Yes, Neil Emory was a married man and a man with a scandal, but a
scandal so hushed and screened by law and friends as to be almost
forgotten.
One day the beautiful woman who bore his name went away from him. You
know many such stories. I wish I could make this a new one. Perhaps it
is a little different from the hackneyed tales of the dashing lover,
who finally deserts his sweetheart, etc., etc., for this woman rose
in the brightness of a May morn, dressed herself for traveling, and,
with satchel in hand, walked into her husband’s study and told him that
she no longer loved him; that, in fact, she never had loved him, nor
ever would. It might be she cared for another; and she was going away
forever. At the end of a year, she hoped he would divorce her. No! she
would listen to nothing he might say. Should he compel her to remain
he must bear the consequences. Who was the man? That he should never
know. Let her depart in peace, for she knew he did not love her any
more than she loved him.
One year and she disappeared. The law crept slowly on--as yet no
release. “Would to God it could come another way!” And now that he had
again met Gwendoline, did he know that he loved her? If so, why rushed
the color to his cheek when the footlights flashed or the yellow dust
rose around the flying wheels of Cassandra’s coach?
He well knew he had many rivals. What could he offer either girl or
actress, wife or sweetheart? His friend Reginald Gray was one for whom
the beautiful dark woman of the boards seemed ever to smile; but “Kitty
who laughed” was always on the alert.
One day, as he sped swiftly down the street, a voice hailed him.
Turning, he beheld Clovis leaning from her carriage; and when he came
up, the slippered foot peeping from the lace of her dress and the blue
veil over her face were all he saw of her companion.
“Did you get my message?” asked Clovis.
“Yes,” he murmured, “but I knew it meant nothing.”
“Hush!” she replied. “I want your good opinion, and I’ll have it yet!”
Her lips closed tightly as she looked at him.
“You know that I am a poor man, Clovis--you know that when Monday
morning comes I will be either richer by many thousands or ruined. What
will you have? A diamond horse-shoe or a worthless kiss?”
“Neither!” said the woman. “I desire more--your name!”
The man started back.
“That is impossible,” he said under his breath.
He started again, for a little bell sounded in his ears--a little
silver tinkle that must have come through the carriage as the women
drove off.
Would he never hear from the distant lawyer who had his case in hand?
As secretly as possible he was conducting it. Gwendoline knew so
little, her mother more, perhaps, of his affairs. On what grounds
did he work? That his wife was untrue? No! That they could not live
together in peace? No! What then? Only this: she had left him and asked
for release. One year! Perhaps it would come!
He went into his room and sat down. It was Saturday night and noisier
than usual on the street. The week had dragged slowly enough, yet he
began to dread the coming of that Monday morning, that day which would
mean so much for him. He shaded his eyes from the soft twilight, and
seemed to see it all! The hot and restless crowd, the ever-penetrating
rays of the summer sun, the quivering, panting steed--and, perhaps, the
death of another jockey in the end.
“If this happens again,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll blow out the
infernal beast’s brains!”
There was a knock at the door, and on opening it a telegram was placed
in his hand. Slowly he tore off the covering, thinking: “How tired I
am!”
Yes, he was tired, so tired that the four words of the telegram that
should have brought him joy had no effect except it was to rivet him to
the spot; and there, two, three hours later, he still sat looking down
upon the carpet, where the yellow paper had fallen, with the writing
upturned, and this is what he saw:
“Your wife is dead.”