THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, three days; three nights. The events
chronicled in the foregoing chapters, crowded themselves into the space
of three days.
But these were exceptional days; life does not move on thus, especially
in the usually staid and well regulated town of W----. Men and women are
not qualified to run a long, high pressure race. Action, and
then--reaction. Reaction from every emotion, every sorrow, every joy.
God help us.
We weep for days, but not for years. We suffer, but here and there comes
a respite from our pain. We live in a delirium of joy for a brief space,
and vegetate in dullness, in apathy, in hardness of heart, in
indifference, or in despair, according to our various natures, for the
rest of our natural lives. So let it be, it is the lot common to all.
"No man can hide from it, but it will find him out,
Nor run from it, but it overtaketh him."
After the robbery, after the flight, after the coming and departure of
the two detectives, dullness settled down upon our friends in W----.
It is needless to chronicle the effect of the news of their daughter's
flight, upon Mr. and Mrs. Lamotte.
That is a thing we can all understand; we can picture it for ourselves.
Mrs. Lamotte shut herself up in her chamber, and refused to be comforted
by family or friends. Mr. Lamotte, bitterly grieved, terribly shocked,
did all that a father could do, which was in effect, nothing.
One day, the mail brought them a copy of the marriage certificate of
Sybil Lamotte and John Burrill; but that was all. Where the fugitives
had gone, could not be discovered.
Francis Lamotte went about as usual; with a little more of haughtiness,
a little more reserve, and just a tinge of melancholy in his manner. He
took Constance at her word, and came and went very much as of old, but
was so watchful over himself, so subdued, and as she thought, improved
in manner, that she declared confidentially to her aunt that he had
become "really quite a comfortable person to have in one's parlor." She
ceased snubbing him altogether, and received him with the frank
graciousness that used to charm Doctor Heath; assuring herself, often,
that "trouble was improving poor Frank."
Evan Lamotte was Evan Lamotte still. Now drunk, now sober; a little more
furious and ready to quarrel than usual, when in his cups; a little more
taciturn and inclined to solitude in his sober moments.
Doctor Heath went about among his patients, wearing his usual cheery
smile, speaking the usual comforting word, smoking, philosophizing,
rallying his friends, satirizing his enemies, genial, independent,
inscrutable as ever. He never called at Wardour Place, of course. He
never sought an opportunity for meeting or seeing Constance, and he
never avoided her; altogether, his conduct, from a romantic standpoint,
was very reprehensible.
And Constance; perhaps of them all, these three days had effected the
greatest change in her, as any chain of startling or strange events
must, in a measure, change the current of thought and feeling in a life
that has hitherto floated under a roseate cloud, on a sea without a
ripple. She had been rocked by storm waves; had seen a bark shipwrecked
close beside her; had even encountered mutiny in her own craft; when the
lull came, and she drifted quietly, she found herself forever face to
face with the facts that sorrow and trouble were abroad in the land,
that crime existed outside of the newspapers; that heartache and self
dissatisfaction were possibilities, and that even a queen absolute might
come under the shadow of each and all. Not that Constance had never been
aware of all these things, but we never can _realize_ what we have never
experienced.
We look sadly sympathetic, and murmur "poor things," when we see some
mourner weeping over a dead loved one, but we never comprehend the
sorrow until we bury our own dead.
Constance had loved Sybil Lamotte as a sister; she thought and sorrowed
not a little over the strange freak Fate had played with her friend's
life, and she wondered often if Doctor Heath had really lost all regard
for her; she knew, as what woman does not, that a warm regard had once
existed; and she assured herself that whether he had or not, was a
matter of no consequence to her. "She had not the slightest interest in
Doctor Heath," so she told Mrs. Aliston, and, like him, she never sought
nor avoided a meeting.
It is singular, however, that a man who possessed for her "not the
slightest interest" should so often present himself to her thoughts, and
certain it is that at this period of our story her mind had a most
provoking habit of running away from a variety of subjects straight to
Clifford Heath, M. D. But women at best are strange creatures, and
subject to singular phenomena.
