Part 64 (1/2)
From the chaos of meanings and mysteries revolving through his mind, Clifford Heath seized upon and clung to one idea, held it in silence for a moment, then let it burst forth in words.
”Then--then you are not Frank Lamotte's promised wife?”
”_I!_ great heavens! _no._”
”And never have been?”
”And never have been.”
Clifford Heath drew a long, deep breath. For a moment a look of gladness beamed in his eye, then it died out suddenly, as he said, almost gloomily:
”And yet, you have said that he must be saved at all hazards. Knowing his guilt, I still am here in his place.”
”In his place, oh,” she came toward him with a swift, eager movement, ”I begin to see! Doctor Heath, you think Frank Lamotte the guilty one?”
”I know it,” grimly.
A look of relief came over her face. She breathed freely.
”You believe this,” she said at last, ”and yet you are here. If you have evidence against Frank Lamotte, why do you occupy a felon's cell? Why not put him in your place?”
”I have told you why. It was for your sake.”
She lowered her eyes and drew back a little, but he followed her, and, standing before her, looked down into her face with a persistent, searching gaze. ”You must understand me now,” he said firmly, ”when I believed that you loved Frank Lamotte, I said 'Then I will not stand forth and accuse the man she loves, for--I love her, and she must not be unhappy.'”
A great sob rose in her throat. A wave of crimson swept over her brow.
She stood before him with clasped hands and drooping head.
”But for that meddlesome slip of paper,” he went on, ”I should not have been driven from the field, and this treachery of Lamotte's could never have been practiced upon me. Do you remember a certain day when you sent for Ray Vandyck, and he came to you from my office? Well, on that day Francis Lamotte told me that you were his promised wife, and when Ray came back, _he_ verified the statement, having received the information from your lips. Once I hoped to come to you and say, after lifting for your eyes the veil of mystery, which I have allowed to envelope my past: 'Constance Wardour, I love you; I want you for my very own, my wife!'
Now, mountains have arisen between us; I can not offer you a hand with the shadow of a stain upon it; nor a name that is tarnished by doubt and suspicion. However this affair may end for me, that hope is ended now.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”That hope is ended now.”]
It had come; the decisive moment.
She could go away now with sealed lips, and it would end indeed. She could turn away from him, leaving happiness behind her; taking with her his happiness, too; or, she could speak, and then--
She looked about her; and the bare walls and grated windows gave her strength to dare much. Had they stood together out under the broad bright sunlight; he as free as herself, she could have turned away mutely, and let her life go on as it would.
Now--now his present was overshadowed; his future difficult to read.
”_Is_ it ended?” she said, softly. Then, looking up with sudden, charming imperiousness. ”You end things very selfishly, very coolly, Doctor Heath. I do not choose to have it ended.”
”Miss Wardour!--Constance!”
”Wait; you say that your lawyers told of my visit to them, and that I would not have the guilty punished. What more did they tell you--about my doings?”
”Very little; I could hardly understand why they told thus much.”