by Duchess
CHAPTER VII.
Reluctantly, yet with a certain amount of curiosity to know what it ishe may wish to say to her, Dora wends her way to the gallery to keep herappointment with Arthur. Pacing to and fro beneath the searching eyesof the gaunt cavaliers and haughty dames that gleam down upon him fromtheir canvases upon the walls, Dynecourt impatiently awaits her coming.
"Ah, you are late!" he exclaims as she approaches. There is a tone ofauthority about him that dismays her.
"Not very, I think," she responds pleasantly, deeming conciliatorymeasures the best. "Why did you not come to the library? We all missedyou so much at tea!"
"No doubt," he replies sarcastically. "I can well fancy thedisappointment my absence caused; the blank looks and regretful speechesthat marked my defection. Pshaw--let you and me at least be honest toeach other! Did Florence, think you, shed tears because of mynon-coming?"
This mood of his is so strange to her that, in spite of the naturalfalse smoothness that belongs to her, it renders her dumb.
"Look here," he goes on savagely, "I have seen enough to-day up in thataccursed room above--that haunted chamber--to show me our game is notyet won."
"Our game--what game?" asks Dora, with a foolish attempt atmisconception.
He laughs aloud--a wild, unpleasant, scornful laugh, that makes hercheek turn pale. Its mirth, she tells herself, is demoniacal.
"You would get out of it now, would you?" he says. "It is too late, Itell you. You have gone some way with me, you must go the rest. I wantyour help, and you want mine. Will you draw back now, when the prize ishalf won, when a little more labor will place it within your grasp?"
"But there must be no violence," she gasps; "no attempt at--"
"What is it you would say?" he interrupts stonily. "Collect yourself;you surely do not know what you are hinting at. Violence! what do youmean by that?"
"I hardly know," she returns, trembling. "It was your look, your tone,I think, that frightened me."
"Put your nerves in your pocket for the future," he exclaims coarsely;"they are not wanted where I am. Now to business. You want to marry SirAdrian, as I understand, whether his desire lies in the same directionor not?"
At this plain speaking the dainty little lady winces openly.
"My own opinion is that his desire does not run in your direction,"continues Arthur remorselessly. "We both know where his heart wouldgladly find its home, where he would seek a bride to place here in thisgrand old castle, but I will frustrate that hope if I die for it."
He grinds his teeth as he says this, and looks with fierce defiant eyesat the long rows of his ancestors that line the walls.
"She would gladly see her proud fair face looking down upon me fromamidst this goodly company," he goes on, apostrophizing the absentFlorence. "But that shall never be. I have sworn it; unless--I am herhusband--unless--I am her husband!"
More slowly, more thoughtfully he repeats this last phrase, until Dora,affrighted by the sudden change that has disfigured his face, speaks tohim to distract his attention.
"You have brought me here to--" she ventures timidly.
"Ay, to tell you what is on my mind. I have said you want to marryAdrian; I mean to marry Florence Delmaine. To-day I disliked certainsymptoms I saw, that led me to believe that my own machinations have notbeen as successful as I could have wished. Before going in for strongermeasures, there is one more card that I will play. I have written you anote. Here it is, take it"--handing her a letter folded in thecocked-hat fashion.
"What am I to do with this?" asks Dora nervously.
"Read it. It is addressed to yourself. You will see I have copiedAdrian's handwriting as closely as possible, and have put his initialsA.D. at the end. And yet"--with a diabolical smile--"it is no forgeryeither, as A.D. are my initials also."
Opening the note with trembling fingers, Dora reads aloud as follows:
"Can you--will you meet me to-morrow at four o'clock in the lime-walk?I have been cold to you perhaps, but have I not had cause? You think myslight attentions to another betoken a decrease in my love for you, butin this, dearest, you are mistaken. I am yours heart and soul. For thepresent I dare not declare myself, for the reasons you already know, andfor the same reasons am bound to keep up a seeming friendliness withsome I would gladly break with altogether. But I am happy only with you,and happy too in the thought that our hearts beat as one. Yoursforever, A.D."
Dora, having finished reading the letter, glances at him uneasily.
"And--what is the meaning of this letter? What is it written for? Whatam I to do with it?" she stammers, beating the precious missive againstthe palm of her hand, as though in loathing of it.
"You will show it to her. You will speak of it as a love-letter writtento you by Adrian. You will consult her as to whether it be wise orprudent to accede to his proposal to meet you alone in the lime-walk.You will, in fact, put out all your powers of deception, which"--with asneering smile--"are great, and so compel her to believe the letter isfrom him to you."
"But--" falters Dora.
