"WILL LOVE OUTWEIGH HONOR?"
"Dr. Heath, here is another visitor."
Clifford Heath turned slowly away from the small iron-barred window; he looked a trifle disturbed by this announcement, for he had just been interviewed by Mr. O'Meara, who for the first time had presented Mr. Wedron, and the two had left him much to think about.
The look of annoyance left his face, however, and a stare of surprise took its place, when, following upon the footsteps of the janitor, came Constance Wardour, not closely veiled and drooping, after the manner of prison-visiting females in orthodox novels, but with her fair face unconcealed, and her graceful figure at its proudest poise.
The haughtiness all departed from face and bearing, however, when the door closed behind her and she found herself alone with the man she had falsely accused.
Misfortune had not humbled Clifford Heath. When the first momentary look of surprise had left his face, he stood before her as proudly erect, as icily courteous, as if he were receiving her in his own parlor.
"Doctor Heath," began Constance, in low, contrite tones, "some months ago I brought a wrongful accusation against you. I wronged you deeply; let me do myself the justice to say that almost immediately I was convinced of the injustice I had done you, of the utter insanity of my own behavior, but—" blushing rosily, "I never found the letter, and how could I come to you and say, I have changed my mind, without a reason. Less than an hour ago, this note was put into my hands, and with it that unfortunate lost letter. This enables me to say,—Doctor Heath, I deeply regret the insult I offered you, and I ask you to be magnanimous, and to pardon me."
She put the note in his hand, and he read it, without uttering a word; stood silent for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, and then said:
"Miss Wardour, I am glad that this affair has been cleared up; when a man has so many dark shadows hanging over him, he is thankful for the smallest glimpse of sunlight. It is like your generosity to come in person."
"But you have not said that you forgive me, Doctor Heath; fully and freely, remember."
"Fully and freely I forgive you, then, Miss Wardour," smilingly, he replied. "After all, the mistake was a natural one. Since I have been an inmate of this cell, I have learned to see myself as others see me. Why should I not come under suspicion, especially after hearing my words to Bathurst? By the by, this note from Bathurst, you tell me that you received it to-day?"
"To-day; since noon."
"And it is dated to-day; then," looking at her questioningly, "Bathurst must be in town."
"Yes," dropping her eyes, confusedly. "That is, I think so;" and scarcely heeding her own movements, she seated herself in the doctor's chair, and, leaning one arm against the table, looked up into his face, saying with a spice of her old manner, so familiar to him in the past:
"Having forgiven me so generously, Doctor Heath, don't you think it would be quite proper to shake hands?"
He looked down upon her, a strange light leaping into his eyes. But he did not approach. He lifted a large, shapely hand, and surveyed it sorrowfully.
"It looks as clean as any hand, Miss Wardour, but there is a stain upon it."
"A stain! No, sir. Do you think that I believe in your guilt?"
Again the quick light flamed in his eyes, and now he came a step nearer.
"Do you believe in my innocence?"
"Beyond a doubt."
"When I said 'there is a stain upon my hand,' I did not mean the stain of guilt, but of suspicion, of accusation."
"There is no stain upon your hand! Doctor Heath. What is this I hear about you? They tell me you will make no defense."
He smiled down at her.
"I could make but one defense, and that—"
"And that?"
"And that, Miss Wardour, I would not make."
"Why?"
She was straining every nerve to preserve her composure; words came from her lips like frozen heartbeats.
"Because—Miss Wardour, do not ask me why."
"I do ask; I persist. Why? Why? Why?"
"Because—I see you are as imperious as ever—because I can only save myself by giving the real murderer up to justice."
She was on her feet in an instant, all her enforced calmness gone, unutterable misery in her face and voice.
"You know!" she cried. "You! Oh! my God, what shall I do!"
"Have no fear, Miss Wardour; have I not said I will keep my own counsel?"
"But, you! You! Oh, there is no reason why you should not speak; you are not bound! You are not—oh, what am I saying!" She sank back into her seat, panting and wild-eyed.
"Miss Wardour, calm yourself," he said, gently. "I am bound. It is my pleasure to keep this secret. Listen. A short time ago I received a visit from my lawyers. They told me—among other things, they thought it best that I should know—that you knew who did the deed, and that you would have us both saved, innocent and guilty alike. Before that, I had determined to keep silence; now I am doubly resolved. For your sake, I will not accuse Frank Lamotte."
"Frank—you will not accuse Frank Lamotte? And for my sake!" she almost shrieked. "For God's sake, explain. What is Frank Lamotte to me? Of what can you accuse him?"
It was Clifford Heath's turn to lose his composure. How could he interpret her words? Was she trying to deceive him?
"Miss Wardour," he said, almost sternly, "do you wish me to understand that Francis Lamotte is nothing to you?"
"Nothing to me! the vilest, the basest, the most treacherous, the most abject of all human creatures, that is what Frank Lamotte is to me!"
Uncontrollable scorn rang in her voice; rising anger, too. How dared he couple her name with that of Frank Lamotte?
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."
