Richard was to take his sister home; and Ida was busily assisting her to pack her trunks, the day after the funeral, when Josephine sent to request an audience. She ordered the servants out of the room as she came in, and without preamble, entered upon her subject.

"You two have been confederates in many amusing schemes. Wedded spirits at sight, you flattered yourselves that you counterfeited indifference successfully. But not to me—my fair intriguers! You, Miss Ross, were wilfully imprudent. I foiled your manoeuvres to entrap Morton Lacy, the man you loved;—you owe the disappointment, from which you will never recover, to me. You were unwary to oppose me a second time. And for you—lovely and inconsolable widow! your downfall was decreed from the moment we met. I poisoned that old man's mind against you. He weakly tried to repel doubt—to confide—the fool! in your love—but the venom was subtle—certain! I overheard your first interview with your recreant lover—marked, step by step, your reconciliation, and furthered it when I could:—I saw your trepidation when your brother's arrival menaced an exposÉ; and compelled John afterwards to a confession of the warning he transmitted, and the reply, 'on account of a friend's danger!' That 'friend' is in imminent danger now! The cessation of his visits did not mislead her, who dogged you in your walks, and saw him by your side. I was awake the elopement night,—saw your signal, and heard the theatrical dialogue in the hall, rehearsed for the benefit of eaves-droppers, to clear the skirts of your accomplice, when your flight should be discovered. Pah! a child could see through it! a remarkable coincidence that Miss Ross should select a parlor for a dormitory, and arouse, just in season to confront you at the door! It was a scene,—as the play-bills have it—'for one night only.' Your plan proved abortive; death has left you as free as a divorce would have done; and when the 'days of mourning are ended,' you think to marry, and the public be in blissful ignorance that this measure was in contemplation before your husband's decease. Idiot! is this the revenge I have worked for? Your swain is yet in town;—act out your plot. You need not go to Cuba—the laws of Virginia do not forbid the bans. If, however, your saint-like confidante reprobates 'indecent haste,' my game is nevertheless sure. I give you to-day and to-night for deliberation and escape. At the end of twenty-four hours, if you are in this house, your hot-blooded brother shall hear the interesting facts, of which I have presented a summary;—I have spoken, and I never repent!"

Her auditors had not moved hand or foot, since she began to speak; and after she had gone, they gazed at each other in the same dead silence. Mrs. Read's stony despair revived Ida's energies.

"I am lost!" she said, in a hollow tone. She put by the garment she held, and seated herself, with folded arms.

"You are not!"

"She 'never repents!'"

"God grant she may, before it is too late!" said Ida, looking upward; "but I do not rely upon her relentings for your deliverance. We must consider. Bear up, and remember your vow!"

But her own heart sank. Contrivance and expedient presented themselves,—all inadequate to the emergency.

"Are you willing to brave Richard's wrath, if it affects only yourself?" she asked.

"I am! to the shedding of my blood. Your face brightens! Is there any hope?"

"Iniquity defeats itself!" said Ida devoutly. "The Helper of the tempted will provide a means of escape. Have we not time, and the knowledge that he is in the city, and liberty to communicate with him? Write him a warning, and final farewell;—he must fly for his life—he will do it! The traitor is seldom brave!" she said inwardly.

Mrs. Read's nerveless fingers dropped the pen.

"I cannot!"

"You must!" said Ida, authoritatively. "His life—your peace, depend upon it. Write! I will dictate."

The note was short and imperative. If the hand quivered, the heart that indited did not.

"Take comfort!" said Ida, sealing it.

"How will you send it?" said Mrs. Read, whom grief and shame had robbed of mind and fortitude.

"I will carry it myself."

"Oh! not you! what will be said?"

"Trust me. If Josephine has emissaries, so have I. I will not compromise myself or you. I was cut out for a conspirator, and to keep up the character, you must disguise me. My appearance on the street so soon after the—yesterday, will excite remark. Ah! this thick veil, and that black mantle, will serve my purpose. Now, would you know me?"

"Never—but dear Ida—"

But repeating "Take comfort!" Ida kissed her, and went out. She tripped across the back yard, under shelter of the buildings, unlatched the gate, and was safely in an alley, bisecting the square, and parallel with the street upon which the house was built. She walked briskly, thinking over her plan. As in Lynn's case, Charley was her aim; but she was not so sure now of his co-operation. It was a delicate and dangerous matter;—would he be a blind tool? confidence was not to be thought of. With his nice notions of propriety, would he take a note from her to Mr. Ashlin, of whose character she had heard him speak disparagingly. "This is foolish!" she interrupted herself—"he must!" and she was conscious that this word from her, carried with it an authority few had the hardihood to resist.

John Dana was in the store, but he did not know her, and sent a clerk forward.

"I wish to see Mr. Dana, sir."

She raised her veil as he responded to the call.

"Ida! my dear child! I should never have recognised you!"

"I did not design you should. My errand is with Charley—is he in?"

"In the counting-room. What is the matter?"

"With me? Nothing, sir;—a state secret. He is my Vizier."

"Very well!" said he, smiling. "Walk this way." He pushed aside the baize door, and Ida thought she should faint, as Richard Copeland was discovered talking with Charley. John also retreated.

"He is not alone;" he said, "I will call him out."

"Not while Mr. Copeland is here!" she faltered. "Oh! I would not have him see me!"

"Ida!"

"He must not see me, Mr. Dana!"

