For a moment it seemed as though the darkness of death had come over
Ida.
"My revelation surprises you," Royal Ainsley said, with a most horrible
laugh.
The laugh and the words recalled her to her senses. She sprung to her
feet and faced him.
"Where is my child?" she cried, wildly. "Speak, for the love of Heaven,
I pray you."
"It will cost you just another thousand dollars to find that out. Bring
me that amount here to-morrow night at the same hour, and I will give
you full information. Isn't that fair enough?"
Pleadings and prayers were alike unavailing.
"Do you suppose I am going to tell you for nothing, when I can make you
pay handsomely?"
"But I haven't the money," she sobbed, "and--and you know it!"
"How did you get this thousand?" he asked.
Then Ida told him all.
"You were a fool to get rid of the diamonds before you had asked Eugene
Mallard for the money and been refused. Go to him and ask him for the
money now. He does not know how to refuse a woman, and he will give it
to you."
"And if I refuse?" she asked, desperately.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Then you and the man you love will be thrown into prison," Royal
declared, "to serve a term of fifteen or twenty years. After that you
can not complain as to how I brought up your daughter, if she follows
in the footsteps of her mother!"
He could not have used a more conclusive argument.
"Have you no heart, man--no mercy?" cried Ida.
"Come, come, I say, do not be theatrical; the role does not become you!
Better be sensible, and consider the proposition I make you."
"I will leave you now," he said; "but I will be here, at this same
hour, to-morrow night."
"No, no!" she cried. "Give me a week to think it over, and--and to see
what I can do about raising the money."
"Well, then, a week, if you must have it," he replied; "but no longer.
Here, you can take these proofs of my story regarding your child and
look them over at your leisure," he said, thrusting the package into
her hand.
The next moment he was gone. She did not faint; she knew that if she
did she would be found there with the package in her hand. She was so
dazed, so bewildered, she never remembered how she reached the house
and her own room. Again she rang the bell for Nora.
"You may bring me another cup of tea," she said, faintly, "as strong as
the last one."
The girl, noticing how pale and ill her mistress looked, thought it
would be best to bring her a glass of wine as well.
"Unless I am very much mistaken, she has a sick spell coming on. Her
face is pale, but every now and then it flushes burning red."
Ida did not seek her couch that night until she had eagerly scanned
every article of clothing the parcel contained.
Her excitement knew no bounds as she read the letter from the
superintendent of the foundling asylum, concerning all that he knew
of the baby's parentage, in which he stated that the doctor who had
attended the young mother had brought the child to the institution in a
dying condition, as he supposed, and was hastily called abroad, and had
barely time to make the outgoing steamer. He had told them that they
could tell the hapless young mother when she was able to bear the sad
news.
Ida wept as she had never wept before as she read those written words,
and her excitement increased as she saw that the letter was directed
to the village merchant's wife, Mrs. Lester, who had taken the child.
It was, then, her own child that she had clasped in her arms, the eyes
of her own babe into which she had gazed with such agony and yet with
such rapture.
Then another fear seized her. She had not seen the little one for weeks.
Was it ill? Had anything happened to it? She could not visit Mrs.
Lester's home until the day broke.
How came her little child in the possession of Royal Ainsley?
The suspense which she endured almost drove her insane. The next
morning she was up as early as the servants were.
"Joe," she said to the old coachman, "I want you to harness up the
swiftest horses you have in the stable, and take me to the village. I
want to go to the store kept by the Lesters."
"You will not find it open so early in the mornin', ma'am," declared
Joe. "Dem village folk am pow'ful lazy."
"We will go to their garden, and perhaps be fortunate enough to find
them there," said Ida, eagerly. "Harness the horses at once, Joe."
The hapless young mother scarcely breathed during that ride.
After what seemed to her almost an endless ride, they drew up before
the village store kept by the Lesters.
As Joe had predicted, the door was closed, and the blinds drawn.
"There they are in the garden yonder; at least, there am Mrs. Lester
in the strawberry-patch, and there am her husband, off further in the
fields."
"I will go to her," said Ida, stepping quickly from the carriage.
So busy was Mrs. Lester with her task of gathering the ripe fruit, that
she did not know of the presence of her visitor until she stood beside
her.
"Mrs. Lester," said a quick, eager, husky voice, "I do hope I have not
surprised you this morning."
"Well, well, you have surprised me, for a fact. I suppose you want to
get something from the store."
"Yes, I do, but not just now," returned Ida, with feverish impatience.
"Let me sit down here a few moments and talk with you."
"Certainly," said the woman; "but I haven't anything out here to invite
you to sit upon, save that little garden-seat which I always take
around with me, so that I can rest myself when I get tired."
"It will do very well, thank you," said Ida, feeling so weak and faint
that she could hardly stand.
"I have not seen you nor your little child lately," began Ida.
Then she stopped short, lest her quivering voice should betray her
terrible anxiety.
"No," returned Mrs. Lester. "I no longer have the little one, bless its
poor, dear little heart!"
"Has anything happened to it?" asked Ida, the agony of death in her
voice. "Oh, tell me, where is it? Is the little baby dead?"