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.