Over the bridge which spans the railway two miles from Canterbury a girl was riding a bicycle. She was perfect mistress of her machine--and nerves; for on the slope of the hill she let the wheels run freely, and did not trouble to use the brake. The white dust clouded the air as she spun down to the level; and the heat of the day--a July noon--was so great that she was fain to dismount for the sake of coolness. A wayside fence offered a tempting seat; and, with a questioning glance to right and left, the girl balanced herself lightly on the topmost rail. Here she perched in a meditative fashion, and fanned her flushed face with her straw hat. A pretty girl in so unconventional a position, unchaperoned and fearless, would have shocked the susceptibilities of our grandmothers. But this is the age of the New Woman, and the girl was a type of her epoch.
Assuredly a finer representative could not have been found. She was tall and straight, deep-bosomed and stately. Her sunburnt complexion, her serviceable tailor-made dress and her stout shoes of brown leather, denoted a preference for life out of doors. Across her broad forehead, round her well-shaped head, fluttered tiny curls in a loose mass of burnished gold. For the rest, a nose aquiline and two steady eyes of gray, a mouth rather wide, red-lipped and firm; there you have a portrait in your mind's eye of a charming gentlewoman--new style. Diana must have been just such another; but for brightness, sympathy, and womanly kindness the maid surpassed the goddess. If mythology is to be credited, Diana was cold, serene and--vide Actæon's disaster--a trifle cruel. On the whole, this mortal was more lovable than that immortal, and less dangerous; otherwise the comparison holds good. Miss Dora Carew was a modern Diana--on a bicycle.
Shortly, Diana of Kent reassumed her hat, and, folding her arms, stared absently across the fields. She saw not sheep or meadow, hedge or ditch, windmill or rustling tree, for her mind was absorbed in her own thoughts; and these--as indexed by her changing expressions--did not seem to be over-pleasant. Dora frowned, smiled, wrinkled her forehead into two perpendicular lines between the eyebrows, and finally made a gesture of impatience; this last drawn forth by a glance at her watch.
I do wish he would be punctual, she muttered, jumping off the fence; "if not, I must----"
Further speech was interrupted by the crisp vibration of a bell, and immediately afterwards a second bicycle, whirling down the slope, brought a young man to her feet. He was smart, lithe and handsome; also he was full of apologies for being late, and made the most reasonable excuses, hat in hand.
But you know, Dora, a doctor's time is not his own, he concluded; "and I was detained by a new patient--an aristocratic patient, my dear"--this he said with subdued pride--"Lady Burville, a guest at Hernwood Hall."
Lady Burville! replied Miss Carew, starting. "Laura Burville?"
Dr. Scott looked profoundly surprised.
I do not know that her name is Laura, he said; "and how you came to----"
I heard it yesterday, Allen, for the first time.
Indeed! From whom?
From the lips of my guardian.
Mr. Edermont spoke of Lady Burville? The young doctor frowned thoughtfully. "Strange! This morning Lady Burville spoke of Mr. Edermont."
What did she say, Allen? No, wait--with an afterthought--"why did she call you in? Is she ill?"
Indisposed--slightly indisposed--nothing to speak of. Yesterday she was at church, and the heat was too much for her. She fainted, and so----
He completed the sentence with a shrug.
Oh! said Dora, putting much expression into the ejaculation; "and yesterday my guardian also became indisposed in church."
Really? Chillum Church?
Chillum Church.
They looked questioningly at one another, the same thought in the brain of each. Here was a stranger in the neighbourhood, a guest at Hernwood Hall, and she inquired for a recluse scarcely known beyond the walls of his house. Again, here was a man who had not been absent from the district for over twenty years, who dwelt in strict retirement, and he mentioned the name--the unknown Christian name--of the strange lady. This coincidence--if it could be called so--was odd in the extreme, and even these two unsuspicious young people were struck by its singularity. Dora was the first to speak, and her remark was apparently irrelevant.
Come with me to the Red House, said she, moving towards her bicycle. "Mr. Edermont is ill."
Consequent upon his indisposition of yesterday, I suppose, replied Scott, following. "Since you wish it, I obey; but do not forget my position in the house."
Miss Carew waited until he glided alongside, and they were both swinging easily down the road. Then she glanced at him with a smile--a trifle roguish, and wholly charming.
What is your position in the house, Allen?
Is it necessary to explain, my dear? I am the son of Mr. Edermont's oldest friend. I am one of the few people he admits to see him. With his sanction, I am your most devoted lover. But--and here the doctor became emphatic--"Mr. Edermont will not have me as a medical attendant--he will not have anyone. So my calling to see him professionally is rather--forgive me, my dearest--is rather impertinent."
Then you must be impertinent enough to save his life, retorted Dora sharply. "He has never been really ill before, so far as I know, and there has been no occasion for a doctor at the Red House. But now"--her face assumed a serious expression--"he is not himself. He is agitated, distraught, terrified."
H'm! Terrified? That is strange. Are you sure that his indisposition dates from service in Chillum Church?
It dates from the reading of the Litany, said Dora precisely. "You know, Allen, that for years my guardian has never failed to attend morning service at Chillum. You know also--for I have told you often--that at the prayers for deliverance from battle, murder, and sudden death he is accustomed to look questioningly round the congregation. He did so yesterday, as usual, and immediately afterwards he sank back half fainting in his seat. I wished him to leave the church at once, but he refused to go until the text was given out. Then he went home."
And since then?
He has shut himself up in his room, and has neither eaten nor slept. He refuses to see me or speak to me. Several times I have been to his door to inquire if I could do anything, but he will not let me enter. He refuses admittance even to Mr. Joad. And all the hours he paces up and down, talking to himself.
What does he talk about? asked Scott curiously.
I cannot say, as he speaks too low for me to hear. But I caught the name of Laura Burville twice. Alarmed lest he should fall seriously ill, I wrote to you yesterday, making this appointment, and waited at the bridge to explain. What do you think of it, Allen?
Scott shrugged his shoulders.
I can hardly say until I see Mr. Edermont. At the present moment I can be sure only of one thing--that the sight of Lady Burville upset your guardian in the church, and vice versâ.
But why should they be upset at the sight of one another? They are strangers.
H'm! We cannot be certain of that, replied Allen cautiously. "That he should mention her name, that she should ask about him--these facts go to prove that, whatever they may be now to one another, they were not strangers in the past."
Then the past must be quite twenty years ago, said Dora thoughtfully, "for Mr. Edermont has not left the Red House all that time. But what did Lady Burville say when you told her about my guardian?"
She said--nothing. A wonderfully self-possessed little woman, although she looks like a doll and talks like a fool, Dora; therefore the fact of her fainting yesterday in church is all the more strange. I said that Mr. Edermont was averse to strangers, that he dwelt in the Red House, and that he was a good friend to me.
You did not mention my name?
Dora! As though I should converse about you to a stranger! No, my dear. I merely told so much about Mr. Edermont, prescribed for the lady's nerves, and informed her host and Mr. Pallant that she would be all right to-morrow.
And who is Mr. Pallant?
Did I not mention his name? Oh, he is another guest of Sir Harry's. He left the message that I was to call and see Lady Burville.
Indeed. Why did not Sir Harry call in his own doctor?
Faith! that is more than I can say, replied Scott. "All the better for me that he did not. But how this Mr. Pallant found me out I do not know. It is my impression that, hearing he was riding into Canterbury, Lady Burville asked him privately to send her a doctor, and as he chanced on my door-plate first, he called on me. A lucky accident for a struggling practitioner, eh, Dora?"
No doubt--if it was an accident, said she dryly. "What is this Mr. Pallant like, Allen?"
A red-haired, blue-eyed, supercilious beast. I disliked him at sight. Rather a shame on my part, seeing that he has done me a good turn.
By this time they had arrived at the outskirts of Chillum, and alighted before a massive gate of wood set in a high brick wall, decorated at the top with broken glass.
The green spires of poplar-trees rose over the summit of this wall, and further back could be seen the red-tiled gable of a house. Opposite the gates on the other side of the dusty white road there was a small cottage buried in a plantation of fir-trees. An untidy garden extended from its front-door to the quickset hedge which divided the grounds from the highway, and the house had a desolate and solitary look, as though rarely inhabited.
Does old Joad still sleep in his cottage? asked Allen, with a careless glance at the tiny house.
Of course! You know Mr. Edermont won't let anyone stay in the house at night but myself and Meg Gance.
That is the cook?
Cook, housemaid, general servant, and all the rest of it, replied Dora gaily; "she and I between us manage the domestic affairs of the mansion. Mr. Edermont is too taken up with his library and Mr. Joad to pay attention to such details."
He is always in the clouds, assented Allen, smiling. "By the way, who is Mr. Joad?"
Dora laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
I'm sure I can't tell you that, she replied carelessly; "he is an old college friend of my guardian's, who gives him house-room."
But not a bed?
No. Joad has to turn out at nine o'clock every night and return to his cottage. I believe he passes most of his evenings in the company of Mr. Pride.
Pride, Pride? said Allen thoughtfully--"oh, that is the chubby little man who is so like your guardian."
He is like him in the distance, answered Dora, "but a nearer view dispels the illusion. Pride is, as you say, chubby, while Mr. Edermont is rather lean. But they are both short, both have heads of silvery hair, and both rejoice in patriarchal beards. Yes, they are not unlike one another."
While this conversation was taking place the young people were standing patiently before the jealously-closed gate. Dora had rung the bell twice, but as yet there was no sign that they would be admitted. The sun was so hot, the road so dusty, that Allen became impatient.
Haven't you the key of the gate yourself, Dora?
No. Mr. Edermont won't allow anyone to have the key but himself. I don't know why.
Let us go round to the little postern at the side of the wall, suggested Allen.
Dora shook her head with a laugh.
Locked, my dear, locked. Mr. Edermont keeps the postern as firmly closed as these gates.
A most extraordinary man! retorted Scott, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he can be afraid of in this eminently respectable neighbourhood."
I think I can tell you, Allen.
Can you, my dear? Then Mr. Edermont has said why----
He has said nothing, interrupted Dora, "but I have eyes and ears, my dear Allen. Mr. Edermont is afraid of losing his----"
His money, interrupted Allen in his turn. "Oh yes, of course."
There is no 'of course' in the matter, said Miss Carew sharply; "he is afraid of losing his life."
His life? Dora!
I am sure of it, Allen. Remember his favourite prayer in the Litany--the prayer which takes his wandering eyes round the church: 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'
The appearance of the individual who admitted them into what may be called the prison of Mr. Edermont was sufficiently odd to merit a description. Lambert Joad, the friend, factotum, and parasite of Dora's guardian, was a short, stout man verging on sixty years. He had a large bland face, clean-shaven, and bluish-red in hue; his mouth was loose, his chin double, his jowl pendulous; and his insignificant nose was scarcely redeemed by two watery eyes of a pale blue. A few tufts of white hair covered sparsely the baldness of his skull; and his ears, hands, and feet were all large and ill-shaped. He dressed in rusty black, wore carpet slippers, and a wisp of white ribbon did duty as a collar. This last adornment hinted at a clerical vocation, and hinted rightly, for Lambert Joad was an unsuccessful parson of the Anglican Church.
Some forty years previously he had been a college friend of Edermont's, and in due course had taken orders, but either from lack of brains, or of eloquence, or perhaps from his Quilpish looks, he had failed to gain as much as a curacy. In lieu thereof he had earned a bare subsistence by making notes in the British Museum for various employers, and it was while thus engaged that Edermont had chanced upon him again; out of sheer pity the owner of the Red House had taken the unlucky Joad to Kent, and there permitted him to potter about library and garden--a vegetable existence which completely satisfied the unambitious brain of the creature. He was devoted to the god who had given him this ease.
But the odd part of the arrangement was that Edermont would not permit his hanger-on to remain in the house at night. Punctually at nine Mr. Joad betook himself to the small cottage fronting the gates, and there ate and slept until nine the next morning, when he presented himself again in the library, to read, and dust, and arrange, and catalogue the many books. For twenty years this contract had been faithfully carried out by the pair of college friends. From nine to nine daylight Joad haunted the house; from nine to nine darkness he remained in his tumbledown cottage.
