One morning Eugene Mallard informed his young wife at the breakfast-table that he had invited a party of friends from the adjoining city, and had just received word that they would be with them that day. This was sorrowful news to Ida, for she realized that she would see less of her husband when they came. But he seemed to await their arrival in a fever of impatience.
While she was wondering how many there would be in the party, her husband said, as if in answer to the unexpressed thought:
"There will be six in the party—Mrs. Staples and hertwo daughters, Dora and Louisa, Captain Drury, Arthur Hollis, and—and Vivian Deane."
Ida looked up quickly as her husband pronounced the last name. Was it only her fancy, or did he turn away abruptly?
Somehow she could not rid herself of the fancy.
Then suddenly it occurred to her that she had heard the name, Vivian Deane, before. She remembered the conversation well.
While their former guests were there, she had been sitting in the rose-embowered veranda one day, while two of them passed on the lawn, and the fragments of their conversation floated up to her.
"I am surprised to find that Vivian Deane is not here," said one.
"Indeed! I would have been more surprised if she had been here," said the other.
They were idle words, almost meaningless, as far as she was concerned, but the name, Vivian Deane, clung to her for many days afterward. This was the last morning she would have with her husband. It was generally his custom to smoke in the grounds after breakfast. If she walked over the lawn she might be able to have a little chat with him.
She made a tour of the grounds, but to her surprise she did not see Eugene Mallard. Perhaps he was detained in the library writing letters. A little brook ran through a far corner of the grounds, and on either side of it tall laurel bushes grew.
Would life ever be any different for her? Would fate be always as unkind as now? Bitter tears, which she could not restrain, sprung to her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
She tried to stop their flow, but she could not, though she realized that they would be a sorry object before her husband's guests. At that moment she heard the sound of footsteps.
Looking through the bushes she saw two of the servants walking leisurely along, one carrying a basketof newly gathered fruit, and the other a basket of freshly cut roses.
Was it fate that caused one of them to say:
"Let us not return to the house just yet. The morning is warm and fine, why not sit down here under the shade of this tree and tie the roses into bunches? I can do it as well here as in the house."
Whereupon they leisurely proceeded to seat themselves.
"It isn't the same house since master brought home his bride," said the other. "It's nothing but company, company, all the time. Now we are to have another new lot of guests."
"And guess who is invitedthistime," said her companion.
"Mr. Mallard seems to know everybody in the country, so it would be a pretty hard guess," laughed the girl.
"Well," returned the other, "as you are not so good at guessing, I may as well tell you—it is Miss Vivian Deane."
"Pray, who isshe?" asked the girl who was tying the roses.
"Oh, I forgot you were not here long enough to know about her. Well, I will tell you. She is a young girl who lives a few miles away in a magnificent house called Deane Castle. She is as beautiful as a dream, and as heartless as she is beautiful. She has a doll-like pink-and-white face, big blue eyes, and a wealth of flaxen curls. Though she looks like an angel, a bigger devil in woman's form never lived.
"She was a great favorite with old Eugene Mallard, the uncle, and his fond wish was that his favorite nephew should fall in love with and marry the pretty girl. But, bless you, the young man had ideas of his own."
"Who else is coming?" was the next question.
"A lady and her two daughters. They used to be dead in love with Mr. Mallard, until they found it was useless. They were more sensible, however, than VivianDeane. They turned their attention elsewhere, and they are still looking for eligible husbands."
Ida May's heart throbbed wildly. Now she knew why her husband's face had flushed as he mentioned the name of Vivian Deane. And this was the young girl whom she was so soon to meet!
Ida felt nervous at the very thought of the ordeal before her. She knew she must be in the drawing-room to welcome his guests. Her husband would expect that of her.
Drying her tears, though her heart was heavy indeed, the young wife stole back quietly to the house, and up to her own room. When she had removed the traces of tears, she looked with pitiful wistfulness at the face which the mirror reflected.
How long would it take this Vivian Deane, who loved her husband so madly, to discover that he was most unhappy in his marriage?
There was a light tap on the door, and in answer to her "Come in" one of the maids entered the room.
"If you please, Mrs. Mallard, your husband would like to have you come down into the drawing-room. He says the guests are likely to arrive at any moment."
"Say that I will be down directly," she replied, and her voice sounded so hoarse and unnatural that she feared the girl would notice her emotion.
"Would you like me to help you arrange your toilet, ma'am?" she asked, still holding the door knob in her hand.
Her toilet! she had not thought of it, so deeply had she been engrossed in her thoughts. Yes, she must make every effort to look well, because the eyes of her rival would be upon her.
"Yes, you may help me if you will," she said, wistfully. And when she was dressed and standing before her mirror, she was so nervous she could hardly stand. The maid noticed her trembling.
"You are ill, my lady," she cried, in alarm; "your face has grown very pale. Do let me bring you a glass of wine!"
"No," replied her young mistress; "it is only a momentary pain. I will be better presently."
As the maid watched, Ida's face grew from deathly pale to a flushed appearance, and her hands were burning hot.
"I think I must go and see the housekeeper. I am sure Mrs. Mallard is not fit to receive guests. She is very ill," she said to herself.
"If you only felt as well as you looked, my lady," said the girl, aloud and admiringly.
"Do you think I look well, Marie?" she asked, with a pitiful eagerness in her voice.
"Oh, ma'am, if I dared speak the truth without being accused of flattery, I would say I never saw any-one so beautiful in all my life!"
"Do I look more beautiful than Vivian Deane?" was the question that rose to her lips. But she checked the words just in time. At that moment another maid tapped at the door, and inquired if her mistress would soon be down.
"Yes," returned Ida. "I am coming directly."
As she uttered the words, she heard the sound of carriage wheels. By a great effort, she nerved herself for the ordeal.
