"I do not wish to go," she reiterated, firmly, and Mrs. Leslie wondered a little at the tears in the girl's blue eyes, as she kissed her good-night, and the more than usual fervency of her embrace.
When they were all gone, and the villa was left to the occupancy of herself and the servants, Irene retired to her room. She sat down and wrote a hasty letter to Mrs. Leslie, which, after sealing and addressing, she placed in a conspicuous place on the toilet table.
"She will think me unkind and ungrateful," she sighed to herself; "but what can I do?"
She removed her pretty blue dinner dress, and substituted a plain, black cashmere. Then, with trembling fingers and nervous haste, she packed a change of clothing into a small hand-bag. Lastly she took out her little shell purse, and counted its contents. There was something more than a hundred dollars, the gift of her munificent friend, Mrs. Leslie.
"She little thought for what purpose I would use it," sighed poor Irene. "But I have no other refuge left me!"
She put the purse into her pocket, drew on a dark gray travelling ulster, and a little cap with a thick veil. Then taking the hand-bag in her little trembling hands, she stole silently as a ghost from the great house, and did not draw a free breath until she stood alone in the moonlighted garden.
Then she paused and lifted her white face and tear-wet eyes to the starry sky.
"If only he had loved me I need not have gone," she sighed. "Ah, my husband, my darling, farewell!"
Without another word she was gone, flitting away, a small, dark shadow, to mingle with the shadows of the night.