In the meantime the daylight dwindles, and twilight descends. Even that
too departs, and now darkness falls upon the distressed household, and
still there is no news of Sir Adrian.
Arthur Dynecourt, who is already beginning to be treated with due
respect as the next heir to the baronetcy, has quietly hinted to old
Lady FitzAlmont that perhaps it will be as well, in the extraordinary
circumstances, if they all take their departure. This the old lady,
though strongly disinclined to quit the castle, is debating in her own
mind, and, being swayed by Lady Gertrude, who is secretly rather bored
by the dullness that has ensued on the strange absence of their host,
decides to leave on the morrow, to the great distress of both Dora and
Florence Delmaine, who shrink from deserting the castle while its
master's fate is undecided. But they are also sensible that, to remain
the only female guests, would be to outrage the conventionalities.
Henry Villiers, Ethel's father, is also of opinion that they should all
quit the castle without delay. He is a hunting man, an M.F.H. in his own
county, and is naturally anxious to get back to his own quarters some
time before the hunting-season commences. Some others have already gone,
and altogether it seems to Florence that there is no other course open
to her but to pack up and desert him, whom she loves, in the hour of his
direst need. For there are moments even now when she tells herself that
he is still living, and only waiting for a saving hand to drag him into
smooth waters once again!
A silence has fallen upon the house more melancholy than the loudest
expression of grief. The servants are conversing over their supper in
frightened whispers, and conjecturing moodily as to the fate of their
late master. To them Sir Adrian is indeed dead, if not buried.
In the servants' corridor a strange dull light is being flung upon the
polished boards by a hanging-lamp that is burning dimly, as though
oppressed by the dire evil that has fallen upon the old castle. No sound
is to be heard here in this spot, remote from the rest of the house,
where the servants seldom come except to go to bed, and never indeed
without an inward shudder as they pass the door that leads to the
haunted chamber.
Just now, being at their supper, there is no fear that any of them will
be about, and so the dimly lighted corridor is wrapped in an unbroken
silence. Not quite unbroken, however. What is this that strikes upon the
ear? What sound comes to break the unearthly stillness? A creeping
footstep, a cautious tread, a slinking, halting, uncertain motion,
belonging surely to some one who sees an enemy, a spy in every flitting
shadow. Nearer and nearer it comes now into the fuller glare of the
lamp-light, and stops short at the door so dreaded by the castle
servants.
Looking uneasily around him, Arthur Dynecourt--for it is he--unfastens
this door, and, entering hastily, closes it firmly behind him, and
ascends the staircase within. There is no halting in his footsteps now,
no uncertainty, no caution, only a haste that betokens a desire to get
his errand over as quickly as possible.
Having gained the first landing, he walks slowly and on tiptoe again,
and, creeping up the stone stairs, crouches down so as to bring his ear
on a level with the lower chink of the door.
Alas, all is still; no faintest groan can be heard! The silence of Death
is on all around. In spite of his hardihood, the cold sweat of fear
breaks out upon Dynecourt's brow; and yet he tells himself that now he
is satisfied, all is well, his victim is secure, is beyond the power of
words or kindly search to recall him to life. He may be discovered now
as soon as they like. Who can fix the fact of his death upon him? There
is no blow, no mark of violence to criminate any one. He is safe, and
all the wealth he had so coveted is at last his own!
There is something fiendish in the look of exultation that lights Arthur
Dynecourt's face. He has a small dull lantern with him, and now it
reveals the vile glance of triumph that fires his eyes. He would fain
have entered to gaze upon his victim, to assure himself of his victory,
but he refrains. A deadly fear that he may not yet be quite dead keeps
him back, and, with a frown, he prepares to descend once more.
Again he listens, but the sullen roar of the rising night wind is all
that can be heard. His hand shakes, his face assumes a livid hue, yet he
tells himself that surely this deadly silence is better than what he
listened to last night. Then a ghostly moaning, almost incessant and
unearthly in its sound, had pierced his brain. It was more like the cry
of a dying brute than that of a man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to death!
