Although scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Eugene Mallard dashed into the house in search of his revolver, when he returned to the brook-side neither his wife nor Arthur Hollis was to be seen.
His rage was so great that he could scarcely contain himself. In his present state of mind he did not dare return to his guests, lest his emotion should betray him.
He thought they were planning an elopement; but he would nip that in the bud.
The woman to whom he had given his name should not disgrace him. He determined upon that as he hurried up a rear stair-way to his wife's apartments to verify his suspicions.
To his utter surprise, as he flung open the door, he saw her sitting by the window. She sprung to her feet, looking at him with widely distended eyes.
It was the first time that her husband had ever crossed the threshold of her apartments.
He entered the room, closed the door behind him, and stood with folded arms before her.
Husband and wife looked at each other.
It was he who broke the awful silence. He strode up to her, and seized her wrist in a vise-like grasp.
"There is little use in making a preliminary speech," he cried, hoarsely. "I will come to the point at once!"
His face was ghastly, his lips trembled with uncontrollable rage.
Ida, pale, terrified, wondering, gazed at him with undisguised terror in her eyes.
"What is it?" she gasped.
"You guilty woman!" cried Eugene Mallard—"you cruel, guilty woman, I have interrupted you in your preparation for flight, it seems!"
His stern face, the anger that shone in his eyes, and the harsh voice frightened her. She shrunk back asthough he had struck her. Her lips parted as though she would speak; but all sound died away on them.
"It is time," said Eugene Mallard, "that we came to a clear understanding. In every way you have deceived me! I have been fatally betrayed! Your shameless flirtation has tarnished my name and lowered my position! I am ashamed to look men in the face! Where is he?" he demanded, looking about him, as though he expected to see Arthur Hollis in the room.
"Down by the brook," she faltered.
Eugene laughed a harsh, satirical laugh.
"He must have seen me coming while he waited there for you, and fled from my wrath." He turned on his heel. "I repeat, if you stir from this room until I give you leave, it will end in a tragedy!"
In his anger, he did not see that he was trampling under foot a noble heart. If she had been able to calmly explain to him just what had occurred, she might have been saved. She attempted to speak, but he held up his hand.
"Not one word!" he cried. "I will not listen!"
He turned suddenly, hurried from the room, closed the door after him, and went quickly to his library, where he could be alone.
Ida, left alone, reeled into the nearest chair. She shook as if in an ague; she was cold, and her head reeled. Her keen pain and agony kept her from fainting.
She tried to imagine her future life. What was Eugene Mallard about to do? Her future was now ruined, sacrificed. Eugene Mallard had been cold and indifferent to her before, now he hated her.
He said she was to remain in that room until he should return. She flung herself face downward upon the floor. He had called her guilty and cruel; he had vented his rage upon her. Her brain was dizzy with the unusual excitement.
When Vivian Deane glided into Ida's room to find out what was going on, to see whether Ida had really eloped, she found her in a deep swoon. She did not call the servants, but set about reviving her herself.
Ida lay white and still as one dead. Above her bent Vivian Deane, half terrified at the result of her work. Very soon her labors were rewarded, and Ida opened her large, dark eyes.
"Vivian—Vivian!" she murmured, catching at the arms of her false friend, her teeth chattering.
The blinding tears that now fell from Ida's eyes was a mercy sent directly from Heaven, for they saved the hapless young wife from going mad.
"Something has gone wrong with you, my dear," said Vivian, in her sweetest, most cooing voice. "Tell me what it is, Ida, dear. Let me console and comfort you."
Another fit of sobbing more violent than the first, and Ida threw herself into the arms of her treacherous friend, sobbing out:
"Oh! Vivian, I must tell some one."
In a voice that shook with emotion, she proceeded to confide to her enemy what had happened down by the brook-side, adding that her husband had discovered it in some way, and accused her of encouraging Arthur Hollis.
"Even if you had given him encouragement, no one could have blamed you," Vivian said in a soft, purring voice, "for your husband's neglect has been noticeable by every one!"
"But I did not encourage him!" cried Ida, in agony. "He was pleasant company, but I thought no more of him, even though I spent so much of my time in his society, than I did of Captain Drury, or any of the other guests beneath this roof. Oh! I do wish I were dead—I do—I do!"
In this exaggerated feeling of one ill in body and in mind, in a state of nervous tension, a true friend would have shown the unhappy Ida that her position was not so desperate and hopeless as she imagined. Matters could not, however, be carried to an extremity without an explanation.
"He bid me to remain here until he should return," sobbed Ida. "What do you suppose he means to do?"
"Do you really want my honest opinion?" asked Vivian, with a steely glitter in her blue eyes.
"Yes!" said the young wife, anxiously, fairly holding her breath in suspense.
"Well, then, my dear, if you must have it, here it is: I, who know the fierce temper of the Mallards, say to you that I think he intends to call all the guests here, to openly denounce you before them, and then turn you away from his house!"
The face of the girl-wife who listened grew ghastly.
"I would never stay beneath this roof to face his anger," said Vivian, her eyes glistening. "I would gather up what money and jewels I could lay my hands on, and run away—go as far away as possible."
"Would you?" cried Ida, in a hushed, awful voice.
"Yes," advised Vivian, firmly. "And every moment of delay brings you nearer and nearer to face the terrible ordeal that I am sure he intends to mete out to you!"
Ida rose suddenly to her feet
"I will do as you advise, Vivian," she whispered, her dark eyes filled with terror. "I will fly at once!"
