Part 44 (1/2)
A few moments, and Mr. O'Meara utters a sharp exclamation, drops his board, and draws back. They have unearthed a shoulder, an arm, a clenched hand.
A moment more, and Clifford Heath, too, withdraws from his task, the cold sweat standing thick upon his temples. They are uncovering a head, a head that is shrouded with something white.
To Mr. O'Meara, to Clifford Heath, the moment is one of intense unmixed horror. To the men who still bend to their work, the horror has its mixture of curiosity. _Whose_ is the face they are about to look upon?
Instinctively the two more refined men draw farther back, instinctively the others bend closer.
Swiftly they work. The last bit of earth is removed from the face; carefully they draw away a large white handkerchief, then utter a cry of horror.
”My G.o.d!” cries one, ”it is _John Burrill_.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
A TURN IN THE GAME.
It is John Burrill!
Lying there, half buried still, with clenched hands and features distorted. It is John Burrill, dead.
Clifford Heath utters a sharp exclamation. He starts forward suddenly, and looks, not upon the dead face, but straight at the white thing that is still held in the hand of one of the masons. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hes it from the man fiercely, looks at it again and more closely, and lets it fall from his grasp. For a moment all is black to his vision, and over his face a ghastly pallor creeps. Slowly, slowly, he lifts his hand to his forehead, rests it there for a moment, and seems making an effort to think. Then he drops his hand; he lifts his head; he draws himself erect.
”O'Meara,” he says, in a voice strangely hollow and unfamiliar, and pointing to the fallen handkerchief. ”Look at that. I am going home; when you want me you will find me there.” And without having so much as glanced at the dead face so near him, he goes slowly towards his cottage, holding his head proudly erect still.
Mr. O'Meara turns away from the corpse, and gazes for a moment after the retreating form of his friend; then he picks up the handkerchief; it is of softest linen, and across one corner he reads the embroidered name of _Clifford Heath_. For a moment he stands with the telltale thing held loosely in his hand, and then he bends down, spreads it once more over the dead face, and turns to the men.
”This body must not be disturbed further,” he says, authoritatively.
”One of you go at once and notify Soames, and then Corliss. Fortunately, Soames lives quite near. Don't bring a gang here. Let's conduct this business decently and in order. Do you go, Bartlett,” addressing the younger of the two men. ”We will stay here until the mayor comes.”
And Lawyer O'Meara b.u.t.tons his coat tightly about him and draws closer to the cellar wall, the better to protect himself from the drip, drip, of the rain.
”It is a horrible thing, sir,” ventured the mechanic, drawing further away from the ghastly thing outlined, and made more horrible, by the wet, white covering. ”It's a fearful deed for somebody, and--it looks as if the right man wasn't far away; we all know how he and Burrill were--”
”Hold your tongue, man,” snapped O'Meara, testily, ”keep 'what we all know' until you are called on to testify. _I_ have something to think about.”
And he does think, long and earnestly, regardless of the rain; regardless alike of the restless living companion and of the silent dead.
By and by, they come, the mayor, the officers, the curious gazers; the rain is nothing to them, in a case like this; there is much running to and fro; there are all the scenes and incidents attendant upon a first-cla.s.s horror. A messenger is dispatched, in haste, to Mapleton, and, in the wind and the rain, the drama moves on.
The messenger to Mapleton rides in hot haste; he finds none but the servants astir in that stately house; to them he breaks the news, and then waits while they rouse Frank Lamotte; for Jasper Lamotte has not returned from the city.
After a time he comes down, pale and troubled of countenance; he can scarcely credit the news he hears; he is terribly shocked, speechless with the horror of the story told him.
By and by, he recovers his composure, in a measure; he goes to his mother's room, and tells her the horrible news; he orders the servants to be careful what they say in his sister's presence, and not to approach Evan's room; then he tells the coachman to meet Mr. Lamotte, who will come on the noon express, with the carriage. After which, he swallows a gla.s.s of brandy; and, without waiting for breakfast, mounts his horse and gallops madly townward.
Meantime, the fast express is steaming toward W----, bearing among its human freight, Mr. Jasper Lamotte; and never has W---- seen upon his usually serene face such a look as it now wears. It is hara.s.sed, baffled, discontented, surly. He knows no one among the pa.s.sengers, and he sits aloof from his fellow travelers, making no effort to while away the time, as travelers do.
As they near W----, however, he shakes off his dullness, and lays aside his look of care; and when he steps upon the platform at W----, he is to all appearance, the same smiling suave man, who went away three days before.