Richard was to take his sister home; and Ida was busily assisting her
to pack her trunks, the day after the funeral, when Josephine sent to
request an audience. She ordered the servants out of the room as she
came in, and without preamble, entered upon her subject.
"You two have been confederates in many amusing schemes. Wedded spirits
at sight, you flattered yourselves that you counterfeited indifference
successfully. But not to me--my fair intriguers! You, Miss Ross, were
wilfully imprudent. I foiled your manoeuvres to entrap Morton Lacy,
the man you loved;--you owe the disappointment, from which you will
never recover, to me. You were unwary to oppose me a second time. And
for you--lovely and inconsolable widow! your downfall was decreed from
the moment we met. I poisoned that old man's mind against you. He
weakly tried to repel doubt--to confide--the fool! in your love--but
the venom was subtle--certain! _I_ overheard your first interview
with your recreant lover--marked, step by step, your reconciliation,
and furthered it when I could:--_I_ saw your trepidation when your
brother's arrival menaced an _expose_; and compelled John afterwards
to a confession of the warning he transmitted, and the reply, 'on
account of a friend's danger!' That 'friend' is in imminent danger
now! The cessation of his visits did not mislead her, who dogged you
in your walks, and saw him by your side. _I_ was awake the elopement
night,--saw your signal, and heard the theatrical dialogue in the hall,
rehearsed for the benefit of eaves-droppers, to clear the skirts of
your accomplice, when your flight should be discovered. Pah! a child
could see through it! a remarkable coincidence that Miss Ross should
select a parlor for a dormitory, and arouse, just in season to confront
you at the door! It was a scene,--as the play-bills have it--'for one
night only.' Your plan proved abortive; death has left you as free as
a divorce would have done; and when the 'days of mourning are ended,'
you think to marry, and the public be in blissful ignorance that this
measure was in contemplation before your husband's decease. Idiot! is
this the revenge I have worked for? Your swain is yet in town;--act out
your plot. You need not go to Cuba--the laws of Virginia do not forbid
the bans. If, however, your saint-like confidante reprobates 'indecent
haste,' my game is nevertheless sure. I give you to-day and to-night
for deliberation and escape. At the end of twenty-four hours, if you
are in this house, your hot-blooded brother shall hear the interesting
facts, of which I have presented a summary;--I have spoken, and _I
never repent_!"
Her auditors had not moved hand or foot, since she began to speak; and
after she had gone, they gazed at each other in the same dead silence.
Mrs. Read's stony despair revived Ida's energies.
"I am lost!" she said, in a hollow tone. She put by the garment she
held, and seated herself, with folded arms.
"You are not!"
"She '_never repents_!'"
"God grant she may, before it is too late!" said Ida, looking upward;
"but I do not rely upon her relentings for your deliverance. We must
consider. Bear up, and remember your vow!"
But her own heart sank. Contrivance and expedient presented
themselves,--all inadequate to the emergency.
"Are you willing to brave Richard's wrath, if it affects only
yourself?" she asked.
"I am! to the shedding of _my_ blood. Your face brightens! Is there any
hope?"
"Iniquity defeats itself!" said Ida devoutly. "The Helper of the
tempted will provide a means of escape. Have we not time, and the
knowledge that he is in the city, and liberty to communicate with
him? Write him a warning, and _final_ farewell;--he must fly for his
life--he will do it! The traitor is seldom brave!" she said inwardly.
Mrs. Read's nerveless fingers dropped the pen.
"I cannot!"
"You must!" said Ida, authoritatively. "His life--your peace, depend
upon it. Write! I will dictate."
The note was short and imperative. If the hand quivered, the heart that
indited did not.
"Take comfort!" said Ida, sealing it.
"How will you send it?" said Mrs. Read, whom grief and shame had robbed
of mind and fortitude.
"I will carry it myself."
"Oh! not you! what will be said?"
"Trust me. If Josephine has emissaries, so have I. I will not
compromise myself or you. I was cut out for a conspirator, and to keep
up the character, you must disguise me. My appearance on the street so
soon after the--yesterday, will excite remark. Ah! this thick veil, and
that black mantle, will serve my purpose. Now, would you know me?"
"Never--but dear Ida--"
But repeating "Take comfort!" Ida kissed her, and went out. She tripped
across the back yard, under shelter of the buildings, unlatched the
gate, and was safely in an alley, bisecting the square, and parallel
with the street upon which the house was built. She walked briskly,
thinking over her plan. As in Lynn's case, Charley was her aim; but
she was not so sure now of his co-operation. It was a delicate and
dangerous matter;--would he be a blind tool? confidence was not to be
thought of. With his nice notions of propriety, would he take a note
from her to Mr. Ashlin, of whose character she had heard him speak
disparagingly. "This is foolish!" she interrupted herself--"he must!"
and she was conscious that this word from her, carried with it an
authority few had the hardihood to resist.
John Dana was in the store, but he did not know her, and sent a clerk
forward.
