Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 26, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 18 December 1886 — Page 8

8

:w*

THE MAIL.

A

PAPEk for -the

People!

TERRE HAUTE DEC. 18, 1886.

THE

-g

Haunted Chamber.

BY "THE DUCHESS."

Author of "Monica,"

"Mono

ScuHy"

"Phyllis:' etc., etc.

CnAFTEU 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 ladv, 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 quests, would be to outrage the conventionalities.

Ilenry Villiers, Ethel's father, is also /.nit.w-.n tit'it they should U1 nuit the delay. an M. F. II. in his own count

of onimon that they should all quittho castl man, an M. F. IT. 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 liim 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 hoards by a hanging-lamp that is burning dimly, as though oppressed by the dire evil that has fallen upon the old ciistle. 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.

Justjiow. 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. W.iat 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 Dvnecourt—for it is he—unfastens the door, and, entering hastily, closes it firmlv 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 quick as possible.

Having gained the first landing, he walks slowly and on tiptoe again, and, creeping up the stone stairs, crouches down so lis 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 all around. In spite of his hardihood, the cold sweat of fear breaks out upon Dyneeourt'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 anv one. He is safe, and all the wealth he had so coveted is at last his own!

There is something fiendish in the look of exultation that lights Arthur Dyneeourt's face. He has a small dull lantern with him, and now it reveals tho vile glance of triumph that fires his eyes. lie would fain have entered to ga*e upon his victim, to assure himself of his victory, but he refrains. A deadly fear that he may not yet be quite tfead keeps him back, and, with a frown, he prepares to descend once more.

Again he listens, but the sullen roar ef the rising night wind is all that can be heard. II is hand shakes, his face assumes a livid hue, yet he tells himself that surely this deadly silence is better than he listened to last night. Then a ghostly moaning, almost incessant and unearthly in sound, had pierced his brain. I*t was more like the cry of a dyinj^ brute than that of a man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to death! In his own mino Arthur can see him now. worn, emaciated, lost to all likeness of anything fair or comely. Have the rata attacked him yet? As this grewsome thought presents itself, Dynecourt rises quietly from his crouching position, and, flying down the steps, does not stop running until be arrives in the corridor below again.

He dashes into this like one posses-

Yes, all is still. No living form bnt his is near. The corridor, as he glances affrightedly up and down, isemptv. He can see nothing but his own shadow. at sight of which he starts and tarns 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-botUe 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 nsces his flew from wall to wall, hair-maddened by his thoughts. Not that he relents. Ko feelings of repentance stirs him, there is only a nervous dread of the hour when it will be n«£ WWW IP

only td 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 hateful 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. Aja awful terror takes possession of him. He struggles with himself, and presently so far succeeds in regaining some degree of composure that ne 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 boweu head and eyes averted, afraid to look upon his terrible work. A silence more norible to his guilty conscience than the most appalling noises, follows this act and, again the nameless terror seizing 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 «yes 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 lie expects his vile deed will cry aloud to him demanding vengeance, he ga7.es 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 noticel The room is empty!

He staggers. His hold upon the door relaxes. Ilia lamp falls to the ground the door closes with a soft but deadly thud behind him, and—he is a prisoner in the haunted chamber! As tne darkness closes in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels a fearful scream ivnus from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible.

CHAPTER XI.

Dora, after her interview with Arthur Dynecourt, feels indeed that all is lost. Hope is abandoned—nothing remains but despair and in this instance despair gains in poignancy by the knowledge that she believes she knows the man who would help them to a solution of their troubles if he ever would or dared. No clearly he dare not! Therefore.no assistance can be looked for from him.

Dinner at the castle has been a promiscuous sort of entertainment for the past three or four days, so Dora feels no compunction in declining to go to it. In her own room she sits brooding miserably over her inability to be of any use in the present crisis, when she suddenly remembers that she had promised in the afternoon when with Florence to give her, later on, an account of her effort to obtain the truth about this mystery which is harrowing them.