Vivian Deane looked down at the cowering girl at her feet. It seemed to her then that her triumph was complete. She could scarcely keep back the cry of exultation that rose to her lips.
"How shall I leave the house without being seen?" whispered Ida, piteously.
"Leave that to me," murmured Vivian. "I am very sorry for you, Ida, and I will do all I can to aid you in this, your hour of greatest sorrow."
"You are, indeed, a true friend to me," sobbed Ida. "I shall never, never forget your kindness."
Vivian looked a trifle uncomfortable at these words of unmerited praise. She dared not remain longer with Ida, for she knew that two or three partners would be looking for her.
"Stay here for at least fifteen minutes," she said, eagerly, "and by that time I will join you, and tell you what plans I have made for you."
Ida could not think for herself, her brain was so benumbed. She could only nod in silence.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Vivian had quitted theboudoir, until Eugene Mallard again knocked for admittance at the door.
There was no answer. He turned the knob, entered, and found his young wife lying senseless upon the carpet. For the second time, Ida had given away to the awful agony that consumed her. Among those at thefêtewas a young doctor. Eugene summoned him hastily.
"Dear me, this is quite serious!" exclaimed the doctor, as he bent over the prostrate form which Eugene had borne to a couch. "Your wife has brain fever. It is a serious case, I fear."
The garden-party broke up quite suddenly. The news that Mrs. Mallard had been taken ill was rumored among the revelers, and silently but quickly the guests took their departure, all save Vivian Deane.
She went up to Eugene, and laid a hand on his arm.
"Let me remain and nurse my dear friend Ida," she pleaded. "Do not refuse, I beg of you!"
"Let it be as the doctor says," answered Eugene.
But the physician shook his head decisively.
"This is a case requiring the most competent nurses. I am sorry to refuse you, Miss Deane, but in this instance I must do so."
Vivian controlled the anger that leaped into her heart.
"You certainly mean well," added the doctor, "but in such a case as this even her nearest relatives are not to be allowed in the sick-room."
Vivian was obliged to swallow her chagrin as bestshe could. If she had been allowed her way, the young wife who had come between her love and herself would never rise from her bed.
"When she is convalescing I will visit her," she said to herself.
As she had no excuse to remain longer in the house, she was obliged to take her departure along with the other guests.
When Eugene Mallard had hurried to his room, after bidding Ida to remain there until his return, it was his intention to go to his room for writing materials, and returning to Ida, force from her a written confession of her love for his friend, and her intention to elope with him.
Under the circumstances, he could not very well carry his plan into execution. His rage against his hapless young wife turned to pity when he saw her lying there so helplessly before him.
During the fortnight that followed, the servants, who knew of their master's estrangement from his young wife, and how little he cared for her, were greatly surprised to find themselves banished from the sick-room, while Eugene Mallard took possession of it.
The fact was, he was puzzled at her raving. Sometimes, when taking the place of the trained nurse for an hour, he was troubled beyond expression to hear her go over again and again the scene that had taken place by the brook.
In her delirium, Ida vehemently repulsed Arthur Hollis, demanding of him how it was that he dared speak a word of love to her, the wife of another.
Then the scene would change, and she would fancy herself once more in her own room, falling on her knees and crying out to Heaven that she could not bear her husband's coldness.
Often would Eugene listen intently while Ida clasped her hands and moaned:
"Oh, Eugene! Eugene! will I ever be more to you than I am now? I love you! Yes, I love you, but you will never know it! If you only knew it, you would besurprised. A wife never loved a husband more dearly, more devotedly than I love you. I would have devoted my whole life to you. I would have died for you! Every beat of my heart, every thought of my mind, every action of my life is for you! I love you as no one else ever will, as no one has loved you! You may live many years, happy, flattered by the women of the world, but no love like mine will ever come to you. The wife who is to you as the dirt beneath your feet is the truest friend you have!"
Eugene Mallard looked terribly distressed as he listened.
"Ida, my dear wife, listen to me," he would say. "I—I—shall try very hard to be kinder to you than I have been. Do you hear me, do you understand?"
There was no gleam of love in the pale face; no light such as he had thought his words would bring there; no gleam of joy. She did not seem to understand him. He said to himself that he must be cautious; that he must not distress her by speaking words that would give her hope.
The news of the illness of Eugene Mallard's young wife had traversed far beyond the small Virginia town. He was well known in New York, and the papers of the metropolis copied the bit of news; but in doing so, they made a great mistake. The items read that the young wife of Eugene Mallard had died from the effects of brain fever.
Miss Fernly read the article, and without delay she wrote to Eugene Mallard.
In one part of her letter she said:
"I should never have written you the following if the wife whom you had wedded throughmymistake had lived. But now that she is gone, I will tell you the truth—that hapless deed came very near costing your poor Hildegarde her life. From the time of your marriage to the present, she has never been the same. She loved you then, she still loves you."This is what I would advise you to do: wait a reasonable length of time, and then come and claim Hildegarde,and this time nothing shall happen to prevent the marriage of you two whom Heaven had intended for each other. I know Hildegarde is breaking her heart day by day, hour by hour, for love of you."I urge you to come to her just as soon as you think it prudent, as I think it is my duty to warn you that Hildegarde is fading away before our very eyes, and your presence is the only thing that can save her life."I here inclose you a small portrait of her I had taken only a little while ago. Her face is as sweet as a flower, but, ah, me! one can not help but read the sadness in every line of it."
