San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1886-09-27
CHAPTER Y.

Arthur DyncCOurt. who is already
beginning to lie treated with due re,
Spect as the next heir to the barOnetCy
has quietly limited to old Lady FitzAl
mont that perhaps it will he rs well, in
the extraordinary circumstances, il
they all take their departure. This the
old lady, though strongly diSlnClined
to quit the castle. is debating in heI
own mind. and. being Swayed by Lady
Gertrude. who is secretly rather bored
by the dizziness that has emSued on the
strange absence of their host, decides
to leave on the morrow, to the great
distress of both Dora and Florence Del
maine, who shrink from deserving the
castle while its masters fate is undeci
ded. But they are also sensible that
to remain the only female guests
would be to outrage the conventional.
ties.
Henry Nilliers. Ethel's father, is also
of opinion that they should all quit the
castle without delay. lie is Il hunting
man, an NJ. f. II. in his own county
and is naturally anxious to get back tC
his own quarters some time before the
hunting-SeaSOn commences. Some 9TH
ers have already gone, and altogether
it seems to Florence that there is no
and desert him, whom she loves. in the
hour of his dircst need. For there are
moments even now when she tells her
self that he is still living, and only
waiting for a saving hand to drag him
int6 smooth waters once again.
A silence has fallen upon the house
more melancholy than the lOudCSt eX-
preston of grief. The servants are
COnversing over their supper in fright
ened whispers, and cOnjcCturing mood
lily as to the fate Of their late master.
To them Sir Adrian is indeed dead, if
not buried.
In the servants corridor a strange
dull light is being flung upon the pol
1shed boards by a hanGing-lamp that is
burning dimly, as though oppressed by
the dire evil that has fallen upon the
old castle. No sound is to be heard
here in this spot, remote from the rest
of the house, where the servants sell
dom come except to go to bed, and
never indeed without an inward Shud-
der as they pass the door that leads to
the haunted chamber.
Just now, being at their supper. there
is no fear that any of them will be
about, and so the dimly lighted COrri-
dor is wrapped in an unbroken silence.
Not quite unbrOken, however. What
is this that strikes upon the ear? What
sound comes to break the unearthly
stiffness? A creeping fOOtstep, a eau
tious tread, a Sinking, hating, uncer-
tain motion, belonging surely to some
one who sees an enemy, spy in every
fitting shadow. Nearer and nearer it
comes now into the fuller glare of the
lamp-light, and stops short at the door
so dreaded by the castle servants.
Looking uneaSily around him, Ar
thur DynecOurt-fOr it is he-unfast-
ems the door, and, entering hastily, clO-
SEES it firmly behind him, and ascends
the staircase within. There is no halt
ty, no caution, only haste that betOk-
ems desire to get his errand over as
quick as possible.
Having gained the first landing. he
walks slowly and on tiptOe again. and,
creeping up the stone stairs. crOucheS
down so as to bring his ear on level
with the lower Chink of the door.
Alas, all is still; no fainteSt grOan
can be heard! The silence of Death is
all around. In spite of his hardihOOd,
the cold sweat of fear breaks out upon
DynecOurt'S brow; and yet he tells him
self that now he is satisfied, all is well,
his victim is secure, is beyond the pow
er of words or kindly search to recall
him to life. lie may be discovered now
as soon as they like. Who can fix the
fact of his death upon him? There is
no blow, no mark of violence to crimi-
nate any one. He is safe, and all the
wealth he had so coveted is at last his
Ownl
There is something fiendish in the
look of eXultation that lights Arthur
DynecOurt's face. He hasa small dull
lantern with him, and now it reveals
the vile glance of triumph that fires his
eyes. He would fain have entered to
gaze upon his victim, to assure himself
of his victory, but he refrainS. A dead
ly fear that he may not yet be quite
dead keeps him back, and, with a
frown, he prepares to descend once
more.
Again he listens, but the sullen roar
of the rising night wind is all that can
be heard. His hand shakes, his face
assumes livid hue, yet he tells him
self that surely this deadly silence is
better than he listened to last night.
Then ghOStly moaning, almost inces-
SAINT and unearthly in sound, had
pierced his brain. 1t was more like the
cry of dying brute than that of a
man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to
death! In his own mind Arthur can
see him now, worn, emaciated, lost to
all likeness of anything fair or comely.
Have the rats attacked him yet? As
this grewSOme thought presents itself,
Dynecourt rises quickly from his
crouching position, and, flying down
the steps, does not stop running until
he arrives i'll the corridor below again.
He dashes into this like one posses
sed; but, finding himself in the light of
the hanging lamp, collects himself by
a violent effort, and looks around.
Yes, all is still. No living form but
his is near. The corridor, as he CLAN
ces affrightedly up and down, is empty.
He can see nothing but his own shad-
ow, at sight of which he starts and
turns pale and shudders.
The next moment he RECEIVERS him
self, and, muttering an anathema upol
his cowardice, he moves nOiselessly to
ward his room and the brandy-bottle
that has been his constant companion
of late.
Yet, here in his own room, he can
not rest. The hours 90 by with laggard
steps. Midnight has struck, and still
he PAGES his floor from wall to wall,
half-maddened by his thoughts. Not
that he relents. No feelings of Tepen-
lance stirs him, there is only nervous
dread of the hour when it will be nee
cessary to produce the dead body, if
only to prove his claim to the title 81
dearly and so UNANIMOUSLY purchased.
Is he indeed dead-gOne past recall7
Is this house, this place, the old title,
the chance of winning the woman he
would have, all his own? Is his hateful
to him only because of
his fair face and genial manners and
loyable disposition, and the esteem