"Why, how foolish I am!" she said, with a nervous little laugh. But somehow a premonition of coming evil crept over her which she could not shake off.
Eugene Mallard did not look up as his young wife entered the room. He was gazing so steadily out of the window that he did not even hear her light footsteps. She went up to him timidly. Whatever she was about to say died away on her lips, for the expression on hisface startled her. She had never seen him look so cross before.
At that moment the servant announced: "Mrs. and the Misses Staples!"
Eugene Mallard stepped forward quickly to receive them. How his face lighted up! Was it only her fancy, or did he hold the hand of the prettiest girl a moment longer than was necessary? Then he turned and introduced them to his young wife. Louisa and Dora Staples looked at her eagerly; she could see great surprise in their faces.
Were they disappointed in her? That was the first thought that crossed Ida's mind. How was she to know their thoughts? Dora Staples came forward, holding out her hands and blushing like a school-girl. Louisa stood back, gazing in puzzled wonder at the bride.
"We were very sorry that we could not be here to witness your home-coming and to participate in the grand wedding reception that every one is talking about even yet. But we were miles and miles away."
Then the conversation drifted into other channels.
A few moments later two gentlemen arrived—Captain Drury and Arthur Hollis. Ida remembered them well; they had been to the reception. The two girls were delighted at this acquisition to the party, and in a few moments Dora Staples had captured the dashing captain for a chat, leaving Arthur Hollis for her sister Louisa.
But Mr. Hollis was not in a mood to enjoy the senseless chatter of Miss Louisa Staples, for whom he inwardly felt a cordial dislike.
On the pretense of wishing to smoke a cigar, especially as her mother and Mrs. Mallard had joined the group, he begged her to excuse him for a little while. He saw his host on the terrace, and stepped out of the long French window, and went at once to where he stood.
"I congratulate you upon the rare beauty of your wife," he said, touching him familiarly upon the arm."I thought her exceedingly pretty the first time I saw her; she has grown more beautiful since."
"I really ought to be obliged to you for the compliment," returned Eugene Mallard, laughingly.
"You ought to love her very much, for she is worth loving," said Arthur Hollis, bluntly, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar.
"Has any one told you that I do not?" asked Mallard, quickly.
"No, certainly not; but she does not look happy," returned Hollis, thoughtfully. "As a friend of many years' standing, I feel myself privileged to speak without reserve to you, my old comrade. Forgive me for saying that though your bride's eyes ought to be filled with sunshine, they are noticeably sad and dreary. Hers is not a happy face, Eugene."
Mr. Mallard frowned. He had heard quite enough of this topic. His wife's face did not interest him. Arthur Hollis had been his friend for long years; they had been chums from childhood. Suddenly Eugene turned and laid his hand on Arthur Hollis's shoulder.
"I have a strange explanation to make to you," he said in a voice husky with emotion. "Your keen eyes have discovered, Hollis, what I would fain have kept from you. A full confession is good for the soul, they say, and I will tell you this much, Arthur: the girl whom I told you so much about, is not the one whom I have married. At the altar, in a dimly lighted church, this girl took the place of the one whom I was to wed, and I did not find it out until we had been pronounced man and wife."
Hollis could not have been more completely astounded if a volcano had opened at his feet.
Eugene Mallard had to repeat his words before Hollis could grasp the whole meaning of what he had heard.
"You must not think that I wronged her in any way, that she had any claim upon me," went on Eugene Mallard, huskily. "Do not judge me too hastily. It all came about through a mistake. She—she—mistook me for Royal Ainsley, my cousin, and hearing that I wasto be married, came there, and—and, by the aid of a woman, succeeded in becoming my bride. And now, because of it, three lives are ruined. I am trying to make the best of it, but it seems, at times, as though I will not be able to bear up under it—my whole heart belonging to one woman, while I am wedded to another."
"Great heavens!" exclaimed Hollis. "I did not dream of such a state of affairs!"
"She is my wife in name only," added Eugene Mallard, bitterly. "I do not know what the future will bring forth. I can only say that I am trying to live it out as best I can. My life is full of wretchedness, and I can not see what will be the end of it all."
Now Arthur Hollis could readily understand the brooding look in Ida's eyes. Why she was graver, more thoughtful, more abstracted than when he had seen her last.
While they were talking, another carriage drove up.
They saw a beautiful face at the window.
"It is Vivian Deane," said Mr. Mallard.
Hollis looked surprised.
"I hope, my dear boy," he said in a tone of jest, beneath which was certainly a vein of earnestness, "that Miss Deane has got over her mad infatuation for you, now that she knows you are married!"
Mr. Mallard looked thoughtful.
"I suppose you are wondering why I invited her here," he said, slowly, "and I may as well tell you the truth, that you will not for a moment imagine I sent for her to indulge in a flirtation. Miss Deane wrote me that she was coming to pay my wife a fortnight's visit, so what could I do. Without waiting to receive a reply from me, here she is. You will come with me, and welcome her?"
"Certainly," said Hollis, understanding Eugene's position.
Miss Deane looked exceedingly annoyed as the two men approached.
She had calculated upon meeting Eugene alone.She meant to tell him in a few words that her life was ruined because of his marriage. Now she could only exchange the merest formal greeting. Biting her red lips fiercely, and forcing a smile to them, she held out her hand.
"I am so delighted at seeing you again, Mr. Mallard," she declared, giving Hollis a stiff, haughty bow.
Eugene assisted her from the carriage and avoided looking at her as much as possible—a fact which annoyed her exceedingly.
"And I am so anxious to see your bride," she continued.
Eugene could readily understand that, and so could Hollis.
Hollis followed his friend to the drawing-room. He stood by the young bride's side when Vivian Deane was presented to her.
He had expected to see an expression of bitter dislike on the doll-like pink-and-white face. He was surprised and relieved to see Vivian hold out her little hands and murmur in her cooing voice:
"I am so delighted to see you, Mrs. Mallard, I am sure we shall be friends."
Ida gazed anxiously, wistfully, into the pink-and-white face. Vivian's sea-blue eyes met her gaze unflinchingly; her red lips, which suggested more of art than nature, wore a mask of the sweetest smiles.
The young bride drew a deep breath of relief. She had been unnecessarily frightened, she told herself. Now that Vivian knew Eugene was married, she had in all probability resigned herself to the inevitable.
"Probably she has another lover by this time, and thinks no more of Eugene," thought Ida.
Alone in her room, Vivian Deane stood before her mirror and critically viewed the face reflected in it.
"I am more beautiful than Eugene Mallard's wife," she cried, nodding approvingly to the dimpled, smiling face, "and I will make that beauty tell. He does not look happy," she mused. "I, who know him so well, can see it. He has married her, but he is dissatisfied. There is something amiss between them. Ere I have been in this house a week, I will discover what it is." She nodded to the reflection in the mirror. "I had hoped that, seeing him married, I could steel my heart against him, but I find I can not."
"There is something connected with the manner in which Eugene Mallard first met his wife that I must find out," was Vivian's mental comment.
It was not long before Vivian discovered that her beautiful young hostess knew almost nothing of music.
"I think I have discovered her secret," she said to herself. "She must have been a poor girl, perhaps a working-girl."
Instead of seeing the wisdom of God in such an alliance, whereby the wealthy might share with the poor the gifts God had showered upon them, she was angrier than ever.
From the hour in which she had asked Ida the question concerning her meeting with Eugene Mallard, the young wife avoided being alone with her guest.
Vivian could not help but notice it, and she smiled to herself. She seemed to have no wish to capture handsome Captain Drury or Arthur Hollis. She preferred to talk to her hostess on each and every occasion.
"Yon have not told me," she said one day, "whether you lived in New York, San Francisco or Boston."
"Most of my life was spent in a little village outside of the great metropolis," said Ida, inwardly hoping theinquisitive girl would not think of asking the name of the village.
Vivian did think of it, but concluded that it would be wisest not to pursue her inquiries too ardently.
"All this ought to have been mine," muttered Vivian, clinching her hands tightly—"all mine! I loved him first, and I loved him best. She had no right to take him from me!"
These thoughts often ran through Vivian's mind while Ida was talking to her, believing she was entertaining the best and truest friend she had in the great cruel world.
If the young wife had known her as she really was, she would have turned in utter loathing from the beautiful pink-and-white face; she would have prayed Heaven to save her from this, her greatest foe.
As it was, she saw only Vivian Deane's beauty and grace. She heard only kindness in her voice, and she thought to herself that she was very fortunate indeed in securing such a friend.
She talked and laughed so happily that the poor young wife almost forgot her sorrow while listening to her.
Vivian wondered if by any chance the young bride had found out how desperately she had been in love with her husband in other days.
The young wife became more and more unhappy day by day. Once, in following the windings of a brook, Ida was startled at finding herself several miles from home. Glancing up with a start, she found that the sun had almost reached its height. She had been gone longer than she had intended.
Perhaps there was some way by which she could take a shorter cut to the house. She saw a woman slowly advancing along the path, carrying a little baby in her arms. She stopped short as the woman approached. She recognized her as the wife of one of the village merchants.
Ida had often seen her driving on the road with her husband, holding the little child in her lap, and shehad said to herself, as she turned away to hide the tears that would spring to her eyes: "That woman has everything in the world to make her life happy. I would exchange places with her gladly if I could."
The woman smiled as she saw Eugene Mallard's young wife, and appeared annoyed upon observing that she was about to stop and speak to her. She answered her question readily enough, and pointed out the way, a short cut over the meadows, that would bring her near her home. Still Ida lingered, looking wistfully at the young mother.
"I have often seen you, from my window, rambling by the brook-side. You must be very fond of out-door life," said Ida.
"I do love the sunshine," replied the young woman; "but I do not come out for it only for myself, but for baby's sake also."
A great, sudden thrill that made her soul grow faint and dizzy filled Ida's whole being as her gaze rested on the babe she carried. She thought of that other one, in a nameless grave, sleeping under the daisies. It would have been just about the age of this little one had it lived.
"How happy you must be!" sighed Ida.
"We are not always what we seem," replied the woman, with a sigh. "I love this little thing very dearly, but it is not my own child. I had a little one whom I loved better than my life," went on the woman, sadly. "When it died, I refused to be comforted. I took on so that my husband grew frightened.
"'Don't fret, Margaret,' he said; 'I will find a way to comfort you.'
"He sent to some foundling asylum in the great city, and this little one was brought to me to fill the aching void in my heart. I love it very dearly, but oh! it can never take the place of the one I lost."
Eugene Mallard's wife was looking at it with her soul in her eyes.
"Poor little waif!" she sighed; "it was very fortunate in securing a home with you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Mallard," said the woman. "We are poor and plain people, but we will do what we can for the poor little thing."
She was about to pass on, thinking she had taken up too much of the lady's time with her story.
Suddenly Ida turned, her beautiful dark eyes heavy with tears.
"Would you mind letting me hold the baby for just one minute?" she asked, wistfully.
"No, certainly not," replied the woman, with a pleasant smile.
Again that thrill which she could hardly define shot through her as she received the babe from the woman's arms. She bent her face over the little rose-leaf one that lay upon her breast. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them.
It seemed to rend her very heart-strings to relinquish her hold of the infant—to hand it back to the woman who waited to receive it. The moments seemed to fly by on golden wings.
It seemed to Ida that she could stand there for long hours looking down into that lovely little face and those two great starry eyes that looked up wonderingly into her own. It cost her a great pang to hand the child back to the woman. But time was fleeting. She could not remain there longer, for the distant bells of the village were already ringing, proclaiming the noonday hour, and she must go home, or luncheon would be kept waiting.
