CHAPTER LVI.

It was with the greatest surprise that Eugene Mallard received the message that Nora delivered—that Ida was too ill to attend the grand ball with him.

"She did not seem to be ill this afternoon," he said to himself.

Obeying a sudden impulse, he hurried from the room, intent upon going to Ida's boudoir and offering her his sympathy; but, on second thought, he concluded that in all probability she would not care to be disturbed.

He felt grievously disappointed. He knew that many of his friends would be present; and besides, what could he say to Mrs. Staples and her daughters?

Some of her friends had left Ida apparently in the best of health and spirits at noon. How could he account to them for her sudden indisposition?

During the forenoon he saw that there was something on Ida's mind; that she was greatly troubled.

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Perhaps the words he had said to her only a short time before had much to do with her indisposition. He felt that he ought to have a talk with Ida. If he were to reassure her that she could have everything her own way, she might feel much relieved.

A second time he started for her boudoir; but again he drew back. He could not tell what prompted him to do so.

"Such strange, contradictory emotions seem to possess me," he said. "I will go out into the grounds and smoke a cigar. That will quiet me a little, and afterward I will have a talk with Ida."

Eugene Mallard wandered about the grounds for half an hour or more. He heard a clock strike the hour of eight.

How dark and gloomy it was! There was no moon, but the stars shed a faint, glimmering light.

He had smoked a cigar; but still he paced aimlessly up and down the grounds, lost in thought.

He came to one of the garden benches. It looked so inviting that he threw himself down upon it.

How long he sat there he never knew. Presently he was disturbed by the sound of slow, cautious footsteps. It could not be one of the servants stealing through the grounds in that manner. It must be some poacher.

He drew back into the shadow of the trees, and watched with no little curiosity. He had been so kind to the villagers that he felt surprised at this apparent ingratitude.

Presently a figure came down the path. The more he watched the figure the more certain he became that he had seen it before. Its every move seemed familiar to him.

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Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind that made him hold his breath.

"Great Heavens! can it be Arthur Hollis?" he ejaculated.

His face paled; great flashes of fire seemed to come from his eyes. The very blood in his veins seemed to stagnate. Faint and dizzy, he leaned back against the trunk of a tree.

Great God! what could it mean? His wife supposed him to be by this time on his way to the ball. During his absence would she meet, dared she meet Arthur Hollis?

The tall, familiar-looking figure paced impatiently by the brook-side under the dim light of the stars. Yes, the man was there waiting for some one.

From where he stood he could plainly see a faint light in the window of his wife's room, and as his eyes were fixed upon it, the light was extinguished.

If a sword had been plunged into Eugene Mallard's heart, it could not have given him a greater shock.

Many a night he had paced up and down the grounds, watching the light in that window. Then it had never been put out before ten. Why should it be extinguished so early to-night?

The thought troubled Eugene Mallard, as he turned his head and saw the figure still pacing restlessly up and down by the brook.

He dared not utter a word. He would await developments. He scarcely breathed, in his suspense. It seemed to him that the blood in his veins was turned to ice.

He took up a position where there was no possible danger of being observed, and there he watched and waited.

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Up in her boudoir Ida was donning with trembling hands, the long cloak that was to disguise her.

She had sent Nora from her room. But it seemed to her that the girl looked back suspiciously as she went out and closed the door after her.

"Heaven help me to get through with this exciting scene!" Ida muttered.

Her heart was throbbing so, her limbs were so weak, that she was obliged to sit down for a minute.

"Oh, Heaven help me! How thankful I am that Eugene did not send for me before he left for the ball. He has reached there by this time!" she muttered.

She looked at the clock, and said to herself that time was flying, and she must hasten to keep her appointment.

Again she counted over the money which Eugene had given her—the money that was to restore her little child to her—the money that was to purchase her freedom and end forever Royal Ainsley's persecutions.

"What would Eugene say if he knew all?" she asked herself, in great trepidation.

She trembled even at the thought of it.

Was she doing right in concealing the truth from Eugene Mallard?

She sprung from her chair and paced hurriedly up and down the room.

If Eugene knew all, he would certainly tell her that her path lay with Royal Ainsley, that his roof would shelter her no more. And now she could not part from him. Every fiber of her heart was woven about him.

She tried to look into the future; but, think what she would, the pictures presented frightened her.

Presently she paused before the window. Was it only her fancy, or did she hear the patter of rain-drops?

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She turned out the light and threw open the window. She felt relieved to find that it was only the leaves that were tapping against the window-pane. She closed the window, with a sigh, and opened the door softly.

The corridor was empty; the gas-jets of the great chandelier were turned low. Like a thief in the night, she stole noiselessly down the winding passageway.

The sound of laughter from the servants' hall below floated up to her through the awful stillness.

What if one of the doors on either side should open, and some one step out and confront her?

She drew her long cloak closely about her, and pulled the hood down over her head.

There was a side door opening on to a porch, and leading directly into the grounds.

Ida hurried toward this door and opened it cautiously. For a moment she stood on the threshold, and in that moment a gust of wind blew the cloak from about her shoulders, and it fell at her feet.

The light from the hall lamp clearly revealed her form to Eugene Mallard, who stood leaning against an oak-tree scarcely one hundred feet distant.

"It is Ida!" he muttered, hoarsely.

She turned her steps down toward the brook, as he had feared she would do.

"She stayed away from the ball to meet that scoundrel!" he muttered under his breath.

With hesitating steps, little dreaming of what the end of her adventure would be, Ida hurried on to her doom.

The wind sighed a mournful requiem in the trees, the songs of the birds were hushed, and the sweet murmur of the brook seemed to end in a sob as it rushed onward to the sea.

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The night was warm, but a great shiver crept over Ida as she turned out of the path and hurried along through the garden by a short cut to the place where she knew Royal Ainsley was impatiently waiting for her.