"There shall be no 'but' in the matter. You have entered into thisaffair with me, and you shall pursue it to the end. If you fail me, Ishall betray your share in it--more than your share--and paint you insuch colors as will shut the doors of society to you. You understandnow, do you?"
"Go on," says Dora, with colorless lips.
"Ah, I have touched the right chord at last, have I? Society, your idol,you dare not brave! Well, to continue, you will also tell her, in yourown sweet innocent way"--with another sneer that makes her quiver withfear and rage--"to account for Adrian's decided and almost lover-likeattentions to her in the room we visited, that you had had a lovers'quarrel with him some time before, earlier in the day; that, in his fitof pique, he had sought to be revenged upon you, and soothe his slightedfeelings by feigning a sudden interest in her. You follow me?"
"Yes," replies the submissive Dora. Alas, how sincerely she now wishesshe had never entered into this hateful intrigue!
"Then, when you have carefully sown these lies in her heart, and seenher proud face darken and quiver with pain beneath your words"--oh, howhis own evil face glows with unholy satisfaction as he sees the picturehe has just drawn stand out clear before his eyes!--"you will affect tobe driven by compunction into granting Sir Adrian a supposed request,you will don your hat and cloak, and go down to the lime-walk toencounter--me. If I am any judge of character, that girl, so haughty toall the world, will lower her pride for her crushed love's sake, andwill follow you, to madden herself with your meeting with the man sheloves. To her, I shall on this occasion represent Sir Adrian. Are youlistening?"
She is indeed--listening with all her might to the master mind that hasher in thrall.
"You will remember not to start when you meet me," he continues, issuinghis commands with insolent assumption of authority over the dainty Dora,who, up to this, has been accustomed to rule it over others in herparticular sphere, and who now chafes and writhes beneath the sense ofslavery that is oppressing her. "You will meet me calmly, oblivious ofthe fact that I shall be clad in my cousin's light overcoat, the one ofwhich Miss Delmaine was graciously pleased to say she approved yesterdaymorning."
His eyes light again with a revengeful fire as he calls to mind theslight praise Florence had bestowed in a very casual fashion on thiscoat. Every smile, every kindly word addressed by this girl to hiscousin, is treasured up by him and dwelt upon in secret, to the terriblestrengthening of the purpose he has in view.
"But if you should be seen--be marked," hesitates Dora faintly.
"Pshaw--am I one to lay my plans so clumsily as to court discovery oneven the minutest point?" he interrupts impatiently. "When you meet meyou will--but enough of this; I shall be there to meet you in thelime-walk, and after that you will take your cue from me."
"That is all you have to say?" asks Dora, anxious to quit his hatedpresence.
"For the present--yes. Follow my instructions to the letter, or dreadth
e consequences. Any blunder in the performance of this arrangement Ishall lay to your charge."
"You threaten, sir!" she exclaims angrily, though she trembles.
"Let it be your care to see that I do not carry out my threats," heretorts, with an insolent shrug.
The next day, directly after luncheon, as Florence is sitting in herown room, touching up an unfinished water-color sketch of part of thegrounds round the castle--which have, alas, grown only too dear toher!--Dora enters her room. It is an embarrassed and significantlysmiling Dora that trips up to her, and says with pretty hesitation inher tone--
"Dearest Florence, I want your advice about something."
"Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as shefeels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdomfrom her friends.
"Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, andthen you can return to your charming sketch. Oh"--glancing at it--"howexactly like it is--so perfect; what a sunset, and what firs! One couldimagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it."
"It is not the Fairies' Glen at all; it is that bit down by Gough'sfarm," says Florence coldly. Of late she has not been so blind to Dora'sartificialness as she used to be.
"Ah, so it is!" agrees Dora airily, not in the least discomposed at hermistake. "And so like it too. You are a genius, dearest, you are really,and might make your fortune, only that you have one made already foryou, fortunate girl!"
"You want my advice," suggests Florence quietly.
"Ah, true; and about something important too!" She throws into her wholeair so much coquetry mingled with assumed bashfulness that Florenceknows by instinct that the "something" has Sir Adrian for its theme, andshe grows pale and miserable accordingly.
"Let me hear it then," she urges, leaning back with a weary sigh.
"I have just received this letter," says Mrs. Talbot, taking from herpocket the letter Arthur had given her, and holding it out to Florence,"and I want to know how I shall answer it. Would you--would you honestlyadvise me, Flo, to go and meet him as he desires?"
"As who desires?"
"Ah, true; you do not know, of course! I am so selfishly full of myselfand my own concerns, that I seem to think every one else must be fullof them too. Forgive me, dearest, and read his sweet little letter, willyou?"