In his own mind Arthur can see him now, worn, emaciated, lost to all
likeness of anything fair or comely. Have the rats attacked him yet? As
this grewsome thought presents itself, Dynecourt rises quickly from his
crouching position, and, flying down the steps, does not stop running
until he arrives in the corridor below again.
He dashes into this like one possessed; but, finding himself in the
light of the hanging lamp, collects himself by a violent effort, and
looks around.
Yes, all is still. No living form but his is near. The corridor, as he
glances affrightedly up and down, is empty. He can see nothing but his
own shadow, at sight of which he starts and turns pale and shudders.
The next moment he recovers himself, and, muttering an anathema upon his
cowardice, he moves noiselessly toward his room and the brandy-bottle
that has been his constant companion of late.
Yet, here in his own room, he can not rest. The hours go by with laggard
steps. Midnight has struck, and still he paces his floor from wall to
wall, half-maddened by his thoughts. Not that he relents. No feelings of
repentance stir him, there is only a nervous dread of the hour when it
will be necessary to produce the dead body, if only to prove his claim
to the title so dearly and so infamously purchased.
Is he indeed dead--gone past recall? Is this house, this place, the old
title, the chance of winning the woman he would have, all his own? Is
his hated rival--hateful to him only because of his fair face and genial
manners and lovable disposition, and the esteem with which he filled the
hearts of all who knew him--actually swept out of his path?
Again the lurking morbid longing to view the body with his own eyes,
the longing that had been his some hours ago when listening at the fatal
door, seizes hold of him, and grows in intensity with every passing
moment.
At last it conquers him. Lighting a candle, he opens his door and peers
out. No one is astir. In all probability every one is abed, and now
sleeping the sleep of the just--all except him. Will there ever be any
rest or dreamless sleep for him again?
He goes softly down-stairs, and makes his way to the lower door. Meeting
no one, he ascends the stairs like one only half conscious, until he
finds himself again before the door of the haunted chamber.
Then he wakes into sudden life. An awful terror takes possession of him.
He struggles with himself, and presently so far succeeds in regaining
some degree of composure that he can lean against the wall and wipe his
forehead, and vow to himself that he will never descend until he has
accomplished the object of his visit. But the result of this terrible
fight with fear and conscience shows itself in the increasing pallor of
his brow and the cold perspiration that stands thick upon his forehead.
Nerving himself for a final effort, he lays his hand upon the door and
pushes it open. This he does with bowed head and eyes averted, afraid to
look upon his terrible work. A silence, more horrible to his guilty
conscience than the most appalling noises, follows this act; and, again
the nameless terror seizing him, he shudders and draws back, until,
finding the wall behind him, he leans against it gladly, as if for
support.
And now at last he raises his eyes. Slowly at first and cringingly, as
if dreading what they might see. Upon the board at his feet they rest
for a moment, and then glide to the next board, and so on, until his
coward eyes have covered a considerable portion of the floor.
And now, grown bolder, he lifts his gaze to the wall opposite and
searches it carefully. Then his eyes turn again to the floor. His face
ghastly, and with his eyes almost darting from their sockets, he compels
himself to bring his awful investigation to an end. Avoiding the corners
at first, as though there he expects his vile deed will cry aloud to him
demanding vengeance, he gazes in a dazed way at the center of the
apartment, and dwells upon it stupidly, until he knows he must look
further still; and then his dull eyes turn to the corners where the
dusky shadows lie, brought thither by the glare of his small lantern.
Reluctantly, but carefully, he scans the apartment, no remotest spot
escapes his roused attention. But no object, dead or living, attracts
his notice! The room is empty!
He staggers. His hold upon the door relaxes. His lamp falls to the
ground; the door closes with a soft but deadly thud behind him,
and--he is a prisoner in the haunted chamber! As the darkness closes
in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to
contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels; a fearful scream
issues from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible.