EVAN.
Miss Wardour and the private detective had just completed their work of
transferring to paper a minute description of the Wardour diamonds, when
the door opened quietly, and Francis Lamotte, pale, heavy-eyed, but
quite composed, appeared before them.
"Have you finished your work?" he asked wearily. "If so, may I intrude?"
"Come, by all means," replied Constance, gently. "You are not intruding,
Frank."
"Thank you." He came forward, and sank listlessly into a chair.
"Constance, who brought you this news about--Sybil?"
Constance glanced toward the detective, and Francis, interpreting the
look, hastened to say:
"It is known to Mr. Belknap, I presume--this shameful business. There is
no use of secrecy, where all the world is already agape. My sister, you
tell me, has eloped with a low brute. I am numbed with the horror of it.
But I must hear it all; every word, every particular. Who brought you
the news, Constance?"
"Doctor Heath," replied the girl, icily.
"Ah!"
The interjection came through shut teeth, and just for a moment the
dark shadow flitted across his features; then he said, with quiet
composure:
"Heath? ah, yes; and he gave you all the particulars,--all that he had
gathered?"
"Doctor Heath told me all that he had learned," she replied, still
coldly.
Frank Lamotte arose slowly, wearily.
"I must see Heath," he said, taking up his hat. "It is small wonder that
you speak so frostily to the brother of a girl who has disgraced
herself, Constance. However, I realize my fall; henceforth, I know my
place."
The detective arose and moved uneasily to the window.
"I am sorry to hear this absurdity, Frank," said Constance, with some
severity. "You know my position always in these matters; only yourself
can injure yourself in my eyes; and I am sorry to hear you speak thus of
Sybil. I have yet to be convinced that in some manner, she is not more a
victim than disloyal. _I_ have not condemned her; why should you, her
brother?"
A hot flush came over the young man's face, and his eyes glowed with a
strange light. He shifted his position uneasily; then, abruptly, he
turned to the detective.
"If under the circumstances, and having seen my mood, you care to accept
my hospitality, it is still extended, sir," he said, somewhat awkwardly;
"will you accompany me to town, and afterwards lunch with me?"
"I will accompany you to the town," replied the detective, coming back
from the window; "but I fear I must decline your hospitality for to-day;
another time, perhaps."
Francis bowed stiffly, then turned to Constance.
"Constance, good bye," he said, mournfully, and holding out his hand. "I
will not displease you again; I will keep at a safe distance."
"You will displease me by doing that," she replied, kindly, at the same
time extending her hand. "I mean by staying away; I want you to come
often, and to bring me any news that may come from Sybil. Remember, I
intend to be her champion, and you must be mine."
"Then I _may_ come as a bringer of news?" he asked.
"You may come as usual," she retorted, a trifle sharply, "and come
_especially_ when there is news."
"Thank you;" he bowed over her hand, then turned to the private
detective.
"Good morning, Miss Wardour," said that individual, coming forward; "it
is probable that I shall not see you again, as I will leave for the city
this evening, but you will hear from me as the case progresses, or it is
possible that I may find it expedient to pay this place another visit."
"In which case, you will of course present yourself," smiled Constance.
"May I ask where you intend to pass your time until you leave for the
city, sir?"
"I can hardly say; about the town, as it may happen."
"Ah! Pardon the question; I was thinking of the business in hand; you
can hardly hope to find anything new in the village."
"One can never tell, Miss Wardour. If I do learn anything new, you shall
hear from me. Present my adieus to Mrs. Aliston, and once more good
day."
Constance watched the two as they walked away together, the handsome
lithe form of the younger man in such marked contrast with the shambling
gait of the detective. Only for a moment, however, then she went swiftly
through the halls, out at a rear entrance, and down the path toward the
rear gardens.
Here she found the tramp detective busy, or pretending to busy himself
with a small pruning knife.
"If you want to follow him, you must make haste," she said,
breathlessly; "he is walking townward with Mr. Lamotte; intends to
loiter about the town and take some evening train."
"Pray don't appear so much excited," said the tramp detective, dropping
his pruning knife, and picking it up again with great deliberation.
"There is a man coming up from the river, he must be getting pretty near
us. No, don't look now."
"Dear me!" began Constance.
