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Title: The Haunted Chamber
       A Novel

Author: "The Duchess"

Release Date: June 13, 2005 [EBook #16053]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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                           The Haunted Chamber

                            BY "THE DUCHESS"

                                  1888




CHAPTER I.


The sun has "dropped down," and the "day is dead." The silence and calm
of coming night are over everything. The shadowy twilight lies softly on
sleeping flowers and swaying boughs, on quiet fountains--the marble
basins of which gleam snow-white in the uncertain light--on the glimpse
of the distant ocean seen through the giant elms. A floating mist hangs
in the still warm air, making heaven and earth mingle in one sweet
confusion.

The ivy creeping up the ancient walls of the castle is rustling and
whispering as the evening breeze sweeps over it. High up the tendrils
climb, past mullioned windows and quaint devices, until they reach even
to the old tower, and twine lovingly round it, and push through the long
apertures in the masonry of the walls of the haunted chamber.

It is here that the shadows cast their heaviest gloom. All this corner
of the old tower is wrapped in darkness, as though to obscure the scene
of terrible crimes of past centuries.

Ghosts of dead-and-gone lords and ladies seem to peer out mysteriously
from the openings in this quaint chamber, wherein no servant, male or
female, of the castle has ever yet been known to set foot. It is full of
dire horrors to them, and replete with legends of by-gone days and
grewsome sights ghastly enough to make the stoutest heart quail.

In the days of the Stuarts an old earl had hanged himself in that room,
rather than face the world with dishonor attached to his name; and
earlier still a beauteous dame, fair but frail, had been incarcerated
there, and slowly starved to death by her relentless lord. There was
even in the last century a baronet--the earldom had been lost to the
Dynecourts during the Commonwealth--who, having quarreled with his
friend over a reigning belle, had smitten him across the cheek with his
glove, and then challenged him to mortal combat. The duel had been
fought in the luckless chamber, and had only ended with the death of
both combatants; the blood stains upon the flooring were large and deep,
and to this day the boards bear silent witness to the sanguinary
character of that secret fight.

Just now, standing outside the castle in the warmth and softness of the
dying daylight, one can hardly think of by-gone horrors, or aught that
is sad and sinful.

There is an air of bustle and expectancy within-doors that betokens
coming guests; the servants are moving to and fro noiselessly but
busily, and now and then the stately housekeeper passes from room to
room uttering commands and injunctions to the maids as she goes. No less
occupied and anxious is the butler, as he surveys the work of the
footmen. It is so long since the old place has had a resident master,
and so much longer still since guests have been invited to it, that the
household are more than ordinarily excited at the change now about to
take place.

Sir Adrian Dynecourt, after a prolonged tour on the Continent and
lingering visits to the East, has at last come home with the avowed
intention of becoming a staid country gentleman, and of settling down
to the cultivation of turnips, the breeding of prize oxen, and the
determination to be the M.F.H. when old Lord Dartree shall have
fulfilled his declared intention of retiring in his favor. He is a tall
young man, lithe and active. His skin, though naturally fair, is bronzed
by foreign travel. His hair is a light brown, cut very close to his
head. His eyes are large, clear, and honest, and of a peculiarly dark
violet; they are beautiful eyes, winning and sweet, and steady in their
glance. His mouth, shaded by a drooping fair mustache, is large and
firm, yet very prone to laughter.

It is quite the end of the London season, and Sir Adrian has hurried
down from town to give directions for the reception of some people whom
he has invited to stay with him during the slaughter of the partridges.

Now all is complete, and the last train from London being due half an
hour ago Sir Adrian is standing on the steps of his hall-door anxiously
awaiting some of his guests.

There is even a touch of genuine impatience in his manner, which could
hardly be attributed to the ordinary longing of a young man to see a few
of his friends. Sir Adrian's anxiety is open and undisguised, and there
is a little frown upon his brow. Presently his face brightens as be
hears the roll of carriage-wheels. When the carriage turns the corner
of the drive, and the horses are pulled up at the hall door, Sir Adrian
sees a fair face at the window that puts to flight all the fears he has
been harboring for the last half hour.

"You have come?" he says delightedly, running down the steps and opening
the carriage door himself. "I am so glad! I began to think the train had
run away with you, or that the horses had bolted."

"Such a journey as it has been!" exclaims a voice not belonging to the
face that had looked from the carriage at Sir Adrian. "It has been
tiresome to the last degree. I really don't know when I felt so
fatigued!"

A little woman, small and fair, steps languidly to the ground as she
says this, and glances pathetically at her host. She is beautifully "got
up," both in dress and complexion, and at a first glance appears almost
girlish. Laying her hand in Sir Adrian's, she lets it rest there, as
though glad to be at her journey's end, conveying at the same time by
a gentle pressure of her taper fingers the fact that she is even more
glad that the end of her journey has brought her to him. She looks up
at him with her red lips drooping as if tired, and with a bewildered
expression in her pretty blue eyes that adds to the charm of her face.

"It's an awful distance from town!" says Sir Adrian, as if apologizing
for the spot on which his grand old castle has been built. "And it was
more than good of you to come to me. I can only try to make up to you
for the discomfort you have experienced to-day by throwing all possible
chances of amusement in your way whilst you stay here."

By this time she has withdrawn her hand, and so he is free to go up to
his other guest and bid her welcome. He says nothing to her, strange to
say, but it is his hand that seeks to retain hers this time, and it is
his eyes that look longingly into the face before him.

"You are tired, too?" he says at length. "Come into the house and
rest awhile before dinner. You will like to go to your rooms at once,
perhaps?" he adds, turning to his two visitors.

"Thank you--yes. If you will have our tea sent upstairs," replies Mrs.
Talbot plaintively, "it will be such a comfort!" she always speaks in a
somewhat pouting tone, and with heavy emphasis.

"Tea--nonsense!" responds Sir Adrian. "There's nothing like champagne as
a pick-me-up. I'll send you tea also; but, take my advice, and try the
champagne."

"Oh, thank you, I shall so much prefer my tea!" Mrs. Talbot declares,
with a graceful little shrug of her shoulders, at which her friend Miss
Delmaine laughs aloud.

"I accept your advice, Sir Adrian," she says, casting a mischievous
glance at him from under her long lashes. "And--yes, Dora will take
champagne too--when it comes."

"Naughty girl!" exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with a little flickering smile.
Dora Talbot seldom smiles, having learned by experience that her
delicate face looks prettier in repose. "Come, then, Sir Adrian," she
adds, "let us enter your enchanted castle."

The servants by this time have taken in all their luggage--that is, as
much as they have been able to bring in the carriage; and now the two
ladies walk up the steps and enter the hall, their host beside them.

Mrs. Talbot, who has recovered her spirits a little, is chattering
gayly, and monopolizing Sir Adrian to the best of her ability, whilst
Miss Delmaine is strangely silent, and seems lost in a kind of pleased
wonder as she gazes upon all her charming surroundings.

The last rays of light are streaming in through the stained-glass
windows, rendering the old hall full of mysterious beauty. The grim
warriors in their coats of mail seem, to the entranced gaze of Florence
Delmaine, to be making ready to spring from the niches which hold them.

Waking from her dream as she reaches the foot of the stone staircase,
she says abruptly, but with a lovely smile playing round her mouth--

"Surely, Sir Adrian, you have a ghost in this beautiful old place, or
a secret staircase, or at least a bogy of some sort? Do not spoil the
romantic look of it by telling me you have no tale of terror to impart,
no history of a ghostly visitant who walks these halls at the dead of
night."

"We have no ghost here, I am sorry to say," answers Sir Adrian,
laughing. "For the first time I feel distressed and ashamed that it
should be so. We can only boast a haunted chamber; but there are certain
legends about it, I am proud to say, the bare narration of which would
make even the stoutest quail."

"Good gracious--how distinctly unpleasant!" exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with
a nervous and very effective shudder.

"How distinctly delicious, you mean!" puts in Miss Delmaine. "Sir
Adrian, is this chamber anywhere near where I shall sleep?"

"Oh, no; you need not be afraid of that!" answers Dynecourt hastily.

"I am not afraid," declares the girl saucily. "I have all my life been
seeking an adventure of some sort. I am tired of my prosaic existence.
I want to know what dwellers in the shadowy realms of ghost-land are
like."

"Dear Sir Adrian, do urge her not to talk like that; it is positively
wicked," pleads Dora Talbot, glancing at him beseechingly.

"Miss Delmaine, you will drive Mrs. Talbot from my house if you persist
in your evil courses," says Sir Adrian, laughing again. "Desist, I pray
you!"

"Are you afraid, Dora?" asks Florence merrily. "Then keep close to me.
I can defy all evil spirits, I have spells and charms."

"You have indeed!" puts in Sir Adrian, in a tone so low that only she
can hear it. "And, knowing this, you should be merciful."

Though she can not hear what he says, yet Mrs. Talbot can see he is
addressing Florence, and marks with some uneasiness the glance that
passes from his eyes to hers. Breaking quickly into the conversation,
she says timidly, laying her hand on her host's arm--

"This shocking room you speak of will not be near mine?"

"In another wing altogether," Sir Adrian replies reassuringly. "Indeed
it is so far from this part of the castle that one might be safely
incarcerated there and slowly starved to death without any one of the
household being a bit the wiser. It is in the north wing in the old
tower, a portion of the building that has not been in use for over fifty
years."

"I breathe again," says Dora Talbot affectedly.

"I shall traverse every inch of that old tower--haunted room and
all--before I am a week older," declares Florence defiantly. After which
she smiles at Adrian again, and follows the maid up the broad staircase
to her room.

By the end of the week many other visitors have been made welcome at the
castle; but none perhaps give so much pleasure to the young baronet as
Mrs. Talbot and her cousin.

Miss Delmaine, the only daughter and heiress of an Indian nabob, had
taken London by storm this past season; and not only the modern Babylon,
but the heart of Adrian Dynecourt as well. She had come home to England
on the death of her father about two years ago; and, having no nearer
relatives alive, had been kindly received by her cousin, the Hon. Mrs.
Talbot, who was then living with her husband in a pretty house in
Mayfair.

Six months after Florence Delmaine's arrival, George Talbot had
succumbed to a virulent fever; and his widow, upon whom a handsome
jointure had been settled, when the funeral and the necessary law
worries had come to an end, had intimated to her young cousin that she
intended to travel for a year upon the Continent, and that she would be
glad, that is--with an elaborate sigh--she would be a degree less
miserable, if she, Florence, would accompany her. This delighted
Florence. She was wearied with attendance on the sick, having done most
of the nursing of the Hon. George, while his wife lamented and slept;
and, besides, she was still sore at heart for the loss of her father.
The year abroad had passed swiftly; the end of it brought them to Paris
once more, where, feeling that her time of mourning might be decently
terminated, Mrs. Talbot had discarded her somber robes, and had put
herself into the hands of the most fashionable dress-maker she could
find.

Florence too discarded mourning for the first time, although her father
had been almost two years in his quiet grave amongst the Hills; and,
with her cousin, who was now indeed her only friend, if slightly
uncongenial, decided to return to London forthwith.

It was early in May, and, with a sensation of extreme and most natural
pleasure, the girl looked forward to a few months passed amongst the
best of those whom she had learned under her cousin's auspices to regard
as "society."

Dora Talbot herself was not by any means dead to the thought that it
would be to her advantage to introduce into society a girl, well-born
and possessed of an almost fabulous fortune. Stray crumbs must surely
fall to her share in a connection of this kind, and such crumbs she was
prepared to gather with a thankful heart.

But unhappily she set her affection upon Sir Adrian Dynecourt, with his
grand old castle and his princely rent-roll--a "crumb" the magnitude and
worth of which she was not slow to appreciate. At first she had not
deemed it possible that Florence would seriously regard a mere baronet
as a suitor, when her unbounded wealth would almost entitle her to a
duke. But "love," as she discovered later, to her discomfiture, will
always "find the way." And one day, quite unexpectedly, it dawned upon
her that there might--if circumstances favored them--grow up a feeling
between Florence and Sir Adrian that might lead to mutual devotion.

Yet, strong in the belief of her own charms, Mrs. Talbot accepted the
invitation given by Sir Adrian, and at the close of the season she and
Florence Delmaine find themselves the first of a batch of guests come to
spend a month or two at the old castle at Dynecourt.

Mrs. Talbot is still young, and, in her style, very pretty; her eyes are
languishing and blue as gentian, her hair a soft nut-brown; her lips
perhaps are not altogether faultless, being too fine and too closely
drawn, but then her mouth is small. She looks considerably younger than
she really is, and does not forget to make the most of this comfortable
fact. Indeed, to a casual observer, her cousin looks scarcely her
junior.

Miss Delmaine is tall, slender, _posee_ more or less, while Mrs. Talbot
is prettily rounded, _petite_ in every point, and nervously ambitious of
winning the regard of the male sex.

During the past week private theatricals have been suggested. Every one
is tired of dancing and music. The season has given them more than a
surfeit of both, and so they have fallen back upon theatricals.

The play on which they have decided is Goldsmith's famous production,
"She Stoops to Conquer."

Miss Villiers, a pretty girl with yellow hair and charming eyes, is to
be Constantia Neville; Miss Delmaine, Kate Hardcastle; Lady Gertrude
Vining, though rather young for the part, has consented to play Mrs.
Hardcastle, under the impression that she looks well in a cap and
powdered hair. An impossible Tony Lumpkin has been discovered in a
nervous young man with a hesitation in his speech and a difficulty about
the letter "S"--a young man who wofully misunderstands Tony, and brings
him out in a hitherto unknown character; a suitable Hastings has been
found in the person of Captain Ringwood, a gallant young officer, and
one of the "curled darlings" of society.

But who is to play Marlow? Who is to be the happy man, so blessed--even
though in these fictitious circumstances--as to be allowed to make love
to the reigning beauty of the past season? Nearly every man in the house
has thrown out a hint as to his fitness for the part, but as yet no
arrangement has been arrived at.

Sir Adrian of course is the one toward whom all eyes--and some very
jealous ones--are directed. But his duties as host compel him, sorely
against his will, to draw back a little from the proffered honor, and
to consult the wishes of his guests rather than his own. Miss Delmaine
herself has laughingly declined to make any choice of a stage lover, so
that, up to the present moment, matters are still in such a state of
confusion and uncertainty that they have been unable to name any date
for the production of their play.

It is four o'clock, and they are all standing or sitting in the
library, intent as usual in discussing the difficulty. They are all
talking together, and, in the excitement that prevails, no one hears the
door open, or the footman's calm, introduction of a gentleman, who now
comes leisurely up to where Sir Adrian is standing, leaning over
Florence Delmaine's chair.

He is a tall man of about thirty-five, with a dark face and dark eyes,
and, withal, a slight resemblance to Sir Adrian.

"Ah, Arthur, is it you!" says Sir Adrian, in a surprised tone that has
certainly no cordiality in it, but, just as certainly, the tone is not
repellent.

"Yes," replies the stranger, with a languid smile, and without
confusion. "Yesterday I suddenly recollected the general invitation you
gave me a month ago to come to you at any time that suited me best. This
time suits me, and so I have come."

He still smiles as he says this, and looks expectantly at Sir Adrian,
who, as in duty bound, instantly tells him he is very glad to see him,
and that he is a good fellow to have come without waiting for a more
formal repetition of his invitation. Then he takes him over to old Lady
FitzAlmont, the mother of Lady Gertrude Vining, and introduces him to
her as "my cousin Mr. Dynecourt."

The same ceremony is gone through with some of the others, but, when
he brings him to Mrs. Talbot, that pretty widow interrupts his mode of
introduction.

"Mr. Dynecourt and I are old friends," she says, giving her hand to the
new-comer. Then, turning to her cousin, she adds, "Florence, is it not
a fatality our meeting him so often?"

"Have we met so often?" asks Florence quietly, but with a touch of
_hauteur_ and dislike in her tone. Then she too gives a cold little hand
to Mr. Dynecourt, who lingers over it until she disdainfully draws it
away, after which he turns from her abruptly and devotes himself to
Dora Talbot.

The widow is glad of his attentions. He is handsome and well-bred, and
for the last half hour she has been feeling slightly bored; so eager has
been the discussion about the Marlow matter, that she has been little
sought after by the opposite sex. And now, once again, the subject is
being examined in all its bearings, and the discussion waxes fast and
furious.

"What is it all about?" asks Arthur Dynecourt presently, glancing at the
animated group in the middle of the room. And Sir Adrian, hearing his
question, explains it to him.

"Ah, indeed!" he says. And then, after a scarcely perceptible
pause--"Who is to be Kate Hardcastle?"

"Miss Delmaine," answers Sir Adrian, who is still leaning over that
young lady's chair.

"In what does the difficulty consist?" inquires Arthur Dynecourt, with
apparent indifference.

"Well," replies Sir Adrian, laughing; "I believe mere fear holds us
back. Miss Delmaine, as we all know, is a finished actress, and we
dread spoiling her performance by faults on our side. None of us have
attempted the character before; this is why we hesitate."

"A very sensible hesitation, I think," says his cousin coolly. "You
should thank me then for coming to your relief this afternoon; I have
played the part several times, and shall be delighted to undertake it
again, and help you out of your difficulty."

At this Miss Delmaine flushes angrily, and opens her lips as if she
would say something, but, after a second's reflection, restrains
herself. She sinks back into her chair with a proud languor, and closes
her mouth resolutely.

Sir Adrian is confounded. All along he had secretly hoped that, in the
end, this part would fall to his lot; but now--what is to be done? How
can he refuse to let his cousin take his place, especially as he has
declared himself familiar with the part.

Arthur, observing his cousin's hesitation, laughs aloud. His is not a
pleasant laugh, but has rather a sneering ring in it, and at the present
moment it jars upon the ears of the listeners.

"If I have been indiscreet," he says, with a slight glance at Florence's
proud face, "pray pardon me. I only meant to render you a little
assistance. I thought I understood from you that you were rather in a
dilemma. Do not dwell upon my offer another moment. I am afraid I have
made myself somewhat officious--unintentionally, believe me."

"My dear fellow, not at all," declares Sir Adrian hastily, shocked at
his own apparent want of courtesy. "I assure you, you mistake. It is all
so much to the contrary, that I gratefully accept your offer, and beg
you will be Marlow."

"But really--" begins Arthur Dynecourt.

"Not a word!" interrupts Sir Adrian; and indeed by this time Arthur
Dynecourt has brought his cousin to believe he is about to confer upon
him a great favor. "Look here, you fellows," Sir Adrian goes on, walking
toward the other men, who are still arguing and disputing over the vexed
question, "I've settled it all for you. Here is my cousin; he will take
the difficulty off your hands, and be a first-class Marlow at the same
time."

A suppressed consternation follows this announcement. Many and dark
are the glances cast upon the new-comer, who receives them all with
his usual imperturbable smile. Rising, Arthur approaches one of the
astonished group who is known to him, and says something upon the
subject with a slight shrug of his shoulders. As he is Sir Adrian's
cousin, every one feels that it will be impossible to offer any
objection to his taking the much-coveted part.

"Well, I have sacrificed myself for you; I have renounced a very dear
desire all to please you," says Sir Adrian softly, bending down to
Florence. "Have I succeeded?"

"You have succeeded in displeasing me more than I can say," she returns
coldly. Then, seeing his amazed expression, she goes on hastily,
"Forgive me, but I had hoped for another Marlow."

She blushes prettily as she says this, and an expression arises in her
dark eyes that moves him deeply. Stooping over her hand, he imprints a
kiss upon it. Dora Talbot, whose head is turned aside, sees nothing of
this, but Arthur Dynecourt has observed the silent caress, and a dark
frown gathers on his brow.




CHAPTER II.


Every day and all day long there is nothing but rehearsing. In every
corner two or more may be seen studying together the parts they have to
play. Florence Delmaine alone refuses to rehearse her part except in
full company, though Mr. Dynecourt has made many attempts to induce her
to favor him with a private reading of those scenes in which he and she
must act together. He has even appealed to Dora Talbot to help him in
this matter, which she is only too willing to do, as she is secretly
desirous of flinging the girl as much in his way as possible. Indeed
anything that would keep Florence out of Sir Adrian's sight would be
welcome to her; so that she listens kindly to Arthur Dynecourt when he
solicits her assistance.

"She evidently shuns me," he says in an aggrieved tone to her one
evening, sinking into the seat beside hers. "Except a devotion to her
that is singularly sincere, I know of nothing about me that can be
regarded by her as an offense. Yet it appears to me that she dislikes
me."

"There I am sure you are wrong," declares the widow, tapping his arm
lightly with her fan. "She is but a girl--she hardly knows her own mind."

"She seems to know it pretty well when Adrian addresses her," he says,
with a sullen glance.

At this Mrs. Talbot can not repress a start; she grows a little pale,
and then tries to hide her confusion by a smile. But the smile is
forced, and Arthur Dynecourt, watching her, reads her heart as easily
as if it were an open book.

"I don't suppose Adrian cares for her," he goes on quietly. "At
least"--here he drops his eyes--"I believe, with a little judicious
management, his thoughts might be easily diverted into another channel."

"You think so?" asks Mrs. Talbot faintly, trifling with her fan. "I can
not say I have noticed that his attentions to her have been in any way
particular."

