United States or Réunion ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Arthur Dynecourt, who is already beginning to be treated with due respect as the next heir to the baronetcy, has quietly hinted to old Lady FitzAlmont that perhaps it will be as well, in the extraordinary circumstances, if they all take their departure.
Before he can finish the sentence, there is a sudden confusion of bodies, a jostling as it were, for Arthur Dynecourt, who had been looking on attentively with one foot on a footstool close to Sir Adrian'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.
At last a figure came with hesitating footsteps from behind the door into the full glare of the flickering lamp. I could see him distinctly. It was " "Arthur Dynecourt!" cries the widow, covering her ghastly face with her hands. Florence regards her with surprise. "It was," she says at last. "But how did you guess it?" "I knew it," cries Dora frantically.
As the darkness closes in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels; a fearful scream issues from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible. Dora, after her interview with Arthur Dynecourt, feels indeed that all is lost.
The room is without furniture of any description, and on the boards the dark stains of blood are distinctly visible. "Dynecourt, tell them a story or two," calls out Ringwood to Sir Adrian. "They won't believe it is veritably haunted unless you call up a ghost to frighten them."
"Here, madame," replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourt by a motion of the hand. "He who? Mr. Dynecourt?" ejaculates her ladyship in a disappointed tone. "It was all a mistake, then? I must say, Mr.
Lady Dynecourt shudders, and draws closer to her husband. "It was such a marvelous story," observes a pretty woman who was not at the castle last autumn, when what so nearly proved to be a tragedy was being enacted; "quite like a legend or a medieval romance. Dear Lady Dynecourt's finding him was such a happy finish to it.
"I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are not ill, dearest," says smooth-tongued Dora, advancing toward her. "How early you left us! I shouldn't have known how early only that Mr. Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?" "Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.
She blushes prettily as she says this, and an expression arises in her dark eyes that moves him deeply. Stooping over her hand, he imprints a kiss upon it. Dora Talbot, whose head is turned aside, sees nothing of this, but Arthur Dynecourt has observed the silent caress, and a dark frown gathers on his brow. Every day and all day long there is nothing but rehearsing.
Word Of The Day