Ida, left alone, reeled into the nearest chair. She shook as if in an ague; she was cold, and her head reeled. Her keen pain and agony kept her from fainting.
She tried to imagine her future life. What was Eugene Mallard about to do? Her future was now ruined, sacrificed. Eugene Mallard had been cold and indifferent to her before, now he hated her.
He said she was to remain in that room until he should return. She flung herself face downward upon the floor. He had called her guilty and cruel; he had vented his rage upon her. Her brain was dizzy with the unusual excitement.
When Vivian Deane glided into Ida's room to find out what was going on, to see whether Ida had really eloped, she found her in a deep swoon. She did not call the servants, but set about reviving her herself.
Ida lay white and still as one dead. Above her bent Vivian Deane, half terrified at the result of her work. Very soon her labors were rewarded, and Ida opened her large, dark eyes.
"Vivian—Vivian!" she murmured, catching at the arms of her false friend, her teeth chattering.
The blinding tears that now fell from Ida's eyes was a mercy sent directly from Heaven, for they saved the hapless young wife from going mad.
"Something has gone wrong with you, my dear," said Vivian, in her sweetest, most cooing voice. "Tell me what it is, Ida, dear. Let me console and comfort you."
Another fit of sobbing more violent than the first, and Ida threw herself into the arms of her treacherous friend, sobbing out: