For long hours after the doctor had left Ida May, she wept so bitterly over the fate of her little child that Miss Fernly grew alarmed.
"Crying will not bring the baby back," she said. "The Almighty knew best whether He wanted it to live or die. You must not rail against the judgment of God!"
She felt that she must draw her mind into another channel.
"Say that you will be more composed when I see you again," she replied, earnestly, "though it may not be for some days."
"I will try," murmured Ida May, with a sigh. "Will it be long before I see you?" she added, wistfully.
"I am going to my niece's wedding," answered Miss Fernly. "I may remain a few days after at the house."
Ida May drew a long, deep sob.
"How strange the word 'marriage' sounds to me now," she moaned. "When I hear of a young girl's marriage nowadays, I earnestly pray Heaven that her husband may not deceive her!"
"I am sure that there need be nothing to fear inthisinstance," said Miss Fernly. "My niece sent me herfiancé'spicture this morning. He seems to be a noble young fellow. By the way, I will show it to you," she added, still believing that the one thing needful was to divert the girl's mind.
Thoughtless as to what would accrue from her action, Miss Fernly drew a small case from her pocket and touched the spring.
The lid flew back, disclosing a magnificent affair in ivory—the portrait of a young and handsome man.
"He has an honest look in his eyes, and a fair, open countenance," said Miss Fernly. "It was painted three years ago."
As she uttered the words, she handed the portrait to Ida May.
One glance, then a cry of the wildest horror broke from the girl's white, terrified lips.
"God have mercy!" she gasped, "it is he!"
Miss Fernly sprung to her feet, quite as white and terrified as Ida.
"You—you do not mean to say that this is the man who wrought all your woe?" she cried, in horror too great for words.
"Yes!" cried Ida May, springing to her feet, andcrying out: "I swear to you that this is Royal Ainsley, the man whom I wedded, and who deserted me! This is the father of my little dead babe!"
The expression upon Miss Fernly's face was horrible to see.
She rose in awful wrath and struck her hands sharply together as she turned and faced the girl.
"It was fate that sent you across my path," she exclaimed, hoarsely. "But for this timely intervention my innocent niece would have wedded that villain on the morrow. But I thank Heaven that I am now able to prevent it, and to avenge you as well, my poor child. Ah!" she cried, as a sudden thought flashed through her mind, "an idea has come to me, by which I can not only wreak my vengeance upon him, but mete out justice to you as well."
"Oh, no, no; do not do anything to harm him!" cried Ida May, in terror. "Cruel as he has been to me, I love him still, and I shall always love him!"
"What I intend to do will not harm him. I repeat that it will right your wrong," she added, grimly. "There shall be a wedding to-morrow, my poor, unfortunate girl. But listen to me well, and heed what I say—youshall be this man's bride to-morrow, instead of my niece. Leave everything to me."
She gathered up her wrap and gloves and put them on.
"I shall have a great deal to do between now and nightfall. But this I say to you, Ida May: Be ready to go with me when I shall come for you. It may be to-night, perhaps to-morrow night. Ask me no questions now, but trust in me implicitly. Since the hour I came across you in your misfortune, you have found me a good friend to you, Ida May, have you not?"
"Yes," sobbed Ida May, wretchedly. "I—I—would have perished in the street but for you, noble lady. I respect and have all confidence in you."
"Then by that confidence do as I bid you," repeated Miss Fernly. "I will send some clothing for you towear. Wrap about you the long, dark cloak you wore in coming here, and be in readiness."
With these words, Miss Fernly fairly flew from the cottage.
Ida May sunk back in her chair, pale and excited.
"Why should the announcement that he is to be married to-morrow have shocked me?" she moaned. "I had every reason to expect that would occur any day after I read it myself in the paper."
She did not sob or cry out. It seemed to Ida that the very heart within her was crushed. She had borne so much that it appeared there was nothing more left for her to endure.
Miss Fernly was thankful beyond words that she had not brought her maid with her on her last visit.
In all possible haste she hurried to the magnificent home of her sister on Riverside Drive.
Although living in the same city, the married sister saw very little of Miss Fernly, the latter devoted so much of her time to charity. She had not been to the house but once since Mrs. Cramer had written to her of her daughter Hildegarde, and that she was soon to be married.
Hildegarde was delighted when she looked out and saw her aunt drive up.
"What a surprise, dear aunt!" she cried, throwing her white arms about her. "Mamma and I were just speaking of you. I was almost afraid that you had forgotten the date set for the wedding. And just to think you have never met my intended, and he so anxious to see the darling aunt I have always been talking of! I want you to see him, he is so lovely. But what did you think of the picture?" rattled on Hildegarde, in her gay, girlish fashion, without giving the other a chance to answer.
"You are very, very much in love with him?" asked Miss Fernly, anxiously.
"Why shouldn't I be?" cried the girl, blushing as red as a rose, and hiding her peachy face against heraunt's broad shoulder. "No girl ever had a more devoted lover."
"Yes, it is plainly to be seen that you do love him," said Miss Fernly, sternly.
"I do not know what to tell you about him, auntie, except that he is the dearest fellow in all the world, and just adores me; at least, that is what he tells me," said Hildegarde.
"Humph!" ejaculated Miss Fernly.
"I would rather you would see him for yourself, then you could form your own opinion. He will be here this evening. I am sure you will like him."
"At what time do you expect him!" asked Miss Fernly, with unusual interest.
"Let me answer you in the words of the song," said Hildegarde, laughing lightly.
"'Somebody's coming when the dew-drops fall.'"
"Do not be silly, Hildegarde," said her aunt, sharply.
"I asked you what time this young man is to call here this evening."
"It is generally half past seven when he arrives," said Miss Cramer, smiling mischievously.
"Very well," said Miss Fernly. "When he calls, I will go down into the parlor and interview him."
"I'm sure he would be most delighted," returned the young girl, demurely.
"That's neither here nor there," returned Miss Fernly. "I do not care whether he likes me or not."
Miss Fernly had made her resolution. She would interview this man when he came. She would foil him, this fiend in human form, who would wed one young and lovely girl after bringing sorrow to another.
When Miss Fernly made up her mind to a course, nothing could change it.