"Not as yet," agrees Dynecourt, studying her attentively; "and if I
might be open with you," he adds, breaking off abruptly and assuming an
air of anxiety--"we might perhaps mutually help each other."

"Help each other?"

"Dear Mrs. Talbot," says Dynecourt softly, "has it never occurred to you
how safe a thing it would be for my cousin Sir Adrian to marry a
sensible woman--a woman who understands the world and its ways--a woman
young and beautiful certainly, but yet conversant with the _convenances_
of society? Such a woman would rescue Adrian from the shoals and
quicksands that surround him in the form of mercenary friends and
scheming mothers. Such a woman might surely be found. Nay, I think
I myself could put my hand upon her, if I dared, at this moment."

Mrs. Talbot trembles slightly, and blushes a good deal, but says nothing.

"He is my nearest of kin," goes on Dynecourt, in the same low impassive
voice. "Naturally I am interested in him, and my interest on this point
is surely without motive; as, were he never to marry, were he to leave
no heir, were he to die some sudden death"--here a remarkable change
overspreads his features--"I should inherit all the land you see around
you, and the title besides."

Mrs. Talbot is still silent. She merely bows her head in assent.

"Then, you see, I mean kindly toward him when I suggest that he should
marry some one calculated to sustain his rank in the world," continues
Dynecourt. "As I have said before, I know one who would fill the
position charmingly, if she would deign to do so."

"And who?" falters Dora Talbot nervously.

"May I say to whom I allude?" he murmurs. "Mrs. Talbot, pardon me if I
have been impertinent in thinking of you as that woman."

A little flickering smile adorns Dora's lips for a moment, then,
suddenly remembering that smiles do not become her, she relapses into
her former calm.

"You flatter me," she says sweetly.

"I never flatter," he responds, with telling emphasis. "But, I can see
you are not angry, and so I am emboldened to say plainly, I would gladly
see you my cousin's wife. Is the idea not altogether abhorrent to you?"

"No. Oh, no!"

"It is perhaps--pardon me if I go too far--even agreeable to you?"

"Mr. Dynecourt," says Mrs. Talbot, suddenly glancing at him and laying
her jeweled fingers lightly on his arm, "I will confess to you that I am
tired of being alone--dependent on myself, as it were--thrown on my own
judgment for the answering of every question that arises. I would gladly
acknowledge a superior head. I would have some one to help me now and
then with a word of advice; in short, I would have a husband. And,"--here
she lays her fan against her lips and glances archly at him--"I confess
too that I like Sir Adrian as--well--as well as any man I know."

"He is a very fortunate man"--gravely. "I would he knew his happiness."

"Not for worlds," says Mrs. Talbot, with well-feigned alarm. "You would
not even hint to him such a thing as--as--" She stops, confused.

"I shall hint nothing--do nothing, except what you wish. Ah, Mrs.
Talbot"--with a heavy sigh--"you are supremely happy! I envy you! With
your fascinations and"--insinuatingly--"a word in season from me, I see
no reason why you should not claim as your own the man whom you--well,
let us say, like; while I--"

"If I can befriend you in any way," interrupts Dora quickly, "command
me."

She is indeed quite dazzled by the picture he has painted before her
eyes. Can it be--is it--possible, that Sir Adrian may some day be hers?
Apart from his wealth, she regards him with very tender feelings, and of
late she has been rendered at times absolutely miserable by the thought
that he has fallen a victim to the charms of Florence.

Now if, by means of this man, her rival can be kept out of Adrian's way,
all may yet be well, and her host may be brought to her feet before her
visit comes to an end.

Of Arthur Dynecourt's infatuation for Florence she is fully aware, and
is right in deeming that part of his admiration for the beautiful girl
has grown out of his knowledge of her money-bags. Still, she argues to
herself, his love is true and faithful, despite his knowledge of her
_dot_, and he will in all probability make her as good a husband as she
is likely to find.

"May I command you?" asks Arthur, in his softest tones. "You know my
secret, I believe. Ever since that last meeting at Brighton, when my
heart overcame me and made me show my sentiments openly and in your
presence, you have been aware of the hopeless passion that is consuming
me. I may be mad, but I still think that, with opportunities and time, I
might make myself at least tolerated by Miss Delmaine. Will you help me
in this matter? Will you give me the chance of pleading my cause with
her alone? By so doing"--with a meaning smile--"you will also give my
cousin the happy chance of seeing you alone."

Dora only too well understands his insinuation. Latterly Sir Adrian
and Florence have been almost inseparable. To now meet with one whose
interest it is to keep them asunder is very pleasant to her.

"I will help you," she says in a low tone.

"Then try to induce Miss Delmaine to give me a private rehearsal
to-morrow in the north gallery," he whispers hurriedly, seeing Captain
Ringwood and Miss Villiers approaching. "Hush! Not another word! I rely
upon you. Above all things, remember that what has occurred is only
between you and me. It is our little plot," he says, with a curious
smile that somehow strikes a chill to Mrs. Talbot's heart.

She is faithful to her word nevertheless, and late that night, when all
have gone to their rooms, she puts on her dressing-gown, dismisses her
maid, and crossing the corridor, taps lightly at the door of Florence's
apartment.

Hearing some one cry "Come in," she opens the door, and, having fastened
it again, goes over to where Florence is sitting while her maid is
brushing her long soft hair that reaches almost to the ground as she
sits.

"Let me brush your hair to-night, Flo," she says gayly. "Let me be your
maid for once. Remember how I used to do it for you sometimes when we
were in Switzerland last year."

"Very well--you may," acquiesces Florence, laughing. "Good-night,
Parkins. Mrs. Talbot has won you your release."

Parkins having gladly withdrawn, Dora takes up the ivory-handled brush
and gently begins to brush her cousin's hair.

After some preliminary conversation leading up to the subject she has
in hand, she says carelessly--

"By the bye, Flo, you are rather uncivil to Arthur Dynecourt, don't you
think?"

"Uncivil?"

"Well--yes. That is the word for your behavior toward him, I think. Do
you know, I am afraid Sir Adrian has noticed it, and aren't you afraid
he will think it rather odd of you--rude, I mean--considering he is his
cousin?"

"Not a very favorite cousin, I fancy."

"For all that, people don't like seeing their relations slighted. I once
knew a man who used to abuse his brother all day long, but, if any one
else happened to say one disparaging word of him in his presence, it put
him in a pretty rage. And, after all, poor Arthur has done nothing to
deserve actual ill-treatment at your hands."

"I detest him. And, besides, it is a distinct impertinence to follow any
one about from place to place as he has followed me. I will not submit
to it calmly. It is a positive persecution."

"My dear, you must not blame him if he has lost his head about you. That
is rather a compliment, if anything."

"I shall always resent such compliments."

"He is certainly very gentlemanly in all other ways, and I must say
devoted to you. He is handsome too, is he not; and has quite the air of
one accustomed to command in society?"

"Has he paid you to sing his praises?" asks Florence, with a little
laugh; but her words so nearly hit the mark that Dora blushes painfully.

"I mean," she explains at last, in a rather hurried way, "that I do not
think it is good form to single out any one in a household where one is
a guest to show him pointed rudeness. You give all the others acting in
this play ample opportunities of rehearsing alone with you. It has been
remarked to me by two or three that you purposely slight and avoid Mr.
Dynecourt."

"So I do," Florence admits calmly; adding, "Your two or three have great
perspicacity."

"They even hinted to me," Dora goes on deliberately, "that your dislike
to him arose from the fact that you were piqued at his being your stage
lover, instead of--Sir Adrian!"

It costs her an effort to utter these words, but the effect produced by
them is worth the effort.

Florence, growing deadly pale, releases her hair from her cousin's
grasp, and rises quickly to her feet.

"I don't know who your gossips may be," she says slowly; "but they are
wrong--quite wrong--do you hear? My dislike to Mr. Dynecourt arises from
very different feelings. He is distasteful to me in many ways; but, as I
am undesirous that my manner should give occasion for surmises such as
you have just mentioned to me, I will give him an opportunity of
reciting his part to me, alone, as soon as ever he wishes."

"I think you are right, dearest," responds Mrs. Talbot sweetly. She is
a little afraid of her cousin, but still maintains her position bravely.
"It is always a mark of folly to defy public opinion. Do not wait for
him to ask you again to go through your play with him alone, but tell
him yourself to-morrow that you will meet him for that purpose in the
north gallery some time during the day."

"Very well," says Florence; but her face still betrays dislike and
disinclination to the course recommended. "And, Dora, I don't think I
want my hair brushed any more, thanks; my head is aching so dreadfully."

This is a hint that she will be glad of Mrs. Talbot's speedy departure;
and, that lady taking the hint, Florence is soon left to her own
thoughts.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, she finds an opportunity to
tell Mr. Dynecourt that she will give him half an hour in the north
gallery to try over his part with her, as she considers it will be
better, and more conducive to the smoothness of the piece, to learn
any little mannerisms that may belong to either of them.

To this speech Dynecourt makes a suitable reply, and names a particular
hour for them to meet. Miss Delmaine, having given a grave assent to
this arrangement, moves away, as though glad to be rid of her companion.

A few minutes afterward Dynecourt, meeting Mrs. Talbot in the hall,
gives her an expressive glance, and tells her in a low voice that he
considers himself deeply in her debt.




CHAPTER III.


"You are late," says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger
in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the
moments spent apart from her.

"Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part
without it?" Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray
interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.

"I know my part by heart," he responds, in a strange voice.

"Then begin," she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of
her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires
his ardor.

"You desire me to begin?" he asks unsteadily.

"If you wish it."

"Do you wish it?"

"I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over," she
replies impatiently.

"You take no pains indeed to hide your scorn of me," says Dynecourt
bitterly.

"I regret it, if I have at any time treated you with incivility,"
returns Florence, with averted eyes and with increasing coldness. "Yet
I must always think that, for whatever has happened, you have only
yourself to blame."

"Is it a crime to love you?" he demands boldly.

"Sir," she exclaims indignantly, and raising her beautiful eyes to his
for a moment, "I must request you will never speak to me of love. There
is neither sympathy nor common friendliness between us. You are well
aware with what sentiments I regard you."

"But, why am I alone to be treated with contempt?" he asks, with sudden
passion. "All other men of your acquaintance are graciously received by
you, are met with smiles and kindly words. Upon me alone your eyes rest,
when they deign to glance in my direction, with marked disfavor. All the
world can see it. I am signaled out from the others as one to be
slighted and spurned."

"Your forget yourself," says Florence contemptuously. "I have met you
here to-day to rehearse our parts for next Tuesday evening, not to
listen to any insolent words you may wish to address to me. Let us
begin"--opening her book. "If you know your part, go on."

"I know my part only too well; it is to worship you madly, hopelessly.
Your very cruelty only serves to heighten my passion. Florence, hear
me!"

"I will not," she says, her eyes flashing. She waves him back from her
as he endeavors to take her hand. "Is it not enough that I have been
persecuted by your attentions--attentions most hateful to me--for the
past year, but you must now obtrude them upon me here? You compel me
to tell you in plain words what my manner must have shown you only too
clearly--that you are distasteful to me in every way, that your very
presence troubles me, that your touch is abhorrent to me!"

"Ah," he says, stepping back as she hurls these words at him, and
regarding her with a face distorted by passion, "if I were the master
here, instead of the poor cousin--if I were Sir Adrian--your treatment
of me would be very different!"

At the mention of Sir Adrian's name the color dies out of her face and
she grows deadly pale. Her lips quiver, but her eyes do not droop.

"I do not understand you," she says proudly.

"Then you shall," responds Dynecourt. "Do you think I am blind, that I
can not see how you have given your proud heart to my cousin, that he
has conquered where other men have failed; that, even before he has
declared any love for you, you have, in spite of your pride, given all
your affection to him?"

"You insult me," cries Florence, with quivering lips. She looks faint,
and is trembling visibly. If this man has read her heart aright, may
not all the guests have read it too? May not even Adrian himself have
discovered her secret passion, and perhaps despised her for it, as being
unwomanly?

"And more," goes on Dynecourt, exulting in the torture he can see he is
inflicting; "though you thrust from you an honorable love for one that
lives only in your imagination, I will tell you that Sir Adrian has
other views, other intentions. I have reason to know that, when he
marries, the name of his bride will not be Florence Delmaine."

"Leave me, sir," cries Florence, rousing herself from her momentary
weakness, and speaking with all her old fire, "and never presume to
address me again. Go!"

She points with extended hand to the door at the lower end of the
gallery. So standing, with her eyes strangely bright, and her perfect
figure drawn up to its fullest height, she looks superb in her
disdainful beauty.

Dynecourt, losing his self-possession as he gazes upon her, suddenly
flings himself at her feet and catches her dress in his hands to detain
her.

"Have pity on me," he cries imploringly; "it is my unhappy love for
you that has driven me to speak thus! Why is Adrian to have all, and I
nothing? He has title, lands, position--above and beyond everything, the
priceless treasure of your love, whilst I am bankrupt in all. Show me
some mercy--some kindness!"

They are both so agitated that they fail to hear the sound of
approaching footsteps.

"Release me, sir," cries Florence imperiously.

"Nay; first answer me one question," entreats Dynecourt. "Do you love my
cousin?"

"I care nothing for Sir Adrian!" replies Florence distinctly, and in a
somewhat raised tone, her self-pride being touched to the quick.

Two figures who have entered the gallery by the second door at the upper
end of it, hearing these words uttered in an emphatic tone, start and
glance at the _tableau_ presented to their view lower down. They
hesitate, and, even as they do so, they can see Arthur Dynecourt seize
Florence Delmaine's hand, and, apparently unrebuked, kiss it
passionately.

"Then I shall hope still," he says in a low but impressive voice, at
which the two who have just entered turn and beat a precipitate retreat,
fearing that they may be seen. One is Sir Adrian, the other Mrs. Talbot.

"Dear me," stammers Dora, in pretty confusion, "who would have thought
it? I was never so amazed in my life."

Sir Adrian, who has turned very pale, and is looking greatly distressed,
makes no reply. He is repeating over and over again to himself the words
he has just heard, as though unable or unwilling to comprehend them. "I
care nothing for Sir Adrian!" They strike like a knell upon his ears--a
death-knell to all his dearest hopes. And that fellow on his knees
before her, kissing her hand, and telling her he will still hope! Hope
for what? Alas, he tells himself, he knows only too well--her love!

"I am so glad they have made it up," Dora goes on, looking up
sympathetically at Sir Adrian.

"Made it up? I had no idea they were more than ordinary and very new
acquaintances."

"It is quite a year since we first met Arthur in Switzerland," responds
Dora demurely, calling Dynecourt by his Christian name, a thing she has
never done before, because she knows it will give Sir Adrian the
impression that they are on very intimate terms with his cousin. "He has
been our shadow ever since. I wonder you did not notice his devotion in
town."

"I noticed nothing," says Sir Adrian, miserably; "or, if I did, it was
only to form wrong impressions. I firmly believed, seeing Miss Delmaine
and Arthur together here, that she betrayed nothing but a rooted dislike
to him."

"They had not been good friends of late," explains Dora hastily; "that
we all could see. And Florence is very peculiar, you know; she is quite
the dearest girl in the world, and I adore her; but I will confess to
you"--with another upward and bewitching glance from the charming blue
eyes--"that she has her little tempers. Not very naughty ones, you
know"--shaking her head archly--"but just enough to make one a bit
afraid of her at times; so I never ventured to ask her why she treated
poor Arthur, who really is her slave, so cruelly."

"And you think now that--" Sir Adrian breaks off without finishing the
sentence.

"That she has forgiven him whatever offense he committed? Yes, after
what we have just seen--quite a sentimental little episode, was it
not?--I can not help cherishing the hope that all is again right between
them. It could not have been a very grave quarrel, as Arthur is
incapable of a rudeness; but then dearest Florence is so capricious!"

"Ill-tempered and capricious!" Can the girl he loves so ardently be
guilty of these faults? It seems incredible to Sir Adrian, as he
remembers her sunny smile and gentle manner. But then, is it not her
dearest friend who is speaking of her--tender-hearted little Dora
Talbot, who seems to think well of every one, and who murmurs such
pretty speeches even about Arthur, who, if the truth be told, is not
exactly "dear" in the sight of Sir Adrian.

"You think there is, or was, an engagement between Arthur and Miss
Delmaine?" he begins, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

"I think nothing, you silly man," says the widow playfully, "until I am
told it. But I am glad Florence is once more friendly with poor Arthur;
he is positively wrapped up in her. Now, has that interesting _tableau_
we so nearly interrupted given you a distaste for all other pictures?
Shall we try the smaller gallery?"

"Just as you will."

"Of course"--with a girlish laugh--"it would be imprudent to venture
again into the one we have just quitted. By this time, doubtless, they
are quite reconciled--and--"

"Yes--yes," interrupts Sir Adrian hastily, trying in vain to blot out
the picture she has raised before his eyes of Florence in her lover's
arms. "What you have just told me has quite taken me by surprise," he
goes on nervously. "I should never have guessed it from Miss Delmaine's
manner; it quite misled me."

"Well, between you and me," says Dora, raising herself on tiptoe, as
though to whisper in his ear, and so coming very close to him, "I am
afraid my dearest Florence is a little sly! Yes, really; you wouldn't
think it, would you? The dear girl has such a sweet ingenuous
face--quite the loveliest face on earth, I think, though some pronounce
it too cold. But she is very self-contained; and to-day, you see, she
has given you an insight into this slight fault in her character. Now,
has she not appeared to you to avoid Arthur almost pointedly?"

"She has indeed," agrees Sir Adrian, with a smothered groan.

"Well"--triumphantly--"and yet, here we find her granting him a private
audience, when she believed we were all safely out of the way; and in
the north gallery too, which, as a rule, is deserted."

"She didn't know we were thinking of driving to the hills," says Sir
Adrian, making a feeble effort to find a flaw in his companion's
statement.

"Oh, yes, she did!" declares the widow lightly. "I told her myself,
about two hours ago, that I intended asking you to make a party to go
there, as I dote on lovely scenery; and I dare say"--coquettishly--"she
knew--I mean thought--you would not refuse so small a request of mine.
But for poor Lady FitzAlmont's headache we should be there now."

"It is true," admits Sir Adrian, feeling that the last straw has
descended.

"And now that I think of it," the widow goes on, even more vivaciously,
"the reason she assigned for not coming with us must have been a feigned
one. Ah, slyboots that she is!" laughs Mrs. Talbot merrily. "Of course,
she wanted the course clear to have an explanation with Arthur. Well,
after all, that was only natural. But she might have trusted me, whom
she knows to be her true friend."

Ill-tempered--capricious--sly! And all these faults are attributed to
Florence by "her true friend!" A quotation assigned to Marechal Villars
when taking leave of Louis XIV. occurs to him--"Defend me from my
friends." The words return to him persistently; but then he looks down
on Dora Talbot, and stares straight into her liquid blue eyes, so
apparently guileless and pure, and tells himself that he wrongs her.
Yes, it is a pity Florence had not put greater faith in this kind little
woman, a pity for all of them, as then many heart-breaks might have been
prevented.




CHAPTER IV.


It is the evening of the theatricals; and in one of the larger
drawing-rooms at the castle, where the stage has been erected, and also
in another room behind connected with it by folding-doors, everybody of
note in the county is already assembled. Fans are fluttering--so are
many hearts behind the scenes--and a low buzz of conversation is being
carried on among the company.

Then the curtain rises; the fans stop rustling, the conversation ceases,
and all faces turn curiously to the small but perfect stage that the
London workmen have erected.

Every one is very anxious to see what his or her neighbor is going to do
when brought before a critical audience. Nobody, of course, hopes openly
for a break-down, but secretly there are a few who would be glad to see
such-and-such a one's pride lowered.

No mischance, however, occurs. The insipid Tony speaks his lines
perfectly, if he fails to grasp the idea that a little acting thrown in
would be an improvement; a very charming Cousin Con is made out of Miss
Villiers; a rather stilted but strictly correct old lady out of Lady
Gertrude Vining. But Florence Delmaine, as Kate Hardcastle, leaves
nothing to be desired, and many are the complimentary speeches uttered
from time to time by the audience. Arthur Dynecourt too had not
overpraised his own powers. It is palpable to every one that he has
often trod the boards, and the pathos he throws into his performance
astonishes the audience. Is it only acting in the final scene when he
makes love to Miss Hardcastle, or is there some real sentiment in it?

This question arises in many breasts. They note how his color changes as
he takes her hand, how his voice trembles; they notice too how she grows
cold, in spite of her desire to carry out her part to the end, as he
grows warmer, and how instinctively she shrinks from his touch. Then it
is all over, and the curtain falls amidst loud applause. Florence comes
before the curtain in response to frequent calls, gracefully, half
reluctantly, with a soft warm blush upon her cheeks and a light in her
eyes that renders her remarkable loveliness only more apparent. Sir
Adrian, watching her with a heart faint and cold with grief and
disappointment, acknowledges sadly to himself that never has he seen her
look so beautiful. She advances and bows to the audience, and only loses
her self-possession a very little when a bouquet directed at her feet by
an enthusiastic young man alights upon her shoulder instead.