Being now on duty, he admitted Dora and her lover, and after closing the gates, stood staring at them; with a book hugged to his breast, and a cunning look in his eyes. His swollen and red nose suggested snuff; his trembling hands and bloodshot eyes, drink; so that on the whole he was by no means a pleasant spectacle to behold. Dora threw a look of disgust on this disreputable, dirty Silenus, whom she particularly disliked, and addressed him sharply, according to custom.
Where is Mr. Edermont? said she, stepping back from his immediate neighbourhood; "I have brought Dr. Scott to see him."
Julian is still in his bedroom, replied this Silenus in a voice of surprising beauty and volume; "but he does not wish to see anyone, least of all a doctor."
Oh, never mind that, Mr. Joad, said Allen good-humouredly. "I come as a friend to inquire after the health of Mr. Edermont."
I quite understand, grunted the other; "you will make medical suggestions in the guise of friendly remarks. So like your father, that is."
My father, Mr. Joad? Did you know him? asked Scott, considerably astonished.
Yes; I do not think, added Joad, with a spice of maliciousness, "that you had that advantage."
He died when I was five years old, replied Allen sadly, "so I remember him very slightly. But it is strange that I should have known you all these months without becoming aware of the fact that you were acquainted with my father."
All this is beside the point, broke in Dora severely. "I want you to see Mr. Edermont. Afterwards you can talk to Mr. Joad."
I shall be glad to do so. There are many things I wish to know about my father.
Then, why ask me, Dr. Scott, when Julian is at hand?
Mr. Edermont refuses to answer my inquiries.
In that case, said Joad, with great deliberation, "I should ask Lady Burville."
The young man was so startled by this speech that for the moment he could say nothing. By the time he had recovered his tongue Joad was already halfway across the lawn. Scott would have followed him, but that Dora laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
Later on, Allen, she said firmly; "in the meantime, see my guardian."
But, Dora, Lady Burville's name again hints----
It hints at all manner of strange things, Allen. I know that as well as you do. I tell you what, my dear: the coming of this woman is about to cause a change in our lives.
Dora! On what grounds do you base such a supposition?
On the grounds that you know, she returned distinctly. "I can give you no others. But I have a belief, a premonition--call it what you will--that Lady Burville's coming is the herald of change. If you would know more, ask Mr. Edermont who she is, and why he fainted at the sight of her."
By this time they were standing on the steps of the porch, whence the wings of mellow red brick spread to right and left, facing the sunlit lawn. Square-framed windows extended along this front above and below, and an upper one of these over the porch was wide open. As Allen and Dora stood by the steps, a wild white face peered out and saw them in the sunlight. Had they looked up they would have seen Mr. Edermont, and have refrained from further conversation. But Fate so willed it that they talked on, unconscious of a listener. It was Allen who reopened the subject of his new patient, who had been referred to both by Edermont and Joad in so mysterious a way.
After all, said Allen meditatively, "I do not see why you should have a premonition of change. That Lady Burville should know Mr. Edermont is nothing to you."
Quite so; but that Lady Burville should know something about your late father is something to you. Did she mention anything about it this morning?
Not a word, he replied; "it was strange that she should not have done so."
Not stranger than that you should have been called in to attend her.
That was purely an accident.
I don't think so, said Dora deliberately; "at least, not in the face of Mr. Joad's remark."
Dr. Scott looked puzzled.
What do you make out of this Lady Burville? he asked.
Before Dora could answer the question, a voice spoke to them from above.
Do not talk any more of that woman, cried Mr. Edermont with a tremor in his tones. "Come upstairs, Allen; I have something for your private ear."
And then they heard the window hastily closed, as though Mr. Edermont were determined that the forthcoming conversation should be as private as possible.
Go up at once, Allen, whispered Dora, pushing him towards the door. "You speak to my guardian, and I shall question Mr. Joad about Lady Burville. Mind, you must tell me all that Mr. Edermont says to you."
There may not be anything to tell, said Allen doubtfully.
Dora looked at him seriously.
I am sure that what is told will change your life and mine, she said.
Dora! you know something?
Allen, I know nothing; I am going simply by my premonition.
I am not superstitious, said Scott, and entered the house.
He was not superstitious, as he stated; yet at that moment he might well have been so, for in the mere act of ascending the stairs he was entering on a dark and tortuous path, at the end of which loomed the shadow of death.
When his gray tweeds vanished up the stairs, Dora turned her eyes in the direction of Mr. Joad. He was seated in a straw chair under a cedar-tree, and looked a blot on the loveliness of the view. All else was blue sky and stretches of emerald green, golden sunshine, and multicoloured flowers; this untidy, disreputable creature, a huddled up mass of dingy black, seemed out of place. But, for all that, Dora was glad he was within speaking distance, and alone. So to speak, he was the key to the problem which was then perplexing her--the problem of her premonition.
That a healthy, breezy young woman should possess so morbid a fancy seems unreasonable; and Dora took this view of the matter herself. She was troubled rarely by forebodings, by premonitions, or vague fears; nevertheless, there was a superstitious side to her character. Hitherto, in her tranquil and physically healthy existence, there had been no chance for the development of this particular side; but now, from various causes, it betrayed itself in a feeling of depression. Mr. Edermont's fainting and mention of Lady Burville; that lady's fainting and anxiety concerning the recluse; and finally, Mr. Joad's assertion that Lady Burville had known Allen's father--all these facts hinted that something was about to happen. Dora did not know what the something could possibly be, but she felt vaguely that it would affect the lives of herself and her lover. Therefore she was anxious to know the worst at once, and accordingly, going out to meet her troubles, she walked forward to the Silenus on the lawn.
Joad saw her coming, and looked up with what was meant to be a fascinating smile. This disreputable old creature had the passions of youth in spite of his age, and in his senile way he greatly admired the ward of his patron. His admiration took the annoying form of constantly forestalling her wishes. If Dora wanted a book, a paper, a chair, a bunch of flowers, Joad was always at hand to supply her wants. At first she accepted these attentions carelessly enough, deeming them little but the kindly pertinacities of an amiable old man; but of late she had found Joad and his attentions rather troublesome. Moreover, his obsequious demeanour, his leers, his oily courtesies, made her feel uneasy. Nevertheless, she did not dream that the old creature was in love with her beauty. So absurd an idea never entered her head. But Joad was in love, for all that, and cherished ardently his hopeless passion.
Mr. Joad, said Dora abruptly, coming to the point at once, "who is Lady Burville?"
Dear Miss Carew, cried the old man, ignoring the question, and rising to his feet, "pray be seated in this chair. The sun is hot, but here you will be out of the glare."
Never mind about the glare and the chair, said Dora, making an unconscious rhyme; "I asked you a question. Who is Lady Burville?"
Lady Burville? repeated Joad, seeing he could no longer escape answering; "let me see. Mr. Pride said something about her. Oh yes: she is the wife of Sir John Burville, the celebrated African millionaire, and I believe she is the guest of Sir Harry Hernwood at the Hall."
Go on, said Dora, seeing that he paused; "what else do you know?"
Nothing. What I repeated was only Pride's gossip. I am ignorant of the lady's history. And if you come to that, Miss Dora, added Joad with a grotesque smile, "why should I not be ignorant?"
But you hinted that Lady Burville knew Allen's father, persisted Dora, annoyed by his evasion of her question.
Did I? said Joad, suddenly conveying a vacant expression into his eyes. "I do not remember, Miss Dora. If I did, I was not thinking of what I was saying."
You are wilfully deceiving me, Mr. Joad.
Why should I, Miss Dora? If I knew anything about this lady I would tell you willingly; but it so happens that I know nothing.
"
You spoke as though you knew a good deal, retorted Dora angrily. I spoke at random, young lady. And if you--why, what's the matter with Julian?""
"
It was little wonder that he asked the question, for Edermont had opened his window again, and was hanging out of it crying and gesticulating like some terrible Punch.
Lambert! Lambert! he shrieked. "Come and help me! He will kill me--kill me!"
Joad shuffled towards the house as quickly as his old legs could take him. He was followed by the astonished Dora, and they were about to step into the entrance-hall, when Allen Scott came flying down the stairs. He was wild-eyed, breathless, and as gray in hue as the clothes he wore.
Allen! cried Dora, recoiling at his mad looks, "what is the matter?"
Don't stop me, for God's sake! said the doctor hoarsely, and avoiding her outstretched hand, he fled hastily down the garden-path. A click of the gate, which had not been locked by Joad, and he vanished from their sight.
Dora stared at Joad; he looked back at her with a malicious grin at the flight of her lover, and overhead, at the open window, they heard the hysterical sobbing of Julian Edermont.
After a pause of astonishment at the inexplicable flight of her lover, Dora ran upstairs to the room of Mr. Edermont. It was imperative that she should learn the truth of this disturbance, and, in the absence of Dr. Scott, her guardian was the proper person to explain the matter. Had Dora glanced back at Joad, who followed closely, she might have gathered from his malignant expression that he was likely also to afford an explanation; but in her anxiety she went directly to the door of Mr. Edermont's bedroom. It was wide open, and the occupier was still sobbing by the open window.
What is the matter? cried Dora, hurrying forward. "Why has Allen----"
Edermont lifted up a white face wet with tears, and flung out two thin hands with a low cry of terror. Then, with a sudden anxiety in his eyes, he staggered rather than walked across the room, and closed the door sharply. Joad had already entered, and, still hugging a book, stood looking grimly at the swaying figure of his patron. With his back to the door, Edermont interrogated his ward and his friend.
Has he gone? Is the gate closed--is it locked and barred?
He has gone, and the gate is safe, said Joad, for Dora was too astonished by the oddity of these questions to reply.
Edermont wiped the sweat from his forehead, nodded weakly, and finally subsided into an armchair. Here he bowed his face in his hands, and Dora caught the drift of the words which he muttered in a low voice. They were those of his favourite prayer from the Litany.
'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us,' moaned the man; and then in some measure he recovered his serenity.
Seized with a sudden anger at the abject terror he had displayed, at the shameful accusation he had levelled against her lover, Dora stepped forward and faced Mr. Edermont with an indignant look.
Now that you feel better, she said coldly, "perhaps you will afford me an explanation."
Edermont looked at her in a dazed manner. He was a little man, scarcely five feet in height, and had a noble head, which seemed out of place on so insignificant a body. With his long white locks and streaming beard, he was quite an imposing figure when seated; but when standing, the smallness of his body, of his hands and feet, detracted from the majesty of his patriarchal looks. Also, his eyes were timid and restless; the silvery beard, which swept his breast, hid a weak mouth; and, stripped of his venerable disguise, Mr. Edermont would, no doubt, have looked what he was--a puny, irresolute, and insignificant animal. As it was, he imposed on everyone--until they knew him better. Dora had long since fathomed the narrow selfishness of his nature, and she saw him for what he was, not as he appeared to the outside world. It is but fair to add that she always treated him with deference in public.
At the present moment there was no need to keep up appearances, and Dora spoke brusquely to the little man. In her heart she had as great a contempt for him as she had a disgust for Joad. They were both objectionable, she considered, and each had but one redeeming point--the noble head of Edermont, the noble voice of his friend. Beyond these, the first was more of a rabbit than, a man; the second rather a satyr than a human being. Never had Dora detested the pair more than she did at the present moment.
I am waiting for your explanation, Mr. Edermont, she said again, as he did not reply.
I have no explanation for you, retorted her guardian wearily; "go away, Dora, and leave me in peace."
The girl took a seat, and folded her arms.
I don't leave this room until I know why Allen left the house, she said firmly.
What has that to do with you? cried Edermont in shrill anger; "our conversation was about private matters."
It was about Lady Burville.
What do you know of that woman? he demanded, shrinking back.
I know that the mere sight of her caused you to faint, said Dora slowly, "and I know also that she was acquainted with Allen's father."
Lambert, you have betrayed me! said Edermont in a tone of terror.