"I should never have written you the following if the wife whom you had wedded throughmymistake had lived. But now that she is gone, I will tell you the truth—that hapless deed came very near costing your poor Hildegarde her life. From the time of your marriage to the present, she has never been the same. She loved you then, she still loves you.
"This is what I would advise you to do: wait a reasonable length of time, and then come and claim Hildegarde,and this time nothing shall happen to prevent the marriage of you two whom Heaven had intended for each other. I know Hildegarde is breaking her heart day by day, hour by hour, for love of you.
"I urge you to come to her just as soon as you think it prudent, as I think it is my duty to warn you that Hildegarde is fading away before our very eyes, and your presence is the only thing that can save her life.
"I here inclose you a small portrait of her I had taken only a little while ago. Her face is as sweet as a flower, but, ah, me! one can not help but read the sadness in every line of it."
It was just at the time when Eugene Mallard was feeling kinder toward his wife than ever that he received Miss Fernly's letter inclosing Hildegarde's picture. He had done his best to try to crush out his hopeless love for one from whom Heaven had so strangely parted him.
Great drops of perspiration stood out on his brow as he folded the letter and turned the picture face downward on his desk.
It seemed to Eugene that the bitter waves of death were sweeping over him. It was the reopening of the old wound in his heart that he prayed Heaven to heal. He loved Hildegarde with all the strength of his manhood. He wished that he were dead. The pain seemed greater than he could bear. He found that he still loved sweet Hildegarde; but he was bound to another in honor and conscience. He would try to do his duty toward the one who bore his name.
He took the letter to the open fire-place, where a log fire burned lazily, and knelt down before it, holding it to the flame. Red tongues of fire caught at it gleefully, and the next instant it was a heap of ashes in one corner of the grate.
Then he held out the picture to the flames, but involuntarily he drew it back. He could not allow it to burn. It seemed to him that his own heart would burn first.
"Heaven give me strength to destroy it!" he cried. "I dare not trust myself to keep it. It will drive me mad!"
The flames touched the portrait, and with a cry Eugene Mallard hastily drew it back.
"No, no—a thousand times no!" It would be as easy to burn the living, beating heart in his bosom.
While he had the strength, he hurried to his writing-desk, placed it in a pigeon-hole, shut down the lid, and turned the key. Then he buried his face in his hands.
He ruminated upon the strangeness of the position he was placed in. Both of these young girls loved him, while he loved but one of them, and the one whom he loved so deeply could never be anything in this world to him. He wondered in what way he had offended Heaven that such a fate should be meted out to him.
At that moment quite a thrilling scene was transpiring at the railway station of the little Virginia town.
The New York Express, which had just steamed in, stood before it, and from one of the drawing-room cars there stepped a handsome man dressed in the height of fashion.
He sauntered into the waiting-room, looking about him as though in search of the ticket-agent.
A woman entered the depot at that moment carrying a little child in her arms. She recognized the man at a single glance.
"Why, Mr. Royal Ainsley!" she cried, "is this indeed you returning to your old home?"
Turning hastily around at the mention of his name, he beheld Mrs. Lester standing before him.
"Yes; I have returned like a bad penny, Mrs. Lester," he said, with a light, flippant laugh. "But, judging from the expression on your face, you are not glad to see me."
"I have not said so," she answered.
"Sit down, Mrs. Lester," he said, flinging himself down on one of the benches. "I should like to inquire of you about the women-folk of the village."
The woman sat down beside him, in obedience to his request.
"There is very little to tell," she answered; "everything in our village moves on about the same, year in and year out. Nothing of importance has taken place, except the marriage of your cousin, Eugene Mallard."
"Ha! ha! ha! So my fastidious cousin has changed his name from Royal Ainsley to that of Eugene Mallard to please his uncle, has he? Well, I read of it in one of the New York papers, but I scarcely credited it. Between you and me, Mrs. Lester, that was a mighty mean piece of work—the old fool leaving his entire fortune to him, and cutting me off without a cent."
"Every one knows that you were warned of what was to come unless you mended your ways," answered the woman.
"Bah! I never thought for a moment that the old fool would keep his word," retorted the other. "But you say that my cousin is wedded. That is indeed news to me. Whom did he wed—Vivian Deane?"
"Oh, no," she answered, "not Miss Deane. Every one in the village prophesied that he wouldn't wed her, although she was so infatuated with him."
"I suppose she is an heiress," said Ainsley, savagely knocking the ashes off his cigar. "It's easy enough to marry another fortune if you have one already."
"I don't know if she is an heiress," returned Mrs. Lester; "but she's a real lady. Any one can see that. But I fear that he is in great danger of losing her. She isnow very low with brain fever, and it is doubtful whether she will live."
"Humph!" he muttered. "My visit here is most inopportune then. I wanted to see my cousin, and strike him for the loan of a few thousand dollars. He won't be in very good humor now to accede to my request. I think I'll keep shady and wait a fortnight before seeing him. But who isthis?" he cried, looking at the child she carried in her arms. "I understood that your baby died."
"So it did," replied Mrs. Lester. "This is the little foundling whom we are about to adopt. My husband brought it to me from a foundling asylum."
"Well, I do declare!" said Ainsley. "That's quite a risky operation, taking a little waif into your home, when you don't know its parents."
