When Ida re-entered the house, the guests were still assembled in the drawing-room.
Eugene Mallard was standing a little apart from the rest, looking thoughtfully into vacancy.
As she entered the room, he started, and, to her surprise, he crossed over to her.
"Ida," he said, "will you come out on the porch with me for a few moments? I wish to speak with you."
She looked at him in terror. Had he learned of the return of Royal Ainsley?
A great darkness seemed to suddenly envelop her, and it was by the greatest effort that she kept herself from swooning. But the fresh air revived her.
Eugene placed a chair for her, and as she was trembling violently, she was glad to sink into it. There was a seat near. Eugene did not take it, but, instead, stood leaning against one of the fluted columns of the porch. For a few moments he was silent, and those few moments seemed like long years to Ida.
"I have brought you out here to have an earnest talk with you," he said, huskily. "The time has now come when we should try to understand each other. Don't you think so?"
She looked up at him in affright. Was he going to send her away? Was he growing tired of the position in which they stood to each other?
"Yes," she answered; and it caused her a desperate effort to utter the word.
"I am going to take you into my confidence, Ida," he said. "Come under this swinging lamp. I want to read you this letter."
She followed him with faltering steps.
To her great surprise she saw him take from his breast-pocket the very letter which Miss Fernly had sent, and which she had slipped into his desk. But she dared not tell him that she knew what the letter contained.
"I will preface my remarks by saying that the news of your illness has spread far and wide, and that the report was repeated in different forms. Instead ofsaying that you were ill, some of the papers had it that my young wife had died. Miss Fernly, whom you have good reason to remember, thereupon wrote me this letter."
She listened, her face white as death. He handed her the letter. Every word made a new wound in her heart. How well she remembered each and every sentence! Slowly she read the letter through. Then she folded and handed it back to him.
"Ida," he said, "I have been trying to forget the past as no man has ever tried before. All my time has been given up to it. I have drawn a curtain over my past, and shut out its brightness, its hopes, from my life. I have pulled the roots of a beautiful budding plant from my soul, and bid it grow there no more. I have tried to do my duty by you, and now I have come to this conclusion—you must help me bury the past. I have brought you out here to ask you to be my wife in fact as well as in name."
He did not tell her that during her illness he had discovered the secret of her life—that she loved him with all the passionate love of her nature, and that his indifference was eating out her life.
Ever since he had been turning the matter over in his mind, and asking himself what he should do, and at last he was brought face to face with the truth—he had no right to marry her unless he intended living with her.
So clearly had his duty become defined to him that the path of the future was now plain before him. He must forget his love for Hildegarde, and the only way to do that was to ask the wife he had wedded to help him.
"I ask you this after much calm deliberation," he said, slowly. "Be my wife in reality as well as in name, andwe may yet make good and useful lives out of what is left of them!"
He heard a cry escape from her lips, but he could not tell whether it was one of pleasure or pain.
"I do not ask you to give my answer at once, unless you choose to do so," he said, gently.
He bent over her and took her hand. He was startled at its icy coldness. He could feel that she trembled at his touch.
"I have startled you," he said, gently. "I would advise you to go to your room, instead of mingling with the guests to-night. There you can reflect upon what you wish to do. I will leave you here," he said. But before he turned away, he involuntarily stooped down, and kissed the white face raised so appealingly to his.
It was the first caress he had ever offered her, and that kiss burned her face for long hours afterward. It filled her to the very depth of her soul, to the very center of her heart.
Like one stricken suddenly blind, Ida groped her way to her room.
"Ah! if I could only die with the memory of that kiss burning my lips!" she cried.
She was like one stunned. What she had longed for, yearned for with all the intensity of her soul, was laid at her feet at last. But it was too late.
His love was offered her now, when she dared not claim it, dared not accept it.
Ida rose the next morning with a heavy heart. She had slept the sleep of exhaustion.
Eugene was surprised when she came down to the table, she looked so changed. There were heavy circles under her eyes, as though she had been weeping.
He could not understand her. He was quite sure she would meet him with a happy, blushing face and downcast eyes. Ida would be glad when she could escape his wondering eyes. An hour later she was standing at the window of the morning-room, which opened out on the terrace, her mind in a tumult, when she heard Eugene's voice at the other end of the room. She knew instinctively that he was looking for her. Only two days ago she would have waited there for him—would have eagerly sought the opportunity of a few words with him; but now she hastily unfastened the long French window, and fled out into the grounds.
Eugene saw the flutter of the white figure hurrying down the terrace.
"She wishes to escape an encounter with me," he thought; and he was puzzled.
Ida went to the further end of the garden, where the tall rose-bushes hid her from human eyes. She sat down upon a little rustic bench and tried to think. But her brain grew confused.
Only a short time ago she had cried out to Heaven to give her the love of Eugene Mallard. Now that it was laid at her feet, what should she do?
"Heaven direct me," she cried out; "I am so sorely tempted! I used to wonder what people meant when they talked of the agony of death. Now I know."
She was frightened at the vehemence of her emotion; the memory of that caress made her tremble. She dreaded the moment when she should see Eugene alone again, but, woman-like, hoped that it would be soon. Her heart was awakened at last. The sun of love shone in its glory upon her.
