Towards evening, Rachel, as the only trustworthy bearer, was dispatched to Richard's hotel with the letter. Mrs. Read had expended her moral courage in the execution of this mortifying duty. She passed a wretched night—a prey to agonizing anticipations—imagining Mr. Ashlin's return; his being overtaken; the death of one or both; Richard's desertion of her, or that her family would disown her. Ida stayed with her, but her condolences and sanguine predictions were futile.
"You do not know Richard!" was Mrs. Read's invariable answer.
He appeared at the hour for departure, and without coming in, sent to inquire if she was ready. Ida supported the half-swooning woman down stairs. Richard was in the porch. He saluted her slightly—his sister, not at all;—his face so gloomy and stern, Ida dared not accost him. Josephine was less timorous, or had a stronger incentive. She walked boldly to the door.
"Mr. Copeland, can you spare me a minute of your valuable time? I have a word to say to you."
He wheeled upon her with a withering sneer. "I am admonished of the purport of your communication, Miss Read, and my regret is only second to yours, that the indulgence of your amiable penchant for bloodshed is inevitably postponed by the flight of our chivalrous friend. I give you credit for having acted in perfect consonance with the finest feelings of your soul. Permit me to express the hope that the consummation we mutually desire, is not very remote—that the "transgressor may be rewarded according to his works;"—and while this is the burden of your prayers, I would have you remember that I shall put up a like petition with regard to yourself!"
Mrs. Read strained Ida to her breast silently, and the hot tears fell fast upon her cheek. She tendered her hand to Josephine. It was disdainfully rejected.
"Farewell, Mr. Copeland;" said Ida, holding out her hand.
He clasped it, and inclined his head, as in adoration. "It is well," he said, in an under tone, "that I have met you. You have preserved me from total abnegation of female truth. Thank heaven that you have but a physical resemblance to your sex!" He closed the carriage-door upon his weeping sister, mounted his horse, bowed to his saddle-bow to the wave of Ida's handkerchief, and galloped off.
Anna Talbot was to stay with Josephine until the necessary legal formalities should leave her free to select a home; and Mrs. Dana claimed Ida. She needed rest and nursing. This week of agitation and wearing fatigue, was the forerunner of a fever, which might have resulted fatally, had she retained her old quarters. There was nothing at Mr. Dana's to quicken memory into action upon unpleasant subjects; no darkened chambers, or everburning tapers; no hurryings from room to room, with the suppressed bustle, that indicated a renewal of the patient's sufferings. These were sights and sounds painfully familiar to her of late. She lay in an airy apartment; the light tempered, not excluded; with books and flowers, and if she wished, the happy children to amuse her; and when she started from sleep, with a groan or shriek sounding through her head, her eye fell upon the placid face of her hostess, smiling tenderly to dispel her alarms; or Elle's cherry mouth said, in the flute-like accents, so like her aunt's, "You're just dreaming, cousin Ida!" She left her bed, but her tottering steps would not bear her far; and John Dana carried her in his strong arms every evening to the parlor, where was Charley, disposing, with the skill of an accomplished nurse, the pillows that heaped her sofa. She was thankful for the debility that made her the recipient of these tokens of true affection. They loved her; she no more doubted this, than she questioned her attachment to them. One day she appeared thoughtful, and Mrs. Dana remarked upon it in private to her coadjutors. She was afraid it arose from some saddening reminiscence, or mistrust of the future; "Charley must enliven her." And Charley, if he did not bring mirth, eliminated the caged troubler.