"Then I will hide you—shall I?" He took her to the end of a counter, piled to the ceiling with goods; gave her a tall stool, and bade her "rest awhile."

Ida was ashamed of her perturbation, and heartsick of the feints and concealments her nature revolted at;—all the consequences of another's errors.

Charley and Richard entered the store. "You had better say you will go," said the latter. "It is insufferably stupid;—staying here this weather."

"I don't know whether I can get off;" answered Charley. "We'll see."

His brother directed him to Ida. He was astonished to see her.

"But you can never be unwelcome."

"Cela dÉpend;" said Ida, "I sue for a favor."

"Consider it granted."

"That will not do. Can you perform my bidding, without asking questions?"

"I am not inquisitive; and I depend upon your discretion."

"Then, will you deliver this letter immediately?"

His countenance changed. Ida lifted her finger.

"I have promised," he replied; "but Ida—if you were my sister, I would not be the bearer of this!"

"Charley!"

"I do not say it to hurt your feelings, but I know men, and this man, better than you do. This is not your handwriting. My fear is that you may be tampered with—not your integrity—but that designing people may impose upon your credulity."

"I thank you sincerely for your consideration, but I act with my eyes open, and conscientiously believe that what I demand is actually necessary. I dictated that note. Will you oblige me now?"

"Unhesitatingly."

"Be sure you give it, at once, to him. I cannot explain, I may never do it, perhaps. One thing more. Where does Mr. Copeland want you to go? and when?"

"To the country, to-morrow; a tÊte-À-tÊte drive out of town; a dinner at a tavern; and spend the day in the woods, gunning."

"Go, please! I have a special reason for asking it—and start early."

"More mysteries!"

"The last I shall ever annoy you with, Charley."

"Enough! if possible you shall be obeyed. I trust you, Ida—not one of the other parties concerned. By the way," he added, putting on his hat, "Lacy passed through the city yesterday; stopped but an hour, and left his regrets and respects for you. He would have called, but for the circumstances of the family."

"I should have been happy to see him," said Ida, very naturally. "Was his sister with him? how is her health?"

"Not improved. They contemplate a sea-voyage. I heard a queer report about him the other day." They were at the store-door, and Ida did not lower her veil, although the light was glaring. Charley was scrutinising her from the corners of his eyes, and she was aware of it.

"I don't credit it;" he said. "They say he is engaged to be married to Miss Arnold."

Ida smiled. "Why do you discredit it?"

"Why I hear the girl is a flirt; she is pretty, but I don't relish the match. Besides, to be frank, I had a private opinion that—"

"That he was engaged to me!" finished Ida, laughingly. "Your shrewdness is at fault for once, Charley. I have known of his engagement ever since last summer—almost a year."

"How did you hear of it?"

"From himself."

"All right then, I suppose;" Charley reluctantly conceded "I'll be hanged if I don't believe it's all wrong!" he muttered, as he walked down the street. Ida did not mutter or sigh, on her way home. She cheered Mrs. Read's drooping spirits by reporting their case in excellent hands, and the happy Providence which appeared likely to befall them in Richard's projected jaunt. "A day is as precious to us, at this juncture, as if its minutes were diamonds," said she.

Withdrawing to her chamber, she wept long and sadly. "If I could only have seen him for one hour! one minute! Oh! I shall never be free—never forget! Can I censure poor Helen, when I am myself so weak? for it is sin to love him, the promised husband of another!"

An hour—and she was with her dejected charge, busy and cheerful—yet so thoughtful, so sympathetic, that the repentant wanderer blessed her as a heavenly messenger of compassion and goodness.

Ida was dressing in the morning, when she received a note from Charley.

"Mr. A—— decamped yesterday afternoon, servants and baggage—it is said not to revisit these parts shortly. I do not know whether this much discussed Hegira is, in any way, attributable to your billet, but write, in the supposition, that the fact may not be uninteresting. Mr. C—— and myself are on the point of starting upon our ride;—return to-night.

In haste, yours,
Charley."

Ida smiled scornfully. "The caitiff! I said the false were seldom brave!"

She sent the note to Mrs. Read. Rachel brought up an answer. "You are my guardian angel," it said. "The God you love and serve, may reward you—I never can. I shall spend this day alone. Richard must hear the truth, and I should be his informant—not that miserable girl, who would gloat upon the sight of his grief and amazement. I shall write him everything. Pray for me!"

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.

She "had heard," she said, "that the law required her to choose a guardian."

"True;" said Charley.

"Is there any specified time? has it expired?"

"A month hence will do; although Miss Read has made her choice."

"Ah! whom?"

"Mr. Talbot, the elder. Easy soul! he has not a thought of the pickle he is in."

Ida was more serious. "Will you say the same of my selected protector."

"Probably—you being a fac-simile of her."

"May I choose whom I please?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Will it be a very troublesome office?"

"Hum-m-m! I should say not. Some care—some responsibility—that is a mere song, though, as your schooling is done, and you are a moderately discreet young lady."

"Will you ask your brother to act? I prefer him above all other men in the universe."

"Why not do it yourself? he will not object."

"He might be influenced by my anxiety, and assume the task because it will make me happy—I want him to make an unprejudiced decision."

"I will look him up;" said Charley.

They re-entered together; and John bowed his tall form to kiss the flushing cheek. "You will not seem more like a daughter, when you are my ward, than you do now, Ida."