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Page 37
"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.
CHAPTER IX.
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!"
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