Part 4 (2/2)
”Sybil loved Raymond Vandyck, that is what you were about to say, Miss Wardour. You would have betrayed no secret; poor young Vandyck honors me with his confidence. I left him, not half an hour ago, prostrate, half maddened with grief and rage; grief, when he thinks of Sybil lost to him, and fury when he thinks of the man she has chosen. I never saw him; but if the public voice speaks truth, John Burrill is all that is vulgar and corrupt.”
”_John Burrill!_” Constance springs to her feet with eyes flas.h.i.+ng.
”John Burrill! Why, he is a brute; mentally, morally, physically, _a brute_. And you couple his name with that of Sybil Lamotte? Doctor Heath, this is an infamous trick. Some one has lied to you. You have never seen him, you say; if you _had_ you could not have been duped. _I_ know him, as one grows to know any notorious character in a town like this, from seeing him reeling intoxicated through our streets, from hearing of his most startling escapades; a common lounger, a drunkard, a man with a divorced wife in our very midst. Doctor Heath, I know you are incapable of such a jest, but tell me who has caused you to believe a thing so shameful?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”John Burrill! Why, he is a Brute!”]
”I thank you for your faith in me,” he says, with the shadow of a smile upon his face. ”The story is shameful indeed, but it is _true_. Sybil Lamotte has eloped, and with John Burrill. Listen, before you remonstrate. This afternoon at two o'clock, John Burrill, with a swift horse and s.h.i.+ning new carriage, drove boldly up to the side entrance of Mapleton Park. There, Sybil Lamotte was awaiting him; he handed her to his carriage and then drove ostentatiously through the town taking the west road. It appears, that for several days, Burrill had been dropping hints in his sober moments, and boasting openly in his cups, of his coming marriage with one of the belles of W----, and, last evening, he openly avowed that to-day, he should 'carry off Miss Sybil Lamotte, in spite of her high and mighty family, and in the face of all the town.'
Of course, no one who heard regarded these things, save as the bombast of a half drunken braggart and liar. To-day, young Evarts and his still wilder chum, encountered him just setting forth with his fine turnout and wonderfully gotten up. They jested on his fine appearance, and for once he evaded their questions, and seemed anxious to be rid of them.
This piqued their curiosity, and, ripe for mischief, as usual, they resolved to follow him.
”They were mounted when they met him, having just ridden into town. They saw him stop at Mapleton and take up Miss Sybil, from there they followed them westward. Burrill drove at the height of his horse's speed, and the boys, who followed at a distance, arrived at Milton (you will see their policy in avoiding the railroad towns), ten miles distance, to find that Burrill had changed horses there, and driven away, still westward, at the same break-neck pace. Burrill's horse was badly used up, short as the drive had been, and the man who took it in charge said that the fresh horse was brought there by him, Burrill, yesterday, and that he had heard the lady complain that they 'could not go fast enough.'”
He ceases, and his eyes rest anxiously on her face. She does not seem to have observed that he is not speaking. She has heard every word, and, somehow, the conviction has been growing even in advance of his story, that it is all true. This will explain Sybil's strange letter, and--that letter! what does it contain? She turns and gazes, as if fascinated, towards the west. There are no more golden gleams athwart the windows, only a dull red flush upon the horizon. The sun, at last, has set.
At last! She turns, rises slowly and without once glancing toward him begins to pace the length of the room, and he sees that the queenly Miss Wardour is for once, unnerved, is struggling for composure.
Finally she speaks, still keeping up her slow promenade.
”Dr. Heath, I am bewildered. I am terrified! I--” She breaks off suddenly, as if to modify her speech. ”This can be no common--elopement,” she winces at the word. ”Sybil is refined, honest and true-hearted, and she loves--another. There must be something yet, to be understood, and,” with a sudden startled look in her eyes, ”perhaps this might have been prevented; perhaps _I_ might have prevented it if--” another break; then, ”Doctor, it is just possible that I may find a clue to this strangeness. Will you pardon my absence for a short time, and await me here? This is a strange request, but--”
”It's a day of strange things,” he interrupts, kindly, seeing her agitation. ”Go, Miss Wardour; I am at your service this evening.”
He crosses the room, seats himself at a table, and takes up a book; and Constance stands irresolute for a moment, then, without a word, hurries from the room.
Up the stairs she flies, hastily unlocks her dressing-room door, enters, and, in a moment, with a courage born of a nervous determination to know the worst at once, seizes the mysterious note and breaks the seal. A moment's hesitation, and then the page is opened, and the lines, only a few, dance before her eyes. She tries to steady her hand; she can not read them fast enough.
_Constance, Dear Constance:_
When you read this, you may have become already aware of the fate I have chosen for myself. I have no explanation to offer. Think of Beauty and the Beast; think of t.i.tania's strange choice; think me mad. But oh, Constance, never censure me; never think that all the happy days, when you have been my friend, I was not worthy that friends.h.i.+p. And, Con., don't let _others_ say things too bitter about me. Am I not dead to myself, and to you all? and for the dead, have we not charity only? Constance, I wish I were buried, too.
SYBIL
P. S.--Con., never let my relatives see this note. They will have enough to bear.
So runs the note.
Half an hour later, Constance Wardour comes quietly into the drawing-room. So quietly, that her approach is not observed by Dr.
Heath, until her voice breaks the silence, and he starts up from the reverie in which he has been indulging, to see her standing before him, with pale cheeks, and troubled, anxious eyes.
”Has my rudeness been quite unpardonable?” she says, appealingly.
”Truly, I have had no idea of the flight of time. I have been sitting up there,” motioning toward the upper floor, ”stunned, and yet trying to think. I have gained a little self-possession,” smiling slightly, as she sinks into a seat, ”but not my senses. I thought myself equal to most emergencies, but this is more than an emergency,--it is a mystery, a terror! For the first time in my life, I can't think, I can't reason. I don't know what to do!”
It is her turn to speak in riddles; his, not to comprehend. But, being a man, he closes his lips and waits.
”Something terrible has befallen Sybil Lamotte,” she goes on, gradually regaining a measure of her natural tone and manner. ”I need an adviser, or I had better say, a confidante, for it amounts to that. You know Sybil, and you know poor Ray. You are, I believe, a capital judge of human nature. This morning, just after you left, as you know, Mr.
Lamotte and his son called here, and Frank put in my hand this note from Sybil.” For the first time he observes the letter which she holds between her two hands. ”For reasons stated on the outside of the envelope, which was enclosed in another, I did not break the seal until--now. It may seem like violating Sybil's confidence, but I feel justified in doing what I do. I have no one to advise me, Aunt Honor being worse than myself in a crisis like this; and I believe that both Sybil and I can trust you. Dr. Heath, please read that letter.”
<script>