"But Idoknow its mother," she answered. "I wrote and found out all about its mother. She was a young girl who was taken ill in the streets. A poor family permitted her to be brought into their house, and there her babe was born. The young mother was so ill that the babe was taken to the foundling asylum by the doctor who attended her, where it could have constant attention, for its little life was despaired of. By a strange mistake, word was sent to the mother that the little one had died. But the baby rallied and recovered. Almost heart-broken over the news of its death, the young mother disappeared. There was no one so interested as to make search for her, and tell her that her little one had been spared. In her flight she left behind her a package which contained some articles that may lead to her identity, if the child should ever want to find her hapless mother when she grows to womanhood. I have them with me now. Do let me show them to you, Mr. Ainsley."
At that moment the little one, who had been sleeping, slowly opened its great, dark, solemn eyes, looked up into the face of Royal Ainsley, and uttered a plaintive little sob.
It was not often that he noticed little children—indeed, he had an aversion to them—but he could not understandthe impulse that made him bend forward and look with interest into the flower-like little face.
Where had he seen just such a face? The great, dark, solemn eyes, so like purple pansies, held him spell-bound.
An impulse which he could not control or define caused him to reach out his trembling hand and touch the waxen little fingers, and the contact made the blood rush through his veins like fire. He tried to speak, but his tongue seemed too thick and heavy to perform its functions.
The woman did not notice his agitation. She was busily engaged in unwrapping a small parcel which she had tied up in oil silk.
Then, to his astonished gaze, Mrs. Lester held up before him a beautiful bracelet made of tiny pink sea-shells, with a heavy gold clasp, upon which was engraved, "From R. to I."
If Mrs. Lester had but looked at him, she would have seen that his face had grown ghastly.
At a glance he recognized the bracelet as one which he had designed and presented to Ida May, at Newport, when he believed her to be the heiress of the wealthy Mays.
"That is not all," said Mrs. Lester, holding up a man's pocket-book, which he recognized as his own—-the identical one he had sent up to Ida May by the porter, with a little change in it, on the morning he deserted her.
Again he opened his mouth to speak; but no sound issued from his lips. The pocket-book contained only a part of a sleeve-link that had belonged to himself, the other part of the link was in his pocket at that moment.
In a flash, the truth came to him—this little one was Ida May's child.
He now recalled the appealing letters she had written to him at the hotel after he had deserted her. He had never answered them, for by that time he was trying to win the beautiful heiress, Florence St. John. He had told Ida May that his marriage to her was not legal, while in truth it was as binding as Church and State could make it.
He had cast all upon the throw of a dice, and it would never do for the poor young girl whom he had married to come between him and the young girl whom he was about to win.
He had resolved upon a desperate scheme to gain a fortune, by deluding the young girl whom he had made his wife into believing that she was not such, and going through the ceremony with the heiress, Florence St. John.
But Fate had snatched the beautiful Florence St. John from his grasp just as he was about to wed her. Her brother came on the scene, and Royal Ainsley beat a hasty retreat, as he had commenced to inquire into his antecedents.
All these thoughts flashed through his brain in an instant. Then he realized that Mrs. Lester was speaking to him.
"A pretty baby, is she not?" said the woman, holding the infant toward him. "But we have decided not to keep her, after all. I am going to take the first train to New York, and return the baby to the foundling asylum, though Heaven knows I shall miss her sorely. We are too poor to keep her."
Royal Ainsley turned toward her with strange eagerness.
"What do you say if I take your charge off your hands?" he asked, huskily.
"You, Mr. Ainsley?" exclaimed the woman, amazed. "Why, what in the world couldyou, a young bachelor, do with a baby?"
"I will give you one hundred dollars to give me the child. Is it a bargain, Mrs. Lester? Speak quickly, before I change my mind!"
Royal Ainsley leaned forward, and caught Mrs. Lester's arm, saying hastily:
"I repeat, that you shall have one hundred dollars if you will but give the child into my custody."
"Again I ask, what could you, a bachelor, do with it, Mr. Ainsley?" said Mrs. Lester.
He had an answer ready for her.
"I know a family who lost a little one, and would be only too delighted to take the infant and give it a good home."
Mrs. Lester breathed a sigh of relief.
"I am very poor, as you know very well, Mr. Ainsley," she answered, "and I can not refuse your kind offer. Take the little one with welcome. Only be sure that it is a good home you consign it to."
He counted out the money and handed it to her, and she resigned the infant to his arms. At that moment they heard the shriek of the incoming express.
"That is the train I was going to take," she said, "and now I am out the price of my ticket, which I bought in advance."
"If you will give it to me, I will use it," he said.
She handed him the ticket, and in another moment Mrs. Lester saw him board the train with the child.
"I wonder if I have done right or wrong," she thought, a scared look coming into her face. "It was all done so quickly that I had not the time to consider the matter. But this much I do know; I have the hundred dollars in my pocket, and that is a God-send to me. We need the money badly just now."
She turned and walked slowly away; but somehow she did not seem quite easy regarding the fate of the little child.
"I ought to have asked him the name of the family to whom he was going to take the baby," she mused; "thenI could have written to them to be very careful, and to bring her up to be a good and true woman. I shall certainly ask him all about it the very next time I see him—that is, if I everdosee him."
Meanwhile the train thundered on, carrying Royal Ainsley and the child away. It was hard to keep back the expression of mingled hatred and rage with which Royal Ainsley regarded the infant he held in his arms. He knew full well that the child was his own, but he had no love for it. If it had died then and there, that fact would have afforded him much satisfaction.
But one course presented itself. He would take it to New York, and once there, he would have no further trouble with it—he would manage to lose it. Many waifs were found on the doorsteps, and no one ever could trace their parentage, or whose hand had placed them there.
