failure combined can make of her, will not be much surprised that so many were found to join the Sisterhood, a meeting of which I am about to describe, although its objects were so horrible.
Those scientific Ethics, which are so jubilantly preached by the optimists now-a-days, lead logically to the opinions professed by this sisterhood. The abominations which they contemplated are but the reductio ad absurdum of Utilitarianism, the Morality without a God.
Catherine King was well past forty, a tall, pale, angular, hard-featured woman, with a strong obstinate narrow mind; that type of mind that has done more harm in the world than all the vicious temperaments. Had she been religious she would have been sternly Puritanical, fiercely intolerant, willing to cast her children into the flames if they differed from her own strict views.
But Catherine King was not religious, neither was she a mother, so the intensity of the narrow zeal within her found another vent.
What her past history had been, who she was, none of those who came across her knew. She had no intimates. All that could be said was that she must have been of respectable family, was well educated, and that she had a modest private income on which she contrived to exist comfortably enough.
Catherine King had for some years taken interest in social questions. She became a fanatical Radical, a believer in the more violent Socialist schemes—the champion of the oppressed against the oppressors.
I do not imagine that it was so much the tendency of a logical mind, still less genuine sympathy for the supposed oppressed, that caused her to take up this line, as it was the fever of her vehement temperament driving her to clutch at something in place of love or religion to satisfy its restlessness.
Once having tried them, she became absorbed in these studies; she was enthusiastic, mad, in her hatred, of all that are in authority, of rank, power, law, morality. She had her dreams of the perfect State—a curious State, wherein the individual was considered of no account, was as a worm, to be trodden under foot beneath the progress of the mighty aggregate, the happy race; though how a race can be happy while its individuals are not so, was a question that troubled her as little as it does most other votaries of the religion of humanity, that car of Juggernaut to the fanatics of science.
She became a monomaniac, and of that sort of which rulers of men are made.
The strong-willed intolerant ones do not make leaders unless they have something more, though they make good followers. To rule a mob, one must be insane, as a crowd is ever insane; one must be crazed, full of mad inspirations, as of a Mænad. The false prophet must be a lunatic, and believe in himself as a prophet—at least sometimes, else he will not attract the multitude.
Now, Catherine was just one of those half-insane zealots that can influence weak minds, that become Nihilist chiefs, founders of religions, queens of hysterical shakers, or generalissimos of street-perambulating fanatics, drunk with noise and folly.
When addressing a meeting of political dreamers, her dark eyes flashed, her gestures were commanding, her mellow voice trembled with impassioned earnestness, the whole woman inspired respect, attention, and lastly conviction in those who listened to her.
So it was that she gradually became more and more influential among certain strong-minded and certain silly women, who had (as they called it) enfranchised themselves—by which was meant that they had unsexed and so rendered themselves ridiculous to the outside world of common-place people.
She became the president of a society of rather garrulous ladies. This society was open to any who cared to join, and pay the modest annual subscription which defrayed the expenses of two rooms in Bloomsbury.
But this was nothing more than an ordinary Radical debating club, and so could not for long suffice the ambition and restlessness of Catherine King. Breaking away gradually from the less violent members, she with a few kindred spirits organized, with no little judgment, a secret society, whose objects were undeniably seditious, of which debate was by no means the sole business, actions as well as words being within the plan. These objects were at first too vague—too general for practical carrying out; but gradually they narrowed to a definite and feasible aim.
Catherine King and five other women alone were acquainted with the entire scheme, with the names of all the members, and the more secret machinery of the organization. These six comprised the inner circle. There was a second circle of sisters who knew much, but were not trusted to know all. These were to be the really active agents in the movement—they executed the decrees of the six.
There was yet a third circle of sisters who knew nothing of the dangerous secrets of the aim. These were undergoing an apprenticeship of careful trial and watching, before being admitted to the privileges of the second circle.
Save of the six of the inner circle, there were no meetings of the members of this society. These six arranged a plan of action; then, as much of it as was needful was confided by them to those of the second circle, one by one. Then those of the second circle, by private conversation and argument, educated those of the third circle up to views advanced enough to allow of their initiation to the second circle.
General meetings were dispensed with as being not only dangerous but unnecessary; for all the members were agreed in their views. No one was admitted even into the third circle who was not a thorough-going revolutionist. It was merely a question as to who were to be trusted—who were brave, zealous, wicked, mad enough for action.
This society was not avowedly a branch of the formidable Nihilist confederation; yet, most of the sisters entertained a belief that such really was the case, though the secret was preserved by Catherine King and one or two others of the inner circle alone. Catherine was reputed to be the agent of the Nihilists. She encouraged this belief by a well-calculated reticence when the subject of Nihilism was mentioned. She well knew how a little mystery of this kind strengthened her hand.
No ominous name suggestive of blood and destruction had been given to this society. It was simply entitled—THE SISTERS.
Mrs. King—as she was always called, though there was no reason to suppose that she had ever been married—lived with one maid-servant in a little house in a northern suburb of London.
In the parlour of this house, four of the inner circle were sitting one evening. It was here that they always did meet to discuss their plans, and yet that maid-servant, who was of rather dull intelligence, did not entertain the least suspicion that her mistress was connected with any political societies whatever.
This was an important meeting—yet all looked innocent enough. The room was quietly furnished, rather bare of pretty trifles for a woman's, and in which the book-shelves were well filled with works on political economy, infidel philosophy, and sociology.
Like a woman thorough-going even to absurdity, she had cast away all more frivolous literature for good, on taking to these studies. There was not a novel—not a volume of poems in the room.
Four quiet-looking women, drinking tea and conversing calmly—not a very formidable conspiracy, this, to outward appearance; but Catherine King hated theatrical clap-trap: there were no melodramatic properties about this society. "The less fuss the better," she used to say, "for those that mean action."
Of the three women with Catherine King, only one was young—had pretensions to good looks—had been a mother; and she was the most ruthless, the most thorough-going of all, ready for any dark deed, loving cruelty for its own sake. Perhaps Susan Riley had been gentle once, but experiences, with which her youth, her beauty, and motherhood had something to do, had turned the course of her life, stopped the flowing of
