by Duchess
CHAPTER V.
Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. Shehas thrown open the casement, and now--the sleeves of her dressing-gownfalling back from her bare rounded arms--leans out so that thedescending night-dews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.
She is wrapped in melancholy; her whole soul is burdened with thoughtsand regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed andperplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the loveshe once had deemed her own.
The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair fallsin a luxuriant shower about her shoulders; her plaintive face is raisedfrom earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfortthere.
The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long sinceceased their song; the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the statelytrees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats pasther and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar theserenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.
Yet, hark, what is this? A footstep on the gravel path below arouses herattention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and,turning her head, glances in the direction of the sound.
Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as thoughabsorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward untilhe stands beneath her window. Here he pauses, as though almostunconsciously his spirit has led him thither, and brought him to astandstill where he would most desire to be.
The moon, spreading its brilliance on all around, permits Florence tosee that his face is grave and thoughtful, and--yes, as she gazes evencloser, she can see that it is full of pain and vain longing.
What is rendering him unhappy on this night of all others, when thewoman she believes he loves has been his willing companion for so manyhours, when doubtless she has given him proofs of her preference for himabove all men?
Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian becomes conscious of the face inthe window above, and a thrill rushes through him as he recognizes theform of the woman he loves.
The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so full of romance, that both theirhearts beat madly for awhile. They are alone; any one still awake withinthe house is far distant.
Never has she appeared so spiritual, so true and tender; so full ofsweetness that is almost unearthly. All pride seems gone from her, andin its place only a gentle melancholy reigns; she looks so far removedfrom him, sitting there in the purity of her white robes, that, atfirst, he hesitates to address her. To his excited imagination, sheis like an angel resting on its way to the realms above.
At last, however, his heart compelling him, he speaks aloud.
"Florence, you still awake, when all the world is sleeping?"
Her name falling from his lips touches a chord in her breast, and wakesher to passionate life.
"You too," she says in a whisper that reaches his strained ears. Thereseems to her a subtle joy in the thought that they two of all thehousehold are awake, are here talking together alone in the pale lightof the moon.
Yet she is wrong in imagining that no others are up in the house, as hisnext words tell her.
"It is not a matter of wonder in my case," he responds; "a few fellowsare still in the smoking-room. It is early, you know--not yet three. Butyou--why are you keeping a lonely vigil like this?"
"The moon tempted me to the window," answers Florence. "See how calmshe looks riding majestically up there. See"--stretching out her barewhite arm until the beams fall full upon it, and seem to change it topurest marble--"does it not make one feel as if all the world were beingbathed in its subdued glow?"
A pale tremulous smile widens her lips. Sir Adrian, plucking a tall palelily growing near him, flings it upward with such an eager aim that italights upon her window-sill. She sees it. Her fingers close upon it.
"Fit emblem of its possessor," says Adrian softly, and ratherunsteadily. "Do you know of what you remind me, sitting there in yourwhite robes? A medieval saint cut in stone--a pure angel, too good, toofar above all earthly passion to enter into it, or understand it, andthe grief that must ever attend upon it."
He speaks bitterly. It seems to him that she is indeed cold not tohave guessed before this the intensity of his love for her. Howevermuch she may have given her affection to another, it still seems to himinexpressibly hard that she can have no pity for his suffering. He gazesat her intently. Do the mystic moonbeams deceive him, or are there tearsin her great dark eyes? His heart beats quickly. Once again he remembersher emotion of the past evening. He hears again her passionate sobs. Isshe unhappy? Are there thorns in her path that are difficult to remove?
"Florence, once again I entreat you to confide in me," he says, after apause.
"I can not," she returns, sadly but firmly. "But there is one thing Imust say to you--think of me as you may for saying it--I am not cold asyou seemed to imply a moment since; I am not made of stone; and, alas,the grief you think me incapable of understanding is mine already! Youhave wronged me in your thoughts. I have here," she exclaims with somevehemence, laying the hand in which she still holds the drooping lilyupon her breast, "what I would gladly be without--a heart."
"Nay," says Adrian hastily; "you forget. It is no longer yours, you havegiven it away."
For an instant she glances at him keenly, while her breath comes andgoes with painful quickness.
"You have no right to say so," she murmurs at last.
"No, of course not; I beg your pardon," he says apologetically. "It isyour own secret."
"There is no secret," she declares nervously. "None."
"I have offended you. I should not have said that. You will forgive me?"he entreats, with agitation.
"You are quite forgiven;" and, as a token of the truth of her words, sheleans a little further out of the window, and looks down at him with aface pale indeed, but full of an unutterable sweetness.
Her beauty conquers all his resolutions.
"Oh, Florence," he whispers in an impassioned tone, "if I only dare totell you what--"
She starts and lays a finger on her lips, as though to enforce silence.
