell you now. I cannot deceive you that have been so kind, so good. You don't suspect the half of what is on my mind.”
”Well, dear, tell me then. It will do you good to relieve your mind of it.”
Then the girl steeled herself for her task, and continued in a calm though tremulous voice, casting down her eyes, not daring to meet the woman's gaze. ”Mother! I have changed--I have come to think that perhaps we are all wrong. We that know so little, are we not rash in believing that good will come of what we propose to do? May it not be altogether bad from every point of view to do this terrible thing, even if it does produce a great good in another direction? Oh, mother! I have come to see what love is, I have come to see how these Christians love. It is not as you taught me they did. I cannot believe all these instincts are false.” She paused; though she was determined to tell the secret of her heart to Catherine King, she could not bring herself to do it; the words would not come.
”The poor little children, mother!” she cried pa.s.sionately, raising her head, ”Oh! since I have been living among them--if you had been living among them you too would have felt as I do. Oh, mother, mother!”
The girl's excitement overcame her, she could speak no more for the choking sensation in her throat.
Her words stung Catherine. ”You have indeed changed!” was all she could reply, in a dry, stifled voice.
”Ah! but that is not all,” cried Mary. ”Oh, my G.o.d! my G.o.d!” and she wrung her hands with anguish as she met the stern glance of the Chief.
The girl's new faith and love were contending with the strong influence of her old mistress, and the conflict seemed to tear her heart.
”Go on!” said Catherine, in the same tones as before. ”What more have you to say?”
Mary endeavoured to proceed--to confess her love for Dr. Duncan without further hesitation or digression. She made a great effort. But the weak brain could do no more. It became suddenly paralyzed. Her thoughts froze within her, and she could not utter a single word. A dazed look came to her eyes. She looked at Catherine with a vacant smile. All memory of the subject of the conversation vanished in a moment from her mind.
Bitter indeed was the resentment and disappointment of Catherine, as she listened to what Mary had said. She had not suspected that matters were so bad as this. She clearly saw that her pupil had definitely deserted the Cause--that she had become a Christian.
But she noticed the girl's condition. She saw it was impossible to discuss the question further then, so said, in as collected a manner as her conflicting emotions allowed:
”I must leave you now--good-bye, Mary, good-bye. I will write to you--I must think about all this. I don't know what to say now.”
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