Arthur Dynecourt, who has accompanied her to the footlights, and who
joins in her triumph, picks up the bouquet and presents it to her.

As he does so the audience again become aware that she receives it from
him in a spirit that suggests detestation of the one that hands it, and
that her smile withers as she does so, and her great eyes lose their
happy light of a moment before.

Sir Adrian sees all this too, but persuades himself that she is now
acting another part--the part shown him by Mrs. Talbot. His eyes are
blinded by jealousy; he can not see the purity and truth reflected in
hers; he misconstrues the pained expression that of late has saddened
her face.

For the last few days, ever since her momentous interview with Arthur
Dynecourt in the gallery, she has been timid and reserved with Sir
Adrian, and has endeavored to avoid his society. She is oppressed with
the thought that he has read her secret love for him, and seeks, by an
assumed coldness of demeanor and a studied avoidance of him, to induce
him to believe himself mistaken.

But Sir Adrian is only rendered more miserable by this avoidance, in the
thought that probably Mrs. Talbot has told Florence of his discovery of
her attachment to Arthur, and that she dreads his taxing her with her
duplicity, and so makes strenuous efforts to keep herself apart from
him. They have already drifted so far apart that to-night, when the play
has come to an end, and Florence has retired from the dressing-room, Sir
Adrian does not dream of approaching her to offer the congratulations on
her success that he would have showered upon her in a happier hour.

Florence, feeling lonely and depressed, having listlessly submitted
to her maid's guidance and changed her stage gown for a pale blue
ball-dress of satin and pearls--as dancing is to succeed the earlier
amusement of the evening--goes silently down-stairs, but, instead of
pursuing her way to the ball-room, where dancing has already commenced,
she turns aside, and, entering a small, dimly lighted antechamber, sinks
wearily upon a satin-covered lounge.

From a distance the sweet strains of a German waltz come softly to her
ears. There is deep sadness and melancholy in the music that attunes
itself to her own sorrowful reflections. Presently the tears steal down
her cheeks. She feels lonely and neglected, and, burying her head in the
cushions of the lounge, sobs aloud.

She does not hear the hasty approach of footsteps until they stop close
beside her, and a voice that makes her pulses throb madly says, in deep
agitation--

"Florence--Miss Delmaine--what has happened? What has occurred to
distress you?"

Sir Adrian is bending over her, evidently in deep distress himself. As
she starts, he places his arm round her and raises her to a sitting
posture; this he does so gently that, as she remembers all she has
heard, and his cousin's assurance that he has almost pledged himself
to another, her tears flow afresh. By a supreme effort, however, she
controls herself, and says, in a faint voice--

"I am very foolish; it was the heat, I suppose, or the nervousness of
acting before so many strangers, that has upset me. It is over now. I
beg you will not remember it, Sir Adrian, or speak of it to any one."

All this time she has not allowed herself to glance even in his
direction, so fearful is she of further betraying the mental agony
she is enduring.

"Is it likely I should speak of it!" returns Sir Adrian reproachfully.
"No; anything connected with you shall be sacred to me. But--pardon
me--I still think you are in grief, and, believe me, in spite of
everything, I would deem it a privilege to be allowed to befriend you
in any way."

"It is impossible," murmurs Florence, in a stifled tone.

"You mean you will not accept my help"--sadly. "So be it then. I have no
right, I know, to establish myself as your champion. There are others,
no doubt, whose happiness lies in the fact that they may render you a
service when it is in their power. I do not complain, however. Nay, I
would even ask you to look upon me at least as a friend."

"I shall always regard you as a friend," Florence responds in a low
voice. "It would be impossible to me to look upon you in any other
light."

"Thank you for that," says Adrian quickly. "Though our lives must of
necessity be much apart, it will still be a comfort to me to know that
at least, wherever you may be, you will think of me as a friend."

"Ah," thinks Florence, with a bitter pang, "he is now trying to let me
know how absurd was my former idea that he might perhaps learn to love
me!" This thought is almost insupportable. Her pride rising in arms, she
subdues all remaining traces of her late emotion, and, turning suddenly,
confronts him. Her face is quite colorless, but she can not altogether
hide from him the sadness that still desolates her eyes.

"You are right," she agrees. "In the future our lives will indeed
be far distant from each other, so far apart that the very tie of
friendship will readily be forgotten by us both."

"Florence, do not say that!" he entreats, believing in his turn that she
alludes to her coming marriage with his cousin. "And--and--do not be
angry with me; but I would ask you to consider long and earnestly before
taking the step you have in view. Remember it is a bond that once sealed
can never be canceled."

"A bond! I do not follow you," exclaims Florence, bewildered.

"Ah, you will not trust me; you will not confide in me!"

"I have nothing to confide," persists Florence, still deeply puzzled.

"Well, let it rest so," returns Adrian, now greatly wounded at her
determined reserve, as he deems it. He calls to mind all Mrs. Talbot had
said about her slyness, and feels disheartened. At least he has not
deserved distrust at her hands. "Promise me," he entreats at last,
"that, if ever you are in danger, you will accept my help."

"I promise," she replies faintly. Then, trying to rally her drooping
spirits, she continues, with an attempt at a smile, "Tell me that you
too will accept mine should you be in any danger. Remember, the mouse
once rescued the lion!"--and she smiles again, and glances at him with
a touch of her old archness.

"It is a bargain. And now, will you rest here awhile until you feel
quite restored to calmness?"

"But you must not remain with me," Florence urges hurriedly. "Your
guests are awaiting you. Probably"--with a faint smile--"your partner
for this waltz is impatiently wondering what has become of you."

"I think not," says Adrian, returning her smile. "Fortunately I have
no one's name on my card for this waltz. I say fortunately, because I
think"--glancing at her tenderly--"I have been able to bring back the
smiles to your face sooner than would have been the case had you been
left here alone to brood over your trouble, whatever it may be."

"There is no trouble," declares Florence, in a somewhat distressed
fashion, turning her head restlessly to one side. "I wish you would
dispossess yourself of that idea. And, do not stay here, they--every
one, will accuse you of discourtesy if you absent yourself from the
ball-room any longer."

"Then, come with me," says Adrian. "See, this waltz is only just
beginning: give it to me."

Carried away by his manner, she lays her hand upon his arm, and goes
with him to the ball-room. There he passes his arm round her waist, and
presently they are lost among the throng of whirling dancers, and both
give themselves up for the time being to the mere delight of knowing
that they are together.

Two people, seeing them enter thus together, on apparently friendly
terms, regard them with hostile glances. Dora Talbot, who is coquetting
sweetly with a gaunt man of middle age, who is evidently overpowered by
her attentions, letting her eyes rest upon Florence as she waltzes past
her with Sir Adrian, colors warmly, and, biting her lip, forgets the
honeyed speech she was about to bestow upon her companion, who is the
owner of a considerable property, and lapses into silence, for which the
gaunt man is devoutly grateful, as it gives him a moment in which to
reflect on the safest means of getting rid of her without delay.

Dora's fair brow grows darker and darker as she watches Florence, and
notes the smile that lights her beautiful face as she makes some answer
to one of Sir Adrian's sallies. Where is Dynecourt, that he has not been
on the spot to prevent this dance, she wonders. She grows angry, and
would have stamped her little foot with impatient wrath at this moment,
but for the fear of displaying her vexation.

As she is inwardly anathematizing Arthur, he emerges from the throng,
and, the dance being at an end, reminds Miss Delmaine that the next is
his.

Florence unwillingly removes her hand from Sir Adrian's arm, and lays it
upon Arthur's. Most disdainfully she moves away with him, and suffers
him to lead her to another part of the room. And when she dances with
him it is with evident reluctance, as he knows by the fact that she
visibly shrinks from him when he encircles her waist with his arm.

Sir Adrian, who has noticed none of these symptoms, going up to Dora,
solicits her hand for this dance.

"You are not engaged, I hope?" he says anxiously. It is a kind of
wretched comfort to him to be near Florence's true friend. If not the
rose, she has at least some connection with it.

"I am afraid I am," Dora responds, raising her limpid eyes to his.
"Naughty man, why did you not come sooner? I thought you had forgotten
me altogether, and so got tired of keeping barren spots upon my card for
you."

"I couldn't help it--I was engaged. A man in his own house has always
a bad time of it looking after the impossible people," says Adrian
evasively.

"Poor Florence! Is she so very impossible?" asks Dora, laughing, but
pretending to reproach him.

"I was not speaking of Miss Delmaine," says Adrian, flushing hotly. "She
is the least impossible person I ever met. It is a privilege to pass
one's time with her."

"Yet it is with her you have passed the last hour that you hint has
been devoted to bores," returns Dora quietly. This is a mere feeler,
but she throws it out with such an air of certainty that Sir Adrian is
completely deceived, and believes her acquainted with his _tete-a-tete_
with Florence in the dimly lit anteroom.

"Well," he admits, coloring again, "your cousin was rather upset by the
acting, I think, and I just stayed with her until she felt equal to
joining us all again."

"Ah!" exclaims Dora, who now knows all she had wanted to know.

"But you must not tell me you have no dances left for me," says Adrian
gayly. "Come, let me see your card." He looks at it, and finds it indeed
full. "I am an unfortunate," he adds.

"I think," says Dora, with the prettiest hesitation, "if you are
sure it would not be an unkind thing to do, I could scratch out this
name"--pointing to her partner's for the coming dance.

"I am not sure at all," responds Sir Adrian, laughing. "I am positive it
will be awfully unkind of you to deprive any fellow of your society; but
be unkind, and scratch him out for my sake."

He speaks lightly, but her heart beats high with hope.

"For your sake," she repeats softly drawing her pencil across the name
written on her programme and substituting his.

"But you will give me more than this one dance?" queries Adrian. "Is
there nobody else you can condemn to misery out of all that list?"

"You are insatiable," she returns, blushing, and growing confused. "But
you shall have it all your own way. Here"--giving him her card--"take
what waltzes you will." She waltzes to perfection, and she knows it.

"Then this, and this, and this," says Adrian, striking out three names
on her card, after which they move away together and mingle with the
other dancers.

In the meantime, Florence growing fatigued, or disinclined to dance
longer with Dynecourt, stops abruptly near the door of a conservatory,
and, leaning against the framework, gazes with listless interest at the
busy scene around.

"You are tired. Will you rest for awhile?" asks Arthur politely; and,
as she bends her head in cold consent, he leads her to a cushioned seat
that is placed almost opposite to the door-way, and from which the
ball-room and what is passing within it are distinctly visible.

Sinking down amongst the blue-satin cushions of the seat he has pointed
out to her, Florence sighs softly, and lets her thoughts run, half
sadly, half gladly, upon her late interview with Sir Adrian. At least,
if he has guessed her secret, she knows now that he does not despise
her. There was no trace of contempt in the gentleness, the tenderness of
his manner. And how kindly he had told her of the intended change in his
life! "Their paths would lie far asunder for the future," he had said,
or something tantamount to that. He spoke no doubt of his coming
marriage.

Then she begins to speculate dreamily upon the sort of woman who would
be happy enough to be his wife. She is still idly ruminating on this
point when her companion's voice brings her back to the present. She had
so far forgotten his existence in her day-dreaming that his words come
to her like a whisper from some other world, and occasion her an actual
shock.

"Your thoughtfulness renders me sad," he is saying impressively. "It
carries you to regions where I can not follow you."

To this she makes no reply, regarding him only with a calm questioning
glance that might well have daunted a better man. It only nerves him
however to even bolder words.

"The journey your thoughts have taken--has it been a pleasant one?" he
asks, smiling.

"I have come here for rest, not for conversation." There is undisguised
dislike in her tones. Still he is untouched by her scorn. He even grows
more defiant, as though determined to let her see that even her avowed
hatred can not subdue him.

"If you only knew," he goes on, with slow meaning, regarding her as he
speaks with critical admiration, "how surpassingly beautiful you look
to-night, you would perhaps understand in a degree the power you possess
over your fellow-creatures. In that altitude, with that slight touch of
scorn upon your lips, you seem a meet partner for a monarch."

She laughs a low contemptuous laugh, that even makes his blood run hotly
in his veins.

"And yet you have the boldness to offer yourself as an aspirant to my
favor?" she says. "In truth, sir, you value yourself highly!"

"Love will find the way!" he quotes quickly, though plainly disconcerted
by her merriment. "And in time I trust I shall have my reward."

"In time, I trust you will," she returns, in a tone impossible to
misconstrue.

At this point he deems it wise to change the subject; and, as he halts
rather lamely in his conversation, at a loss to find some topic that may
interest her or advance his cause, Sir Adrian and Dora pass by the door
of the conservatory.

Sir Adrian is smiling gayly at some little speech of Dora's, and Dora is
looking up at him with a bright expression in her blue eyes that tells
of the happiness she feels.

"Ah, I can not help thinking Adrian is doing very wisely," observes
Arthur Dynecourt, some evil genius at his elbow urging him to lie.

"Doing--what?" asks his companion, roused suddenly into full life and
interest.

"You pretend ignorance, no doubt"--smiling. "But one can see. Adrian's
marriage with Mrs. Talbot has been talked about for some time amongst
his intimates."

A clasp like ice seems to seize upon Miss Delmaine's heart as these
words drop from his lips. She restrains her emotion bravely, but his
lynx-eye reads her through and through.

"They seem to be more together to-night than is even usual with them,"
goes on Arthur blandly. "Before you honored the room with your presence,
he had danced twice with her, and now again. It is very marked, his
attention to-night."

As a matter of fact Adrian had not danced with Mrs. Talbot all the
evening until now, but Florence, not having been present at the opening
of the ball, is not in a position to refute this, as he well knows.

"If there were anything in her friendship with Sir Adrian, I feel sure
Dora would tell me of it," she says slowly, and with difficulty.

"And she hasn't?" asks Arthur, with so much surprise and incredulity in
his manner as goes far to convince her that there is some truth in his
statement. "Well, well," he adds, "one can not blame her. She would
doubtless be sure of his affection before speaking even to her dearest
friend."

Florence winces, and sinks back upon the seat as though unable to
sustain an upright position any longer. Every word of his is as gall
and wormwood to her, each sentence a reminder--a reproach. Only the
other day this man now beside her had accused her of making sure of Sir
Adrian's affection before she had any right so to do. Her proud spirit
shrinks beneath the cruel taunt he hurls at her.

"You look unusually 'done up,'" he goes on, in a tone of assumed
commiseration. "This evening has been too much for you. Acting a part
at any time is extremely trying and laborious."

She shrinks still further from him. Acting a part! Is not all her life
becoming one dreary drama, in which she acts a part from morning until
night? Is there to be no rest for her? Oh, to escape from this man at
any price! She rises to her feet.

"Our dance is almost at an end," she says; "and the heat is terrible.
I can remain here no longer."

"You are ill," he exclaims eagerly, going to her side. He would have
supported her, but by a gesture she repels him.

"If I am, it is you who have made me so," she retorts, with quick
passion, for which she despises herself an instant later.

"Nay, not I," he rejoins, "but what my words have unconsciously conveyed
to you. Do not blame me. I thought you, as well as every one else here,
knew of Adrian's sentiments with regard to Mrs. Talbot."

This is too much for her. Drawing herself up to her full height,
Florence casts a glance of anger and defiance in his direction, and,
sweeping past him in her most imperious fashion, appears no more that
night.

It is an early party, all things considered, and Dora Talbot, going to
her room about two o'clock, stops before Florence's door and knocks
softly thereon.

"Come in," calls Florence gently.

"I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are not
ill, dearest," says smooth-tongued Dora, advancing toward her. "How
early you left us! I shouldn't have known how early only that Mr.
Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?"

"Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.

"Ah, no wonder, with your exertions before the dancing commenced, and
your unqualified success! You reigned over everybody, darling. Nobody
could hope even to divide the honors of the evening with you. Your
acting was simply superb."

"Thank you," says Florence, who is not in bed, but is sitting in a chair
drawn near the window, through which the moonbeams are flinging their
pale rays. She is clad in a clinging white dressing-gown that makes her
beauty saint-like, and has all her long hair falling loosely round her
shoulders.

"What a charming evening it has been!" exclaims Dora ecstatically,
clasping her hands, and leaning her arms on the back of a chair. "I
hardly know when I have felt so thoroughly happy." Florence shudders
visibly. "You enjoyed yourself, of course?" continues Dora. "Everyone
raved about you. You made at least a dozen conquests; one or half a
one--" with a careful hesitation in her manner intended to impress her
listener--"is as much as poor little insignificant me can expect."

Florence looks at her questioningly.

"I think one really honest lover is worth a dozen others," she says,
her voice trembling. "Do you mean me to understand, Dora, that you have
gained one to-night?"

Florence's whole soul seems to hang on her cousin's answer. Dora
simpers, and tries to blush, but in reality grows a shade paler. She
is playing for a high stake, and fears to risk a throw lest it may be
ventured too soon.

"Oh, you must not ask too much!" she replies, shaking her blonde head.
"A lover--no! How can you be so absurd! And yet I think--I hope--"

"I see!" interrupts Florence sadly. "Well, I will be as discreet as you
wish; but at least, if what I imagine be true, I can congratulate you
with all my heart, because I know--I know you will be happy."

Going over to Mrs. Talbot, she lays her arms round her neck and kisses
her softly. As she does so, a tear falls from her eyes upon Dora's
cheek. There is so much sweetness and abandonment of self in this action
that Dora for the moment is touched by it. She puts up her hand, and,
wiping away the tear from her cheek as though it burns her, says
lightly--

"But indeed, my dearest Flo, you must not imagine anything. All is
vague. I myself hardly know what it is to which I am alluding. 'Trifles
light as air' float through my brain, and gladden me in spite of my
common sense, which whispers that they may mean nothing. Do not build
castles for me that may have their existence only _en Espagne_."

"They seem very bright castles," observes Florence wistfully.

"A bad omen. 'All that's bright must fade,' sings the poet. And now to
speak of yourself. You enjoyed yourself?"

"Of course--" mechanically.

"Ah, yes; I was glad to see you had made it up with poor Arthur
Dynecourt!"

"How?" demands Florence, turning upon her quickly.

"I saw you dancing with him, dearest; I was with Sir Adrian at the time,
and from something he said, I think he would be rather pleased if you
could bring yourself to reward poor Arthur's long devotion."

"Sir Arthur said that? He discussed me with you?"

"Just in passing, you understand. He told me too that you were somewhat
unhappy in the earlier part of the evening, and that he had to stay a
considerable time with you to restore you to calmness. He is always so
kind, dear Adrian!"

"He spoke of that?" demands Florence, in a tone of anguish. If he had
made her emotion a subject of common talk with Mrs. Talbot, all indeed
is at an end between them, even that sweet visionary offer of friendship
he had made to her. No; she could not submit to be talked about by him,
and the woman he loves! Oh, the bitter pang it costs her to say these
words to herself! That he now loves Dora seems to her mind beyond
dispute. Is she not his confidante, the one in whom he chooses to repose
all his secret thoughts and surmises?

Dora regards her cousin keenly. Florence's evident agitation makes her
fear that there was more in that _tete-a-tete_ with Sir Adrian than she
had at first imagined.

"Yes; why should he not speak of it?" Dora goes on coldly. "I think by
his manner your want of self-control shocked him. You should have a
greater command over yourself. It is not good form to betray one's
feelings to every chance passer-by. Yes; I think Sir Adrian was both
surprised and astonished."

"There was nothing to cause him either surprise or astonishment," says
Florence haughtily; "and I could well have wished him out of the way!"

"Perhaps I misunderstood him," rejoins Dora artfully. "But certainly
he spoke to me of being unpleasantly delayed by--by impossible
people--those were his very words; and really altogether--I may be
wrong--I believed he alluded to you. Of course, I would not follow the
matter up, because, much as I like Sir Adrian, I could not listen to him
speaking lightly of you!"

"Of me--you forget yourself, Dora!" cries Florence, with pale lips, but
head erect. "Speaking lightly of me!" she repeats.

"Young men are often careless in their language," explains Dora
hurriedly, feeling that she has gone too far. "He meant nothing unkind,
you may be sure!"

"I am quite sure"--firmly.

"Then no harm is done"--smiling brightly. "And now, good-night, dearest;
go to bed instead of sitting there looking like a ghost in those
mystical moonbeams."

"Good-night," says Florence icily.

There is something about her that causes Mrs. Talbot to feel almost
afraid to approach and kiss her as usual.

"Want of rest will spoil your lovely eyes," adds the widow airily; "and
your complexion, faultless as it always is, will not be up to the mark
to-morrow. So sleep, foolish child, and gather roses from your
slumbers."

So saying, she kisses her hand gayly to the unresponsive Florence, and
trips lightly from the room.




CHAPTER V.


Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. She
has thrown open the casement, and now--the sleeves of her dressing-gown
falling back from her bare rounded arms--leans out so that the
descending night-dews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.

She is wrapped in melancholy; her whole soul is burdened with thoughts
and regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed and
perplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the love
she once had deemed her own.

The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair falls
in a luxuriant shower about her shoulders; her plaintive face is raised
from earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfort
there.

The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long since
ceased their song; the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the stately
trees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats past
her and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar the
serenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.

