When Florence finds her way, at the expiration of the hour, to Dora's
room, she discovers that fair little widow dissolved in tears, and
indeed sorely perplexed and shamed. The sight of Florence only seems to
render her grief more poignant, and when her cousin, putting her arm
round her, tries to console her, she only responds to the caress by
flinging herself upon her knees, and praying her to forgive her.
And then the whole truth comes out. All the petty, mean, underhand
actions, all the cruel lies, all the carefully spoken innuendoes, all
the false reports are brought into the light and laid bare to the
horrified eyes of Florence.
Dora's confession is thorough and complete in every sense. Not in any
way does she seek to shield herself, or palliate her own share in the
deception practiced upon the unconscious girl now regarding her with
looks of amazement and deep sorrow, but in bitter silence.
When the wretched story is at an end, and Dora, rising to her feet,
declares her intention of leaving England forever, Miss Delmaine stands
like one turned into stone, and says no word either of censure or
regret.
Dora, weeping violently, goes to the door, but, as her hand is raised
to open it, the pressure upon the gentle heart of Florence is suddenly
removed, and in a little gasping voice she bids her stay.
Dora remains quite still, her eyes bent upon the floor, waiting to hear
her cousin's words of just condemnation; expecting only to hear the
scathing words of scorn with which her cousin will bid her begone from
her sight for evermore. But suddenly she feels two soft arms close
around her, and Florence, bursting into tears, lays her head upon her
shoulder.
"Oh, Dora, how could you do it!" she falters, and that is all. Never,
either then or afterward, does another sentence of reproach pass her
lips; and Dora, forgiven and taken back to her cousin's friendship,
endeavors earnestly for the future to avoid such untruthful paths as had
so nearly led her to her ruin.
Sir Adrian, from the hour in which his dearest hopes were realized,
recovers rapidly both his health and spirits; and soon a double wedding
takes place, that makes pretty Ethel Villiers Ethel Ringwood and
beautiful Florence Lady Dynecourt.
A winter spent abroad with his charming bride completely restores Sir
Adrian to his former vigorous state, and, when spring is crowning all
the land with her fair flowers, he returns to the castle with the
intention of remaining there until the coming season demands their
presence in town.
And now once again there is almost the same party brought together at
Dynecourt. Old Lady FitzAlmont and Lady Gertrude are here again, and so
are Captain and Mrs. Ringwood, both the gayest of the gay. Dora Talbot
is here too, somewhat chastened and subdued both in manner and
expression, a change so much for the better that she finds her list
of lovers to be longer now than in the days of yore.
It is an exquisite, balmy day in early April. The sun is shining hotly
without, drinking up greedily the gentle shower that fell half an hour
ago. The guests, who with their host and hostess have been wandering
idly through the grounds, decide to go in-doors.
"It was on a day like this, though in the autumn, that we first missed
Sir Adrian," remarks some one in a half tone confidentially to some one
else, but not so low that the baronet can not hear it.
"Yes," he says quickly, "and it was just over there"--pointing to a
clump of shrubs near the hall door--"that I parted with that unfortunate
cousin of mine."
Lady Dynecourt shudders, and draws closer to her husband.
"It was such a marvelous story," observes a pretty woman who was not at
the castle last autumn, when what so nearly proved to be a tragedy was
being enacted; "quite like a legend or a medieval romance. Dear Lady
Dynecourt's finding him was such a happy finish to it. I must say I have
always had the greatest veneration for those haunted chambers, so seldom
to be found now in any house. Perhaps my regard for them is the stronger
because I never saw one."
"No?" questioningly. "Will you come and see ours now?" says Sir Adrian
readily.
His wife clasps his arm, and a pang contracts her brow.
"You are not frightened now, surely?" says Adrian, smiling at her very
tenderly.
"Yes, I am," she responds promptly. "The very name of that awful room
unnerves me. There is something evil in it, I believe. Do not go there."
"I'll block it up forever if you wish it," declares Sir Adrian; "but,
for the last time, let me go and show its ghostly beauties to Lady
Laughton. I confess, even after all that has happened, it possesses no
terrors for me; it only reminds me of my unpleasant kinsman."
"I wonder what became of him," remarks Ringwood. "He's at the other side
of the world, I should imagine."
"Out of our world, at all events," says Ethel, indifferently.
"Well, let us go," agrees Florence resignedly.
So together they all start once more for the old tower. As they reach
the stone steps Sir Adrian says laughingly to Lady Laughton:
"Now, what do you expect to see? A ghost--a phantom? And in what shape,
what guise?"
"A skeleton," answers Lady Laughton, returning his laugh; and with the
words the door is pushed open, and they enter the room _en masse_.
The sunlight is stealing in through the narrow window holes and faintly
lighting up the dismal room.
What is that in yonder corner, the very corner where Sir Adrian's
almost lifeless body had been found? Is this a trick, a delusion of the
brain? What is this thing huddled together, lying in a heap--a ghastly,
ragged, filthy heap, before their terrified eyes? And why does this
charnel-house smell infect their nostrils? They stagger. Even the strong
men grow pale and faint, for there, before them, gaunt, awful,
unmistakable, lies a skeleton!
Lady Laughton's jesting words have come true--a fleshless corpse indeed
meets their stricken gaze!
Sir Adrian, having hurriedly asked one of the men of the party to
remove Lady Dynecourt and her friends, he and Captain Ringwood proceed
to examine the grewsome body that lies upon the floor; yet, though they
profess to each other total ignorance of what it can be, there is in
their hearts a miserable certainty that appalls them. Is this to be the
end of the mystery? Truly had spoken Ethel Ringwood when she had alluded
to Arthur Dynecourt as being "out of their world," for it is his remains
they are bending over, as a few letters lying scattered about testify
only too plainly.
Caught in the living grave he had destined for his cousin was Arthur
Dynecourt on the night of Sir Adrian's release. The lamp had dropped
from his hand in the first horror of his discovery that his victim had
escaped him. Then followed the closing of the fatal lock and his
insensibility.
On recovering from his swoon, he had no doubt endured a hundred-fold
more tortures than had the innocent Sir Adrian, as his conscience must
have been unceasingly racking and tearing him.
And not too soon either could the miserable end have come. Every pang he
had designed for his victim was his. Not one was spared! Cold and hunger
and the raging fever of thirst were his, and withal a hopelessness more
intolerable than aught else--a hopelessness that must have grown in
strength as the interminable days went by.
And then came death--an awful lingering death, whilst the loathsome rats
had finished the work which starvation and death had begun, and now all
that remained of Arthur Dynecourt was a heap of bones!
They hush the matter up well as they can, but it is many days before
Florence or her husband, or any of their guests, forget the dreadful
hour in which they discovered the unsightly remains of him who had been
overtaken by a just and stern retribution.
THE END.