"Hush!" she says, in trembling accents. "You forget! The hour, thesurroundings, have momentarily led you astray. I ought not to have spokenwith you. Go! There is nothing you dare to tell me--there is nothing Iwould wish to hear. Remember your duty to another--and--good-night."
"Stay, I implore you, for one moment," he cries; but she is firm, andpresently the curtains are drawn close and he is alone.
Slowly he walks back toward the smoking-room, her last words ringing inhis ears--"Remember your duty to another." What other? He is puzzled,but, reaching the window of the room, he dismisses these thoughts fromhis mind, and determines to get rid of his guests without delay, so asto be able to enjoy a little quiet and calm for reflection.
They are all noisily discussing a suicide that had recently taken placein a neighboring county, and which had, from its peculiar circumstances,caused more than usual interest.
One of the guests to-night is an army-surgeon, and he is giving them anexplanation as to how the fatal wound had been inflicted. It appeared atthe inquest that the unfortunate man had shot himself in such a peculiarmanner as to cause considerable doubt as to whether he had been murderedor had died by his own hand. Evidence, however, of a most convincingnature had confirmed the latter theory.
Captain Ringwood, with a revolver in his hand, is endeavoring to showthat the man could not have shot himself, just as Adrian re-enters.
"Be careful with that revolver," he exclaims hastily; "it is loaded!"
"All right, old fellow, I know it," returns Ringwood. "Look here,doctor, if he held it so, how could he make a wound here?"
"Why not? Sir Adrian, take the revolver for a moment, will you?" saysthe surgeon, anxious to demonstrate his theory beyond the possibility ofdoubt. "I want to convince Ringwood. Now stand so, and hold the weaponso"--placing it with the muzzle presented
in a rather awkward positionalmost over his heart.
"I thought fellows always put the muzzles of their revolvers in theirmouths and blew their brains out when they committed suicide," Ringwoodremarks lightly.
"This fellow evidently did not," says the surgeon calmly. "Now, SirAdrian, you see, by holding it thus, you could quite easily blowyourself to--"
Before he can finish the sentence, there is a sudden confusion ofbodies, a jostling as it were, for Arthur Dynecourt, who had beenlooking on attentively with one foot on a footstool close to SirAdrian's elbow, had slipped from the stool at this inopportune moment,and had fallen heavily against his cousin.
There is a shout from somebody, and then a silence. The revolver in thescuffle had gone off! Through the house the sharp crack of a bulletrings loudly, rousing many from their slumbers.
Lights can be seen in the passages; terrified faces peep out fromhalf-opened doors. Dora Talbot, coming into the corridor in a pale pinkcashmere dressing-gown trimmed with swan's-down, in which she looks thevery personification of innocence and youth, screams loudly, and demandshysterically to be informed as to the cause of the unusual noise.
The servants have rushed from their quarters in alarm. Ethel Villiers,with a pale scared face, runs to Florence Delmaine's room, and throwsher arms round that young lady as she comes out, pale but composed, toask in a clear tone what has happened.
As nobody knows, and as Florence in her heart is more frightened thanshe cares to confess, being aware through Adrian that some of the menare still up in the smoking-room, and fearing that a quarrel had arisenamong them, she proposes that they should go to the smoking-room in abody and make inquiries.
Old Lady FitzAlmont, with Lady Gertrude sobbing on her arm, secondsthis proposal, and, being a veteran of much distinction, takes the lead.Those following close behind, are glad of this, and hopeful becauseof it, her appearance being calculated to rout any enemy. The awfulcharacter of her dressing-gown and the severity of the nightcap thatcrowns her martial head would strike terror to the hearts of anymidnight marauders. They all move off in a body, and, guidedunconsciously by Florence, approach the smoking-room.
Voices loud in conversation can be heard as they draw near; the door isslightly ajar. Florence drawing back as they come quite up to it, theold lady waves her aside, and advances boldly to the front. Flingingwide open the door, she bursts upon the astonished company within.
"Where is he?" she asks, with a dignity that only heightens theattractions of the cap and gown. "Have you secured him? Sir Adrian,where is the constable? Have you sent for him?"
Sir Adrian, whose gaze is fixed upon the fair vision in the trailingwhite gown standing timidly in the door-way, forgets to answer hisinterrogator, and the others, taken by surprise, maintain a solemnsilence.
"Why this mystery?" demands Lady FitzAlmont sternly. "Where is themiscreant? Where is the man that fired that murderous shot?"
"Here, madame," replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourtby a motion of the hand.
"He--who? Mr. Dynecourt?" ejaculates her ladyship in a disappointedtone. "It was all a mistake, then? I must say, Mr. Dynecourt," continuesthe old lady in an indignant tone, "that I think you might find a moresuitable time in which to play off your jokes, or to practicetarget-shooting, than in the middle of the night, when every respectablehousehold ought to be wrapped in slumber."
