About six months had passed away since the events narrated in the last chapter. In that short time a considerable change had come over the lives of the characters of this story.

Dr. Duncan and Mary were husband and wife, and had settled down in a comfortable little house in St. John's Wood, in which district he had purchased a practice.

As Susan Riley had foretold, the decay of the Secret Society commenced on that day when the Chief had shown weak mercy to a deserter. Catherine King gradually lost her hold of the wills of the Sisterhood. She was changed; the difference might have been imperceptible to a casual observer, but there it was. She was no longer infallible to her followers; she was no longer believed in, because she no longer believed in herself; and that subtle power which faith in self gives, and which compels faith and obedience in others, had gone for ever. The magic of her direct personal influence had been her best, perhaps her only true qualification for the task she had set herself. She was wanting in the faculty of organization, and was fully conscious of this; so when her personal influence waned, the real instability of the Society soon commenced to make itself manifest. Disputes and doubts arose, and many of the Sisters having lost all confidence in their Chief, became timid, and kept quietly away from the Society.

So far nothing had been done by this band of fanatics; the abominable work contemplated by them had not yet commenced. They were waiting for those expected changes in the laws relating to the tenure of land, which were to be rendered more effective by their action.

With an intense anxiety did Catherine King await the general election. All her hopes depended on that. Were the enemies of private property to gain the day, were the desired act of Parliament to be passed, the signal would be given to the Sisters to proceed at once upon their labours. A new vitality would then stir the Society; the old enthusiasm would return, and in the midst of the peril of the battle she would soon regain all her lost influence. But she thought it best, in the present temper of her associates, to keep aloof from them until the moment for action came. She did not show herself to them, but entrusted Sister Eliza to see that everything was prepared. It was a period of anxious suspense, of oppressive inactivity for all.

At last the general election took place. An intense excitement pervaded the whole country. Questions of the utmost importance were in the air. The programme of one party was so violent and revolutionary, that its supporters would, not so long since, have rendered themselves liable to the penalties for treason; and all moderate men were filled with dismay. Democrats of the extremest type seemed to be having it all their own way in the land, if one could judge by their noise and confidence of success. Several boroughs returned men of this stamp during the first few days of the polling. Eagerly did Catherine snatch up the different editions of the papers to follow the progress of each contest, and hope and ambition returned to her as she read the results.

But after the first few days, matters did not look so bright for the Radicals. The intemperance of their language, the wildness of the reforms they promised, defeated their own ends. A reaction set in. The great mass of Englishmen who are not led away by the impracticable theories of political adventurers recorded their votes as usual for the candidates of common sense belonging to both of the two great parties; but that considerable army of vain men, who, though they possess property, and therefore an interest in the order of the State, yet pose as philosophical Radicals and talk communism without understanding what they mean, became alarmed at the destructive programme of their friends—they perceived that they themselves were threatened as well as the lords and landed proprietors they hated and envied. So panic seized them, and in their selfish fear they did exactly what might have been expected from such creatures—they rushed to the opposite extreme, babbled about Constitutionalism, and voted for ultra-Tories to protect them.

And lo! instead of the Radical House that was to return the great Land Act and other more startling measures, an assembly of which the large majority held very different views indeed was elected, to the exceeding surprise of the over-cute wire-pullers, who thought they had arranged everything so cleverly.

Catherine stayed at home, greedily reading the papers, day after day, and hope died away again and she became sick at heart. When at last there could be no doubt about the result, she wrote to Sister Eliza and asked her to come to her.

Her friend was shocked when she entered the little parlour in Maida Vale to see how ill and worn her Chief was looking.

"Good-afternoon, Eliza," said Catherine in a feeble voice; "I sent for you because you are the only one I could bear to see. You do not look at me with reproachful eyes as the others do—and I am unwell and weak."

There was sympathy expressed on Sister Eliza's homely features as she replied:

"No wonder, Sister Catherine, after what you have been suffering. But brighter days will come."

"Never, never! Sister Eliza—but I have sent for you to learn the whole truth. What has happened—what do they say now?"

"Fools and cowards!" exclaimed the boarding-house keeper, contemptuously; "they do not know their own minds."

"I thought it would be so; and what do they say? Tell me all!"

"The Sisters are in a very discontented mood; they grumble at everything. Many have for the first time discovered that our whole project is ridiculous in the extreme. They say that they have wasted time and money for nothing."

"And whose fault is it that it has been for nothing?"

"Those who supplied the treasury of the Society with considerable sums of money, notably Sister Jane, are clamouring for its restitution or a full account of how it has been spent."