"What I am about to do is for Hildegarde's good,"she told herself grimly. "There will be a few tears at first, but the time will come when she will thank me with all her heart for saving her from such a consummate rascal. The woman of our race have never forgiven men who have deceived other women. Hildegarde should not be an exception to the rule. She is young now, but when she comes to know more about life she will thank me for saving her."
"Now," said her aunt, aloud, depositing herself in the nearest chair, and deliberately removing her hat and mantle, "tell me about this sweetheart of yours."
Hildegarde came over to the hassock and flung herself down upon it and looked up with laughing eyes into her aunt's face.
"I sent you his picture," she said, "because you did not seem inclined to come here to meet him, auntie, so that you could see for yourself just how he looks. But it does not do him justice," went on Hildegarde, clasping her hands. "That portrait does not tell you how good and noble he is, and how much he thinks of me!"
An expression that was almost divine came over the face of Hildegarde Cramer as she uttered the words in a low, sweet voice.
"Tell me about him," again urged her aunt, anxious to fathom just how deep was the love the girl bore him.
Should she confide in Hildegarde the story of Ida May, Miss Fernly knew that the present state of affairs must end.
There were girls who would turn in horror from a man who had done as cruel a deed as that which was laid at the door of the man whom Hildegarde was about to marry. But might not Hildegarde cling to him despite all?
"He is all that is noble," continued Hildegarde, dreamily.
"What if he should cease to love you?" said her aunt.
Hildegarde started; a quiver of pain passed over the lovely face.
"Cease to love me!" she repeated. "Ah! do you know what would happen to me, auntie, if that were to occur? I should die, that is all. When all was gone that made life worth living, how could I live?"
"It is not easy to die," said Miss Fernly, huskily.
"It would be easy for me," declared Hildegarde.
"One can not live without a heart, and I have given mine to my love."
She continued to talk of her lover in a sweet, girlish fashion; but Miss Fernly scarcely heard a word she said, she was so engrossed in her own thoughts and plans.
"You would be so glad if you knew just how perfectly happy I am, auntie," she went on, in a half-dreamy fashion. "Why, it doesn't seem the same world to me. He came into my life as the sun breaks upon the flowers, suddenly, swiftly, and all at once my life became complete. I met him on board the steamer. I shall never forget how it came about. I had just come upon deck, and was about to walk to the railing, when the ship suddenly gave a lurch and I fell forward. I would have fallen to the deck had not a young man who was standing near-by sprung quickly forward and caught me. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. My mother, who had followed me on deck, thanked him warmly. Love came to me swiftly. At the first glance, when our eyes met, I knew that I had met the only one in the world that I could ever love. I loved him then with all my heart."
"Such a sudden love could not be a happy one; it could not end happily."
The girl smiled.
"In most instances that is the case," replied Hildegarde. "But in mine—mine—ah, Heaven is to be thanked—mine is to be a happy love, and will have a happy ending!"
Ah, if she had but known, if she had but guessed the thoughts that filled Miss Fernly's heart, she might have died then and there.
The sun set, and the dusk crept into the room; but itwas a subject that Hildegarde loved, and she could have talked on forever about her lover.
"Mamma is quite late in returning," she said, at length. "She may not even come home to dinner."
This proved to be the case. Hildegarde and her aunt dined alone. She could not help but notice how her niece watched the clock with the brightest of eyes, the color deepening on her cheeks.
"I shall want to talk with this lover of yours alone," said Miss Fernly, a trifle hoarsely.
"Will you want to talk to him long, auntie?" asked her niece, wistfully.
"Yes, an hour, or perhaps two. I ordered my carriage at seven; it will be here as soon as he arrives. He will drive home with me, and can talk with me in the carriage."
Hildegarde was a little surprised at this announcement, but it did not occur to her to offer any objection.
"Ah, here he comesnow!" cried Hildegarde, blushing furiously, all in a flutter of delight.
In a moment it seemed to her that her aunt had donned her hat and mantle. She was at the door as soon as the servant, dragging Hildegarde by the arm.
Eugene Mallard was surprised to see Hildegarde coming to the door to meet him. Then his eyes fell upon the tall, austere woman in the rear.
He felt intuitively that this must be the aunt of whom Hildegarde was always speaking. Even before he heard the hurried words of introduction, the young man held out his hand with a cordial smile.
"I am most pleased to meet you, Miss Fernly," he said. "I have heard Hildegarde speak of you so much that I feel as if I really knew and loved you already."
Was it only his fancy, or was the greeting of Hildegarde's aunt a trifle chilly?
"You are to accompany my aunt to her home," said hisfiancée; adding, with a little twinkle in her eye: "Auntie has something to say to you."
For a moment he looked crestfallen; then he added, gallantly:
"I shall be most pleased. Pray command me, Miss Fernly."
Another moment, and they were seated in the carriage. He began to talk brightly to his companion; but to his great surprise, she answered him only in monosyllables.
"I am very much afraid she does not like me," he thought, with some consternation, and he redoubled his efforts to be agreeable. Any one who was related in any way to his darling Hildegarde was dear to him. He was always liked by women; he hoped from the depths of his heart that this lady would not form an aversion to him. But somehow he felt a cold, uncomfortable chill creeping over his heart. Was it a premonition of the evil that was so soon to come?
Although Eugene Mallard tried his best to entertain Hildegarde's aunt as they rode along, it seemed to him an almost impossible undertaking. She stared at him too intently that he wondered what she was thinking of. He thought it might be as to whether he would make Hildegarde a good husband, and he wished with all his heart to set her doubts at rest on this point, so he began to talk of Hildegarde, and tell her how much he thought of her.
The more he spoke of her niece, the sterner Miss Fernly's face seemed to grow.
He was wondering to himself how long she would detain him, he longed so for to return to Hildegarde, who he knew was waiting for him with the utmost impatience.
Suddenly Miss Fernly turned to him.
"You say you would do anything for Hildegarde's good—for her future happiness?" she asked, slowly.
"Yes—certainly," he answered. "I would lay down my life for her. No sacrifice would be too great for me to make."
"You are sure of that?" she asked, quickly.
"There is no question of it," Hildegarde's lover answered, promptly. "To save her from a moment's pain, I would lay down twenty lives if I had them."