"I assure you," begins Arthur Dynecourt, who is strangely pale anddiscomposed, "it was all an accident--an--"
"Accident! Nonsense, sir; I don't believe there was any accidentwhatsoever!"
As these words pass the lips of the irascible old lady, several men inthe room exchange significant glances. Is it that old Lady FitzAlmonthas just put their own thoughts into words?
"Let me explain to your ladyship," says Sir Adrian courteously. "We werejust talking about that unfortunate affair of the Stewarts, and Maitlandwas showing us how it might have occurred. I had the revolver in myhand so"--pointing the weapon toward himself.
"Put down that abominable weapon at once, sir!" commands Lady FitzAlmont,in a menacing tone, largely mingled with abject fear. As she speaks sheretreats precipitately behind Florence, thus pushing that young lady tothe fore.
"When my cousin unhappily stumbled against me, and the revolver wentoff," goes on Sir Adrian. "I'm deeply grieved, Lady FitzAlmont, thatthis should have occurred to disturb the household; but, really, it wasa pure accident."
"A pure accident," repeats Arthur, from between his colorless lips.
He looks far more distressed by this occurrence than Sir Adrian, whohad narrowly escaped being wounded. This only showed his tenderness andproper feeling, as almost all the women present mutually agreed. Almostall, but not quite. Dora Talbot, for example, grows deadly pale as shelistens to the explanation and watches Arthur's ghastly face. What is itlike? The face of a murderer?
"Oh, no, no," she gasps inwardly; "surely not that!"
"It was the purest accident, I assure you," protests Arthur again, asthough anxious to impress this conviction upon his own mind.
"It might have been a very serious one," says the surgeon gravely,regarding him with a keen glance. "It might have meant death to SirAdrian!"
Florence changes color and glances at her host with parted lips. DoraTalbot, pressing her way through the group in the door-way, goesstraight up to him as if impulsively, and takes his hand in both hers.
"Dear Sir Adrian, how can we be thankful enough for your escape?" shesays sweetly, tears standing in her bright blue eyes. She presses hishand warmly, and even raises it to her lips in a transport of emotion.Standing there in the pretty pink dressing-gown that shows off hercomplexion to perfection, Dora Talbot looks lovely.
"You are very good--very kind," returns Sir Adrian, really touchedby her concern, but still with eyes only for the white vision in thedoor-way; "but you make too much of nothing. I am only sorry I have beenthe unhappy cause of rousing you from your rosy dreams; you will notthank me to-morrow when there will be only lilies in your cheeks."
The word lily brings back to him his last interview with Florence. Heglances hurriedly at her right hand; yes, the same lily is clasped inher fingers. Has she sat ever since with his gift before her, in hersilent chamber? Alone--in grief perhaps. But why has she kept hisflower? What can it all mean?
"We shall mind nothing, now you are safe," Dora assures him tremulously.
"I think I might be shown some consideration," puts in Arthur, trying bya violent effort to assert himself, and to speak lightly. "Had anythinghappened, surely I should have been the one to be pitied. It would havebeen my fault, and, Mrs. Talbot, I think you might show some pity forme." He holds out his hand, and mechanically Dora lays her own in it.
But it is only for an instant, and she shudders violently as his touchmeets hers. Her eyes are on the ground, and she can not bring herselfto look at him. Drawing her fingers hurriedly from his, she goes to thedoor and disappears from view.
In the meantime, Sir Adrian, having made his way to Florence, points tothe lily.
"You have held it ever since?" he asks, in a low tone. "I hardly hopedfor so much. But you have not congratulated me, you alone have saidnothing."
"Why need I speak? I have seen you with my own eyes. You are safe.Believe me, Sir Adrian, I congratulate you most sincerely upon yourescape."
Her words are cold, her eyes downcast. She is deeply annoyed withherself for having carried the lily into his presence here. The veryfact of his having noticed it and spoken to her about it has shown herhow much importance he has attached to her doing so. What will he thinkof her. He will doubtless picture her to himself sitting weeping andbrooding over a flower given to her by a man who loves her not, and towhom she has given her love unsolicited.
Her marked coldness so oppresses him that he steps back, and does notventure to address her again. It occurs to him that she is reservedbecause of Arthur's presence.
Presently, Lady FitzAlmont, marshaling her forces anew, carries the
m allaway to their rooms, soundly rating the sobbing Lady Gertrude for herwant of self-control.
The men too, shortly afterward disperse, and one by one drift away totheir rooms. Captain Ringwood and Maitland the surgeon being the last togo.
"Who is the next heir to the castle?" asks the latter musingly, drumminghis fingers idly on a table near him.
"Dynecourt, the fellow who nearly did for Sir Adrian this evening!"replies Ringwood quietly.
"Ah!"
"It would have meant a very good thing for Arthur if the shot had takeneffect," says Ringwood, eying his companion curiously.
"It would have meant murder, sir!" rejoins the surgeon shortly.
