Again the poor child picked up the cruel letter; but she could not read
a line of it, though she sat looking at the written page.
"Not his wife!" she moaned over and over again, clutching her little
hands over her heart.
With a sudden frenzy she tore the letter into a thousand shreds, and
flung the pieces from her through the open window.
Would her poor, sick mother's heart break when she told her all? When
she went home, would they force her to marry the terrible being she
abhorred?
Home! Ah, God! what a mockery! She had only a shelter. If she refused
to marry the horrible hunchback, her mother and herself would not even
have that.
How could she face the future? The very thought of it made the blood
chill in her veins.
"Oh, Royal! Royal! death from your hands would have been easier than
that!" she moaned.
The next moment there was a heavy fall, and one of the house-maids,
passing the parlor, saw the girl lying in a heap.
They did all in their power to restore her to consciousness; but it
was quite useless. When they had worked an hour over her, they became
alarmed.
Where was her husband? Why did he not return? The hotel physician did
all in his power, but without avail.
"It looks like a case of brain fever," he said, "or perhaps typhoid.
Either is contagious, therefore dangerous. I should advise that she be
sent to the hospital around the corner."
"That husband of hers has not settled his bill!" exclaimed the
proprietor, his face darkening angrily.
"It is _my_ opinion," said the doctor, "that it is best not to await
the return of the young gentleman who accompanied her here. In short,
it is my opinion that he has deserted her."
In less time than it takes to tell it, poor, hapless Ida May, the
victim of such a cruel misfortune, and a sadder fate yet to follow, was
taken to the hospital. The waning summer days drifted slowly by, and
autumn came with its dead, rustling leaves and sobbing winds, before
Ida May opened her eyes to consciousness and turned them full upon the
white-capped nurse bending over her.
"Where is Royal?" she asked, faintly.
"You mean the young man who left you at the hotel?" queried the nurse,
who had heard the young girl's sad story; adding: "He never came back
to inquire for you. He has deserted you. He did not care whether or not
the shock would kill you. If there was ever a heartless scoundrel on
the face of the earth, he is that one!"
The lovely white young face never changed its pallor, the dark eyes
never left the grim countenance of the nurse.
"I want to leave this place at once," said the girl, attempting to rise
from her cot.
"No, no; you must not do so!" exclaimed the nurse. "It would be
dangerous in your case."
"But I want my mother," moaned Ida, piteously.
When the nurse made her rounds an hour later, to her great
consternation she found that Cot 27 was empty. The girl had flown! The
most diligent search through the city failed to elicit the slightest
trace of her whereabouts.
An hour later a little dark figure, ensconced in a corner of the car,
was whirling rapidly toward Dorchester.
She sat staring from the window with eyes that did not see so intent
was she with her own thoughts.
"I can not marry Mrs. Deering's nephew," she sobbed, under her breath.
"It would be easier for me to die. But what shall I do to raise the
money for which they hold my poor mother a veritable slave!"
She clasped her hands in piteous entreaty; but the soft, radiant moon
and the golden stars to which she raised her eyes so appealingly could
find no answer for her.
As the train slowed up at the station, she pulled her veil down
closely. She hurriedly alighted and sped like a storm-driven swallow
up the village street and along the high-road, until, almost out of
breath, she reached the Deerings' mansion. She stood transfixed for a
moment at the gate.
What was there about the place that caused such a shudder to creep over
her? What did the awful presentiment, as of coming evil, mean that took
possession of her body and soul?