JOHN BURRILL, ARISTOCRAT.
Mapleton stands high on an eminence, which may have arisen expressly to
hold, and to exhibit, the splendid edifice erected thereon by Mr. Jasper
Lamotte. It is the only hill within sight on that side of the river, and
renders Mapleton a most conspicuous as well as most beautiful abiding
place.
In front of the dwelling and its grounds flows the river, broad and
glittering in the sunshine, on this day of which I write. In the rear
stretches a grove, large enough to be termed "the grove" by the people
of W----; and dense enough for Robin Hood and his merry men to find
comfort in, for Jasper Lamotte has chosen to let it remain _en
naturale_, since it first came into his possession.
To reach Mapleton from Wardour Place one must drive directly to the
center of W----, turn eastward, then cross a handsome new iron bridge,
and go southward a short distance, coming finally to the broad curve
which sweeps up to the mansion, and away from the river, along which the
road winds.
In the old days, when Sybil Lamotte and Constance Wardour found
excellent reasons for meeting and chatting together, at least once in
every twenty-four hours, this fair river was a source of alternate
pleasure and annoyance to them. Of pleasure, when the days were fair,
and Sybil and Frank could pull their boat up stream, and land at the
grassy slope in the rear of Wardour Place, where, often, they found
Constance and a gay party awaiting them. Or, when Constance could drift
down stream with scarcely the stroke of an oar necessary, until she came
opposite "the hill," as Mapleton was often called. Of annoyance, when
winds blew cold and rough, and the waters of the river turned black and
angry, and surged high between its banks. Then the two young ladies
voted the iron bridge "the coldest place possible," and wished that no
dark, wintry river flowed between them.
The river is very calm to-day, however; it is flowing gently, murmuring
softly, and gleaming silver and blue, beneath a soft September sun. Away
down, where the factories stand, and the great wheels turn, it loses its
blue and silver, flowing under that ever moving, never lifting curtain
of smoke, that darkens and dims the skies themselves, and gives to the
sun's face the look of a disreputable celestial tramp.
It's always gray, "down at the factories," and why not? What need have
the toilers there for sunlight? They have work and sleep.
There is nothing gray or dreary about Mapleton, as we enter there and
survey the inmates who, just now, are loitering about the lunch table.
Nothing gray, if we except a few silver threads in the hair of Mrs.
Lamotte; nothing dreary, unless it may be a look which, now and then,
and only for an instant, creeps into the eyes of Mrs. John Burrill.
They sit about the lunch table,--all but Sybil. She has arisen, and
reseated herself in a great easy chair, which seems to swallow up her
slight form, and renders her quite invisible to all at the table, save
Evan, who, from time to time, glances furtively across at her.
There may be dissension in this family, but they look the embodiment of
high-bred ease and serene contentment.
Jasper Lamotte turns his paper, sips his light wine, speaks suavely, and
looks as placid as the sky overhead.
Mrs. Lamotte speaks slow and seldom; smiles when she does speak; and
looks as if nothing ever ruffled the placidity of her mind, or the even
tenor of her pleasant existence. She looks all this, sitting directly
opposite John Burrill, her reluctantly accepted son-in-law, for what
Mrs. Lamotte cannot overcome, she ignores, and her proud calm is the
result of a long and bitter schooling.
Sybil looks paler than is usual for her, but no other expression than
one of calmness and _ennui_ can be detected on that lovely, inscrutable
face; and the dusky eyes keep well veiled, and tell no secrets.
Evan Lamotte is sober, and good humored, for his sister's sake; and
Frank is simply lazy.
But John Burrill! there is no contentment equal to his; seated in the
easiest of chairs, before a table laden with viands upon which he has
just gorged himself, he contemplates his legs and his surroundings with
extreme satisfaction; his legs first, because, being stretched directly
before him, they come first under his eye; and he is delighted with
their size, and shape; they are a fine pair, such as would do credit to
a bull fighter, or a "champion pedestrian," and with the quality and cut
of the pantaloons that adorn them. It has not always been his good
fortune to sit at a rich man's table, and to wear fashionable clothing;
and John Burrill appreciates his "marcies." He has feasted his stomach,
and John Burrill's stomach comes in for a large share of his
consideration; and now he is feasting his senses: this richly appointed
room is his room; this splendid stately lady, how he delights to call
her "mother," varied occasionally by "mother-in-law;" how he glories in
the possession of a pair of aristocratic brothers-in-law; and how he
swells with pride, when he steps into the carriage, and, sitting beside
"the rich Mr. Lamotte," is driven through W---- and to the factories;
and last, and best of all, there is his wife, a beauty, a belle, an
heiress, possessing a score of lovers, yet won by him.