"They shall have neither," cried Catherine, indignantly.

"Some of the Sisters even hint that you have put by a pretty purse for yourself out of the funds—those were the very words of one."

"They dare say that!—they dare accuse me of that!" exclaimed the Chief, rising to her feet and walking impatiently up and down the room, her eyes blazing with wrath and her fists clenched. "Cowardly wretches! are these the earnest martyrs with whose assistance I hoped to forward the emancipation of humanity?—and what more do they say?"

"One fool—it was Sister Jane, by-the-bye—even spoke of suing you for the money she advanced, until I explained to her that Justice will only listen to a plaintiff who comes into court with clean hands, and reminded her that there were slight objections to her revealing in court the objects for which she had advanced the money."

"Do you mean that she actually proposed to betray us?"

"No! she spoke wildly, not thinking of what she was saying. She dare not be a traitor."

"And what does Susan Riley and the others of the Inner Circle say?"

"They, of course, dare not desert the Cause; but they hint that it would be as well to dissolve the Society, now that the object of it has been indefinitely postponed by this unfortunate election. They say it cannot hold together much longer."

"And Sister Susan says this, too?"

"She has virtually left us; at any rate she keeps away now, and seems to take no interest whatever in the Society," replied Sister Eliza in scornful tones.

"And it has come to this, then!" said Catherine, musingly; then she turned and asked abruptly, "and what do you think about it?"

"I don't know what to think. I should like to make an example of a few of the wretches, curse them!" muttered Eliza between her teeth, feeling a bitter indignation as she thought of the meanness of her associates. "Ah! they are unworthy to follow you, Sister Catherine."

Catherine sat down again, and was silent for several minutes. A black despair settled down upon her mind. She saw that it was all over—the Cause had received its death-blow. Of all her friends and disciples, but one was left her—this faithful Eliza, who would, if she let her, cling all the closer to her fallen Chief. It was all over—the hopes, the doubts, the suspense, were gone; and when she spoke it was in a quite calm and passionless voice.

"I understand now, Sister Eliza; I will give my last order to the Sisterhood. Go to them and tell them the Society is dissolved—they may all go their separate ways. Remind them that they must, throughout their lives, observe their oath of secrecy—that is all I ask of them. If they fail to do this, a higher Society will know how to punish traitors. Tell them that I will render no account of the moneys that have passed through my hands. I have never taken one penny of the fund for my own use. Whatever balance there is I will send to another Society—a Society of men, not of cowardly women—who will make good use of it. This is my last message to the Sisters."

"But if—" her amazed listener was commencing in a faltering voice.

"No, no! Eliza," interrupted Catherine, impatiently; "no buts and ifs—it is too late for them. I do not wish to discuss this matter. I do not wish ever again to hear the Society mentioned before me. To think of it maddens me. Please do not talk to me about it. Let us change the conversation; I will ring the bell for some tea."

The strong green tea was brought up. Sister Eliza sipped hers in silence, gazing sadly at her broken-hearted Chief.

Soon Catherine got up from her chair, and going to a cupboard, drew out a small bottle. She laughed a little hysterical laugh—one of those laughs that have more pain in them than any sob—and said:

"I am taking a leaf out of our friend Susan Riley's book. She found laudanum useful. A little mixed with one's tea is good; at any rate it prevents rage from driving one quite mad," and she poured some of the contents of the bottle into her cup.

"It is a dangerous practice though," observed her friend.

"Dangerous! how so? What have I to fear? The habit of laudanum-tippling soon spoils a young woman's beauty. Look at Susan, it has made her vanity suffer somewhat, I know; but it can't hurt me in that way, or in any other way, for the matter of that," and she laughed that terrible laugh again.

Sister Eliza felt a sincere sorrow for this one human being she admired; she saw that Catherine ought not to be left alone in her present wild state of mind. "I should like to come and see you often, Sister Catherine," she ventured to say.

"It is very kind of you, Eliza, but it cannot be a good thing for you, as I don't feel like being a very pleasant companion just now. I leave town to-morrow, perhaps for years, and I cannot tell you where I am going."

Sister Eliza found that her presence, far from soothing, only irritated the more the miserable woman. Catherine would not be comforted. She was in that mood when the mind rejects all consolation, and loves to torture itself—when one purposely hurts the feelings of one's best friends to make one's own heart bleed the more; so Sister Eliza, seeing that no good would be effected by staying longer, bade her good-bye and left her.

