It would seem to have been the plainest duty of Dr. Carollyn to have asked his wife, at once, how the miniature of his friend chanced to be in her possession, and to have received from her such explanations as she had to give, from which he might judge for himself. But when men are beside themselves with anger, love, jealousy, or any other mastering passion, they rush away from the simple, straight-forward dictates of common sense, striking blindly at whatever impedes them.
When he left the house his heart was on fire. He walked distractedly up one street and down another. No sooner would the vision of his wife, all purity, rise before him in its matchless beauty, than the memory of her hesitation, her blushes, and all the suspicious incidents of this evening would rush before it. A jealousy, before which all previous developments of it had been like the breath of morning before the midnight whirlwind, swept through him, leaving every thing joyful in his nature a prostrate ruin.
Yet he would be calm! He would not misjudge his friend, much less would he misjudge his own wife! He would be calm—as cool and dispassionate as if he were a juryman on trial of a stranger. He would wait, watch, and not in any manner change his usual ways, so as to excite the surprise of the interested parties. Oh no! he would not distrust his Annie, until the certainty of her deception made further trust in her impossible! And with feelings the gall of whose bitterness proved that he had already prejudged her, he set to himself the task of spy upon his wife.
It was midnight when he returned from his tramp through the chilly streets. Annie was sitting up for him, in their chamber, a loose robe thrown about her, and her bright hair, all unbound, rippling over her shoulders. His melting heart was hardened again, as he observed that her writing desk had just been pushed away from her, and that the locket lay in a half-closed drawer, with a letter she had just sealed. He had not known of her having any correspondents, aside from occasional complimentary notes to and from friends in the city. The face of the envelope lay up, and his lightning glance devoured the address—Mademoiselle Victoire Gurnell.
"There is no Gurnell of that name," he cried to himself. "Maurice's sisters are both married, and he has no cousins in this country. Of course I should know of them. What a flimsy disguise! A secret correspondence under an assumed name! Was ever man so betrayed?"
"I have been so lonely," said the young wife, closing the drawer with one hand, as she laid the other on his own. "It's the first evening you have left me so long; but I presume you and Maurice were talking over old times—so I excuse you. Why, Leger, your hand is as cold as ice!"
"Your constancy will warm it," he said, with a laugh.
It was a hollow laugh, with a strange ring to it; but the pretty wife was sleepy, though she would not have owned it possible, and she did not observe its peculiarity. In ten minutes she was slumbering peacefully. Her husband had laid himself by her side; as soon as her regular breathing announced that she was sleeping, he slipped from the bed. Twice and thrice he paced the room, approaching the little writing-desk at every turn, and again shrinking away. Never in his life had Dr. Carollyn done a dishonorable act; yet now he was hesitating about a deed from which his honor recoiled. The jealousy which mastered him soon put an end to the mental contest; he softly opened the unlocked drawer, drew forth the letter, carefully broke the seal, took out the folded sheet, and read:
"Dear Victoire—Be patient and hopeful. All is going well. You will soon be the happiest of the happy. I will meet you to-morrow afternoon at the place we appointed.
"Annie."