Half fainting with grief and pain, Ida May rushed out into the street.
The sun was shining bright and warm, but it seemed to the girl that the whole earth was dark and gloomy.
Where should she go? Which way should she turn? She would not go back to the little lodging-house for her few belongings; she never wanted to see it again. Let them do what they would with her few belongings. The few dollars that were hers, she happened to have in the pocket of her dress.
"Royal!" she murmured, "I can not go to you in this hour of my deepest woe!"
She drew her veil down over her face, and the passers-by did not see the tears that rolled like rain down her white, despairing face. It mattered little to her which way she went.
Suddenly she heard the sound of a voice just ahead of her—a voice that sent a thrill to her heart.
"Heaven pity me!" she gasped; "it is Royal Ainsley!"
He was bidding good-bye to a companion on the corner.
The next moment he had boarded a street car. With a smothered cry, Ida May sprung after him. She must see him, she must speak to him!
The car was crowded. He was in the front of the car and she was at the rear. There was no way of speaking to him. She must ride in the car as far as he did, and when he alighted she must follow him. As she watched him with strained eyes, she saw him greet a young and lovely girl.
The sight made the blood turn cold in her veins: Light, airy, gay as of yore he was, all unconscious of the misery he had brought to a human heart. He had wrecked her life. How could he stand there smiling into the face of another girl?
Ida's heart swelled with bitter anguish.
She saw the young girl alight from the car at the corner of a fashionable street, and Royal Ainsley accompanied her. He took her arm and bent lovingly over her. She was some rich man's daughter. Ida May, who followed in their footsteps, was sure of that.
They entered a handsome brown-stone house midway up the street. The veiled, dark-robed little figure passed on, and stood at the end of the street until heshould reappear. Scores of pedestrians passed as the hours rolled on.
Up and down past the house she paced under cover of the darkness. As she paced slowly to the other end of the street, a coach stopped before the house she was so intently watching.
Before she could reach a place where she could get a full view, Royal Ainsley, with one or two others—she could not tell whether they were men or women—ran lightly down the steps and entered the vehicle, which rolled rapidly away.
"I have missed him!" sobbed Ida May. "God help me!"
On the morrow, Ida May was so ill that she could not leave the little room to which she had come for temporary shelter.
The woman who kept the place took a great interest in her.
But every night, as soon as dusk had fallen, Ida May took up her lonely vigil before the house Royal Ainsley had visited.
In her anxiety she did not notice that she had been observed from an upper window by the mistress of the mansion. One night she found herself suddenly confronted by that lady.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, grasping her by the shoulder. "Speak at once!"
For a moment Ida May was so taken aback that she could not utter a sound.
"Answer me at once, or I will have you arrested!" repeated the lady.
Ida May hung down her head.
"I must and will know!" cried the lady, pitilessly."Are you watching for the butler or any of the servants?"
The young girl lifted her head as proudly as any young queen might have done. She remembered those weeks at Newport, during which she had been considered the equal of the wealthiest girl there.
"No, madame!" she answered, sharply, "I was not waiting for any of your servants to appear, but for one of your guests."
The lady gave a little gasp; but in an instant she recovered herself.
"A guest!" she repeated. "Of whom are you speaking?"
"Mr. Royal Ainsley," replied Ida May, gasping the words out brokenly, the tears falling like rain down her face.
"Come inside," said the lady, drawing her hurriedly into the hall-way, lest she should create a scene. "Now," she said, standing before the girl with folded arms, "let me hear all about the matter. You must speak the truth, or I will certainly force it from you."
"It would illy become me to speak anything but the truth," responded Ida May. "Royal Ainsley comes here to see some beautiful young girl who lives in this house. But this must not be. He is mine—mine—by every tie that binds man to woman!"
"Surely he is not your—your—husband?" exclaimed the lady, excitedly.
"He—he should have been," sobbed Ida May, in a quivering voice. "It was all a mistake, a terrible mistake," she continued, wringing her hands.
The lady, who did not know her story, mistook her.
When she told her she started back in wonder.
Quick as thought she had decided upon her course of action.
"I wish to make an appointment with you," she said, "to talk over this matter. Can you come here to-morrow?"
"No," said Ida May. "I shall be too busy. I have some work from one of the stores, that will keep me engaged."
"Perhaps I can assist you so that it will not be necessary for you to work so hard. Still, if to-morrow is inconvenient, come in the evening."
She was about to add, "I pity you;" but there was something in the girl's face that forbid her pity.
The lady watched her curiously until she was out of sight. Then, with a sigh of relief, she walked slowly up the grand staircase to herboudoir.
A young and lovely girl was reclining on a couch, turning over the leaves of a photograph album.
"Well, did you find out what is the matter with the girl?" she asked.
"Yes," said the elder woman. "And you would never guess what it was."
"Pardon me; but I shall not even try," said the young girl, indolently, "for the simple reason that it would be too much of an effort for me."
"I will tell you," said the lady, drawing up a chair; "and I want you to pay the strictest attention, Florence St. John."
"The subject will not interest me, mamma," returned the young girl, turning over the leaves.
"But itwillinterest you," returned the other, "when I tell you that it concerns your new handsome lover."
She was quite right. The album fell to the floor with a crash.
"It appears," said Mrs. St. John, "that young Ainsley has got into some kind of an intrigue with a poor but very pretty shop-girl. I think she must be a shop-girl."
"I shall write to him at once never to cross this threshold again!" cried the young girl, indignantly.