The Sisterhood was no more. Susan Riley, like a rat, had early deserted the falling house: unlike the Chief, she had profited not a little in various ways from the Society, and had been in receipt of a salary as one of the officers; but gratitude was not one of this young lady's characteristics. Having saved some money, she now took a small tobacconist's shop in the neighbourhood of the Strand. She thought it would be the very business to suit her, genteel, idle, and affording excellent opportunities for flirtations and intrigues with such of her customers as were possessed of more money than brains.

But there was little store of happiness for Susan now. The gay butterfly portion of her life was over, and weary ennui, alternating with bitter reflections, filled most of her long hours. For it happened that in the course of a few months her beauty had faded rapidly. Bad temper and laudanum had deepened her wrinkles, sallowed her complexion, and even scattered a few grey hairs through her once lustrous locks.

All the object of her life had gone from her. She perceived that men no longer admired her, she was old, she was ugly, there was nothing sweet in the whole world for her now, she hated life, but, still more, she feared the grim phantom death. A restless nervousness tormented her. She became subject to what she would herself describe as "the blues," a despondent fearful condition peculiar to temperaments such as hers.

She was in a miserable state—a state not uncommon though among the men and women of luxurious cities, whose lives have been devoted to selfish indulgence only, when they have exhausted every joy, and dull satiety alone remains. Such a melancholy darkened the last days of many a worn-out voluptuary of ancient Rome, driving him to insane deeds of cruelty, and orgies of strange vices in vain hope of relief.

In this condition a man or woman is tortured by observing the happiness of others in contrast to his own misery. Susan hated youth, beauty, virtue, happiness, with a bitter hate.

Sometimes she thought of Mary, the girl she despised, who, she considered, had twice stood between her and her lovers, who had indirectly brought about the collapse of the Society. She thought of her as being now a young wife, happy, and loved, and the thought made her feel so absolutely ill with the intensity of her ungratified malice, that she was often obliged to withdraw her mind from the painful contemplation.

Now it happened one day, about six months after Mary's marriage, that Susan, being in a more restless and irritable mood than usual, deserted her counter, leaving the girl who assisted her in charge of the shop. It was a mellow October afternoon, and she walked to her favourite haunt of old at that hour—Regent Street.

The usual idle well-dressed crowd of men about town, lady-adventurers and so on, was taking its wonted promenade. In former days many of these men would have stared pretty hard at Miss Susan Riley, but now no one would notice her, or at most a gentleman would glance momentarily at her with a look void of admiration, and then turn his eyes to some more tempting object. She felt the humiliation of this bitterly, and her ill-temper was written on her mouth and brow, which rendered her less attractive than ever. She could have cried with rage.

At last she came to a well-known photographic establishment, and joined the throng in front of the window, contemplating the portraits of actresses, statesmen, professional beauties, bishops, and other celebrities, when she heard a merry laugh by her side that made her start.

She hated now to hear the glad innocent laughter of her fellows, but there was something in that laugh which she seemed to recognize. She turned suddenly and perceived Dr. Duncan and his wife walking away from the window.

She followed them for a short way, keeping a little to one side of them, so as to scan Mary's features without being herself observed. She contrived to catch a glimpse of her face; it was enough to show her that all the anxiety had died away from it. The face was not so thin as of old, it had more colour, it was prettier than ever.

The husband and wife were engaged in a lively conversation. Then Susan heard Mary laugh again, the same low happy laugh. Its gladness jarred upon her own black thoughts. She turned away suddenly, uttering a savage oath to herself.

The sight of her enemy's happiness goaded her into a state of great fury; she walked back to her shop as fast as she could. On entering it she found her assistant engaged in a mild flirtation with a customer across the counter.

Here was a pretext for venting her wrath on some one. She called the assistant into the back-room and reprimanded her in such insulting terms that the girl burst into tears and said she would leave her on the spot.

"Go at once then!" cried the enraged woman, "out with you into the streets. You'll find as many men as you want there."

Susan could not sleep all that night for malice; and from that day she was absorbed by her hatred for Mary. It was a hate that became a very monomania with her. It was the only passion left to relieve the monotonous weariness of her existence, and it ever grew more intense. She would rub her hands together and laugh in her excitement when she sat alone. "I have again something worth living for," she would mutter to herself, "I will ruin that girl's happiness—somehow—somehow," and her subtle mind pondered and plotted how to effect a sweet revenge.

But weeks passed, and so far she had formed no definite plan, had discovered no safe but extreme torture, so she determined for the present to do all she could in a small way to annoy her foe periodically. She knew that with her devilish ingenuity she could not fail to find some method of undermining the young wife's happiness.