You have betrayed yourself, Julian, was Joad's reply. "I can guess why Allen Scott left the house."
I--I could not help myself. I was--oh, I was afraid, muttered Edermont, passing his hand over his eyes.
You have cause to be afraid--now, retorted Joad; and with a look of contempt at the shrinking figure of his friend he turned and left the room. Dora waited until his heavy footsteps died away, then she turned again to Edermont.
Why did Allen leave the house? she asked with obstinate insistence.
That is my business.
And mine also. I have a right to know why you have driven away the man whom I am about to marry.
Edermont burst into unpleasant mirth. "That's all over and done with, my dear," he said, staring at her. "Allen Scott will never marry you--now."
What have you told him? she gasped, turning pale.
I have told him something which will keep him away from this house--something which will prevent him from ever seeing you again.
What do you mean, Mr. Edermont?
She had risen to her feet, and was standing over him with flushed face and indignant eyes. To force his speech she gripped the shoulder of the man until he winced with pain.
You have said something against me, she continued, giving him a slight shake.
I have been saying nothing against you. I am truly sorry for you, Dora.
Sorry for me, Mr. Edermont? Why?
Because of your parents, said her guardian slowly.
Dora stepped back. Since she had been brought by Edermont to the Red House, a year-old babe, he had never mentioned the name of her parents. All questions she had put to him had been put aside. That her father and mother were dead, that she inherited five hundred a year, and that Mr. Edermont was her guardian until she reached the age of twenty-one--these facts were known to her; beyond them, nothing. Now it would seem that some mystery was connected with the dead, and that Mr. Edermont was about to divulge it.
What did my parents do that you should be sorry for me? she asked pointedly.
I shall never tell you what they did, Dora. I have hinted too much already. It is sufficient for you to know that they sinned, and that their sin will be visited on you.
How dare you speak to me like this! cried Dora, clenching her hands; "what right have you to terrify me with vague hints? I demand an explanation!"
You will never obtain one--from me, said Edermont in a quavering voice; "and if you are wise you will seek one nowhere else."
I shall ask Allen.
He is bound by a promise to me not to tell you.
Then, I shall question Lady Burville.
Edermont rose with a bound, and gripped her arm with a strength of which she had not thought him capable.
Girl, he cried earnestly, "do not go near that woman! She is an evil woman--one who has brought harm in the past, and will bring harm in the future. When I saw her in church it was no wonder that I turned faint. She has hunted me down; and she brings trouble in her train. Leave me to fight my own battles, Dora, and come not into the fray. If you cross her path she will show you such mercy as she has shown me. I implore you to say nothing, to think nothing. If you disobey me I cannot save you; you must be your own salvation."
Throughout this strange speech he kept his eyes fixed upon her face. When it was ended he dropped her arm and turned away.
Leave me now, he said faintly; "I--I am not myself."
The poor creature seemed so exhausted that it would have been absolute cruelty to have questioned him further, and, anxious as Dora was to do so, she was moved from sheer pity to spare him. Without a word she left the room, closing the door after her, and went slowly downstairs to the hall. Here she paused and considered.
I knew that some evil was coming, she thought, with a chill of fear, "and my premonition has come to pass. According to that coward upstairs, there is danger and evil on all sides. He has separated me from Allen; he warns me against Lady Burville; yet he refuses to enlighten my ignorance, and warns me against going to others. But I must know; I must learn what it is that threatens the future happiness of Allen and myself. I can't sit down with folded arms and await the bolt from the blue. I must know, I must consider, I must act."
Against two people Edermont had warned her, but he had omitted to specify a third. Out on the lawn, under the cedars, Dora saw the black figure of Joad. It would appear from his parting words to his patron that he knew what had been told to Allen. Dora was on the point of crossing to him, and wringing, if possible, the truth from his reluctant lips, but her instinctive repulsion to the man prevented her from taking him into her confidence. If she wanted help, she must rely on herself or upon Allen. He was her affianced lover, and she felt that she could trust him. But if his lips were sealed by the promise given to Edermont, why----
But he will tell me--he must tell me, she said, with an angry stamp. "I shall go into Canterbury at once." She glanced at the old clock in the hall, which chimed half-past two. "I shall go at once," repeated Dora, and went for her bicycle.
At the gate she found Joad, with the key in his hand. He cast a sidelong look at her bicycle, and explained his presence on the spot.
I quite forgot to lock the gate, Miss Dora, he said, in his deep tones; "it was fortunate for Dr. Scott that I did not, and unfortunate for you."
Why was it unfortunate for me, Mr. Joad? she asked coldly.
Because, if Dr. Scott had not been able to get out, he would have been forced to remain; and if he had remained, said Joad, with another glance at the machine, "he might have saved you a journey to Canterbury."
How do you know that I am going to Canterbury?
I guessed it. You wish to obtain from Scott the explanation which Julian refuses. As I said, it was unlucky Scott found this gate unlocked, else he might have made his explanation here.
You are a shrewd observer, Mr. Joad, was Dora's reply; "and I admit that you are right. I am going to see Dr. Scott, as you say."
It is a hot day, and a long journey. You will experience discomfort.
Probably I shall, said Dora, with a significant look. "Suppose you save me the journey, Mr. Joad, and explain this mystery yourself?"
To what mystery are you alluding, young lady? asked Joad with childlike blandness.
To the mystery of Allen's sudden departure. You know the reason for it. I heard you say so myself to Edermont.
Mr. Edermont's secrets are not my secrets, and I do not betray my friends.
You are wonderfully scrupulous, said Miss Carew scornfully. "Well, I won't ask you to play the part of a traitor. Allen will tell me what I want to know."
I am afraid Allen will do no such thing, Miss Dora.
I have a right to know what bar there is to my marriage.
I agree with you there, replied Joad, putting the key in the lock of the gate. "All the same, Dr. Scott will keep his own counsel. But I'll tell you one thing, Miss Dora--Julian is right: you will never marry Allen Scott."
Who will stop the marriage? asked Dora indignantly.
Scott himself. He will ask you to break the engagement.
Dora looked at Joad with ineffable contempt, and wheeled the bicycle out on the dusty road.
I will never believe that until I hear it from his own lips, she said. And the next moment she was spinning at full speed towards Canterbury.
Joad looked after her with a grim smile, and locked the gates with the greatest deliberation. Then he went up to the house, swinging the key on his finger and talking aloud.
This, said Joad, chuckling, "is the beginning of the end."
If Dora was disappointed at failing to obtain explanations at Chillum, she was still more so at Canterbury. She ran the five miles under thirty minutes, and made sure she would be able to overtake Allen before he could escape her. There was a vague idea in her mind that, owing to what had been told him by Edermont--whatever it might be--he did not wish to submit himself to her questioning. This idea was confirmed by the discovery she made on reaching the tidy green-doored house near the Cathedral. Dr. Scott was not at home.
And to tell the truth, miss, said Mrs. Tice, a large, ample, motherly person, who had been Allen's nurse and was now his housekeeper, "the doctor has gone to London."
To London? gasped Dora blankly, "and without letting me know?"
Dear, dear; did he say nothing, miss? Well, to be sure! and Mr. Allen so considerate! You'll pardon me, miss, but I have been with him since he was a baby, and I should be sorry to think he had quarrelled with you. It's few as loves as Mr. Allen does.
There is no quarrel, said Miss Carew, a trifle stiffly. "Dr. Scott saw my guardian, and then left the house without speaking to me. I have called to ask for an explanation."
Well, miss, I'll--but, dear, dear! here I am keeping you out on the doorstep. A fine rage Mr. Allen would be in if he knew that, miss. Come in and rest, my dear lady, and I'll make you a cup of tea.
Dora accepted this hospitable offer with alacrity, not that she was anxious for rest or tea, but because it occurred to her that Mrs. Tice might throw some light on the darksome mysteries which were perplexing her brain. The old woman, as she had stated, had taken charge of Allen since he was a baby, so she, if anyone, would know about this Lady Burville who had been acquainted with Scott senior. But before Dora asked any questions concerning this remote past, she wanted first to learn the circumstances of Allen's hasty departure for London. When seated in Mrs. Tice's comfortable room, she spoke directly on the subject.
Had Dr. Scott decided to go up to town this morning?
Why, no, miss, replied the housekeeper, poising a spoon over the caddy, "and that is just what puzzles me. Mr. Allen is not a young gentleman to make up his mind in a hurry like. But he came home about half an hour ago quite wild in his looks, and would not say what ailed him. Before I could turn round, he had put a few things into a black bag, and went off on his bicycle."
To the station?
No, Miss: to Selling. He said he had a patient to see there, and would catch the four twenty-six train from that place.
Dora glanced at her watch. It was now three o'clock, and if she chose she could ride the nine miles to Selling before the up-train left that station. But this she determined not to do. If Allen insisted upon behaving so badly, she would do nothing to force him into an explanation. Sooner or later he would tell her his reasons for this strange conduct. But there was no doubt in her mind that his sudden departure was the result of his mysterious conversation with Mr. Edermont.
When did Mr. Scott say he would return, Mrs. Tice?
To-morrow, miss; and then I have no doubt he will explain why he went off in such a hurry.
He did not tell you, I suppose?
Not a word, miss, replied the housekeeper, pouring out the tea. "He'll be in a rare way when he finds out you have been here, and he not at home to make things pleasant for you. Your tea, miss."
You will make them pleasant enough, Mrs. Tice. What delicious tea and bread and butter! I feel quite hungry after my ride. By the way, continued Dora, artfully preparing to take the housekeeper by surprise, "Allen told me that he had a new patient--Lady Burville."
Contrary to her expectation, Mrs. Tice did not appear to be astonished. From the composed expression of her face, from the friendly nod with which she received the news, Dora was convinced that she was absolutely unacquainted with the name. Failing in this attack, Dora attempted to gain the information she wanted, if it were to be gained, by approaching the subject from another quarter.
I am so glad that the doctor is to prescribe for Lady Burville, she said softly; "she will be able to do Allen so much good in his profession. He only needs the chance, and with his talents he is sure to be successful."
Mr. Allen is very clever indeed, said delighted Mrs. Tice, who could never hear her nursling praised sufficiently.
And his father was clever also, I believe? said Dora, unmasking her batteries. This time Mrs. Tice changed colour, and placed the cup she was holding carefully on the tray. Dora noticed that her hand trembled.
The late Dr. Scott was eminent in his profession, she said in a low voice.
What a pity he did not live to help Allen on! pursued Dora, still observant; "how long ago is it since he died, Mrs. Tice?"
Some twenty years, miss.
Really! When Allen was five years old; and you have had charge of him ever since?
Mrs. Tice recovered a little of her self-control.
I had charge of him before that, miss, she said genially; "his poor mother died when he was born, so I have had him in my care since he was in his cradle. And, please God, I'll stay with him until I die--that is, miss, if you do not object to my continuing housekeeper after your marriage to my dear Mr. Allen?"
You shall stay and look after us both, declared Dora impetuously; "we could not do without you."
Your guardian, Mr. Edermont, will miss you when you marry, my dear lady.
Dora's lip curled. "I do not think so," she said quietly. "Mr. Edermont is too much wrapped up in himself to trouble about me. You have never seen him, have you?" And on receiving a shake of the head, Dora continued: "He is a little womanish man, with a fine head of silvery hair."
Ah! said Mrs. Tice, a startled expression coming into her eyes.
I think he has quarrelled with Allen, pursued Dora, not noticing the change in the other's manner, "for he told him something which may prevent our marriage."
What was it, my dear? asked Mrs. Tice in some perturbation.
I don't know; Mr. Edermont won't tell me. And I asked you about this Lady Burville because I feel sure she has something to do with it.
But, Miss Carew, I do not understand!
Well, Mrs. Tice, cried Dora quickly, "Mr. Joad said Lady Burville knew my guardian and Allen's father, and--I'm sure I can't tell how--but it has something to do with our marriage being stopped and Allen's going to London."
