THE END OF THE BEGINNING.
Doctor Clifford Heath sat alone in his office at half-past eleven
o'clock. His horse, "all saddled and bridled," stood below in the
street, awaiting him. On a small stand, near the door, lay his hat,
riding whip, gloves. On the desk beside him, lay a small pyramid of
letters and papers, and these he was opening, and scanning in a
careless, leisurely fashion, with his chair tilted back, his heels on
high, his entire person very much at ease.
Over one letter he seemed to ponder, blowing great clouds of smoke from
the secret depths of a huge black Dutch pipe the while. Finally, he laid
letter and pipe aside, lowered his feet, wheeled about in his chair,
drew pen, ink, and paper before him on the desk, and began to write
rapidly only a few lines, and the letter was done, and signed, and
sealed, with grim satisfaction; then he gathered up his scattered
missives, and locked them away carefully.
"I won't go back," he muttered, picking up his pipe once more. "I
wouldn't go now for a kingdom; I won't be put to rout by a woman, and
that is just what it would amount to. I'll see the play played out, and
I'll stay in W----."
Again the smoke puffed out from the black pipe; again the heels were
elevated, and, drawing some papers toward him, Dr. Heath began to absorb
the latest news, looking as little like a jilted lover or a despairing
swain, as possible.
Presently the office door opened to admit a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed
young man, of aristocratic bearing and handsome countenance, but looking
extremely haggard and heavy eyed.
Doctor Heath turned his head lazily at the sound of the opening door,
but seeing who his visitor was, he laid his pipe aside and arose with
kindly alacrity.
"Come along, Ray, old fellow," he said cheerily, "why you look as if the
witches had made your bed."
"It's about the way I feel, too," said the new comer, dropping wearily
into the easy chair pushed toward him. "Heath, you are a good fellow,
and I can't blame you for thinking me a cad. Don't stop your smoke."
"Why as to that," replied the doctor, easily, and taking a long pull at
his pipe, "we are all cads, more or less, in certain emergencies, and
yours was an unusually severe blow. We all have to take them in some
shape or other, at one time, or another; these soft hands hit hard,
but--it's the penalty we pay for being sons of Adam. Although now that I
come to think of it, I can't recall that I ever insisted upon being a
son of Adam."
"Why!" said Raymond Vandyck, opening his eyes in languid surprise, "you
talk as if _you_ had received one of those hard hits."
"So I have, my boy; so I have," he replied _debonairly_. "If I were a
woman I would get out a fresh handkerchief and tell you all about it.
Being a man I--smoke."
Young Vandyck sighed heavily, and picked up a newspaper, running his eye
listlessly over the columns. Here was another upon whom the flight of
Sybil Lamotte had fallen a heavy blow. He had loved Sybil since they
were boy and girl, and lately for a few short months they had been
betrothed, then Sybil had asked to be released, and in such a manner
that it left him no room for remonstrance. The engagement had been
broken, but the young man had not quite abandoned hope.
Now, however, hope had deserted him. Sybil was lost to him utterly, and
hearing the news of her flight he had rushed into Doctor Heath's
presence a temporary madman. He could not have found a wiser or more
sympathetic friend and adviser, and he fully realized this fact. The
doctor's patience, delicacy and discretion had screened him from the
prying eyes and prating tongues of the curious ones, who were anxious to
probe his wounds, and see how "Vandyck would take it," and had made him
his firm friend for always.
Ever since the advent of Doctor Heath, Vandyck had been one of his
warmest admirers, and this admiration had now ripened into a sincere and
lasting friendship.
"You are a good fellow, Heath," said Vandyck, suddenly, throwing down
his paper. "I want to tell you that I appreciate such kindness as you
did me. I don't suppose you would ever go off your head like that. I
shan't again."
"No, I don't think you will," responded the doctor soberly. "As for
going off my head, Lord bless you, man, it's in the temperament. I might
never lose my head in just that way. We're not made alike, you see. Now
I should be struck with a dumb devil, and grow surly and cynical as time
went on, and of all contemptible men a cynic is the worst. You will have
your burst of passion, and carry a tender spot to your grave, but you
can't squeeze all the sunshine out of your soul, any more than out of
your Saxon face."
Vandyck laughed dismally.
"It's hard lines, however," he said. "But I'm bound to face the music.
Only--I wish I could understand it."
"So do all her friends. Ray, let me give you a little advice."
"Well."
"After a little, go call on Miss Wardour and talk with her about this
affair. I think she knows as much as is known, and I am certain she has
not lost her faith in her friend."
"Thank you, Heath; I will."
Just here the office door admitted another visitor in the form of
Francis Lamotte.
He, too, looked pale and worn, but he carried his head erect, if not
with some defiance. "Do, Heath. Morning, Vandyck," he mumbled, flinging
himself upon a settee with scant ceremony. "You will excuse me from
asking 'what's the news?'"
"I should ask what's the matter?" retorted Clifford Heath, eyeing him
closely.
"Fix me up one of your potions, Heath," replied Francis, drawing a hard
deep breath. "I've had another of those cursed attacks."
Dr. Heath arose and went slowly toward a cabinet, slowly unlocked it and
then turned and surveyed his patient.
"Another attack," he said somewhat severely, "the second one in three
days, and not a light one, if I can judge. Let me tell you, Lamotte, you
must not have a third of these attacks for some time to come."
[Illustration: "You must not have a third attack."]
