Part 3 (2/2)
Francis Lamotte turned swiftly and stood for a moment with bent, averted head; then turning once more toward her a set, white face, he said:
”Even your cruelty shall not prevent me from serving you to the fullest extent of my power. And while I am gone you will receive--” he broke off abruptly, then went on, speaking huskily. ”Constance, a girl like you can know little of the life led by a man who is an enigma even to his fellow men. I wish I could teach you to distrust--”
She lifted one hand, warningly. ”You can teach me to distrust no one but yourself, Frank; and please don't perpetually talk of me as some unsophisticated school girl. I am twenty-one, nearly as old as you, my child,--old enough, certainly, to form my own judgment of people and things. Don't let's quarrel, Frank; you know I have been taught self-reliance, and never submit to dictation.”
”As the queen pleases;” he lifted his hat with a graceful gesture.
”Good-morning, Constance,” and he turned and strode rapidly away.
”Frank.”
He stopped and turned toward her, but did not retrace his steps.
”Are you really going, _a la Don Quixote_?”
”I really am,” gravely.
He lifted his hat once more, and without uttering a word, resumed his rapid walk down the graveled footpath. Reaching the entrance to the grounds he paused, leaning for a moment against a stone pillar of the gateway; his hands were clenched until the nails left deep indentations in the flesh; his face was ghastly and covered with great drops of perspiration, and, whether the look that shone from his glittering dark eyes betokened rage, or despair, or both, an observer could not have guessed.
Meanwhile, Constance stood as he had left her, gazing after him with a mingled expression of annoyance and regret.
”It was very ungracious of me,” she thought, half penitently, ”but there's no other way with Frank, and his love-making annoys me exceedingly, especially since Aunt Honor's discovery. How she detests him, and Aunt Honor is too easy to lavish her hate upon many.”
As if conjured up by her words, Mrs. Aliston appeared at the window.
”Handsome fellow, isn't he?” that is what her lips said, but the tone and look said quite as plainly, ”detestable, abominable, odious.” For Mrs. Aliston believed that she had discovered a good reason for disliking Frank Lamotte.
”Don't be exasperating, Aunt Honor,” retorted Constance, re-entering the window with a slow, languid movement, as if the events of the morning had wearied her vastly. ”Everybody has outdone themselves in the disagreeable line, myself included. I wish the burglars had carried me off along with my jewels. I am going up-stairs and try another dose of burglarious chloroform. But, first,” dropping into the nearest chair, and a.s.suming a tragic tone, ”Let me peruse the letter of my beloved Sybil.”
She broke the seal of the dainty envelope, to find that it enclosed another and still smaller one; and on this she read:
Constance, if I did not trust you so fully, I would not dare risk this: Do not open this envelope until sunset of to-morrow (Sat.u.r.day); the contents will enlighten you as to my reasons for this strangeness _then_.
There was no signature, but the handwriting of Sybil Lamotte was too familiar to be mistaken. And, Constance Wardour sat silent and motionless, gazing at the little envelope with such a look of intense gravity upon her face as had not rested there during the entire morning.
Mrs. Aliston, who was a woman of tact, and understood her niece thoroughly, seemed not to have noticed the unopened envelope, and asked for no news from Sybil.
Presently, Constance arose, and, still wearing that weary air and solemn face, crossed the room; with her hand upon the door, she turned her face toward Mrs. Aliston, saying:
”Auntie, you hear about all that's going; did you ever hear that there was a streak of insanity in the Lamotte blood?” And then, without waiting for the astonished lady to reply, she quietly pa.s.sed out and up the broad stairs.
CHAPTER IV.
SYBIL'S LETTER.
It is almost sunset, and Constance Wardour is standing alone at her dressing-room window, which faces the west. It is still in confusion, but she cares little for that. Her thoughts are far away from the ”Wardour diamonds” at this moment. Several things have occurred to vex and annoy her to-day, and Constance Wardour, heiress and autocrat, is not accustomed to being annoyed.
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