Yet, hark, what is this? A footstep on the gravel path below arouses her
attention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and,
turning her head, glances in the direction of the sound.

Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as though
absorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward until
he stands beneath her window. Here he pauses, as though almost
unconsciously his spirit has led him thither, and brought him to a
standstill where he would most desire to be.

The moon, spreading its brilliance on all around, permits Florence to
see that his face is grave and thoughtful, and--yes, as she gazes even
closer, she can see that it is full of pain and vain longing.

What is rendering him unhappy on this night of all others, when the
woman she believes he loves has been his willing companion for so many
hours, when doubtless she has given him proofs of her preference for him
above all men?

Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian becomes conscious of the face in
the window above, and a thrill rushes through him as he recognizes the
form of the woman he loves.

The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so full of romance, that both their
hearts beat madly for awhile. They are alone; any one still awake within
the house is far distant.

Never has she appeared so spiritual, so true and tender; so full of
sweetness that is almost unearthly. All pride seems gone from her, and
in its place only a gentle melancholy reigns; she looks so far removed
from him, sitting there in the purity of her white robes, that, at
first, he hesitates to address her. To his excited imagination, she
is like an angel resting on its way to the realms above.

At last, however, his heart compelling him, he speaks aloud.

"Florence, you still awake, when all the world is sleeping?"

Her name falling from his lips touches a chord in her breast, and wakes
her to passionate life.

"You too," she says in a whisper that reaches his strained ears. There
seems to her a subtle joy in the thought that they two of all the
household are awake, are here talking together alone in the pale light
of the moon.

Yet she is wrong in imagining that no others are up in the house, as his
next words tell her.

"It is not a matter of wonder in my case," he responds; "a few fellows
are still in the smoking-room. It is early, you know--not yet three. But
you--why are you keeping a lonely vigil like this?"

"The moon tempted me to the window," answers Florence. "See how calm
she looks riding majestically up there. See"--stretching out her bare
white arm until the beams fall full upon it, and seem to change it to
purest marble--"does it not make one feel as if all the world were being
bathed in its subdued glow?"

A pale tremulous smile widens her lips. Sir Adrian, plucking a tall pale
lily growing near him, flings it upward with such an eager aim that it
alights upon her window-sill. She sees it. Her fingers close upon it.

"Fit emblem of its possessor," says Adrian softly, and rather
unsteadily. "Do you know of what you remind me, sitting there in your
white robes? A medieval saint cut in stone--a pure angel, too good, too
far above all earthly passion to enter into it, or understand it, and
the grief that must ever attend upon it."

He speaks bitterly. It seems to him that she is indeed cold not to
have guessed before this the intensity of his love for her. However
much she may have given her affection to another, it still seems to him
inexpressibly hard that she can have no pity for his suffering. He gazes
at her intently. Do the mystic moonbeams deceive him, or are there tears
in her great dark eyes? His heart beats quickly. Once again he remembers
her emotion of the past evening. He hears again her passionate sobs. Is
she unhappy? Are there thorns in her path that are difficult to remove?

"Florence, once again I entreat you to confide in me," he says, after a
pause.

"I can not," she returns, sadly but firmly. "But there is one thing I
must say to you--think of me as you may for saying it--I am not cold as
you seemed to imply a moment since; I am not made of stone; and, alas,
the grief you think me incapable of understanding is mine already! You
have wronged me in your thoughts. I have here," she exclaims with some
vehemence, laying the hand in which she still holds the drooping lily
upon her breast, "what I would gladly be without--a heart."

"Nay," says Adrian hastily; "you forget. It is no longer yours, you have
given it away."

For an instant she glances at him keenly, while her breath comes and
goes with painful quickness.

"You have no right to say so," she murmurs at last.

"No, of course not; I beg your pardon," he says apologetically. "It is
your own secret."

"There is no secret," she declares nervously. "None."

"I have offended you. I should not have said that. You will forgive me?"
he entreats, with agitation.

"You are quite forgiven;" and, as a token of the truth of her words, she
leans a little further out of the window, and looks down at him with a
face pale indeed, but full of an unutterable sweetness.

Her beauty conquers all his resolutions.

"Oh, Florence," he whispers in an impassioned tone, "if I only dare to
tell you what--"

She starts and lays a finger on her lips, as though to enforce silence.

"Hush!" she says, in trembling accents. "You forget! The hour, the
surroundings, have momentarily led you astray. I ought not to have spoken
with you. Go! There is nothing you dare to tell me--there is nothing I
would wish to hear. Remember your duty to another--and--good-night."

"Stay, I implore you, for one moment," he cries; but she is firm, and
presently the curtains are drawn close and he is alone.

Slowly he walks back toward the smoking-room, her last words ringing in
his ears--"Remember your duty to another." What other? He is puzzled,
but, reaching the window of the room, he dismisses these thoughts from
his mind, and determines to get rid of his guests without delay, so as
to be able to enjoy a little quiet and calm for reflection.

They are all noisily discussing a suicide that had recently taken place
in a neighboring county, and which had, from its peculiar circumstances,
caused more than usual interest.

One of the guests to-night is an army-surgeon, and he is giving them an
explanation as to how the fatal wound had been inflicted. It appeared at
the inquest that the unfortunate man had shot himself in such a peculiar
manner as to cause considerable doubt as to whether he had been murdered
or had died by his own hand. Evidence, however, of a most convincing
nature had confirmed the latter theory.

Captain Ringwood, with a revolver in his hand, is endeavoring to show
that the man could not have shot himself, just as Adrian re-enters.

"Be careful with that revolver," he exclaims hastily; "it is loaded!"

"All right, old fellow, I know it," returns Ringwood. "Look here,
doctor, if he held it so, how could he make a wound here?"

"Why not? Sir Adrian, take the revolver for a moment, will you?" says
the surgeon, anxious to demonstrate his theory beyond the possibility of
doubt. "I want to convince Ringwood. Now stand so, and hold the weapon
so"--placing it with the muzzle presented in a rather awkward position
almost over his heart.

"I thought fellows always put the muzzles of their revolvers in their
mouths and blew their brains out when they committed suicide," Ringwood
remarks lightly.

"This fellow evidently did not," says the surgeon calmly. "Now, Sir
Adrian, you see, by holding it thus, you could quite easily blow
yourself to--"

Before he can finish the sentence, there is a sudden confusion of
bodies, a jostling as it were, for Arthur Dynecourt, who had been
looking on attentively with one foot on a footstool close to Sir
Adrian's elbow, had slipped from the stool at this inopportune moment,
and had fallen heavily against his cousin.

There is a shout from somebody, and then a silence. The revolver in the
scuffle had gone off! Through the house the sharp crack of a bullet
rings loudly, rousing many from their slumbers.

Lights can be seen in the passages; terrified faces peep out from
half-opened doors. Dora Talbot, coming into the corridor in a pale pink
cashmere dressing-gown trimmed with swan's-down, in which she looks the
very personification of innocence and youth, screams loudly, and demands
hysterically to be informed as to the cause of the unusual noise.

The servants have rushed from their quarters in alarm. Ethel Villiers,
with a pale scared face, runs to Florence Delmaine's room, and throws
her arms round that young lady as she comes out, pale but composed, to
ask in a clear tone what has happened.

As nobody knows, and as Florence in her heart is more frightened than
she cares to confess, being aware through Adrian that some of the men
are still up in the smoking-room, and fearing that a quarrel had arisen
among them, she proposes that they should go to the smoking-room in a
body and make inquiries.

Old Lady FitzAlmont, with Lady Gertrude sobbing on her arm, seconds
this proposal, and, being a veteran of much distinction, takes the lead.
Those following close behind, are glad of this, and hopeful because
of it, her appearance being calculated to rout any enemy. The awful
character of her dressing-gown and the severity of the nightcap that
crowns her martial head would strike terror to the hearts of any
midnight marauders. They all move off in a body, and, guided
unconsciously by Florence, approach the smoking-room.

Voices loud in conversation can be heard as they draw near; the door is
slightly ajar. Florence drawing back as they come quite up to it, the
old lady waves her aside, and advances boldly to the front. Flinging
wide open the door, she bursts upon the astonished company within.

"Where is he?" she asks, with a dignity that only heightens the
attractions of the cap and gown. "Have you secured him? Sir Adrian,
where is the constable? Have you sent for him?"

Sir Adrian, whose gaze is fixed upon the fair vision in the trailing
white gown standing timidly in the door-way, forgets to answer his
interrogator, and the others, taken by surprise, maintain a solemn
silence.

"Why this mystery?" demands Lady FitzAlmont sternly. "Where is the
miscreant? Where is the man that fired that murderous shot?"

"Here, madame," replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourt
by a motion of the hand.

"He--who? Mr. Dynecourt?" ejaculates her ladyship in a disappointed
tone. "It was all a mistake, then? I must say, Mr. Dynecourt," continues
the old lady in an indignant tone, "that I think you might find a more
suitable time in which to play off your jokes, or to practice
target-shooting, than in the middle of the night, when every respectable
household ought to be wrapped in slumber."

"I assure you," begins Arthur Dynecourt, who is strangely pale and
discomposed, "it was all an accident--an--"

"Accident! Nonsense, sir; I don't believe there was any accident
whatsoever!"

As these words pass the lips of the irascible old lady, several men in
the room exchange significant glances. Is it that old Lady FitzAlmont
has just put their own thoughts into words?

"Let me explain to your ladyship," says Sir Adrian courteously. "We were
just talking about that unfortunate affair of the Stewarts, and Maitland
was showing us how it might have occurred. I had the revolver in my
hand so"--pointing the weapon toward himself.

"Put down that abominable weapon at once, sir!" commands Lady FitzAlmont,
in a menacing tone, largely mingled with abject fear. As she speaks she
retreats precipitately behind Florence, thus pushing that young lady to
the fore.

"When my cousin unhappily stumbled against me, and the revolver went
off," goes on Sir Adrian. "I'm deeply grieved, Lady FitzAlmont, that
this should have occurred to disturb the household; but, really, it was
a pure accident."

"A pure accident," repeats Arthur, from between his colorless lips.

He looks far more distressed by this occurrence than Sir Adrian, who
had narrowly escaped being wounded. This only showed his tenderness and
proper feeling, as almost all the women present mutually agreed. Almost
all, but not quite. Dora Talbot, for example, grows deadly pale as she
listens to the explanation and watches Arthur's ghastly face. What is it
like? The face of a murderer?

"Oh, no, no," she gasps inwardly; "surely not that!"

"It was the purest accident, I assure you," protests Arthur again, as
though anxious to impress this conviction upon his own mind.

"It might have been a very serious one," says the surgeon gravely,
regarding him with a keen glance. "It might have meant death to Sir
Adrian!"

Florence changes color and glances at her host with parted lips. Dora
Talbot, pressing her way through the group in the door-way, goes
straight up to him as if impulsively, and takes his hand in both hers.

"Dear Sir Adrian, how can we be thankful enough for your escape?" she
says sweetly, tears standing in her bright blue eyes. She presses his
hand warmly, and even raises it to her lips in a transport of emotion.
Standing there in the pretty pink dressing-gown that shows off her
complexion to perfection, Dora Talbot looks lovely.

"You are very good--very kind," returns Sir Adrian, really touched
by her concern, but still with eyes only for the white vision in the
door-way; "but you make too much of nothing. I am only sorry I have been
the unhappy cause of rousing you from your rosy dreams; you will not
thank me to-morrow when there will be only lilies in your cheeks."

The word lily brings back to him his last interview with Florence. He
glances hurriedly at her right hand; yes, the same lily is clasped in
her fingers. Has she sat ever since with his gift before her, in her
silent chamber? Alone--in grief perhaps. But why has she kept his
flower? What can it all mean?

"We shall mind nothing, now you are safe," Dora assures him tremulously.

"I think I might be shown some consideration," puts in Arthur, trying by
a violent effort to assert himself, and to speak lightly. "Had anything
happened, surely I should have been the one to be pitied. It would have
been my fault, and, Mrs. Talbot, I think you might show some pity for
me." He holds out his hand, and mechanically Dora lays her own in it.

But it is only for an instant, and she shudders violently as his touch
meets hers. Her eyes are on the ground, and she can not bring herself
to look at him. Drawing her fingers hurriedly from his, she goes to the
door and disappears from view.

In the meantime, Sir Adrian, having made his way to Florence, points to
the lily.

"You have held it ever since?" he asks, in a low tone. "I hardly hoped
for so much. But you have not congratulated me, you alone have said
nothing."

"Why need I speak? I have seen you with my own eyes. You are safe.
Believe me, Sir Adrian, I congratulate you most sincerely upon your
escape."

Her words are cold, her eyes downcast. She is deeply annoyed with
herself for having carried the lily into his presence here. The very
fact of his having noticed it and spoken to her about it has shown her
how much importance he has attached to her doing so. What will he think
of her. He will doubtless picture her to himself sitting weeping and
brooding over a flower given to her by a man who loves her not, and to
whom she has given her love unsolicited.

Her marked coldness so oppresses him that he steps back, and does not
venture to address her again. It occurs to him that she is reserved
because of Arthur's presence.

Presently, Lady FitzAlmont, marshaling her forces anew, carries them all
away to their rooms, soundly rating the sobbing Lady Gertrude for her
want of self-control.

The men too, shortly afterward disperse, and one by one drift away to
their rooms. Captain Ringwood and Maitland the surgeon being the last to
go.

"Who is the next heir to the castle?" asks the latter musingly, drumming
his fingers idly on a table near him.

"Dynecourt, the fellow who nearly did for Sir Adrian this evening!"
replies Ringwood quietly.

"Ah!"

"It would have meant a very good thing for Arthur if the shot had taken
effect," says Ringwood, eying his companion curiously.

"It would have meant murder, sir!" rejoins the surgeon shortly.




CHAPTER VI.


"Dear Sir Adrian," says Dora Talbot, laying down her bat upon a
garden-chair, and forsaking the game of tennis then proceeding to go
forward and greet her host, "where have you been? We have missed you so
much. Florence"--turning to her cousin--"will you take my bat, dearest?
I am quite tired of trying to defeat Lord Lisle."

Lord Lisle, a middle-aged gentleman of sunburned appearance, looks
unmistakably delighted at the prospect of a change in the game. He is
married; has a large family of promising young Lisles, and a fervent
passion for tennis. Mrs. Talbot having proved a very contemptible
adversary, he is charmed at this chance of getting rid of her.

So Florence, _vice_ Dora retired, joins the game, and the play continues
with unabated vigor. When however Lord Lisle has scored a grand victory,
and all the players declare themselves thoroughly exhausted and in need
of refreshment, Sir Adrian comes forward, and walks straight up to Miss
Delmaine, to Dora's intense chagrin and the secret rage of Arthur
Dynecourt.

"You have often asked to see the 'haunted chamber,'" he says; "why not
come and visit it now? It isn't much to see, you know; but still, in a
ghostly sense, it is, I suppose, interesting."

"Let us make a party and go together," suggests Dora, enthusiastically
clasping her hands--her favorite method of showing false emotion of
any kind. She is determined to have her part in the programme, and is
equally determined that Florence shall go nowhere alone with Sir Adrian.

"What a capital idea!" puts in Arthur Dynecourt, coming up to Miss
Delmaine, and specially addressing her with all the air of a rightful
owner.

"Charming," murmurs a young lady standing by; and so the question is
settled.

"It will be rather a fatiguing journey, you know," says Captain
Ringwood, confidentially, to Ethel Villiers. "It's an awful lot of
stairs; I've been there, so I know all about it--it's worse than the
treadmill."

"Have you been there too?" demands Miss Ethel saucily, glancing at him
from under her long lashes.

"Not yet," answers the captain, with a little grin. "But, I say, don't
go--will you?"

"I must; I'm dying to see it," replies Ethel. "You needn't come, you
know; I dare say I shall be able to get on without you for half an hour
or so."

"I dare say you could get on uncommonly well without me forever,"
retorts the captain rather gloomily. To himself he confesses moodily
that this girl with the auburn hair and the blue eyes has the power of
taking the "curl out of him" whensoever she wishes.

"I believe you are afraid of the bogies hidden in this secret chamber,
and so don't care to come," says Miss Villiers tauntingly.

"I know something else I'm a great deal more afraid of," responds the
gallant captain meaningly.

"Me?" she asks innocently, but certainly coquettishly. "Oh, Captain
Ringwood"--in a tone of mock injury--"what an unkind speech! Now I know
you look upon me in the light of an ogress, or a witch, or something
equally dreadful. Well, as I have the name of it, I may as well have
the gain of it, and so--I command you to attend me to the 'haunted
chamber.'"

"You order--I obey," says the captain. "'Call and I follow--I follow,
though I die!'" After which quotation he accompanies her toward the
house in the wake of Dora and Sir Adrian, who has been pressed by the
clever widow into her service.

Florence and Arthur Dynecourt follow them, Arthur talking gayly, as
though determined to ignore the fact that he is thoroughly unwelcome to
his companion; Florence, with head erect and haughty footsteps and eyes
carefully averted.

Past the hall, through the corridor, up the staircase, through the
galleries, along more corridors they go, laughing and talking eagerly,
until they come at last to an old and apparently much disused part of
the house.

Traversing more corridors, upon which dust lies thickly, they come at
last to a small iron-bound door that blocks the end of one passage.

"Now we really begin to get near to it," says Sir Adrian encouragingly,
turning, as he always does, when opportunity offers, to address himself
solely to Florence.

"Don't you feel creepy-creepy?" asks Ethel Villiers, with a smothered
laugh, looking up at Captain Ringwood.

Then Sir Adrian pushes open the door, revealing a steep flight of stone
steps that leads upward to another door above. This door, like the lower
one, is bound with iron.

"This is the tower," explains Sir Adrian, still acting as cicerone
to the small party, who look with interest around them. Mrs. Talbot,
affecting nervousness, clings closely to Sir Adrian's arm. Indeed she is
debating in her own mind whether it would be effective or otherwise to
subside into a graceful swoon within his arms. "Yonder is the door of
the chamber," continues Sir Adrian. "Come, let us go up to it."

They all ascend the last flight of stone stairs; and presently their
host opens the door, and reveals to them whatever mysteries may lie
beyond. He enters first, and they all follow him, but, as if suddenly
recollecting some important point, he turns, and calls loudly to Captain
Ringwood not to let the door shut behind him.

"There is a peculiar spring in the lock," he explains a moment later;
"and, if the door slammed to, we should find it impossible to open it
from the inside, and might remain here prisoners forever unless the
household came to the rescue."

"Oh, Captain Ringwood, pray be careful!" cries Dora falteringly. "Our
very lives depend upon your attention!"

"Miss Villiers, do come here and help me to remember my duty," says
Captain Ringwood, planting his back against the open door lest by any
means it should shut.

The chamber is round, and has, instead of windows, three narrow
apertures in the walls, through which can be obtained a glimpse of the
sky, but of nothing else. These apertures are just large enough to admit
a man's hand. The room is without furniture of any description, and on
the boards the dark stains of blood are distinctly visible.

"Dynecourt, tell them a story or two," calls out Ringwood to Sir Adrian.
"They won't believe it is veritably haunted unless you call up a ghost
to frighten them."

But they all protest in a body that they do not wish to hear any ghost
stories, so Sir Adrian laughingly refuses to comply with Ringwood's
request.

"Are we far from the other parts of the house?" asks Florence at length,
who has been examining some writing on the walls.

"So far that, if you were immured here, no cry, however loud, could
penetrate the distance," replies Sir Adrian. "You are as thoroughly
removed from the habitable parts of the castle as if you were in the
next county."

"How interesting!" observes Dora, with a little simper.

"The servants are so afraid of this room that they would not venture
here even by daylight," Sir Adrian goes on. "You can see how the dust of
years is on it. One might be slowly starved to death here without one's
friends being a bit the wiser."

He laughs as he says this, but, long afterward, his words come back to
his listeners' memories, filling their breasts with terror and despair.

"I wonder you don't have this dangerous lock removed," says Captain
Ringwood. "It is a regular trap. Some day you'll be sorry for it."

Prophetic words!

"Yes; I wish it were removed," responds Florence, with a strange quick
shiver.

Sir Adrian laughs.

"Why, that is one of the old tower's greatest charms," he says. "It
belongs to the dark ages, and suggests all sorts of horrible
possibilities. This room would be nothing without its mysterious lock."

At this moment Dora's eyes turn slowly toward Arthur Dynecourt. She
herself hardly knows why, at this particular time, she should look at
him, yet she feels that some unaccountable fascination is compelling her
gaze to encounter his. Their eyes meet. As they do so, Dora shudders and
turns deadly pale. There is that in Arthur Dynecourt's dark and sullen
eyes that strikes her cold with terror and vague forebodings of evil. It
is a wicked look that overspreads the man's face--a cruel, implacable
look that seems to freeze her as she gazes at him spell-bound. Slowly,
even while she watches him, she sees him turn his glance from her to Sir
Adrian in a meaning manner, as though to let her know that the vile
thought that is working in his brain and is betraying itself on his face
is intended for him, not her. And yet, with this too, he gives her
silently to understand that, if she shows any treachery toward him, he
will not leave it unrewarded.