It is now eleven o'clock and Dora decides that she must see Florence at once. Rising, wearily, she is about to cross the corridor to her cousin's room, when, the door opening, she sees Florence, with a pale face and agitated, coining toward her. "You, Florence!" she exclaims. "I was just going to you, to tell you that my hopes of this afternoon are all—" *Let me speak," interrupts Florence breathlessly. "I must, or—" She sinks into a chair, her eyes close, and involuntarily she lays her hand upon her heart as if to allay its tumultuous beating.

contents freely over the fainting girl. Florence, with a sigh, rouses herself, and sits upright. "There is no time to lose," she says confusedlv. "Oh, Doral" Here she breaks down and bursts into tears. "Try to compose yourself," entreats Dora, seeing the girl has some important news to impart, but is so nervous and unstrung as to be almost incapable of speaking with any coherence. But presently Florence grows calmer, and then, her voice becoming clear and full, she Is able to unburden her heart. "All this day I have been oppressed bv a curious restlessness," she savs to Dora and, when you left me this afternoon, your vague promises of being able to elucidate the terrible secret that is weighing us down made me even more unsettled. I did not go down to dinner—" "Neither did I," puts in Mrs. Talbot sympathetically. "I wandered up and down my room for at least two hours, thinking always, and waiting for the moment when you would return, according to promise, and tell me the success of your hidden enterprise. You did not come, and at half past nine, unable to stay any longer in my own room with only my own thoughts for company. I opened my door, and, listening intently, found by the deep silence that reigned throughout the house that almost everyone was gone, if not to bed, at least to their own rooms." "Lady FitiAlmont and Gertrude passed to their rooms about an hoar ago." says Dora. "Bat some of the men. lUtink. are Mill the smoking-room." "I did not of them. I stole from my nm and roamed kily through the haib, Suddenly a great— I can not feelo thinking now sap^£

TERBE HAUTE SATURDAY BVEKliSTG, MAIL.

naturally strong—desirfe to go into the servants' corridor took possession of me. Without allowing myself an instant hesitation, I turned in its direction, and walked on until I reached it."

She pauses here, and draws her breath nroidly. "Go on," entreats Dora impatiently. "The lamp was burning dimly. The servants were all down-stairs—at their supper, I

suppose—because

there was

no trace of them anywhere. Not a sound could be heard. The whole place looked melancholy and deserted, and filled me with a sense of awe I could not overcome. Still it attracted me. I lingered there, walking up and down until its very monotony wearied mp even then I was loath to leave it, and, turning into a small sitting-ioom, I stood staring idly around me. At last, somewhere in the distance I heard a clock strike ten, and, turning, I decided on going back once more to my room."

Again, emotion overcoming her Florence pauses, and leans back in her chair. ""Well, but what is there in all this to terrify you so much?" demands her cousin, somewhat bewildered. "Ah, give me time! Now I am coming to it." replies Florence quickly. "You know tne large screen that stands in the corridor just outside the sitting-room I have mentioned—put there, I imagine to break the draught? Well, I had come out of the room and was standing half-hidden by this screen, when I saw something that paralyzed me with fear."

She rises to her feet and grows deadly pale as she says this, as though the sensation of fear she has been describing has come to her again. "You saw—" prompts Dora, rising too, and trembling violently, as though in expectation of some fatal tidings. "I saw the door of the room that leads to the haunted chamber slow'y move. It opened the door that has been locked for nearly fifty years, and that has filled the breasts of all the servants here with terror and dismay, was cautiously thrown open! A scream rose to my lips,but I was either too terrified to give utterance to it, or else some strong determination too know what would follow restrained me, and I stood silent, like one turned into stone. I had instinctively moved back a step or two, and was now completely hidden from sight, though I could see all that was passing in the corridor through a hole in the frame-work of the screen. At last a figure came with hesitating footsteps from behind the door into the full glare of the flickering lamp. I could see him distinctly. It was—" "Arthur Dynecourt!" cries the widow, covering her ghastly face with her hands.

Florence regards her with surprise. "It was," she says at last. "But how did you guess it?" "I knew it," cries Dora frantically. "He has murdered him, he has hidden his body awav in that forgotten chamber. lie was*gloating over his victim, no doubt, just before you saw him, stealing tlown from a secret visit to the scene of his crime." "Dora," exclaims Florence, grasping her arm, "if he should not have murderhim after all, if he should only have secured him there, holding him prisoner until he should see his way more clearly to getting rid .of hiffil If this idea be the correct one, we may yet be in time to save, to rescue him!"