"I wish to see Mr. Dana, sir."
She raised her veil as he responded to the call.
"Ida! my dear child! I should never have recognised you!"
"I did not design you should. My errand is with Charley--is he in?"
"In the counting-room. What is the matter?"
"With me? Nothing, sir;--a state secret. He is my Vizier."
"Very well!" said he, smiling. "Walk this way." He pushed aside the
baize door, and Ida thought she should faint, as Richard Copeland was
discovered talking with Charley. John also retreated.
"He is not alone;" he said, "I will call him out."
"Not while Mr. Copeland is here!" she faltered. "Oh! I would not have
him see me!"
"Ida!"
"He must _not_ see me, Mr. Dana!"
"Then I will hide you--shall I?" He took her to the end of a counter,
piled to the ceiling with goods; gave her a tall stool, and bade her
"rest awhile."
Ida was ashamed of her perturbation, and heartsick of the feints and
concealments her nature revolted at;--all the consequences of another's
errors.
Charley and Richard entered the store. "You had better say you will
go," said the latter. "It is insufferably stupid;--staying here this
weather."
"I don't know whether I can get off;" answered Charley. "We'll see."
His brother directed him to Ida. He was astonished to see her.
"But you can never be unwelcome."
"_Cela depend_;" said Ida, "I sue for a favor."
"Consider it granted."
"That will not do. Can you perform my bidding, without asking
questions?"
"I am not inquisitive; and I depend upon your discretion."
"Then, will you deliver this letter immediately?"
His countenance changed. Ida lifted her finger.
"I have promised," he replied; "but Ida--if you were my sister, I would
not be the bearer of this!"
"Charley!"
"I do not say it to hurt your feelings, but I know men, and this man,
better than you do. This is not your handwriting. My fear is that you
may be tampered with--not your integrity--but that designing people may
impose upon your credulity."
"I thank you sincerely for your consideration, but I act with my eyes
open, and conscientiously believe that what I demand is actually
necessary. _I_ dictated that note. Will you oblige me now?"
"Unhesitatingly."
"Be sure you give it, at once, to him. I cannot explain, I may never
do it, perhaps. One thing more. Where does Mr. Copeland want you to go?
and when?"
"To the country, to-morrow; a _tete-a-tete_ drive out of town; a dinner
at a tavern; and spend the day in the woods, gunning."
"Go, please! I have a special reason for asking it--and start early."
"More mysteries!"
"The last I shall ever annoy you with, Charley."
"Enough! if possible you shall be obeyed. I trust you, Ida--not one of
the other parties concerned. By the way," he added, putting on his hat,
"Lacy passed through the city yesterday; stopped but an hour, and left
his regrets and respects for you. He would have called, but for the
circumstances of the family."
"I should have been happy to see him," said Ida, very naturally. "Was
his sister with him? how is her health?"
"Not improved. They contemplate a sea-voyage. I heard a queer report
about him the other day." They were at the store-door, and Ida did
not lower her veil, although the light was glaring. Charley was
scrutinising her from the corners of his eyes, and she was aware of it.
"I don't credit it;" he said. "They say he is engaged to be married to
Miss Arnold."
Ida smiled. "Why do you discredit it?"
"Why I hear the girl is a flirt; she is pretty, but I don't relish the
match. Besides, to be frank, I had a private opinion that--"
"That he was engaged to me!" finished Ida, laughingly. "Your shrewdness
is at fault for once, Charley. I have known of his engagement ever
since last summer--almost a year."
"How did you hear of it?"
"From himself."
"All right then, I suppose;" Charley reluctantly conceded "I'll be
hanged if I don't believe it's all wrong!" he muttered, as he walked
down the street. Ida did not mutter or sigh, on her way home. She
cheered Mrs. Read's drooping spirits by reporting their case in
excellent hands, and the happy Providence which appeared likely to
befall them in Richard's projected jaunt. "A day is as precious to us,
at this juncture, as if its minutes were diamonds," said she.
Withdrawing to her chamber, she wept long and sadly. "If I could
only have seen him for one hour! one minute! Oh! I shall never be
free--never forget! Can I censure poor Helen, when I am myself so weak?
for it is sin to love him, the promised husband of another!"
An hour--and she was with her dejected charge, busy and cheerful--yet
so thoughtful, so sympathetic, that the repentant wanderer blessed her
as a heavenly messenger of compassion and goodness.
Ida was dressing in the morning, when she received a note from Charley.
"Mr. A---- decamped yesterday afternoon, servants and baggage--it is
said not to revisit these parts shortly. I do not know whether this
much discussed Hegira is, in any way, attributable to your billet, but
write, in the supposition, that the fact may not be uninteresting. Mr.
C---- and myself are on the point of starting upon our ride;--return
to-night.
In haste, yours,
CHARLEY."
Ida smiled scornfully. "The caitiff! I said the false were seldom
brave!"