"Very well; I will soon put you to the test," thought Miss Fernly.
Suddenly the carriage came to a stop. To the young man's great surprise, he found, as he assisted Miss Fernly to alight, that they were in front of a small and unpretentious church.
"Step this way," she said, leading him round to the door of the parsonage.
He had heard that Miss Fernly was very religious; but her action now rather puzzled him. Still without a thought of what the outcome might be, he followed where she led.
She spoke hurriedly to the coachman, and with a bow, he drove quickly away.
"The minister has been called suddenly away to a sick person," said the girl who admitted them to the parsonage. "He has begged me to say that he would return within the hour."
The young man wondered what business she had with the parson; but he made no comment, but followed her into the parsonage. The reception room into which they were shown was dimly lighted. Miss Fernly seemed to be well acquainted there.
Mr. Mallard took the seat Miss Fernly indicated.
"I have something to say to you," she began, in a hard, set voice. "I shall break right into the subject at once. Your wedding with my niece is fixed for to-morrow night, is it not?"
"Yes," he said, wonderingly.
"Why should not your marriage take place to-night—hereandnow?" she asked, looking intently at him.
For an instant he almost believed that the goodlady had taken leave of her senses. He stared at her in the most complete bewilderment.
In a slow and emphatic voice she repeated her words.
"My dear madame," he said, "I do not see how that could possibly be. You know it is not to be aquietaffair. Over five hundred invitations have been issued."
"You will be married to-night, and let to-morrow night take care of itself," said Miss Fernly, sternly.
Had Hildegarde sent her aunt to make this arrangement? He could hardly believe his own senses. But surely it must be so.
He remembered the twinkle in her eyes as she had said.
"You are to ride with auntie, she has something to say to you."
"I am so dumfounded, I do not know how to answer you," he declared.
"You will not refuse me?" she asked.
"Refuse you! How could I refuse a request in which my happiness is so much bound up?" he answered, eagerly.
"It is well!" said Miss Fernly. "Your bride is on the way here by this time."
"Is this idea one ofyourplanning?" asked Hildegarde's lover, curiously.
"Yes," she answered, very quickly.
It seemed a very strange proceeding to him, but he then did not pretend to understand the ways of women. He was only too anxious to carry out Hildegarde's slightest wish. He was so deeply in love with her that he did not question the strangeness of her aunt's action.
Before he had time to think over the matter, two carriages drove up to the door from different directions. Out of one stepped the minister, and from the other a slender figure, robed in snowy white, and almost enveloped in a white tulle veil.
He would have sprung to meet her, but Miss Fernly held him back.
"Not yet," she said. "She will meet us at the altar; the minister will bring her in."
Miss Fernly seemed to be running this novel affair, and he did not suppose that it would be worth while to try to dissuade her, since she must have talked it over with Hildegarde.
He followed her into the dimly lighted church, and down the long aisle to the altar-rail. Only one light was lighted, which left all the corners of the great edifice in darkness and gloom.
He had naturally a great deal of nerve; but to save his life he could not help a feeling of awe coming over him.
Before he had time to say anything, he saw the minister in his clerical robes coming from an opposite direction with the bride-elect on his arm. His heart throbbed, every pulse quickened; a moment more, and they had advanced.
"My darling!" he cried, as he sprang forward and clasped the trembling girl in his arms.
She tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat. It seemed to Eugene Mallard that he was in a dream. Even the girl who stood by his side seemed scarcely real. The folds of the filmy veil almost concealed her.
"Are you ready?" asked the minister, opening the book.
"Yes," answered Eugene Mallard, promptly.
"Yes," said Miss Fernly, speaking for the bride-elect.
The marriage ceremony was begun. Then came the question solemnly, warningly, from the minister's lips: "If any one knows aught why this man or woman should not be united in holy wedlock, let him now speak, or forever hold his peace!"
There was an ominous silence. Miss Fernly trembled. She was doing a noble action in righting a terrible wrong, she told herself, and there was no response to the clergyman's appeal.
In a voice which seemed still more solemn, he pronounced the two before him man and wife.
The bridegroom caught the bride in his arms, and he laughed gayly to see how she trembled in his embrace.
"My wife!" he cried, straining her to his heart. "Sweet," he murmured in a voice just audible to his bride, "to be the lover of the girl you love, is bliss; but to be the husband of the girl you love, is heaven! Tell me, Hildegarde, are you not as happy as I am?"
A low cry broke from the white lips of the girl he held in his arms. The minister had stepped into the parsonage in response to a summons from one of the servants, and invited the newly wedded couple and Miss Fernly to follow him.
He was not surprised that they held back a moment. It seemed to be the custom with all new-married couples to loiter for a moment in the dim shadows of the old church. The critical moment of Miss Fernly's triumph had come. She had done a noble action, she told herself. But somehow she trembled at the thought of what Eugene Mallard would do when he discovered that the girl whom he had wedded was not the beautiful Hildegarde but the cruelly wronged Ida May.
The young husband had drawn his bride beneath the chandelier of the church, and all unmindful of Miss Fernly's presence, he declared, rapturously:
"I must have a kiss from the lips of my wife."
As he spoke he drew aside her veil. One glance at the face it had hidden—oh, so piteous to behold in its awful pallor! and a cry, surely the most bitter that ever broke from human lips, issued from Eugene Mallard's. His arms fell from the supple figure, and he drew back, crying hoarsely:
"You arenotHildegarde! Great God! what does this mean? Who are you?"
Miss Fernly stepped forward.
"I wonder that you ask such a question!" she cried, shrilly. "Look upon her, and behold for yourself the young girl youdupedand deserted! Now, thank Heaven, she is your wedded wife!" she added, triumphantly. "I have helped her to right her wrongs!"
"But I never saw this young woman before!" cried Eugene Mallard, striking his forehead with his clinched hand. "There is some terrible mistake! Speak out!" he cried to the girl at his side, who was trembling like an aspen-leaf. "Who are you who has done this terrible deed?"
Like one dying, the hapless bride fell on her knees at Miss Fernly's feet.
"There is some terrible mistake!" she cried, wildly. "I—I did not discover it until he drew back my veil. He—is—not—the man!"
