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.