"You will do nothing of the kind," replied her mother. "Sit down and listen to me. All young men are wild, and you must not take a man to task for what he has done before he knew you. Shut your eyes to it, and never bring it up to him. That's always safest. If he thinks youdoknow about his past life, he will be reckless, and think he doesn't need to care."
"About this girl, mamma—who is she?" she asked.
"A very pretty young creature," was the reply.
Faint and heart-sick, Ida May crept down the broad stone steps of the elegant mansion, and wended her way back to her humble lodgings. Just as she was about to touch the bell, a man ran hastily up the steps.
"Well, well, I declare!" he exclaimed, "I am at the wrong house. But in this confounded tenement row, one house is so like the other that one can not help making a mistake now and then."
With a gasp, Ida May reeled backward. At the very first word he had uttered, Ida May had recognized Royal Ainsley.
It was Frank Garrick, the manager of the telegraph office.
The sentence had scarcely left his lips ere he recognized her.
"Aha!" he cried, a fierce imprecation accompanying the words. "So it'syou, Ida May?" he added, catching her fiercely by the cloak. "So I have found you at last!"
She was too frightened to reply.
"So this is where you are stopping, is it? Come, walk as far as the end of the street with me. I want to talk to you."
"No!" cried Ida May, struggling to free herself from his grasp. "I have nothing to say to you, nor will I listen to you!"
"We shall see about that presently," he cried. "Frank Garrick is not a man to be balked in this way by a little girl. Youshalllisten to me!"
Ida May reached out her hand quickly to touch the bell, but he anticipated the movement, and caught her arm roughly.
She tried to cry out, but no sound issued from her lips.
She had already gone through more than her overstrained nerves could bear. Without a cry or a moan, she sunk in a dead faint at his feet.
Gathering her up in his arms, Frank Garrick sprung quickly down the steps. For a moment he stood there with his helpless burden in his arms.
"This is quite an unexpected go," he muttered, standing there undecided for a moment. "I must leave her here a moment, that is certain, while I run for a man's voice."
He placed Ida on the the lower step, in a sitting position, and darted down the street in the direction of a cab-stand.
He did not see the open window of an adjoining house, because of the closed blind which protected it, nor the crouching form of the woman behind it, who had heard and witnessed all.
Like a flash she caught up her hat, which was lying on an adjacent table, and sprung out of the door.
"I knew he would come to see her at last!" she said, fairly hissing the words. "They have had a quarrel. That is why he has stayed away so long. He has gone after a cab to take her elsewhere. But I will block his little game!" cried Nannie Rogers—for it was she. "I shall take a terrible revenge upon him by striking him through her."
Taking a short cut to a nearer cab-stand, she hailed the first vehicle. The man sprung down from his box.
"Why, is that you, Nannie?" he cried, in unfeigned surprise.
"Yes, Joe," she answered, quickly. "I want your cab for a while."
In a few words she told him of a woman lying on the steps of the house next to her—a woman whom she wished to befriend.
"I want you to take her to a certain place. I will tell you about it when we start. Come quickly and help me to get her into your cab."
This was accomplished in less time than it takes to tell it.
"Where to, Nannie?" asked the driver, as he picked up the reins.
"Why in the world are you taking her there?" he exclaimed in dismay.
"Make no comments," she replied, angrily: "but drive on as fast as you can. I wouldn't take her there unless it was all right."
"Oh, of course," returned the driver. "I am not saying but that you know what you're doing. But she seems mighty quiet for that kind of a person."
They had scarcely turned the first corner ere Frank Garrick drove up in a cab.
"By thunder! she has vanished!" he exclaimed, excitedly, looking in astonishment at the spot where he had left her a short time before. "She must have fled into the house," he muttered. "Well, cabby, here's your fee, anyhow. You may as well go back."
For some moments Frank Garrick stood quite still and looked up at the house.
"Of all places in the world, who would have expected to find her here—next door to Nannie. It's certain that Nannie does not know of it. She could not keep it if she did. Well, this is a pretty howdy-do—two rivals living next door to each other. Nannie is expecting me to call on her this evening. If it were not for that, I wouldn't show up at all, I'm so upset by that little beauty, Ida May."
Very slowly he walked up the steps of the adjoining house and pulled the bell. To his great surprise, he learned that Nannie was out.
"She will be sure to be back presently," added the girl who answered the bell. "Won't you come in and wait?"
"No," he answered, glad of the excuse. "I'll run in some evening during the week."
With that he turned on his heel and walked rapidly away.
Meanwhile, the carriage bearing Nannie Rogers and the still unconscious Ida May rolled quickly onward, and stopped at length before a red-brick building on the outskirts of the city.
Ida May's swoon lasted so long that even Nannie grew frightened.
"Wait," she said to the driver, "I will have to step in first and see if they will receive her."
After fully five minutes had elapsed, the door opened and a tall man looked out.
"It is I, doctor," said Nannie Rogers. "May I step inside? I want to speak to you. I have a patient waiting outside the gate."
"Dear me! is it really you? You come at rather a late hour. Still, you know you are a priviliged person here."
"I ought to be, since I have learned so many secrets about the place and yourself," she said, "when I was nurse here."
"Didn't I give you five hundred dollars to insure secrecy when you left here?"
"Well, I kept my promise. I never told anything, did I?"
"Let me understand what you want," he said, abruptly. "Did I understand you to say that there was a patient outside?"
The girl nodded.