"Not the man?" repeated Miss Fernly, aghast, hardly believing that she had heard aright, her eyes almost starting from their sockets. "I—I do not understand!" she cried, recoiling from the girl. "Do you mean that the man you have just wedded, and the one to whom you told me was the cause of wrecking your life, is not one and the same?"
The girl shook her head, while Eugene Mallard looked from one to the other like one in a dream from which he was expecting to soon awake.
Miss Fernly caught her by the shoulder.
"What does it mean?" she cried, hoarsely. "You assured me that this man was the cause of all your trouble, and now you dare to tell me that he is not the one! And I—brought about this, making you his wife! It was a trick of yours, you shameless creature, to secure a husband for yourself. Quick! Be gone from this sacred edifice ere I strike you down at my feet, you most shameless outcast, you horrible creature!"
Ida May drew back in terror from the upraised hand.
"Hold!" cried Eugene Mallard, stepping between them. "No matter what this poor creature has done, she is, in the eyes of God and man, my wife!"
By a dexterous movement he had raised the poor girl from her knees, and had swung her out of the reach of the blow that had been meant for her. Despite his anguish, it aroused all the pity and chivalry in his nature to see how the poor thing clung to him in her terror.
"Save me from her wrath," she murmured, clingingto him with death-cold hands, and adding vehemently: "Believe me, it was all a horrible mistake! I saw your picture, and—and I mistook you for another. The church was so dimly lighted, I—I could not see, and I did not know the terrible mistake until—until it was too late! Oh, tell me, tell me, what can I do to undo the great wrong that I have done you?"
Eugene Mallard had sunk into the nearest seat, covering his face with his hands. The horror of the situation had just come to him. By the cruel working of fate he had been wedded to one woman through a horrible mistake, while his heart and soul were another's.
It seemed to him like some horrible dream from which he must soon awake. He had parted from Hildegarde full of hope and love, scarcely an hour before, saying to himself, as he turned and looked back at her, that ere the sun would rise and set again, she would be his own, that they would never be parted from each other after that. And now a barrier had suddenly risen between them which parted them just as surely as though one of them lay in the grave.
His whole soul was bound up in Hildegarde; yet he was wedded to another. It seemed to him that the anguish of it was more than he could bear.
Then came to him the thought that he must protect the woman he had wedded—this poor young creature who still clung to him, imploring him to save her from Miss Fernly's wrath, repeating to him, over and over again, that it was a mistake.
Eugene Mallard roused himself from the stupor which was stealing over him. He must face the terrible consequences of that rash marriage. Although this girl had wrecked his life, ruined his future, yet he could not find it in his heart to curse her.
He could not help but believe her—that it was someterrible mistake; he could not judge her before he knew more about what had prompted her to do this deed. He could not rest until he knew the reason that lay behind it.
"Tell me all about it," he said, hoarsely, turning to the girl, "that I may judge for myself of this action of yours."
"Yes, tell him," cried Miss Fernly, "that I may be cleared of my part in this transaction. You deceived me as well."
In a faltering voice that sounded as though she were dying, Ida May told her story, the man she had married listening intently.
He did not speak until she had concluded, but Miss Fernly saw that the girl's story was greatly affecting him.
"No wonder you mistook me for Royal Ainsley, when you saw that picture," he exclaimed, "for we are cousins. The resemblance between us was most marked when that picture was taken."
"I—I—thought the name Miss Fernly told me was an assumed name, or else you had given me a false one."
Miss Fernly's self-control seemed to leave her entirely as she listened.
"I am responsible for it!" she groaned, wringing her hands. "Oh, what will Hildegarde and my sister say!"
Eugene Mallard and Miss Fernly looked into each other's faces, and their lips were mute.
"Let me go to her and tell her my story," sobbed the hapless bride, "then I will go away, and you shall never look upon my face again!"
"That would not mend matters," replied Eugene Mallard. "I have married you, and nothing can undo that."
"Oh, do not say so!" cried Ida May. "I will free you from the bond whose links have just been forged. You shall have a divorce. I will set you free!"
Eugene Mallard shook his head.
"You would do so if you could," he answered; "but, alas! you can not. Those whom God hath joinedtogether no one has the right to put asunder."
With a sigh that nearly rent his heart, he rose to his feet. The carriage still stood in waiting at the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Miss Fernly.
"We will all three go to Hildegarde, and break it as gently as we can to her—tell her what has happened—break the sad story to her as gently as we can," Eugene repeated.
As one whose feet refused to do her bidding, Miss Fernly tottered up the aisle behind them. What would Hildegarde say—what would she do? Perhaps she would fall dead at their feet, for she loved, with all the passionate love of her heart, the man whom she had promised to wed on the morrow.
"Oh, if I had not been so hasty!" cried Miss Fernly. "I meant to do a noble action, but instead I have wrecked two lives!"
They entered the carriage in silence—a silence which was not broken until they reached the door of the beautiful Cramer mansion. They saw Hildegarde standing at the lace-draped window, peering out into the darkness, eagerly watching for them.
The hapless young lover groaned aloud. Miss Fernly hid her face in her hands. Hildegarde was at the door to greet them almost as soon as the servant.
"You have been gone very long, Eugene!" she cried. "Dear me! how surprised I was to see Aunt Fernly returning with you!"
Then her eyes fell upon the girl in bridal robes her lover was holding by the hand. She did not recognise Ida May because of the veil which she had drawn down over her face, nor did she hear the cry of surprise Ida May uttered when she recognized her.
Miss Fernly had always spoken of the bride to be as her niece, but had never once mentioned her name.
For one moment Ida May stood irresolute. She now realized what she had done, and wondered how Hildegarde would take the terrible mistake.
For a moment the three stood silent. Who wouldbe the one to break the terrible news to Hildegarde?
"What is the matter, and who is this beautiful young girl, clad in bridal robes, whom you hold by the hand, Eugene?"
He tried to speak, but he could not utter a word if his life had depended upon it. Even Miss Fernly seemed to have been stricken dumb. Ida May knew that it devolved upon her to utter the words which would stab Hildegarde Cramer to the very soul. She saw the lover try to speak, and fail, and also saw Miss Fernly's lips twitch convulsively.