She sent the note to Mrs. Read. Rachel brought up an answer. "You are
my guardian angel," it said. "The God you love and serve, may reward
you--I never can. I shall spend this day alone. Richard must hear the
truth, and I should be his informant--not that miserable girl, who
would gloat upon the sight of his grief and amazement. I shall write
him everything. Pray for me!"
Towards evening, Rachel, as the only trustworthy bearer, was dispatched
to Richard's hotel with the letter. Mrs. Read had expended her moral
courage in the execution of this mortifying duty. She passed a wretched
night--a prey to agonizing anticipations--imagining Mr. Ashlin's
return; his being overtaken; the death of one or both; Richard's
desertion of her, or that her family would disown her. Ida stayed with
her, but her condolences and sanguine predictions were futile.
"You do not know Richard!" was Mrs. Read's invariable answer.
He appeared at the hour for departure, and without coming in, sent to
inquire if she was ready. Ida supported the half-swooning woman down
stairs. Richard was in the porch. He saluted her slightly--his sister,
not at all;--his face so gloomy and stern, Ida dared not accost him.
Josephine was less timorous, or had a stronger incentive. She walked
boldly to the door.
"Mr. Copeland, can you spare me a minute of your valuable time? I have
a word to say to you."
He wheeled upon her with a withering sneer. "I am admonished of the
purport of your communication, Miss Read, and my regret is only second
to yours, that the indulgence of your amiable penchant for bloodshed is
inevitably postponed by the flight of our chivalrous friend. I give you
credit for having acted in perfect consonance with the finest feelings
of your soul. Permit me to express the hope that the consummation we
mutually desire, is not very remote--that the "transgressor may be
rewarded according to his works;"--and while this is the burden of your
prayers, I would have you remember that I shall put up a like petition
with regard to yourself!"
Mrs. Read strained Ida to her breast silently, and the hot tears
fell fast upon her cheek. She tendered her hand to Josephine. It was
disdainfully rejected.
"Farewell, Mr. Copeland;" said Ida, holding out her hand.
He clasped it, and inclined his head, as in adoration. "It is well,"
he said, in an under tone, "that I have met you. You have preserved me
from total abnegation of female truth. Thank heaven that you have but a
physical resemblance to your sex!" He closed the carriage-door upon his
weeping sister, mounted his horse, bowed to his saddle-bow to the wave
of Ida's handkerchief, and galloped off.
Anna Talbot was to stay with Josephine until the necessary legal
formalities should leave her free to select a home; and Mrs. Dana
claimed Ida. She needed rest and nursing. This week of agitation and
wearing fatigue, was the forerunner of a fever, which might have
resulted fatally, had she retained her old quarters. There was nothing
at Mr. Dana's to quicken memory into action upon unpleasant subjects;
no darkened chambers, or everburning tapers; no hurryings from room
to room, with the suppressed bustle, that indicated a renewal of the
patient's sufferings. These were sights and sounds painfully familiar
to her of late. She lay in an airy apartment; the light tempered, not
excluded; with books and flowers, and if she wished, the happy children
to amuse her; and when she started from sleep, with a groan or shriek
sounding through her head, her eye fell upon the placid face of her
hostess, smiling tenderly to dispel her alarms; or Elle's cherry mouth
said, in the flute-like accents, so like her aunt's, "You're just
dreaming, cousin Ida!" She left her bed, but her tottering steps would
not bear her far; and John Dana carried her in his strong arms every
evening to the parlor, where was Charley, disposing, with the skill
of an accomplished nurse, the pillows that heaped her sofa. She was
thankful for the debility that made her the recipient of these tokens
of true affection. They loved her; she no more doubted this, than she
questioned her attachment to them. One day she appeared thoughtful, and
Mrs. Dana remarked upon it in private to her coadjutors. She was afraid
it arose from some saddening reminiscence, or mistrust of the future;
"Charley must enliven her." And Charley, if he did not bring mirth,
eliminated the caged troubler.
She "had heard," she said, "that the law required her to choose a
guardian."
"True;" said Charley.
"Is there any specified time? has it expired?"
"A month hence will do; although Miss Read has made her choice."
"Ah! whom?"
"Mr. Talbot, the elder. Easy soul! he has not a thought of the pickle
he is in."
Ida was more serious. "Will you say the same of my selected protector."
"Probably--you being a _fac-simile_ of her."
"May I choose whom I please?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Will it be a very troublesome office?"
"Hum-m-m! I should say not. Some care--some responsibility--that is a
mere song, though, as your schooling is done, and you are a moderately
discreet young lady."
"Will you ask your brother to act? I prefer him above all other men in
the universe."
"Why not do it yourself? he will not object."
"He might be influenced by my anxiety, and assume the task because it
will make me happy--I want him to make an unprejudiced decision."
"I will look him up;" said Charley.
They re-entered together; and John bowed his tall form to kiss the
flushing cheek. "You will not seem more like a daughter, when you are
my ward, than you do now, Ida."