It was but a few days after Dr. Hull's visit that Miss Ludington had a
sudden illness, lasting several days, which, during its crisis, caused
much alarm.
Ida turned all the servants out of the sick-room and constituted herself
nurse, watcher, and chambermaid, if she lay down at all it was only after
leaving a substitute charged to call her upon the slightest occasion.
Light and quick of step, strong and gentle of hand, patient, tireless,
and tender, she showed herself an angel of the sick-room.
There was, indeed, something almost eager in the manner in which she
seized upon this opportunity of devoting herself to Miss Ludington, and
the zeal with which she made the most of every possibility of rendering
her a service. She seemed, in fact, almost sorry when the patient had no
further need of her especial attendance.
To Miss Ludington the revelation that she was so dear to Ida was
profoundly affecting. It was natural that she should adore Ida, but that
Ida should be correspondingly devoted to her touched her in proportion to
its unexpectedness. "I should be glad to be sick always, with you to
nurse me, my sister," she said. Whenever she addressed Ida by this title
of sister her voice lingered upon the syllables as if she were striving
to realize all the mysterious closeness and tenderness of the relation
between them which its use implied.
The period of convalescence, during which Miss Ludington sat in her room,
lasted several days, and one evening she sent for Paul. She was alone
when he came in, and after he had inquired after her condition, she
motioned him to a chair.
"Sit down, Paul," she said; "I want to have a little talk with you."
He sat down and she went on: "I find that I have been greatly enfeebled
by this attack, and though the doctor tells me I may regain reasonable
health, he warns me that I shall not live for ever, and that when I die I
may die without much warning."
Expressions of mingled grief, surprise, and incredulity from Paul
interrupted her at this point, but she presently went on:--
"It is really nothing to distress yourself over, my dear child. He does
not say that I may not live on indefinitely, but only that when death
comes he is likely to enter without knocking, and I'm sure any sensible
person would much rather have it so. It was of Ida that I wanted to speak
to you. Since I have been sick, and especially since what the doctor told
me, I have been thinking what would become of her if I should die. Did
you ever consider, Paul, that she has not even a name? The world does not
recognize the way by which she came back into it, and in the eye of the
law she has no right to the name of Ida Ludington, or to any other."
"I suppose not," said Paul.
"It does not matter while I live," pursued Miss Ludington; "but what if I
should die?"
"Let us not talk of that," replied Paul, "or think of it. Yet even in
that event I should be here to protect her."
Miss Ludington regarded the young man for some moments without speaking,
and then, as a slight colour tinged her cheek she said, "Paul, do you
love her?"
"Do you need to ask me that?" he answered.
"No, I do not," she replied; and then as she cast down her eyes, and the
colour in her cheek grew deeper, she went on: "You know, Paul, that, as
society is constituted, there is but one way in which a young man can
protect a young girl who is not his relative, and that is by marrying
her. Have you thought of that?"
Paul's face flushed a deep crimson, and his forehead reddened to the
roots of the hair; after which the colour receded, and he became quite
pale; and then he flushed again deeper than before, till his eyes became
congested, and he saw Miss Ludington sitting there before him, with
downcast eyes and a spot of colour in either cheek, as through a fiery
mist.
Yes, he had thought of it.
The idea that, being of mystery though she was, Ida was still a woman,
and that he might one day possess her as other men possess their wives,
had come to him, but it had caused such an ungovernable ferment in his
blood, and savoured withal of such temerity, that he had been fairly
afraid to indulge it. In the horizon of his mind it had hovered as a
dream of unimaginable felicity which might some day in the far future
come to pass; but that was all.
Finally he said, in a husky voice, "I love her."
"I know you do," replied Miss Ludington. "No one but myself knows how you
have loved her. You are the only man in the world worthy of her, but you
are worthy even of her."
"But she would not marry me," said Paul. "She is very good to me, but she
has never thought of such a thing. It is I that love her, and she is very
good to let me; but she does not love me. How should she?"
"I think she does," said Miss Ludington, with a tone of quiet assurance.
"I have never said anything to her about it; but I have observed her. A
woman can generally read a woman in that particular, and it would be
especially strange if I could not read her. I do not think that you need
to be afraid of her answer. I shall not urge her by a word; but if she is
willing to be your wife, it will be by far the best way her future could
be provided for. Then, however soon I might die, she would not miss me."
Paul had heard distinctly only her first words, in which she had stated
her belief that Ida loved him and would probably be his wife. This
intimation had set up such a turmoil in his brain that he had not been
able to follow what she had subsequently said. There was a roaring in his
ears. Her voice seemed to come from very far away, nor did he remember
how long afterwards it was that he left her.
As he went downstairs the door of the sitting-room stood open, and he
looked in. Ida sat there reading.
The weather was very warm, and her dress was some gauzy stuff of a
pale-green tint which set off her yellow hair and bare arms and throat
with sumptuous effect. She was a ravishing symphony in white, pale green,
and gold.
She had not heard his approach, and was unconscious of his gaze. As he
thought of her as the woman who might be his wife, he grew so faint with
love, so intimidated with a sense of his presumption in hoping to possess
this glorious creature, that, not daring to enter, he fled out into the
darkness to compose himself.
No experience of miscellaneous flirtations, or more or less innocent
dalliance, had ever weakened the witchery of woman's charms to him, or
dulled the keenness of his sensibility to the heaven she can bestow. For
an hour he wandered about the dark and silent village street, waiting for
the tumult of his emotions to subside sufficiently to leave him in some
degree master of himself. When at last he returned to the house, his
nerves strung with the resolution to put his fortune to the test, Ida was
still in the sitting-room where he had left her.
Miss Ludington's conversation with Paul had left her in a mood
scarcely less agitated than his. The sensation with which she had
watched his devotion to Ida during the past weeks had been a sort of
double-consciousness as if it were herself whom Paul was wooing, although
at the same time she was a spectator. The thoughts and emotions which she
ascribed to Ida agitated her almost as if they had been experienced in
her proper person.
It was a fancy of hers that between herself and Ida there existed a
species of clairvoyance, which enabled her to know what was passing in
the latter's mind--a completeness of rapport never realized between any
other two minds, but nothing more than might be expected to attend such a
relationship as theirs, being a foretaste of the tie that joins the
several souls of an individual in heaven. She had never had a serious
love affair in her life, but now, in her old age, she was passing through
a genuine experience of the tender passion through her sympathetic
identification with Ida.
As she sat in her chamber after Paul had gone, fancying herself in Ida's
place, imagining what she would hear him say, what would be her feelings,
and what she would answer, her cheeks flushed, her breath came quickly,
and there was a dew like that of dreaming girlhood in her faded eyes.
She was still flushing and trembling when there came a soft knock on her
door, and Paul and Ida stood before her.
Ida was blushing deeply, with downcast face, and the long lashes hid her
eyes. She stood slightly bending forward, her long beautifully moulded
arms hanging straight down before her. She looked like a beautiful
captive, and Paul, as he clasped her waist with his arm, and held one of
her hands in his, looked the proudest of conquerors.
"I did not know but I might be dreaming it," he said, "and so I brought
her for you to see. She says she will be my wife"