Nerving herself for the ordeal through which she must pass, she stepped forward.
"Letmeanswer for them," she said, in a voice that sounded to Hildegarde's ears like the strain of some half-forgotten melody. And as she uttered the words she threw back her veil.
"Ida May!" cried Hildegarde, aghast.
"Yes, I am that hapless creature whom you knew as Ida May."
For an instant there was silence, broken only by the sound of the labored breathing of Miss Fernly, Hildegarde, and Eugene Mallard.
In an instant the haughty heiress had recovered herself. She recoiled from the girl who advanced pleadingly before her.
"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" Ida cried, much to the astonishment of Miss Fernly and her companion, "I did not know that it was you whom I was to confront in this awful hour!"
But Hildegarde shrunk still further from her. How dared this creature, who had passed those weeks at Newport a living lie, to claim acquaintance with her!
She flushed crimson, and retreated from her in abhorrence, wondering how this creature had come here, accompanied by her aunt and lover.
"Hildegarde!" cried Ida May, "listen, for the love of Heaven, and do not judge me too harshly until you have heard all!"
Sobbing wildly, Ida caught at the hem of Hildegarde's dress.
"Auntie!" cried Hildegarde, turning to her relative, "I do not care to listen to anything this—this person has to say. The very air she breathes stifles me. Eugene!" she cried, springing to her lover's side, "take me in to the drawing-room. I—I can not talk to this young girl."
He did not clasp her in his arms, though he made a movement to do so. His arms fell to his sides, and his head drooped to his breast.
He was enduring torture so acute that many a man would have fainted under the strain of it.
Hildegarde looked up into his face in wonder.
"Eugene, my darling!" she cried "are you ill? Tell me! Something terrible must be the matter! Why do you not speak?"
In that instant she seemed to forget the presence of everybody, save the lover who had parted from her a few hours since, and who was now standing before her so greatly changed.
She looked from one to the other in consternation.
"Something has happened," she said. "Why do you keep me in suspense?"
"I am trying to tell you," sobbed Ida May, "but you will not listen."
"Must I listen to her, auntie?" cried Hildegarde, turning to her aunt.
"Yes," said Miss Fernly, "you must listen, my poor child, while I pray to Heaven to give you strength to bear it."
"Eugene!" cried the girl, "why are you silent?"
He could not answer her. He only looked at her with a world of woe in his gaze, his whole frame trembling with anguish.
Ida May never knew in what words she told her strange story. Hildegarde listened like one turned to stone. Ida May told her of the awful mistake that had blasted two lives and parted two who fondly loved each other.
Those who saw the look of pity in the face of Hildegardewould never forget it.
Her face became as pale as marble; the blood receded from the ripe-red lips.
She passed through a life-time of woe in those few minutes. She did not look at Ida May or her lover when the former ceased speaking, but she turned her white, set, tragic face to her aunt.
"Youhave done this dreadful thing!" she cried. "I wonder that Heaven does not strike you dead for it!"
"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" cried Miss Fernly, "I would only be too glad to give my life to atone for my part in this dreadful affair."
The girl looked at her with eyes like jets of flame.
"If you had but told me," she said, in a voice that was more sorrowful than any tears could have been. "You took the reins into your own hands; you meddled with the affairs of another, and see the mischief you have wrought!"
A sort of frenzy seemed to possess her.
"Go!" she cried, turning to Ida May, and pointing toward the door. "Get out of this house, out of my sight, before I call the servants to fling you into the street!"
Ida May crept toward the door. To Hildegarde's intense surprise, Eugene Mallard turned to follow her.
"I will go with you," he said, huskily, "for you—you are my—my wife!"
"Yes; where she goes, I must follow," repeated Eugene Mallard, in a voice husky with emotion, "for she is my wife!"
The words fell upon Hildegarde's ears with a dreadful shock. It was not until then that she realized her lover was separated from her.
She saw him take Ida May's hand and lead her slowly out of the house.
In the years that followed she wondered that the sight did not kill her.
When the door closed after them, Hildegarde stood for a moment stunned, with a white, awful pallor on her face.
Miss Fernly watched her in silence.
Was Hildegarde going mad? If she would only cry out, utter some word. But no; only that awful silence. "Hildegarde," said Miss Fernly, approaching her tremblingly, "what can I say, what can I do, to repair the terrible wrong I have done you?"
"The only thing you can do is to kill me," answered the girl, in a hoarse, unnatural voice.
"Oh, my niece! my precious niece, do not say that!" replied Miss Fernly, beside herself with grief. "You will break my heart!"
"Yours is not the only one that will be broken," returned Hildegarde.
Miss Fernly attempted to approach her, but Hildegarde drew back in loathing.
"Do not come near me!" she cried, with flashing eyes, "lest I forget who you are, and strike you dead at my feet!"
With a quick motion, Hildegarde turned, and without another word, flew up the staircase and up to her ownboudoir, and closed the door securely after her.
"Let me realize it," she murmured. "A few hours ago I was the happiest girl the world held; now I cry out to Heaven to end my life."
She crept up to the mirror, and she stood before it, tall, slender, and erect in the dignity of her own despair, her face white, her dark eyes dark with sorrow.
"Can that be me?" she murmured, crossing her hands over her breast. But the figure reflected gave back no answer.
"He has gone out of my life. What am I to do?" she murmured. "One can never be sure of anything in this world. He left me only a few hours ago, and there was nothing between us but love. I can not believeit! It is some awful dream from which I shall presently awake!"
She wrung her hands wildly; she tore her beautiful dark hair; she was as one mad with anguish. Then she thought of Ida May, and she clinched her hands.
Some one knocked at the door
"Let me in, Hildegarde!" cried her mother, anxiously.
"No!" answered the girl. "I can not—do not ask me. Only leave me here alone. The sight of human faces, the sound of human voices, would drive me mad!"
All in vain the mother pleaded. Suddenly she heard a fall, and when one of the servants whom Mrs. Cramer had summoned burst open the door, she found Hildegarde lying face downward on the velvet carpet.
Miss Fernly had told her sister all, made a clean breast of the whole affair. But Hildegarde's mother did not curse her, as she feared she might do. She only looked at her sister with horror-stricken eyes.
