Part 56 (2/2)
He takes from his pocket a bunch of keys, and, selecting one of the smallest, unlocks a drawer of his dressing case. He draws forth a pair of pistols and examines them carefully. Then he withdraws the charges from both weapons, and loads one anew. The latter he conceals about his person, and then takes up the other. He hesitates a moment, and then loads that also, replaces it in its hiding place, closes and locks the drawer. Then he breathes a long sigh of relief.
”It's a deadly anchor to windward,” he mutters, turning away. ”It's a last resort. Now I have only to wait.”
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
A STRANGE INTERVIEW.
While Frank Lamotte, in his own chamber, is preparing himself for emergencies, Constance Wardour stands by the bedside of her unconscious friend, struggling for self control; shutting her lips firmly together, clenching her teeth; mastering her outward self, by the force of her strong will; and striving to bring the chaos of her mind into like subjection. Three facts stare her in the face; three ideas dance through her brain and mingle themselves in a confused ma.s.s. Clifford Heath is in peril. She can save him by betraying a friend and a trust. She loves him.
Yes, stronger than all, greater than all, this fact stands out; in this hour of peril the truth will not be frowned down. She loves this man who stands accused of murder; she loves him, and, great heavens! he is innocent, and yet, must suffer for the guilty.
What can she do? What must she do? She can not go to him; she, by her own act, has cut off all friendly intercourse between them. But, something must be done, shall be done.
Suddenly, she bends down, and looks long and earnestly into the face of the sleeper. The dark lashes rest upon cheeks that are pale as ivory; the face looks torture-stricken; the beautiful lips quiver with the pain of some dismal dream.
Involuntarily, this cry escapes the lips of the watcher:
”My G.o.d! To think that two n.o.ble lives must be blasted, because of that pitiful, worthless thing, that lies below.”
The moments drag on heavily, her thoughts gradually shaping themselves into a resolve, while she watches by the bedside and waits the return of Mrs. Lamotte. At last, she comes, and there is an added shade of sorrow in her dark eyes; Evan is very ill, she fears for his reason, too.
”What has come upon my children, Constance?” she asks, brokenly; ”even Frank has changed for the worse.”
”Poor Evan,” sighs Constance, thinking of his loyal love for Sybil; and thus with her new resolve strong in her mind, she says, briefly:
”I must go to town at once, Mrs. Lamotte, and will return as soon as possible. Can you spare me without too much weight upon yourself.”
Without a question, Mrs. Lamotte bids her go; and very soon she is driving swiftly toward W----, behind the splendid Lamotte horses.
Straight to Lawyer O'Meara she is whirled, and by the time she reaches the gate, she is as calm as an iceberg.
Coming down the steps is a familiar form, that of her aunt, Mrs.
Aliston. Each lady seems a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected meeting; neither is inclined to explain her presence there.
Mrs. Aliston appears the more disturbed and startled of the two; she starts and flushes, guiltily, at sight of her niece.
But, Constance is intent upon her errand; she pauses long enough to inquire after her aunt's health, to report that Sybil is much the same, and Evan ill, and then she says:
”Is Mr. O'Meara at home, Aunt Honor?”
”Yes. That is, I believe so,” stammers Mrs. Aliston.
”Then I must not detain you, or delay myself; good morning, auntie;” and she enters the house, leaving Mrs. Aliston looking perplexed and troubled.
Ushered into the presence of Mr. O'Meara, Constance wastes no words.
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