The agitation of the past hours proving now too much for her. Florence bursts into tears and sobs wildly. "Alas, I dare not believe in any s^ch hope!" says Dora. "I know that man too well to think him capable of showing any mercy." id yet

lVtru

l#S (U1J U4V1

"And yet 'that man,' as you call him, ou would once have earnestly recommended to me as a husband!" returns Florence, sternly. "Do not reproach me now," exclaims Dora "later on you shall say to me all you wish, but now moments are precious." "You are right. Something must be done. Shall I—shall I speak to Mr. Villiers?"

you would once have earnestly recom

Jf

"I hardlv know what to advise"—distractedly.* "If we give our suspicion publicity, Arthur Dynecourt may even yet find time and opportunity to baffle and disappoint us. Besides which, we may be wrong. Ho may have had nothing to do with it, and—"

At that rate, if secrecy is to be our first thought, let you ana me go alone in search of Sir Adrian." "Alone, and at this hour, to that awful room!" exclaims Dora, recoiling from her. "Yes. at

once"—firmly—"without

an­

other moment's delay. "Oh, I can not!" declares Dora, shuddering violently. "Then I shall go alonel"

As Florence says this, she takes up her candlestick and moves quickly toward the door. "Stay. I will go," cries Dora trembling. But a slight interruption occurring at this instant, they are compelled to wait for awhile.

Ethel Villiers, coming into the room to make her parting adieus to Mrs. Talbot, as she and her father intend leaving next morning, gazes anxiously from Florence to Dora, seeing plainly that there is something amiss. "What is it?" she asks kindly, going up to Florence.

Miss Delmaine. after a little hesitation. encouraged by a glance at Dora's terrified countenance, determines on taking the new-comer into their confidence.

In a few words she explains all that has taken place, and their suspicion. Ethel, though paling beneath th« horror and surprise occasioned by the recital, does not lose her self-possession. "I will go with you," she volunteers. •But, let me say* she adds, "I think you are wrong in making this search without a man. If—if indeed we are still in time to be of any use to poor Sir Adrian—always supposing he really is secreted in that terrible room—I do rfbt think any of us would be strong enough to help him down the stairs, andjf he has been slowly starving ail this time, think how weak he will be!" "Oh, what a wretched picture yon conjure up!" exclaims Florence, nerv­

ously

clasping her hands. "Bat yoa

are right, and now ten me who yon think cut best be depended upon in this crisis.* "I am sore,* says Ethel, blushing slightly, but speaking with intense earnestness, "that, ir yoa would not mind trusting Captain Rinrwood, he would be both safe and useful."

As this suggestion meets with approval, they manage to convey a message to the captain, and In a very few minutes he is with them, and Is made acquainted with their hopes and fears.

Silently, cautiously, without any light, but carrying two mall hums

the secret stolroMP.

that tods to

Turning the handle of this door, Captain Ringwood discovers that it is locked, but, nothing daunted, he pulls it so violently backward and forward that the lock, rusty with age, gives way and leaves the passage beyond open to them.

Going into the small landing at the foot of the staircase, they close the door carefully after them, and then, captain Ringwood producing some matches, they light the two lamps and

fearts,

swiftly, with anxiously beating up the stairs. The second door is reached, and now nothing remains but to mount the last flight of steps and open the fajtal door.

Their hearts at this trying moment almost fail them. They look into one another's blanched faces, and look there in vain for hope. At last, Ringwood, touching Ethel's arm, says, in a whisper— "Come, have courage—all may yet be well!"

He moves toward the stone steps, and they follow him. Quickly mounting them, he lays his hand upon the door, and, afraid to give them any more time for reflection or dread of what may yet be in store for them, throws it open.

At first the feeble light from their lamps fails to penetrate the darkness of tne gloomy apartment. At the cursory glance, such as they at first cast round the room, it appears to be empty. Their hearts sink within them. Have they indeed hoped in vain!

Dora is crying bitterly Ethel, with her eyes fixed, upon Ringwood, is reading her own disappointment in his face, when suddenly a piercing cry from Florence wakes the echoes round them.

She has darted forward, and is kneeling over something that even now is barely discernible to the others as they come nearer to it. It looks like a bundle of clothes, but, as they stoop over it, they, too. can see that it is in reality a human body, and apparently rigid in death.

