These words of hope have steadied her and braced her nerves. Ethel 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 bed, almost at the very moment that midnight chimes from the old tower, and only a few minutes before Arthur Dynecourt steals from 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 had been in the family for years, the whole story of her master"s rescue, and she, with tears dropping down her withered cheeks, had 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 hear 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 circ.u.mstances to place him under arrest, or decide on waiting until Sir Adrian himself shall be able to p.r.o.nounce either his doom or his exculpation.
The doctor stays all night, and administers to the exhausted man, as often as he dares, the nourishment and good things provided by the old housekeeper.
When the morning is far advanced, Adrian, waking from a short but refreshing slumber, looks anxiously around him. Florence, seeing this, steps aside, as though to make way for Dora to go closer to him. But Mrs. Talbot, covering her face with her hands, 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 a glance of utter devotion. How can she mistake this 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 several hours.
By luncheon-time it occurs to the guests that Arthur Dynecourt has not been seen since last evening.
Ringwood, carrying this news to the sick-room, the little rescuing party and their auxiliaries, the nurse and doctor, lay their heads together, and decide that, doubtless, having discovered the escape of his prisoner, and, dreading arrest, Arthur has quietly taken himself off, and so avoided the trial and punishment which would otherwise have 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 Villiers. "I think papa and Lady FitzAlmont and everybody should now be told."
So Ringwood, undertaking the office of tale-bearer, goes down-stairs, and, bringing together all the people still remaining in the house, astounds them 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 given by Sir Adrian himself, who has told them in a weak whisper of Arthur"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.
But it is all in vain; even though two of the cleverest detectives from Scotland Yard are pressed 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 this spectacled man was in reality the would-be murderer.
So the days pa.s.s on, and it is now quite a month since Ringwood and Florence carried Sir Adrian"s senseless form from the haunted chamber, and still Florence holds herself aloof from the man she loves, and, though quite as a.s.siduous as the others in her attentions to him, seems always eager to get away from him, 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 const.i.tution 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, and 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! yet all that time his heart had been given to her cousin. And though now, at odd moments, she has felt herself compelled to imagine that his every glance and word speaks of tenderness for 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 honest is his glance! Oh, that she could believe all the past to be an evil dream, and think of him again as her very own, as in the dear old days gone by!
Even while thinking this she idly opens a book lying on the table near her, where some brushes and paints are scattered. A piece 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-contempt from her sentimental regrets, works vigorously at her painting for about an hour, then, growing wearied, she flings her brushes aside, and goes to the morning-room, where she knows she will find all the others a.s.sembled.
There is n.o.body here just now however, except Sir Adrian, who is looking rather tired and bored, and Ethel Villiers. The latter, seeing Florence enter, gladly gathers up her work and runs away to have a turn in the garden with Captain Ringwood.
Florence, though sorry for this _tete-a-tete_ that has been forced upon her, sits down calmly enough, and, taking up a book, prepares to read aloud to Sir Adrian.
But he stops her. Putting out his hand, he quietly but firmly closes the book, and then says:
"Not to-day, Florence; I want to speak to you instead."
"Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is beating somewhat hastily.
"Are you sorry that--that my unhappy cousin proved so unworthy?" he asks at last, touching upon this subject with a good deal of nervousness. He can not forget that once she had loved this miserable man.
"One must naturally feel sorry that anything human could be guilty of such an awful intention," she returns gently, but with the utmost unconcern.
Sir Adrian stares. Was he mistaken then? Did she never really care for the fellow, or is this some of what Mrs. Talbot had 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 then?" he questions, following out the train of his own thoughts rather 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 your head! No; if anything, I confess I felt for your cousin nothing but 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 you too loved me."
"Your belief was a true one," she returns calmly, tears standing in her beautiful eyes. "But you, by your own act, severed us."
"I did?"
"Yes. Nay, Sir Adrian, be as honest in your dealings with me as I am with you, and confess the truth."
"I don"t know what you mean," 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.