Mrs. Aliston just here experienced some dissatisfaction; Clifford Heath
was with her a favorite; Francis Lamotte was her pet hatred. To see the
favorite made conspicuous by his absence, and have his name, like that
of a disinherited daughter, tabooed from the family converse, while the
obnoxious Francis, because of his provokingly good behavior, made rapid
strides into the good graces of the queen of the castle, would have
exasperated most good, maneuvering old ladies, but Mrs. Aliston
maneuvered principally for her own comfort, so she sighed a little,
regretted the present state of affairs in a resigned and becoming
manner, ceased to mention the name of Doctor Heath, and condescended to
receive Francis graciously, after that young man had made a special
call, during which he saw only Mrs. Aliston, and apologized amply and
most humbly for his unceremonious ejectment of that lady in favor of
Constance, on the day when the former undertook, "as gently as
possible," to break to him the news of his sister's flight.
To make an apology gracefully is in itself, an art; and this art Francis
Lamotte was skilled in; indeed but for a certain physical weakness, he
would have been an ornament to the diplomatic service. Alas, that there
must always be a "but" in the way of our moral completeness, our
physical perfection and our life's success.
Days and weeks passed on, and the household of Wardour remained in
utmost quiet; that at Mapleton, shrouded in gloom and sorrowful
seclusion. Mrs. Lamotte saw no one. Mr. Lamotte went out only to look
after his business interests.
When the copy of Sybil's marriage certificate came, Frank, like a loyal
knight, came to Constance with the news, told it with a sad countenance
and in few words, and went away soon and sorrowfully.
One day, not long after, Mrs. Aliston returned from the town where she
had spent four long hours in calling upon the wives of the Episcopalian,
the Unitarian and the Presbyterian ministers, for Mrs. Aliston was a
liberal soul, and hurled herself into Constance's favorite sitting room,
in a state of unusual excitement.
"Well, Con.," she panted, pulling hard the while at her squeezed on
gloves, "I've found it out;" and she dropped into the easiest chair, and
pulled and panted afresh.
Constance looked up from a rather uninteresting "Novel with a Moral,"
and asked, as indifferently as possible:
"What have you found out, auntie?"
"About Sybil."
Constance laid down her book, and her tone underwent a change.
"If it's any thing more than gossip, auntie, tell me quick."
"Oh, it isn't gossip; at least they all say it's true. And as for
gossip, Con., I tell you, you have done something toward stopping that."
Con. laughed like one who is conscious of her power.
"Yes, indeed," rattled on Mrs. Aliston. "Mrs. Wooster says, and if she
_is_ a Unitarian she is certainly a very good and truthful woman, that
she has heard from various ones that you have openly declared against
the handling of poor Sybil's name among the people who have called
themselves her friends, and accepted so often her mother's hospitality.
And she said--these are her very words, Con.--'I was delighted, dear
Mrs. Aliston, for we all know that these gossip lovers, every one of
them, will deny themselves the luxury of tearing Sybil to pieces,
knowing that she has a champion in Miss Wardour.' So much for influence,
Con."
"Bah!" retorted Con., wise in her generation. "So much for money, and
how do I know that I have not lost my prestige along with my diamonds.
Auntie, you have lost the thread of your discourse; you always do."
"So you always tell me," laughed the elderly chatterbox. "Well, Con.,
they say that Sybil has sacrificed herself."
"Do they?" said Con., sarcastically; "the wise heads. I hope that
conclusion has not exhausted their keen intellects, whoever 'they' may
be. As if the sacrifice were not patent on the face of the thing."
"Con. you talk like a--a stump orator."
"Do I? Well, I'm glad of it; it would not be so bad to be a 'stump
orator,' or any other sort of male animal, for the older I grow the more
I incline to the belief that women are fools. But go on, auntie; I
believe I get 'riled' every time I hear Sybil's name. What else do
'they' say?"
"You don't deserve to be told, you are so impatient; but I will tell you
this once. I was about to add that it seems to be an accepted fact that
Sybil sacrificed herself to save Evan from some sort of exposure and
disgrace. And they say that some of those rough men in a saloon threw
the thing in Evan's teeth, and that he replied in his odd way:
"'Yes, she did it for my sake, and now the first man of you that
mentions my sister's name in my hearing will go under.' You know they
are afraid of Evan in his rages."
Constance opened her mouth impulsively, but she choked back the words
that rushed forward for utterance, and closing her lips tightly, sat
staring straight before her, a strange expression creeping into her
face.
