Eugene Mallard had sunk into the nearest seat, covering his face with his hands. The horror of the situation had just come to him. By the cruel working of fate he had been wedded to one woman through a horrible mistake, while his heart and soul were another's.

It seemed to him like some horrible dream from which he must soon awake. He had parted from Hildegarde full of hope and love, scarcely an hour before, saying to himself, as he turned and looked back at her, that ere the sun would rise and set again, she would be his own, that they would never be parted from each other after that. And now a barrier had suddenly risen between them which parted them just as surely as though one of them lay in the grave.

His whole soul was bound up in Hildegarde; yet he was wedded to another. It seemed to him that the anguish of it was more than he could bear.

Then came to him the thought that he must protect the woman he had wedded—this poor young creature who still clung to him, imploring him to save her from Miss Fernly's wrath, repeating to him, over and over again, that it was a mistake.

Eugene Mallard roused himself from the stupor which was stealing over him. He must face the terrible consequences of that rash marriage. Although this girl had wrecked his life, ruined his future, yet he could not find it in his heart to curse her.

He could not help but believe her—that it was some terrible mistake; he could not judge her before he knew more about what had prompted her to do this deed. He could not rest until he knew the reason that lay behind it.

"Tell me all about it," he said, hoarsely, turning to the girl, "that I may judge for myself of this action of yours."

"Yes, tell him," cried Miss Fernly, "that I may be cleared of my part in this transaction. You deceived me as well."

In a faltering voice that sounded as though she were dying, Ida May told her story, the man she had married listening intently.

He did not speak until she had concluded, but Miss Fernly saw that the girl's story was greatly affecting him.

"No wonder you mistook me for Royal Ainsley, when you saw that picture," he exclaimed, "for we are cousins. The resemblance between us was most marked when that picture was taken."

"I—I—thought the name Miss Fernly told me was an assumed name, or else you had given me a false one."

Miss Fernly's self-control seemed to leave her entirely as she listened.

"I am responsible for it!" she groaned, wringing her hands. "Oh, what will Hildegarde and my sister say!"

Eugene Mallard and Miss Fernly looked into each other's faces, and their lips were mute.

"Let me go to her and tell her my story," sobbed the hapless bride, "then I will go away, and you shall never look upon my face again!"

"That would not mend matters," replied Eugene Mallard. "I have married you, and nothing can undo that."

"Oh, do not say so!" cried Ida May. "I will free you from the bond whose links have just been forged. You shall have a divorce. I will set you free!"

Eugene Mallard shook his head.

"You would do so if you could," he answered; "but, alas! you can not. Those whom God hath joined together no one has the right to put asunder."

With a sigh that nearly rent his heart, he rose to his feet. The carriage still stood in waiting at the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Fernly.

"We will all three go to Hildegarde, and break it as gently as we can to her—tell her what has happened—break the sad story to her as gently as we can," Eugene repeated.

As one whose feet refused to do her bidding, Miss Fernly tottered up the aisle behind them. What would Hildegarde say—what would she do? Perhaps she would fall dead at their feet, for she loved, with all the passionate love of her heart, the man whom she had promised to wed on the morrow.

"Oh, if I had not been so hasty!" cried Miss Fernly. "I meant to do a noble action, but instead I have wrecked two lives!"

They entered the carriage in silence—a silence which was not broken until they reached the door of the beautiful Cramer mansion. They saw Hildegarde standing at the lace-draped window, peering out into the darkness, eagerly watching for them.

The hapless young lover groaned aloud. Miss Fernly hid her face in her hands. Hildegarde was at the door to greet them almost as soon as the servant.

"You have been gone very long, Eugene!" she cried. "Dear me! how surprised I was to see Aunt Fernly returning with you!"

Then her eyes fell upon the girl in bridal robes her lover was holding by the hand. She did not recognise Ida May because of the veil which she had drawn down over her face, nor did she hear the cry of surprise Ida May uttered when she recognized her.

Miss Fernly had always spoken of the bride to be as her niece, but had never once mentioned her name.

For one moment Ida May stood irresolute. She now realized what she had done, and wondered how Hildegarde would take the terrible mistake.