"Of whom are you speaking--to whose letter do you refer?" asks Florence,a little sharply, in the agony of her heart.
"Florence! Whose letter would I call 'sweet' except Sir Adrian's?"answers her cousin, with gentle reproach.
"But it is meant for you, not for me," says Miss Delmaine, holding theletter in her hand, and glancing at it with great distaste. "He probablyintended no other eyes but yours to look upon it."
"But I must obtain advice from some one, and who so natural to expect itfrom as you, my nearest relative? If, however"--putting her handkerchiefto her eyes--"you object to help me, Florence, or if it distresses youto read--"
"Distresses me?" interrupts Florence haughtily. "Why should it distressme? If you have no objection to my reading your--lover's--letter, whyshould I hesitate about doing so? Pray sit down while I run through it."
Dora having seated herself, Florence hastily reads the false note frombeginning to end. Her heart beats furiously as she does so, and hercolor comes and goes; but her voice is quite steady when she speaksagain.
"Well," she says, putting the paper from her as though heartily gladto be rid of it, "it seems that Sir Adrian wishes to speak to you onsome subject interesting to you and him alone, and that he has chosenthe privacy of the lime-walk as the spot in which to hold your_tete-a-tete_. It is quite a simple affair, is it not? Though really,why he could not arrange to talk privately to you in some room in thecastle, which is surely large enough for the purpose, I can notunderstand."
"Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic," says Dora coyly.
"Is he?" responds her cousin dryly. "He has always seemed to me thesanest of men. Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?"
"Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day,"says Dora reproachfully; "and I came to you so sure of offers of loveand friendship! I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet himor not."
"Why not?"
"I don't know"--with a little simper. "Is it perhaps humoring him toomuch? I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him,unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for me."
Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barbpierces her bosom.
"I should think," she says slowly, "after reading the letter you havejust shown me, you ought to feel assured."
"You believe I ought, really?"--with a fine show of eagerness. "Now, youare not saying this to please me--to gratify me?"
"I should not please or gratify any one at the expense of truth."
"No, of course not. You are such a high-principled girl, so differentfrom many others. Then you think I might go and meet him this eveningwithout sacrificing my dignity in any way?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, I'm so glad," exclaimed little Mrs. Talbot rapturously, nodding her"honorable" head with a beaming smile, "because I do so want to meethim, dear fellow! And I value your opinion, Flo, more highly than thatof any other friend I possess. You are so solid, so thoughtful--such adear thing altogether."
Florence takes no heed of this rodomontade, but sits quite still, withdowncast eyes, tapping the small table near her with the tips of herslender fingers in a meditative fashion.
"The fact is," continues Dora, who is watching her closely, "I mayas well let you into a little secret. Yesterday Sir Adrian and I hada tiny, oh, such a tiny little dispute, all about nothing, I assureyou"--with a gay laugh--"but to us it seemed quite important. He said hewas jealous of me. Now just fancy that, Flo; jealous of poor little me!"
"It is quite possible; you are pretty--most men admire you," Florenceremarks coldly, still without raising her eyes.
"Ah, you flatter me, naughty girl! Well, silly as it sounds, he actuallywas jealous, and really gave me quite a scolding. It brought tears to myeyes, it upset me so. So, to tell the truth, we parted rather badfriends; and, to be revenged on me, I suppose, he rather neglected mefor the remainder of the day."
Again Florence is silent, though her tormentor plainly waits for a leadfrom her before going on.
"You must have remarked," she continues presently, "how cold andreserved he was toward me when we were all together in that dreadfulhaunted chamber." Here she really shudders, in spite of herself. Thecruel eyes of Arthur Dynecourt seem to be on her again, as they were inthat ghostly room.
"I remarked nothing," responds Florence icily.
"No--really? Well, he was. Why, my dear Florence, you must have seen howhe singled you out to be attentive to you, just to show me how offendedhe was."
"He did not seem offended with any one, and I thought him inparticularly good spirits," replies Florence calmly.
Dora turns a delicate pink.
"Dear Adrian is such an excellent actor," she says sweetly, "and soproud; he will disguise his feelings, however keen they may be, fromthe knowledge of any one, no matter what the effort may cost him. Well,dearest, and so you positively advise me to keep this appointment withhim?"
"I advise nothing. I merely say that I see nothing objectionable inyour walking up and down the lime-walk with your host."
"How clearly you put it! Well, adieu, darling, for the present, andthank you a thousand times for all the time you have wasted on me. Iassure you I am not worth it"--kissing her hand brightly.
For once she speaks the truth; she is not indeed worth one moment of thetime Florence has been compelled to expend upon her; yet, when she hastripped out of the room, seemingly as free from guile as a light-heartedchild, Miss Delmaine's thoughts still follow her, even against herinclination.