For a fortnight Hildegarde lay on the bed where they had placed her.
The doctor had worked over her for hours.
"She is young," he said to the heart-broken mother, "and while there is life there is hope."
When she arose from her bed, every one was startled at the change in her. She made no complaint, even to Miss Fernly, who hovered around her in an agony more pitiful than words can describe.
Hildegarde was like one on whom the shadow of death had fallen. She grew thin and white; the light was gone from her beautiful eyes, the color from her beautiful face.
No smile, no sound of laughter, came to the pale lips. If her mother, whose heart ached over her beloved child, tried to cheer her, she had but one answer for her, and it was:
"I shall die soon, my heart is slowly bleeding to death."
Then came the announcement that Hildegarde wasgoing abroad. But the paper did not state how long she would remain.
This looked very serious indeed to the friends who had hoped against all hope.
Mrs. Cramer was anxious that none of her companions should behold her, she was so terribly altered. She could not bear the criticisms which she knew her appearance would be sure to occasion. But Hildegarde had stoutly declared she would not go abroad.
"I want to die in my native land," pleaded the girl, piteously.
She sought her couch early, because her mother was anxious about her; but her mother did not know that she paced the floor until the gray dawn.
Now her mother hastened the preparations for the trip abroad.
"She is young, and a change of air and scene will surely bring about forgetfulness," thought Mrs. Cramer.
It was well for her that she could not foresee what was to happen in the near future.
We must return to Ida May, dear reader, and picture to you the awful woe she experienced as she turned from Hildegarde, saying. "Let me go away out of your lives; if my life could atone for what I have done, I would give it."
She scarcely heard Eugene Mallard's words, "Where you go, I must follow, for you are my wife."
She was unaware of his presence, until fleeing down the graveled walk, she heard a step behind her, and a firm hand caught her arm. Turning, she saw the man whom she had just wedded.
She drew back in fear and trembling. He noticed her action, and despite his bitter woe he could not but feel sorry for her.
"We can not undo what has been done, my poor girl," he said. "It was a terrible mistake, but we must face it bravely."
She looked up into his face with wistful eyes.
"If you would only kill me here and now, I would be so grateful to you. No one would ever know. My life is of so little account that not one in the whole world would miss me or grieve for me, and then you could marry Hildegarde!"
He drew back shocked.
"You must not speak in that way," he said. "The life of every human being is sacred. You are entitled to your life, no matter what has happened, until God calls you. I do not blame you, my poor girl, for what has happened. I only say we must try to face the future, and to see what can be done."
Before he could realize what she was about to do, she had flung herself on her knees at his feet, and covered his hands with kisses. Her heart was full of the deepest gratitude to him. He was the only being who had ever spoken kindly to her of late.
He raised her gently.
"You should not kneel to me," he said, "it is not right."
"Yes, I will!" she cried, impulsively. "You are good—you are noble. You do not curse me for what I could not help. I want to show you how bitterly I deplore what has been done! But how are you to realize it?"
While they were speaking, a few drops of rain fell from the heavens, and Ida May, looking up, said to herself that even the angels above were weeping for her.
"Come!" he said, taking her by the hand and leading her along as though she were a little child, "you can not stand out in the rain. Come with me!"
He hailed a passing cab and placed her in it.
"Where are we going?" she asked, timidly, looking up into his troubled face.
"I do not know until I have had time to think," heanswered. "I have told the driver to drive about for an hour. By that time I shall have arrived at some conclusion."
The girl's dark head drooped. Great as her own sorrow was, her heart bled for the trouble which she had unintentionally caused this young man.
On and on rolled the cab. So busy was Eugene Mallard with his own troubled thoughts that he almost forgot the girl shrinking away in her corner, who was regarding him so piteously and anxiously.
Suddenly he turned to her.
"There is but one course left open to us," he said, huskily, "and that we must follow. You are my wife, and I must take you to the home that has been prepared to receive my bride."
She uttered a low cry; but before she could speak, he hastened to add:
"No advantage shall be taken of the position in which you are so strangely placed. You shall be my wife in the eyes of the world, but to me you shall be just as sacred as a sister. We will live our lives through in this way."
She bowed her head. Whatever he suggested must be wisest and best, she thought.
"Indeed, I can see no other way out of it at the present outlook," he went on, his voice trembling a little. "I will take you to a hotel near where I am stopping. To-morrow, at this time, I will come for you to take the train with me!"
A little later Ida found herself alone in the comfortable room which he had secured for her at the hotel.
It was then and not until then that the poor girl gave vent to her grief, suffering almost as deeply as did Hildegarde, as the long hours of the night passed away.
The sun was shining bright and warm when she opened her eyes the next morning. For a moment she was dazed and bewildered; then a rush of memory came to her, and she remembered all that had taken place. She sprung from her couch with a bitter sob on her lips. Some one tapped at the door. It was the chamber-maid.
"Your breakfast is to be served to you here, ma'am," she said. "The waiter is bringing it. I will take it from him. Here are also some large packages which arrived for you."
"Thank you!" murmured the girl. "Just put them on the table. But stay," she added in the next breath; "you may as well open them. I do not think they are for me."
With deft fingers the girl unwrapped the bundle, and held up to her astonished gaze a beautiful brown traveling suit of the finest cloth, with hat, shoes, gloves, andlingerieto match. Gazing upon the outfit with wide-opened eyes, she forgot her sorrow for the moment.
This was another proof of the thoughtfulness and kindness of the man whose life she had wrecked.
"What a superb traveling-dress!" cried the maid, with delight. "I have never seen anything like it. And the hat; why, it is a veritable dream, madame. It is so exquisitely dainty! There is something in the pocket of the dress!" exclaimed the maid. "Does madame wish me to see what it is?"
"Yes," said Ida.
The next moment the girl had produced a tiny box. On a bed of violet velvet reposed a band of plain gold. Within were the engraved words: "My wife!"
The poor girl caught her breath with a sob as the maid handed it to her. The color came and went on her face; her eyes grew dim with tears. It was with the greatest difficulty that she succeeded in hiding her emotion from the maid, whose eyes were intently fixed on her.
"I thought she was a single young girl," she thought, "but she seems to be married."
