The Haunted Chamber | Page 3

ghost in this beautiful old place, or a
secret staircase, or at least a bogy of some sort? Do not spoil the
romantic look of it by telling me you have no tale of terror to impart, no
history of a ghostly visitant who walks these halls at the dead of night."
"We have no ghost here, I am sorry to say," answers Sir Adrian,
laughing. "For the first time I feel distressed and ashamed that it should
be so. We can only boast a haunted chamber; but there are certain
legends about it, I am proud to say, the bare narration of which would
make even the stoutest quail."
"Good gracious--how distinctly unpleasant!" exclaims Mrs. Talbot,
with a nervous and very effective shudder.
"How distinctly delicious, you mean!" puts in Miss Delmaine. "Sir
Adrian, is this chamber anywhere near where I shall sleep?"
"Oh, no; you need not be afraid of that!" answers Dynecourt hastily.
"I am not afraid," declares the girl saucily. "I have all my life been
seeking an adventure of some sort. I am tired of my prosaic existence. I
want to know what dwellers in the shadowy realms of ghost-land are
like."
"Dear Sir Adrian, do urge her not to talk like that; it is positively
wicked," pleads Dora Talbot, glancing at him beseechingly.
"Miss Delmaine, you will drive Mrs. Talbot from my house if you
persist in your evil courses," says Sir Adrian, laughing again. "Desist, I
pray you!"
"Are you afraid, Dora?" asks Florence merrily. "Then keep close to me.
I can defy all evil spirits, I have spells and charms."
"You have indeed!" puts in Sir Adrian, in a tone so low that only she

can hear it. "And, knowing this, you should be merciful."
Though she can not hear what he says, yet Mrs. Talbot can see he is
addressing Florence, and marks with some uneasiness the glance that
passes from his eyes to hers. Breaking quickly into the conversation,
she says timidly, laying her hand on her host's arm--
"This shocking room you speak of will not be near mine?"
"In another wing altogether," Sir Adrian replies reassuringly. "Indeed it
is so far from this part of the castle that one might be safely
incarcerated there and slowly starved to death without any one of the
household being a bit the wiser. It is in the north wing in the old tower,
a portion of the building that has not been in use for over fifty years."
"I breathe again," says Dora Talbot affectedly.
"I shall traverse every inch of that old tower--haunted room and
all--before I am a week older," declares Florence defiantly. After which
she smiles at Adrian again, and follows the maid up the broad staircase
to her room.
By the end of the week many other visitors have been made welcome at
the castle; but none perhaps give so much pleasure to the young baronet
as Mrs. Talbot and her cousin.
Miss Delmaine, the only daughter and heiress of an Indian nabob, had
taken London by storm this past season; and not only the modern
Babylon, but the heart of Adrian Dynecourt as well. She had come
home to England on the death of her father about two years ago; and,
having no nearer relatives alive, had been kindly received by her cousin,
the Hon. Mrs. Talbot, who was then living with her husband in a pretty
house in Mayfair.
Six months after Florence Delmaine's arrival, George Talbot had
succumbed to a virulent fever; and his widow, upon whom a handsome
jointure had been settled, when the funeral and the necessary law
worries had come to an end, had intimated to her young cousin that she

intended to travel for a year upon the Continent, and that she would be
glad, that is--with an elaborate sigh--she would be a degree less
miserable, if she, Florence, would accompany her. This delighted
Florence. She was wearied with attendance on the sick, having done
most of the nursing of the Hon. George, while his wife lamented and
slept; and, besides, she was still sore at heart for the loss of her father.
The year abroad had passed swiftly; the end of it brought them to Paris
once more, where, feeling that her time of mourning might be decently
terminated, Mrs. Talbot had discarded her somber robes, and had put
herself into the hands of the most fashionable dress-maker she could
find.
Florence too discarded mourning for the first time, although her father
had been almost two years in his quiet grave amongst the Hills; and,
with her cousin, who was now indeed her only friend, if slightly
uncongenial, decided to return to London forthwith.
It was early in May, and, with a sensation of extreme and most natural
pleasure, the girl