"It does not matter who or what she is," she said, tersely. "It is the desire of her friends that she be kept here for a few months. I suppose you are anxious to know about the pay?"
"Of course. That's where my interest comes in," he said.
"Well, I will be responsible for it," she said.
"You?" he said, amazedly.
"Yes; why not?" she returned.
He looked at her with something like doubt.
"You dare not refuse to accept her!" she declared.
"Do you mean that for a threat?" he exclaimed, fiercely.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I can not be held accountable for the way in which you take my assertion," she declared.
The frown deepened on the man's face.
"For convenience's sake, we will say that the girl is an opium-eater, and that is why you are keeping her under such strict surveillance."
The man muttered some strange, unintelligible remark.
"I suppose the cabman will help me in with the girl?" he said, harshly.
"Of course," replied Nannie Rogers, impatiently.
The girl's figure was so light that "the doctor," as he termed himself, found little difficulty in bringing her into the house without aid.
Nannie Rogers stood in the hall-way, and followed him into the reception room, where he laid the girl down upon a rude couch. She watched him as he threw back her long dark veil, and cried out in wonder at the marvelous beauty of the still white face—the face so like chiseled marble.
"How young and how very lovely!" he remarked; and as he spoke, he unfolded the long dark cloak that enveloped her.
A sharp exclamation broke from his lips, and he turned around suddenly.
"Nannie Rogers!" he said.
But the look of astonishment that he saw on her face was as great as his own bore. Nannie Rogers' look of astonishment quickly gave way to one of the most intense hatred; ay, a very demon of rage seemed to have taken possession of her.
"I wonder that you brought her here," said the doctor.
But Nannie Rogers was speechless. She was gazing like one turned to stone upon the face of the girl whom she believed to be her rival.
"I have a double reason for hating her now," she said, under her breath, clinching her hands so tightly that her nails cut deep into her palms. But she did not even feel the pain.
"I say, I wonder that you brought her here," repeated the doctor.
"I knew of no better place," she replied, turning her eyes uneasily away from him. "You must not refuse to receive her."
"Who is she?" he asked.
"I refuse to answer your question," she replied, grimly. "You know only this about her: She is a confirmed opium-eater. One who is very much interested in her brought her here to be treated by you. She is to be kept here, under strict watch, to prevent her getting away. If she writes any letters they are to be forwarded to me."
And thus it happened that when Ida May opened her troubled eyes, after the doctor and an attendant had worked over her for upward of an hour, she foundherself in a strange room, with strange faces bending over her. She looked blankly up at them.
"The waves are very high," she moaned. "Come back on the beach, girls," she murmured.
"She is out of her head," exclaimed the doctor, turning nervously to his attendant. "I ought not to have taken this girl in," he continued, in alarm. "I fear we shall have no end of trouble with her. This looks like a long and lingering illness."
"She is so young, and as fair as a flower," murmured the attendant, bending over her. "I feel very sorry for her. If a fever should happen to set in, do you think it would prove fatal to her?" she asked, eagerly.
"In nine cases out of ten—yes," he replied, brusquely.
At the very hour that this conversation was taking place, Royal Ainsley, the scape-grace, was ascending the brown-stone steps of the St. John mansion.
"I will take beautiful Florence and her stately mamma to the ball to-night," he mused, under his breath. "Before we return, I will have proposed to the haughty beauty. Trust me for that. They think I am the heir of my uncle, wealthy old Royal Ainsley, who died recently, and—curse him!—left all his wealth to my gentlemanly cousin, even making him change his name to that of Eugene Mallard, that the outside world might not confound it with mine. Yes, I will marry beautiful Florence St. John, and live a life of luxury!"
In that moment there rose before his mental vision the sweet sad face of beautiful Ida May, the fair young girl whom he had wronged so cruelly and then deserted so heartlessly.
The servant who answered the bell at that moment, put a stop to Royal Ainsley's musings.
He had only a few moments to wait in the drawing-room before Miss St. John appeared.
She looked so lovely in her beautiful ball-dress that his eyes glowed and his heart beat. Before he had an opportunity to utter the words that were on his lips, the young girl's mother entered the drawing-room.
She was so gay and bright with him, that the mother wondered vaguely if she had forgotten the story which she had told concerning him.
The warning glance which she gave her daughter reminded her that she must act decorously.
The girl was very much in love, and it was easy enough for her to forgive him for having had another sweetheart.
He accompanied mother and daughter to the grand ball. He was so gay and so brilliant and so witty, that he charmed the beautiful Miss St. John more than ever, and he knew by her smiles that his efforts were not in vain.
Ainsley was the very poetry of motion. It was a dream of delight to Florence St. John, as they made the round of the magnificent ball-room, with his arms clasped about her, his handsome face so near her own.
"Come into the conservatory, Florence," he whispered; "I have something to tell you."
How strange it was the scene and the occasion did not cause him to remember thatotherscene and thatothergirl whom he had once brought into the conservatory to listen to words of burning love!
"Florence," he whispered, "I have something to tell you. Will you listen to me?"
"Yes," she said, her heart beating furiously, for, woman-like, she knew what was coming. The lovely color on her cheeks deepened, the girl's blue eyes grew luminous and tender.
"Florence," he cried, "how shall I tell you what I have to say? Oh, Florence, let me tell it quickly, lest my courage fail! I love you, dear—love you as I have never loved any one in my life before!"
Looking into the dark, handsome face of the young man before her, Florence St. John saw that she was in the presence of a mighty passion—a great love.
