Vivian Deane looked down at the cowering girl at her feet. It seemed to
her then that her triumph was complete. She could scarcely keep back
the cry of exultation that rose to her lips.
"How shall I leave the house without being seen?" whispered Ida,
piteously.
"Leave that to me," murmured Vivian. "I am very sorry for you, Ida, and
I will do all I can to aid you in this, your hour of greatest sorrow."
"You are, indeed, a true friend to me," sobbed Ida. "I shall never,
never forget your kindness."
Vivian looked a trifle uncomfortable at these words of unmerited
praise. She dared not remain longer with Ida, for she knew that two or
three partners would be looking for her.
"Stay here for at least fifteen minutes," she said, eagerly, "and by
that time I will join you, and tell you what plans I have made for you."
Ida could not think for herself, her brain was so benumbed. She could
only nod in silence.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Vivian had quitted the
_boudoir_, until Eugene Mallard again knocked for admittance at the
door.
There was no answer. He turned the knob, entered, and found his young
wife lying senseless upon the carpet. For the second time, Ida had
given away to the awful agony that consumed her. Among those at the
_fête_ was a young doctor. Eugene summoned him hastily.
"Dear me, this is quite serious!" exclaimed the doctor, as he bent over
the prostrate form which Eugene had borne to a couch. "Your wife has
brain fever. It is a serious case, I fear."
The garden-party broke up quite suddenly. The news that Mrs. Mallard
had been taken ill was rumored among the revelers, and silently but
quickly the guests took their departure, all save Vivian Deane.
She went up to Eugene, and laid a hand on his arm.
"Let me remain and nurse my dear friend Ida," she pleaded. "Do not
refuse, I beg of you!"
"Let it be as the doctor says," answered Eugene.
But the physician shook his head decisively.
"This is a case requiring the most competent nurses. I am sorry to
refuse you, Miss Deane, but in this instance I must do so."
Vivian controlled the anger that leaped into her heart.
"You certainly mean well," added the doctor, "but in such a case as
this even her nearest relatives are not to be allowed in the sick-room."
Vivian was obliged to swallow her chagrin as best she could. If she
had been allowed her way, the young wife who had come between her love
and herself would never rise from her bed.
"When she is convalescing I will visit her," she said to herself.
As she had no excuse to remain longer in the house, she was obliged to
take her departure along with the other guests.
When Eugene Mallard had hurried to his room, after bidding Ida to
remain there until his return, it was his intention to go to his room
for writing materials, and returning to Ida, force from her a written
confession of her love for his friend, and her intention to elope with
him.
Under the circumstances, he could not very well carry his plan into
execution. His rage against his hapless young wife turned to pity when
he saw her lying there so helplessly before him.
During the fortnight that followed, the servants, who knew of their
master's estrangement from his young wife, and how little he cared
for her, were greatly surprised to find themselves banished from the
sick-room, while Eugene Mallard took possession of it.
The fact was, he was puzzled at her raving. Sometimes, when taking
the place of the trained nurse for an hour, he was troubled beyond
expression to hear her go over again and again the scene that had taken
place by the brook.
In her delirium, Ida vehemently repulsed Arthur Hollis, demanding of
him how it was that he dared speak a word of love to her, the wife of
another.
Then the scene would change, and she would fancy herself once more in
her own room, falling on her knees and crying out to Heaven that she
could not bear her husband's coldness.
Often would Eugene listen intently while Ida clasped her hands and
moaned:
"Oh, Eugene! Eugene! will I ever be more to you than I am now? I love
you! Yes, I love you, but you will never know it! If you only knew it,
you would be surprised. A wife never loved a husband more dearly, more
devotedly than I love you. I would have devoted my whole life to you.
I would have died for you! Every beat of my heart, every thought of my
mind, every action of my life is for you! I love you as no one else
ever will, as no one has loved you! You may live many years, happy,
flattered by the women of the world, but no love like mine will ever
come to you. The wife who is to you as the dirt beneath your feet is
the truest friend you have!"
Eugene Mallard looked terribly distressed as he listened.
"Ida, my dear wife, listen to me," he would say. "I--I--shall try very
hard to be kinder to you than I have been. Do you hear me, do you
understand?"
There was no gleam of love in the pale face; no light such as he had
thought his words would bring there; no gleam of joy. She did not seem
to understand him. He said to himself that he must be cautious; that he
must not distress her by speaking words that would give her hope.
The news of the illness of Eugene Mallard's young wife had traversed
far beyond the small Virginia town. He was well known in New York, and
the papers of the metropolis copied the bit of news; but in doing so,
they made a great mistake. The items read that the young wife of Eugene
Mallard had died from the effects of brain fever.
Miss Fernly read the article, and without delay she wrote to Eugene
Mallard.
In one part of her letter she said:
"I should never have written you the following if the wife whom you
had wedded through _my_ mistake had lived. But now that she is gone,
I will tell you the truth--that hapless deed came very near costing
your poor Hildegarde her life. From the time of your marriage to the
present, she has never been the same. She loved you then, she still
loves you.
"This is what I would advise you to do: wait a reasonable length of
time, and then come and claim Hildegarde, and this time nothing shall
happen to prevent the marriage of you two whom Heaven had intended for
each other. I know Hildegarde is breaking her heart day by day, hour
by hour, for love of you.
"I urge you to come to her just as soon as you think it prudent, as I
think it is my duty to warn you that Hildegarde is fading away before
our very eyes, and your presence is the only thing that can save her
life.
"I here inclose you a small portrait of her I had taken only a little
while ago. Her face is as sweet as a flower, but, ah, me! one can not
help but read the sadness in every line of it."
It was just at the time when Eugene Mallard was feeling kinder toward
his wife than ever that he received Miss Fernly's letter inclosing
Hildegarde's picture. He had done his best to try to crush out his
hopeless love for one from whom Heaven had so strangely parted him.
Great drops of perspiration stood out on his brow as he folded the
letter and turned the picture face downward on his desk.
It seemed to Eugene that the bitter waves of death were sweeping over
him. It was the reopening of the old wound in his heart that he prayed
Heaven to heal. He loved Hildegarde with all the strength of his
manhood. He wished that he were dead. The pain seemed greater than he
could bear. He found that he still loved sweet Hildegarde; but he was
bound to another in honor and conscience. He would try to do his duty
toward the one who bore his name.
He took the letter to the open fire-place, where a log fire burned
lazily, and knelt down before it, holding it to the flame. Red tongues
of fire caught at it gleefully, and the next instant it was a heap of
ashes in one corner of the grate.
Then he held out the picture to the flames, but involuntarily he drew
it back. He could not allow it to burn. It seemed to him that his own
heart would burn first.
"Heaven give me strength to destroy it!" he cried. "I dare not trust
myself to keep it. It will drive me mad!"