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 a _single_ girl 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, there were 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. Was _he_, 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 his _tête-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 a _hauteur_ which 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 a dispatch 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.