In an instant he was kneeling by her side, his whole soul in his eyes and on his lips. It was the very first time in his life that Royal Ainsley's heart was ever stirred with love.
If Florence St. John had even been poor, he would have cared for her. He started in first by wanting the girl for her money; it ended by his wanting her for herself.
He caught the little hand in his that was carrying the beautiful bouquet of roses he had sent her, and held it tightly.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, "the time has come at last, my beautiful love, for which I have waited so long. Surely you know what I have to tell you, Florence!" he said, drawing back and looking at her.
"I haven't the least idea," declared the girl, in whom the spirit of coquetry was strong. "Really, I do not understand."
"There needs be no understanding, my beautiful love!" he cried. "None! I have come to tell you in words what I have already told you a hundred times in a hundred different ways—I love you with all my heart! I love you! I know no other words. There is none which can tell how dearly or how much all my heart, my soul, my life goes out in those few words—I love you!"
His voice died away in a whisper.
"I have a true and serious friendship for you, Mr. Ainsley," she answered, coyly; "but I—I have never thought of such a thing as love or marriage."
"Will you think of itnow?" he answered, eagerly.
He loved her all the more for this sweet, womanly, modest hesitation.
She arose from the seat near the fountain where he had placed her.
"Well, let it rest in that way," she answered. "I'll refer the subject to mamma; but you are not to say one word of love to me, nor speak to her about the matter for at least two months."
"Florence, you are cruel," he cried, "to keep me so long in suspense. Tell me, at least, that if your mother favors my suit, I may hope that you are not indifferent to me."
But she would not answer him. Her heart beat high, the fever of love throbbed in her veins; but, like all well-bred young girls, she had been schooled by early training to make no sign of preference for any man at his first avowal of affection. As he led her from the conservatory, past the fountain, the fragrant water-lilies, past the green palms and the flowering orchids, he gave a terrible start.
In that moment there came to him the memory of Ida May. He was annoyed by the very thought of her in that hour, and he quickly put it from him.
When they returned to the ball-room, Florence was as sweet as ever; but neither by word or by sign did she betray any rememberance of the scene which had just occurred in the conservatory.
He left Florence and her mother at the door of their home an hour later, but he did not have the opportunity of holding the little white hand in his for one moment, or of holding even a word of conversation with her.
"Well," said Mrs. St. John, when she and her daughter found themselves alone for a moment, "I saw him take you to the conservatory. You were gone a long time. Did he propose?"
"Yes!" returned the girl, languidly.
"Yes!" echoed Mrs. St. John. "Why, how can you take it so calmly, my Florence? You accepted him, of course?"
"No," returned the girl, calmly. "I said that I would like to have two months to consider the matter before the subject was broached to you."
"You are mad, Florence!" cried her mother. "A wealthy young man like that is not captured every day."
"We are not so poor, mamma, that I should make a god of wealth," said the girl.
"Oh, certainly not," said her mother; "but I have always been afraid you would be sought after by some fortune-hunter."
"I am sorry," said Mrs. St. John, after a moment's pause, "that you have refused to consider his suit for at least two months. Eligible young men are not so plentiful nowadays that a young girl can be so independent."
"I need not askyouwhat your opinion of an eligible young man is," said the young girl, throwing back her head haughtily, "for I know you would answer—a large bank account. But inmyopinion that does not constitute all, where the happiness of a life-time is at stake. I would rather marry a man whose reputationwas spotless, if he did not have a second coat to his back. There is something more than money in this world to make our happiness. I amgladinstead of sorry that I refused to give him an answer for two months. I shall demand to know who the young girl is who came to our door, and what she is to him."
"Then you will be doing a very unwise thing," declared her mother, emphatically. "Let well enough alone. I told the girl to call around to-morrow night, and when she comes I will have a talk with her."
"Will you permit me to be present at the interview, mamma?"
"By no means!" exclaimed Mrs. St. John, with asperity. "The story that no doubt will be unfolded to me is not for ears such as yours. I will tell as much to you as I deem necessary for you to know; let that suffice."
But the young beauty and heiress was not to be appeased. She made up her mind to see the girl at all hazards when she should come; but much to the surprise of both mother and daughter, the girl did not put in an appearance.
That day passed, as did also the next and the next. A week went by and lengthened into a fortnight, and still the girl came not.
"You see, my dear, her statement was false!" cried Mrs. St. John, triumphantly. "She feared that we would investigate her story, and she was no doubt a fraud. If you believe all those strange stories you hear, you will have enough to do. She was no doubt looking for hush-money, and when I did not offer to give it to her, you see she did not return."
This seemed quite the truth, as Florence saw it.
How wrong it had been to even suspect him! She made up her mind that if he should broach the subject before the time she had named, she might not refuse his pleading.
She was expecting him that very evening. He came at last, looking so handsome, so buoyant, that the girl'sheart went out to him at once, as the hearts of so many women had done.
He brought her some beautiful violets, and he knew he had as good as won her when he saw her fasten them in the bodice of her dress.
Florence St. John was sitting in a velvet arm-chair but a short distance away. Her beautiful face was softened, more so than he had ever seen it before, the smile on her lips was sweeter—the proud, half-defiant, flashing loveliness seemed all at once to grow gentle.
He no longer seemed quite sure of her. It was Florence St. John's silence that alarmed him, perhaps.
"I wish," he cried, "that I knew in what words and in what fashion other men make love."
"Does not your own heart teach you?" asked the young girl, suddenly.
His face flushed at the question.
