The Haunted Chamber by The Duchess

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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!"

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