by Duchess
CHAPTER XIII.
When Florence finds her way, at the expiration of the hour, to Dora'sroom, she discovers that fair little widow dissolved in tears, andindeed sorely perplexed and shamed. The sight of Florence only seems torender her grief more poignant, and when her cousin, putting her armround her, tries to console her, she only responds to the caress byflinging herself upon her knees, and praying her to forgive her.
And then the whole truth comes out. All the petty, mean, underhandactions, all the cruel lies, all the carefully spoken innuendoes, allthe false reports are brought into the light and laid bare to thehorrified eyes of Florence.
Dora's confession is thorough and complete in every sense. Not in anyway does she seek to shield herself, or palliate her own share in thedeception practiced upon the unconscious girl now regarding her withlooks of amazement and deep sorrow, but in bitter silence.
When the wretched story is at an end, and Dora, rising to her feet,declares her intention of leaving England forever, Miss Delmaine standslike one turned into stone, and says no word either of censure orregret.
Dora, weeping violently, goes to the door, but, as her hand is raisedto open it, the pressure upon the gentle heart of Florence is suddenlyremoved, and in a little gasping voice she bids her stay.
Dora remains quite still, her eyes bent upon the floor, waiting to hearher cousin's words of just condemnation; expecting only to hear thescathing words of scorn with which her cousin will bid her begone fromher sight for evermore. But suddenly she feels two soft arms closearound her, and Florence, bursting into tears, lays her head upon hershoulder.
"Oh, Dora, how could you do it!" she falters, and that is all. Never,either then or afterward, does another sentence of reproach pass herlips; and Dora, forgiven and taken back to her cousin's friendship,endeavors earnestly for the future to avoid such untruthful paths as hadso nearly led her to her ruin.
Sir Adrian, from the hour in which his dearest hopes were realized,recovers rapidly both his health and spirits; and soon a double weddingtakes place, that makes pretty Ethel Villiers Ethel Ringwood andbeautiful Florence Lady Dynecourt.
A winter spent abroad with his charming bride completely restores SirAdrian to his former vigorous state, and, when spring is crowning allthe land with her fair flowers, he returns to the castle with theintention of remaining there until the coming season demands theirpresence in town.
And now once again there is almost the same party brought together atDynecourt. Old Lady FitzAlmont and Lady Gertrude are here again, and soare Captain and Mrs. Ringwood, both the gayest of the gay. Dora Talbotis here too, somewhat chastened and subdued both in manner andexpression, a change so much for the better that she finds her listof lovers to be longer now than in the days of yore.
It is an exquisite, balmy day in early April. The sun is shining hotlywithout, drinking up greedily the gentle shower that fell half an hourago. The guests, who with their host and hostess have been wanderingidly through the grounds, decide to go in-doors.
"It was on a day like this, though in the autumn, that we first missedSir Adrian," remarks some one in a half tone confidentially to some oneelse, but not so low that the baronet can not hear it.
"Yes," he says quickly, "and it was just over there"--pointing to aclump of shrubs near the hall door--"that I parted with that unfortunatecousin of mine."
Lady Dynecourt shudders, and draws closer to her husband.
"It was such a marvelous story," observes a pretty woman who was not atthe castle last autumn, when what so nearly proved to be a tragedy wasbeing enacted; "quite like a legend or a medieval romance. Dear LadyDynecourt's finding him was such a happy finish to it. I must say I havealways had the greatest veneration for those haunted chambers, so seldomto be found now in any house. Perhaps my regard for them is the strongerbecause I never saw one."
"No?" questioningly. "Will you come and see ours now?" says Sir Adrianreadily.
His wife clasps his arm, and a pang contracts her brow.
"You are not frightened now, surely?" says Adrian, smiling at her verytenderly.
"Yes, I am," she responds promptly. "The very name of that awful roomunnerves me. There is something evil in it, I believe. Do not go there."
"I'll block it up forever if you wish it," declares Sir Adrian; "but,for the last time, let me go and show its ghostly beauties to LadyLaughton. I confess, even after all that has happened, it possesses noterrors for me; it only reminds me of my unpleasant kinsman."
"I wonder what became of him," remarks Ringwood. "He's at the other sideof the world, I should imagine."
"Out of our world, at all events," says Ethel, indifferently.
"Well, let us go," agrees Florence resignedly.
So together they all start once more for the old tower. As they reachthe stone steps Sir Adrian says laughingly to Lady Laughton:
"Now, what do you expect to see? A ghost--a phantom? And in what shape,what guise?"
"A skeleton," answers Lady Laughton, returning his laugh; and with thewords the door is pushed open, and they enter the room _en masse_.
The sunlight is stealing in through the narrow window holes and faintlylighting up the dismal room.
What is that in yonder corner, the very corner where Sir Adrian'salmost lifeless body had been found? Is this a trick, a delusion of thebrain? What is this thing huddled together, lying in a heap--a ghastly,ragged, filthy heap, before their terrified eyes? And why does thischarnel-house smell infect their nostrils? They stagger. Even the strongmen grow pale and faint, for there, before them, gaunt, awful,unmistakable, lies a skeleton!
Lady Laughton's jesting words have come true--a fleshless corpse indeedmeets their stricken gaze!
Sir Adrian, having hurriedly asked one of the men of the party toremove Lady Dynecourt and her friends, he and Captain Ringwood proceedto examine the grewsome body that lies upon the floor; yet, though theyprofess to each other total ignorance of what it can be, there is intheir hearts a miserable certainty that appalls them. Is this to be theend of the mystery? Truly had spoken Ethel Ringwood when she had alludedto Arthur Dynecourt as being "out of their world," for it is his remainsthey are bending over, as a few letters lying scattered about testifyonly too plainly.
Caught in the living grave he had destined for his cousin was ArthurDynecourt on the night of Sir Adrian's release. The lamp had droppedfrom his hand in the first horror of his discovery that his victim hadescaped him. Then followed the closing of the fatal lock and hisinsensibility.
On recovering from his swoon, he had no doubt endured a hundred-foldmore tortures than had the innocent Sir Adrian, as his conscience musthave been unceasingly racking and tearing him.
And not too soon either could the miserable end have come. Every pang hehad designed for his victim was his. Not one was spared! Cold and hungerand the raging fever of thirst were his, and withal a hopelessness moreintolerable than aught else--a hopelessness that must have grown instrength as the interminable days went by.
And then came death--an awful lingering death, whilst the loathsome ratshad finished the work which starvation and death had begun, and now allthat remained of Arthur Dynecourt was a heap of bones!
They hush the matter up well as they can, but it is many days beforeFlorence or her husband, or any of their guests, forget the dreadfulhour in which they discovered the unsightly remains of him who had beenovertaken by a just and stern retribution.
THE END.