N

But the shriek that has sprung from the very soul of Florence has reached some still living fibers in the brain of this forlorn creature. Slowly and with difficulty he raises his head, and opens a pair of fast-glazing eyes. Mechanically his glance falls upon Florence. His lips move a melancholy smile struggles to show itself upon his parched and blackened lips. "Florence," he rather sighs than say3, and falls back, to

A deadly silence has fallen upon the little group now gazing solemnly dowu upon his quiet form. Florence, holding him closely to her heart, is gently rocking him to and fro, as though she will not be dissuaded that he still lives.

At length Captain Ringwood, stooping pitifully over her, loosens her hold so far as to enable him to lay his hand upon Sir Adrian's heart. After a moment, during which they all watch him closely, he starts, and, looking still closer into the face that a second ago he believed dead, he says, with subdued but deep excitement— "There may yet be time! He breathes —his heart beats! Who will help me to carry him out of this dungeon?"

He shudders as he glances round him. "I will," replies Florence calmly. These words of hope have steadied her and braced her nerves. Ethei and Mrs. Talbot, carrying the lamps, go on before, while Ringwood and Florence, having lifted the senseless body of Adrian, now indeed sufficiently light to be an easy burden, follow them.

Reaching the corridor, they cross it hurriedly, and carrying Adrian up a back staircase that leads to Captain Ringwood's room by a circuitous route, they gain it without encountering a single soul, and lay him gently down on Ringwood's bea, almost at tne very moment that midnight chimes from the old tower, and only a few minutes before Arthur Dynecourt steals f/om his chamber to make that last visit to his supposed victim.

CHAPTER. XII.

Slowly and with difficulty they coax Sir Adrian back to life. Ringwood had insisted upon telling the old housekeeper at the castle, who has been in the family for years, the whole story of her master's rescue, and she, with tears dropping down her withered cheeks, has helped Ringwood to remove his clothes and make him comfortable. She had also sat beside him while the captain, stealing out of the house like a thief, had galloped down to the village for the doctor, whom he had smuggled into the house without awaking_any of the servants.

This caution and secrecy had been decided upon for one powerful reason. If Arthur Dynecourt should prove guilty of being the author of his cousin's incarceration, they were quite determined he should not escape whatever punishment the law allowed. But the mystery could not be quite cleared up until Sir Adrian's return to consciousness, when they hoped to have some light thrown upon the matter from his own lips.

In the meantime, should Arthur bear of his cousin's rescue, and know himself to be guilty of this dastardly attempt to murder, would he not take steps to escape before the law should lay its iron grasp upon him? All four conspirators are too ignorant of the power of the law to know whether it would be justifiable in the present circumstances to place him under arrest, or decide on waiting until Sir Adrian himself shall be able to. pronounce either his doom or his exculpation. lit, and adman, as

The doctor stays all nij ministers to the exhausted often as he dares, the nourishment and things provided by the old housegood thii keeper.

When the morning is far advanced, Adrian, waking from a short bat refreshing slumber looks anxiously around Mm. Florence, seeing this steps aside, as though to make way for Dora to go doser to him. But Hrs. Talbot.,covering her face with her

nanus, turns aside and sinks into a chair. Florence, much bewildered by this strange conduct, stands irresolute beside the bed. hardly knowing what to do. Again she glances at the prostrate man, and sees his eyes

resting

upon

her with an expression in them that makes her heart beat rapidly with sweet but sad recollections.

Then a faint voice falls upon her ear. It is so weak that she is obliged to stoop over him to catch what he is trying to say. "Darling, I owe you my life!"

With great feebleness he utters these words, accompanying them with & glance of utter devotion. How can she mistake his glance, so full of love and rapture? Perplexed in the extreme, she turns from him, as though to leave him, but by a gesture he detains her. "Do not leave me! Stay with me!" he entreats.

Once again, deeply distressed, she looks at Dora. Mrs. Talbot, rising, says distinctly, but with a shamefaced expression— •\Do as he asks you. Believe me, by his side is your proper place, not mine.

Saying this, she glides quickly from the room, and does not appear again for hours.