"You come here often?" she asked, turning again to the woman.
"Almost every day," was the reply.
The hapless young wife made up her mind that she would see them often. Acting upon a sudden impulse, she took out her purse and handed the woman a golden coin.
"Take that for the little one," she said. "What is its name?"
"We haven't decided upon its name yet," returned the woman; "we have only had the child a few weeks."
"Would you think over it if I suggested a name?" asked Ida, wistfully.
"Yes, indeed," replied the woman. "You may be sure I would."
"Why not call her 'Ida May'?" murmured the young wife, with her whole heart and soul in her eyes.
"That is a beautiful name," cried the woman—"Ida May Lester. That is what it shall be!"
Somehow the naming of the poor waif gave to the hapless young wife a great relief.
Ida wended her way over the flower-strewn meadow, with her heart beating more wildly than it had ever beaten before. She could not forget the flower-like little infant that had looked up into her face, and which had so strangely affected her.
Even the guests noted her heightened color; and Vivian Deane, watching her narrowly from across the table, wondered what brought the brightness to her eyes.
She looked at Eugene Mallard with intense interest. Surely there was no corresponding gladness in his eyes. Indeed, he looked unusually careworn.
"I will soon find out what has happened," said Vivian, with a pang of bitter jealousy.
A little later Vivian sought Ida in herboudoir.
"It has commenced to rain," she said, "and I am at a loss to know what to do with myself. The Staples girls have gone to their rooms to rest, and their mother wearies me talking about Christian charity. The gentlemen have repaired to the smoking-room, and so I have sought you."
"You are very welcome," said Ida. "I will do my best to amuse you."
As she looked at Vivian, she said to herself:
"How foolish I have been to imagine that this brilliant, beautiful girl should care for a man who belonged to another girl."
Vivian had a very fascinating way when among women, and now she exerted herself to please Eugene Mallard's young wife as she had never exerted herself to please any one before.
"What a very cozyboudoiryou have, Ida!" she said. "It is like a casket for some precious jewel. How considerate your husband was to have it furnished to suit your rich dark beauty. I used to think that nothing was pretty except white and gold or blue and white."
"That is only natural," returned Ida. "You are a pronounced blonde, you know."
"Then you do not agree with me that there is a possibility of blondes liking rich dark surroundings?"
"No; I should not fancy so," returned Ida, "except that blondes usually fall in love with dark men."
Vivian flushed a vivid scarlet, which Ida did not see, for at that moment Vivian's face was turned from her.
"Yes, that is very true," returned Vivian, making an effort to control her emotion.
In her case, Vivian knew that the old saying was at fault. The strong, passionate love of her heart had gone out to Eugene Mallard, and he was fair. He was her ideal of manly beauty. The faces of other men appeared quite insignificant when compared to his. She was anxious to turn the conversation into another channel.
"I have often thought, amid all this gayety, how lonely you must be at times without some girl friend to talk matters over with you," said Vivian.
"You are quite right," said Ida, eagerly. "Idoneed a girl friend, some one of my own age, to whom I could open my heart."
Vivian glided up to her and threw her arms about her neck.
"Let me be that friend," she whispered, eagerly.
The young wife looked at her wistfully; her cheeks flushed.
"I shall be only too glad, Vivian," Ida said.
"If she had heard that I was in love with her husband, I must first throw her off the track," thought Vivian.
"I am going to tell you a secret," she murmured, aloud; "but you must not reveal it to any one, I have had a strange love affair, Ida."
She felt the young wife start, her figure tremble; she saw the lovely face grow pale. But not appearing to notice her agitation, she went on:
"My hero is as dark as a Spanish knight. I met him recently. It was a case of love at first sight. He proposed to me within a fortnight. But my relatives do not like him, wealthy, handsome, courteous though he is. They have forbidden him the house, yet I think in time they will overcome their objections."
She could plainly see how her fictitious story relieved the young wife. The color came back to Ida's cheeks, the light to her eyes. She threw her arms impulsively about Vivian, and kissed her fair, lovely, treacherous face.
"You are indeed to be envied, Vivian," she said, earnestly. "To love and be loved is the greatest happiness God can give any one. I hope, foryoursake, that your lover may win his way to the hearts of your relatives. But you know that the course of true love never did run smoothly."
"My lover is a great friend of your husband's, and perhaps he has told you about it?"
"No," said Ida. "I assure you that Mr. Mallard has not spoken to me on the subject," and she looked very discomforted.
"I am sure your husband must have received a letter from my lover and hidden it away somewhere. Won't you be so kind as to look thoroughly through his desk, and see?" asked Vivian.
Ida drew back in alarm.
"Oh, I could do not do what you ask. Mr. Mallard's rooms are in another part of the house," Ida answered, thoughtlessly.
Ida now realized the importance of the admission she had thoughtlessly made. But she could not recall her words—it was too late.
Vivian looked astounded. This was a state of affairs of which she had never dreamed. Her idea had been to find some pretext to look through Eugene Mallard's desk, and to abstract all the notes she had written to him.
She remembered one or two which she had written in which she had poured out her love for him in a mad fashion, and she would not like any one to come across them.
But here she had unearthed a startling surprise. Eugene Mallard's rooms were in another part of the house. Then they were indeed estranged. She must find out the secret that lay between them.
"I am so sorry to have unearthed so sad a secret," cried the false friend, winding her arms more tightly about Ida, and turning her face away, that the young wife might not observe the look of triumph in it. "But every life has its sorrow, and perhaps it was meant that I should comfort you. If you are wearing out your heart longing for the sympathy of a true friend, oh, dear Ida, please do confide in me, and let me help you!"