In all probability he would never run across Ida May again. She believed her child dead.
While these thoughts were flitting through his brain, the little one commenced to cry. Its piteous wails attracted the attention of more than one person in the car.
"Mother," said a buxom young woman sitting opposite, "I am sure that young man is a widower, left with the little child, and he is taking it to his folks. You see he is in deep mourning.
"I'll bet that baby's hungry, mother, and I'll bet, too, that he hasn't a nursing-bottle to feed it from."
"You can depend upon it that he has one," remarked her mother. "Every father knows that much about babies."
"Of course he has it in his pocket; he never came away without one; but he is so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he does not hear the baby. Don't you think you ought to give him a little reminder of it?" said her daughter, thoughtfully. "You're an elderly woman, and can do it."
"He might tell me to mind my own business," said the elder woman. "Some strangers don't take kindly to other people meddling in their affairs."
As the plaintive wails of the infant increased instead of diminished, the elder woman got up and made her way up the aisle.
Royal Ainsley started violently as he felt the heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Why don't you feed your baby, sir?" she said, brusquely.
He looked at her angrily, his brows bent together in a decided frown.
"What do you mean by interrupting my thoughts, woman?" he cried, harshly.
His angry retort roused all the antagonism in the woman's nature.
"I mean just what I say—your baby's hungry, mister," she replied. "If you had the feelings of a loving father, you'd know enough to feed it."
He looked at her in consternation.
"Feed it?" he echoed, blankly. "I—I was not prepared for anything like this. Such a thing did not occur to me."
"And you didn't bring a nursing-bottle along with you?" echoed the woman.
"No," he responded, curtly, but also somewhat blankly.
"Good Lord! that's just like a man, to forget important things like that."
"What am I to do?" he asked, appealingly. "What would you suggest, madame. I am at sea."
She looked at him perplexedly; then her motherly face brightened as she glanced about the car.
"I will soon see what can be done," she answered, making her way as quickly as the moving train would allow to the end of the car, where two women sat with tiny infants on their laps.
Very soon she returned with the article she had gone in search of.
"Let me take the poor little thing," she said, "and feed it. Men, and more especially young men, don't know anything about such things."
Royal Ainsley gladly delivered his charge into her keeping. Very soon the woman had stilled its cries, andit was sleeping peacefully in her arms. An idea then came to Royal Ainsley. His pale-blue eyes glittered with a fiendish light.
He almost laughed aloud at the thought that flashed through his mind.
"Do you think the baby will sleep a little while?" he asked, drawing his hat down over his face.
"It is likely to," she answered; "still, one can not always tell. Samantha, my daughter here, never slept ten minutes on a stretch when she was a baby. She was a lot of trouble to me then; but I don't mind it now, for she's a heap of comfort to me, sir. I wouldn't know how to get along without Samantha. She——"
Royal Ainsley interrupted her impatiently.
"I was going to say that if you would be kind enough to hold the little one for awhile I would like to go into the smoking-car and smoke a cigar."
Royal Ainsley thought the woman did not hear his question, for she did not answer, and he repeated, in his suave, winning way:
"Could I trouble you to hold the little one a few moments, while I enjoy a smoke in the car ahead?"
Widow Jones answered readily enough:
"To be sure I will take care of the little one, sir. Go right along and enjoy your cigar. I know just how a man feels when he is deprived of a smoke. My husband had to have his pipe every night after his supper, just as sure as the sun went down. If he missed it, he was fairly beside himself—like a fish out of water."
It suddenly occurred to Royal Ainsley that it wouldn't be a bad idea to know more about this woman.
"Do you live near here?" he asked.
"Just three stations above—near Larchmont village. We won't reach there for nearly three-quarters of an hour, so that need not trouble you, sir. I take it that you are a widower, sir," she went on, before he could rise from his seat.
"Yes," he answered, shortly, and with considerable impatience.
"It's too bad!" chimed in Samantha—"and to be left with such a young baby, too. It's too bad that you didn't get a nurse for her, unless you are taking her to some of your folks."
"I have no relatives," he answered. "I am going to New York for the express purpose of finding some one to take care of the child."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Widow Jones. "How strange that you should come across me! Why, do you know, I used to take little ones in occasionally, and keep them for their fathers until they were old enough to get about. Before you look further, sir—although I don't like to recommend myself—I'd like to have you stop off at Larchmont and inquire all about me. There isn't a man, woman, or child for miles around but can tell you about me."
"Why, it is indeed a piece of good luck that I should have come across you, madame!" declared Royal Ainsley. "We may be able to come to terms here and now."
"Don't ask too much, ma," whispered Samantha, under her breath.
"You can set your own price," said Royal Ainsley, in an off-hand manner.
"Oh, I will leave that entirely to you, sir," said the widow. "I'll take the baby and care for her, and you can come and see her whenever you like. I'll leave the pay entirely to you. That's fair enough, sir, isn't it?"
"You are entirely too magnanimous," he declared. "By the way, here's a ten-dollar note to start with. That's the only bill I have, save those of very largedenomination. In the course of a few weeks I will make permanent arrangements with you."
"But surely you are going to stop off at Larchmont, sir, and see where I live. I don't expect that you will trust a dear little baby like this to a stranger. You will most likely want a recommendation."
"Your face is certainly recommendation enough, my good woman," he declared. "Nevertheless, I shall, of course, stop off with you."
He rose with a bow.
"Remember, sir," chimed in Samantha, "that part of the train switches off just a few miles below there. If you don't look out, you'll be taken on to New York."
