by Duchess
CHAPTER IX.
The night passes; the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, andstill nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt byall within the castle as to the fate of its missing master. They wearythemselves out wondering, idly but incessantly, what can have become ofhim.
The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, thefifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.
Florence Delmaine, who has been half-distracted with conflicting fearsand emotions, and who has been sitting in her room apart from theothers, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenlyraising her eyes, sees Dora standing before her.
The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed. All her dainty freshnesshas gone, and she now looks in years what in reality she is, close onthirty-five. Her lips are pale and drooping, her cheeks colorless; herwhole air is suggestive of deep depression, the result of sleeplessnights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignantnature.
"Alas, how well she loves him too!" thinks Florence, contemplating herin silence. Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence,and says, in a hurried impassioned tone--
"Oh, Florence, what has become of him? What has been done to him? I havetried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, butnow I feel I must speak to some one or go mad!"
She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as ifshe is going to faint. Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair,and, running to her, places her arm around her as though to support her.But Dora repulses her almost roughly and motions her away.
"Do not touch me!" she cries hoarsely. "Do not come near me; you, ofall people, should be the last to come to my assistance! Besides, I amnot here to talk about myself, but of him. Florence, have you anysuspicion?"
Dora leans forward and looks scrutinizingly at her cousin, as thoughfearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative. But Florenceshakes her head.
"I have no suspicion--none," she answers sadly. "If I had should I notact upon it, whatever it might cost me?"
"Would you," asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companion'swords--"whatever it might cost you?"
Her manner is so strange that Florence pauses before replying.
"Yes," she says at last. "No earthly consideration should keep me fromusing any knowledge I might by accident or otherwise become possessed ofto lay bare this mystery. Dora," she cries suddenly, "if you knowanything, I implore, I entreat you to say so."
"What should I know?" responds the widow, recoiling.
"You loved him too," says Florence piteously, now more than everconvinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her. "For the sakeof that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter."
"I dare not speak openly," replies the widow, growing even a shadepaler, "because my suspicion is of the barest character, and may bealtogether wrong. Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct withinmy breast whispers to me that I am on the right track."
"If so," murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, "do nothesitate; follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows butsomething may come of it! Dora, do not delay. Soon, soon--if notalready--it may be too late. Alas," she cries, bursting into bittertears, "what do I say? Is it not too late even now? What hope can therebe after six long days, and no tidings?"
"I will do what I can, I am resolved," declares Dora, rising abruptly toher feet. "If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wringthe truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice."
"From him? From whom--what murderer?" exclaims Florence, in a voice ofhorror. "Dora, what are you saying?"
"Never mind. Let me go now; and to-night--this evening let me come toyou here again, and tell you the result of what I am now about to do."
She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinkingback in her chair, gives herself up to the excitement and amazement thatare overpowering her. There is something else, too, in her thoughts thatis puzzling and perplexing her; in all Dora's manner there was nothingthat would lead her to think she loved Sir Adrian: there was fear, and adesire for revenge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman whohas lost the man to whom she has given her heart.
Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftlydown-stairs, turns into the side hall, glancing into library and roomsas she goes along, plainly in search of something or some one.
At last her search is successful; in a small room she finds ArthurDynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large arm-chair, with hiseyes fixed intently upon the book in his hand. Seeing her, he closes thevolume, and, throwing it from him, says carelessly:
"Pshaw--what contemptible trash they write nowadays!"
"How can you sit here calmly reading," exclaims Dora vehemently, "whenwe are all so distressed in mind! But I forgot"--with a meaningglance--"you gain by his death; we do not."
"No, you lose," he retorts coolly. "Though, after all, even had thingsbeen different, I can't say I think you had much chance at any time."
He smiles insolently at her as he says this. But she pays no heed eitherto his words or his smile. Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought,and at last she gives expression to it.
"What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him,as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that hasbeen torturing her for days past.
"With whom?" he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyesthat should have warned her to forbear.
"With Sir Adrian--with your rival, with the man you hate," she cries,her breath coming in little irrepressible gasps. "Dynecourt, I adjureyou to speak the truth, and say what has become of him."
"You rave," he says calmly, lifting his eyebrows just a shade, as thoughin pity for her foolish excitement. "I confess the man was no favoriteof mine, and that I can not help being glad of this chance that haspresented itself in his extraordinary disappearance of my inheriting hisplace and title; but really, my dear creature, I know as little of whathas become of him, as--I presume--you do yourself."
"You lie!" cries Dora, losing all control over herself. "You havemurdered him, to get him out of your path. His death lies at your door."
She points her finger at him as though in condemnation as she uttersthese words, but still he does not flinch.
"They will take you for a Bedlamite," he says, with a sneering laugh,"if you conduct yourself like this. Where are your proofs that I am thecold-blooded ruffian you think me?"
"I have none"--in a despairing tone. "But I shall make it the businessof my life to find them."
"You had better devote your time to some other purpose," he exclaimssavagely, laying his hand upon her wrist with an amount of force thatleaves a red mark upon the delicate flesh. "Do you hear me? You must bemad to go on like this to me. I know nothing of Adrian, but I know agood deal of your designing conduct, and your wild jealousy of FlorenceDelmaine. All the world saw how devoted he was to her, and--mark what Isay--there have been instances of a jealous woman killing the man sheloved, rather than see him in the arms of another."
"Demon!" shrieks Dora, recoiling from him. "You would fix the crime onme?"
"Why not? I think the whole case tells terribly against you. Hitherto Ihave spared you, I have refrained from hinting even at the fact thatyour jealousy had been aroused of late; but your conduct of to-day, andthe wily manner in which you have sought to accuse me of beingimplicated in this unfortunate mystery connected with my unhappy cousin,have made me regret my forbearance. Be warned in time, cease topersecute me about this matter, or--wretched woman that you are--I shallcertainly make it my business to investigate the entire matter, andbring you to justice!"
He speaks with such an air of truth, of thorough belief in her guilt,that Dora is dazed, bewildered, and, falling back from him, covers herface with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intriguebrought into the glare of day, fills her with
consternation. And then,what will she gain by it? Nothing; she has no evidence on which toconvict this man; all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels theweakness of her position, and her inability to follow up her accusation.
"Ah, how like a guilty creature you stand there!" exclaims Dynecourt,regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this mustbe looked into. Miserable woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you hadbetter declare it now."
"Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him withhorror and defiance. "You triumph now, because, as yet, I have noevidence to support my belief, but"--she hesitates.
"Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy mewhile you can. To-day I shall set the blood-hounds of the law upon yourtrack, so beware--beware!"
"You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, andtreating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."
She turns from him, and leaves the room as she finishes speaking; but,though her words have been defiant there is no kindred feeling in herheart to bear her up.
When the door closes between them, the flush dies out of her face, andshe looks even more wan and hopeless than she did before seeking hispresence. She can not deny to herself that her mission has been afailure. He has openly scoffed at her threats, and she is aware that shehas not a shred of actual evidence wherewith to support her suspicion;the bravado with which he has sought to turn the tables upon herselfboth frightens and disheartens her, and now she confesses to herselfthat she knows not where to turn for counsel.