By luncheon-time it occurs to the lests that Arthur Dynecourt has not teen seen since last evening.

gu be

Ringwood, carrying this news to the sick-room, tne little rescuing psuty and their auxiliaries, the nurse and doctor, lay their heads together, and decide that, doubtless, having discovered tli6 escape of his prisoner, and, dreading arrest, Arthur has quietly taken himself off, and so avoided the trial and

Eave

all appearance, dead.

"He is not dead!" cries Florence passionately, "He can not be! Oh, save him, save him! Adrian, look up— speak to me. Oh, Adrian, make somo sign that you can hear me!"

But he makes no sijju. His very breath seems to have lelt him. Gathering him tenderly in her arms, Florence presses his worn and wasted face against her bosom, and pushes back the hair from his forehead, lie is so completely altered, so thorough a wreck has he become, that it is indeed only the eyes of love that could recognize him. His cheeks have fallen in, and deep hollows show themselves. IDs beard has grown, and is now rough and stubbly his hair is uncombed, the lines of want, despair, and cruel starvation have blotted out all the old fairness Of his features. His clothes are hanging loosely about him his hands, limp anil nerveless, are lying by his side. Who shall tell what agony he has suffered during these past lonely days with death—an awful, creeping, gnawing death staring him in the facer'

unishment which would otherwise fallen upon him. Ringwood is now of opinion that they have acted unwisely in concealing the discovery of Sir Adrian in the haunted chamber. By not speaking to the others, they have given Dynecourt the opportunity of getting away safely, and without causing suspicion. "Is it not an almost conclusive proof of his guilt, his running away in this cowardly fashion?" says Ethel illiers. "I think papa and Lady FitzAlmont and everybody should be told."

So Ringwood, undertaking the office

by his revelation of the discovery and release of Sir Adrian. The nearest magistrate is sent for, and the case being laid before him. together with the still further evidence iven by Sir Adrian himself, who has told them in a weak whisper of Ar thur's being privy to his intention of searching the haunted chamber for Florence's bangle on that memorable day of his disappearance- the magistrate issues a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Dynecourt.

Bnt it is all in vain even though two of the cleverest detectives from Scotland Yard are pressod 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 tnis spectacled man was in reality the wonld-be murderer.

So the days pass on, and it is now

S'lorence

uite a month since Ringwood and carried Sir Adrian 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 hii seems always eager to get away from aim, and glad to escape any chance of a tete-a-tete 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, ana 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 I yet all that time his heart had been given to her cousin. And though now at odd moments,

she

There

has felt herself

compelled to imagine that his every

for

iance and word speaks of tenderness 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 nonest in his glance! Oh, that she could believe all the past to be an evil dream, and think or him again as her very own, as in the dear old days gone

^Even while thinking this she idly opens a book lying on the table near her, where some brushes and paint are scattered. Apiece 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-con-tempt from her sentimental regrets, works vigorously at her painting for about an hour, teen, growing wearied, she flings her brushes aside, and goea to the morning-room, where she knows she will find all the others assembled.

ever, rather ... iers. The latter, seeing Florence enter, gladly gathers up her work and runs away to have a turn in the garden with away to have a tun Captain Ringwood.

Florence, though

rh sorrr for this feto-a

me that has been

foSSrf

upon her, sits

down calmly enough, and, takin* up a book, prepares to read aloud to Sir Adrian.

But he stops her. Putting out hist hand, he quietly but firmly closes the book, and tnen says "Not to-day, Florence I want to# speak to you instead." "Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is beating hastily. "Are you sorry that—that my unhappy cousin proved so unworthy?" ne^ asks at last, touching upon this subject, with a good deal of nervousness. He, can not forget that once she had lovedi this miserable man. "One must naturally feel sorry thatil anything human could be guilty of such an awful intention," she returns. gently, but with the utmost unconcern.