By this time Mrs. Tice was perfectly livid, and trembling like a leaf. Out of the incoherencies of Dora's story she had picked an idea, and it was this which moved her so deeply. Dora looked at her in astonishment.
What is the matter, Mrs. Tice? Are you ill?
The housekeeper shook her head; then, rising with some difficulty, she went to a cupboard, and produced therefrom a book of portraits. Turning over the pages of this, she pointed out one to Dora.
A little man with silvery hair, she said slowly--"is that your guardian, Miss Carew?"
Dora looked and saw the face--clean-shaven--of a young man. Notwithstanding the absence of beard, she recognised it at once. It was Julian Edermont, with some twenty years off his life.
Yes, that is Mr. Edermont, she said, astonished at the discovery.
And you are his--his daughter? questioned the housekeeper.
No; I am his ward. Mr. Edermont has never been married.
Mrs. Tice looked thoroughly frightened.
You say Mr. Edermont had a conversation with Mr. Allen?
Yes: a conversation and a quarrel.
Oh, great heavens! if he should have learnt the truth! muttered the old lady.
If who should have learnt the truth? demanded Dora.
Mrs. Tice closed the book with a snap, and put it in the cupboard, shaking her head ominously. She kept her eyes turned away persistently from the face of the young girl. Whatever discovery she had made from displaying the photograph, it was evident that she did not intend to communicate it to her companion.
How did you come possessed of Mr. Edermont's photograph, when you said you did not know him? asked Dora suddenly.
I did not know him until--five minutes ago. You had better ask me no more questions, Miss Carew.
But can you not tell me, from your knowledge of Allen's parents, why Mr. Edermont has quarrelled with him?
If Mr. Edermont is the man I take him to be, I can. But I shall not tell you, Miss Dora.
Why not?
The housekeeper shuddered.
I dare not, she said in a trembling tone. "Oh, my dear, why did you come to-day? I know much, but I dare not speak."
Is your knowledge so very terrible?
It is more terrible than you can guess.
Does Mr. Edermont know as much as you do?
Mr.--Edermont, said the housekeeper, with a pause before the name, "knows more than I do."
I do not see why I should be kept in the dark, said Dora petulantly. "All that concerns Allen concerns me."
In that case, observed Mrs. Tice calmly, "I can only recommend you to wait until Mr. Allen returns. If he chooses to tell you, well and good; but for my part, I prefer to keep silent about the past."
But is that fair to me, Mrs. Tice?
Silence is more than fair to you in this case, said the old dame, looking steadily at the eager face of the young girl. "It is merciful."
Merciful? That is a strange word to use.
It is the only word that can be used, replied Mrs. Tice emphatically. "No, do not ask me any more, my dear young lady. The secret I hold is not my own to tell. Should Mr. Allen give me permission to reveal it, I shall do so; otherwise I prefer to be silent."
One would have thought that this speech was final; but Dora was too bent upon learning the truth of Allen's strange behaviour to be satisfied. She urged, she cajoled, she threatened, she implored, but all to no purpose. Whatever it was that Mrs. Tice knew detrimental to the past of Mr. Edermont, she was determined to keep it to herself. Evidently there was nothing left but to wait until Allen returned. From experience Dora knew that she could wheedle anything out of her easy-going lover.
Do you know anything about Lady Burville? asked Dora, finding she could not persuade Mrs. Tice into confessing what she knew.
I know nothing--not even the name, said the housekeeper. "Why do you ask?"
Because Lady Burville has something to do with the quarrel between Mr. Edermont and Allen.
I can safely say that I know nothing on that point, Miss Carew. Lady Burville is a complete stranger to me, and, I should say, to Mr. Allen. I have never heard him speak of her.
But Mr. Edermont knows her.
Very probably. Mr. Edermont knows many people I am unacquainted with. You must remember, Miss Carew, that there is a vast difference between the position of a gentleman and that of a housekeeper.
Then, Lady Burville has nothing to do with Mr. Edermont's past?
So far as I know she has not, replied Mrs. Tice promptly. "I don't know everything, my dear young lady."
Can you guess the cause of this quarrel?
Yes. I told you so before; but I cannot speak of it.
Do you fancy that Mr. Edermont told Allen this secret you speak of?
Mrs. Tice made no immediate reply, but smoothed her silken apron with trembling hands. At length she said:
I do not know. I trust he did not. But if he did speak----
Yes, Mrs. Tice, said Dora eagerly, "if he did speak?"
The housekeeper drew a long breath. "If he did speak," she repeated, "you will never--never--never become the wife of Allen Scott."
After that extraordinary conversation with Allen's housekeeper, Dora returned home more mystified than ever. Like everyone else, Mrs. Tice hinted at secrets of the past likely to affect the future, yet refused any explanation of such hints. Edermont and Joad acted in the same unsatisfactory way, and Allen, to avoid questioning, absented himself from her presence. It was all very tiresome, she thought, and perfectly inexplicable. Only one fact stood out clearly in Dora's mind, namely, that Lady Burville was responsible for all this confusion; therefore, she argued, Lady Burville must hold the clue to a possible disentanglement. This was logical.
Had Dora obeyed the impulse of her nature, she would have gone directly to the cause of these perplexities and have demanded an unravelment. She would have put her questions in the crudest form, thus:
My guardian was moved by the sight of you, and he orders me to avoid you. Your name formed the gist of conversation between my guardian and my lover, with the result that Mr. Edermont tells me I shall never marry Allen. Mrs. Tice, who is ignorant of your inexplicable influence, asserts the same thing; and the creature Joad hints that you knew Allen's father. On the surface these matters appear to be disconnected and incoherent; but I feel certain that a word from you will render them explicable. You must say that word to me, since it is upon me that the trouble you have created has descended.
So Dora thought, ranging the facts in such vague order as her ignorance permitted; but as she did not know Lady Burville, and had no plausible excuse for seeking her, she was forced to remain in ignorance for want of the explanation which she felt sure the woman could have supplied.
In her present dilemma, Dora, with her usual good sense, recognised that there was nothing to be done but to remain quiescent, and wait. Later on Allen would return from London--indeed, Mrs. Tice expected him back that day--and then he would be forced to explain his conduct. That explanation might put the matter in a plain light, and do away with the fiats of Mrs. Tice and Edermont regarding the impossibility of her marriage with Allen. Come what might, Dora was resolved that she would not give up her lover and spoil her life. But, pending explanation and resultant adjustment of the situation, she held her peace, and waited. The future was--the future. Dora knew no more than that.
For a week after that day of mysteries, life progressed as usual at the Red House. Joad came and went with his usual punctuality, and eyed Dora in a furtive manner, with a distinct avoidance of explanation. Edermont recovered his nerve to some extent, and moved in his accustomed petty orbit; and Dora, lacking other interests, attended to her household duties. To a casual spectator, all things would seem to be going on as usual, the life would have appeared tranquil and dull; but this was but surface calm. Beneath, dangerous elements were at work, which later on were destined to--but it is no use to recur to the hackneyed simile of a sleeping volcano.
All these seven days nothing was heard of Lady Burville or of Allen. The former still continued to be a guest at Hernwood Hall, the latter still remained in London. Not a line had been received from him by Dora, and, hurt in her maidenly pride, she became offended by his continued silence. Whatever extraneous circumstances had led to his behaviour, she had not caused the breach--for breach she considered it--between them. Twice or thrice she had determined to go over to Canterbury and question Mrs. Tice, but pride withheld her. She remained at the Red House, waiting, waiting, and waiting. What else could she do?
Mention has been made of the high wall which surrounded the mansion of Mr. Edermont. This had been built by himself, and contained only two entrances, one from the road--a tall gate with spikes on the top--the other, a little door far down the right side. The house itself, like these gates, was kept always bolted and barred, and Mr. Edermont confessed to a fear of robbers. But, bearing in mind his particular prayer in the Litany, Dora was certain in her own mind that a greater fear than this moved him to take such precautions.
When Joad had retired to his cottage at nine o'clock, Mr. Edermont accompanied him personally to the gates, and saw that they were bolted and barred. Afterwards he examined the side postern, and then retreated to the mansion, where he closed the iron-clamped shutters and locked every door throughout the house. The woman who cooked and cleaned, and did all the work, was locked up in the kitchen, with bedroom adjoining, like a prisoner; Dora was barred in her own set of rooms, and Mr. Edermont shut himself up in equal isolation. Ever since Dora could remember, these precautions had been taken, and by night she felt as though she were in gaol. Certainly burglars could not break in; but, on the other hand, none of the three inmates could get out unless permitted to do so by the caprice of Mr. Edermont. And on this point he had no caprice.
A week after his conversation with Allen--the conversation which had terminated in so unexpected a manner--Edermont sat in his study. This was a small oak-panelled room on the left side of the house, and was entered directly from the hall. It was plainly, even penuriously, furnished, containing little beyond a bureau of innumerable drawers and cupboards, a dingy sofa, and three chairs, the most comfortable of which was placed in front of the desk. On the walls were paintings dark with age, and an assortment of flint pistols, ancient swords, savage weapons from Africa and the South Seas, and portions of rusty armour. A window looked out directly on the lawn, but there were two doors, one of which led into the hall, the other, on the opposite side, into the faded and lonely drawing-room, which was never used. This latter apartment had three windows in the same position as that of the study, and also a glass-door with shutters at the side of the house. The view from this door was bounded by a hedge of untrimmed laurel-trees. So much for the scene. Now for the drama.
To Edermont, seated at his desk on this particular morning, entered Joad, with a card held between a dingy finger and thumb. He advanced towards his friend with a malignant grin, and dropped the card on to the blotting-pad.
Here is something likely to startle you, Julian, said he with his usual familiarity. "Mr. Augustus Pallant, on behalf of Laura Burville, is waiting to see you."
The miserable Edermont turned pale, and began to whimper.
Oh, Lambert, do you think he means to do me harm?
If he does, it is on behalf of your dear Laura, replied Joad quietly; "you had better pluck up your courage, Julian, and see him."
It might be dangerous, Lambert. Oh dear, terribly dangerous!
It will be more dangerous if you don't see the man.
Why so? After twenty years Laura can do nothing.
I am not so sure of that, Julian. She might tell Dora who she is.
The mere suggestion struck a blow at the timid heart of Edermont.
I'll see him! I'll see him! he cried, getting nervously on his feet. "Admit him, Lambert, and bring him here. But"--he buttonholed his friend--"remain within hearing, Lambert. He might do me an injury. I am not strong, you know."
You are a contemptible little coward! snarled Joad, shaking him off. "I'll look after you. There is too much to lose for me to risk your death."
Edermont threw up his hands with a cry.
Not that word, Lambert; there can be no danger after twenty years. 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'
As was his custom, Joad sneered at this prayer, which Edermont had offered up daily for the last twenty years, and went out of the house. In a few minutes he returned with a tall, red-haired man, whom he introduced silently into the study. After the introduction he closed the door, and went across to his favourite seat under the cedar to await events. The first which occurred was the coming of Dora.
She had seen the introduction of the stranger from her window, and, wondering what the visit might portend--for visitors were rare at the Red House--she waited a reasonable time, then sought Joad on the lawn. He looked up at her graceful figure with admiration in his eyes--a look which Dora resented. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that, notwithstanding his age and physical defects, this creature, as she termed him, had presumed to fall in love with her. However, as at present he limited his mistaken passion to looks, she merely frowned at his amorous glances, and asked her question.
Why has Mr. Pallant called? she demanded.
How do you know that is his name? asked Joad, without altering his position.
Dr. Scott described him to me, she said curtly. "Why has he called?"
Julian can answer that question better than I can, answered Joad, with a chuckle at baffling her curiosity, and returned to his reading.
Dora, who knew that he revenged himself thus for the frown she had bestowed on him, strove to assuage his childish petulance.
I think you might be civil, Mr. Joad, said she in an offended tone. "I have no friend but you."
What about Allen Scott?
There is no question of friendship there, said Dora stiffly. "Allen Scott is my affianced husband."
Ho, ho! Your affianced husband! jeered Silenus, grinning. "Well, Miss Dora, while Dr. Scott holds that position, I am no friend to you."