Cowed, frightened, trembling at what she knows not, Dora staggers
backward, and, laying a hand upon the wall beside her, tries to regain
her self-possession. The others are all talking together, she is
therefore unobserved. She stands, still panting and pallid, trying
to collect her thoughts.

Only one thing comes clearly to her, filling her with loathing of
herself and an unnamed dread--it is that, by her own double-dealing and
falseness toward Florence, she has seemed to enter into a compact with
this man to be a companion in whatever crime he may decide upon. His
very look seems to implicate her, to drag her down with him to his
level. She feels herself chained to him--his partner in a vile
conspiracy. And what further adds to the horror of the situation is the
knowledge that she knows herself to be blindly ignorant of whatever
plans he may be forming.

After a few seconds she rouses herself, and wins back some degree of
composure. It is of course a mere weakness to believe herself in the
power of Arthur Dynecourt, she tries to convince herself. He is no more
than any other ordinary acquaintance. If indeed she has helped him a
little in his efforts to secure the love of Florence, there was no great
harm in that, though of course it served her own purpose also.

"How pale you are, Mrs. Talbot?" remarks Sir Adrian suddenly, wheeling
round to look at her more closely. "Has this damp old place really
affected your nerves? Come, let us go down again, and forget in the
sunshine that bloody deeds were ever committed here or elsewhere."

"I am nervous, I confess," responds Dora, in a low tone. "Yes, yes--let
us leave this terrible room forever."

"So be it," says Sir Adrian gayly. "For my part, I feel no desire to
ever re-enter it."

"It is very high art, I suppose," observes Ethel Villiers, glancing
round the walls. "Uncomfortable places always are. It would be quite
a treasure to Lady Betty Trefeld, who raves over the early Britons. It
seems rather thrown away upon us. Captain Ringwood, you look as if you
had been suddenly turned into stone. Let me pass, please."

"It was uncommonly friendly of Ringwood not to have let the door slam,
and so imprisoned us for life," says Sir Adrian, with a laugh. "I am
sure we owe him a debt of gratitude."

"I hope you'll all pay it," laughs Ringwood. "It will be a nice new
experience for you to give a creditor something for once. I never pay my
own debts; but that doesn't count. I feel sure you are all going to give
me something for my services as door-keeper."

"What shall I give you?" asks Ethel coquettishly.

"I'll tell you by and by," he replies, with such an expressive look that
for once the saucy girl has no answer ready, but, blushing crimson,
hurries past him down the stone stairs, where she waits at the bottom
for the others.

As Florence reaches the door she pauses and stoops to examine the lock.

"I wish," she says to Sir Adrian, a strange subdued excitement in her
tone, "you would remove this lock. Do."

"But why?" he asks, impressed in spite of himself, by her manner.

"I hardly know myself; it is a fancy--an unaccountable one, perhaps--but
still a powerful one. Do be guided by me, and have it removed."

"What--the fancy?" he asks, laughing.

"No--the lock. Humor me in this," she pleads earnestly, far more
earnestly than the occasion seems to warrant. "Call it a silly
presentiment, if you like, but I honestly think that lock will work you
evil some day. Therefore it is that I ask you to do away with it."

"You ask me?" he queries.

"Yes, if only to please me--for my sake."

She has evidently forgotten her late distrust of him, for she speaks now
in the old sweet tone, and with tears in her eyes. Sir Adrian flushes
warmly.

"For your sake," he whispers. "What is there I would not do, if thus
requested?"

A bitter sneer contracts Arthur Dynecourt's lips as he listens to the
first part of this conversation and guesses at the latter half. He notes
correctly the kindling of their eyes, the quick breath that comes and
goes like happy sighs from the breast of Florence. He hears the whisper,
sees the warm blush, and glances expressively at Dora. Meeting her eyes
he says his finger on his lips to caution her to silence, and then, when
passing by her, whispers:

"Meet me in half an hour in the lower gallery."

Bowing her acquiescence in this arrangement, fearing indeed to refuse,
Dora follows the others from the haunted chamber.

At the foot of the small stone staircase--before they go through the
first iron-bound door that leads to the corridor without--they find
Ethel Villiers awaiting them. She had been looking round her in the
dimly lighted stone passage, and has discovered another door fixed
mysteriously in a corner, that had excited her curiosity.

"Where does this lead to, Sir Adrian?" she asks now, pointing to it.

"Oh, that is an old door connected with another passage that leads by
a dark and wearying staircase to the servants' corridor beneath! I am
afraid you won't be able to open it, as it is rusty with age and disuse.
The servants would as soon think of coming up here as they would of
making an appointment with the Evil One; so it has not been opened for
years."

"Perhaps I can manage it," says Arthur Dynecourt, trying with all his
might to force the ancient lock to yield to him. At length his efforts
are crowned with success; the door flies creakingly open, and a cloud of
dust uprising covers them like a mist.

"Ah!" exclaims Ethel, recoiling; but Arthur, stooping forward, carefully
examines the dark staircase that lies before him wrapped in impenetrable
gloom. Spider-nets have been drawn from wall to wall and hang in dusky
clouds from the low ceiling; a faint, stale, stifling smell greets his
nostrils, yet he lingers there and looks carefully around him.

"You'll fall into it, if you don't mind," remarks Captain Ringwood. "One
would think uncanny spots had an unwholesome attraction for you."

Ringwood, ever since the memorable night in the smoking-room, when Sir
Adrian was so near being killed, has looked askance at Arthur Dynecourt,
and, when taking the trouble to address him at all, has been either
sharp or pointed in his remarks. Arthur, contenting himself with a
scowl at him, closes the little door again, and turns away from it.

"At night," says Sir Adrian, in an amused tone, "the servants, passing
by the door below that leads up to this one, run by it as though they
fear some ghostly ancestors of mine, descending from the haunted
chamber, will pounce out upon them with their heads under their arms,
or in some equally unpleasant position. You know the door, don't you,
Arthur--the second from the turning?"

"No," replies Arthur, with his false smile, "I do not; nor, indeed,
do I care to know it. I firmly believe I should run past it too after
nightfall, unless well protected."

"That looks as if you had an evil conscience," says Ringwood carelessly,
but none the less purposely.

"It looks more as if I were a coward, I think," retorts Arthur,
laughing, but shooting an angry glance at the gallant captain as he
speaks.

"Well, what does the immortal William say?" returns Ringwood coolly.
"'Conscience doth make cowards of us all!'"

"You have a sharp wit, sir," says Arthur, with apparent lightness, but
pale with passion.

"I say, look here," breaks in Sir Adrian hastily, pulling out his watch;
"it must be nearly time for tea. By Jove, quite half past four, and we
know what Lady FitzAlmont will say to us if we keep her deprived of her
favorite beverage for even five minutes. Come, let us run, or
destruction will light upon our heads."

So saying, he leads the way, and soon they leave the haunted chamber and
all its gloomy associations far behind them.




CHAPTER VII.


Reluctantly, yet with a certain amount of curiosity to know what it is
he may wish to say to her, Dora wends her way to the gallery to keep her
appointment with Arthur. Pacing to and fro beneath the searching eyes
of the gaunt cavaliers and haughty dames that gleam down upon him from
their canvases upon the walls, Dynecourt impatiently awaits her coming.

"Ah, you are late!" he exclaims as she approaches. There is a tone of
authority about him that dismays her.

"Not very, I think," she responds pleasantly, deeming conciliatory
measures the best. "Why did you not come to the library? We all missed
you so much at tea!"

"No doubt," he replies sarcastically. "I can well fancy the
disappointment my absence caused; the blank looks and regretful speeches
that marked my defection. Pshaw--let you and me at least be honest to
each other! Did Florence, think you, shed tears because of my
non-coming?"

This mood of his is so strange to her that, in spite of the natural
false smoothness that belongs to her, it renders her dumb.

"Look here," he goes on savagely, "I have seen enough to-day up in that
accursed room above--that haunted chamber--to show me our game is not
yet won."

"Our game--what game?" asks Dora, with a foolish attempt at
misconception.

He laughs aloud--a wild, unpleasant, scornful laugh, that makes her
cheek turn pale. Its mirth, she tells herself, is demoniacal.

"You would get out of it now, would you?" he says. "It is too late, I
tell you. You have gone some way with me, you must go the rest. I want
your help, and you want mine. Will you draw back now, when the prize is
half won, when a little more labor will place it within your grasp?"

"But there must be no violence," she gasps; "no attempt at--"

"What is it you would say?" he interrupts stonily. "Collect yourself;
you surely do not know what you are hinting at. Violence! what do you
mean by that?"

"I hardly know," she returns, trembling. "It was your look, your tone,
I think, that frightened me."

"Put your nerves in your pocket for the future," he exclaims coarsely;
"they are not wanted where I am. Now to business. You want to marry Sir
Adrian, as I understand, whether his desire lies in the same direction
or not?"

At this plain speaking the dainty little lady winces openly.

"My own opinion is that his desire does not run in your direction,"
continues Arthur remorselessly. "We both know where his heart would
gladly find its home, where he would seek a bride to place here in this
grand old castle, but I will frustrate that hope if I die for it."

He grinds his teeth as he says this, and looks with fierce defiant eyes
at the long rows of his ancestors that line the walls.

"She would gladly see her proud fair face looking down upon me from
amidst this goodly company," he goes on, apostrophizing the absent
Florence. "But that shall never be. I have sworn it; unless--I am her
husband--unless--I am her husband!"

More slowly, more thoughtfully he repeats this last phrase, until Dora,
affrighted by the sudden change that has disfigured his face, speaks to
him to distract his attention.

"You have brought me here to--" she ventures timidly.

"Ay, to tell you what is on my mind. I have said you want to marry
Adrian; I mean to marry Florence Delmaine. To-day I disliked certain
symptoms I saw, that led me to believe that my own machinations have not
been as successful as I could have wished. Before going in for stronger
measures, there is one more card that I will play. I have written you a
note. Here it is, take it"--handing her a letter folded in the
cocked-hat fashion.

"What am I to do with this?" asks Dora nervously.

"Read it. It is addressed to yourself. You will see I have copied
Adrian's handwriting as closely as possible, and have put his initials
A.D. at the end. And yet"--with a diabolical smile--"it is no forgery
either, as A.D. are my initials also."

Opening the note with trembling fingers, Dora reads aloud as follows:

"Can you--will you meet me to-morrow at four o'clock in the lime-walk?
I have been cold to you perhaps, but have I not had cause? You think my
slight attentions to another betoken a decrease in my love for you, but
in this, dearest, you are mistaken. I am yours heart and soul. For the
present I dare not declare myself, for the reasons you already know, and
for the same reasons am bound to keep up a seeming friendliness with
some I would gladly break with altogether. But I am happy only with you,
and happy too in the thought that our hearts beat as one. Yours
forever, A.D."

Dora, having finished reading the letter, glances at him uneasily.

"And--what is the meaning of this letter? What is it written for? What
am I to do with it?" she stammers, beating the precious missive against
the palm of her hand, as though in loathing of it.

"You will show it to her. You will speak of it as a love-letter written
to you by Adrian. You will consult her as to whether it be wise or
prudent to accede to his proposal to meet you alone in the lime-walk.
You will, in fact, put out all your powers of deception, which"--with a
sneering smile--"are great, and so compel her to believe the letter is
from him to you."

"But--" falters Dora.

"There shall be no 'but' in the matter. You have entered into this
affair with me, and you shall pursue it to the end. If you fail me, I
shall betray your share in it--more than your share--and paint you in
such colors as will shut the doors of society to you. You understand
now, do you?"

"Go on," says Dora, with colorless lips.

"Ah, I have touched the right chord at last, have I? Society, your idol,
you dare not brave! Well, to continue, you will also tell her, in your
own sweet innocent way"--with another sneer that makes her quiver with
fear and rage--"to account for Adrian's decided and almost lover-like
attentions to her in the room we visited, that you had had a lovers'
quarrel with him some time before, earlier in the day; that, in his fit
of pique, he had sought to be revenged upon you, and soothe his slighted
feelings by feigning a sudden interest in her. You follow me?"

"Yes," replies the submissive Dora. Alas, how sincerely she now wishes
she had never entered into this hateful intrigue!

"Then, when you have carefully sown these lies in her heart, and seen
her proud face darken and quiver with pain beneath your words"--oh, how
his own evil face glows with unholy satisfaction as he sees the picture
he has just drawn stand out clear before his eyes!--"you will affect to
be driven by compunction into granting Sir Adrian a supposed request,
you will don your hat and cloak, and go down to the lime-walk to
encounter--me. If I am any judge of character, that girl, so haughty to
all the world, will lower her pride for her crushed love's sake, and
will follow you, to madden herself with your meeting with the man she
loves. To her, I shall on this occasion represent Sir Adrian. Are you
listening?"

She is indeed--listening with all her might to the master mind that has
her in thrall.

"You will remember not to start when you meet me," he continues, issuing
his commands with insolent assumption of authority over the dainty Dora,
who, up to this, has been accustomed to rule it over others in her
particular sphere, and who now chafes and writhes beneath the sense of
slavery that is oppressing her. "You will meet me calmly, oblivious of
the fact that I shall be clad in my cousin's light overcoat, the one of
which Miss Delmaine was graciously pleased to say she approved yesterday
morning."

His eyes light again with a revengeful fire as he calls to mind the
slight praise Florence had bestowed in a very casual fashion on this
coat. Every smile, every kindly word addressed by this girl to his
cousin, is treasured up by him and dwelt upon in secret, to the terrible
strengthening of the purpose he has in view.

"But if you should be seen--be marked," hesitates Dora faintly.

"Pshaw--am I one to lay my plans so clumsily as to court discovery on
even the minutest point?" he interrupts impatiently. "When you meet me
you will--but enough of this; I shall be there to meet you in the
lime-walk, and after that you will take your cue from me."

"That is all you have to say?" asks Dora, anxious to quit his hated
presence.

"For the present--yes. Follow my instructions to the letter, or dread
the consequences. Any blunder in the performance of this arrangement I
shall lay to your charge."

"You threaten, sir!" she exclaims angrily, though she trembles.

"Let it be your care to see that I do not carry out my threats," he
retorts, with an insolent shrug.

The next day, directly after luncheon, as Florence is sitting in her
own room, touching up an unfinished water-color sketch of part of the
grounds round the castle--which have, alas, grown only too dear to
her!--Dora enters her room. It is an embarrassed and significantly
smiling Dora that trips up to her, and says with pretty hesitation in
her tone--

"Dearest Florence, I want your advice about something."

"Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as she
feels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdom
from her friends.

"Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, and
then you can return to your charming sketch. Oh"--glancing at it--"how
exactly like it is--so perfect; what a sunset, and what firs! One could
imagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it."

"It is not the Fairies' Glen at all; it is that bit down by Gough's
farm," says Florence coldly. Of late she has not been so blind to Dora's
artificialness as she used to be.

"Ah, so it is!" agrees Dora airily, not in the least discomposed at her
mistake. "And so like it too. You are a genius, dearest, you are really,
and might make your fortune, only that you have one made already for
you, fortunate girl!"

"You want my advice," suggests Florence quietly.

"Ah, true; and about something important too!" She throws into her whole
air so much coquetry mingled with assumed bashfulness that Florence
knows by instinct that the "something" has Sir Adrian for its theme, and
she grows pale and miserable accordingly.

"Let me hear it then," she urges, leaning back with a weary sigh.

"I have just received this letter," says Mrs. Talbot, taking from her
pocket the letter Arthur had given her, and holding it out to Florence,
"and I want to know how I shall answer it. Would you--would you honestly
advise me, Flo, to go and meet him as he desires?"

"As who desires?"

"Ah, true; you do not know, of course! I am so selfishly full of myself
and my own concerns, that I seem to think every one else must be full
of them too. Forgive me, dearest, and read his sweet little letter, will
you?"

"Of whom are you speaking--to whose letter do you refer?" asks Florence,
a little sharply, in the agony of her heart.

"Florence! Whose letter would I call 'sweet' except Sir Adrian's?"
answers her cousin, with gentle reproach.

"But it is meant for you, not for me," says Miss Delmaine, holding the
letter in her hand, and glancing at it with great distaste. "He probably
intended no other eyes but yours to look upon it."

"But I must obtain advice from some one, and who so natural to expect it
from as you, my nearest relative? If, however"--putting her handkerchief
to her eyes--"you object to help me, Florence, or if it distresses you
to read--"

"Distresses me?" interrupts Florence haughtily. "Why should it distress
me? If you have no objection to my reading your--lover's--letter, why
should I hesitate about doing so? Pray sit down while I run through it."

Dora having seated herself, Florence hastily reads the false note from
beginning to end. Her heart beats furiously as she does so, and her
color comes and goes; but her voice is quite steady when she speaks
again.

"Well," she says, putting the paper from her as though heartily glad
to be rid of it, "it seems that Sir Adrian wishes to speak to you on
some subject interesting to you and him alone, and that he has chosen
the privacy of the lime-walk as the spot in which to hold your
_tete-a-tete_. It is quite a simple affair, is it not? Though really,
why he could not arrange to talk privately to you in some room in the
castle, which is surely large enough for the purpose, I can not
understand."

"Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic," says Dora coyly.

"Is he?" responds her cousin dryly. "He has always seemed to me the
sanest of men. Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?"

"Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day,"
says Dora reproachfully; "and I came to you so sure of offers of love
and friendship! I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet him
or not."

"Why not?"

"I don't know"--with a little simper. "Is it perhaps humoring him too
much? I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him,
unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for me."

Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barb
pierces her bosom.

"I should think," she says slowly, "after reading the letter you have
just shown me, you ought to feel assured."

"You believe I ought, really?"--with a fine show of eagerness. "Now, you
are not saying this to please me--to gratify me?"

"I should not please or gratify any one at the expense of truth."

"No, of course not. You are such a high-principled girl, so different
from many others. Then you think I might go and meet him this evening
without sacrificing my dignity in any way?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, I'm so glad," exclaimed little Mrs. Talbot rapturously, nodding her
"honorable" head with a beaming smile, "because I do so want to meet
him, dear fellow! And I value your opinion, Flo, more highly than that
of any other friend I possess. You are so solid, so thoughtful--such a
dear thing altogether."

Florence takes no heed of this rodomontade, but sits quite still, with
downcast eyes, tapping the small table near her with the tips of her
slender fingers in a meditative fashion.

"The fact is," continues Dora, who is watching her closely, "I may
as well let you into a little secret. Yesterday Sir Adrian and I had
a tiny, oh, such a tiny little dispute, all about nothing, I assure
you"--with a gay laugh--"but to us it seemed quite important. He said he
was jealous of me. Now just fancy that, Flo; jealous of poor little me!"

"It is quite possible; you are pretty--most men admire you," Florence
remarks coldly, still without raising her eyes.

"Ah, you flatter me, naughty girl! Well, silly as it sounds, he actually
was jealous, and really gave me quite a scolding. It brought tears to my
eyes, it upset me so. So, to tell the truth, we parted rather bad
friends; and, to be revenged on me, I suppose, he rather neglected me
for the remainder of the day."

Again Florence is silent, though her tormentor plainly waits for a lead
from her before going on.

"You must have remarked," she continues presently, "how cold and
reserved he was toward me when we were all together in that dreadful
haunted chamber." Here she really shudders, in spite of herself. The
cruel eyes of Arthur Dynecourt seem to be on her again, as they were in
that ghostly room.

"I remarked nothing," responds Florence icily.

"No--really? Well, he was. Why, my dear Florence, you must have seen how
he singled you out to be attentive to you, just to show me how offended
he was."

"He did not seem offended with any one, and I thought him in
particularly good spirits," replies Florence calmly.

Dora turns a delicate pink.

"Dear Adrian is such an excellent actor," she says sweetly, "and so
proud; he will disguise his feelings, however keen they may be, from
the knowledge of any one, no matter what the effort may cost him. Well,
dearest, and so you positively advise me to keep this appointment with
him?"

"I advise nothing. I merely say that I see nothing objectionable in
your walking up and down the lime-walk with your host."

"How clearly you put it! Well, adieu, darling, for the present, and
thank you a thousand times for all the time you have wasted on me. I
assure you I am not worth it"--kissing her hand brightly.

For once she speaks the truth; she is not indeed worth one moment of the
time Florence has been compelled to expend upon her; yet, when she has
tripped out of the room, seemingly as free from guile as a light-hearted
child, Miss Delmaine's thoughts still follow her, even against her
inclination.

She has gone to meet him; no doubt to interchange tender words and vows
with him; to forgive, to be forgiven, about some sweet bit of lover's
folly, the dearer for its very foolishness. She listens for her
footsteps as she returns along the corridor, dressed no doubt in her
prettiest gown, decked out to make herself fair in his eyes.

An overwhelming desire to see how she has robed herself on this
particular occasion induces Florence to go to the door and look after
her as she descends the stairs. She just catches a glimpse of Dora as
she turns the corner, and sees, to her surprise, that she is by no means
daintily attired, but has thrown a plain dark water-proof over her
dress, as though to hide it. Slightly surprised at this, Florence
ponders it, and finally comes to the bitter conclusion that Dora is so
sure of his devotion that she knows it is not necessary for her to
bedeck herself in finery to please him. In his eyes of course she is
lovely in any toilet.