"I must look out for that," he said. "I had certainly intended to take a little nap after my smoke. I haven't closed my eyes for two nights; the baby was not feeling well. Your warning will put me on my guard, at all events."
Again he bowed, and in an instant he had disappeared.
"I wonder what his name is," said Samantha. "You forgot to ask him, ma."
"So I did, to be sure. But it's easy finding that out."
Further conversation was stopped by the sudden waking up of the pretty dark-eyed babe; but a little milk from the bottle and a few soothing words soon succeeded in quieting her.
"We are almost at the switch," said Samantha. "Ought not somebody go into the smoking-car and inform the gentleman of it?"
"Why, certainly not. It's likely he knows of it. He was told of it, and it's likely some one will inform him. You had better look after your boxes and bundles. Be sure to pick up the bag of candy, the ginger-snaps, the bunch of bachelor buttons, the rosemary, my shawl, and your new pair of shoes."
"If I have to hold this baby and pick up my dress, it will be as much as I can do. But I'm quite sure the gentleman will come and take care of the baby himself," added Samantha, wistfully.
The conductor called out the station. It was the busiestjunction in the northern part of Virginia. Two trains met and passed each other here, while still another was side-tracked, waiting for the right of way. There was always a rush of people at the station, and consequently confusion and noise. Widow Jones and Samantha stepped from the car to the platform.
"We ought to have waited," declared the girl. "See, we have missed him, as I told you we would. I had better run back and see if he's there. He's probably going on to New York. But he will be sure to see us, no matter what car he is in."
A moment more, and the two trains moved on. Even Widow Jones was now thoroughly alarmed. What her daughter had feared had taken place. The young man had certainly missed them.
"Overcome with fatigue, he probably fell asleep in the smoking-car, in spite of himself," said Samantha.
"Well, anyhow he knows your name and address, mother. He will be sure to telegraph back to us at Larchmont."
Still, Widow Jones, who held the baby close in her arms, looked troubled.
"He has certainly been carried on to New York," said Widow Jones. "There is nothing left but to get home and await results."
"I guess you're about right," said Samantha.
They left word at the railroad station to at once bring up any telegram that might come for them.
An hour after they arrived at Larchmont, every onehad heard of Mrs. Jones and the baby, and her experience with the handsome stranger.
When a fortnight passed, and the weeks lengthened into months, Mrs. Jones began to be a little skeptical.
"We will keep the baby until hedoescome for it, Samantha," she said.
Somehow the little waif with the great dark eyes and the little rose-bud mouth had crept into their hearts, and they could not turn it away.
Samantha did her share in looking after the baby; but it was a little hard, for she had a great deal to do waiting upon customers in the village bakery.
The mother and daughter made no further mention of the handsome stranger.
"If we had but asked him his name. I wanted you to, ma," declared Samantha. "But there's no use in crying now. We have the satisfaction of having a baby, anyhow," declared the girl, spiritedly.
"Yes," assented her mother, dubiously; "but it's quite a task to bring up other people's children."
Meanwhile, freed from the care of the child, Royal Ainsley walked through the train. It was just approaching the station, when, all unobserved, he swung from the back platform just as the express was moving out again.
A chuckle of delight broke from his lips.
"That was most cleverly managed. My compliments to Mrs. Jones, of Larchmont. She has been exceedingly useful to me."
He did not trouble himself as to what disposition they might make of the child.
The question that occurred to him was—"how am I to destroy the proofs I have concerning the child?"
But no answer came to him regarding this dilemma. He thrust them back into his pocket. He would have plenty of time to plan when he reached New York.
Suddenly the thought came to him, that he would be foolish to turn back from the course he had marked out for himself. Instead of returning, he would go back and see Eugene.
There was a friend of his living in the vicinity. Hewould find him, and pass a week or two with him, then he would carry out his original scheme. He acted upon this thought.
It was the fishing season, and Royal Ainsley made a valuable addition to a party of young men already gathered at his friend's quarters. Five weeks elapsed before the party broke up.
"By this time Eugene's wife must have recovered from her illness," he said, grimly. "If I don't go and see him now, they will probably be getting ready to go off somewhere, and I will miss them."
Suiting the action to the word, Royal Ainsley took the train the next day and arrived at his native village at dusk.
He had taken the precaution to provide himself with a long top-coat and a slouch hat.
He avoided the depot and its waiting-room, lest he should meet some one who might recognize him.
He struck into a side-path, and a sharp walk of some fifteen minutes brought him in sight of the old mansion.
How dark and gloomy the night was! There was no moon, and not a star shone in the heavens.
A short cut across the fields brought him to a little brook. He looked down upon it in silence as it gurgled on sullenly over its rocky bed.
He looked back at the grand old mansion looming up in the distance. And as he looked, he clinched his hands, and the bitterness in his heart became more intense.
"But for Eugene, all that would be mine," he muttered. "He stepped between me and the fortune. When we were boys together, I realized that he would do it, and I hated him—hated him for his suave, winning ways and the love which every one showered on him. He was always lucky."
He turned and looked again at the great stone mansion, whose turrets were dimly outlined against the sky. And as he looked he saw a door on the rear porch open and a figure clad in a white, fleecy dress glide out upon the porch and walk slowly into the grounds.
"That is probably the bride," he muttered, with a harsh little laugh.
To his surprise, she crossed the lawn and made directly for the spot where he stood.
"I shall not be likely to get a good look at her unless the moon comes out," he thought.