"Listen," he went on, without regarding her ejaculation. "I am going to
leave here in two minutes; you can say that you have discharged me. I
may not see you again for months. I may return at any time. I may as
well warn you here, not to _confide_ anything to Mr. Belknap; at another
time you will learn why. Another thing, it is just possible that you
may need my services at some future time. I was about to give you an
address that will reach me at any time, but we may be observed by that
fellow who is coming. I will send you by mail a card containing the
address. Pray call upon me if you need my aid. I hope Belknap will find
your robbers, but you were wise not to tell him that you had saved your
diamonds. Keep your counsel on that subject always, Miss Wardour, it
will save you trouble. And now you had better move on. I intend to
follow and overtake your two departing guests."
He turned carelessly away as he spoke, and Constance, after a pretense
of examining the shrubbery, faced about and walked a few paces down the
path, then lifting her eyes carelessly, they fell upon the intruder.
Uttering a low ejaculation of surprise, she hastened toward him.
"Evan! why Evan!" she cried, anxiously. "You look ghostly, and you must
be in trouble."
[Illustration: "Why, Evan, you look ghostly!"]
"Or I would not be here," said Evan Lamotte, bitterly. "Evan, the
ne'er-do-well, does not seek his friends when the sun shines. Eh, Conny?
Don't go in," laying one hand upon her arm, as she was about to turn
toward the house, "I--I came to talk with you."
"But you will come in, Evan?"
"No, I should fall out with your old cat--I beg pardon, Con., I mean
your old aunt, directly."
"Aunt Honor shut herself in her own room an hour ago, child; she has
been worn out with too much excitement. We have had a detective here all
the morning, not to mention Frank, who has made a wonderful discovery."
"I dare say," muttered the young fellow, dryly, "Frank will make another
wonderful discovery soon. Conny," clutching at her arm again, "_have you
heard_?"
"Have I heard what, Evan?"
"About Sybil--my sister," his voice broke, ending in a sob.
"Yes, Evan," she replied, very gently, "I have heard."
It was noticeable, the difference between her treatment of this younger
brother of Sybil Lamotte and the one who had just gone.
With Francis she had preserved, even while her heart was full of
sympathy and pity for his trouble, a certain dignity even in her
kindness, an arm's length repellant stateliness, that galled and
tormented the ardent, impulsive, and too eager young man. With Evan she
was all pity, all sympathy, full of familiar sisterly kindness and
patience.
Women are strange creatures; we may be as handsome as the Apollo, and
they will steel their hearts against us. If we would have the
confidence, the caresses, the tenderest love of a pitying woman, we must
be mentally, or morally, or physically maimed, or halt, or blind.
Evan Lamotte was one of the world's unfortunates, and the pitying heart
of the fair heiress had no scorn for such as he. A black sheep, so they
called Evan Lamotte, not yet of age, with a slender physique, a pale,
handsome face, handsome in spite of his dissipations. He seemed
possessed of an evil spirit, that cried incessantly, "drink, drink,
drink." Every means had been tried to win him from his dissipation;
tears, entreaties, threats, bribes, were alike unavailing. In spite of
himself, against himself, Evan Lamotte seemed driven downward by a
relentless, unseen enemy.
"Reckless, worthless, hopeless." These were the adjectives commonly
coupled with his name, and yet his sister had deemed him worth her
loving; his mother had deemed him worth her tears, and Constance Wardour
had deemed him worth her pitying kindness.
"Constance," he choked back the sobs that arose in his throat; "don't
think that I have been drinking; when a fellow like me is grieved almost
to madness, you call him maudlin, but I never cry in my cups, Con. And I
have been perfectly sober since Saturday night, or if you like,
yesterday morning. I drank hard all that day after they told me, Con.,
but not one drop since; not one. Con., tell me what have you heard?"
"About all that is known, I think, Evan. Oh! Evan, do you know, can you
guess why she has done this--this terrible thing? Come down this walk,
Evan; let us sit under that tree, on that bench."
She moved toward the spot indicated, he following mechanically, and
seating himself beside her, in obedience to her gesture.
"Do I know the reason?" he repeated. "Do I guess it? Oh, if I could
guess it; it has haunted me every moment; that strong desire to know
what drove my sister to this fate? It is the question I came here to
ask. Con., help me to think; she must have said something; must have
given you some hint."
"Alas. But she never did."
"And you can not guess; you have no clue to help us unravel this
mystery?"