Soon, soon she will be with him. How will they greet each other? Will he
look into Dora's eyes as he used to look into hers not so very long ago?
Arthur Dynecourt read her aright when he foresaw that she would be
unable to repress the desire to follow Dora, and see for herself the
meeting between her and Sir Adrian.

Hastily putting on a large Rubens hat, and twisting a soft piece of
black lace round her neck, she runs down-stairs and, taking a different
direction from that she knows Dora most likely pursued, she arrives by
a side path at the lime-walk almost as soon as her cousin.

Afraid to venture too near, she obtains a view of the walk from a high
position framed in by rhododendrons. Yes, now she can see Dora, and now
she can see too, the man who comes eagerly to meet her. His face is
slightly turned away from her, but the tall figure clad in the loose
light overcoat is not to be mistaken. He advances quickly, and meets
Dora with both hands outstretched. She appears to draw back a little,
and then he seizes her hands, and, stooping, covers them with kisses.

A film seems to creep over Florence's eyes. With a stifled groan, she
turns and flies homeward. Again in the privacy of her own room, and
having turned the key securely in the lock to keep out all intruders,
she flings herself upon her bed and cries as if her heart would break.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not until her return to her room does Dora remember that she did not get
back the false letter from her cousin. In the heat of the conversation
she had forgotten it, but now, a fear possessing her lest Florence
should show it to any one, she runs upstairs and knocks at Miss
Delmaine's door.

"Come in," calls Florence slowly.

It is three hours since she went for her unhappy walk to the lime-grove,
and now she is composed again, and is waiting for the gong to sound
before descending to the drawing-room, where she almost dreads the
thought that she will be face to face with Sir Adrian. She is dressed
for dinner, has indeed taken most particular pains with her toilet, if
only to hide the ravages that these past three hours of bitter weeping
have traced upon her beautiful face. She looks sad still, but calm and
dignified.

Dora is dressed too, but is looking flurried and flushed.

"I beg your pardon," she says; "but my letter--the letter I showed you
to-day--have you it?"

"No," replies Florence simply; "I thought I gave it back to you; but,
if not, it must be here on this table"--lifting a book or two from the
small gypsy-table near which she had been sitting when Dora came to her
room early in the day.

Dora looks for it everywhere, in a somewhat nervous, frightened manner,
Florence helping her the while; but nothing comes of their search, and
they are fain to go down-stairs without it, as the gong sounding loudly
tells them they are already late.

"Never mind," says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern.
"It is really of no consequence. I only wanted it, because--well,
because"--with the simper that drives Florence nearly mad--"he wrote it."

"I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, you shall
have it this evening," responds Florence, with a slight contraction of
her brows that passes unnoticed.

To Florence's mortification, Arthur Dynecourt takes her in to dinner. On
their way across the hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, he
presses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, with
an affectation of the sincerest concern--

"You are not well; you are looking pale and troubled, and--pardon me if
I am wrong, but I think you have been crying."

"I must beg, sir," she retorts, with excessive _hauteur_, removing her
hand from his arm, as though his pressure had burned her--"I must beg,
you will not trouble yourself to study my countenance. Your doing so is
most offensive to me."

"To see you in trouble, and not long to help or comfort you is
impossible to me," goes on Dynecourt, unmoved by her scorn. "Are you
still dwelling on the past--on what is irrevocable? Have you had fresh
cause to remember it to-day?"

There is a gleam of malice in his eyes, but Florence, whose gaze is
turned disdainfully away from him, fails to see it. She changes color
indeed beneath his words, but makes him no reply, and, when they reach
the dining-room, in a very marked manner she takes a seat far removed
from his.

There is a sinister expression in his eyes and round his mouth as he
notes this studied avoidance.




CHAPTER VIII.


It is now "golden September," and a few days later. For the last
fortnight Florence has been making strenuous efforts to leave the
castle, but Dora would not hear of their departure, and Florence,
feeling it will be selfish of her to cut short Dora's happy hours with
her supposed lover, sighs, and gives in, and sacrifices her own wishes
on the altar of friendship.

It is five o'clock, and all the men, gun in hand, have been out since
early dawn. Now they are coming straggling home, in ones or twos.
Amongst the first to return are Sir Adrian and his cousin Arthur
Dynecourt, who, having met accidentally about a mile from home, have
trudged the remainder of the way together.

On the previous night at dinner, Miss Delmaine had spoken of a small
gold bangle, a favorite of hers, she was greatly in the habit of
wearing. She said she had lost it--when or where she could not tell;
and she expressed herself as being very grieved for its loss, and had
laughingly declared she would give any reward claimed by any one who
should restore it to her. Two or three men had, on the instant, pledged
themselves to devote their lives to the search; but Adrian had said
nothing. Nevertheless, the bangle and the reward remained in his mind
all that night and all to-day. Now he can not refrain from speaking
about it to the man he considers his rival.

"Odd thing about Miss Delmaine's bangle," he remarks carelessly.

"Very odd. I dare say her maid has put it somewhere and forgotten it."

"Hardly. One would not put a bracelet anywhere but in a jewel-case, or
in a special drawer. She must have dropped it somewhere."

"I dare say; those Indian bangles are very liable to be rubbed off the
wrist."

"But where? I have had the place searched high and low, and still no
tidings of it can be found."

"There may have been since we left home this morning."

Just at this moment they come within full view of the old tower, and
its strange rounded ivy-grown walls, and the little narrow holes in the
sides they show at its highest point that indicate the position of the
haunted chamber.

What is there at this moment in a mere glimpse of this old tower to make
Arthur Dynecourt grow pale and to start so strangely? His eyes grow
brighter, his lips tighten and grow hard.

"Do you remember," he says, turning to his cousin with all the air of
one to whom a sudden inspiration has come, "that day on which we visited
the haunted chamber? Miss Delmaine accompanied us, did she not?"

"Yes"--looking at him expectantly.

"Could she have dropped it there?" asks Arthur lightly. "By Jove, it
would be odd if she had--eh? Uncanny sort of place to drop one's
trinkets."

"It is strange I didn't think of it before," responds Adrian, evidently
struck by the suggestion. "Why, it must have been just about that time
when she lost it. The more I think of it the more convinced I feel that
it must be there."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow; don't jump at conclusions so hastily! It is
highly improbable. I should say that she dropped it anywhere else in the
world."

"Well, I'll go and see, at all events," declares Adrian, unconvinced.

Is it some lingering remnant of grace, some vague human shrinking from
the crime that has begun to form itself within his busy brain, that now
induces Dynecourt to try to dissuade Sir Adrian from his declared
intention to search the haunted chamber for the lost bangle? With all
his eloquence he seeks to convince him that there the bangle could not
have been left, but to no effect. His suggestion has taken firm root in
Sir Adrian's mind, and at least, as he frankly says, though it may be
useless to hunt for it in that uncanny chamber, it is worth a try. It
may be there. This dim possibility drives him on to his fate.

"Well, if you go alone and unprotected, your blood be on your own head,"
says Dynecourt lightly, at last surrendering his position. "Remember,
whatever happens, I advised you not to go!"

As Arthur finishes his speech a sinister smile overspreads his pale
features, and a quick light, as evil as it is piercing, comes into his
eyes. But Sir Adrian sees nothing of this. He is looking at his home, as
it stands grand and majestic in the red light of the dying sun. He is
looking, too, at the old tower, and at the upper portion of it, where
the haunted chamber stands, and where he can see the long narrow holes
that serve for windows. How little could a man imprisoned there see of
the great busy world without!

"Yes, I'll remember," he says jestingly. "When the ghosts of my
ancestors claim me as their victim, and incarcerate me in some fiendish
dungeon, I shall remember your words and your advice."

"You don't mean to go there, of course?" asks Arthur carelessly, whilst
watching the other with eager scrutiny. "It is quite a journey to that
dismal hole, and it will be useless."

"Well, if it distresses you, consider I haven't gone," says Sir Adrian
lightly.

"That is right," rejoins Arthur, still with his keen eyes fixed upon his
cousin. "I knew you would abandon that foolish intention. I certainly
shall consider you haven't gone."

They are at the hall door as these words pass Arthur's lips, and there
they separate, Sir Adrian leaving him with a smile, and going away up
the large hall whistling gayly.

When he has turned one corner, Arthur goes quickly after him, not with
the intention of overtaking him, but of keeping him in view. Stealthily
he follows, as though fearful of being seen.

There is no servant within sight. No friend comes across Sir Adrian's
path. All is silent. The old house seems wrapped in slumber. Above, the
pretty guests in their dainty tea-gowns are sipping Bohea and prattling
scandal; below, the domestics are occupied in their household affairs.

Arthur, watching carefully, sees Sir Adrian go quickly up the broad
front staircase, after which he turns aside, and, as though filled with
guilty fear, rushes through one passage and another, until he arrives in
the corridor that belongs to the servants' quarters.

Coming to a certain door, he opens it, not without some difficulty, and,
moving into the dark landing that lies beyond it, looks around. To any
casual observer it might seem strange that some of the cobwebs in this
apparently long-forgotten place have lately been brushed away, as by a
figure ascending or descending the gloomy staircase. To Arthur these
signs bring no surprise, which proves that he, perhaps, has the best
right to know whose figure brushed them aside.

Hurrying up the stairs, after closing the door carefully and
noiselessly behind him, he reaches, after considerable mountings of
what seem to be interminable steps, the upper door he had opened on
the day they had visited the haunted chamber, when Ringwood and he
had had a passage-at-arms about his curiosity.

Now he stands breathing heavily outside this door, wrapped in the dismal
darkness of the staircase, listening intently, as it were, for the
coming of a footstep.

In the meantime, Sir Adrian, not dissuaded from his determination to
search the tower for the missing bangle, runs gayly up the grand
staircase, traverses the corridors and galleries, and finally comes
to the first of the iron-bound doors. Opening it, he stands upon the
landing that leads to the other door by means of the small stone
staircase. Here he pauses.

Is it some vague shadowy sense of danger that makes him stand now as
though hesitating? A quick shiver rune through his veins.

"How cold it is," he says to himself, "even on this hot day, up in this
melancholy place!" Yet, he is quite unconscious of the ears that are
listening for his lightest movement, of the wicked eyes that are
watching him through a chink in the opposite door!

Now he steps forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs,
opens the fatal door and looks into the room. Even now it occurs to him
how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the
secret lock fasten him in against his will. He pushes the door well
open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it can fall to again of
its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.

No; it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that
he is safe enough, he commences his search. Then, swift as lightning, a
form darts from its concealed position, rushes up the stone staircase,
and, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.

Sir Adrian's back is turned; he is stooping, looking in every corner
for the missing prize. He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a
treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal
his doom.

Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor
falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and,
drawing it toward him, the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates his
victim from the world!

Stealthily even now--his evil deed accomplished--Arthur Dynecourt
retreats down the stairs, and never indeed relaxes his speed until at
length he stands panting, but relentless, in the servants' corridor
again.

Remorse he knows not. But a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute,
making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow. His
rival is safely secured, out of all harm's way as far as he is
concerned. No human being saw him go to the ill-fated tower; no human
voice heard him declare his intention of searching it for the missing
trinket. He--Arthur--had been careful before parting from him to express
his settled belief that Sir Adrian would not go to the haunted chamber,
and therefore he feels prepared to defend his case successfully, even
should the baronet be lucky enough to find a deliverer.

Yet he is not quite easy in his mind. Fear of discovery, fear of Sir
Adrian's displeasure, fear of the world, fear of the rope that already
seems to dangle in red lines before his eyes render him the veriest
coward that walks the earth. Shall he return and release his prisoner,
and treat the whole thing as a joke, and so leave Adrian free to
dispense his bounty at the castle, to entertain in his lavish fashion,
to secure the woman upon whom he--Arthur--has set his heart for his
bride?

No; a thousand times no! A few short days, and all will belong to Arthur
Dynecourt. He will be "Sir Arthur" then, and the bride he covets will be
unable to resist the temptations of a title, and the chance of being
mistress of the stately old pile that will call him master. Let Sir
Adrian die then in his distant garret alone, despairing, undiscoverable!
For who will think of going to the haunted room in search of him? Who
will even guess that any mission, however important, would lead him to
it, without having first mentioned it to some one? It is a grewsome
spot, seldom visited and gladly forgotten; and, indeed, what possibly
could there be in its bare walls and its blood-stained floor to attract
any one? No; surely it is the last place to suspect any one would go to
without a definite purpose; and what purpose could Sir Adrian have for
going there?

So far Arthur feels himself safe. He turns away, and joins the women and
the returned sportsmen in the upper drawing-room.

"Where is Dynecourt?" asks somebody a little later. Arthur, though he
hears the question, does not even change color, but calmly, with a
steady hand, gives Florence her tea.

"Yes; where is Sir Adrian?" asks Mrs. Talbot, glancing up at the
speaker.

"He left us about an hour ago," Captain Ringwood answers. "He said he'd
prefer walking home, and he shoveled his birds into our cart, and left
us without another word. He'll turn up presently, no doubt."

"Dear me, I hope nothing has happened to him!" says Ethel Villiers, who
is sitting in a window through which the rays of the evening sun are
stealing, turning her auburn locks to threads of rich red gold.

"I hope not, I'm sure," interposes Arthur, quite feelingly. "It does
seem odd he hasn't come in before this." Then, true to his determination
to so arrange matters that, if discovery ensues upon his scheme, he may
still find for himself a path out of his difficulties, he says quietly,
"I met him about a mile from home, and walked here with him. We parted
at the hall-door; I dare say he is in the library or the stables."

"Good gracious, why didn't you say so before?" exclaims old Lady
FitzAlmont in a querulous tone. "I quite began to believe the poor boy
had blown out his brains through disappointed love, or something equally
objectionable."

Both Dora and Florence color warmly at this. The old lady herself is
free to speak as she thinks of Sir Adrian, having no designs upon him
for Lady Gertrude, that young lady being engaged to a very distinguished
and titled botanist, now hunting for ferns in the West Indies.

"Markham," says Mrs. Talbot to a footman who enters at this moment, "go
to the library and tell Sir Adrian his tea is waiting for him."

"Yes, ma'am."

But presently Markham returns and says Sir Adrian is not in the library.

"Then try the stables, try everywhere," says Dora somewhat impatiently.

Markham, having tried everywhere, brings back the same answer; Sir
Adrian apparently is not to be found!

"Most extraordinary," remarks Lady FitzAlmont, fanning herself. "As a
rule I have noticed that Adrian is most punctual. I do hope my first
impression was not the right one, and that we sha'n't find him presently
with his throat cut and wallowing in his blood on account of some silly
young woman!"

"Dear mamma," interposes Lady Gertrude, laughing, "what a terribly
old-fashioned surmise! No man nowadays kills himself for a false love;
he only goes and gets another."

But, when the dinner-hour arrives, and no host presents himself to lead
Lady FitzAlmont into dinner, a great fear falls upon all the guests save
one, and confusion and dismay, and anxious conjecture reign supreme.




CHAPTER IX.


The night passes; the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, and
still nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt by
all within the castle as to the fate of its missing master. They weary
themselves out wondering, idly but incessantly, what can have become of
him.

The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, the
fifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.

Florence Delmaine, who has been half-distracted with conflicting fears
and emotions, and who has been sitting in her room apart from the
others, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenly
raising her eyes, sees Dora standing before her.

The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed. All her dainty freshness
has gone, and she now looks in years what in reality she is, close on
thirty-five. Her lips are pale and drooping, her cheeks colorless; her
whole air is suggestive of deep depression, the result of sleepless
nights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignant
nature.

"Alas, how well she loves him too!" thinks Florence, contemplating her
in silence. Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence,
and says, in a hurried impassioned tone--

"Oh, Florence, what has become of him? What has been done to him? I have
tried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, but
now I feel I must speak to some one or go mad!"

She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as if
she is going to faint. Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair,
and, running to her, places her arm around her as though to support her.
But Dora repulses her almost roughly and motions her away.

"Do not touch me!" she cries hoarsely. "Do not come near me; you, of
all people, should be the last to come to my assistance! Besides, I am
not here to talk about myself, but of him. Florence, have you any
suspicion?"

Dora leans forward and looks scrutinizingly at her cousin, as though
fearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative. But Florence
shakes her head.

"I have no suspicion--none," she answers sadly. "If I had should I not
act upon it, whatever it might cost me?"

"Would you," asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companion's
words--"whatever it might cost you?"

Her manner is so strange that Florence pauses before replying.

"Yes," she says at last. "No earthly consideration should keep me from
using any knowledge I might by accident or otherwise become possessed of
to lay bare this mystery. Dora," she cries suddenly, "if you know
anything, I implore, I entreat you to say so."

"What should I know?" responds the widow, recoiling.

"You loved him too," says Florence piteously, now more than ever
convinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her. "For the sake
of that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter."

"I dare not speak openly," replies the widow, growing even a shade
paler, "because my suspicion is of the barest character, and may be
altogether wrong. Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct within
my breast whispers to me that I am on the right track."

"If so," murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, "do not
hesitate; follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows but
something may come of it! Dora, do not delay. Soon, soon--if not
already--it may be too late. Alas," she cries, bursting into bitter
tears, "what do I say? Is it not too late even now? What hope can there
be after six long days, and no tidings?"

"I will do what I can, I am resolved," declares Dora, rising abruptly to
her feet. "If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wring
the truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice."

"From him? From whom--what murderer?" exclaims Florence, in a voice of
horror. "Dora, what are you saying?"

"Never mind. Let me go now; and to-night--this evening let me come to
you here again, and tell you the result of what I am now about to do."

She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinking
back in her chair, gives herself up to the excitement and amazement that
are overpowering her. There is something else, too, in her thoughts that
is puzzling and perplexing her; in all Dora's manner there was nothing
that would lead her to think she loved Sir Adrian: there was fear, and a
desire for revenge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman who
has lost the man to whom she has given her heart.

Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftly
down-stairs, turns into the side hall, glancing into library and rooms
as she goes along, plainly in search of something or some one.

At last her search is successful; in a small room she finds Arthur
Dynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large arm-chair, with his
eyes fixed intently upon the book in his hand. Seeing her, he closes the
volume, and, throwing it from him, says carelessly:

"Pshaw--what contemptible trash they write nowadays!"

"How can you sit here calmly reading," exclaims Dora vehemently, "when
we are all so distressed in mind! But I forgot"--with a meaning
glance--"you gain by his death; we do not."

"No, you lose," he retorts coolly. "Though, after all, even had things
been different, I can't say I think you had much chance at any time."

He smiles insolently at her as he says this. But she pays no heed either
to his words or his smile. Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought,
and at last she gives expression to it.

"What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him,
as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that has
been torturing her for days past.

"With whom?" he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyes
that should have warned her to forbear.

"With Sir Adrian--with your rival, with the man you hate," she cries,
her breath coming in little irrepressible gasps. "Dynecourt, I adjure
you to speak the truth, and say what has become of him."

"You rave," he says calmly, lifting his eyebrows just a shade, as though
in pity for her foolish excitement. "I confess the man was no favorite
of mine, and that I can not help being glad of this chance that has
presented itself in his extraordinary disappearance of my inheriting his
place and title; but really, my dear creature, I know as little of what
has become of him, as--I presume--you do yourself."

"You lie!" cries Dora, losing all control over herself. "You have
murdered him, to get him out of your path. His death lies at your door."

She points her finger at him as though in condemnation as she utters
these words, but still he does not flinch.

"They will take you for a Bedlamite," he says, with a sneering laugh,
"if you conduct yourself like this. Where are your proofs that I am the
cold-blooded ruffian you think me?"

"I have none"--in a despairing tone. "But I shall make it the business
of my life to find them."

"You had better devote your time to some other purpose," he exclaims
savagely, laying his hand upon her wrist with an amount of force that
leaves a red mark upon the delicate flesh. "Do you hear me? You must be
mad to go on like this to me. I know nothing of Adrian, but I know a
good deal of your designing conduct, and your wild jealousy of Florence
Delmaine. All the world saw how devoted he was to her, and--mark what I
say--there have been instances of a jealous woman killing the man she
loved, rather than see him in the arms of another."

"Demon!" shrieks Dora, recoiling from him. "You would fix the crime on
me?"

"Why not? I think the whole case tells terribly against you. Hitherto I
have spared you, I have refrained from hinting even at the fact that
your jealousy had been aroused of late; but your conduct of to-day, and
the wily manner in which you have sought to accuse me of being
implicated in this unfortunate mystery connected with my unhappy cousin,
have made me regret my forbearance. Be warned in time, cease to
persecute me about this matter, or--wretched woman that you are--I shall
certainly make it my business to investigate the entire matter, and
bring you to justice!"

He speaks with such an air of truth, of thorough belief in her guilt,
that Dora is dazed, bewildered, and, falling back from him, covers her
face with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intrigue
brought into the glare of day, fills her with consternation. And then,
what will she gain by it? Nothing; she has no evidence on which to
convict this man; all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels the
weakness of her position, and her inability to follow up her accusation.

"Ah, how like a guilty creature you stand there!" exclaims Dynecourt,
regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this must
be looked into. Miserable woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you had
better declare it now."

"Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him with
horror and defiance. "You triumph now, because, as yet, I have no
evidence to support my belief, but"--she hesitates.

"Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy me
while you can. To-day I shall set the blood-hounds of the law upon your
track, so beware--beware!"

"You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, and
treating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."

She turns from him, and leaves the room as she finishes speaking; but,
though her words have been defiant there is no kindred feeling in her
heart to bear her up.

When the door closes between them, the flush dies out of her face, and
she looks even more wan and hopeless than she did before seeking his
presence. She can not deny to herself that her mission has been a
failure. He has openly scoffed at her threats, and she is aware that she
has not a shred of actual evidence wherewith to support her suspicion;
the bravado with which he has sought to turn the tables upon herself
both frightens and disheartens her, and now she confesses to herself
that she knows not where to turn for counsel.




CHAPTER X.


In the meantime the daylight dwindles, and twilight descends. Even that
too departs, and now darkness falls upon the distressed household, and
still there is no news of Sir Adrian.

Arthur Dynecourt, who is already beginning to be treated with due
respect as the next heir to the baronetcy, has quietly hinted to old
Lady FitzAlmont that perhaps it will be as well, in the extraordinary
circumstances, if they all take their departure. This the old lady,
though strongly disinclined to quit the castle, is debating in her own
mind, and, being swayed by Lady Gertrude, who is secretly rather bored
by the dullness that has ensued on the strange absence of their host,
decides to leave on the morrow, to the great distress of both Dora and
Florence Delmaine, who shrink from deserting the castle while its
master's fate is undecided. But they are also sensible that, to remain
the only female guests, would be to outrage the conventionalities.

Henry Villiers, Ethel's father, is also of opinion that they should all
quit the castle without delay. He is a hunting man, an M.F.H. in his own
county, and is naturally anxious to get back to his own quarters some
time before the hunting-season commences. Some others have already gone,
and altogether it seems to Florence that there is no other course open
to her but to pack up and desert him, whom she loves, in the hour of his
direst need. For there are moments even now when she tells herself that
he is still living, and only waiting for a saving hand to drag him into
smooth waters once again!

A silence has fallen upon the house more melancholy than the loudest
expression of grief. The servants are conversing over their supper in
frightened whispers, and conjecturing moodily as to the fate of their
late master. To them Sir Adrian is indeed dead, if not buried.

In the servants' corridor a strange dull light is being flung upon the
polished boards by a hanging-lamp that is burning dimly, as though
oppressed by the dire evil that has fallen upon the old castle. No sound
is to be heard here in this spot, remote from the rest of the house,
where the servants seldom come except to go to bed, and never indeed
without an inward shudder as they pass the door that leads to the
haunted chamber.

Just now, being at their supper, there is no fear that any of them will
be about, and so the dimly lighted corridor is wrapped in an unbroken
silence. Not quite unbroken, however. What is this that strikes upon the
ear? What sound comes to break the unearthly stillness? A creeping
footstep, a cautious tread, a slinking, halting, uncertain motion,
belonging surely to some one who sees an enemy, a spy in every flitting
shadow. Nearer and nearer it comes now into the fuller glare of the
lamp-light, and stops short at the door so dreaded by the castle
servants.

Looking uneasily around him, Arthur Dynecourt--for it is he--unfastens
this door, and, entering hastily, closes it firmly behind him, and
ascends the staircase within. There is no halting in his footsteps now,
no uncertainty, no caution, only a haste that betokens a desire to get
his errand over as quickly as possible.

Having gained the first landing, he walks slowly and on tiptoe again,
and, creeping up the stone stairs, crouches down so as to bring his ear
on a level with the lower chink of the door.

Alas, all is still; no faintest groan can be heard! The silence of Death
is on all around. In spite of his hardihood, the cold sweat of fear
breaks out upon Dynecourt's brow; and yet he tells himself that now he
is satisfied, all is well, his victim is secure, is beyond the power of
words or kindly search to recall him to life. He may be discovered now
as soon as they like. Who can fix the fact of his death upon him? There
is no blow, no mark of violence to criminate any one. He is safe, and
all the wealth he had so coveted is at last his own!

There is something fiendish in the look of exultation that lights Arthur
Dynecourt's face. He has a small dull lantern with him, and now it
reveals the vile glance of triumph that fires his eyes. He would fain
have entered to gaze upon his victim, to assure himself of his victory,
but he refrains. A deadly fear that he may not yet be quite dead keeps
him back, and, with a frown, he prepares to descend once more.

Again he listens, but the sullen roar of the rising night wind is all
that can be heard. His hand shakes, his face assumes a livid hue, yet he
tells himself that surely this deadly silence is better than what he
listened to last night. Then a ghostly moaning, almost incessant and
unearthly in its sound, had pierced his brain. It was more like the cry
of a dying brute than that of a man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to death!
In his own mind Arthur can see him now, worn, emaciated, lost to all
likeness of anything fair or comely. Have the rats attacked him yet? As
this grewsome thought presents itself, Dynecourt rises quickly from his
crouching position, and, flying down the steps, does not stop running
until he arrives in the corridor below again.

He dashes into this like one possessed; but, finding himself in the
light of the hanging lamp, collects himself by a violent effort, and
looks around.

Yes, all is still. No living form but his is near. The corridor, as he
glances affrightedly up and down, is empty. He can see nothing but his
own shadow, at sight of which he starts and turns pale and shudders.

The next moment he recovers himself, and, muttering an anathema upon his
cowardice, he moves noiselessly toward his room and the brandy-bottle
that has been his constant companion of late.

Yet, here in his own room, he can not rest. The hours go by with laggard
steps. Midnight has struck, and still he paces his floor from wall to
wall, half-maddened by his thoughts. Not that he relents. No feelings of
repentance stir him, there is only a nervous dread of the hour when it
will be necessary to produce the dead body, if only to prove his claim
to the title so dearly and so infamously purchased.

Is he indeed dead--gone past recall? Is this house, this place, the old
title, the chance of winning the woman he would have, all his own? Is
his hated rival--hateful to him only because of his fair face and genial
manners and lovable disposition, and the esteem with which he filled the
hearts of all who knew him--actually swept out of his path?

Again the lurking morbid longing to view the body with his own eyes,
the longing that had been his some hours ago when listening at the fatal
door, seizes hold of him, and grows in intensity with every passing
moment.

At last it conquers him. Lighting a candle, he opens his door and peers
out. No one is astir. In all probability every one is abed, and now
sleeping the sleep of the just--all except him. Will there ever be any
rest or dreamless sleep for him again?

He goes softly down-stairs, and makes his way to the lower door. Meeting
no one, he ascends the stairs like one only half conscious, until he
finds himself again before the door of the haunted chamber.

Then he wakes into sudden life. An awful terror takes possession of him.
He struggles with himself, and presently so far succeeds in regaining
some degree of composure that he can lean against the wall and wipe his
forehead, and vow to himself that he will never descend until he has
accomplished the object of his visit. But the result of this terrible
fight with fear and conscience shows itself in the increasing pallor of
his brow and the cold perspiration that stands thick upon his forehead.

Nerving himself for a final effort, he lays his hand upon the door and
pushes it open. This he does with bowed head and eyes averted, afraid to
look upon his terrible work. A silence, more horrible to his guilty
conscience than the most appalling noises, follows this act; and, again
the nameless terror seizing him, he shudders and draws back, until,
finding the wall behind him, he leans against it gladly, as if for
support.

And now at last he raises his eyes. Slowly at first and cringingly, as
if dreading what they might see. Upon the board at his feet they rest
for a moment, and then glide to the next board, and so on, until his
coward eyes have covered a considerable portion of the floor.

And now, grown bolder, he lifts his gaze to the wall opposite and
searches it carefully. Then his eyes turn again to the floor. His face
ghastly, and with his eyes almost darting from their sockets, he compels
himself to bring his awful investigation to an end. Avoiding the corners
at first, as though there he expects his vile deed will cry aloud to him
demanding vengeance, he gazes in a dazed way at the center of the
apartment, and dwells upon it stupidly, until he knows he must look
further still; and then his dull eyes turn to the corners where the
dusky shadows lie, brought thither by the glare of his small lantern.
Reluctantly, but carefully, he scans the apartment, no remotest spot
escapes his roused attention. But no object, dead or living, attracts
his notice! The room is empty!

He staggers. His hold upon the door relaxes. His lamp falls to the
ground; the door closes with a soft but deadly thud behind him,
and--he is a prisoner in the haunted chamber! As the darkness closes
in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to
contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels; a fearful scream
issues from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible.




CHAPTER XI.


Dora, after her interview with Arthur Dynecourt, feels indeed that all
is lost. Hope is abandoned--nothing remains but despair; and in this
instance despair gains in poignancy by the knowledge that she believes
she knows the man who could help them to a solution of their troubles if
he would or dared. No; clearly he dare not! Therefore, no assistance can
be looked for from him.

Dinner at the castle has been a promiscuous sort of entertainment for
the past three or four days, so Dora feels no compunction in declining
to go to it. In her own room she sits brooding miserably over her
inability to be of any use in the present crisis, when she suddenly
remembers that she had promised in the afternoon when with Florence to
give her, later on, an account of her effort to obtain the truth about
this mystery which is harrowing them.

It is now eleven o'clock, and Dora decides that she must see Florence
at once. Rising, wearily, she is about to cross the corridor to her
cousin's room, when, the door opening, she sees Florence, with a face
pale and agitated, coming toward her.

"You, Florence!" she exclaims. "I was just going to you, to tell you
that my hopes of this afternoon are all--"

"Let me speak," interrupts Florence breathlessly. "I must, or--" She
sinks into a chair, her eyes close, and involuntarily she lays her hand
upon her heart as if to allay its tumultuous beating.

Dora, really alarmed, rushing to her dressing-case, seizes upon a flask
of eau-de-Cologne, and flings some of its contents freely over the
fainting girl. Florence, with a sigh, rouses herself, and sits upright.

"There is no time to lose," she says confusedly. "Oh, Dora!" Here she
breaks down and bursts into tears.

"Try to compose yourself," entreats Dora, seeing the girl has some
important news to impart, but is so nervous and unstrung as to be almost
incapable of speaking with any coherence. But presently Florence grows
calmer, and then, her voice becoming clear and full, she is able to
unburden her heart.

"All this day I have been oppressed by a curious restlessness," she says
to Dora; "and, when you left me this afternoon, your vague promises of
being able to elucidate the terrible secret that is weighing us down
made me even more unsettled. I did not go down to dinner--"

"Neither did I," puts in Mrs. Talbot sympathetically.

"I wandered up and down my room for at least two hours, thinking always,
and waiting for the moment when you would return, according to promise,
and tell me the success of your hidden enterprise. You did not come, and
at half past nine, unable to stay any longer in my own room with only
my own thoughts for company, I opened my door, and, listening intently,
found by the deep silence that reigned throughout the house that almost
every one was gone, if not to bed, at least to their own rooms."

"Lady FitzAlmont and Gertrude passed to their rooms about an hour
ago," says Dora. "But some of the men, I think, are still in the
smoking-room."

"I did not think of them. I stole from my room, and roamed idly
through the halls. Suddenly a great--I can not help thinking now a
supernaturally strong--desire to go into the servants' corridor took
possession of me. Without allowing myself an instant's hesitation, I
turned in its direction, and walked on until I reached it."

She pauses here, and draws her breath rapidly.

"Go on," entreats Dora impatiently.

"The lamp was burning very dimly. The servants were all down-stairs--at
their supper, I suppose--because there was no trace of them anywhere.
Not a sound could be heard. The whole place looked melancholy and
deserted, and filled me with a sense of awe I could not overcome. Still
it attracted me. I lingered there, walking up and down until its very
monotony wearied me; even then I was loath to leave it, and, turning
into a small sitting-room, I stood staring idly around me. At last,
somewhere in the distance I heard a clock strike ten, and, turning,
I decided on going back once more to my room."

Again, emotion overcoming her, Florence pauses, and leans back in her
chair.

"Well, but what is there in all this to terrify you so much?" demands
her cousin, somewhat bewildered.

"Ah, give me time! Now I am coming to it," replies Florence quickly.
"You know the large screen that stands in the corridor just outside
the sitting-room I have mentioned--put there, I imagined to break the
draught? Well, I had come out of the room and was standing half-hidden
by this screen, when I saw something that paralyzed me with fear."

She rises to her feet and grows deadly pale as she says this, as though
the sensation of fear she has been describing has come to her again.

"You saw--?" prompts Dora, rising too, and trembling violently, as
though in expectation of some fatal tidings.

"I saw the door of the room that leads to the haunted chamber slowly
move. It opened; the door that has been locked for nearly fifty years,
and that has filled the breasts of all the servants here with terror and
dismay, was cautiously thrown open! A scream rose to my lips, but I was
either too terrified to give utterance to it, or else some strong
determination to know what would follow restrained me, and I stood
silent, like one turned into stone. I had instinctively moved back a
step or two, and was now completely hidden from sight, though I could
see all that was passing in the corridor through a hole in the
framework of the screen. At last a figure came with hesitating
footsteps from behind the door into the full glare of the flickering
lamp. I could see him distinctly. It was--"

"Arthur Dynecourt!" cries the widow, covering her ghastly face with her
hands.

Florence regards her with surprise.

"It was," she says at last. "But how did you guess it?"

"I knew it," cries Dora frantically. "He has murdered him, he has hidden
his body away in that forgotten chamber. He was gloating over his
victim, no doubt, just before you saw him, stealing down from a secret
visit to the scene of his crime."

"Dora," exclaims Florence, grasping her arm, "if he should not have
murdered him after all, if he should only have secured him there,
holding him prisoner until he should see his way more clearly to getting
rid of him! If this idea be the correct one, we may yet be in time to
save, to rescue him!"

The agitation of the past hours proving now too much for her, Florence
bursts into tears and sobs wildly.

"Alas, I dare not believe in any such hope!" says Dora. "I know that man
too well to think him capable of showing any mercy."

"And yet 'that man,' as you call him, you would once have earnestly
recommended to me as a husband!" returns Florence, sternly.

"Do not reproach me now," exclaims Dora; "later on you shall say to me
all that you wish, but now moments are precious."

"You are right. Something must be done. Shall I--shall I speak to Mr.
Villiers?"

"I hardly know what to advise"--distractedly. "If we give our suspicions
publicity, Arthur Dynecourt may even yet find time and opportunity to
baffle and disappoint us. Besides which, we may be wrong. He may have
had nothing to do with it, and--"

"At that rate, if secrecy is to be our first thought, let you and me go
alone in search of Sir Adrian."

"Alone, and at this hour, to that awful room!" exclaims Dora, recoiling
from her.

"Yes, at once"--firmly--"without another moment's delay."

"Oh, I can not!" declares Dora, shuddering violently.

"Then I shall go alone!"

As Florence says this, she takes up her candlestick and moves quickly
toward the door.

"Stay, I will go," cries Dora, trembling. But a slight interruption
occurring at this instant, they are compelled to wait for awhile.

Ethel Villiers, coming into the room to make her parting adieus to
Mrs. Talbot, as she and her father intend leaving next morning, gazes
anxiously from Florence to Dora, seeing plainly that there is something
amiss.

"What is it?" she asks kindly, going up to Florence.

Miss Delmaine, after a little hesitation, encouraged by a glance at
Dora's terrified countenance, determines on taking the new-comer into
their confidence.

In a few words she explains all that has taken place, and their
suspicions. Ethel, though paling beneath the horror and surprise
occasioned by the recital, does not lose her self-possession.

"I will go with you," she volunteers. "But, let me say," she adds, "that
I think you are wrong in making this search without a man. If--if indeed
we are still in time to be of any use to poor Sir Adrian--always
supposing he really is secreted in that terrible room--I do not think
any of us would be strong enough to help him down the stairs, and, if he
has been slowly starving all this time, think how weak he will be!"

"Oh, what a wretched picture you conjure up!" exclaims Florence,
nervously clasping her hands. "But you are right, and now tell me who
you think can best be depended upon in this crisis."

"I am sure," says Ethel, blushing slightly, but speaking with intense
earnestness, "that, if you would not mind trusting Captain Ringwood, he
would be both safe and useful."

As this suggestion meets with approval, they manage to convey a message
to the captain, and in a very few minutes he is with them, and is made
acquainted with their hopes and fears.

Silently, cautiously, without any light, but carrying two small lamps
ready for ignition, they go down to the corridor where is the door that
leads to the secret staircase.

Turning the handle of this door, Captain Ringwood discovers that it is
locked, but, nothing daunted, he pulls it so violently backward and
forward that the lock, rusty with age, gives way, and leaves the passage
beyond open to them.

Going into the small landing at the foot of the staircase, they close
the door carefully behind them, and then, Captain Ringwood producing
some matches, they light the two lamps and go swiftly, with anxiously
beating hearts, up the stairs.

The second door is reached, and now nothing remains but to mount the
last flight of steps and open the fatal door.

Their hearts at this trying moment almost fail them. They look into one
another's blanched faces, and look there in vain for hope. At last
Ringwood, touching Ethel's arm, says, in a whisper--

"Come, have courage--all may yet be well!"

He moves toward the stone steps, and they follow him. Quickly mounting
them, he lays his hand upon the door, and, afraid to give them any more
time for reflection or dread of what may yet be in store for them,
throws it open.

At first the feeble light from their lamps fails to penetrate the
darkness of the gloomy apartment. At the cursory glance, such as they
at first cast round the room, it appears to be empty. Their hearts sink
within them. Have they indeed hoped in vain!

Dora is crying bitterly; Ethel, with her eyes fixed upon Ringwood, is
reading her own disappointment in his face, when suddenly a piercing cry
from Florence wakes the echoes round them.

She has darted forward, and is kneeling over something that even now is
only barely discernible to the others as they come nearer to it. It
looks like a bundle of clothes, but, as they stoop over it, they, too,
can see that it is in reality a human body, and apparently rigid in
death.

But the shriek that has sprung from the very soul of Florence has
reached some still living fibers in the brain of this forlorn creature.
Slowly and with difficulty he raises his head, and opens a pair of
fast-glazing eyes. Mechanically his glance falls upon Florence. His lips
move; a melancholy smile struggles to show itself upon his parched and
blackened lips.

"Florence," he rather sighs than says, and falls back, to all
appearance, dead.

"He is not dead!" cries Florence passionately. "He can not be! Oh, save
him, save him! Adrian, look up--speak to me! Oh, Adrian, make some sign
that you can hear me!"

But he makes no sign. His very breath seems to have left him. Gathering
him tenderly in her arms, Florence presses his worn and wasted face
against her bosom, and pushes back the hair from his forehead. He is so
completely altered, so thorough a wreck has he become, that it is indeed
only the eyes of love that could recognize him. His cheeks have fallen
in, and deep hollows show themselves. His beard has grown, and is now
rough and stubbly; his hair is uncombed, the lines of want, despair, and
cruel starvation have blotted out all the old fairness of his features.
His clothes are hanging loosely about him; his hands, limp and
nerveless, are lying by his side. Who shall tell what agony he suffered
during these past lonely days with death--an awful, creeping, gnawing
death staring him in the face?

A deadly silence has fallen upon the little group now gazing solemnly
down upon his quiet form. Florence, holding him closely to her heart, is
gently rocking him to and fro, as though she will not be dissuaded that
he still lives.

At length Captain Ringwood, stooping pitifully over her, loosens her
hold so far as to enable him to lay his hand upon Adrian's heart. After
a moment, during which they all watch him closely, he starts, and,
looking still closer into the face that a second ago he believed dead,
he says, with subdued but deep excitement--

"There may yet be time! He breathes--his heart beats! Who will help me
to carry him out of this dungeon?"

He shudders as he glances round him.

"I will," replies Florence calmly.

These words of hope have steadied her and braced her nerves. Ethel
and Mrs. Talbot, carrying the lamps, go on before, while Ringwood and
Florence, having lifted the senseless body of Adrian, now indeed
sufficiently light to be an easy burden, follow them.

Reaching the corridor, they cross it hurriedly, and carrying Adrian up
a back staircase that leads to Captain Ringwood's room by a circuitous
route, they gain it without encountering a single soul, and lay him
gently down on Ringwood's bed, almost at the very moment that midnight
chimes from the old tower, and only a few minutes before Arthur
Dynecourt steals from his chamber to make that last visit to his
supposed victim.




CHAPTER XII.


Slowly and with difficulty they coax Sir Adrian back to life. Ringwood
had insisted upon telling the old housekeeper at the castle, who had
been in the family for years, the whole story of her master's rescue,
and she, with tears dropping down her withered cheeks, had helped
Ringwood to remove his clothes and make him comfortable. She had also
sat beside him while the captain, stealing out of the house like a
thief, had galloped down to the village for the doctor, whom he had
smuggled into the house without awaking any of the servants.

This caution and secrecy had been decided upon for one powerful reason.
If Arthur Dynecourt should prove guilty of being the author of his
cousin's incarceration, they were quite determined he should not escape
whatever punishment the law allowed. But the mystery could not be quite
cleared up until Sir Adrian's return to consciousness, when they hoped
to have some light thrown upon the matter from his own lips.