The words had such a ring of sympathy in them that it was no wonder the young wife believed her. She was young and unversed in the ways of the world, or this beautiful false friend could not have deceived her so.
"Oh, Vivian, Iamunhappy," she sobbed, "surely the most unhappy girl the sun ever shone on! I must make a confidant of some one—tell some one my troubles, or I shall die. My—my husband does not love me!"
"Does not love you!" repeated Vivian. "Then why on earth did he marry you?"
The hapless young wife could find no answer to that question; her head drooped, and her lips were dumb.
"I am so glad you told me this," said Vivian; and it was strange that Ida did not notice the ring of triumph in the voice of her false friend as she said: "I will do my best to bring you two together. I do not ask which one is at fault. Both can not be entirely blameless."
"There is a shadow between us which never can be lifted," sobbed the young wife, putting her head on Vivian's shoulder. "There is love on only one side," went on Ida, despairingly. "He is indifferent to me, and—and he will grow to hate me."
"Forgive me, please, if I have been so engrossed in my own love affair that I did not notice anything was amiss between my old friend Eugene and his fair young bride."
"I almost dread to think of the future," moaned the young wife. "There are times when I give myself up to wondering over the strange problems of life, and I ask myself why I, who should be happy, find the world so dark and dreary."
"You must be very patient," said Vivian, "and above all things, let me warn you against being the first to make overtures for a reconciliation."
"Oh, I am so very, very glad that I have had this talk with you," sobbed Ida, "for during the past week I had come to the conclusion that the very first time I found my husband in the library, I would go up to him, and say; 'This kind of life is killing me. It would be better far for you to plunge a knife in my breast and kill me. Either take me to your heart, either make me your wife in fact as well as name, or send me out into the coldness and bitterness of the world. I can endure this no longer. Your friends crowd about me, thinking I am the happiest person in the world, while I am the most miserable. I must go from here, because I have learned to love you, my husband, with all my heart and soul. You may be surprised to hear this from me, but it is the truth. I love you as no one else ever will.You may live for years, flattered and happy, but no love like mine will ever come to you again. Although you married me, yet you do not love me, and never will. Always remember that the wife who is leaving you loves you with all her heart. I would not tell you this now, but that I know in this world we may never meet again.'"
Her voice died away in a whisper as she uttered the last word, and the false friend who had determined to part husband and wife said she had learned just in time what was necessary to prevent a reconciliation between Ida and her husband.
After Vivian Deane had learned of the estrangement of Eugene and Ida, she made up her mind that she would part them forever.
But how? She thought over the matter long and earnestly. She was standing in the magnificent drawing-room one morning, when Arthur Hollis entered.
"How does it happen that you are not out for a canter on horseback with our host and Captain Drury?" she asked. "This is such a delightful morning."
"Ah, Miss Deane," he replied, laughingly, showing a handsome set of white teeth, "I was just bemoaning that fact. But I had some important letters to write, and I was obliged to remain in my room and finish them."
At that moment they saw their young hostess crossing the lawn. Vivian saw Arthur Hollis look after her with a long, steady, earnest gaze, until she was quite out of their sight.
"Are you admiring our young hostess?" she asked, suddenly, with something like a frown on her face.
"Yes," he answered, frankly. "I was just thinking that Mrs. Mallard has the sweetest face and most charming manner of any woman I ever met."
"Then you admire her style of beauty?" said Vivian, a little piqued.
"Yes, very much," said Arthur Hollis. "If I had met her before she married our friend Eugene, I think I should have fallen in love with her myself."
The words were innocent enough; but Arthur Hollis never for a moment dreamed of the terrible mischief they were to do in the after years.
Those words so simply uttered sent a thrill through the heart of the girl who listened.
"Ah, I have it!" she said to herself. "A way is opened to me at last to part Eugene Mallard and his wife. I will encourage Arthur Hollis's admiration for the beautiful Ida. Men are easily flattered. There is no knowing what the end will be."
It was a plot worthy of a fiend incarnate; but this girl, who loved Eugene Mallard, would stop at nothing to gain her end.
During the fortnight that followed, Arthur Hollis sunned himself each day more and more in Ida's presence.
No one noticed it save Vivian Deane. He saw no danger, nor did she, in their companionship. In the meantime, the shadow darkened and deepened. It was simply the old story in another form.
They were both young. She was gifted with the sweetest grace that ever a woman possessed; he wasbrave, courteous, and noble, with the first throb of a mighty passion in his heart.
What usually happens in such cases? He fell desperately in love with Ida.
At first Arthur told himself it was pity for her loneliness that actuated him to be always at her side, to make time pass pleasantly for her. He realized, when it was too late, that pity had deepened into a mighty love. And he told himself, in his despair, as the truth forced itself upon him, that he loved her.
The truth came to him like a great shock. He went to Eugene Mallard, and told him he must go away at once. It would have been better if he had told him why; but he did not.
"I will not listen to such a thing!" cried Eugene. "You have promised to stay until the shooting season, and I will hold you to your word."
In vain he pleaded. But Eugene was obdurate.
"There is no good reason for your hurrying away," said Eugene.
"Then you want me to stay, no matter what happens?" replied his friend, quickly.
"Yes," replied Eugene Mallard; and he thought of Arthur's words for many a day afterward.
Arthur Hollis tried to reason with himself, saying that it was better to go. But he was like the moth, who felt insensibly attracted toward the flame, drawing nearer and nearer, until, like the moth, he would perish in it.
After his conversation with Eugene, he proceeded to shut his eyes to the danger.
He was a free-lance. No woman's face had ever touched his heart before, and he was frightened at the intensity of the love that thrilled his heart for beautiful Ida Mallard.
He would sun himself in her presence for one brief fortnight longer, and then go away. Surely it was not much in a life-time. He would not deprive himself of the one glimpse of sunshine that had drifted into his life.
