The Haunted Chamber by The Duchess

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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.

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