It had come to her, this woman's heritage, this dowerof passion and sorrow, called love, changing the world into a golden gleam.
How was she ever to calm the fever that burned in her veins? Yes, she loved him. She who had never, until she met Eugene Mallard, known what love meant; she, so young, beautiful, made so essentially for love, and yet whose life had been so joyless and hopeless, loved at last.
Eugene Mallard noticed her avoidance of him during the week that followed. She was trying to think out the problem in her own mind. Dare she drink of the cup of joy that he had pressed to her lips? In her simplicity, Ida thought that she had done much in denying herself a look at him.
If she had been the most accomplished of coquettes, she could not have chosen a method more calculating to awaken his interest than by avoiding him.
"She does not care for me as much as I thought," he told himself; and, man-like, he felt a trifle piqued.
He had fancied that all he would have to do would be to ask her, and she would come straight to his arms.
This was, indeed, a new phase of her character. Yet he could not help but admire her maidenly modesty.
He would give her her own time to think over the proposition that he had laid before her. He would not seek her, would not intrude upon her. He looked at her more during that day than he had during all the time she had been under his roof.
He had not known before that she was so beautiful, so sweet, so womanly. How careless he had been in letting her go about by herself, a prey for such rascals as Arthur Hollis!
Once he surprised her in the grounds. He had come up to her very quietly.
"Ida," he said, "have you forgotten that you have not so far answered the question I asked of you two weeks ago on the porch? Tell me, when am I to claim my wife?"
His wife! Great Heaven! Had she been mad, dreaming? What had she been doing? What had she done?
His wife! She was Royal Ainsley's wife, and she could not belong to any other man. She looked at him with the pallor of despair in her face, the shadow of death in her eyes.
What had she been doing to think of love in connection with Eugene Mallard, when she was bound by the heaviest of chains? The shock was terrible to her in those few minutes, and the wonder is that it did not kill her.
"I must have your answer here and now," Eugene said, a trifle impatiently.
Eugene Mallard, looking down at the lovely, terrified face, wondered what there could be to frighten her so.
He was intending to do a kind action. That she should take the matter in this fashion rather surprised him. He told himself that he could not understand women and their ways.
"My reason for coming to this conclusion," he said, "is that I am intending to take a trip through the country, and desire that you shall accompany me, Ida. We could not go as we are now, and lead the same life as we are living under this roof," he added, as she did not appear to understand him. "You understand what I mean?" he asked.
She answered "Yes," though he doubted very much if she really did comprehend his words.
"That will be a fortnight from now. It will give you plenty of time to think the matter over."
With these words he turned and left her.
She sank down into a garden-seat near by, her heart in a tumult. The sheltered spot in which she sat was free from observation. The tall, flowering branches screened her.
During the days that followed, Eugene Mallard watched Ida sharply. If the girl loved him as well as she said she did, how strange it was that she was unwilling to come to him.
One day, while they were at the breakfast-table, the servant brought in the morning's mail.
"Here is a letter for you, Ida," said Eugene, handing her a square white envelope.
One glance at it, and her soul seemed to turn sick within her. It was from Royal Ainsley!
What had he to say to her? When he left her he promised that she should never see his face again, that he would never cross her path.
What did this communication mean?
Breakfast was over at last, and she hastened to the morning-room, where she could read her letter without being observed.
"My little Wife.—I am running in hard luck after all. I invested all the money you were so generous as to give me, and lost every cent of it. An open confession is good for the soul. Having told you the truth, I feel better. I will need just the same amount of money to float me, and you must raise it for me somehow. I use the wordmustto duly impress it upon you. I will be at the same place where I met you last, on the evening of the fourteenth. That will be just ten days from the time you receive this letter. Do not fail me, Ida, or I might be tempted to wreak vengeance upon my amiable cousin, fascinating Eugene."Yours in haste, and with much love,"Royal."
"My little Wife.—I am running in hard luck after all. I invested all the money you were so generous as to give me, and lost every cent of it. An open confession is good for the soul. Having told you the truth, I feel better. I will need just the same amount of money to float me, and you must raise it for me somehow. I use the wordmustto duly impress it upon you. I will be at the same place where I met you last, on the evening of the fourteenth. That will be just ten days from the time you receive this letter. Do not fail me, Ida, or I might be tempted to wreak vengeance upon my amiable cousin, fascinating Eugene.
"Yours in haste, and with much love,
"Royal."
She flung the letter from her as though it were a scorpion. A look of terror came over her face, her head throbbed, and her brain whirled. Oh, Heaven! the torture of it!
What if he kept this up? It would not be long before she would be driven to madness.
"My little wife!" How the words galled her; they almost seemed to take her life away.
"He will torture me to madness," she thought, with the agony of despair.
How was she to raise the money to appease the man who was her relentless foe?
Then she thought of her diamonds. Among the gifts which she had received from Eugene was a diamond necklace. This he had inherited from his uncle.
"The setting is very old," he had said, "because the necklace has been worn by the ladies of our family forgenerations. The stones, however, are remarkably white and brilliant. They are among the finest in this country, and worth a fortune in themselves."
She had often looked at them as they lay in their rich purple-velvet case.
"I—I could raise the money on them," she thought, with a little sob.
But she did not know it was to end in a tragedy.