Sir Adrian stares. Was he mistaken l| then? Did she never really care for the fellow, or is this some of what Mrs.' Talbot has designated as Florence's^ "slyness"? No, once for all he would not believe that the pure, sweet, true face looking so steadily into his could be guilty of anything underhand or base. "It was false that you loved him E

then?" he questions, following out the train of his own thoughts rather tin

1 tlve

than

the meaning of her last words. "That I loved Mr. Dynecourt!" she repeats in amazement, her color rising. "What an extraordinary idea to come into fess contempt and dislike." "Then, Florence, what has come between us?" he exclaims, seizing her hand. "You must have known that I loved you many weeks ago. Nay, long before last season came to a close and then I believe—forgive my presumption—that von too loved me." "Your belief was a true one," she returns calmly, tears standing in lier beautiful eyes. "But you, by your own act, severed us." "I did?" "Yes. Nay, Sir Adrian, be honest in. your dealings with mo sis I am with* you, and confess the truth." "I don't know what you moan," declares Adrian, in utter bewilderment "you would tell me that you think it was some act of mine that—that ruined my chance with you?" "You know it was"—reproachfully. "I know nothing of the kind"—hotly. "I only know that I have always loved you and only you, and that I shall never love another." "You forget—Dora Talbot!" saya Florence, in a very low tone. "I think, Sir Adrian, your late coldness to her has been neither kind nor just." "I have never been either colder or warmer to Dora Talbot than I havo been to any other ordinary acquaintance of mine," returns Sir Adrian, with considerable excitement. "Thereis surely a terrible mistake somewhere." "Do you mean to toll me," says Florence, rising in her agitation, "that you never spoke of love to Dora?" "Certainly I spoke of love—of my lovo for you," he declares vehemently. "That you shall suppose I ever felt anything for Mrs. Talbot but the most ordinarv friendship seems incredible to me. To you, and you alone, mv heart lias been given ninny a day. Not tho vaguest tenderness for any other woman has come between my thoughts and your imago since first we met." "Yet thero was your love-letter to her—I read it with my own eyes!" declares Florence faintly. "I never wrote Mrs. Talbot a line hi my life," says Sir Adrian, more ami more puzzled. "You will toll me next I did not see* you kissing her hand in the lime-walk last September?" pursw Florence, flushing hotly with shame and indignation. "You did not," he declares vehemently. "1 swear it. Of what else are you going to accuse me? 1 never wrote to her, and I never kissed her hand." "It is better for us not to discuss this matter any longer," saysMiss Delmaine, rising from lier seat. "And for the future I can not—will not—read to you here in the morning. Let us make an end of this false friendship now at once and forever."

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She moves toward the door as sh speaks, but he, closely following, over takes her, and. putting his backagains the door, so bars her egress.

He has been forbidden exertion any kind, and now this unusual excitement has brought a color to his wan cheeks and a brilliancy to his eyes Both these changes in his appearanc however only serve to betray tne actu al weakness to which, ever since his cruel imprisonment, he has been a vie tim.

Miss Delmaine's heart smites her. She would have reasoned with him and entreated him to go back again to his lounge, but he interrupts her. "Florence do not leave me like this,' he pleads in an impassioned tone "You are laboring under a delusion Awake from this dream, I implore you and see things as they really are." "I am awake, and 1 do see things as they are," she replies sadly. "My darling, who can have poisoned your mind against me?" she says, deep agitation.

At this moment, as if in answer his question the door leading into th conservatory at the other side of th room is pushed open, and Dora Talbo enters. "Ah. here is Mrs. Talbot," exclaim Sir Aarian eagerly "she will exonera' me!"

He speaks with such full assuran of being able to bring Dora forward a witness in his defense that Florence for the first time, feels a strong doub thrown upon the belief she has form of his being a monster of fickleness. "What is it I can do for you?" ask Dora, in some confusion. Of late sh has grown very shy of being alone wit either him or Florence. "You will tell Miss Delmaine," repli Adrian quickly, "that I never wrot you a letter, and that I certainly di not—you will forgive my even mentio ing this extraordinary supposition, hope, Mrs. Talbot—kiss your hand on day in September in the lime-walk." ay li—.

Dora turns first hot and then cold first crimson and then deadly pale, f* it is all out now, and she is on he trial. She feels like the veriest crimi nal brought to the bar of justice. Sbal she promptly deny everything, or—No She has had enough of deceit and trigue. Whatever it costs her. she wil now be brave and true, and confess all "I do tell her so," she says, in a tone, but yet firmly. "I never receiv a letter from yon, and you never my hand." "Dora!" cries Florence. "What yon saying! Have you forgotten a that is past?" "Spare me!" entreats Dora hoarsel in an hour, if you will come to room, I will explain all, and yon ca then spurn me. and put me outside th pate of your friendship if you will, ar as I well deserve. But, for the pre ent, accept my assurance that no lor

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