Only one thing troubles John Burrill, he does not quite understand
Sybil; he has "got the hang," so he thinks of the other members of the
family, but sometimes Sybil's wordless glance operates upon him like a
cold shower bath, and Mr. Burrill, like all the "gutter born," rather
fears a shower bath.
Coarse in sense and sentiment, plebeian in body and soul; whatever else
Sybil Lamotte's husband may be, let our story develop.
Quitting his place now, he crosses the room, and, taking up a position
where his eyes can gloat upon Sybil's face, he rests one elbow upon a
mantel, and so, in a comfortable after-dinner attitude, continues his
pleasant meditations. Sybil stirs uneasily, but notices his proximity in
no other way. Presently her eyes shoot straight past him, and she says
to Evan who has also risen, and stands stretching himself, lazily, with
his face to the window, and his back toward the assembly:
"Evan, just hand me that book on the mantel. No, not _that_ one," as he
lays his ready hand on the book nearest him, "the other."
"Oh!" ejaculates Evan, at the same moment laying hand upon a volume
directly underneath John Burrill's elbow. "Hoist up your arrum, Burrill.
'My lady's up, and wants her wollum.'"
John Burrill's face reddens slowly. He is an Englishman, and sometimes
his H's and A's play him sorry tricks, although he has labored hard to
Americanize himself, and likes to think that he has succeeded.
"D--n it!" broke out the man, suddenly losing his after dinner calm.
"You might have asked _me_ for the book, Sybil; it was near enough."
Sybil received the book from Evan's hand, opened it, turned a page or
two, and then lifting her eyes to his face, replied in a voice, low,
clear, and cutting as the north wind:
"Evan is my slave, Mr. Burrill, _you_--are my lord and master."
Indescribable contempt shone upon him for a moment from her splendid
eyes; then she lowered them, and became, apparently, wholly absorbed in
her book.
John Burrill muttered something very low, and probably very ugly, and
dropped back into his former attitude; and the others, never by word or
glance, noticed this little passage at arms. Only Evan returned to the
window, and standing there with hands in pockets, glowered down upon the
frost-touched rose trees and clustered geraniums, savagely, and long.
Presently, Evan turns from the window, which commands a view of the
drive.
"Constance is coming," he says, addressing Sybil.
She starts up, looking anxious and disturbed; Constance has visited her,
and she has driven over once to see Constance; but it has so happened
that John Burrill has always been absent; and Sybil has a shuddering
horror of this meeting that must be.
The announcement seems to galvanize them all into life. Mr. Lamotte
looks up with a gleam of latent anticipation in his eyes; Frank smiles
his pleasure; and John Burrill steals a deprecatory glance at a mirror,
smoothes a wrinkle out of his waistcoat, and outsmiles Frank. Here is
another triumph; he is about to be introduced to the richest girl in the
country; to meet her on an equal footing, in the character of husband to
her dearest friend.
Sybil rises and goes to the window; her pale face flushing. There is a
rolling of wheels, a sound of swift, firm footsteps without, and then
the door opens, and Constance is announced.
She follows her name in her usual free, at home fashion, and in a moment
is kissing Sybil, shaking hands with Mrs. Lamotte, exchanging smiling
salutations with Mr. Lamotte, and gay badinage with Francis. And then,
while Sybil still hesitates, Evan comes to the rescue.
With a face of preternatural gravity, he advances, seizes the arm of
John Burrill, drags him toward Constance, and says, with elaborate
politeness:
"Constance, allow me to present my new brother-in-law, Mr. Burrill.
Brother-in-law, this is Miss Wardour, of Wardour Place."