Ida no sooner found herself alone than she took from her wardrobe a black dress, a long cloak, a bonnet and black veil. She quickly donned them, then stole into the corridor, locking the door after her, and putting the key in her pocket.
If she could get out of the house and into the grounds unobserved, all would be well. Fortune favored her; no one was in sight.
She made her way to the railway station, and bought a ticket for Washington. On the train was quite a number of people whom she had met before. But they did not recognize her with the veil pulled so closely over her face.
The world seemed to stand still; but her heart seemed to beat wildly, as she thought of it all.
At last Washington was reached, and for a minute shestood irresolute as she stepped upon the platform of the depot. Then she timidly crossed over to where a policeman stood.
"I—I would like to be directed to a pawn-broker's store, if—if you know where there is one," she said.
The guardian of the peace looked at her suspiciously.
It was a part of his business to believe all strangers dishonest until he found them otherwise.
"Are you so much in need of money as to have to resort to that?" he asked, taking in the stylish make and fine texture of the clothes she wore.
"Yes," she answered, timidly.
The policeman pointed to a store a couple of blocks further up, and Ida started for the place indicated, after stopping to inquire when the train returned to where she had come from.
He gave her the information, and watched her curiously until she was out of sight.
"It is evident that she has come to Washington simply for the purpose of pawning something. As soon as I reach the other end of my beat I will make it my business to step into Uncle Samuel's and ask what she has disposed of. It is just as well for me to know."
Meanwhile, Ida hurried quickly on her errand.
The pawn-broker's clerk glanced up impatiently as the door opened and the dark-clad figure glided in.
"I—I should like to see the proprietor, to ask if he will advance me a sum of money on some diamonds."
"Have you got them with you?" asked the man, carelessly.
"Yes," said Ida, faintly; "but can't I see the proprietor?"
"You can deal with me just as well," he answered.
After a moment's hesitation, Ida produced the package from her pocket, and unwrapping it, disclosed the magnificent diamonds.
A cry of surprise broke from the clerk's lips. In all the years of his life he had never seen anything so grand as the diamond necklace. But, like all shrewd men in his calling, he carefully suppressed the cry of astonishment.
"How much do you want to realize on this?" he asked, indifferently.
"One thousand dollars," said Ida, faintly.
"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "That's pretty good, when you know full well that you couldn't realize one-half that sum on them."
"But I shall have to!" cried Ida.
The man closed his hand down over the lid.
"How did you come by these?" he asked.
He saw the slender figure shiver.
"You have no right to ask me anything like that," she replied.
"Probably not," returned the man; "still, when we don't ask, we generally do a great deal of guessing. But to end the matter, I will advance you a couple of hundred on them."
"I must have a thousand dollars," repeated Ida. "If it were not absolutely necessary for me to raise the money on them, I should not have brought them here."
"Two hundred is a nice little sum," said the man. "If you refuse to take that, I might take it into my head to hold you on suspicion, and call in a policeman. Bear in mind, I will give you that amount of money without asking you where they came from. A policeman wouldwant to know the whys and wherefores of the whole thing."
"I—Imustraise a thousand dollars on them," she reiterated, grasping the jewel-case.
The man's bluff had not worked.
"That's allI'llgive; but father might accommodate you with a little more," he added, touching a little bell.
The summons was instantly answered by a short, stout little man who looked as if he had overheard the conversation.
A quick glance passed between them.
"Here is something for you to decide," went on the young man. "This lady tells me that she wants a certain amount for these diamonds."
"I must have a thousand dollars," interposed Ida, "and if you can not advance me that amount, do not detain me, please; I must look elsewhere."
Again the lid was thrown back, and the casket exposed to the elder man's gaze. He fairly caught his breath as the blazing jewels met his eye. A wolfish expression leaped into his face.
"I think I can accommodate the lady," he said, blandly. "My motto is to please the ladies even if I have to strain a point to do so."
He placed his hand in his pocket and brought forth a roll of bills.
"How will you have the money—in tens or twenties?" he asked.
"It does not matter much," said Ida.
He handed her a roll of bills.
"You can count it, and see if the amount you wish is there," he said.
She counted it over with trembling hands. Yes, there was just a thousand dollars there.
"You will take great care of the diamonds?" she asked, eagerly.
"Certainly—certainly. They are as safe in my hands as though they were in your own keeping, lady."
She put the money in her pocket, and hurried from the place.
"Abraham! Abraham!" cried the old man, excitedly, as soon as the street door had closed upon her, "our fortune is made! This necklace is worth at least a cool seventy-five thousand if it's worth a penny, and we have got it in our possession for a paltry thousand dollars!"
"I knew the diamonds were very fine, and worth a fortune," replied the young man; "but I did not know they were worth as much as that. What do you intend to do with them, father? You will have to give them up to her if she claims them."
"Do you think I'm a fool!" exclaimed the elder man, angrily. "She'll never lay eyes on those stones. Depend on that!"
Ida hurried back to the depot, purchased her ticket, and boarded the train for home.
She had scarcely stepped from the ticket-agent's window,ere the policeman who had directed her to the pawn-shop accosted the agent.
"Where did that veiled woman buy her ticket for? What is her destination?" he whispered.
He told him, and the officer jotted down the name of the station in his note-book.
With the money securely in her possession, Ida reached home. Dusk had crept up; the stars were out in the sky.
