Part 20 (2/2)

Now, Con., my father thinks you infallible, and you can do anything with Frank. I want you to see them, and make them take Sybil home, when she comes. Yes, and John Burrill, too, if she _will_ have him.”

”Why, Evan!”

”Then,” he went on, breathlessly, ”the world must have a reason for this marriage; for, not the greatest fool in W---- will believe that Sybil freely chose that villain. Do you pave the way for Sybil's return; I will find a reason for the marriage,--a bone to throw to the dogs. For, I tell you, Con., the true reason will never be told.”

Thinking of Sybil's letter, Constance could but agree with him in this; and that letter, too, had caused her to think that Sybil had expected, or hoped, or feared, a return to W----; which, she could only guess.

”You will furnish a reason, Evan? You are mystifying me.”

”Never mind that. I, Evan Lamotte, worthless--black sheep--sot; _I_ will find a reason, I tell you; one that will not be questioned, and that will spare Sybil.”

”And what then?”

”Then, aided by you, Sybil can come back to us. Aided by my new strong resolve, I will receive that Burrill,--it nearly chokes me to speak his name,--just as Sybil shall dictate; and then, aided by the old man's money, we may be able to buy him off and get him out of the country.”

”Why, Evan Lamotte,” cried Constance, with a burst of hopefulness, ”you have actually evolved a practical scheme. I begin to feel less hopeless.”

”Oh, I have a brain or two left, when a firm hand, like yours, shakes me up, sets me straight, and gets me in running order. Will you help, Con.?”

”Will I help! Sybil Lamotte, if she comes back, will be warmly welcomed by me, and by all W----, if I can bring it about.”

He sprang to his feet and seized her hands. ”Thank you, Conny,” he cried; ”my heart is lightened now; I can 'bide my time,' as the novels say. Only do your part, Con.”

”Trust me for that. Now come to luncheon, Evan.”

He dropped her hands, and turned away abruptly.

”I wont! I can't,” he said, almost gruffly. ”Go in, Con., and be prepared to welcome Sybil back; and I,” he added, moving away, and turning a wicked look over his shoulder, ”will be prepared to welcome Burrill;” a low, ironical laugh followed these words, and Evan Lamotte leaped the low garden palings, and went back as he had come, by the river way.

”What can that strange boy mean,” thought Constance, gazing after him; ”he makes me nervous, and yet he was reasonable after his fas.h.i.+on. Poor Evan, he is indeed unfortunate; here he has been breaking his heart over Sybil, and before night he may be singing in some saloon, in a state of mad intoxication. Altogether, they are a very uncomfortable pair to entertain in one half day, Frank and Evan Lamotte.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING.

Doctor Clifford Heath sat alone in his office at half-past eleven o'clock. His horse, ”all saddled and bridled,” stood below in the street, awaiting him. On a small stand, near the door, lay his hat, riding whip, gloves. On the desk beside him, lay a small pyramid of letters and papers, and these he was opening, and scanning in a careless, leisurely fas.h.i.+on, with his chair tilted back, his heels on high, his entire person very much at ease.

Over one letter he seemed to ponder, blowing great clouds of smoke from the secret depths of a huge black Dutch pipe the while. Finally, he laid letter and pipe aside, lowered his feet, wheeled about in his chair, drew pen, ink, and paper before him on the desk, and began to write rapidly only a few lines, and the letter was done, and signed, and sealed, with grim satisfaction; then he gathered up his scattered missives, and locked them away carefully.

”I won't go back,” he muttered, picking up his pipe once more. ”I wouldn't go now for a kingdom; I won't be put to rout by a woman, and that is just what it would amount to. I'll see the play played out, and I'll stay in W----.”

Again the smoke puffed out from the black pipe; again the heels were elevated, and, drawing some papers toward him, Dr. Heath began to absorb the latest news, looking as little like a jilted lover or a despairing swain, as possible.

Presently the office door opened to admit a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed young man, of aristocratic bearing and handsome countenance, but looking extremely haggard and heavy eyed.

Doctor Heath turned his head lazily at the sound of the opening door, but seeing who his visitor was, he laid his pipe aside and arose with kindly alacrity.

”Come along, Ray, old fellow,” he said cheerily, ”why you look as if the witches had made your bed.”

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