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Page 47
But it is all in vain; even though two of the cleverest detectives from
Scotland Yard are pressed into the service, no tidings of Arthur
Dynecourt come to light. A man answering to his description, but wearing
spectacles, had been traced as having gone on board a vessel bound for
New York the very day after Sir Adrian was restored to the world, and,
when search in other quarters fails, every one falls into the ready
belief that this spectacled man was in reality the would-be murderer.
So the days pass on, and it is now quite a month since Ringwood and
Florence carried Sir Adrian's senseless form from the haunted chamber,
and still Florence holds herself aloof from the man she loves, and,
though quite as assiduous as the others in her attentions to him, seems
always eager to get away from him, and glad to escape any chance of a
_t�te-�-t�te_ with him. This she does in defiance of the fact that Mrs.
Talbot never approaches him except when absolutely compelled.
Sir Adrian is still a great invalid. The shock to his nervous system,
the dragging out of those interminable hours in the lonely chamber, and
the strain upon his physical powers by the absence of nutriment for
seven long days and nights, had all combined to shatter a constitution
once robust. He is now greatly improved in health, and has been
recommended by his doctors to try a winter in the south of France or
Algiers.
He shows himself, however, strangely reluctant to quit his home, and,
whenever the subject is mentioned, he first turns his eyes questioningly
upon Florence, if she is present, and then, receiving no returning
glance from her downcast eyes, sighs, and puts the matter from him.
He has so earnestly entreated both Dora and Miss Delmaine not to desert
him, that they have not had the heart to refuse, and as Ringwood is also
staying at the castle, and Ethel Villiers has gained her father's
consent to remain, Mrs. Talbot acting as chaperon, they are by no means
a dull party.
To-day, the first time for over a month, Florence, going to her easel,
draws its cover away from the sketch thereon, and gazes at her work. How
long ago it seems since she sat thus, happy in her thoughts, glad in the
belief that the one she loved loved her! yet all that time his heart had
been given to her cousin. And though now, at odd moments, she has felt
herself compelled to imagine that his every glance and word speaks of
tenderness for her, and not for Dora--still this very knowledge only
hardens her heart toward him, and renders her cold and unsympathetic in
his presence.
No, she will have no fickle lover. And yet, how kind he is--how earnest,
how honest is his glance! Oh, that she could believe all the past to be
an evil dream, and think of him again as her very own, as in the dear
old days gone by!
Even while thinking this she idly opens a book lying on the table near
her, where some brushes and paints are scattered. A piece of paper drops
from between its leaves and flutters to the ground. Lifting it, she sees
it is the letter written by him to Dora, which the latter had brought to
her, here to this very room, when asking her advice as to whether she
should or should not meet him by appointment in the lime-walk.
She drops the letter hurriedly, as though its very touch stings her,
and, rousing herself with bitter self-contempt from her sentimental
regrets, works vigorously at her painting for about an hour, then,
growing wearied, she flings her brushes aside, and goes to the
morning-room, where she knows she will find all the others assembled.
There is nobody here just now however, except Sir Adrian, who is looking
rather tired and bored, and Ethel Villiers. The latter, seeing Florence
enter, gladly gathers up her work and runs away to have a turn in the
garden with Captain Ringwood.
Florence, though sorry for this _t�te-�-t�te_ that has been forced upon
her, sits down calmly enough, and, taking up a book, prepares to read
aloud to Sir Adrian.
But he stops her. Putting out his hand, he quietly but firmly closes the
book, and then says:
"Not to-day, Florence; I want to speak to you instead."
"Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is
beating somewhat hastily.
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