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Page 40
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.
CHAPTER X.
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!
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