Constance shook her head.
"Con., oh, Con., _you_ don't think--you can't think that she loved
that--that beast?"
"No, Evan, I can't think that."
"Then," excitedly; "you must think as I do; that there is a mystery;
that there has been foul play. Con., I don't care for anything on earth,
except Sybil; I _must_ know what has driven her to this; I must help
her; I can help her; I can take her from that brute."
His face was livid, and his eyes glowed with the fierce light that we
have seen in the eyes of his elder brother. Constance saw the growing
excitement, and sought to soothe it.
"Evan, let us not anticipate," she said, gently. "All that we can do for
Sybil shall be done, but it must be with her consent. When does your
father come?"
"I don't know," sullenly; "I telegraphed him Saturday; he will come
to-day, no doubt. But he will come too late."
"Alas, yes; I regret so much that it was for my sake he was absent from
home at such a time, and Frank, too."
"Frank? bah! What could he do? What could any one do?"
She turned, and scanned his face keenly.
"Evan, you suspect, or you know something."
"I have a thought," he replied. "I hardly dare call it a suspicion. If I
could know it to be the truth," he hissed, between set, white teeth, "I
should know what to do, then."
"Don't look like that, Evan; you look wicked."
"I feel wicked," he cried, fiercely. "You can never guess how wicked.
When I think of that brute, that beast, that viper; of the power he must
hold over _her_, I am mad, crazed. But he will come back, and then--then
I will murder him, and set her free."
With his gleaming eyes, his clenched hands, his white, uplifted face, he
looked like a beautiful evil demon. Constance shuddered as she gazed,
and then her hand closed firmly upon his arm, as she said:
"Evan, listen: Do you think it would lighten Sybil's burden to hear you
rave thus? Do you want to make her lot still harder to bear? Sybil loves
you. Would it make her heart lighter to have you embroil yourself for
her sake? You know your faults. If you let this hideous idea take place
in your mind now, it will break out some day when the demon possesses
you. If Sybil Lamotte returns, and hears you utter such threats, she
will have an added torture to bear; she will have two curses instead of
one. You can not help Sybil by committing an act that would cut you off
from her forever. You have caused her heart-aches enough already. See,
now, if you can not lighten her burden in some different, better way.
But all this is superfluous, perhaps. I wonder if Sybil will come back,
at all?"
Lower and lower sank his head, as he listened, and then something that
she had said seemed to chain and hold his thoughts.
Slowly the evil light faded from his eyes, and into his face crept a
strange, fixed look. Forgetful of time, or of his companion's presence,
his thoughts followed this new course, his hands clenching and
unclenching themselves, his teeth burying themselves from time to time
in his thin under lip. So long he sat thus, that Constance herself, from
watching and wondering at his strange mood, wandered off into a sad
reverie, the subject of which she could hardly have told, it was such a
vague mixture of Sybil's sorrows and her own unrest.
After a time he stirred as if arousing himself with difficulty from a
nightmare; and Constance, recalled to herself, in turn, looked up to
encounter his gaze, and to be astonished at the new, purposeful
self-restraint upon his face, and the inscrutable intentness of his eye.
"Con.," he said slowly, even his voice seeming to have gained a new
strange undertone, "Con., you are an angel. You have set me on my feet."
"On your feet, Evan?"
"Yes, on my feet, mentally at least. I don't suppose any one could set
me permanently on my physical, corporeal pins. Beg pardon for the slang,
Conny, I don't forget how you and Sybil used to lecture me for that, and
my other vices. Poor sis, she had given up the drink talks latterly,
given me over as hopeless, and so I am. Con., I have made a new
resolve."
Constance smiled faintly.
"Oh, you smile. You think I am going to swear off again. No, Con.,
that's of no use, I should know myself for a liar all the time. I shall
never quit liquor; I _can't_ and I tell you," he whispered this
fiercely, "they _know that I can't_, and they know _why_ I can't. Oh!
you need not recoil; we are not the first family that has inherited a
taint; and I am the one unfortunate in whom that taint has broken forth.
Let me tell you a secret; since my first potation, my mother has never
once remonstrated with me; never once upbraided; my proud, high tempered
mother. She knows the folly of trying to reclaim the irreclaimable.
But," lowering his voice, sadly, "my mother never loved me."