"Yes," he answered; "but I am not sure that the teachings are of the right kind. You have not answered me, and it must bemyfault, either because I have not expressed myself properly or that I have not made myself understood. Florence, I want you—with my whole heart I ask you—I want you to become my wife."
"Am I the first person you have ever told this to?" she asked, slowly, looking him in the face.
Almost every girl he had ever made love to had asked him the same question, and he was not abashed by it.
The ever-ready answer was on his lips instantly.
"How could you ever believe that I had spoken one word of love to any one but yourself," he said, reproachfully. "No other face has ever had the slightest attraction for me. The men of my race have but one love in a life-time. I have never loved before I met you. I shall love you until I die. Are you answered?"
He looked straight into her face as he uttered the falsehood.
There did sweep across his mind, as he uttered the falsehood, the memory of Ida May; but he put it from him quickly.
How strange it was that her memory should always haunt him, try hard as he would to banish it!
"You are quite sure that you never loved any girl but me?" she repeated.
"Quitesure," he responded. "To doubt me causes me great pain, Florence."
"Then forget that I asked the question," she said, sweetly, believing in him implicitly.
"And you will be mine?" he whispered, holding the little hand closer.
"Yes," she answered, solemnly.
He caught her in his arms in a transport of delight.
"Thank you—thank you for those words, Ida!" he cried.
"Did I understand you to call meIda?" she asked in wonder.
"No," he answered, boldly, cursing himself for the slip of the tongue. "I was about to add: 'I do so thank you,' but you did not give me an opportunity to finish the sentence."
The falsehood was so adroitly told that she believed him.
"I shall have to put a curb on my tongue, or Heaven knows what name I shall be saying next."
Should she tell him of the young girl who was at the door waiting to see him? She remembered her mother's words the next moment, to say nothing of the matter.
"Now that you have been so good as to consent to marry me, we are to consider ourselves engaged. The question is, when will you marry me? It may as well besoonas late."
"Oh, I really don't know about that now," she declared.
"Make me happy by saying that it will be as soon as possible," he urged.
There was no denying anything he asked in that winsome voice.
"I promise," she repeated, after another pause.
He caught her in his arms and strained her to his bosom.
"You have made me the happiest man in the whole wide world, Florence!" he cried, rapturously.
Suddenly his arms fell from her and he reeled backward, staring at the window with widely dilated eyes.
"What is the matter, Royal? Are you ill?" cried Florence, in the greatest terror.
"Some one passed along the porch just outside the window," he panted—"a woman hurrying toward the vestibule door. She will ring the bell in a moment!" he gasped.
At that instant there was a heavy peal at the front door bell.
"Florence," repeated Royal Ainsley, his face white as death, his teeth chattering, "order the servants not to answer the bell!"
But it was too late; the door had already swung back on its hinges. An instant later the servant appeared with a card.
"A gentleman, miss," he said. "I told him you were not at home, as you requested."
Florence St. John held the card in her white fingers.
"You see, it was not a lady," she said, half amused at his agitation.
He drew a breath of intense relief.
"Pardon me, Florence," he said. "I—I—thought it was one of your girl friends who was about to share your attention with me. I gave way to my annoyance. Be kind, and forget it. Remember the old adage: 'One finds much to pardon in a man who is in love.'"
His explanation of the matter satisfied her. Very young girls are never suspicious. The remembrance of that one evening always stood out bright and clear in Florence St. John's life. She gave herself up to happiness, and when Royal urged her to name an early day, she laughingly consented.
"All the ladies in our family have been married in April," she declared.
"That is almost four months from now, my darling," he groaned. "Do not ask me to wait so long. So much might take place within that time!"
He was about to add "to part us," but stopped himself just in time.
"A lady has to have atrousseauprepared," she said, archly. "And when you put yourself in the hands of thesemodistes, you are at their mercy; they will not be hurried. Mamma, I am sure, would not consent to an earlier marriage than that. I hope that I may persuade her to do so."
"You will allow me to persuade her differently, if I can?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, if you can," she answered.
"I will try to settle it before I leave the house this very night," he declared. "Ah, here comes your mother now! If you will make some kind of an excuse to absent yourself from the room, my darling, for a few moments, I will urge my suit so eloquently that she will find it difficult to say 'no' to me."
Mrs. St. John greeted the young man pleasantly as she entered. She was too thoroughly a woman of the world to greet him effusively, knowing, had she done so, it would be sure to make him too confident of success.
Royal Ainsley laid himself out to please the mother as he had never attempted to please an elderly woman before.
"You asked me to play over a new piece of music for you when you came. If you will please excuse me for a moment, I will get it," said Florence, glancing up shyly at him with laughing eyes, as much as to say, "I am going to give you a chance for the longed-for interview with mamma"—a look which Royal Ainsley answered with a nod. Florence had scarcely reached the upper landing ere Royal Ainsley left his seat, and walked eagerly over to Mrs. St. John's side.
"My dear lady," he began, dropping into a seat oppositeher, "I want to tell you a little story and hear your opinion about it."
Mrs. St. John was wise enough to know what was coming, but she did not betray more than the usual interest.
"It is the story of a young man who wished to possess a treasure which belonged to another. He yearned for it with all his soul.
"My dear lady, not to beat further round the bush, let me say I am the young man who wishes to possess the treasure which you hold as sacred. That treasure is your beautiful daughter Florence, my dear lady. I love her with all my heart. I want your consent to make her my wife."
"Dear, dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. St. John, apparently greatly frustrated. "I hope you have not spoken a word of this to the dear child."