He drew back into the shadow of the alders that skirted the brook. His bitter, vengeful thoughts were turned aside for a moment while watching the advancing figure.
"Why should my cousin have wealth, love, happiness, while I have to knock about here and there, getting my living as best I can, being always in hard luck and a mark for the arrows of relentless fate?" he soliloquized.
Nearer and nearer drew the slender, graceful figure.
Royal Ainsley was right. It was his cousin's wife.
She went on slowly over the greensward in the sweet night air, little dreaming what lay at the end of her path.
By the merest chance the hapless young wife had come across the letter that Miss Fernly had written to Eugene Mallard. It had fallen from his pocket when he was looking over some papers on the porch one day.
Passing by soon after, Ida saw the paper lying there, picked it up, and opened it. There, while the sun shone and the birds sung, she read it through, and the wonder was that she did not die then and there.
From the moment that Ida had learned through Miss Fernly's letter how Hildegarde Cramer had mourned for her lover, the young wife's life had become very unhappy.
She knew well that she stood between HildegardeCramer and her happiness. She had done her best to die, but Heaven had not so willed it.
The pity of it was that her love for Eugene Mallard had increased a hundred fold. It was driving her to madness.
"Oh, if it were all ended!" she cried aloud. "Better anything than this awful despair!"
No one heard her. There was no one near to hear what she moaned out to the brook that kept so many secrets.
She heard a crash in the branches near by—a slight crash, but she started. It was only a bird that had fallen from its nest in the tree overhead, she told herself.
But even after she had said it she felt a sense of uncontrollable terror that she could not account for; felt the weight of some strange presence.
That voice!
When Ida cried aloud in her despair, the words fell like an electric shock upon the ears of a man who listened behind the alder branches.
"By all that is wonderful!" he cried, under his breath. "Either my ears have deceived me, or that is the voice of Ida May! Well, well! Will surprises never cease?"
He stepped quickly forward, and the next moment he was by her side. How strange it was that at that instant the moon came out from behind a cloud and rendered every object as bright as if in the noonday sun.
At the sound of the step, Ida started back in affright.
One glance into the face looking down into her own and she started back with a cry that was scarcely human.
"You!" she gasped.
Then her lips grew cold and stiff. She could not utter another word.
"The surprise is mutual!" he answered. "What in the name of all that is wonderful are you doing in this house? Come, my dear, let us sit down on this log while you explain matters."
Ida drew back in loathing.
"Stand back!" she cried. "Do not attempt to touch me, or I shall cry out for help!"
A fierce imprecation broke from the man's lips.
"What do you mean by all this high and mighty nonsense?" he cried. "Speak at once. You are my wife! Why shouldn't I lay hands on you?"
"No!" she cried. "Though you have so cruelly deceived me, I thank God that I am not your wife."
He threw back his fair, handsome head, and a laugh that was not pleasant to hear fell from his lips.
"Don't make any mistake about that!" he cried. "I remember what I wrote you—that there was some illegality in the ceremony which made our marriage invalid. But I learned afterward, when I met the chap who performed the ceremony, that it was entirely legal. If you doubt that what I say is true, I can easily convince you of the truth of my assertion."
Ida drew back with a cry so awful that he looked at her.
"Well, well, who can understand the ways of women?" he remarked, ironically. "I thought that you would rejoice over the fact that our marriage was legal, but I find that you are sorry."
Still she was looking at him with wide-open eyes.
"I can not, I will not believe anything so horrible!" she gasped. "It would drive me mad!"
"I assure you it is true," he declared. "Like yourself, I believed that the marriage was not binding. But I found it was, and that saved me from wedding another girl."
A cry that seemed to rend her heart in twain broke from her white lips.
"But tell me, what are you doing here?" he asked, wonderingly.
Then it was that something like an inkling of the truth came to him.
"Great God!" he cried, "it can not be possible that you are in any way connected with my cousin—that you are the bride he brought home? Speak! Why are you trembling so? Has my guess come anywhere near the mark?"
Ida looked up at him with wild, frightened eyes like those of a hunted deer.
"Speak!" he cried again, fiercely grasping her arm, "or I will wring the truth from you!"
"I—I am Eugene Mallard's wife," she whispered in a voice that would have touched any other man's heart than the one who was bending over her with rage depicted on his face.
He laughed aloud, and that laugh was horrible to hear.
She did not spare herself. She told him all the bitter truth—how, being thrown in contact with Eugene Mallard day after day, she had learned to love him with all the strength of her nature; how, seeing how good, kind and true he was—a king among men—she fell face downward in the dew-wet grass and cried out to Heaven that her life would cease the moment she went out of Eugene Mallard's life.
"This is, indeed, a fine state of affairs!" he cried out.
"What would you have me do?" cried the unhappy young girl in the voice of one dying.
He did not answer her at once; but, taking a cigar from his pocket, he coolly lighted it.
"When you are through with your hysterics, we will talk the matter over," he assented, frowningly.
She struggled to her feet.
"Sit down!" he commanded, pointing to the trunk of a tree.
Feeling more dead than alive, she sat down in the place which he had indicated. She expected that her life would end at any moment, the tension on her nerves was so great.
He did not speak; but the short, harsh laugh that broke from his lips, as he puffed away at his cigar, was more cruel than the harshest words.
"This is what one might call a melodrama in real life," he said, at length. "It savors of comedy, too, and illustrates fully the old saying: 'Truth is often stranger than fiction!' But, to get down to business. Turn around and face me, while I tell you the injunction I lay upon you, and which you dare not refuse to obey!"
