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 she looked 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. Glancing back 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, and was 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.