For a moment the three stood silent. Who would be the one to break the terrible news to Hildegarde?

"What is the matter, and who is this beautiful young girl, clad in bridal robes, whom you hold by the hand, Eugene?"

He tried to speak, but he could not utter a word if his life had depended upon it. Even Miss Fernly seemed to have been stricken dumb. Ida May knew that it devolved upon her to utter the words which would stab Hildegarde Cramer to the very soul. She saw the lover try to speak, and fail, and also saw Miss Fernly's lips twitch convulsively.

Nerving herself for the ordeal through which she must pass, she stepped forward.

"Let me answer for them," she said, in a voice that sounded to Hildegarde's ears like the strain of some half-forgotten melody. And as she uttered the words she threw back her veil.

"Ida May!" cried Hildegarde, aghast.

"Yes, I am that hapless creature whom you knew as Ida May."

For an instant there was silence, broken only by the sound of the labored breathing of Miss Fernly, Hildegarde, and Eugene Mallard.

In an instant the haughty heiress had recovered herself. She recoiled from the girl who advanced pleadingly before her.

"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" Ida cried, much to the astonishment of Miss Fernly and her companion, "I did not know that it was you whom I was to confront in this awful hour!"

But Hildegarde shrunk still further from her. How dared this creature, who had passed those weeks at Newport a living lie, to claim acquaintance with her!

She flushed crimson, and retreated from her in abhorrence, wondering how this creature had come here, accompanied by her aunt and lover.

"Hildegarde!" cried Ida May, "listen, for the love of Heaven, and do not judge me too harshly until you have heard all!"

Sobbing wildly, Ida caught at the hem of Hildegarde's dress.

"Auntie!" cried Hildegarde, turning to her relative, "I do not care to listen to anything this—this person has to say. The very air she breathes stifles me. Eugene!" she cried, springing to her lover's side, "take me in to the drawing-room. I—I can not talk to this young girl."

He did not clasp her in his arms, though he made a movement to do so. His arms fell to his sides, and his head drooped to his breast.

He was enduring torture so acute that many a man would have fainted under the strain of it.

Hildegarde looked up into his face in wonder.

"Eugene, my darling!" she cried "are you ill? Tell me! Something terrible must be the matter! Why do you not speak?"

In that instant she seemed to forget the presence of everybody, save the lover who had parted from her a few hours since, and who was now standing before her so greatly changed.

She looked from one to the other in consternation.

"Something has happened," she said. "Why do you keep me in suspense?"

"I am trying to tell you," sobbed Ida May, "but you will not listen."

"Must I listen to her, auntie?" cried Hildegarde, turning to her aunt.

"Yes," said Miss Fernly, "you must listen, my poor child, while I pray to Heaven to give you strength to bear it."

"Eugene!" cried the girl, "why are you silent?"

He could not answer her. He only looked at her with a world of woe in his gaze, his whole frame trembling with anguish.

Ida May never knew in what words she told her strange story. Hildegarde listened like one turned to stone. Ida May told her of the awful mistake that had blasted two lives and parted two who fondly loved each other.

Those who saw the look of pity in the face of Hildegarde would never forget it.

Her face became as pale as marble; the blood receded from the ripe-red lips.

She passed through a life-time of woe in those few minutes. She did not look at Ida May or her lover when the former ceased speaking, but she turned her white, set, tragic face to her aunt.

"You have done this dreadful thing!" she cried. "I wonder that Heaven does not strike you dead for it!"

"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" cried Miss Fernly, "I would only be too glad to give my life to atone for my part in this dreadful affair."

The girl looked at her with eyes like jets of flame.

"If you had but told me," she said, in a voice that was more sorrowful than any tears could have been. "You took the reins into your own hands; you meddled with the affairs of another, and see the mischief you have wrought!"

A sort of frenzy seemed to possess her.

"Go!" she cried, turning to Ida May, and pointing toward the door. "Get out of this house, out of my sight, before I call the servants to fling you into the street!"

Ida May crept toward the door. To Hildegarde's intense surprise, Eugene Mallard turned to follow her.

"I will go with you," he said, huskily, "for you—you are my—my wife!"