The hapless young wife looked into the hard, set face above her, her eyes dilating with fear.
Her brain reeled; it seemed to her that she was dying.
"Listen to what I have to say," exclaimed Royal Ainsley, his hand tightening on her shoulder. "You have a fine home here—much finer than I could possibly offer you—and I propose that you shall keep it. There is no use in wasting sentiment between us. We do not care for each other, and youdocare for Eugene Mallard. It will be some satisfaction for you to live beneath this roof, and I won't mind it at all, providing you make it worth my while. I will make my meaning clearer to you. I must have some money, and you are the one who must help me to it. Get a thousand dollars, and I will go away and never again molest you. Come, now, what do you say?"
Ida drew back and looked at him.
"You know that I could not get it for you," she said, with calmness.
"You know the alternative," he said, harshly.
"No matter what the alternative is, I—I could not help you," she answered, huskily.
"If you refuse," he went on, "I can have Eugene Mallard and yourself arrested for bigamy. I can send you both to prison, and, so help me Heaven, I'll do it! You say that you love Eugene Mallard. We will see if you love him well enough to save him."
"You monster!" she gasped, wildly, "you would notdo such a thing, I say. You dare not outrage Heaven like that."
"The shoe is on the other foot. It isyouwho have outraged Heaven in violating the law. I must have that money, and you know I am a desperate man."
He would not tell her just now that her child was alive. He would save that piece of news for some other time.
Before she could reply, they saw some of the servants crossing the lawn.
"I must go!" she cried, wrenching herself free from his grasp. "They have come in search of me!"
"I shall be here to-morrow night at this very spot awaiting your answer," he said, harshly.
Why had Heaven let Royal Ainsley find her? Had he not already brought misery enough into her life?
She turned the matter over in her mind. Every word he had said, every threat he had made, occurred to her.
Would he make good his threat, and take vengeance upon the man she loved if she refused to raise one thousand dollars for him?
She knew he was what he had said—a desperate man.
Oh, if she had but dared creep into the library, throw herself at Eugene Mallard's feet, and tell him all, what woe would have been spared her. But, alas! she dared not.
Heaven help her! How could she leave Eugene Mallard, whom she loved better than life.
She crept up to her room, and during the long hours of the night she fought the fiercest battle that woman ever fought with herself. If she gave Royal Ainsley the money he had asked for, he would certainly go away and never cross her path again.
Her heart leaped at the thought. The thought thatshe was still bound to Royal Ainsley brought with it the most poignant grief—a feeling of horror.
She did realize what it meant to live there beneath that roof, even after she had found out the truth—that she was not Eugene Mallard's wife.
What harm was there in living in the home of the man she loved, seeing that they were so far apart in heart as well as in purpose?
"No, I can not tear myself away from the only one I have ever loved!" she cried. "If I were living here with Eugene Mallard as his wife, then my duty would be plain—I would have to leave here at once."
No, no! Come what might, she could not tear herself away from Eugene Mallard.
In the drawer of her writing-desk lay a roll of bills which Eugene had handed her the day before, to purchase new furniture for her suite of rooms.
"Select it the first day you go to the city," he had said.
She had intended purchasing it the following week.
Now she went hurriedly to her desk, took out the roll of bills, and counted them.
There was just a thousand dollars. She drew a great sigh of relief. That would buy Royal Ainsley's eternal silence. Before handing it to him, she would swear him to secrecy forever.
She never knew how she lived through the next day.
There was not a moment that Royal Ainsley's handsome, cruel, sneering face did not appear before her.
How she loathed him! She hated, with fierce, intense hatred, the very sound of his name.
Night came at last.
The few guests that were stopping at the house were assembled in the drawing-room, and it was not an easymatter to find some convenient excuse to get away from them.
But when the hands of the clock on the mantel pointed to the hour of eight, she felt that she must get away.
Some one suggested playing a piece of music which she had taken to her room the day before to study.
"I will go and search for it," she said; and with that remark she glided from the room.
How dark the night was! She almost shivered as she touched the graveled walk and hurried down to the brook-side.
When this night had passed away, a life-time of happiness would lay before her. The wind moaned fitfully among the trees, and the branches of the tall oaks swayed to and fro. She heard the murmur of the brook before she reached it, and as she drew near and became accustomed to the dim light, she saw a tall man pacing up and down.
He did not hear the light step on the grass. He was muttering imprecations that made the girl's heart turn cold with dread as she listened. Then he saw her.
"Ah! you have come!" he eagerly called out. "It is well for you that you did," he continued, "for I had just made up my mind to go to the house and ask for you."
In the dim light he saw her recoil. Although she made no answer, he fancied he could almost hear the wild throbbing of her heart.
"Did you bring the money?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered hoarsely; "but before I give it to you, I shall exact a solemn promise that you will never come near me again!"
"Certainly you shall have the promise—a dozen ofthem if you like," he cried, forcing back an insolent laugh.
"You must solemnly promise that you will never come near me again if I give this money to you," she said.
"No," he answered; "I will never come near you. I will go abroad. Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes," she answered. "Only go so far away that I shall never see your face again."
He closed his hand eagerly over the money, saying to himself that it was a veritable gold mine that he had found.
"Let me go!" she panted, as he put out his hand to touch her.
With the swiftness of a startled deer, she fled past him into the darkness of the grounds.
Royal Ainsley laughed harshly.
"This money will last me for a few weeks, my lady," he muttered, "and then—Ah! we shall see!"