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Page 41
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!
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