Victor Lamont had been quite correct in his surmise. Jay Gardiner had
reached Newport several hours later than he had calculated, and had gone
directly to his own apartments.
He was so tired with his long trip that he would have thrown himself on
his couch just as he was, had not a letter, addressed to himself,
staring at him from the mantel, caught his eye, and on the lower
left-hand corner he observed the words: "Important. Deliver at once."
Mechanically he took it down and tore the envelope. The superscription
seemed familiar--he had seen that handwriting before.
He looked down at the bottom of the last page, to learn who his
correspondent was, and saw, with surprise, and not a little annoyance,
that it was signed "Anonymous."
He was about to crush it in his hand and toss it into the waste-paper
basket, when it occurred to him that he might as well learn its
contents.
There were but two pages, and they read as follows:
"To DOCTOR JAY GARDINER, ESQ., Ocean House, Newport.
"_Dear Sir_--I know the utter contempt in which any
warning given by an anonymous writer is held, but,
notwithstanding this, I feel compelled to communicate
by this means, that which has become the gossip of
Newport--though you appear to be strangely deaf and
blind to it.
"To be as brief as possible, I refer to the conduct of
your wife's flirtations, flagrant and above board, with
Victor Lamont, the English lord, or duke, or count, or
whatever he is. I warn you to open your eyes and look
about, and listen a bit, too.
"When your wife, in defiance of all the proprieties, is
seen riding alone with this Lamont at midnight, when
you are known to be away, it is time for a stranger to
attempt to inform the husband.
"Yours with respect,
"AN ANONYMOUS FRIEND."
For some moments after he had finished reading that letter, Jay Gardiner
sat like one stunned; then slowly he read it again, as though to take in
more clearly its awful meaning.
"Great God!" he cried out; "can this indeed be true?"
If it was, he wondered that he had not noticed it. Then he recollected,
with a start of dismay, that since they had been domiciled at the Ocean
House he had not spent one hour of his time with Sally that could be
spent elsewhere. He had scarcely noticed her; he had not spoken to her
more than half a dozen times. He had not only shut her out from his
heart, but from himself.
He had told himself over and over again that he would have to shun his
wife or he would hate her.
She had seemed satisfied with this so long as she was supplied with
money, horses and carriages, laces and diamonds.
Was there any truth in what this anonymous letter stated--that she had
so far forgotten the proprieties as to ride with this stranger.
He springs from his seat and paces furiously up and down the length of
the room, the veins standing out on his forehead like whip-cords. He
forgets that it is almost morning, forgets that he is tired.
He goes straight to his wife's room. He turns the knob, but he can not
enter for the door is locked. He knocks, but receives no answer, and
turning away, he enters his own apartment again, to wait another hour.
Up and down the floor he walks.
Can what he has read be true? Has the girl whom he has married, against
his will, as it were, made a laughing-stock of him in the eyes of every
man and woman in Newport? _Dared_ she do it?
He goes out into the hall once more, and is just in time to see his
wife's French maid returning from breakfast. He pushes past the girl,
and strides into the inner apartment.
Sally is sitting by the window in a pale-blue silk wrapper wonderfully
trimmed with billows of rare lace, baby blue ribbons and jeweled
buckles, her yellow hair falling down over her shoulders in a rippling
mass of tangled curls.
Jay Gardiner does not stop to admire the pretty picture she makes, but
steps across the floor to where she sits.
"Mrs. Gardiner," he cries, hoarsely, "if you have the time to listen to
me, I should like a few words with you here and now."
Sally's guilty heart leaps up into her throat.
How much has he discovered of what happened last night? Does he know
all?
He is standing before her with flushed face and flashing eyes. She
cowers from him, and if guilt was ever stamped on a woman's face, it is
stamped on hers at that instant. If her life had depended upon it, she
could not have uttered a word.
"Read that!" he cried, thrusting the open letter into her hand--"read
that, and answer me, are those charges false or true?"
For an instant her face had blanched white as death, but in the next she
had recovered something of her usual bravado and daring. That heavy
hand upon her shoulder seemed to give her new life.
She took in the contents of the letter at a single glance, and then she
sprung from her seat and faced him defiantly. Oh, how terribly white and
stern his face had grown since he had entered that room.
"Did you hear the question I put to you, Mrs. Gardiner?" he cried,
hoarsely, his temper and his suspicions fairly aroused at Sally's
expression.
The truth of the words in the anonymous letter is slowly forcing itself
upon him.
If ever a woman looked guilty, _she_ did at that moment. She stands
trembling before him, her eyes fixed upon the floor, her figure
drooping, her hands tightly clasped.
"Well?" he says, sharply; and she realizes that there is no mercy in
that tone; he will be pitiless, hard as marble.
"It ought never to have been," she said, as if speaking to herself. "I
wish I could undo it."
"You wish you could undo what?" asked her husband, sternly.
"Our marriage. It was all a mistake--all a mistake," she faltered.
She must say something, and those are the first words that come across
her mind. While he is answering them, she will have an instant of time
to think what she will say about the contents of the letter.
Deny it she will with her latest breath. Let him _prove_ that she went
riding with Victor Lamont--_if he can!_
Jay Gardiner's face turns livid, and in a voice which he in vain tries
to make steady, he says:
"How long have you thought so?"
"Since yesterday," she answered, her eyes still fixed on the floor.
"Since yesterday"--Jay Gardiner is almost choking with anger as he
repeats her words--"since you, another man's wife, took that midnight
ride which this letter refers to?"
The sarcasm which pervades the last words makes her flush to the roots
of her yellow hair.
"But that I am too much amused, I should be tempted to be angry with you
for believing a story from such a ridiculous source," she declared,
raising her face defiantly to his.
"Then you deny it?" he cried, grasping her white arm. "You say there is
no truth in the report?"
"Not one word," she answered. "I left the ball-room early, because it
was lonely for me there _without you_, and came directly to my room.
Antoinette could have told you that had you taken the pains to inquire
of her."
"It would ill become me to make such an inquiry of a servant in my
employ," he replied. "You are the one to answer me."
"If the ridiculous story _had_ been true, you could not have wondered at
it much," she declared, with a hard glitter in her eye, and a still
harder laugh on her red lips. "When a man neglects his wife, is it any
wonder that she turns to some one else for amusement and--and comfort?"
"Call your maid at once to pack up your trunks. We leave the Ocean House
within an hour."
With these words, he strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"God! how I hate that man!" hissed Sally. "I think his death will lay at
my door yet."