Every day found them together.
Although Ida did not realize what was in his heart, yet she felt intuitively that there was a great change in Arthur Hollis since he had been beneath that roof.
Although he lingered with his feet on the edge of a precipice, yet he stood face to face with the truth—he loved at last with all the passionate strength of his heart and nature.
He said to himself that if marriages were made in heaven, she was the one woman intended for him; she was the only woman in this world that he could ever love.
If she had only been free, he would have given her his life, his love—all that he had on earth to give.
To make the situation all the more pitiful, he knew that she was a wife in name only to the man whose name she bore; that she was as far removed from him as though she dwelt in an opposite part of the world from him.
She was so young, so unhappy, he pitied her with all his heart. He was perplexed, agitated.
How he enjoyed the rambles, the rides with her! The sweetest moment of his life was when he could steal upon her unawares.
He saw no danger, and in the meantime the shadow darkened and deepened. Vivian Deane watched them with exultant eyes.
"It will end in an elopement," she told herself, triumphantly. "Their hearts are drifting nearer and nearer together, and the end is not far off."
Every day seemed to make Ida more cold and careless, and to leave an added sternness upon the face of Eugene Mallard, and a harshness in his voice.
His marriage had been a bitter regret. It was an effort now to even keep up appearances. He had sealed his misery. There were times when he wished fiercely, miserably, that he could sever that most unhappy bond and set her free.
Not all the wealth and luxury and the army of obsequiousservants could make the grand old mansion a home in its true sense.
The young wife plunged into a ceaseless round of frivolity with a recklessabandonquite foreign to her nature.
She accepted every invitation that came to her, and gave in return a series of entertainments of so extravagant and magnificent a character that the people around opened their eyes in astonishment, and whispered it was well that Eugene Mallard's pocket was a deep one.
But before long they found something else to comment upon. Wherever Ida went, whether she went abroad or entertained at home, at dinner, ball, assembly, there, always closely in her train, might be seen the handsome Arthur Hollis.
Gossip began to circulate, slight and vague at first, but it soon became plainly hinted that Eugene Mallard's beautiful young wife was flirting with Arthur Hollis—flirting defiantly, desperately, recklessly. People wondered in indignant astonishment if her husband was blind or mad.
Almost everybody was discussing the piquant scandal. Even those who had been her guests found something to say, declaring that they had noticed it from the first, adding this or that detail as the occasion prompted.
They wondered why some one did not drop a hint to the husband. Unsuspicious by nature, and disregarding the formal calls of society whenever he could possibly do so, he very seldom accompanied his wife on the rounds of gayety on which she had embarked. For weeks neither significant words nor glances came to him.
But he did hear of it at last, and then the blow struck him with terrible effect. It was only a few sentences spoken by a couple of ladies, and pointed with a venom which only a woman's tongue can give, coupling the name of his wife with that of Arthur Hollis.
But the import of their words was unmistakable, and the shock seemed momentarily to stop the young man'sbreath. The two scandal-mongers lingered over their gossip with keen delight, not knowing that they were overheard. It was at a garden-party given by Ida. Eugene Mallard had gone into the grounds to enjoy a cigar in a favorite little retreat which few of the guests had as yet discovered. He did not care for the dancing on the lawn, and could not be induced to join the dancers.
Hidden by a group of laurel-bushes, Eugene's quick ear caught the words of two young girls walking slowly down the path.
"Have you seen our hostess, young Mrs. Mallard?" asked one of the other. "I have been searching for her everywhere."
"Look for handsome Arthur Hollis," returned her companion. "You will surely find her with him."
The rest of the sentence was uttered in a whisper, but Eugene Mallard heard every word of it.
Eugene Mallard flung down the cigar which he had just lighted as soon as the girls passed, and made his way from the place.
He resisted the impulse to turn fiercely upon them and demand how they dared to speak of his young wife in that manner. It required all his strength of will to keep down his anger.
He passed the two girls on the path a moment later, and though they gave a start, they believed that he had not heard their remarks, for he did not betray his anger in his face.
Eugene looked about for his wife. His eyes wandered sharply around as he threaded his way among the dancers. But Ida was not visible.
Crossing the lawn, he encountered Vivian Deane and Captain Drury. She was looking her sweetest in pale-blue summer silk half veiled by white lace and pink rosebuds.
He would have passed them by, with a few forced words of pleasantry, but Vivian would not have it so.
"You have not danced once this afternoon, Eugene," she said; "and a host who does his duty should figure in some of the waltzes at least. Are you looking for a partner now? Shall I find you one?"
"No; thanks, Vivian," he answered. "I am looking for my—my wife. Do you know where she is?"
"Yes," returned Vivian. "I saw her a moment ago. Let me see where it was. Oh, yes; I remember—down by the clump of oaks. She and Mr. Hollis had danced four consecutive dances together, and were resting. By the way," she added, with a gay little laugh, and something like a pout on her pretty red lips, "you must tell her not to monopolize Mr. Hollis, Eugene. It is too bad of her. It does not give asinglegirl a fair chance, you know."
Vivian moved away with the captain after giving him that parting shot, and Eugene was not rendered much easier by her last words, although they were apparently gayly and carelessly spoken.
He walked hurriedly to the further end of the grounds, and there, under a huge oak-tree, he caught a glimpse of a filmy white dress.
Advancing, he saw his wife sitting there, with Arthur Hollis beside her.
Neither saw him. Ida's eyes were fixed upon a crimson rose she was recklessly plucking to pieces. She seemed to be hardly heeding her companion's words.
Arthur was leaning back against the oak-tree, looking down at the dark, curly head, and he was speaking earnestly in a tone hardly above a whisper.
A handsome couple they looked, and surely like nothing so much as lovers.