"Yes, I have, and we have both determined to abide by your decision, as to how long we shall have to wait, though we both hope you will set as early a day as possible."
"Remember that my Florence is only a school-girl yet," declared the mother. "I could not think of parting from her yet."
"Dear, dear lady!" cried Royal Ainsley, "do not doom me to such pitiful suspense, I beg of you! There are some men who could wait with much patience, but I am not one of them. I should have to go away and travel incessantly."
This was exactly what Mrs. St. John did not wish to happen. The gilded youth before her was too good a catch in the matrimonial market to lose.
Every mother is always glad to have her daughter make a good match. She was no exception to the rule.
And when she read in the paper, a few months later, of that uncle's death, and that he had left his vast wealth to his nephew, Royal Ainsley, she was determined that no effort should be spared to make him fall in love with her daughter.
He grew eloquent in his pleading. Ere ten minutesmore had elapsed, he had drawn from Mrs. St. John's lips the promise that the wedding should take place in four months' time at the very latest.
He made up his mind to accept this decision for the present, but he would certainly depend upon his own eloquence and persuasive powers in the near future to overcome her scruples and influence her to name an earlier day.
He left the house that night buoyant of spirits and gay of heart. It was strange that in that hour he thought of Ida May.
We must now return to Ida May, dear reader, and the thrilling experiences the poor girl was passing through in the lonely stone house on the river-road.
Owing to the drug which was being constantly administered to her, from the hour she crossed the threshold Ida knew little or nothing of what was going on in the outside world.
The days lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months.
Her remittances came regularly; still, the "doctor" of the sanitarium was heartily sick of his bargain. He dared not refuse Nannie Rogers' request to keep her there, for reasons which would put him behind the prison bars had they reached the ears of the authorities.
When he saw the girl grow whiter and more fragile with each passing day, his alarm increased.
In this horrible place Ida May wore out four long and weary months of her young life.
They had long since ceased giving her the drug. It was unnecessary now to waste any more of it upon her.
When Ida May's mind slowly cleared, and a realization of what was going on about her came to her, she looked in the greatest astonishment at the strangeapartment and the grim-faced woman who was bringing food to her.
"Where am I, and who are you?" she asked. "Oh, I remember! I swooned on the steps of the boarding-house. Didhehave me brought here?"
"Yes," retorted the doctor's sister, thinking that the better way of stopping all questioning.
A bitter cry of horror rose to Ida May's lips.
"Then I must go away from here at once!" she declared, attempting to gain her feet.
But she was so weak that she staggered and would have fallen had not the woman sprung forward and saved her.
"Don't go on in that way," said the woman, brusquely. "You are to remain here until you are—well. It won't be over a fortnight longer. You've been here some time."
"But Iwill notremain here!" exclaimed Ida May, excitedly. "I shall leave at once!"
The woman turned the key in the lock, coolly removed it, and slipping it into her pocket, remarked:
"This is a sanitarium. It is not for patients to say when they shall leave here.Thatis the doctor's business."
"But tell me, why does any one wish to keep me here?" cried Ida May, piteously. "No one in the whole world has any interest in me."
"I am surprised to hear you say that," declared the woman, grimly, with something very much like a sneer in her harsh voice.
The words, the tone in which they were uttered, and the look which accompanied them, cut the poor girl to the heart.
"Let me tell you about the man who brought me here," cried Ida, trembling like a leaf, believing it must certainly be her sworn enemy, Frank Garrick, who had taken cruelly taken advantage of her to abduct her when she swooned on the boarding-house stoop.
"I have no time to listen to you," exclaimed thewoman. "We are strictly forbidden to talk to the patients or listen to their tales of woe, which are always woven out of whole cloth."
"You are a woman like myself," cried Ida May, sobbing bitterly. "Surely you can not find it in your heart to turn a deaf ear to me, for pity's sake, if for nothing else."
But the woman was inexorable, and said:
"I tell you, I don't want to hear what you have got to say—and Iwon't, that's all about it. If you make any fuss, you will be put on a diet of bread and water."
"But answer me this one question," said Ida May, in terror. "What reason has any one in keeping me here against my will?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
"There may be plenty of reasons," she retorted, sharply. "Perhaps you are a wife that some man wants to be rid of. Then, again, perhaps you are no wife—a better reason still for some young man wishing to get you safely out of his path just now. A father or a brother may have brought you here to save the family honor. I could go on with any amount of practical reasons."
"Have I not told you that I am all alone in the world?" panted the poor girl, clinging to her with death-cold hands.
"Yes; but I have good reason to think otherwise," replied the woman, bluntly. "There's no use in your making a fuss," continued the woman, harshly. "You may have to put in a long time beneath this roof."
Long hours after the woman left the room, Ida May sat by the window looking out into the darkness, and trying to fathom what seemed to her the greatest kind of a mystery.
Why should Frank Garrick take interest enough inher to have her brought here and to pay money for having her retained here? What interest could he have in her?
He had vowed a terrible vengeance upon her when she repulsed his offer of love. But why should his vengeance have taken this form? What benefit could it be to him to shut her in from the world?
As Ida sat there in the waning light, her eyes fell upon a piece of newspaper in the open fire-place.
"I will wrap up my few belongings in that," she muttered, "and then set about making my way out of this place."
As she smoothed out the half sheet, a few lines midway down one of the columns held her spell-bound as they caught her eye.
