The Haunted Chamber | Page 4

looked forward to a few months passed amongst the
best of those whom she had learned under her cousin's auspices to
regard as "society."
Dora Talbot herself was not by any means dead to the thought that it
would be to her advantage to introduce into society a girl, well-born
and possessed of an almost fabulous fortune. Stray crumbs must surely
fall to her share in a connection of this kind, and such crumbs she was
prepared to gather with a thankful heart.
But unhappily she set her affection upon Sir Adrian Dynecourt, with
his grand old castle and his princely rent-roll--a "crumb" the magnitude
and worth of which she was not slow to appreciate. At first she had not
deemed it possible that Florence would seriously regard a mere baronet
as a suitor, when her unbounded wealth would almost entitle her to a
duke. But "love," as she discovered later, to her discomfiture, will
always "find the way." And one day, quite unexpectedly, it dawned
upon her that there might--if circumstances favored them--grow up a
feeling between Florence and Sir Adrian that might lead to mutual
devotion.

Yet, strong in the belief of her own charms, Mrs. Talbot accepted the
invitation given by Sir Adrian, and at the close of the season she and
Florence Delmaine find themselves the first of a batch of guests come
to spend a month or two at the old castle at Dynecourt.
Mrs. Talbot is still young, and, in her style, very pretty; her eyes are
languishing and blue as gentian, her hair a soft nut-brown; her lips
perhaps are not altogether faultless, being too fine and too closely
drawn, but then her mouth is small. She looks considerably younger
than she really is, and does not forget to make the most of this
comfortable fact. Indeed, to a casual observer, her cousin looks scarcely
her junior.
Miss Delmaine is tall, slender, _posée_ more or less, while Mrs. Talbot
is prettily rounded, petite in every point, and nervously ambitious of
winning the regard of the male sex.
During the past week private theatricals have been suggested. Every
one is tired of dancing and music. The season has given them more
than a surfeit of both, and so they have fallen back upon theatricals.
The play on which they have decided is Goldsmith's famous production,
"She Stoops to Conquer."
Miss Villiers, a pretty girl with yellow hair and charming eyes, is to be
Constantia Neville; Miss Delmaine, Kate Hardcastle; Lady Gertrude
Vining, though rather young for the part, has consented to play Mrs.
Hardcastle, under the impression that she looks well in a cap and
powdered hair. An impossible Tony Lumpkin has been discovered in a
nervous young man with a hesitation in his speech and a difficulty
about the letter "S"--a young man who wofully misunderstands Tony,
and brings him out in a hitherto unknown character; a suitable Hastings
has been found in the person of Captain Ringwood, a gallant young
officer, and one of the "curled darlings" of society.
But who is to play Marlow? Who is to be the happy man, so
blessed--even though in these fictitious circumstances--as to be allowed
to make love to the reigning beauty of the past season? Nearly every

man in the house has thrown out a hint as to his fitness for the part, but
as yet no arrangement has been arrived at.
Sir Adrian of course is the one toward whom all eyes--and some very
jealous ones--are directed. But his duties as host compel him, sorely
against his will, to draw back a little from the proffered honor, and to
consult the wishes of his guests rather than his own. Miss Delmaine
herself has laughingly declined to make any choice of a stage lover, so
that, up to the present moment, matters are still in such a state of
confusion and uncertainty that they have been unable to name any date
for the production of their play.
It is four o'clock, and they are all standing or sitting in the library,
intent as usual in discussing the difficulty. They are all talking together,
and, in the excitement that prevails, no one hears the door open, or the
footman's calm, introduction of a gentleman, who now comes leisurely
up to where Sir Adrian is standing, leaning over Florence Delmaine's
chair.
He is a tall man of about thirty-five, with a dark face and dark eyes, and,
withal, a slight resemblance to Sir Adrian.
"Ah, Arthur, is it you!" says Sir Adrian, in a surprised tone that has
certainly no cordiality in it, but, just as certainly, the tone is not
repellent.
"Yes," replies the stranger, with a languid smile, and without confusion.
"Yesterday I suddenly recollected the general invitation you gave me a
month ago to come