The Haunted Chamber by The Duchess

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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.

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