In spite of themselves, they smile; all except Sybil. John Burrill feels
that somehow, he is made ridiculous; that another man in his place would
not have been thus introduced. But the eyes of the heiress are upon his
face, her daintily gloved hand is proffered him, and she lies in her
softest contralto, and unblushingly:
"I am happy to know you, Mr. Burrill."
[Illustration: "I am happy to know you."]
Somehow, they all breathe freer after that pretty falsehood. John
Burrill regains his composure, and relapses into his former state of
comfortable gloating. Another face is added to the circle of high-bred
people around him. He does not talk much, for he is not yet quite at his
ease when in conversation with them. As they talk, he thinks what a fine
nest this is which he has gained for himself; what a lovely woman is his
wife; and how splendidly handsome is Miss Wardour. He thinks how, by and
by, he will boast to some of his choice spirits, of his friendship for
Miss Wardour, and of the value in which she holds his esteem. He thinks
how good is the Lamotte cook, and how, presently, he will sample the
Lamotte wines, and smoke a splendid segar; and then he pricks up his
ears and listens, for the conversation has drifted away from the
commonplace, and Miss Wardour is saying:
"It really is a forlorn hope, I fear, Mr. Lamotte. I don't know what to
reply to Mr. Belknap, but I think he is wasting his time, and I my
money; and, if you will communicate with him, as he failed to name his
address in his note to me, we will close up the case."
"And say farewell to your diamonds?"
"I have performed that ceremony some time since. I really am worn out
with the subject. At some other time I may resume the search."
"You are getting discouraged."
"Call it that, if you like."
"Excuse me, if I pursue so wearisome a subject, Constance; but--does not
Mr. Belknap hint at a new clue in this note of his? You must know he has
written me also."
"He hints, and very vaguely."
"Well, I am anxious to look into this matter a little further. As a
special favor to me will you retain the services of Mr. Belknap a little
longer?"
"As you make such a point of it, yes, Mr. Lamotte; but--do you really
hope to find anything new, at this late day?"
"I really do, my child, but can not put my ideas in shape, as yet. I
think we shall have Mr. Belknap among us soon."
"Well, don't let him persecute me, that's all," stipulated Constance. "I
have lost my faith in detectives."
"All this talk reminds me, Constance," interrupted Sybil, "mamma has had
her diamonds reset for me, and they are really beautiful; besides which,
papa and Mr. Burrill have added to the collection, so that in the
absence of yours, I may set myself up as diamond queen. Come to my room
and be dazzled."
"And leave us under a cloud," chimed in Frank. "Burrill, come, let's
adjourn to the billiard room, and have a segar;" and intent upon keeping
his brother-in-law in order during the time Constance should be under
the roof, he slapped him cordially on his brawny shoulder, and they went
out in most amiable and brotherly fashion, and entered the billiard
room, where Frank permitted Burrill to cheat at the game, and eventually
win it, much to the delight of that personage.
When they had left the morning room, Evan Lamotte, too, sauntered out
and down the hall, and, hearing their voices in amiable dialogue,
interspersed by the click of the billiard balls, he muttered:
"Ah, Constance, you are a witch indeed! you have made my magnificent
brother adopt my _rôle_ for once; so long as you are here we may depend
upon Frank to keep our bull out of the china shop. So, as one good turn
deserves another, I will just give your mare a turn and look in at 'Old
Forty Rods;' I'm safe to go off duty for the day."
And ten minutes later the reckless youth was galloping Frank's blooded
mare along the highway _en route_ for the saloon known to the initiated
as "Old Forty Rods."
Left alone together, Mr. Jasper Lamotte and his wife gazed at each other
in silence for a moment, and then he said:
"Do you think it safe to leave them alone together too long?"
"Who, Frank and----"
"Pshaw, no; the girls."
"It is quite safe; nevertheless I will go up to them," and Mrs. Lamotte
arose and went slowly up the stairs, and softly past the door where
Sybil and Constance sat together, straight to her own room, which she
entered, closed and locked the door carefully, and allowing the look of
haughty calm to die out of her face, she threw herself into a dressing
chair, and pressed two feverish hands against a face that was sad and
bitter and full of weariness.
Left to his own devices, Jasper Lamotte seated himself at a desk and
dashed off a few hurried lines, which he directed to
"Mr. Jerry Belknap,
"No. --, Room 7, Blank St.,
"N. Y."