She seemed to hear anew Evan's words: "Do your part, I will do mine. I,
Evan Lamotte, worthless, black sheep, sot; I will find a reason that
will not be questioned, and that will spare Sybil."
And he had found a reason. The black sheep was offered up a sacrifice.
Evan Lamotte had flung away his last rag of respectability for his
sister's sake. Henceforth he would appear in the eyes of the people
doubly blackened, doubly degraded, the destroyer of his sister's
happiness, the blight upon her life, and yet, he was innocent of this;
he was a martyr; he the ne'er-do-well, the inebriate.
Constance was strangely moved by this self-sacrifice, coming from one
who was so morally weak; if it had been Frank, but here her lip curled
contemptuously; instinctively she knew that such self-sacrifice was not
in Frank's nature, any more than was such self-abandonment to weakness.
Constance began to wonder if Frank and his parents knew the truth. If
they had permitted the weakest shoulders to bear the burden; or, if Evan
had deceived them too, and then she murmured, almost in the language of
the tramp detective:
"It's a thing for time to unravel. It's a play just begun. It's a hard,
hard knot."
And, then and there, she took Sybil and Evan to her generous heart of
hearts, and mentally resolved to be their champion and friend to the
uttermost, while she would judge their parents and their brother
according as these dealt by the unfortunates.
It was many days before she saw Evan, for, although in true woman
fashion, she longed to scold him first for so sacrificing himself, and
praise him after for his generous true heartedness, she knew that he
would only be distressed by such an interview, and would obey a summons
from her reluctantly if at all.
But one day, just as she was driving her ponies out through the gates of
Wardour Place, she saw a horseman riding furiously up the road, and a
nearer view revealed Frank Lamotte's fine horse and mounted by Evan.
His eyes were flaming with excitement, and there was a burning spot of
red on either cheek as he reined up his horse beside her, and Constance
saw at a glance that, again, he was perfectly sober.
"Conny," he cried breathlessly, "it has come."
[Illustration: "Conny, it has come."]
"What has come, Evan?"
"The day we hoped for; we have heard from Sybil."
"A letter! Oh Evan, tell me all about it."
"I can't, there is no time; only, Con., it's your turn now. It's your
time to strike for Sybil. They are holding council over the letter, and
can't decide, whether the old gentleman shall go at once and see Sybil;
whether they shall bring her back and swallow the Burrill; for, it seems
he must be swallowed, and what society will think about it, are the
questions that they are agitating. Mother says, that Sybil must and
shall come back; father says he will go and see her; and Frank--" he
broke off abruptly and bent down to look at his saddle girth.
"And Frank; what does he say, Evan?"
"Frank is a fool," snapped Evan irrelevantly. "What _he_ says is no
matter; only, Conny, now is your time, if you will only have faith in
what I say. You are out with your ponies; drive straight to Mapleton,
and don't mention me. You will be admitted to mother. Father is there,
and Frank; give them the least chance, and they will tell you about
Sybil, and then you can manage the rest. Tell them to bring her back,
even with that beastly incumbrance. They will listen to you; they won't
to me. If you fail me here, then--"
"Then your sacrifice goes for nothing. Oh, Evan, did you think I would
not understand that? You have wronged yourself for Sybil's sake. But you
shall have a tithe of your reward. And, dear boy, you should not have
done this thing; we might have found another way."
"Nonsense, Conny! It was the only way. And what is my life worth, or my
reputation, either? It can't hurt a poor devil like me. Con., will you
go?"
"I will go straight to Mapleton, Evan. You shall see that I have faith
in you. I will do just as you direct, and all will go well."
"Then I'm off. I stole Frank's horse. I must get him back to avoid a
row. Thank you, Conny; you are a true friend."
"Good-bye, Evan. Come to me with all the news, or when you want help."
"I won't forget," wheeling his horse about; then, in a choking voice,
"God bless you, Conny," and a moment later, he was away down the road,
galloping in a cloud of dust.
Constance followed in his wake, keeping her ponies at a sober pace.
"I wonder how he found out these things. Poor boy!" she murmured, half
aloud, "he is not one at their family councils; of that I am sure. His
father has lost all patience with him; and yet, he knows all that is
going on. I wonder how."
If Evan Lamotte had heard this query, and had chosen to answer it, he
would have said: "_I watch and I listen._"