Ida May turned away; she could not bear to have any one see her emotion.
"I can not accept it, nor any of his gifts, because I can not make use of them," she thought. "I am going away from here, going out of his life. I couldnot go with him to his Southern home; I have no right there!"
When the maid came to her, and asked her if she wished all her meals served in her room, she mechanically answered, "Yes." Tempting dishes were brought, but they went back untasted.
"The lady in Room 27 seems very ill," said the chamber-maid, when she went down to the servant's hall below. "She isverymysterious. Her eyes are so big, so black, and so mournful, you are sure she is going to burst into tears at every word she utters. She looks like a creature who has passed through some great sorrow. With the exception ofonelady, I never saw any-one else look like that. And oh, mercy! she had the same room too—No. 27.
"This woman left word that I was to come to her in the morning. To my great surprise, I found the door open as I turned the knob. As I went forward to awaken her, I saw the still form lying on the bed. As I approached, I saw, to my great amazement, that her eyes were wide open and staring at me.
"'I beg your pardon for not coming sooner, ma'am,' I said. 'I did not think you would be awake so early. There—'
"The rest of the sentence was never finished. I saw that the eyes staring up into mine were glazed in death. The scream I uttered brought half the people in the hotel to the scene, a physician being among them.
"He said that the young lady had been dead some hours. She had taken poison. The mystery surrounding her—who she was, and whence she came, has never been solved from that day to this. There is much the same look in this lady's face as there was in that other one's. I think she will bear watching.
"You know, too, that nine out of ten of the people who think of committing suicide choose a hotel in which to commit the deed. This young lady in No. 27 seems to be dazed. She scarcely knows what one is speaking to her about."
Having told her story, the chamber-maid left the room, shaking her head as she went. The clerk of the hotel, who was passing through the corridor, and who had heard the story was a little annoyed over it. He knew the habit of the maids to gossip; still, there might be some truth in the story.
It would certainly not be amiss to look into the matter a little. He remembered a tall and handsome gentleman had made arrangements for the lady, paying her bills in advance.
He thought he would wait a day and then speak to the proprietor concerning the matter.
The sunshine of the afternoon faded; the gloaming crept up, deepening into the soft beauty of the starry night.
As the hours rolled by, the girl made a resolve to end it all.
She arose quietly and donned the dark cloak which Miss Fernly had wrapped about her as they stepped from the rector's cottage. She was glad to have it now, for it would cover the bridal robes which she had donned. Her bridegroom was to be death!
With trembling hands, this hapless girl, who had taken such a terrible resolve, opened the door of her room, and glided softly down the long corridor and out of the hotel.
Ida May had scarcely gained the street before a carriage drove up, and Eugene Mallard sprung from it. He was surprised at seeing Ida advancing to meet him. She drew back with a cry.
"Are you ready?" he asked; but before she could answer, he went on: "You do not wear your traveling-dress. Was there anything amiss with it?"
She tried to keep back the sobs from her lips; but almost before she was aware of it, she had confessed to him that she was about to flee from him.
Standing there, very gently and patiently, he went over the ground with her, insisting upon her following out their original plan; and the upshot of it all was, she returned to her room, donned her traveling-dress, joined him again, and took a seat beside him in the carriage.
A little later the railway station was reached, and they were soon whirling away toward the mysteries of the future.
"We will reach our destination a little before midnight," Eugene said, seating himself opposite her. "There will be a number of old friends at the station to give my bride a welcome home," he added in a voice that was husky, despite his efforts at self-control; and Ida knew that he was thinking of thatotherbride whom he had intended to bring to them, and she felt most wretched at the effort he was making to look the present difficulty in the face and bear up under it.
How he must loathe her! Her very presence most be hateful to him! The thought of that made her shrink still further from Eugene Mallard.
She felt like opening the car window and springing from it out into the blackness of the night. Then he would be free to marry Hildegarde. On and on through the darkness rushed the express.
"The next station will be ours," he said at length. Ida looked up in apprehension. There would be a party of friends awaiting Eugene's home-coming; but, ah! what would they say when they saw that it was not Hildegarde whom he had wedded? Had he a mother—had he sisters?
Perhaps he divined her thoughts, for quite as soon as they had flashed through her brain he turned to her, and said, abruptly:
"I have told you nothing of my home life. It was an oversight on my part, possibly because the idea didnot occur to me. I have no relatives upon the face of the earth, except the scape grace cousin you know of. From my uncle I inherited the Virginia home to which I am taking you. It is presided over by Mrs. Rice, an old lady who has served in the capacity of housekeeper for twenty years. All the servants have been in the household quite as long a time. They are good and faithful to me. They will receive you warmly. Your word shall be their law. No one outside the household will know of our strained relationship. The secret will be kept faithfully from the world by the members of my household."
"I do not deserve so much consideration at your hands," murmured the girl.
Before he had time to reply, their station was reached. There were few people at the station owing to the lateness of the hour.
An old-fashioned carry-all was waiting at the rear. Peering out from it was the face of old Black Joe.
"Welcome, marse! welcome!" he cried. "An' a thousand welcomes to the lovely young missus, your bride! There's a great company at the house, sir, awaiting you both."
Eugene Mallard thanked the old colored servant for his kind wishes for himself and bride, as he helped Ida into the vehicle.
There was a long ride over a rough mountain road, during which time, much to old Black Joe's surprise, scarcely a word was exchanged between the bride and groom, and it puzzled the good old man.
Was the lady ill? So great was his concern over it, that he was tempted to ask his master the question a dozen times. But prudence restrained him.
At length, in turning an abrupt curve in the road, a gray stone mansion, fairly ablaze with lights from cellar to dome, loomed in sight—lights that twinkled like glow-worms in the distance. They could hear the strains of music, and as they approached they could even hear the sound of voices.
Still no word was uttered by either of them.
In less time than it takes to tell it, the strained relationship between Eugene Mallard and his bride was whispered through the household. They had laughed at old Black Joe when he had whispered the story of their silence from the railroad station, declaring he was romancing. Later events certainly gave color to the story, however. She was all that was sweet and fair. What could be the trouble?
"If there was ever a bride most wretchedly unhappy, she is that one," said Mrs. Rice, shaking her head.
