Over the face of Constance Wardour crept a look of horror indescribable. In an instant her mind is illuminated, and all the fearful meaning of Mrs. Lamotte's strange words, is grasped and mastered. She reels as if struck by a heavy hand, and a low moan breaks from her lips. So long she stands thus, mute and awe-stricken, that Mrs. Lamotte can bear the strain of suspense no longer.
"For God's sake, speak," she gasps; "there have been those of your race who could not abandon a fallen friend."
Over the cheek, and neck, and brow, the hot, proud, loyal Wardour blood, comes surging. The gray eyes lift themselves with a proud flash; low and firm comes the answer:
"The Wardours were never Summer friends. Sybil has been as a sister, in prosperity; I shall be no less than a sister now. You may trust me as you would yourself; and—I am very glad you sent for me, and trusted no other."
"God bless you, Constance! No one else can be trusted. With your help I must do this work alone."
Then comes a cry from the sick room; they go back, and Constance enters at once upon her new, strange task. Her heart heavy; her hand firm; her ears smitten by the babbling recitation of that awful secret; and her lips sealed with the seal of the Wardour honor.
All that day she is at her post. Mrs. Lamotte, who is resolved to retain her strength for Sybil's sake, lies down in the dressing room and sleeps from sheer exhaustion.
As the day wears on there is movement and bustle down stairs, they are bringing in the body of the murdered man. The undertaker goes about his work with pompous air, and solemn visage; and when darkness falls, John Burrill's lifeless form lies in state in the drawing room of Mapleton, that room over the splendors of which his plebeian soul has gloated, his covetous eyes feasted and his ambitious bosom swelled with a sense of proprietorship. He is clothed in finest broadcloth, surrounded with costly trappings; but not one tear falls over him; not one heart grieves for him; not one tongue utters a word of sorrow or regret; he has schemed and sinned, to become a member of the aristocracy, to ally himself to the proud Lamottes; and to-night, one and all of the Lamottes, breathe the freer, because his breathing has forever ceased. Even Constance Wardour has no pitying thought for the dead man; she keeps aloof from the drawing room, shuddering when compelled to pass its closed doors; living, John Burrill was odious to her; dead, he is loathsome.
The day passes, and Doctor Heath does not visit his patient. At intervals during the long afternoon, they have discussed the question, "What shall we do to keep the patient quiet when the doctor comes?"