She succeeded in gaining her own room unobserved. She was tired and hungry; indeed, she had not thought of food since she had left the house early in the day.
She threw off the long black cloak, the bonnet, thick veil, and black dress she had worn on her visit to Washington. After bathing her face in fragrant water and donning a silken house-robe, Ida rang the bell for her maid.
"Nora," she said, "you may bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit."
"I am very glad that you are awake at last," said Nora. "I wanted very much to tell you something; but as you bid me not to disturb you on any account, I dared not come and knock on the door, ma'am."
"You are quite right," said Ida, wearily, "not to disturb me. I needed rest—rest," said Ida, brokenly.
"I wanted to tell you about the man who was skulking in the grounds. I was hurrying along here a few moments ago, when some one sprung out from behind the rose-bushes and grasped me by the arm.
"I certainly would have cried out with terror, but he put his hand over my mouth.
"'Keep still, and I won't hurt you,' he said, with an oath.
"Trembling with terror, I stood still. I saw that hewas a gentleman; but I noticed also that he was very much under the influence of wine.
"'Tell me, are you one of the maids from the house?' he asked.
"'Yes,' I answered.
"'Do you know me?' he questioned.
"'No,' I replied. 'I am a stranger in the village. I have only been in my lady's employ a little more than a fortnight.'
"'I want you to give your mistressthis,' he said, producing an envelope from his pocket."
She did not add that the stranger had given her a bill to insure the safe delivery of his message, and to keep her from saying anything about it.
As the girl spoke, she produced an envelope.
Even before the hapless Ida saw it, she knew full well from whom it came.
Poor, hapless Ida! She sunk down into the nearest seat, white as she would ever be in death. She did not dare open it until after the girl had gone for the tea.
She drank it eagerly.
"Please bring me another cup, Nora," she said, "stronger than the first."
"I am afraid that you have a fever, my lady," said the girl, anxiously.
"I am only thirsty. You may as well take the biscuit back; I am afraid it would choke me," said Ida.
"But you must be hungry," persisted the maid. "I am sure you have eaten nothing since breakfast time."
When the girl had gone, Ida tore open the envelope, and read:
"My clever little wife, I am here a day earlier than I anticipated. Meet me at once in the same place. Ofcourse you have the money by this time. Bring it with you."
"My clever little wife, I am here a day earlier than I anticipated. Meet me at once in the same place. Ofcourse you have the money by this time. Bring it with you."
She crushed the note in her hand. No one heard the gasping, the bitter sob, the despairing cry she uttered. The iron had entered her soul. There was nothing but to obey his commands.
The girl had said that he was under the influence of wine.
Ida had seen him in that condition once before, and that was on his bridal-eve, and the memory of it had never left her.
He was terrible enough when sober, but under the influence of liquor he might be a fiend.
The girl brought a second cup of tea, which Ida drank eagerly.
"Now, leave me, Nora," she said, "and do not come again until I ring for you."
With trembling hands, Ida placed the money in her bosom, drew the black cloak over her shoulders, and hurried into the grounds.
Trembling with a vague apprehension, she sped by a path that was seldom used down to the brook-side.
"True to your tryst!" said a well-known voice. "Fairest, cleverest of women, how can I thank you enough for your promptness?"
She stood still, cold as marble, her face ghastly white in the flickering light of the stars.
"Have you no word for me?" he cried, with a harsh, derisive laugh. "Have you no smile, no kiss, no kind word? Have you nothing to say to me? You have no love, no light of welcome in your eyes, and yet you loved me so dearly once, my sweet Ida? Do you remember? And now——"
"You mocking demon!" she panted, "how dare you utter such words to me? I wonder you are not afraid that Heaven will strike you dead where you stand!"
"Heaven strike me dead?" he repeated. "What a horrible idea! Afraid? Oh, no, my dear. You are the first charming creature I ever saw who flew into such a rage because her husband was pleased to be sentimental to her."
He heard her draw her breath hard. She stood before him white and trembling, her eyes filled with burning fire.
"Say, Ida, couldn't you manage somehow to get the rest of the money—the five thousand?"
"No!" she answered, pitifully.
"That's only a bluff," he cried. "But it won't work with me!"
"You have sworn eternal silencenow!" she cried; "you have given your oath, and you dare not break it. I can not raise any more money!"
"Perhaps you will pay that amount for a little secret which I possess, my lady," he said, mockingly.
"There is nothing more you could tell me that would interest me."
"We shall see," he replied, sneeringly.
He pulled from under his coat a dark-lantern, shot back the slide, and a flood of light illumined the scene. He drew a package from his pocket and unwrapped it. Ida watched him like one in a dream.
Suddenly an awful cry broke from her lips. One by one he took from the package the articles of clothing that had been worn by the little child he had secured from the village merchant's wife.
A cry awful to hear broke from her lips.
"I suppose, Ida, it isn't the proper thing to keep a person in suspense," he cried. "You deserted your little child—never once sought to discover whether it were dead or alive. By the merest chance, I ran across it lately. I took possession of it, and I have it now."
"I can not, I will not believe you," she answered, quickly.
"Perhaps this will convince you," he said, reading aloud a letter from the superintendent of the foundling asylum where the child had been placed.