Eugene realized this, and a feeling of wrath took possession of him. He did not love her; in fact, therewere times when he told himself that he hated her with the bitterest kind of hatred; but she bore his name, and she must not be allowed to set the tongues of gossipers wagging.
Eugene knew that she did not mean anything by receiving the attentions of handsome Arthur Hollis, his friend. She was but a young girl, after all, and she thoughtlessly allowed herself to drift into this most wretched flirtation.
His thoughts went no deeper, no further than that; but that was far enough, and for the sake of her good name, this thoughtless, reckless nonsense must be stopped. He trusted her implicitly, yet he felt a mad, unreasonable rage against the two sitting there.
It was well his will was so strong and his temper so well under control, or he could not have advanced as calmly as he did.
Ida was dressed in white. It struck him that she looked very beautiful. But just then her beauty seemed to exasperate and harden her husband toward her.
Ida glanced up, and seeing him, started.
Arthur Hollis appeared a little uncomfortable, but after the first sharp glance, Eugene Mallard did not look at him, feeling that he could not trust himself to do so. He addressed his wife, looking at her with a dark frown on his face.
"Vivian told me you were here," he began. "Are you going to dance the next set?"
Her face flushed, her hands trembled. Washe, her husband, coming to ask her to dance with him? His next words showed her how mad she had been to cherish such a hope.
"I was going to ask Vivian to dance," he said. "I see there are three couples standing over there ready to dance. It will require one more couple to fill up the set."
With something like haughty pride, she raised her dark head.
"I shall not dance," said Ida, in a cold, bitter voice. "I am tired."
Arthur Hollis had the grace to laughingly excuse himself. He had been enjoying histête-à-tête, and the sudden appearance of her husband on the scene was not welcome. Besides, he had noticed that there was something in Eugene Mallard's face which he did not like.
Arthur Hollis did not speak, and Eugene Mallard waited until he was well out of hearing. The silence lasted so long that Ida broke it by petulantly saying:
"As I shall not dance this set, would it not be as well for you to find some one else? The music is just starting."
He did not appear to listen to the remark. His eyes were riveted on the little satin programme, suspended by a little silver cord at her belt, and he saw the initials of Arthur Hollis written opposite six or eight dances.
His face grew hard, stern, and rigid. Had he been blind not to have noticed what was going on, when it was so plainly apparent to every one else?
"I should like to ask something of you," he said, pointing to the card. "I want you to promise me that you will not dance any more with Arthur Hollis."
With a feeling of mingled rage and pain he saw that Ida turned first pale then scarlet. She drew herself up to her full height and looked at him with ahauteurwhich she never knew she possessed.
"May I ask why you make such a request?" she asked, sharply.
"For to-day let it be enough that I make the request. Will you promise me?"
All the spirit that Ida possessed was up in arms.
"Certainly not," Ida responded. "I would not dream of breaking an engagement for no reason whatever."
There was a pause, filled only by the strains of distant music.
Paler than usual and with a stern look overspreading his face, Eugene Mallard waited for his wife to continue, as she seemed to have something more to say.
"If you objected to your friend dancing with me,you—you should have made the request before the engagements were made."
He looked at her angrily, his fair, handsome face flushing.
"A half dozen engagements should not have been made," he returned. "People will certainly comment upon it. They are already whispering of my friend's attention to you."
A strange look which he could not analyze crossed the beautiful face.
"You must stop this gossip," he went on, "or I will take measures to do so. I have made a request of you, and shown you why I made it. Will you grant it—for your own sake?"
"I refuse!" she repeated. "I am sorry that you do not think me capable of protecting my own name—and yours."
With something like a muttered imprecation on his lips, he turned on his heel, and strode rapidly from her side.
"Fool that I was!" he muttered, clinching his hands together. "To save her honor I married her. But what does she care for my honor?"
The breech between them grew wider than ever now.
Ida danced with Arthur Hollis, and the tongues of the gossips wagged. If Eugene Mallard heard, he paid no heed. Strange thoughts were passing through his mind.
All unmindful of what Eugene Mallard had to say to his wife, Arthur Hollis danced with her, and hovered more closely than ever by her side.
He was growing desperate. His stay was drawing to a close. He meant to make the most of the few hours of sunshine and happiness before he turned his back on all that made life worth the living.
At the finish of one of the dances a messenger-boy was seen approaching with a telegram.
"For Mr. Arthur Hollis," he called.
Mechanically Arthur held out his hand. It was adispatch requiring his immediate presence in Baltimore to attend to some urgent business.
"Have you bad news?" asked Ida, turning to him; for she saw his face had grown very pale.
"Yes—no," he answered, incoherently, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "I must go away." He did not look at her as he uttered the words. "I must go within the hour," he said, huskily. "Come down by the brook where we have passed so many happy hours. I should like to say good-bye to you there."
For a moment she hesitated; then seeing the sorrowful look on his face, she quietly allowed him to lead her down the path toward the brook.
In silence they walked through the sunshine, heedless that there were two pairs of eyes following them—Vivian Deane's from one part of the grounds, and Eugene Mallard's from another.
Vivian turned and followed them. That was the beginning of the tragedy that darkened three lives.
Slowly Ida and Arthur Hollis walked together over the beautiful green lawn, Vivian Deane creeping like the shadow of fate after them.
Arthur seated Ida in her favorite nook on the mossy stone. For a moment neither of them spoke; then he suddenly caught her little hand in his. Ida did not know why she trembled, why her hand grew cold in his clasp.
There was not a cloud in the blue sky overhead. The cool, sweet breeze shook the rose leaves and scattered them on the grass; the leaves of the oak-trees stirred on the great boughs. A calm, sweet and solemn in its beauty, stole over them.
"Ida," he whispered, hoarsely, "did ever a great pity fill your heart for any one? If so, let pity fill it now for me, for I am in need of it."
