Part 54 (2/2)

Seeing the doctor and Constance, she at once inferred that Sybil was the subject under discussion, and to insure the patient against being disturbed, beckoned the doctor to come outside.

As he stepped out into the hall, Constance, hoping to get a little information from him, came forward, and standing in the doorway, partially closed the door behind her.

”Doctor,” said Mrs. Lamotte, anxiously, ”do you see any change in Sybil?”

He shook his head gravely.

”There is no marked change, madam; but I see a possibility that she may return to consciousness within the next forty-eight hours, in which case I must warn you against letting her know or guess at the calamity that has befallen her.”

The two women exchanged glances of relief.

”If she receives no shock until her mental balance is fully restored, her recovery may be hoped for; otherwise--”

”Otherwise, doctor?”

”Otherwise, if she retains her life, it will be at the cost of her reason.”

”Oh!” moaned the mother, ”death would be better than that.”

There was the sound of a door opening softly down the hall. They all turned their eyes that way to see Frank Lamotte emerging from Evan's room. He came hurriedly toward them, and Constance noticed the nervous unsteadiness of his gait, the pinched and pallid look of his face, the feverish fire of his sunken eyes.

”Mother,” he said, in a constrained voice, and without once glancing toward Constance, ”I think you had better have Doctor Benoit see Evan. I have been with him all night, and am thoroughly worn out.”

”What ails Evan, Frank?”

”Too much liquor,” with a shrug of the shoulders. ”He is on the verge of the 'brandy madness,' he sometimes sings of. He must have powerful narcotics, and no cessation of his stimulants, or we will have him raving about the house like a veritable madman; and--I have not told him about Burrill.”

A look of contrition came into the mother's face. Evan had kept his room for days, but, in her anxiety for her dearest child, she had quite forgotten him.

”Come, doctor,” she said, quickly; ”let us go to Evan at once.”

They pa.s.sed on to the lower room, leaving Constance and Frank face to face.

Constance moved back a pace as if to re-enter the dressing-room; burning with anxiety as she was, to hear more concerning Clifford Heath, her womanly instincts were too true to permit her to ask information of her discarded suitor. But Frank's voice stayed her movements.

”Constance, only one moment,” he said, appealingly. ”Have a little patience with me _now_. Have a little pity for my misery.”

His misery! The words sounded hypocritical; he had never loved John Burrill over much, she knew.

”I bestow my pity whenever it is truly needed, Frank,” she said, coldly, her face whitening with the anguish of her inward thought. ”Do you think _you_ are the only sufferer in this miserable affair?”

”I am the only one who can not enlist your sympathies. I must live without your love; I must bear a name disgraced, yet those who brought about this family disgrace, even Clifford Heath, in a felon's cell, no doubt you will aid and pity; _he_ is a martyr perhaps, while I--”

”While you--go on, sir;” fierce scorn s.h.i.+ning from the gray eyes; bitter sarcasm in the voice.

”While I,” coming closer and fairly hissing the words, ”am set aside for him, a felon, Oh! you are a proud woman, and you keep your secrets well, but you can not hide from me the fact that ever since the accursed day that brought you and Clifford Heath together, _he_ has been the man preferred by you. If I have lost you, you have none the less lost him; listen.”

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