It gave a full account of all that could be ascertained of the hapless mother of the child. As he read by the light of the dark-lantern, she knew that it was all true.
Her child alive!
The rapture of the thought was drowned in the horror that it was in this man's possession.
She fell on her face in the long grass, mad with misery and despair.
For a moment it seemed as though the darkness of death had come over Ida.
"My revelation surprises you," Royal Ainsley said, with a most horrible laugh.
The laugh and the words recalled her to her senses. She sprung to her feet and faced him.
"Where is my child?" she cried, wildly. "Speak, for the love of Heaven, I pray you."
"It will cost you just another thousand dollars to find that out. Bring me that amount here to-morrow night at the same hour, and I will give you full information. Isn't that fair enough?"
Pleadings and prayers were alike unavailing.
"Do you suppose I am going to tell you for nothing, when I can make you pay handsomely?"
"But I haven't the money," she sobbed, "and—and you know it!"
"How did you get this thousand?" he asked.
Then Ida told him all.
"You were a fool to get rid of the diamonds before you had asked Eugene Mallard for the money and been refused. Go to him and ask him for the money now. He does not know how to refuse a woman, and he will give it to you."
"And if I refuse?" she asked, desperately.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Then you and the man you love will be thrown into prison," Royal declared, "to serve a term of fifteen or twenty years. After that you can not complain as to how I brought up your daughter, if she follows in the footsteps of her mother!"
He could not have used a more conclusive argument.
"Have you no heart, man—no mercy?" cried Ida.
"Come, come, I say, do not be theatrical; the role does not become you! Better be sensible, and consider the proposition I make you."
"I will leave you now," he said; "but I will be here, at this same hour, to-morrow night."
"No, no!" she cried. "Give me a week to think itover, and—and to see what I can do about raising the money."
"Well, then, a week, if you must have it," he replied; "but no longer. Here, you can take these proofs of my story regarding your child and look them over at your leisure," he said, thrusting the package into her hand.
The next moment he was gone. She did not faint; she knew that if she did she would be found there with the package in her hand. She was so dazed, so bewildered, she never remembered how she reached the house and her own room. Again she rang the bell for Nora.
"You may bring me another cup of tea," she said, faintly, "as strong as the last one."
The girl, noticing how pale and ill her mistress looked, thought it would be best to bring her a glass of wine as well.
"Unless I am very much mistaken, she has a sick spell coming on. Her face is pale, but every now and then it flushes burning red."
Ida did not seek her couch that night until she had eagerly scanned every article of clothing the parcel contained.
Her excitement knew no bounds as she read the letter from the superintendent of the foundling asylum, concerning all that he knew of the baby's parentage, in which he stated that the doctor who had attended the young mother had brought the child to the institution in a dying condition, as he supposed, and was hastily called abroad, and had barely time to make the outgoing steamer. He had told them that they could tell the hapless young mother when she was able to bear the sad news.
Ida wept as she had never wept before as she read those written words, and her excitement increased as shesaw that the letter was directed to the village merchant's wife, Mrs. Lester, who had taken the child.
It was, then, her own child that she had clasped in her arms, the eyes of her own babe into which she had gazed with such agony and yet with such rapture.
Then another fear seized her. She had not seen the little one for weeks.
Was it ill? Had anything happened to it? She could not visit Mrs. Lester's home until the day broke.
How came her little child in the possession of Royal Ainsley?
The suspense which she endured almost drove her insane. The next morning she was up as early as the servants were.
"Joe," she said to the old coachman, "I want you to harness up the swiftest horses you have in the stable, and take me to the village. I want to go to the store kept by the Lesters."
"You will not find it open so early in the mornin', ma'am," declared Joe. "Dem village folk am pow'ful lazy."
"We will go to their garden, and perhaps be fortunate enough to find them there," said Ida, eagerly. "Harness the horses at once, Joe."
The hapless young mother scarcely breathed during that ride.
After what seemed to her almost an endless ride, they drew up before the village store kept by the Lesters.
As Joe had predicted, the door was closed, and the blinds drawn.
"There they are in the garden yonder; at least, there am Mrs. Lester in the strawberry-patch, and there am her husband, off further in the fields."
"I will go to her," said Ida, stepping quickly from the carriage.
So busy was Mrs. Lester with her task of gathering the ripe fruit, that she did not know of the presence of her visitor until she stood beside her.
"Mrs. Lester," said a quick, eager, husky voice, "I do hope I have not surprised you this morning."
"Well, well, you have surprised me, for a fact. I suppose you want to get something from the store."
"Yes, I do, but not just now," returned Ida, with feverish impatience. "Let me sit down here a few moments and talk with you."
"Certainly," said the woman; "but I haven't anything out here to invite you to sit upon, save that little garden-seat which I always take around with me, so that I can rest myself when I get tired."
"It will do very well, thank you," said Ida, feeling so weak and faint that she could hardly stand.
"I have not seen you nor your little child lately," began Ida.
Then she stopped short, lest her quivering voice should betray her terrible anxiety.
"No," returned Mrs. Lester. "I no longer have the little one, bless its poor, dear little heart!"
"Has anything happened to it?" asked Ida, the agony of death in her voice. "Oh, tell me, where is it? Is the little baby dead?"