For a moment she stared at the words. They seemed to fairly turn the heart in her bosom to stone, for they read as follows:
"The engagement is announced of Miss Florence St. John, of No. —, Fifth Avenue, daughter of Mrs. J. St. John, to Mr. Royal Ainsley, of New York. The wedding will take place at Peekskill, on the Hudson, a month from date."
"The engagement is announced of Miss Florence St. John, of No. —, Fifth Avenue, daughter of Mrs. J. St. John, to Mr. Royal Ainsley, of New York. The wedding will take place at Peekskill, on the Hudson, a month from date."
As she read it, the room seemed to whirl around her. With a cry so piteous that it seemed it must reach God's ear, the poor girl sunk on her knees.
Her husband about to marry another!
No matter what the world might say, she had married him in good faith. He was hers; he belonged to her before Heaven and all the world.
She wrung her hands wildly.
"The marriage must not take place! I must save the man I love from himself and the anger of the watching angels!" she cried.
She prayed wildly that she might not be too late.
Her hat and cloak were hanging on a peg near the door. She took them down, and her hands trembled so that she could hardly put them on. Her knees trembled, and she felt faint. But she summoned all herstrength, and reached the door and turned the knob. But it was locked on the outside.
Her weak hands were powerless to force the door. She crept back to the window and threw open the sash. All that she could behold was a dense mass of trees.
A sturdy oak grew close to the window, its great branches spread out invitingly before her. It was a desperate chance to take in order to reach the ground, which was fully thirty feet below.
Would her strength give way? Dare she take the terrible risk?
"I must! I must!" she cried. "Heaven will protect me!"
Without stopping to debate the matter further, lest she should lose courage, the poor girl climbed with difficulty out on the broad sill and grasped one of the boughs.
Would it bear her weight?
The great bough creaked with its unaccustomed weight, slight as it was, then shot downward.
In the old days at home Ida May had been accustomed to climb trees and to swing about in their branches. She realized that when the bough bent its entire length earthward she must let go her hold, or it would carry her quickly up again. She let go her hold when she felt that the bough of the tree had bent to its utmost. Quickly she fell downward, and Ida May, stunned and helpless for a moment, found herself lying in the long green grass.
She had scarcely fallen three feet, yet the shock had stunned her.
She knew that she must be on some country road. Afar in the distance she could distinctly see rows of glimmering lights. Those she knew must be the lights of the city. She must reach it and find the house on Fifth Avenue before she dared give herself a moment's rest.
She reached the outskirts of the city at last, and crept on toward its great throbbing heart.
Like one in a dream, Ida May saw a tall, thin woman and a young girl, who appeared to be her maid, step from a carriage.
She tried to get out of their way, but if her very life had depended upon it, she could not have done so. The tall woman and Ida May jostled against each other.
With a sharp exclamation of anger, the lady turned upon her. But at that moment Ida reeled, and, with a piteous moan, fell senseless at her feet.
"Well, well! here's a pretty howdy-do!" exclaimed the tall, angular woman. "Here, John!" she called to the footman, who was just shutting the door of the vehicle, "pick up this poor creature, and carry her into the house. It appears I have knocked her down. I hope no bones are broken."
The house into which Ida May was carried was a very small cottage, occupied by a poor laborer and his wife, who were the parents of a little one who was ill but was slowly convalescing.
The wealthy spinster and her maid often called to bring some fruit or medicine to the child.
Miss Fernly was not fair to look upon, but she had a heart of gold. She was quite eccentric; but her purse was always open to the wants of the needy.
"Leave the room instantly," she said to her maid. "Run out and tell the coachman to go for the nearest doctor, and to fetch him back with him at once!"
It seemed an age until the doctor arrived. Everything in human power was done to render the sufferer comfortable.
It was early morn when the doctor departed—and there had come into this great world of sorrow a dark-eyed little stranger—a tiny little one, with a lovely face like its mother's.
"Will it live?" cried the young mother, as she listened breathlessly to its faint little wails.
"I am afraid not," replied the doctor pityingly. "We can only hope."
"Oh, if it would only die—only die!" sobbed the girl's mother. "The world is so cold and so dark!"
Miss Fernly drew back, shocked and pained.
"You must not wish for anything like that to happen," she said, "for God might take you at your word."
For ten long and weary days the hapless young mother lay with her face to the wall, crying out to Heaven to take her and her baby from this cruel world.
In great fear, the doctor had taken charge of the little one, and conveyed it to a near-by foundling asylum. Its presence seemed to irritate the hapless young mother, who was already in a high fever.
Miss Fernly called every day at the cottage, to see how her latest charge was progressing.
She had taken a strange interest in the girl whose identity seemed shrouded in such profound mystery.
The beautiful girl lying so ill under Miss Fernly's care grew steadily worse. Her constant cry for the little one was most pitiful to hear.
"How are we to let her know that it is slowly fading away?" said the woman to the doctor.
"We will not let her know until the last moment; it would do her no good, and be only a setback for her," he responded.
Miss Fernly pitied the young mother from the very depths of her heart. It made this spinster more than ever enraged at men. She had tried to gain the girl's confidence. But it had all been in vain. Ida would lie for hours, looking out of the window at the fleecy clouds, muttering piteously:
"It must have taken place by this time! Oh! I am too late, too late!"
At last Miss Fernly's curiosity got the better of her.
"Will you tell me what you mean by those words, my dear?" she asked, one day. "Perhaps I can help you in some way."
"No," returned Ida May, wearily. "It would be useless, useless."
