Part 54 (1/2)
”Ha! ha!” she cries, tossing her bare arms aloft. ”How well you planned that, Constance! the Wardour diamonds; ah, they are worth keeping, they are worth plotting to keep--and it's often done--it's easy to do. Hus.h.!.+
Mr. Belknap, I need your help--meet me, meet me to-night, at the boat house. If a man were to disappear, never to come back, mind--what would I give? One thousand dollars! two! three! It shall be done! I shall be free! free! _free!_ Ha! ha! Constance, your diamonds are safer than mine--but what are diamonds--I shall live a lie--let me adorn myself with lies. Why not? Why care? I will be free. You have been the tool of others, Mr. Belknap, why hesitate to serve me--you want money--here it is, half of it--when it is done, when I _know_ it is done, I will come here again--at night--and the rest is yours.”
With a stifled moan, Mrs. Lamotte leans forward, and lays a hand upon her companion's arm.
”Constance--do you know what she means?”
Slowly and shudderingly, the girl answers:
”I fear--that I know too well.”
”And--that boat-house appointment?”
”Must be kept, Mrs. Lamotte; for Sybil's sake, it must be kept, _by you or me_.”
It is midnight. In Evan Lamotte's room lamps are burning brightly, and the fumes of strong liquor fill the air. On the bed lies Evan, with flushed face, and mud bespattered clothing; he is in a sleep that is broken and feverish, that borders in fact, upon delirium; beside him, pale as a corpse, with nerves unstrung, and trembling, sits Frank Lamotte, fearing to leave him, and loath to stay. At intervals, the sleeper grows more restless, and then starts up with wild e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, or bursts of demonaic laughter. At such times, Frank Lamotte pours, from a bottle at his side, a powerful draught of burning brandy, and holds it to the frenzied lips. They drain off the liquor, and presently relapse into quiet.
It is midnight. In the library of Mapleton, Jasper Lamotte sits at his desk, poring over a pile of papers. The curtains are closely drawn, the door securely locked. Now and then he rises, and paces nervously up and down the room, gesticulating fiercely, and wearing such a look as has never been seen upon the countenance of the Jasper Lamotte of society.
It is midnight. In the Mapleton drawing room, all that remains of John Burrill, lies in solemn solitary state; and, down in his cell, face downward upon his pallet, lies Clifford Heath, broad awake, and bitterly reviewing the wrongs heaped upon him by fate; realizing, to the full, his own helplessness, and the peril before him, and doggedly resolving to die, and make no sign.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII.
I CAN SAVE HIM IF I WILL.
Doctor Benoit was old and deaf; he was also very talkative. One of those physicians who invariably leave a t.i.tbit of news alongside of their powders and pellets. A constant talker is apt to be an indiscreet talker, and, very often, wanting in tact. Doctor Benoit was not so much deficient in tact, as in memory. In growing old, he had grown forgetful, and not being a society man, social gossip was less dear to his heart than the news of political outbreaks, business strivings, and about-town sensations. Doubtless he had heard, like all the world of W----, that Doctor Clifford Heath had, at one time, been an aspirant for the favor of the proud heiress of Wardour, and that suddenly he had fallen from grace, and was no more seen within the walls of Wardour, or at the side of its mistress on social occasions. If so, he had entirely forgotten these facts. Accordingly, during his second call, made on the morning after the inquest, he began to drop soft remarks concerning the recent horror.
Mrs. Lamotte was lying down, and Constance had decided not to arouse her when the doctor arrived, inasmuch as the patient was in one of her stupors, and not likely to rouse from it.
The arrest of a brother pract.i.tioner on such a charge as was preferred against Clifford Heath, had created no little commotion in the mind of Dr. Benoit, and he found it difficult to keep the subject off his tongue, so, after he had given Constance full instructions concerning the patient, he said, standing hat in hand near the dressing room door:
”This is a terrible state of affairs for W----, Miss Wardour. Do you know,” drawing a step nearer, and lowering his voice, ”Do you know if Mr. Lamotte has been informed that O'Meara, as Heath's lawyer, demands a surgical examination?”
”As Heath's lawyer!” The room seemed to swim about her. She turned instinctively toward the door of the chamber, closed it softly, and came very close to the old doctor, lifting her pale lips to his ear.
”I don't understand you, doctor. What has Mr. O'Meara to do with the murder?”
”Hey? What's that? What is O'Meara going to do? He's going to defend young Heath.” Then, seeing the startled, perplexed look upon her face, ”Is it possible you have not heard about Heath's arrest?”
She shook her head, and again lifted her mouth to his ear.
”I have heard nothing; tell me all.”
”It seems that there was an old feud between Heath and Burrill,” began the doctor, beginning to feel that somehow he had made a blunder. ”They have hunted up some pretty strong evidence against Heath, and the coroner's jury brought in a verdict against him. You know the body was found in an old cellar, close by Heath's cottage.”
At this moment there came a soft tap on the outer door, which Constance at once recognized. Mechanically she moved forward and opened the door.
Mrs. Lamotte stood on the threshold.