It seemed to Ida that it took ages for the woman to reply. She leaned forward breathlessly, fairly devouring her with her dark, dilated eyes.
"Oh, no! the baby did not die," said Mrs. Lester, "although it was a weak, puny little thing.
"I'll just tell you all about it, for I feel just like talking it over with some one.
"The child required so much care that my husband decided we could not keep it, and I was on my way to take it back to the foundling asylum in New York, when the strangest thing happened.
"In the depot I met a young man who used to live in the village. His name is Royal Ainsley."
"Yes! yes!" interposed Ida, faintly, feeling almost more dead than alive.
"I was telling him all about the baby, showing him the letters that came with it, and the proofs I had of its identity, when he suddenly exclaimed:
"'I will tell you in a few words what I'll do. I'll take this little one back to New York, and save you the trip!'
"He offered me one hundred dollars to give him the child then and there. We are very poor, Mrs. Mallard, and a hundred dollars seemed a fortune to me.
"It's over a fortnight since that occurred, but I have not ceased to worry about it, I assure you."
Young Mrs. Mallard suddenly staggered to her feet and turned away.
"I think I will not wait any longer," said Ida, in a strangely altered voice. "Good-morning, Mrs. Lester!"
The next moment she hurried down the garden-path, and entered her carriage.
Like one wild with terror, Ida hurried back to the carriage and re-entered it.
"Home!" she said; and old Joe was surprised at the sound of her voice, it was so unnatural.
"What Royal Ainsley told me is indeed too true!" she said to herself, with an inward moan. "He has possession of my little child. Only Heaven knows how he will use his power to crush me, and the fair, sweet, innocent babe as well!"
It seemed to her as though the very thought of it would drive her mad. She knew she was in his power, and that he would certainly use that power to extort every dollar from her that he possibly could. And then, when there was no more money to be gained, what would he do?
She avoided Eugene Mallard during the next few days, lest he should repeat the question he had asked when he last talked with her.
He watched her in wonder. Her apparent coyness amused as well as surprised him.
"There is no way of understanding women," he said to himself. "To-day they are eager for something; to-morrow they will not have it!"
He was surprised when he received a message from her one day, asking him if she could see him alone in the library.
He sent back a reply in the affirmative, and awaited her coming with some curiosity, no doubt entering his mind as to what she wished to say.
It was some time before she put in an appearance. He was not aware of her presence, he was gazing so intently out of the window, until she stood by his side.
"Mr. Mallard," she began, hesitatingly, "please pardon me for intruding upon you; but I could not wait."
He looked down wonderingly at the lovely young face so strangely pale.
"Would it not be as well for my wife to address me as Eugene?" he asked, with a grave smile.
She looked up at him and tried to utter the word; but somehow it seemed as though she could not.
My wife!
How those words cut her! If they had been the sharp thrust of a sword, they could not have cut her deeper.
His wife!
She would have given everything in this world if indeed it were true that she was Eugene Mallard's wife.
Another face rose before her vision—a fair, handsome, sneering face—and she drew back with a shudder.
He noticed it, and the kindly words he was about to utter were hushed on his lips.
After placing a chair for her, and taking one near it, he waited for her to proceed.
"I—I have come to ask your indulgence in a little matter," she said, faintly.
"Yes?" he said, kindly.
For a moment there was silence between them—a deep, painful, awkward silence, which was broken at length by Ida.
"I have been looking over some furniture," she said, tremulously, "and—and I could use just double the amount of money you gave me. Would you be very, very angry if I asked you for a thousand dollars more?"
He threw back his head and laughed outright.
"One would think, by the manner in which you expressyourself, that you were suing for some great favor, the granting of which you doubted."
She looked at him with dilated eyes, the color coming and going in her face.
She could not understand, by his remark, whether or not he intended giving it to her.
He turned at once to his desk, saying:
"I will write out a check for the amount you wish."
"No; not a check, please," she answered, piteously. "I would so much rather have the money."
He looked surprised.
"I haven't the amount you wish," he said. "I have not half that amount probably. I always use checks in preference to carrying money about with me."
He was quite mystified at the look of terror that crept into her eyes.
"I must have it in cash," she said, imploringly. "Could you not get it for me somehow?"
"Yes—certainly," he replied. "When will you want it?"
"To-night," she answered, piteously.
"You shall have it," he answered.
But there flashed through his mind a suspicion he would have given anything to have removed.
Eugene Mallard thought long and earnestly after Ida had left him: "What can Ida want with the cash, and in so short a time?"
He put on his hat, went round to the stables, and ordered his horse. A canter over the hills would drive away these gloomy, unhappy thoughts.
The sun had crept to its zenith, and was now sinking toward the west as he reined his horse before the little village inn at Hampton Corners.
Every one knew Eugene Mallard. The proprietor of the hotel on the old Virginia turnpike road warmly welcomed him. He had concluded to rest a little and refresh his horse.
As he lighted his cigar and sat down on the porch, the first person he saw was Dora Staples.
"I am really so delighted to see you, Mr. Mallard," she said in her pretty lisping accent.
"I had not expected to see you before the fourteenth. We have not had an acknowledgment of the invitation to our ball which we sent you and your wife a week ago; but I feel sure you won't disappoint us. We count upon you two as our most particular guests."
Eugene flushed hotly.