In the meantime, should Arthur hear of his cousin's rescue, and know
himself to be guilty of this dastardly attempt to murder, would he not
take steps to escape before the law should lay its iron grasp upon him?
All four conspirators are too ignorant of the power of the law to know
whether it would be justifiable in the present circumstances to place
him under arrest, or decide on waiting until Sir Adrian himself shall
be able to pronounce either his doom or his exculpation.

The doctor stays all night, and administers to the exhausted man, as
often as he dares, the nourishment and good things provided by the old
housekeeper.

When the morning is far advanced, Adrian, waking from a short but
refreshing slumber, looks anxiously around him. Florence, seeing this,
steps aside, as though to make way for Dora to go closer to him. But
Mrs. Talbot, covering her face with her hands, turns aside and sinks
into a chair.

Florence, much bewildered by this strange conduct, stands irresolute
beside the bed, hardly knowing what to do. Again she glances at the
prostrate man, and sees his eyes resting upon her with an expression in
them that makes her heart beat rapidly with sweet but sad recollections.

Then a faint voice falls upon her ear. It is so weak that she is obliged
to stoop over him to catch what he is trying to say.

"Darling, I owe you my life!"

With great feebleness he utters these words, accompanying them with a
glance of utter devotion. How can she mistake this glance, so full of
love and rapture? Perplexed in the extreme, she turns from him, as
though to leave him, but by a gesture he detains her.

"Do not leave me! Stay with me!" he entreats.

Once again, deeply distressed, she looks at Dora. Mrs. Talbot, rising,
says distinctly, but with a shamefaced expression--

"Do as he asks you. Believe me, by his side is your proper place, not
mine."

Saying this, she glides quickly from the room, and does not appear again
for several hours.

By luncheon-time it occurs to the guests that Arthur Dynecourt has not
been seen since last evening.

Ringwood, carrying this news to the sick-room, the little rescuing party
and their auxiliaries, the nurse and doctor, lay their heads together,
and decide that, doubtless, having discovered the escape of his
prisoner, and, dreading arrest, Arthur has quietly taken himself off,
and so avoided the trial and punishment which would otherwise have
fallen upon him.

Ringwood is now of opinion that they have acted unwisely in concealing
the discovery of Sir Adrian in the haunted chamber. By not speaking to
the others, they have given Dynecourt the opportunity of getting away
safely, and without causing suspicion.

"Is it not an almost conclusive proof of his guilt, his running away in
this cowardly fashion?" says Ethel Villiers. "I think papa and Lady
FitzAlmont and everybody should now be told."

So Ringwood, undertaking the office of tale-bearer, goes down-stairs,
and, bringing together all the people still remaining in the house,
astounds them by his revelation of the discovery and release of Sir
Adrian.

The nearest magistrate is sent for, and the case being laid before him,
together with the still further evidence given by Sir Adrian himself,
who has told them in a weak whisper of Arthur's being privy to his
intention of searching the haunted chamber for Florence's bangle on that
memorable day of his disappearance, the magistrate issues a warrant for
the arrest of Arthur Dynecourt.

But it is all in vain; even though two of the cleverest detectives from
Scotland Yard are pressed into the service, no tidings of Arthur
Dynecourt come to light. A man answering to his description, but wearing
spectacles, had been traced as having gone on board a vessel bound for
New York the very day after Sir Adrian was restored to the world, and,
when search in other quarters fails, every one falls into the ready
belief that this spectacled man was in reality the would-be murderer.

So the days pass on, and it is now quite a month since Ringwood and
Florence carried Sir Adrian's senseless form from the haunted chamber,
and still Florence holds herself aloof from the man she loves, and,
though quite as assiduous as the others in her attentions to him, seems
always eager to get away from him, and glad to escape any chance of a
_tete-a-tete_ with him. This she does in defiance of the fact that Mrs.
Talbot never approaches him except when absolutely compelled.

Sir Adrian is still a great invalid. The shock to his nervous system,
the dragging out of those interminable hours in the lonely chamber, and
the strain upon his physical powers by the absence of nutriment for
seven long days and nights, had all combined to shatter a constitution
once robust. He is now greatly improved in health, and has been
recommended by his doctors to try a winter in the south of France or
Algiers.

He shows himself, however, strangely reluctant to quit his home, and,
whenever the subject is mentioned, he first turns his eyes questioningly
upon Florence, if she is present, and then, receiving no returning
glance from her downcast eyes, sighs, and puts the matter from him.

He has so earnestly entreated both Dora and Miss Delmaine not to desert
him, that they have not had the heart to refuse, and as Ringwood is also
staying at the castle, and Ethel Villiers has gained her father's
consent to remain, Mrs. Talbot acting as chaperon, they are by no means
a dull party.

To-day, the first time for over a month, Florence, going to her easel,
draws its cover away from the sketch thereon, and gazes at her work. How
long ago it seems since she sat thus, happy in her thoughts, glad in the
belief that the one she loved loved her! yet all that time his heart had
been given to her cousin. And though now, at odd moments, she has felt
herself compelled to imagine that his every glance and word speaks of
tenderness for her, and not for Dora--still this very knowledge only
hardens her heart toward him, and renders her cold and unsympathetic in
his presence.

No, she will have no fickle lover. And yet, how kind he is--how earnest,
how honest is his glance! Oh, that she could believe all the past to be
an evil dream, and think of him again as her very own, as in the dear
old days gone by!

Even while thinking this she idly opens a book lying on the table near
her, where some brushes and paints are scattered. A piece of paper drops
from between its leaves and flutters to the ground. Lifting it, she sees
it is the letter written by him to Dora, which the latter had brought to
her, here to this very room, when asking her advice as to whether she
should or should not meet him by appointment in the lime-walk.

She drops the letter hurriedly, as though its very touch stings her,
and, rousing herself with bitter self-contempt from her sentimental
regrets, works vigorously at her painting for about an hour, then,
growing wearied, she flings her brushes aside, and goes to the
morning-room, where she knows she will find all the others assembled.

There is nobody here just now however, except Sir Adrian, who is looking
rather tired and bored, and Ethel Villiers. The latter, seeing Florence
enter, gladly gathers up her work and runs away to have a turn in the
garden with Captain Ringwood.

Florence, though sorry for this _tete-a-tete_ that has been forced upon
her, sits down calmly enough, and, taking up a book, prepares to read
aloud to Sir Adrian.

But he stops her. Putting out his hand, he quietly but firmly closes the
book, and then says:

"Not to-day, Florence; I want to speak to you instead."

"Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is
beating somewhat hastily.

"Are you sorry that--that my unhappy cousin proved so unworthy?" he asks
at last, touching upon this subject with a good deal of nervousness. He
can not forget that once she had loved this miserable man.

"One must naturally feel sorry that anything human could be guilty of
such an awful intention," she returns gently, but with the utmost
unconcern.

Sir Adrian stares. Was he mistaken then? Did she never really care for
the fellow, or is this some of what Mrs. Talbot had designated as
Florence's "slyness"? No, once for all he would not believe that the
pure, sweet, true face looking so steadily into his could be guilty of
anything underhand or base.

"It was false that you loved him then?" he questions, following out the
train of his own thoughts rather than the meaning of her last words.

"That I loved Mr. Dynecourt!" she repeats in amazement, her color
rising. "What an extraordinary idea to come into your head! No; if
anything, I confess I felt for your cousin nothing but contempt and
dislike."

"Then, Florence, what has come between us?" he exclaims, seizing her
hand. "You must have known that I loved you many weeks ago. Nay, long
before last season came to a close; and then I believe--forgive my
presumption--that you too loved me."

"Your belief was a true one," she returns calmly, tears standing in her
beautiful eyes. "But you, by your own act, severed us."

"I did?"

"Yes. Nay, Sir Adrian, be as honest in your dealings with me as I am
with you, and confess the truth."

"I don't know what you mean," declares Adrian, in utter bewilderment;
"you would tell me that you think it was some act of mine that--that
ruined my chance with you?"

"You know it was"--reproachfully.

"I know nothing of the kind"--hotly. "I only know that I have always
loved you and only you, and that I shall never love another."

"You forget--Dora Talbot!" says Florence, in a very low tone. "I think,
Sir Adrian, your late coldness to her has been neither kind nor just."

"I have never been either colder or warmer to Dora Talbot than I have
been to any other ordinary acquaintance of mine," returns Sir Adrian,
with considerable excitement. "There is surely a terrible mistake
somewhere."

"Do you mean to tell me," says Florence, rising in her agitation, "that
you never spoke of love to Dora?"

"Certainly I spoke of love--of my love for you," he declares vehemently.
"That you should suppose I ever felt anything for Mrs. Talbot but the
most ordinary friendship seems incredible to me. To you, and you alone,
my heart has been given for many a day. Not the vaguest tenderness for
any other woman has come between my thoughts and your image since first
we met."

"Yet there was your love-letter to her--I read it with my own eyes!"
declares Florence faintly.

"I never wrote Mrs. Talbot a line in my life," says Sir Adrian, more and
more puzzled.

"You will tell me next I did not see you kissing her hand in the
lime-walk last September?" pursues Florence, flushing hotly with shame
and indignation.

"You did not," he declares vehemently. "I swear it. Of what else are
you going to accuse me? I never wrote to her, and I never kissed her
hand."

"It is better for us to discuss this matter no longer," says Miss
Delmaine, rising from her seat. "And for the future I can not--will
not--read to you here in the morning. Let us make an end of this false
friendship now at once and forever."

She moves toward the door as she speaks, but he, closely following,
overtakes her, and, putting his back against the door, so bars her
egress.

He has been forbidden exertion of any kind, and now this unusual
excitement has brought a color to his wan cheeks and a brilliancy to his
eyes. Both these changes in his appearance however only serve to betray
the actual weakness to which, ever since his cruel imprisonment, he has
been a victim.

Miss Delmaine's heart smites her. She would have reasoned with him, and
entreated him to go back again to his lounge, but he interrupts her.

"Florence, do not leave me like this," he pleads in an impassioned tone.
"You are laboring under a delusion. Awake from this dream, I implore
you, and see things as they really are."

"I am awake, and I do see things as they are," she replies sadly.

"My darling, who can have poisoned your mind against me?" he asks, in
deep agitation.

At this moment, as if in answer to his question, the door leading into
the conservatory at the other side of the room is pushed open, and Dora
Talbot enters.

"Ah, here is Mrs. Talbot," exclaims Sir Adrian eagerly; "she will
exonerate me!"

He speaks with such full assurance of being able to bring Dora forward
as a witness in his defense that Florence, for the first time, feels a
strong doubt thrown upon the belief she has formed of his being a
monster of fickleness.

"What is it I can do for you?" asks Dora, in some confusion. Of late she
has grown very shy of being alone with either him or Florence.

"You will tell Miss Delmaine," replies Adrian quickly, "that I never
wrote you a letter, and that I certainly did not--you will forgive my
even mentioning this extraordinary supposition, I hope, Mrs.
Talbot--kiss your hand one day in September in the lime-walk."

Dora turns first hot and then cold, first crimson and then deadly pale.
So it is all out now, and she is on her trial. She feels like the
veriest criminal brought to the bar of justice. Shall she promptly deny
everything, or--No. She has had enough of deceit and intrigue. Whatever
it costs her, she will now be brave and true, and confess all.

"I do tell her so," she says, in a low tone, but yet firmly. "I never
received a letter from you, and you never kissed my hand."

"Dora!" cries Florence. "What are you saying! Have you forgotten all
that is past?"

"Spare me!" entreats Dora hoarsely. "In an hour, if you will come to my
room, I will explain all, and you can then spurn me, and put me outside
the pale of your friendship if you will, and as I well deserve. But, for
the present, accept my assurance that no love passages ever occurred
between me and Sir Adrian, and that I am fully persuaded his heart has
been given to you alone ever since your first meeting."

"Florence, you believe her?" questions Sir Adrian beseechingly. "It is
all true what she has said. I love you devotedly. If you will not marry
me, no other woman shall ever be my wife. My beloved, take pity on me!"

"Trust in him, give yourself freely to him without fear," urges Dora,
with a sob. "He is altogether worthy of you." So saying, she escapes
from the room, and goes up the stairs to her own apartment weeping
bitterly.

"Is there any hope for me?" asks Sir Adrian of Florence when they are
again alone. "Darling, answer me, do, you--can you love me?"

"I have loved you always--always," replies Florence in a broken voice.
"But I thought--I feared--oh, how much I have suffered!"

"Never mind that now," rejoins Sir Adrian very tenderly. He has placed
his arm round her, and her head is resting in happy contentment upon his
breast. "For the future, my dearest, you shall know neither fear nor
suffering if I can prevent it."

       *       *       *       *       *

They are still murmuring tender words of love to each other, though a
good half hour has gone by, when a noise as of coming footsteps in the
conservatory attracts their attention, and presently Captain Ringwood,
with his arm round Ethel Villiers's waist, comes slowly into view.

Totally unaware that any one is in the room besides themselves, they
advance, until, happening to lift their eyes, they suddenly become aware
that their host and Miss Delmaine are regarding them with mingled
glances of surprise and amusement. Instantly they start asunder.

"It is--that is--you see--Ethel, _you_ explain," stammers Captain
Ringwood confusedly.

At this both Sir Adrian and Florence burst out laughing so merrily and
so heartily that all constraint comes to an end, and finally Ethel and
Ringwood, joining in the merriment that has been raised at their
expense, volunteer a full explanation.

"I think," says Ethel, after awhile, looking keenly at Florence and her
host, "you two look just as guilty as we do. Don't they, George?"

"They seem very nearly as happy, at all events," agrees Ringwood, who,
now that he has confessed to his having just been accepted by Ethel
Villiers "for better for worse," is again in his usual gay spirits.

"Nearly? you might say quite," says Sir Adrian, laughing. "Florence, as
we have discovered their secret, I think it will be only honest of us to
tell them ours."

Florence blushes and glances rather shyly at Ethel.

"I know it," cries that young lady, clapping her hands. "You are going
to marry Sir Adrian, Florence, and he is going to marry you!"

At this they all laugh.

"Well, one of those surmises could hardly come off without the other,"
observes Ringwood, with a smile. "So your second guess was a pretty safe
one. If she is right, old man"--turning to Sir Adrian--"I congratulate
you both with all my heart."

"Yes, she is quite right," responds Sir Adrian, directing a glance full
of ardent love upon Florence. "What should I do with the life she
restored to me unless I devoted it to her service?"

"You see, he is marrying me only out of gratitude," says Florence,
smiling archly, but large tears of joy and gladness sparkle in her
lovely eyes.




CHAPTER XIII.


When Florence finds her way, at the expiration of the hour, to Dora's
room, she discovers that fair little widow dissolved in tears, and
indeed sorely perplexed and shamed. The sight of Florence only seems to
render her grief more poignant, and when her cousin, putting her arm
round her, tries to console her, she only responds to the caress by
flinging herself upon her knees, and praying her to forgive her.

And then the whole truth comes out. All the petty, mean, underhand
actions, all the cruel lies, all the carefully spoken innuendoes, all
the false reports are brought into the light and laid bare to the
horrified eyes of Florence.

Dora's confession is thorough and complete in every sense. Not in any
way does she seek to shield herself, or palliate her own share in the
deception practiced upon the unconscious girl now regarding her with
looks of amazement and deep sorrow, but in bitter silence.

When the wretched story is at an end, and Dora, rising to her feet,
declares her intention of leaving England forever, Miss Delmaine stands
like one turned into stone, and says no word either of censure or
regret.

Dora, weeping violently, goes to the door, but, as her hand is raised
to open it, the pressure upon the gentle heart of Florence is suddenly
removed, and in a little gasping voice she bids her stay.

Dora remains quite still, her eyes bent upon the floor, waiting to hear
her cousin's words of just condemnation; expecting only to hear the
scathing words of scorn with which her cousin will bid her begone from
her sight for evermore. But suddenly she feels two soft arms close
around her, and Florence, bursting into tears, lays her head upon her
shoulder.

"Oh, Dora, how could you do it!" she falters, and that is all. Never,
either then or afterward, does another sentence of reproach pass her
lips; and Dora, forgiven and taken back to her cousin's friendship,
endeavors earnestly for the future to avoid such untruthful paths as had
so nearly led her to her ruin.

Sir Adrian, from the hour in which his dearest hopes were realized,
recovers rapidly both his health and spirits; and soon a double wedding
takes place, that makes pretty Ethel Villiers Ethel Ringwood and
beautiful Florence Lady Dynecourt.

A winter spent abroad with his charming bride completely restores Sir
Adrian to his former vigorous state, and, when spring is crowning all
the land with her fair flowers, he returns to the castle with the
intention of remaining there until the coming season demands their
presence in town.

And now once again there is almost the same party brought together at
Dynecourt. Old Lady FitzAlmont and Lady Gertrude are here again, and so
are Captain and Mrs. Ringwood, both the gayest of the gay. Dora Talbot
is here too, somewhat chastened and subdued both in manner and
expression, a change so much for the better that she finds her list
of lovers to be longer now than in the days of yore.

It is an exquisite, balmy day in early April. The sun is shining hotly
without, drinking up greedily the gentle shower that fell half an hour
ago. The guests, who with their host and hostess have been wandering
idly through the grounds, decide to go in-doors.

"It was on a day like this, though in the autumn, that we first missed
Sir Adrian," remarks some one in a half tone confidentially to some one
else, but not so low that the baronet can not hear it.

"Yes," he says quickly, "and it was just over there"--pointing to a
clump of shrubs near the hall door--"that I parted with that unfortunate
cousin of mine."

Lady Dynecourt shudders, and draws closer to her husband.

"It was such a marvelous story," observes a pretty woman who was not at
the castle last autumn, when what so nearly proved to be a tragedy was
being enacted; "quite like a legend or a medieval romance. Dear Lady
Dynecourt's finding him was such a happy finish to it. I must say I have
always had the greatest veneration for those haunted chambers, so seldom
to be found now in any house. Perhaps my regard for them is the stronger
because I never saw one."

"No?" questioningly. "Will you come and see ours now?" says Sir Adrian
readily.

His wife clasps his arm, and a pang contracts her brow.

"You are not frightened now, surely?" says Adrian, smiling at her very
tenderly.

"Yes, I am," she responds promptly. "The very name of that awful room
unnerves me. There is something evil in it, I believe. Do not go there."

"I'll block it up forever if you wish it," declares Sir Adrian; "but,
for the last time, let me go and show its ghostly beauties to Lady
Laughton. I confess, even after all that has happened, it possesses no
terrors for me; it only reminds me of my unpleasant kinsman."

"I wonder what became of him," remarks Ringwood. "He's at the other side
of the world, I should imagine."

"Out of our world, at all events," says Ethel, indifferently.

"Well, let us go," agrees Florence resignedly.

So together they all start once more for the old tower. As they reach
the stone steps Sir Adrian says laughingly to Lady Laughton:

"Now, what do you expect to see? A ghost--a phantom? And in what shape,
what guise?"

"A skeleton," answers Lady Laughton, returning his laugh; and with the
words the door is pushed open, and they enter the room _en masse_.

The sunlight is stealing in through the narrow window holes and faintly
lighting up the dismal room.

What is that in yonder corner, the very corner where Sir Adrian's
almost lifeless body had been found? Is this a trick, a delusion of the
brain? What is this thing huddled together, lying in a heap--a ghastly,
ragged, filthy heap, before their terrified eyes? And why does this
charnel-house smell infect their nostrils? They stagger. Even the strong
men grow pale and faint, for there, before them, gaunt, awful,
unmistakable, lies a skeleton!

Lady Laughton's jesting words have come true--a fleshless corpse indeed
meets their stricken gaze!

Sir Adrian, having hurriedly asked one of the men of the party to
remove Lady Dynecourt and her friends, he and Captain Ringwood proceed
to examine the grewsome body that lies upon the floor; yet, though they
profess to each other total ignorance of what it can be, there is in
their hearts a miserable certainty that appalls them. Is this to be the
end of the mystery? Truly had spoken Ethel Ringwood when she had alluded
to Arthur Dynecourt as being "out of their world," for it is his remains
they are bending over, as a few letters lying scattered about testify
only too plainly.

Caught in the living grave he had destined for his cousin was Arthur
Dynecourt on the night of Sir Adrian's release. The lamp had dropped
from his hand in the first horror of his discovery that his victim had
escaped him. Then followed the closing of the fatal lock and his
insensibility.

On recovering from his swoon, he had no doubt endured a hundred-fold
more tortures than had the innocent Sir Adrian, as his conscience must
have been unceasingly racking and tearing him.

And not too soon either could the miserable end have come. Every pang he
had designed for his victim was his. Not one was spared! Cold and hunger
and the raging fever of thirst were his, and withal a hopelessness more
intolerable than aught else--a hopelessness that must have grown in
strength as the interminable days went by.

And then came death--an awful lingering death, whilst the loathsome rats
had finished the work which starvation and death had begun, and now all
that remained of Arthur Dynecourt was a heap of bones!

They hush the matter up well as they can, but it is many days before
Florence or her husband, or any of their guests, forget the dreadful
hour in which they discovered the unsightly remains of him who had been
overtaken by a just and stern retribution.


THE END.





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