"Yes, sir, but I thought maybe you'd rather go to Miss Anna Talbot's party, like Miss—"
"Elle! Elle! no, no!" whispered Ida, in time to suppress the name.
"You see I had rather be at yours;" he returned, without noticing the unfinished sentence. "What are you playing?"
"'Did you ever see a wild goose
Sailing on the ocean?'"
sang Charley.
"'The wild goose's motion
Was a mighty funny notion.'"
he added, aside to Ida.
No forced spirits now! The innocent fun—the converse of the social circle, after the little ones had gone—the walk home, beneath the tremulous stars—the "good night" and pressure, whose thrill lingered in her fingers 'till sleep sealed her eyes—all were sources of unutterable pleasure—pleasures born from one influence—flowing from one presence.
A month later, Josephine returned from an evening concert, with a violent toothache, the consequence of the sudden transition from the steaming hall to the ice-cold air without. She tossed and groaned in agony through the night; by morning the pain abated, a relief for which she was wickedly ungrateful, when she beheld reflected in the mirror, a tumefaction of the cheek, nearly closing one eye, and otherwise marring the symmetry of her features. The pain came back at intervals during the day; and with fretfulness, threw her into a fever. Dr. Ballard was sent for. It was late in the evening when she awoke from the slumber, gained by the anodyne he administered. The rain was plashing against the window; there was no other sound except a subdued murmur of distant voices. There were visitors in the parlor—who had ventured through the storm? Her sharpened senses caught manly tones—tones she thought she recognised; and then Ida's rippling, joyous laugh smote her unwilling ear. The conversation became lower and more serious; and she could endure no more. Unmindful of health and prudence, she hurried on a dressing-gown, wrapped a shawl about her head, and glided down stairs, as stealthily as a cat. The front room only was warmed and lighted, but the folding-doors were ajar. Mr. Lacy stood by the mantel, hat in hand, yet in no hurry to depart. He was playing with a rosebud he had plucked from a vase near, but as unconscious of its beauty as of the lateness of the hour. The expression with which he regarded the earnest speaker before him was not to be mistaken. It even seemed that he would have it understood, for a proud smile trembled over his mouth, as her eye avoided his.
Josephine felt turned to stone. By a singular fatality, she had, up to this time, remained ignorant of the growing intimacy between these two. We have seen that many of their interviews were unknown to her, although some of them occurred in her very presence; and Ida, in obedience to Lynn's caution, had guarded against any appearance of rivalship. Now, jealousy and perception awoke together—at one sweeping glance backward, she saw herself slighted—foiled—duped! and she grew faint at the sight of the frightful results of her lack of vigilance, which rushed overwhelmingly upon her mind. Her native shrewdness soon came to her aid. Matters were not so desperate. There was no word of love;—she breathed more freely. "Not yet! not yet!" she hissed, under her breath;—and the small hands clenched in passionate resolve, as she added—"never!" The leave-taking was full of feeling, but friends parted as kindly. The outer door clanged to; and Ida sank into her chair. Buried in the cushions, she sat, looking into the blaze, a smile of ineffable tenderness illumining her face; her cheeks bright with unwonted scarlet. The patter of the rain upon the panes but lulled her into deeper reverie. And in contrast to a foreground so rich and warm, in its glowing colors and balmy air, and dreams of love and hope—was the dark, chill background, with its shape of evil, hideous in her distorted features and glowering hatred. Ida stooped suddenly. It was to pick up the bruised bud Morton had dropped. She looked around hurriedly, and with a more vivid blush, raised it to her lips, and hid it in her bosom.