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.