"I won't," replied Lamotte, with a nervous laugh. "This one has done me
up; I feel weak as a kitten, meek as a lamb."
"Humph," this from Doctor Heath, who proceeded to drop into a druggist's
glass, sundry globules of dark liquid, which he qualified with other
globules from another bottle, and then half filling the glass with some
pale brandy, handed it to Lamotte who drained it off eagerly.
"Physician, heal thyself," quoted Raymond Vandyck, watching the patient
with some interest. "Why don't you do your own dosing, Lamotte?"
"I'm shaky," replied Lamotte, lifting an unsteady hand. "And then we are
advised to have faith in our physician. I should swallow my own mixture
with fear and trembling."
"And pour it down your neighbor's throat with entire satisfaction,"
interpolated Doctor Heath.
"Precisely, just as you pour this stuff down mine. Thanks, Heath,"
handing back the glass. "Now then, we are all friends here, and you two
know what I wish to learn. Heath," shading his eyes with his hand as he
reclined on the settee. "I came back, from a two day's tramp about the
country in search of Miss Wardour's robbers, or of traces of them, this
morning. Let that pass. I called at Wardour Place first of all, have
just come from there in fact--and Constance tells me--"
He paused as if struggling with some emotion, and Ray Vandyck stirred
uneasily, flushed slightly, and partially turned away his face. Only
Clifford Heath retained his stoical calm.
"Well!" he said coolly, "Miss Wardour tells you--what?"
"That my sister has run--away."
"Oh! Well, Lamotte, I am glad you know it. It's a hard story to tell a
friend."
"So thought Constance, and she would give me no particulars, she told
me," letting his hand fall from before his face, "to come to you."
"And why to me?" coldly.
"She said that you knew the particulars--that you brought her the news."
"True; I did. Still it's a hard story to tell, Lamotte."
"And no one will tell it more kindly, I know. Say on, Heath; don't
spare me, or mind Vandyck's presence--I don't. I know that I must hear
this thing, and I know that Ray is my friend. Go on, Heath; get it over
soon."
Raymond Vandyck arose and walked to the window, standing with his back
toward them while Doctor Heath, in a plain, straightforward, kindly
manner, told the story of Sybil's flight, just as he had told it to
Constance Wardour.
For a long time after the story was done, Lamotte lay with his face
buried in his arms, silent and motionless, while young Vandyck stood
like a graven image at his post by the window.
Finally, Lamotte brought himself to a sitting posture, and, with the
look and tone of a man utterly crushed, said:
"Thank you, Heath. You have done me a kindness. This is the most
terrible, most unheard of thing. My poor sister must be mad. She has
_not_ been herself, now that I remember, for some weeks. Something has
been preying upon her spirits. There has been--by heavens! Ray, Ray
Vandyck, can you guess at the cause of this madness?"
Raymond Vandyck wheeled suddenly, and came close to his interlocutor,
the hot, angry blood surging to his face.
"There was plenty of 'method in this madness,'" he sneered. "As to the
_cause_, it may not be so hard to discover as you seem to imagine." And,
before they could recover from their astonishment, he was out and away,
banging the door fiercely as he went.
For a moment the lurid light gleamed in Frank Lamotte's eye, and it
seemed that another "attack" was about to seize him, but he calmed
himself with a mighty effort, and turning toward Doctor Heath, said,
plaintively:
"Has all the world run mad, Heath? What the devil does that fellow
mean?"
"I know no more than you, Lamotte," said the doctor, upon whose face sat
a look of genuine surprise. "I don't think he quite knows himself. He
has been sadly worked up by this affair."
"Humph! I suppose so. Well, for Sybil's sake, I forgive him, this once;
but--I hope he will outgrow these hallucinations."
"Doubtless he will," replied the doctor, somewhat drily. "I say,
Lamotte, you had better run down to my house, and turn in for a couple
of hours; you look done up,--and you can't stand much more of this sort
of thing. I must go now, to see old Mrs. Grady, over at the mills."
"Then I will just stretch myself here, Heath," replied Lamotte. "I don't
feel equal to a start out just now; and, look here, old fellow," turning
a shade paler, as he spoke, "deal gently with a fallen rival after
this--disgrace. Of course, I quit the field; but--don't ride over me too
hard."
The doctor drew on his riding gloves with grave precision, put his hat
on his head, and took up his riding whip; then he turned toward Lamotte.
"I suppose you refer to Miss Wardour?" he said blandly.
"Of course."
"Then rest easy. I do not pretend in that quarter. Miss Wardour is yours
for all me; and--you are not such a fool as to think that she will let
your sister's affair alter her feelings for you--if she cares for you?"
Lamotte sprang up, staring with surprise.
"Why, but--Heath, you owned yourself my rival!"
"True."
"And--upon my word, I believe you were ahead of the field."
"True again; but--_I have withdrawn_." And Doctor Heath went out, closed
the door deliberately, and ran lightly down the stairs. He found Ray
Vandyck loitering on the pavement.
"I knew you would be down presently," said Vandyck, anxiously; "I want
to say, Heath, don't notice what I said to that cad. He maddened me;
above all, don't think that one word I uttered was intended to reflect
upon _her_."
"He has withdrawn," muttered Francis Lamotte, settling himself back as
comfortably as possible, and clasping his hands behind his head.
"And _he_ means what he says; something has happened in my absence; I
can't understand it, but it's so much the better for me."