Why not? asked Dora, nettled by the hinted menace in his tone.
It's too long to explain; it's too early yet for plain speaking. But look you here, Miss Dora: a man is as old as he feels, not as he looks. I feel twenty-two--and at twenty-two--he leant forward with a sly smile--"one falls in love."
You are talking nonsense! retorted Miss Carew, drawing back; "and your conversation is not to the point. I ask you why Mr. Pallant called to see my guardian."
And I answer as I answered before, replied Joad, rendered sullen by the rebuff, "that you had better ask Julian. As I am not your friend, you can't ask me to tell you my secrets."
I don't want to know your secrets, but those of Mr. Edermont.
Then, speak to the right person, said Joad rudely. "I am not Julian."
After which speech he began reading again, utterly oblivious of the presence of the girl he admired. Dora made no reply, but went back to the house. At the door she was met by her guardian in a state of wild excitement. He ran out, shouting and holding out his hands. Behind him appeared the tall and well-dressed form of Mr. Pallant.
Dora! Lambert! shouted Edermont wildly. "Congratulate me! My nightmare is at an end! I am free! I am safe!"
Then he ran over to Joad, and talked to him with much gesticulation.
Thinking her guardian had suddenly gone out of his mind, Dora turned to Mr. Pallant for an explanation. He stared at her with undisguised admiration, and she resented it, as she had done that of Joad, with a frown.
What is the matter with Mr. Edermont? she asked abruptly.
Why, said Mr. Pallant in a slow and sleepy voice, "I have brought him some good news."
What good news?
I think Mr. Edermont will inform you himself, said Pallant.
And at that moment Edermont, still overwhelmed with joy, came running back.
I am safe--safe! he shouted; "and after twenty years of dread. No more of the Litany, no more of the--O God!"
His joy was too much for him, and he rolled over on the ground in a dead faint, at the very feet of Dora and Pallant.
And here was another mystery: Dora never learnt the good news which Pallant had brought to Edermont. The little man had fainted with excess of joy, and was carried off to bed by Joad; while Pallant took his leave of Dora, and was escorted by her to the gate. He smiled as she turned the key of the lock.
No need for that now, said he, passing through the gate. "Mr. Edermont can sleep in peace without bolt or bar."
On account of what you have told him to-day?
Precisely, Miss Carew; on account of what I have told him to-day.
Dora looked at his sneering mouth, at his bold blue eyes, and asked a question which had been in her mind since she had seen him from the window.
Were you sent by Lady Burville to tell this news, Mr. Pallant?
No; I came of my own accord. May I ask what you know of Lady Burville?
I know nothing, said Dora gloomily. "I wish I did."
Why, Miss Carew?
The girl did not reply. Pallant was a stranger to her, and she did not care to tell him of her belief that the fatal name of Lady Burville had made trouble between herself and Allen. Pallant noticed her hesitation.
I see you do not wish to speak to me openly, he said, sneering, "yet you may be glad to do so some day. Good-day, Miss Carew, and remember my words."
His horse was tethered to the wall, and on bidding her farewell he mounted to ride off. From the saddle he looked down at her fair face and smiled. Then he made a strange remark:
I shall give you one last warning, Miss Carew: Beware of Allen Scott!
The girl stared after him in surprise. Was all the world in conspiracy to torture her with hints and mysteries? Joad, Edermont, Allen and Mrs. Tice all knew of something about which they refused to speak. It would seem that Pallant--a complete stranger--was possessed also of the same knowledge. What did he mean by his warning? What had he to do with Allen Scott, or even with Edermont? Dora felt as though she were spied upon by a hundred eyes; as though she were playing a mechanical part in some terrible drama, without knowing plot, or actors, or end. She was ignorant, and therefore helpless.
For the next few days she tried to learn from Joad and her guardian what all these doings meant. Both of them refused to speak, and the tension of Dora's nerves was only relaxed by a letter from Allen, in which he stated that he would return on the second of August, and would see her the next day.
He means to explain, thought the girl, putting the welcome letter away in her desk. "In two or three days I shall know why he quarrelled with my guardian, and why Mr. Pallant warned me against him. But I must scold Allen for his neglect."
The communication relieved her greatly. Of late she had been so bewildered and harassed that she had almost doubted whether Allen loved her truly. Yet he had told her so a hundred times, and she was satisfied that he spoke truly, from that subtle instinct which never deceives a woman. He loved her, he adored her, and none other than she would ever be his wife. Before that belief the dismal prophecies of Mrs. Tice and Edermont, the strange warning of Pallant, counted as nothing. Dora believed that Allen loved her, and could explain away all the mysteries of the past weeks. In that belief she was content to wait.
And all this time Mr. Edermont was surprisingly bright. A weight appeared to have been lifted off his shoulders, and he looked ten years younger. He was scarcely past fifty, notwithstanding his white locks and hoary beard; and he began to talk of leaving his retirement and going out to mix with the world once more. Dora knew that he had a large income, and could afford to live in the most luxurious manner. It had often been a surprise to her that he had lived so long in seclusion and almost penury. From sundry circumstances she gathered that he had for years been labouring under a dread of death by violence, hence his anxiety that the house should be carefully locked up. Now that dread had been removed--as he more than hinted--by a communication from Pallant, and he could take life easily. Looking back on the fears which had haunted him these twenty years, Dora no longer wondered at the cowardice and terror of the puny creature. Rather was she astonished that with so terrific a shadow to fight he had kept himself out of a lunatic asylum. Stronger men than he succumbed to such influences.
From force of habit Edermont still locked up the house at night; he still sent Joad to the cottage over the road; but he no longer trembled at that tremendous prayer of the Litany, nor did he look round the church searching for a possible danger. Whatever the mystery of his life could be--and Dora was quite unable to guess it--that mystery had been done away with, and Edermont talked of fraternizing again with his fellow-creatures.
One thing struck her as odd. When he recovered from the excess of joy caused by the communication of Pallant, he wrote a lengthy letter, and this he was particular to post himself. As a rule, Joad attended to the despatch of such rare epistles as were sent from the Red House, so Dora was astonished that her guardian should be so anxious about this especial letter. It occurred to her that it might possibly have been sent to Lady Burville, with whom she felt certain her guardian was connected in some underhanded way. But she had never learnt if her belief were correct. What she did learn, however, was that Edermont wrote to Allen at Canterbury during the last days of July; also, he sent a third letter, but to whom Dora did not know. The first and last of these communications were posted with his own hand; the middle one had been delivered to Joad in the usual way.
On the night of the second of August, Edermont dismissed Joad as usual, and locked the gates according to custom. Then he returned to bolt and bar the house. In his study he found Dora awaiting him.
You have not seen to the little postern, she said.
No matter, he replied impatiently. "I suppose it is locked; if not--why, I can afford to leave it as it is and sleep in peace. There is no more danger for me now."
Of what danger are you talking, Mr. Edermont?
What is that to you? he retorted with weak defiance. "Why are you here? Go to bed and leave my business alone!"
I will go to bed when you have answered me one question.
Only one? he scoffed. "You are more moderate than most women. Well?"
Why have you written to Allen Scott?
Who told you I had done so?
Mr. Joad.
He is too meddlesome! cried Edermont angrily. "If he does not take care I shall dismiss him! What right had he to show you that letter?"
Because he knows that I am engaged to Allen.
I tell you the engagement must be broken off.
Why, Mr. Edermont? asked Dora indignantly.
Allen will tell you. I wrote to him to call and see me. When he comes you shall speak to him in my presence, and from his own lips you shall hear that he can never be your husband.
Until then I decline to consider the engagement as broken, said Dora, very pale, but firm. "I am not going to be your dupe, Mr. Edermont. I shall force you to explain."
I--I forbid you to--to speak to me like this! cried Edermont, shrinking back.
I shall speak as I choose--I am tired of your selfish tyranny; and if Allen does not make me his wife, I shall go out into the world to earn my own living. At least I have enough to live on.
Enough to live on? he replied slowly. "Perhaps yes, perhaps no."
What do you mean, sir? she demanded imperiously.
A crafty smile played over the face of Mr. Edermont, and he shrugged his shoulders.
Wait till Allen comes: then you may learn more than you care to listen to. Now go to bed. By the way, what about your toothache?
Toothache?
Joad said something about it, was Edermont's impatient remark; "you told him that toothache kept you awake at night."
Very true. My nights have been sleepless for the last few weeks. I have heard that dreary sounding chime in the hall clock ring from midnight till dawn. But my tooth is better to-night, thank you. I have no pain, so there is every hope that I shall have a good night's rest.
I am glad of that, my dear, said Edermont in a softer tone than was usual with him. "I would be fond of you, Dora, if you would let me. Remember, all these years I have stood in the place of a father to you."
I do not forget that, Mr. Edermont, answered Dora kindly; "you have been goodness itself. The parents I have lost could not have been kinder to me."
Perhaps not so kind, said Edermont, sitting on the chair in front of his desk. "I need not talk to you about your parents, Dora."
Why not, Mr. Edermont? I should like to know----
A great many things, interrupted the old man gloomily; "but for reasons of my own, which you may learn some day, I am not prepared to gratify your curiosity; and after all," he added in a significant tone, "it would do you no good to hear the story."
It would do me this much good, said Dora spiritedly: "I should learn the obstacle which is a bar to my marriage with Allen."
What would be the use of your knowing the obstacle, Dora? You will never get rid of it--take my word for that. Now good-night.
Good-night, replied Dora, thinking it useless to argue further.
I think you might kiss me before you go, grumbled Edermont. "I stand in the place of your father."
Without a word, Dora returned and touched the forehead of the old man with her fresh young lips. As she passed through the door, a glance back showed her a picture which never left her memory in afterlife. Edermont, his noble head with its white hair leaning on his hand, sat by the bureau in gloomy thought. A single candle served rather to show than to dispel the darkness; and in the gulf of pale glimmer hollowed out of the gloom the man looked like some famous portrait by an old master. The burden of years was visible in his silvery hair and sweeping beard of snow; the burden of sorrow marked itself in the hollow eyes, the wrinkled cheek and forehead, the wasted hands. He looked the incarnation of eld as seen in that spectral light, in that tenebrous atmosphere. Dora never forgot that sight.
Once in her room, she lost no time in getting to bed. Her sleepless nights of the past week had worn her out; and now that the pain had left her tooth, she was glad to take advantage of the respite. At first she thought about her guardian and his untold miseries; afterwards of Allen's strange behaviour; lastly, her thoughts wandered to Joad's sly looks and hinted terrors, until sleep rolled like a wave over her weary brain, and she became oblivious of the material world. Nature revenged herself for many vigils, and soothed her into sound slumber.
How long she had been asleep she did not know, but suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, she woke with a start, and sat up in the bed, her nerves strung to their utmost tension, faculties all on the alert. It seemed to her that she had heard a muffled cry for help, a wild appeal for mercy; but now that she was listening with all her will, she could hear nothing. All was dark and quiet: not a sound broke the silence of the still night. After a moment or two, Dora believed that she had mistaken a dream for a reality, and, laughing softly at her own folly, lay down again to sleep. As her head touched the pillow, the deep bell of the hall clock chimed "one." Remembering how often she had heard those dreary tones in the past week, Dora smiled drowsily to herself, and was soon fast asleep again. When she again woke it was dawn.
Someone was knocking furiously at the door of the bedroom. Dora leaped out of her bed, unlocked it, and flung it wide open. Meg Gance, the cook, stood shaking on the threshold, as pale as a ghost.
Miss Dora! O Lord, miss! gasped the terrified woman. "The master is--is--is dead!"
Dead? replied Dora in a dazed tone.
Murdered! And his head! O Lord! 'tis bashed in like a pumpkin!
And this was the end of Julian Edermont's high spirits. For twenty years he had dreaded and guarded himself against a violent death; but the moment that the fear had been removed the end came. There was something ironical in the way in which Fate had lulled his suspicions only to smite the surer. One day he had been rejoicing in the thought that the reign of terror was over; the next he lay dead under his own roof-tree, and none knew who had slain him.
