Part 22 (1/2)

”Then I will just stretch myself here, Heath,” replied Lamotte. ”I don't feel equal to a start out just now; and, look here, old fellow,” turning a shade paler, as he spoke, ”deal gently with a fallen rival after this--disgrace. Of course, I quit the field; but--don't ride over me too hard.”

The doctor drew on his riding gloves with grave precision, put his hat on his head, and took up his riding whip; then he turned toward Lamotte.

”I suppose you refer to Miss Wardour?” he said blandly.

”Of course.”

”Then rest easy. I do not pretend in that quarter. Miss Wardour is yours for all me; and--you are not such a fool as to think that she will let your sister's affair alter her feelings for you--if she cares for you?”

Lamotte sprang up, staring with surprise.

”Why, but--Heath, you owned yourself my rival!”

”True.”

”And--upon my word, I believe you were ahead of the field.”

”True again; but--_I have withdrawn_.” And Doctor Heath went out, closed the door deliberately, and ran lightly down the stairs. He found Ray Vandyck loitering on the pavement.

”I knew you would be down presently,” said Vandyck, anxiously; ”I want to say, Heath, don't notice what I said to that cad. He maddened me; above all, don't think that one word I uttered was intended to reflect upon _her_.”

”He has withdrawn,” muttered Francis Lamotte, settling himself back as comfortably as possible, and clasping his hands behind his head.

”And _he_ means what he says; something has happened in my absence; I can't understand it, but it's so much the better for me.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

Sat.u.r.day, Sunday, Monday, three days; three nights. The events chronicled in the foregoing chapters, crowded themselves into the s.p.a.ce of three days.

But these were exceptional days; life does not move on thus, especially in the usually staid and well regulated town of W----. Men and women are not qualified to run a long, high pressure race. Action, and then--reaction. Reaction from every emotion, every sorrow, every joy.

G.o.d help us.

We weep for days, but not for years. We suffer, but here and there comes a respite from our pain. We live in a delirium of joy for a brief s.p.a.ce, and vegetate in dullness, in apathy, in hardness of heart, in indifference, or in despair, according to our various natures, for the rest of our natural lives. So let it be, it is the lot common to all.

”No man can hide from it, but it will find him out, Nor run from it, but it overtaketh him.”

After the robbery, after the flight, after the coming and departure of the two detectives, dullness settled down upon our friends in W----.

It is needless to chronicle the effect of the news of their daughter's flight, upon Mr. and Mrs. Lamotte.

That is a thing we can all understand; we can picture it for ourselves.

Mrs. Lamotte shut herself up in her chamber, and refused to be comforted by family or friends. Mr. Lamotte, bitterly grieved, terribly shocked, did all that a father could do, which was in effect, nothing.

One day, the mail brought them a copy of the marriage certificate of Sybil Lamotte and John Burrill; but that was all. Where the fugitives had gone, could not be discovered.

Francis Lamotte went about as usual; with a little more of haughtiness, a little more reserve, and just a tinge of melancholy in his manner. He took Constance at her word, and came and went very much as of old, but was so watchful over himself, so subdued, and as she thought, improved in manner, that she declared confidentially to her aunt that he had become ”really quite a comfortable person to have in one's parlor.” She ceased snubbing him altogether, and received him with the frank graciousness that used to charm Doctor Heath; a.s.suring herself, often, that ”trouble was improving poor Frank.”