"Oh, certainly," he said. "I hope you will pardon my not answering your kind favor at once. I will see that my wife writes you and accepts the invitation."
"By the way," went on Dora. "I saw Mr. Hollis only yesterday. We went to Richmond to do some shopping, and the first person I met was Mr. Hollis. I am sure he tried to avoid me, though he says he didn't. I told him about the ball, as I did not know where to send the invitation to him. I told him that you and Mrs. Mallard would be there, and that all we now needed to make the affair as pleasant as the one at your house was his presence.
"'I will come if I can,' he said; 'but don't feel hardtoward me if I should fail to be there. I have a matter of considerable importance on hand for that date, and I do not know just how I will be able to arrange it.'"
Eugene Mallard drove slowly homeward. Although he tried to banish Dora's words from his mind, yet they still haunted him.
What was Arthur Hollis doing in Richmond? He was more puzzled over it than he cared to own.
As he rode up to the door, he saw Ida on the veranda, talking to a group of friends. It then struck him as it had never struck him before that his young wife was very handsome; and he was beginning to wonder how it was that he had been so blind as to not see that which was attracting the attention of every one else.
She wore a tight-fitting dress of pale-blue silk, with a crimson rose in its bodice. She held a bunch of roses in her white hand. There were several other ladies present, but not one of them could compare with her.
For the first time since his marriage a feeling of exultation stole into his heart at the thought that this peerless creature belonged solely to him.
They were speaking of the grand ball the Staples's were to give, and commenting on what they were going to wear.
"How aboutyou, Mrs. Mallard? What areyougoing to wear? Don't keep what you are going to wear a secret, and then spring some wonderful creation upon our wondering gaze."
"I assure you," said Ida, "that I have no intention of doing anything of the kind. Indeed," she declared, earnestly, "in sending out the invitations, I amsurethey have forgotten us!"
At this juncture, Eugene stepped forward, saying:
"Is there any excuse a man can offer for forgetting so great a favor as an invitation to a grand ball? That is exactly what has occurred. I received the invitation for the Staples's ball one day last week. I should have taken it direct to my wife, but you know that 'procrastination is the thief of time.' It has proved so in this case. I laid it down, and in the press of other matters, I forgot it. My papers must have covered it, and the matter entirely escaped my mind until to-day."
"Of course you will go?" remarked the ladies in chorus.
"Oh, yes; we are sure to do so," he responded.
A little later he found Ida alone in the drawing-room.
"I do hope you will look your best at this particular ball," he said. "The governor of the State; in fact, any number of my old friends will be there. I want you to wear your most becoming dress, and all the family diamonds."
Ida had been looking down calmly at the roses she held. But as mention of the diamonds fell from her husband's lips, a change that was alarming came over her face.
She grew white as death; her eyes lost their light. The roses which she held fell to her feet.
"Why, Ida, you look as if it were an occasion for sorrow instead of one of joy," Eugene remarked.
"What is the date of the ball?" she asked.
"The fourteenth," he responded.
Again that ashen pallor spread over her face, leaving it white to the lips.
That was the date upon which Royal Ainsley was to bring her child to her.
What was the great ball to her compared with this event?
While in the village Eugene had got the money she had asked of him. He had handed it to her inclosed in an envelope.
Oh, how kind and good he was to her! How very despicable it was to deceive him! But what could she do? Fate was against her.
Eugene could not help but notice the intense excitement under which she labored during the time that elapsed to the coming of the ball. She longed, yet dreaded to have the day arrive.
The day came at last, bright and clear. There was no cloud in the blue sky; the sun shone brightly in the heavens. She was glad that there were several guests at the house, as her husband would not have much opportunity of observing her.
How that day passed she never knew. One moment she was as white as death, the next she flushed as red as a rose.
"Heaven help me to live over the excitement of to-day!" she murmured, clasping her hands tightly.
She prayed for the noonday to linger. But time, which stays at no man's bidding, rolled on. The sun went down in a sweep of crimson glory; dusk gathered and deepened into the darkness of night.
Seven o'clock sounded from the pearl-and-gold clock on the mantel. Seven o'clock resounded from the great brass-throated clock in the main hall.
"Nora," said Ida to her maid, "go down to the library and tell Mr. Mallard that I am indisposed and can not go with him to the ball, but that I earnestly pray he will go without me, and enjoy himself. Say that I wish particularly that he should go; and notice what he says, Nora, and come back and tell me."
It seemed to Ida that Nora would never deliver the message.
Why did she linger? At last the girl returned.
"What did he say, Nora?" she asked, breathlessly, fixing her startled eyes eagerly on the girl's face.
"He made no reply, ma'am," returned Nora; "but I am sure he will go, since you so earnestly requested it."
It was with the greatest surprise that Eugene Mallard received the message that Nora delivered—that Ida was too ill to attend the grand ball with him.
"She did not seem to be ill this afternoon," he said to himself.
Obeying a sudden impulse, he hurried from the room, intent upon going to Ida'sboudoirand offering her his sympathy; but, on second thought, he concluded that in all probability she would not care to be disturbed.
He felt grievously disappointed. He knew that many of his friends would be present; and besides, what could he say to Mrs. Staples and her daughters?
Some of her friends had left Ida apparently in the best of health and spirits at noon. How could he account to them for her sudden indisposition?