She has gone to meet him; no doubt to interchange tender words and vowswith him; to forgive, to be forgive
n, about some sweet bit of lover'sfolly, the dearer for its very foolishness. She listens for herfootsteps as she returns along the corridor, dressed no doubt in herprettiest gown, decked out to make herself fair in his eyes.
An overwhelming desire to see how she has robed herself on thisparticular occasion induces Florence to go to the door and look afterher as she descends the stairs. She just catches a glimpse of Dora asshe turns the corner, and sees, to her surprise, that she is by no meansdaintily attired, but has thrown a plain dark water-proof over herdress, as though to hide it. Slightly surprised at this, Florenceponders it, and finally comes to the bitter conclusion that Dora is sosure of his devotion that she knows it is not necessary for her tobedeck herself in finery to please him. In his eyes of course she islovely in any toilet.
Soon, soon she will be with him. How will they greet each other? Will helook into Dora's eyes as he used to look into hers not so very long ago?Arthur Dynecourt read her aright when he foresaw that she would beunable to repress the desire to follow Dora, and see for herself themeeting between her and Sir Adrian.
Hastily putting on a large Rubens hat, and twisting a soft piece ofblack lace round her neck, she runs down-stairs and, taking a differentdirection from that she knows Dora most likely pursued, she arrives bya side path at the lime-walk almost as soon as her cousin.
Afraid to venture too near, she obtains a view of the walk from a highposition framed in by rhododendrons. Yes, now she can see Dora, and nowshe can see too, the man who comes eagerly to meet her. His face isslightly turned away from her, but the tall figure clad in the looselight overcoat is not to be mistaken. He advances quickly, and meetsDora with both hands outstretched. She appears to draw back a little,and then he seizes her hands, and, stooping, covers them with kisses.
A film seems to creep over Florence's eyes. With a stifled groan, sheturns and flies homeward. Again in the privacy of her own room, andhaving turned the key securely in the lock to keep out all intruders,she flings herself upon her bed and cries as if her heart would break.
* * * * *
Not until her return to her room does Dora remember that she did not getback the false letter from her cousin. In the heat of the conversationshe had forgotten it, but now, a fear possessing her lest Florenceshould show it to any one, she runs upstairs and knocks at MissDelmaine's door.
"Come in," calls Florence slowly.
It is three hours since she went for her unhappy walk to the lime-grove,and now she is composed again, and is waiting for the gong to soundbefore descending to the drawing-room, where she almost dreads thethought that she will be face to face with Sir Adrian. She is dressedfor dinner, has indeed taken most particular pains with her toilet, ifonly to hide the ravages that these past three hours of bitter weepinghave traced upon her beautiful face. She looks sad still, but calm anddignified.
Dora is dressed too, but is looking flurried and flushed.
"I beg your pardon," she says; "but my letter--the letter I showed youto-day--have you it?"
"No," replies Florence simply; "I thought I gave it back to you; but,if not, it must be here on this table"--lifting a book or two from thesmall gypsy-table near which she had been sitting when Dora came to herroom early in the day.
Dora looks for it everywhere, in a somewhat nervous, frightened manner,Florence helping her the while; but nothing comes of their search, andthey are fain to go down-stairs without it, as the gong sounding loudlytells them they are already late.
"Never mind," says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern."It is really of no consequence. I only wanted it, because--well,because"--with the simper that drives Florence nearly mad--"he wrote it."
"I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, you shallhave it this evening," responds Florence, with a slight contraction ofher brows that passes unnoticed.
To Florence's mortification, Arthur Dynecourt takes her in to dinner. Ontheir way across the hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, hepresses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, withan affectation of the sincerest concern--
"You are not well; you are looking pale and troubled, and--pardon me ifI am wrong, but I think you have been crying."
"I must beg, sir," she retorts, with excessive _hauteur_, removing herhand from his arm, as though his pressure had burned her--"I must beg,you will not trouble yourself to study my countenance. Your doing so ismost offensive to me."
"To see you in trouble, and not long to help or comfort you isimpossible to me," goes on Dynecourt, unmoved by her scorn. "Are youstill dwelling on the past--on what is irrevocable? Have you had freshcause to remember it to-day?"
There is a gleam of malice in his eyes, but Florence, whose gaze isturned disdainfully away from him, fails to see it. She changes colorindeed beneath his words, but makes him no reply, and, when they reachthe dining-room, in a very marked manner she takes a seat far removedfrom his.
There is a sinister expression in his eyes and round his mouth as henotes this studied avoidance.