"Why did he marry her if he did not love her? I can not understand it, I am sure."
Mrs. Rice went to the bride's room the next morning to awaken her. She found her already up and sitting by the window, and there was no indication that she had removed her dress. This was reduced to a certainty when she went into the adjoining apartment and found the couch just as it had been the previous evening.
She went back to where young Mrs. Mallard was sitting, and laid her hand gently upon the girl's arm.
"I hope you will be happy with us here, my dear," she said in her sweet, gentle old voice, "for we will do everything to serve you. I have been here for many years and have witnessed the home-coming of many of the brides of the Mallards. There was never one that I took to more than I did to you, my dear child. I felt like taking you in my arms and pressing you to my heart. But you seem lonely. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you?"
Ida lifted her face.
"You are very, very kind," she said, gratefully, "and I thank you with all my heart."
She looked as if she were about to add something, but quickly checked herself.
"Perhaps you would like to see the grounds, mydear," said Mrs. Rice. "Will you come out into the garden?"
The young woman acquiesced readily enough.
"Your trunks have not come yet, my dear," said Mrs. Rice, as they walked along. "The railway service in this part of the country is abominable. It looks strange to have you come down to breakfast in your traveling-dress, but—"
"I have no trunks coming. This is the only dress I have to wear at present," returned the girl, quietly.
It was as much as the old housekeeper could do to restrain herself from an exclamation of astonishment at this announcement.
What could it mean? Why had Eugene Mallard's bride notrousseau, as he had been preparing for this event for months, as eager in his anticipation of it as a school-boy for a holiday! She could not understand it; she felt mystified. But with the quick wit habitual to her, Mrs. Rice replied almost instantly:
"A wardrobe can be easily supplied by our Virginiamodistes. Indeed, they are world-famous, I may add. They make dresses for many of the ladies of Washington on the shortest notice. Mr. Mallard pressed a roll of bills into my hand when he arrived, and said: 'See that my wife has everything needful, Mrs. Rice.' I could not think what he meant at the time. Now I see it was your wardrobe he referred to. You and I will set about getting the things at once. Or if it will fatigue you too much after your journey, you leave it to me, and I will see that you have a complete wardrobe in a short time. You must not say no, my dear; for remember, it is your husband's wish, and you surely wish to please him."
The girl looked at her with the strangest expression in her dark eyes.
"Nothing that I could do would please him," she said, hopelessly.
Mrs. Rice did not tell that remark to the servants, or there would have been no end of gossip among them.
"There is some great mystery between Eugene Mallard and his bride," she said to herself. "I will not attemptto probe into the mystery, but I will endeavor to bring them together, if it lies within human power."
The fortnight that followed, the old mansion was fairly alive with guests coming and going.
Eugene Mallard could not help but admire Ida for bearing up so bravely under the terrible ordeal. During that fortnight a strange thing happened—the cruelest blow that Heaven could have dealt Ida. The lovely girl had learned to love Eugene Mallard with all the strength of her nature. She was in love with him, and he was cold and indifferent.
Another fortnight passed, and yet another. Everything at the great mansion passed pleasantly enough to the outside world. But the young girls for miles around who envied the young bride never dreamed of the skeleton that existed in that magnificent mansion.
Eugene Mallard was all that was kind and considerate. It seemed a necessity to him to have the house full of company. He was never alone with Ida. How gayly he talked to his guests! Looking at him, Ida said to herself:
"If he would but smile so when he speaks to me! His eyes are always cold; no warmth or brightness ever comes into them for me."
Although Eugene Mallard appeared so bright and gay before his guests; yet, unknown to any one, his heart was filled with the bitterness of death. It did not seem possible for him to live through the hours day after day. He felt thankful to Heaven that no one guessed that he had brought home a different bride from what he had intended. He dashed recklessly from one gayety to another, his object being to try to forget Hildegarde, his love. He never voluntarily looked at the girl he had married.
At the end of six weeks most of the guests returned to their homes, and Eugene Mallard suddenly found himself alone with his young wife and the servants.
"I must not let this happen again," he said. "Tolive here alone requires more strength than I am possessed of."
They breakfasted alone in the great oak dining-room, and each felt the restraint which they could illy conceal.
As she took her place at the table she was perfectly calm and self-possessed, but the mask of smiles she had worn before his guests fell from her face. She did not attempt any conversation with him, but with a quick, flashing smile she answered when she was spoken to.
"It seems to take the servants exceptionally long to serve breakfast," he said, impatiently; adding: "Will you permit me to glance over the morning paper? I am interested in this column on stocks."
She bowed her head gracefully, and watched him, as he read in silence. There came over her face an air of sadness painful to see in one so young.
To Ida the departure of the company was a great relief. Indeed, she longed for solitude, and thought that if they did not go soon she could not keep up much longer.
She had wanted to go away long ago; but she had remained there, and now the attraction was so great that she would not break away even if she could. Her love for her husband was like a magnet, strong as her very life-blood, a part of every heart-beat.
For long hours she would muse over her strange position.
It was an uncommon fate—young, with life all before her, she longed for its blessings. It was pitiful for her to know that the man she had learned to love cared for another, that she was no more to her husband than she would be to a brother.
How sad it was that she should long for the love of her husband as she had never longed for anything else in life! It seemed so strange to live in that magnificent home, to have everything that her heart desired, to be wealthy, honored, and envied, yet to have no husband's love.
Did he still sigh for Hildegarde? Was he thinkingof her when that dreamy look came into his eyes? She would give the world to know. She felt a terrible jealousy in her heart.
"Will he never change?" she asked herself, in despair. "Living under the same roof with me, seeing me day after day, will his heart never warm ever so little toward me?"
Once more the old resolve, to steal away from the house, came to her. Should she go to him, kneel at his feet, and sob out:
"I can not remain in this house any longer, because I—I—have learned to love you!"
She could picture the surprise on his face. Perhaps there would be anger, scorn. The eagle dared to look at the sun, the worm dared to creep into the tender heart of the rose. Was it strange that she had dared to love him?
Hers was a dreary fate, and she tried to bear it bravely. If she had only some one to confide in, some one to talk to! Was his heart dead because of his bitter disappointment?