"Why?" she asked, looking wonderingly up at him.
"How I shall look back to this hour when I am gone!" he said, brokenly.
"When I am gone!" The words had a sad murmur in them, like the fall of autumn leaves. They pierced the very heart of the girl who heard them.
"When you are gone?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"I am going away within the hour," he said. "The telegram I received calls me back to Baltimore by the first train," he added.
Involuntarily Ida drew closer to him, her face paling. Suddenly the light went out of the sun, the glory faded from the blue sky; the music of the birds was hushed, the bitterness of death seemed to have fallen over her heart.
"Going away?" She repeated the words over and over again, but she could not realize their meaning.
"I—I have been so happy, I forgot you would have to go away," she said, slowly.
"I am going down to Central America. I may die of fever and never come back," he answered, with passionate pain in his voice. "If I am spared to return, it may not be for years. I will have passed out of your thoughts by that time. You will have forgotten the pleasant hours we spent together, forgotten our rambles through the sunny hours. You will have grown into a woman of the world by that time. You have not begun life yet."
"I feel as though I had finished with it," she murmured.
She did not try to check the words that came throbbing to her lips.
"I wish you had not come into my life only to go out of it," she added, with passionate pain.
He looked at her, and strong man though he was, his lips trembled. She had raised her face to his, and shelooked so beautiful, so unhappy, that he turned away with a groan which came from the very depths of his heart.
Vivian Deane had crept near enough to hear the first words that had passed between them. She knew that he had received a telegram calling him away. He had either taken Ida Mallard down to the brook-side to say good-bye, or to urge her to elope with him. Most likely the latter.
She would go and fetch Eugene. He should be a silent witness to the scene; then her vengeance would be complete.
She knew his pride, his temper. She knew he would not raise his voice to utter one word to stay her steps. He would spurn her, he would force her to go.
Vivian hurried back to the dancers on the lawn. Eugene Mallard was standing apart from his guests. She glided up to him and laid a little white hand upon his arm.
"Eugene," she said, in a voice which trembled with excitement, "I have always been your true friend. If I saw you in danger, my first impulse would be to save you. If I saw an enemy pointing a deadly arrow at your heart, I would try to turn it aside. If I saw a dark cloud hanging over you, my first impulse would be to warn you."
"I anticipate what you are going to say, Vivian," he broke in, with an expression of annoyance on his face. "You are going to repeat some gossip to me, and I will say, before you begin, that I do not care to hear it."
"If you will not heed the words of warning of one who wishes you well, you must submit to the jeers of the whole country. I advise you to go to the brook-side, where your wife is saying farewell to Arthur Hollis; or perhaps she is going with him."
She saw the look that passed over his face as she turned swiftly and hurried away. He could not have answered her if his life had depended upon it. Glancingback over her shoulder, she saw that he had strolled off in the direction which she had indicated.
"He will catch them making love to each other, and then—Ah, well, we shall see!"
Ida and Arthur had walked in silence by the brook, and they stood beside it for some moments without speaking; then suddenly Arthur Hollis turned toward her.
"Say that you will miss me when I am gone," he murmured, with emotion.
"You know that I will," she answered. "But for you, my life here would have been very lonely."
"Do you really mean that?" he asked, quickly.
"Yes," she returned, with something very like a sob on her lips.
Impetuously he caught the little white hand that hung by her side.
"Those words will linger in my memory until the day I die!" he cried, huskily. "Ida, I am going away. You will never see me in this world again. I shall never come back."
She looked at him with her great dark eyes.
"It breaks my heart to say farewell," he continued, huskily, "for when I leave you, Ida, I go out into the darkness of death."
"Oh, do not say that!" she cried.
"Yes, the hour has come when I must tell you," he answered. "It will ease my heart. Only forgive and forget me. Oh, how am I to say good-bye to you?" he asked, sharply, looking, with desperation in his eyes, at the lovely pale face. "I have lived under the same roof with you. I have been thrown into your society day by day, yet I have kept my secret in my own heart. Now I am going away, and I will tell you the truth—I love you, Ida—I love you!"
He caught her hands in his, and she was too bewildered and dazed to withdraw them.
"You must forgive me!" he cried. "Have pity on me, if my words do not please you!"
She was carried away by his reckless impetuosity, andwas too much surprised to interrupt him. She had not even recovered herself sufficiently to withdraw her hands from his. All she knew, in her bewilderment, was, that he was kneeling upon the grass at her feet, with his head bent, and that hot, passionate tears were falling from his eyes.
"I have brought you here because I could not bear the pain any longer. I must speak to you or die. I love you! Ah, Heaven knows how I love you!"
She had no power to stop the torrent of words that fell from his lips.
"You will no doubt wonder how I dare say this to you," he went on, brokenly, "but my answer is—love dares anything. It must express itself in action or words. No mortal can keep it back."
She tried to check him, but it was impossible.
"Hush—hush!" was all she could say.
"I know the gulf that lies between us," he went on: "I realize that it can never be bridged over. If I had met you first, I feel all would have ended differently. You would have loved me as I love you. I feel it—I know it."
At that moment Eugene Mallard, who had hurried down the path at the suggestion of Vivian Deane, arrived upon the scene.
Only the tall lilac bushes sheltered him from the two who stood by the brook-side. For a moment he was horrified at what he saw and heard. He stood fairly rooted to the spot. His first impulse was to dash in upon them, fling Arthur Hollis to the earth, and beat his very life out.
His next impulse was to rush to the house for his revolver, return with it, and shoot his false friend before his guilty wife's eyes.
He acted upon the latter impulse, turned on his heel, and a moment later, white as death, he dashed into the house and ran up a rear stair-way to his room.
He did not love the girl who bore his name, but she should learn, even if it were at the cost of a life, what it meant to drag his name, his honor, through the mire.