During the forenoon he saw that there was something on Ida's mind; that she was greatly troubled.
Perhaps the words he had said to her only a short time before had much to do with her indisposition. He felt that he ought to have a talk with Ida. If he were to reassure her that she could have everything her own way, she might feel much relieved.
A second time he started for herboudoir; but again he drew back. He could not tell what prompted him to do so.
"Such strange, contradictory emotions seem to possess me," he said. "I will go out into the grounds and smoke a cigar. That will quiet me a little, and afterward I will have a talk with Ida."
Eugene Mallard wandered about the grounds for half an hour or more. He heard a clock strike the hour of eight.
How dark and gloomy it was! There was no moon, but the stars shed a faint, glimmering light.
He had smoked a cigar; but still he paced aimlessly up and down the grounds, lost in thought.
He came to one of the garden benches. It looked so inviting that he threw himself down upon it.
How long he sat there he never knew. Presently he was disturbed by the sound of slow, cautious footsteps. It could not be one of the servants stealing through the grounds in that manner. It must be some poacher.
He drew back into the shadow of the trees, and watched with no little curiosity. He had been so kind to the villagers that he felt surprised at this apparent ingratitude.
Presently a figure came down the path. The more he watched the figure the more certain he became that he had seen it before. Its every move seemed familiar to him.
Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind that made him hold his breath.
"Great Heavens! can it be Arthur Hollis?" he ejaculated.
His face paled; great flashes of fire seemed to come from his eyes. The very blood in his veins seemed to stagnate. Faint and dizzy, he leaned back against the trunk of a tree.
Great God! what could it mean? His wife supposed him to be by this time on his way to the ball. During his absence would she meet, dared she meet Arthur Hollis?
The tall, familiar-looking figure paced impatiently by the brook-side under the dim light of the stars. Yes, the man was there waiting for some one.
From where he stood he could plainly see a faint light in the window of his wife's room, and as his eyes were fixed upon it, the light was extinguished.
If a sword had been plunged into Eugene Mallard's heart, it could not have given him a greater shock.
Many a night he had paced up and down the grounds, watching the light in that window. Then it had never been put out before ten. Why should it be extinguished so early to-night?
The thought troubled Eugene Mallard, as he turned his head and saw the figure still pacing restlessly up and down by the brook.
He dared not utter a word. He would await developments. He scarcely breathed, in his suspense. It seemed to him that the blood in his veins was turned to ice.
He took up a position where there was no possible danger of being observed, and there he watched and waited.
Up in herboudoirIda was donning with trembling hands, the long cloak that was to disguise her.
She had sent Nora from her room. But it seemed to her that the girl looked back suspiciously as she went out and closed the door after her.
"Heaven help me to get through with this exciting scene!" Ida muttered.
Her heart was throbbing so, her limbs were so weak, that she was obliged to sit down for a minute.
"Oh, Heaven help me! How thankful I am that Eugene did not send for me before he left for the ball. He has reached there by this time!" she muttered.
She looked at the clock, and said to herself that time was flying, and she must hasten to keep her appointment.
Again she counted over the money which Eugene had given her—the money that was to restore her little child to her—the money that was to purchase her freedom and end forever Royal Ainsley's persecutions.
"What would Eugene say if he knew all?" she asked herself, in great trepidation.
She trembled even at the thought of it.
Was she doing right in concealing the truth from Eugene Mallard?
She sprung from her chair and paced hurriedly up and down the room.
If Eugene knew all, he would certainly tell her that her path lay with Royal Ainsley, that his roof would shelter her no more. And now she could not part from him. Every fiber of her heart was woven about him.
She tried to look into the future; but, think what she would, the pictures presented frightened her.
Presently she paused before the window. Was it only her fancy, or did she hear the patter of rain-drops?
She turned out the light and threw open the window. She felt relieved to find that it was only the leaves that were tapping against the window-pane. She closed the window, with a sigh, and opened the door softly.
The corridor was empty; the gas-jets of the great chandelier were turned low. Like a thief in the night, she stole noiselessly down the winding passageway.
The sound of laughter from the servants' hall below floated up to her through the awful stillness.
What if one of the doors on either side should open, and some one step out and confront her?
She drew her long cloak closely about her, and pulled the hood down over her head.
There was a side door opening on to a porch, and leading directly into the grounds.
Ida hurried toward this door and opened it cautiously. For a moment she stood on the threshold, and in that moment a gust of wind blew the cloak from about her shoulders, and it fell at her feet.
The light from the hall lamp clearly revealed her form to Eugene Mallard, who stood leaning against an oak-tree scarcely one hundred feet distant.
"It is Ida!" he muttered, hoarsely.
She turned her steps down toward the brook, as he had feared she would do.
"She stayed away from the ball to meet that scoundrel!" he muttered under his breath.
With hesitating steps, little dreaming of what the end of her adventure would be, Ida hurried on to her doom.
The wind sighed a mournful requiem in the trees, the songs of the birds were hushed, and the sweet murmur of the brook seemed to end in a sob as it rushed onward to the sea.
The night was warm, but a great shiver crept over Ida as she turned out of the path and hurried along through the garden by a short cut to the place where she knew Royal Ainsley was impatiently waiting for her.