They found the body in the study, lying near the desk, which was broken open and terribly damaged. As Meg, the cook, stated, his head was smashed in like a pumpkin, and near by lay the weapon with which the deed had been done--a Zulu knobkerrie, which had been torn from the decorative weapons of the wall. Dora was an exceptionally brave woman, cool in danger and collected in trouble; but even she felt qualmish to see that revered head all beaten, all splashed with gore. The place was like a shambles. Amid the blood lay a pistol, near to the hand of the dead man, and many papers were scattered about it, tossed in confusion from the bureau.
Mr. Edermont had been nothing more to Dora than her legal guardian. He had been a selfish, cowardly creature, who had done nothing to win her love; yet, as Dora looked at the body lying there, red with blood, battered, and beaten, and bruised, she felt at once sorry and angered. The first, that so harmless--so far as she knew--a creature had been so cruelly done to death; the second, that his assassin had escaped. However, as the deed was done, and the man was dead, no time was to be lost in raising the alarm. It was just possible that the murderer might be secured if prompt measures were taken.
Dora knew now that the cry she had heard in the night had been no fancy, no dreaming, but a terrible reality; and the striking of the clock immediately afterwards enabled her to fix the exact time when the crime had been committed. However, she was wise enough to say nothing on the point until called upon to do so. But raising, with the aid of Meg, the dead body on to the sofa, she sent the woman across the road to summon Joad. Hardly had she issued the order when the voice of that very person, in surprised tones, was heard in the drawing-room off the study.
Considerably astonished at his early arrival, for it was not yet eight o'clock, Dora ran into the next room. At the door she paused in sheer amazement. The glass door at the side of the apartment had no shutters up, and was wide open, while Joad was looking through it, apparently as much taken aback by her appearance as she was by his.
What is it? What is it? he demanded hastily. "This door ajar--the postern gate open--you here----"
The postern gate open? cried Dora suddenly. "The assassin must have escaped that way."
Assassin! What do you mean? stammered the new-comer, turning pale with fright.
Come in at once, Mr. Joad, and I will show you. The sight requires no explanation.
Still amazed, Joad heaved his fat body through the door, and followed Dora into the room of death. When he saw what had taken place--the blood on the floor, the dead body on the sofa--his jaw dropped, his skin turned the colour of a dirty yellow, and he stared dumbfounded at the sight. So long did he remain in his semi-trance, that Dora was obliged to shake him by the elbow to bespeak his attention.
You see Mr. Edermont has been murdered. Meg found him like that when she came to clean up the study.
Aye, I did for sure! cried Meg, her coarse face blanched with dread. "Master did not lock kitchen last night, and I found doors all wide. I came here with broom and dust-pan, and there I saw he with poor head bashed to jelly."
Joad approached the sofa and examined the body, then reverently spread his handkerchief over the disfigured face.
My poor friend! he muttered with emotion. "And you thought that you were safe!"
Does that mean you know who killed him? asked Dora, making a step forward.
No, I do not know who killed him. Julian was always afraid that he would be murdered by a certain person; but who that person is, or why he should desire Julian's death, I know no more than you do.
Dora only believed half of this statement. From what she had seen it would appear that Joad had been completely in the confidence of the dead man, and his denial seemed to be unnecessary. However, she made no comment on the speech, but with sudden suspicion asked Joad how it was he had come to the Red House before his usual time. He guessed what was in her mind, and laughed slyly.
If you think I know anything of this terrible deed, you are wrong, said he slowly; "it is not likely I should kill the only friend I have in the world, and reduce myself to beggary."
Good heavens, Mr. Joad! I never accused you of such a thing! cried Dora indignantly.
Nevertheless, you thought it, Miss Carew, he replied smoothly, "and you deemed that I had come thus early to look at my handiwork. You are wrong: it's my custom to take a short walk to get an appetite for breakfast. In crossing the fields, I saw to my amazement that the postern door was open. Knowing that Julian was particular to keep it locked, I went to see what was the matter. I came up to the house, and saw the side door was open also. In my surprise I uttered an ejaculation, and you appeared. You know the rest."
Dora did know the rest, but she did not know who had killed her guardian. However, now that a man was on the spot, she wished him to take the management of the matter into his own hands. But Joad declined to saddle himself with any such responsibility. He said that Dora was a New Woman, who thought that the weaker sex was the stronger of the two. This being the case, Mr. Joad suggested that she should prove her boast by assuming the position of the necessary male. Dora was annoyed at his niggling arguments, and disgusted at his laziness; but, not deeming the matter worth discussing, she took all authority into her own hands.
They proved to be very capable hands. She sent a man to Canterbury for the police, and put them in charge of the body and the house. To the inspector she related all she knew, and Meg followed suit. As for Joad, he interviewed the authorities on his own account, and gave the same unvarnished statement as he had given to the two women. Mr. Inspector heard all that was to be heard, saw all that was to be seen; and after leaving a couple of policemen in charge, he returned to Canterbury to rack his brains as to the whereabouts of the assassin. He also detailed a doctor to examine the body; and with this doctor came Allen.
The young man appeared haggard and ill. His face was pale, his eyes were wild, and he looked as though he had been sitting up for several nights in succession. When he saw Dora he made no effort to embrace or kiss her, but stood before her with downcast eyes, like a detected criminal. The girl was profoundly astonished at this conduct. Ordinarily Scott was blithe and light-hearted, with a smile and a word for everybody. Now he looked dejected and worried, and had not a word to say, even to the girl to whom he was betrothed. After a time Dora, finding him so unsatisfactory, took him to her own sitting-room, and sat him in a chair. Then she spoke bluntly, and with some anger, which was surely natural.
I am glad to see you, Allen, she said abruptly, "as I wish to have an explanation of your singular conduct."
I have none to give you, he said, flushing.
Indeed! Then why did you come over to-day?
I heard of this murder, for one thing, said Allen slowly; "and for another, I wish to put an end to our engagement."
Dora started. She remembered the prophecy of Mrs. Tice and of the dead man. It had come true sooner than she expected, and in a fashion she did not anticipate. Many things might have arisen to prevent their marriage, but if she and Allen were true to one another, she hoped to overleap all obstacles. But here was the man himself--the man who had vowed a thousand times that he could not live without her--and he proposed to part. She could hardly believe her ears; and from outraged pride tears sprang to her eyes.
I thought you loved me, Allen! said she, then flung herself on the sofa and sobbed as though her heart would break.
Dr. Scott rose suddenly, and stood looking down at her, his face working with passion. He would fain have taken her in his arms; he would have assured her of his love and undying fidelity. But between him and Dora a shadow was standing--the shadow of a dead man.
I do love you, Dora, said Allen, as soon as he could command his voice; "I shall always love you; but I can never make you my wife."
But why? What is your reason?
I dare not tell you my reason; but you shall learn this much: Mr. Edermont told me something which parts us for ever.
What did he tell you?
I dare not say.
Dora rose slowly and looked steadily into his face. His eyes dropped before hers, and he would have turned away, but she compelled him to face her.
Allen, you know who killed Mr. Edermont.
No, no! As God is in heaven I do not! he said vehemently. "I have my suspicions, but they count as nothing. Don't ask me anything, Dora, for I can tell you nothing."
At least tell me why you wish our engagement ended, said she, very pale.
I cannot, he groaned, and sank into a chair.
Then listen to me, Allen, she said in a firm voice. "Until you tell me the reason of this conduct I refuse to release you from the engagement. I love you; you say that you love me; so there is no reason why we should part. If you will not speak, others will; and I shall devote myself to finding out the truth. When I do find it," she added slowly, "then we may part. Until then"--her voice rose--"you are my affianced husband."
Allen rose from his chair and walked slowly towards the window, where he stood looking out at the green lawn, the brilliant sunshine. In his then mood of self-torture and sorrow, the brightness of the day seemed a cruel contrast to his own dark thoughts. His life was over, his joys were at an end; a deadly trouble, greater than he could bear, had come upon him. Yet the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, the sunlight bathed stretches of green grass and clumps of stately trees in its golden rays, as in mockery of his puny grief and trivial ruin. The contrast struck him as so ironical that he burst into bitter laughter; but the mirth thus wrung from his breaking heart ended in a sigh of regret.
Why do you laugh, Allen? asked Dora, scared by this cruel merriment. "Why do you not answer?"
I laugh because of the contrast between the joy of Nature and our own sorrows, he replied, turning his pale face towards her, "and I did not reply because I was thinking."
You heard what I said?
He took her hands within his own, and looked at her anguished face with a great love in his eyes.
I heard you, and I agree, said he softly. "God bless you for a good woman, Dora, for you have behaved nobly. Many a woman would have cast me off in scorn for my refusal to speak. But you are content to wait in hope. Alas, my darling!" he cried, with a burst of sorrow; "there is no hope; there never can be hope. You and I are parted as surely as though the one were following the other to the graveyard."
But, Allen, we have committed no sin. Why should we part?
Because of the sins of others. Our trouble comes from the past, Dora, and it was that dead man who revealed it to me. Did I tell you what he said, you would agree with me that the only thing left to us is to kiss and part. But I dare not tell you; in mercy to yourself I spare you the burden of the secret which has made my life so bitter.
I know that you act in all kindness, Allen, but you are wrong. It would be better to tell me all, and let me share your troubles. I am strong; I can bear anything.
Not this, not this, replied Allen, releasing her hands and going to the door; "it would wreck your life, your happiness, as it has wrecked mine."
Happiness! she said in a tone of despair; "I have done with that."
I hope not. Oh, my dear, I trust not. Time may bring you the content that I cannot give you. I accept your noble offer, Dora. Let us still continue our engagement, although we must rarely meet. But if you are wise, you will not seek to know the secret. It will bring you no good, only evil. For your own sake I keep silent. I can do no more; I can do no less.
He paused at the door, looking at her sadly. She stood in the centre of the room, a quiet and sorrowful figure in her black dress. Allen returned, and kissed her twice on the forehead; then he left her under the same roof as the dead man, and passed out of her life--as he thought--for ever.
After that interview Allen came no more to the Red House. He was aware that his behaviour appeared shameful; for no other word was applicable to the conduct of a man who forsook a girl to whom he had been engaged a year, and refused to disclose the reason of such desertion. Yet he could act in no other way, for the bar to the marriage, as revealed by Edermont, was so insuperable and terrible that Allen could not bring himself to enlighten Dora on the subject. If things looked black against him, he would have to put up with the situation as best he could. But to justify his conduct by telling the truth--he could not do so. In mercy to herself he spared her that revelation.
But if Allen remained absent, others did not. When the fact of the murder became known, quite a stream of morbid people set forth to view the scene of the crime. Thanks to the presence of the police, and the stubborn fact of the high wall, these folk were unable to push themselves into the house; but they gathered in crowds on the road, staring and staring, as though they hoped to see through the bricks and mortar and behold the dead body within. Much speculation was rife as to the cause of the crime, but the generally accepted opinion was that Edermont had been murdered by a burglar or burglars. Indeed, Inspector Jedd inclined to this opinion himself.
This official was a fussy, pompous man, with an immense idea of his own importance; now that an opportunity occurred of displaying that importance he made the most of it. What with examining the grounds, the house, the postern-gate; what with questioning the living inmates and the doctor who had examined the body, he was as active as a squirrel, and about as useful. In his sublime self-conceit he could not see an inch beyond his nose, and accepted the first idea that came into his head. The bureau was smashed, the drawers pulled out and emptied of their contents. On these grounds Inspector Jedd concluded that the death was due to the wrath of an interrupted housebreaker.
Tramp, you see, he said in his jerky way to admiring subordinates. "Mr. Edermont--rich house, full of treasures and loose cash--mistaken whim, very; but tramp, hearing such tales in beer-shops, believes them. He climbs over the wall; Mr. Edermont has omitted to lock side-door. Tramp enters easily--sees bureau--thinks money there. Smashes desk with the bludgeon taken from the wall"--so the inspector denominated the "knobkerrie"--"Mr. Edermont hears noise--comes in--tramp startled--turns at bay--kills Mr. Edermont. Takes what he can--steals keys from dead man and unlocks postern-gate--gets away. There you are! What could be simpler?"