She shuddered at the tone, knowing that this last statement, at least,
was all too true, and, to direct his thoughts from so painful and
delicate a subject, said:
"And your resolve then, Evan?"
"My resolve," his mouth settling into hard lines once more. "Oh, that!
well, it is a resolve you put into my head, Con.; although I'll swear
the thought was never in _your_ mind. I have resolved to act upon your
advice; to curb my heathenish temper, and to _help Sybil_, when the
_right time comes_, in the right way."
She looked at him fixedly.
"Evan, are you sure this last state of your mind is not worse than the
first?"
He laughed, ironically.
"How hard it is to make you believe that any good exists in me."
"Oh, not that, Evan, but you look so strange; not so wild as before,
but--"
"Just as wicked."
"Well, yes!"
"Well, Con., you can't expect a fellow to feel pious all in an instant;
mine is a pious resolve, and the proper feeling must follow. Isn't that
about how they preach it?"
"That's about how they preach it, sir. Now listen, I don't intend to
stir one step, or allow you to stir, until you have explained some of
your dark sayings; you are going to tell me what this new resolve is."
Evan glanced at her from under his long lashes, and seemed to hesitate.
He knew that Constance, in what he had sometimes termed her "imperative
mood," was a difficult element to contend with. But he was not quite
prepared to divulge just the precise thoughts that were in his mind.
"Con.," he said, slowly, "do you think, if my sister came back very
penitent, or very miserable, that my father would take her home?"
"I don't know, Evan."
"Well, that's another of the things that brought me to you. I was
overwhelmed with misery, and my head was chaos. I was wild to wreak
vengeance upon that man, and filled with dread at the thought that Sybil
might come back and meet with no welcome. I believe she will come. I
know that man would not miss the triumph of bringing her back among us.
Now, Con., my father thinks you infallible, and you can do anything with
Frank. I want you to see them, and make them take Sybil home, when she
comes. Yes, and John Burrill, too, if she _will_ have him."
"Why, Evan!"
"Then," he went on, breathlessly, "the world must have a reason for this
marriage; for, not the greatest fool in W---- will believe that Sybil
freely chose that villain. Do you pave the way for Sybil's return; I
will find a reason for the marriage,--a bone to throw to the dogs. For,
I tell you, Con., the true reason will never be told."
Thinking of Sybil's letter, Constance could but agree with him in this;
and that letter, too, had caused her to think that Sybil had expected,
or hoped, or feared, a return to W----; which, she could only guess.
"You will furnish a reason, Evan? You are mystifying me."
"Never mind that. I, Evan Lamotte, worthless--black sheep--sot; _I_ will
find a reason, I tell you; one that will not be questioned, and that
will spare Sybil."
"And what then?"
"Then, aided by you, Sybil can come back to us. Aided by my new strong
resolve, I will receive that Burrill,--it nearly chokes me to speak his
name,--just as Sybil shall dictate; and then, aided by the old man's
money, we may be able to buy him off and get him out of the country."
"Why, Evan Lamotte," cried Constance, with a burst of hopefulness, "you
have actually evolved a practical scheme. I begin to feel less
hopeless."
"Oh, I have a brain or two left, when a firm hand, like yours, shakes me
up, sets me straight, and gets me in running order. Will you help,
Con.?"
"Will I help! Sybil Lamotte, if she comes back, will be warmly welcomed
by me, and by all W----, if I can bring it about."
He sprang to his feet and seized her hands. "Thank you, Conny," he
cried; "my heart is lightened now; I can 'bide my time,' as the novels
say. Only do your part, Con."
"Trust me for that. Now come to luncheon, Evan."
He dropped her hands, and turned away abruptly.
"I wont! I can't," he said, almost gruffly. "Go in, Con., and be
prepared to welcome Sybil back; and I," he added, moving away, and
turning a wicked look over his shoulder, "will be prepared to welcome
Burrill;" a low, ironical laugh followed these words, and Evan Lamotte
leaped the low garden palings, and went back as he had come, by the
river way.
"What can that strange boy mean," thought Constance, gazing after him;
"he makes me nervous, and yet he was reasonable after his fashion. Poor
Evan, he is indeed unfortunate; here he has been breaking his heart over
Sybil, and before night he may be singing in some saloon, in a state of
mad intoxication. Altogether, they are a very uncomfortable pair to
entertain in one half day, Frank and Evan Lamotte."