Miss Fernly took the little white hand in her own and pressed it gently.
"Do not say that, my dear, and in that tone; it is not right. Heaven is always kind enough to send a friend to those who are in need of help."
"You are right," said the girl, quickly. "In my life I have been used to cruelty and unkindness. I—I—"
She stopped for a moment, and something like a flush crossed her pale cheeks; then she burst into tears.
"I will tell you my story, my good lady," she sobbed; "for the weight of it is eating my soul away."
With her throbbing little hands still held tightly in Miss Fernly's, she sobbed wretchedly:
"Surely it is the cruelest story that ever a young girl had to tell. I might have led a happy life if I had not been foolish enough to want to be a fine lady. I had often read of such things happening, and oh! I believed it. Cinderella was changed from a kitchen-maid to a fairy princess, and oh! how happy she was, if but for a brief hour.
"It seemed to me that an opportunity always came for those who watched for it. One came to me. A wealthy family took me with them to Newport for the summer, and there I met a young man fair of face, handsome as a dream. I had never before seen any one like him. You will not wonder that my heart went out to him. I had known him but a few short weeks ere he asked me to marry him, counseling a secret marriage, and I—I consented. It was not a regular minister who married us, but a—a—mayor, or somebody like that.
"My husband brought me to the city. We had barely reached here, after an all-night's journey, when I learned to my horror that he believed me to be the heiress of the wealthy people with whom I had been stopping. When I told him I was not, what a change there came over him! With a face as white as it would ever be in death, he drew back and looked at me.
"'Not an heiress?' he cried. 'Great heavens! what an eternal fool I have made of myself!'
"He left my presence quickly, telling me that it was all a mistake—that the man who had married us had not the power to do so; that it was just as well, perhaps, for he never could wed a poor girl.
"He advised me to go home and forget him, adding insult to injury by concluding with the cruel words; 'Such a little incident in the life of a working-girl will not amount to anything.'"
"The scoundrel of a man!" cried Miss Fernly, in intense indignation. "I wonder that a righteous God lets such men live!"
She found herself intensely interested in the story of this beautiful young girl, whose innocent face she could not help but trust from the first moment that she beheld it.
At first it had occurred to Miss Fernly to ask the name of the rascal, her husband; then she told herself that in all probability it was a false one, and that he could not be traced by it.
"I will think the matter over," said Miss Fernly, "and conclude what action you should take. For your child's sake, you can not allow this man to go free. You would be committing a crime against society at large."
Just at that moment the doctor entered the room. He motioned Miss Fernly to one side. By some strange intuition, Ida May guessed the import of his visit.
"My—my little one!" she cried, inquiringly—"tell me of her! How is she?"
For a moment the doctor was silent.
"I may as well tell the truth now as tell it at some future time," he thought, pityingly.
"Tell me what news do you bring of my little child?" cried Ida.
He crossed over to where the hapless young girl sat, and bent over her pityingly.
"The little one is dead!" he said in a low, hushed voice.
It was dying when he left the foundling asylum. Ashe gazed upon it, he said to himself that it would be but a question of a few short hours. He turned away from it, leaving it in the care of the good nurses, that he might go and gently break the sad news to the young mother.
While Miss Fernly and the hapless young mother were discussing the flowers they would plant over baby's grave, the nurses, with bated breath, were standing around the little cot. Another physician sat by the cot, holding the waxen wrist.
"Quick! hand me the cordial!" he cried. "I may be able to save this little life!"
A small vial was hurriedly handed to him. He poured a few drops between the white lips, and sat down again, patiently awaiting the result.
"If the infant lives five minutes, it will be able to pull through," he observed, quietly.
They watched the great clock on the opposite wall, whose pendulum swung noiselessly to and fro. One minute, two; there was no change. A third; the doctor bent his ear to listen for the feeble breathing, holding a mirror close to the child's lips. There was moisture upon it as he drew it away. Another moment, the crucial moment, was reached.
"See! it is dying!" whispered one of the nurses, touching the doctor's arm.
A half minute more, and then another half minute passed by.
"The baby will live!" exclaimed the doctor, rising to his feet. "Yes, the baby will live," repeated the doctor. "It has had a hard time of it, I see, but it has conquered death.
"It is so strange," he mused, "whom nobody wants or seems to care for clings to life most tenaciously, as though it were worth having.
"A few hours since I was at the home of one of the wealthiest families in the city. That young mother's babe died, though I did everything in human power to save it. The father caught me by the arm when I was first called there, and said:
"'Doctor, save that little child upstairs, and it will be the making of your fortune. You shall name your own price. Stay right here, by night and by day, until it is out of danger, and anything you may ask for shall be yours.'
"He led me through the marble hall and past gilded drawing-rooms and spacious parlors to the chamber above where mother and child lay. It was a plump little mite, with everything to live for. I thought my task would be an easy one; but you have heard the old saying: 'Man proposes, but God disposes.'
"Well it was so in this case. It had only the measles—a disease which every little one has at some time during infancy. No wonder I felt no alarm.
"Although I did my best, it began to fail. I summoned all the experts in the city, bringing together men who were older and wiser than myself, to discover what could possibly be the reason why my skill had failed me in this instance.
"There was nothing which science could suggest that we did not do. But it seemed that fate was against us. The child literally faded before our very eyes, and passed away.
"This one had no such chance of life as the other had, yet it has passed through an illness so dangerous that not one in a thousand ever live through. I predict that it will have an uncommon future," he added, thoughtfully.