None of Inspector Jedd's underlings disputed the theory of their chief, for the simple reason that they believed in it, as they would have believed in any other he chose to put forward. Joad sneered when this explanation was repeated in his hearing, but, on the plea that he knew nothing about such matters, he made no comment upon it. Dora also disagreed with Jedd, but, being a judicious young woman, she said nothing. She herself believed that the death was due to revenge, but as yet she was too uncertain of her ground, too ignorant of Mr. Edermont's past life, to venture an opinion. The reading of the dead man's will proved that her insight into the matter was keener than Jedd's.
But before the reading of the will came the holding of the inquest. Jedd gathered together all the obtainable evidence, called all the available witnesses, with the result that nothing was discovered likely to lead to the assassin's detection. The inquest was held in the dining-room of the Red House, and everybody who could obtain admittance was present; but when Dora looked round the crowded room she noted that three persons whom she expected to see were absent. These were Allen Scott, because he was her lover, and should have been at hand to support her in this trial; Mr. Pallant, as he had evidently some knowledge of Mr. Edermont's past life, and might be curious concerning his violent death; and Lady Burville, because the sight of her in church had been, as Dora truly believed, the genesis of all these woes. But none of the three put in an appearance, and their absence gave Dora food for reflection.
The first witness called was Meg Gance, the cook, who deposed that she was usually locked up in her kitchen, with bedroom attached, by the deceased. On the night of the second of August he had omitted to lock her up as usual--why, she did not know. It was her custom to rise at seven and wait till Mr. Edermont came to let her into the main portion of the house, so that she could go about her work. She was general servant as well as cook. On the morning of the third she rose as usual, but Mr. Edermont never came. To her surprise she found the door leading to the front of the house was unlocked. She passed through with broom and dust-pan to seek the study, which she usually cleaned the first thing in the morning. There she saw Mr. Edermont lying dead near the desk, with his head smashed. The bureau was smashed also, the drawers were pulled out, and their contents untidily tumbled on the floor. Near the dead body lay a pistol and a stick (the knobkerrie) which had been taken from the wall. At once she called Miss Carew. The witness stated that she had heard no noise during the night. She had noticed no tramps or suspicious characters looking round the house of late.
The second witness was Dora Carew, who stated that she had retired as usual on the previous night at half-past nine, leaving Mr. Edermont to lock up. Her guardian usually locked the door which closed the passage on the first-floor leading to her bedroom. On this night he did not do so, although she was not aware of the fact until summoned by Meg the next morning. During the night she was awakened by a cry--as it seemed to her, an appeal for mercy. She listened, but could hear nothing further, and, thinking she had been dreaming, she had lain down and gone to sleep again. When she awoke in the morning she was called by Meg to see the dead body. She was aware that Mr. Edermont considered himself a threatened man, but she had no knowledge of the person or persons whom he feared. In reply to a question, this witness stated that she heard the cry immediately before the clock in the hall struck "one." She believed that the murder had been committed at that time.
The third witness was Lambert Joad, who gave his evidence as follows:
He was accustomed to leave the Red House at nine o'clock every night for his cottage, which was on the other side of the road. On the night of the murder he left as usual, and heard the gate locked behind him. He went to his cottage, and took his supper and read. Later on he was joined by Mr. Pride, a tutor in a local private school, who was, like himself, a classical scholar. Pride talked with him till after two o'clock in the morning, when he went away. The witness was up at seven to take a walk before breakfast, as was his custom. In crossing the fields he noticed that the postern door was open. Astonished at this, and knowing that Mr. Edermont was particular about keeping the door closed, he went across to see what was the matter. On entering through the postern gate he went to the house. To gain the front-door he had to follow the path between laurel hedges, which passed by the glass door of the disused drawing-room, off the study. He saw that this door had no shutters up on the glass, as was customary, and was standing wide open. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought Miss Carew into the drawing-room. She called him in, and he saw the dead body and the smashed desk. He was not aware that Mr. Edermont had enemies. The witness believed that Edermont's fancy of being threatened with a violent death was monomania. He recognised the revolver as the property of the deceased.
The fourth witness was Dr. Chambers, of Canterbury, who deposed that he had been summoned by Inspector Jedd to examine the body of the deceased. The head was smashed in by a violent blow on the left temple, and death must have been instantaneous, After giving some technical evidence relative to the injuries inflicted, this witness concluded by stating that, from the condition of the body, he was satisfied the crime had been committed between twelve and one o'clock in the morning. This assertion bore out the statement of Miss Carew, that she had heard the hall clock strike one shortly after the cry for mercy had awakened her.
The fifth and last witness was Inspector Jedd. He deposed to the state of the body, the state of the bureau, and the finding of the knobkerrie and pistol. Evidently the criminal had entered the house through the side-door of the drawing-room, which was wide open, and had retreated the same way. No clue had been obtained likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. The postern gate, usually kept locked, had been found open on the morning after the crime. Several tramps had been arrested on suspicion, but one and all had explained their movements on the night of the second. No one but deceased knew what was in the bureau, therefore witness was unable to say if anything was missing.
These five witnesses having given their evidence, the coroner summed up, after which the jury brought in a verdict that Julian Edermont had been murdered by some person or persons unknown. It was the only conclusion to which they could come in the face of such scanty facts as had been placed before them, and all present departed with the unsatisfactory feeling that the death of Mr. Edermont was a mystery, and, what is more, was likely to remain a mystery. And so a very trying and exciting day came to a conclusion.
Mr. Edermont was duly buried in Chillum churchyard, and again Dora noticed that Allen was not present at the funeral. When she returned to the house, Mr. Carver, the long, lean lawyer from Canterbury, produced the will of the dead man, and read it to herself and Joad. As Mr. Edermont had no relations, these two were the only people likely to be interested in the disposition of his property. The will was a peculiar one, and reflected the lifelong fear of Edermont. Since he had been relieved of that fear by the visit of Mr. Pallant, he had not troubled to execute another testament; so the document read by Mr. Carver showed how vivid had been his presentiment of meeting with a violent end. The result had justified his fears.
The property included the Red House and its surrounding acres, the pictures and silver, and also the rental of three farms, amounting to two hundred a year. All this--house, pictures, silver, and income--was left to Dora, on condition that she remained at the Red House, and permitted Lambert Joad to continue his life there on the same footing as during the life of the deceased. The rest of the property, consisting of stocks and shares and various investments, amounted in all to some fifty thousand pounds. And now came the surprising part of the will. This large sum of money was left unconditionally to such person or persons as should discover and punish the assassin of the testator.
For years, said the maker of the will, "I have been threatened with violent death by a certain enemy. Sooner or later, in spite of all my precautions, he will succeed in carrying out his wicked purpose. In that event I am content to reward the person who punishes him, or whomsoever he employs, with the sum of fifty thousand pounds. The story of my life, which sets forth how I incurred the wrath of this enemy, will be found in my bureau, sealed with my seal. Let my ward, Dora Carew, read the document, and discover the assassin, so that she can at once revenge my death and inherit my money. But in any case she is provided for, as is Lambert Joad; and the bulk of my estate must go to him or her who punishes my enemy."
Then followed the usual clauses ending the will, the signatures of the testator, and of two witnesses.
When Carver had finished there was a dead silence, which was broken by the lawyer himself.
It is a strange will, said he, taking off his spectacles, "and hardly worded in a legal manner. But it holds good, nevertheless, so I can only recommend you, Miss Carew, or you, Mr. Joad, to gain fifty thousand pounds if you can."
Will that sum actually be paid over to the discoverer of the assassin? cried Joad, with sparkling eyes.
My dear sir, said Carver, with a solemn smile on his lean face, "the man or woman who discovers the murderer of my late client will receive"--he smacked his lips--"fifty thousand pounds!"
The extraordinary will of Julian Edermont caused a no less extraordinary sensation. Pursuant to the instructions of his late client, Carver caused the contents of the will to be published in almost every newspaper of the three kingdoms, and the advertisement was copied and printed and talked about all over the civilized world. Many of the leading London dailies devoted a leading article to discussing the eccentricity of the bequest. Of these lucubrations none was more noteworthy than that of the Morning Planet.
Here is a chance for our amateur and professional detectives, it said. "A riddle to stimulate the curiosity; a magnificent reward to repay the solution of the same. Mr. Edermont, a recluse, dwelling in the Red House, near Canterbury, has been barbarously murdered, and fifty thousand pounds are now offered for the discovery and apprehension of his murderer. It seems that the dead man had a past, and that that past had engendered an enemy. For twenty years Mr. Edermont lived in strict retirement, and took extraordinary precautions to ensure his safety. But all in vain. The man or woman--for no one is aware of the sex of the assassin--discovered the victim, and carried out the revenge in a peculiarly brutal fashion. There is nothing to show how the assassin came or went; but the time of the committal of the crime has been ascertained by the evidence of Miss Carew, the ward of the deceased. She fancied she heard a cry, and immediately afterwards the hall clock struck one. There can be no doubt that Miss Carew really did hear a cry, and was not dreaming, as she fancied, and that such cry was the last appeal of the poor victim for mercy.
"
In the will of Mr. Edermont, he mentions that the story of his life is set forth in a manuscript locked up in his bureau. It is evident that the assassin knew of the existence of this narrative, for, immediately after committing the crime, he--we will assume by way of argument that the criminal is a man--rifled the desk, and made off with the paper containing an account of his motive for revenge. He knew that such paper would condemn him, and that with its aid the officers of the law would have little difficulty in putting a rope round his neck. Doubtless such story gave his name--possibly his address--and he was aware that it thus jeopardized his safety. But be this as it may, one fact remains: that the assassin has stolen the sole clue to his discovery, and it would seem that the death of Julian Edermont must remain wrapped in mystery. But fifty thousand pounds! Will anyone permit this death to go unavenged when he can gain such a reward? A fortune for life, and the consciousness of having done his duty to the dead man and to society. No doubt our inglorious Vidocques, our amateur Sherlock Holmes, will set to work to unravel the mystery and gain the reward. The Red House, near Canterbury, will become the shrine of pilgrim detectives from all parts of the world. Nevertheless, in spite of their astuteness, in spite of their greed, we doubt whether the mystery will ever be solved. The sole clue, so far as we can see, is to be found in the past life of the dead man. The tale of that past life is set forth in a certain paper; such paper is in the possession of the assassin, who is himself unknown. To find the paper, they must find the assassin; without the paper the assassin cannot be found; and so matters are at a deadlock. We shall await the development of this extraordinary case with interest; but we doubt whether the fifty thousand pounds will ever be claimed. Julian Edermont is dead and buried; his assassin has escaped with the story of the motive for the crime in his pocket. Here the case stands. What light can be thrown on this darkness? What clue can be found to the cunning murderer? We wait the answer from the possible man or woman who can honestly claim fifty thousand pounds.""
"
While the papers talked thus, while people wondered, and would-be winners of the reward set their wits to work on the facts of the case, Dora remained at the Red House. No change was made in her life, or in that of Joad. In conjunction with Meg, the girl still looked after the domestic details of the mansion; and Joad still came and went from nine to nine. He became morose after the death of his friend, and hardly addressed a word to Dora. But she was aware that he constantly watched her in a furtive manner, which in the end became exceedingly annoying. Had the terms of the will been less clear, she would have left the Red House, or have induced Joad to confine his life to his own cottage. But in order to exist, and draw her poor rental of two hundred a year, she was forced to live in the house, with Joad, dirty, disreputable and crabbed, at her elbow. She disliked the man exceedingly, the more so as she had a suspicion that he admired her; but, fettered as she was by the terms of the will, she could do nothing.
