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!"
He speaks with such an air of truth, of thorough belief in her guilt,
that Dora is dazed, bewildered, and, falling back from him, covers her
face with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intrigue
brought into the glare of day, fills her with consternation. And then,
what will she gain by it? Nothing; she has no evidence on which to
convict this man; all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels the
weakness of her position, and her inability to follow up her accusation.
"Ah, how like a guilty creature you stand there!" exclaims Dynecourt,
regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this must
be looked into. Miserable woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you had
better declare it now."
"Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him with
horror and defiance. "You triumph now, because, as yet, I have no
evidence to support my belief, but"--she hesitates.
"Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy me
while you can. To-day I shall set the blood-hounds of the law upon your
track, so beware--beware!"
"You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, and
treating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."
She turns from him, and leaves the room as she finishes speaking; but,
though her words have been defiant there is no kindred feeling in her
heart to bear her up.
When the door closes between them, the flush dies out of her face, and
she looks even more wan and hopeless than she did before seeking his
presence. She can not deny to herself that her mission has been a
failure. He has openly scoffed at her threats, and she is aware that she
has not a shred of actual evidence wherewith to support her suspicion;
the bravado with which he has sought to turn the tables upon herself
both frightens and disheartens her, and now she confesses to herself
that she knows not where to turn for counsel.