Ever since he had been turning the matter over in his mind, and asking himself what he should do, and at last he was brought face to face with the truth—he had no right to marry her unless he intended living with her.
So clearly had his duty become defined to him that the path of the future was now plain before him. He must forget his love for Hildegarde, and the only way to do that was to ask the wife he had wedded to help him.
"I ask you this after much calm deliberation," he said, slowly. "Be my wife in reality as well as in name, and we may yet make good and useful lives out of what is left of them!"
He heard a cry escape from her lips, but he could not tell whether it was one of pleasure or pain.
"I do not ask you to give my answer at once, unless you choose to do so," he said, gently.
He bent over her and took her hand. He was startled at its icy coldness. He could feel that she trembled at his touch.
"I have startled you," he said, gently. "I would advise you to go to your room, instead of mingling with the guests to-night. There you can reflect upon what you wish to do. I will leave you here," he said. But before he turned away, he involuntarily stooped down, and kissed the white face raised so appealingly to his.
It was the first caress he had ever offered her, and that kiss burned her face for long hours afterward. It filled her to the very depth of her soul, to the very center of her heart.
Like one stricken suddenly blind, Ida groped her way to her room.
"Ah! if I could only die with the memory of that kiss burning my lips!" she cried.