Nevertheless, she became aware, as the days went by, that she would have to make some change in her life. It was impossible that she should go on living with an illiterate servant and an admiring satyr. It was equally impossible that she could continue to remain at variance with Allen after the last interview. He neither came near her nor wrote a line to comfort her; and, angered as she was at his heartless and inexplicable conduct, she made up her mind to see him. In one way or the other she would bring the matter to an end, and treat him either as a stranger or as her affianced lover.
Again, she wished to see Carver as to her financial position. By the will she had been left certain moneys and the Red House; but she also, as she understood, possessed an income of five hundred pounds, which came to her from her parents, and once or twice Mr. Edermont had informed her that she was entitled to so much; but he stated also that he was saving it up for her against the time she came of age.
As Dora was now twenty-one, she expected that the accumulations would be considerable. Making allowance for the amounts given to her at various times, she concluded that she was entitled to close on eight thousand pounds. If this were so--as she could ascertain from Mr. Carver--it was her intention to change her mode of life should Allen prove obstinate.
I shall give up the Red House and the two hundred a-year, thought Dora, making her plans, "and, after investing my eight thousand pounds with the aid of Mr. Carver, I shall go to London. I cannot live any longer in the company of that odious creature"--for so she termed the learned Joad. "And if Allen is resolved to break off the engagement, there is nothing to keep me here. Mr. Edermont is dead; Allen, for some reason, is estranged, and I am all alone. I shall take my life in my own hands, and go to London."
It never entered her head to earn the reward. She was completely ignorant as to how her late guardian had come to so untimely an end. Lady Burville might have explained, but after the crime she had gone to London, and Dora did not know where to find her. Mr. Pallant might have given a hint, but he had left Hernwood Hall also. Dora saw no way of solving the mystery; and even if she did conjecture the truth, she scarcely felt herself called upon to revenge the death of Mr. Edermont by discovering his assassin. She did not want the reward, and she had not sufficient regard for the dead man's memory to devote herself to so difficult a task.
Mr. Carver lived and worked in a dusty, dingy, dreary house near Mercery Lane. His rooms were above--he was a bachelor, dry and crusty--and his offices below. Two clerks, as lean as their master, worked in the dismal outer office, and in the inner apartment, the window of which looked on to a mews, Mr. Carver sat all day, and often far into the night. The appearance of so charming and blooming a woman as Dora quite lighted up the musty, fusty den. Her fresh beauty had little effect upon Carver, who regarded women as the root of all evil. The generally accepted root of all evil is money. This he approved of and hoarded; but women--he could not bear them, save in the light of clients, and then they gave him endless trouble.
Mr. Carver, said Dora, facing the saturnine lawyer on the other side of the table, "I have called to see you about my financial position. I was, as you know, a ward of Mr. Edermont's"--Carver nodded--"and he has left me the Red House and two hundred a year." Mr. Carver nodded again. "But what about my own income of five hundred a year?"
What five hundred a year? said Carver grimly.
The income which was left me by my parents.
I was not aware that any income had been left to you by your parents, nor, for the matter of that--if you will excuse me--was I aware that you had any parents.
What do you mean, sir? asked Dora, sitting up very straight.
Why, said the lawyer meditatively, "it is not hard for you to gather my meaning. I never saw your parents--I never heard mention of them. All I know is that my late client arrived here with you, and shortly after his arrival purchased the Red House. You were then a year old, and as twenty years have now elapsed, it makes you twenty-one," added Mr. Carver in parenthesis. "My late client said that you were an orphan, Carew by name, whom he intended to bring up; but as to parents, or history, or income--I know nothing about them, absolutely nothing."
But Mr. Edermont assured me that I had five hundred a year of my own! stammered Dora, taken aback by this plain speaking. "He handed me money from time to time, and stated frequently that he was saving the rest of the income to give me when I came of age. If this is so, I ought to be entitled to at least eight thousand pounds."
I congratulate you on your logical arguments, and on your business capabilities, said Carver with grave irony; "but I am afraid that you are mistaken, or else that the late Mr. Edermont deceived you wilfully--a thing which I can hardly believe. I know all the details of my late client's monetary affairs. As I said before, I purchased for him the Red House freehold some twenty years ago--shortly after his arrival in the neighbourhood. The two hundred per annum which you inherit under the will is the rental of three farms, which I purchased at a later period for him. The silver, furniture and pictures, which you also inherit, he brought with him from his last dwelling-house. Finally, Miss Carew," added the lawyer, with the air of a man who is making a satisfactory statement, "I know precisely how he invested that fifty thousand pounds which, by the will, has been so foolishly offered as a reward for the discovery of the murderer of the testator. All these matters I can explain and prove, but as regards your supposititious income of five hundred pounds, I know nothing. There are," concluded Mr. Carver calmly, "neither letters, nor scrip, nor documents of any kind whatsoever among the papers of my late client which can in the least substantiate your statement, or even hint at the possibility of such a thing."
Dora listened to this long speech in silent amazement. She had never contemplated the possibility of such a deception--for now it seemed plainly a deception. Why Edermont should have told so many lies, and fostered in her a belief that she was independent as regards pecuniary matters, she could not understand. Carver waited for her to argue the matter, but Dora made no attempt to do this. The lawyer's explanation was so clear and decisive that she saw no reason to doubt his honesty. Besides, he had been always well-disposed towards her, and no motive could exist to induce him to deceive her.
Then I am penniless? she murmured in dismay. "Mr. Edermont deceived me!"
Apparently he did deceive you, assented Mr. Carver, placing the tips of his fingers together; "but if you will permit me to remind you, Miss Carew, you are not penniless."
I have a roof to cover me, and two hundred a year, said Dora bitterly. "True enough, Mr. Carver. But such a legacy is saddled with the constant companionship of Mr. Joad."
He is scarcely a pleasant companion for a young lady, I grant, Miss Carew. But if you permit him to potter about the library and garden, I hardly think that he will trouble you much. These bookworms, dry-as-dust scholars, are so wrapped up in their books, that they rarely deign to notice mundane affairs, or the presence of youth and beauty.
Dora had her own opinion as to Mr. Joad's blindness in this direction; but as the subject was not pertinent to the matter under discussion, she made no remark on Carver's speech. After a few moments' thought, she looked earnestly at the lawyer.
You are not deceiving me, Mr. Carver? she asked imploringly.
I deceive no one, Miss Carew, he replied stiffly. "If you doubt my integrity, you can consult any solicitor you think fit, and send him to me. I can prove all my statements by means of documents signed by my late client."
It is very hard to be so deceived, Mr. Carver.
I grant it, I grant it, said Carver hastily; "but if you wish to be rich, I can only remind you that fifty thousand pounds is waiting for the discoverer of my late client's assassin."
I wonder you do not earn it yourself, said Dora, rising to take her leave.
I would willingly do so, Miss Carew, but unfortunately my knowledge of Mr. Edermont's past is confined to dry business details. I do not know the romance of his life, added Carver with emphasis. "And from the romance, whatever it was, this present trouble springs."
Do you mean a love romance?
Carver shrugged his shoulders.
Why not? he said, in his dryest tone. "With all due respect to you, Miss Carew, I believe that a woman is to be found at the bottom of everything. Trace back Mr. Edermont's life to his period of romance, and you will find a woman. Find that woman, Miss Carew; learn her story, and her influence on your late guardian. Then I'll guarantee you will discover the assassin of the Red House."
Dora said nothing, but hastily took leave. But once outside, Carver's words recurred to her. They seemed to fit in with her suspicions of Lady Burville.
Having failed with the grim lawyer, Dora resolved to see Allen. She felt singularly lonely, and longed to have some person to advise her. That should have been Allen's office, but after his cruel behaviour, Dora could scarcely bring herself to consult him. Yet it was imperative she should do so. She was an orphan, and had been kept so secluded by the selfishness of Mr. Edermont that she had not a friend in the world. If Allen failed her, the poor girl felt she would not know what to do, or who to consult. He must love her, notwithstanding his conduct, she thought; and perhaps if she told him how lonely she was, how unhappy, how greatly in need of his counsel, he might soften towards her. As Dora was naturally a haughty and self-reliant young woman, it may be guessed how isolated she felt when she so far unbent her pride as to turn for sympathy and consolation to the man who had scorned her. But, after all, she was only a woman, and subject to the weakness of her sex.
It was with slow and hesitating steps that she sought the house of her lover. She was well aware that she would find him at home at this hour; and the thought that she would soon see him face to face brought the blood to her cheeks. Pausing at the door, she twice or thrice resolved to go away; but the memory of her isolation, of her need of sympathy, confirmed her original intention. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by Mrs. Tice, who changed colour at the sight of the girl.
Deary me, Miss Carew! she said in some confusion; "I had no idea it was you. Is it the doctor you wish to see?"
"
Yes, Mrs. Tice. Is he within? He is, my dear young lady. Come into the sitting-room, miss, and I'll inquire if Mr. Allen will see you.""
"
Left alone in the room, Dora sank into a chair. The ceremony with which she had been received, the obvious confusion of Mrs. Tice, touched her painfully. She wondered what could be the reason of such things. They made her only the more determined to see Allen, and demand an explanation. But he had refused her once before; it was probable he would do so again. She felt her helpless condition keenly at this moment.
While she was thus taken up with these sad thoughts, she heard a firm step approach the door; it opened, and Allen stood before her. He seemed even more haggard and worn than the last time she had seen him. His shoulders were bent, his eyes lacked fire; altogether the man looked so thoroughly ill, so consumed by trouble and vexation of spirit, that Dora involuntarily took a step forward out of sheer sympathy. Then she recollected his conduct, and stopped short. They both looked steadily at one another.
Why have you come to see me? said Allen wearily. "It can do no good. I can explain nothing."
Allen, you loved me once.
I love you still, he responded hastily. "I shall always love you."
Words, words, words! said Dora, after the manner of Hamlet. "Your actions prove otherwise. Now listen to me, Allen: I have come to you for advice."
I am the worst person in the world to give it to you, replied Scott, with cruel emphasis on the last words. "But if you wish it, I will do so."
I do wish it, Allen. I am an orphan. I have few acquaintances, and no friends. My guardian is dead, and in all the world there is no living soul who cares about me.
Dora! he cried in a tone of agony, "how can you speak so? I care! I would rather die than see you suffer."
I do not wish you to die, answered the girl with some bitterness; "it is so easy to say so--so difficult, so difficult to do. No, Allen; I wish you to live and help me. Let me put my position before you. My guardian told me that I had five hundred a year. He deceived me; I inherited nothing from my parents."
Who told you this, Dora?
Mr. Carver, the lawyer. For some reason Mr. Edermont lied to me, and confirmed his lie by paying me certain moneys which he said came from my inherited income. I hear now that I am a pauper. But for his bequest of two hundred a year and the freehold of the Red House, I should be a beggar.
I cannot understand his reason for deceiving you, said Allen, drawing a long breath; "but at all events, he has made some reparation by leaving you enough to live on. You will always have a home at the Red House."
You do not know the conditions of the will, was Dora's reply. "I have to live at the Red House; I have to permit Mr. Joad to carry on his former life, which means that I must see him daily, and I hate the man," added Dora fervently; "I loathe him; and now that Mr. Edermont is dead, I do not know to what length his audacity may carry him."
What do you mean? demanded Allen, frowning.
I mean that Joad admires me.
Admires you? The young man stepped forward and clenched his fists. "Impossible that he should dare!"
Oh, trust a woman's instinct in such matters, Allen! Yes, Mr. Joad admires me, and I believe he will soon put his admiration into words.
If he does, I'll thrash him within an inch of his life!
As my affianced husband you no doubt have the right, replied Dora steadily; "but have you the will? You say you love me, yet----"
I do love you! he burst out; "and it is because of my love for you that I keep silent. On that fatal day Edermont, beside himself with terror, betrayed to me a secret he had better have kept hidden. That secret parts us for ever. I dare not marry you."
You dare not? What secret can have the power to make you say such words?
If I told you that, I should tell you all, replied Allen sullenly. "Do not try me beyond my strength, Dora. If you suffer, I suffer also. For your own sake I keep silent, and I love you too dearly to inflict unnecessary pain."
What you might inflict can be no worse than what you have inflicted, said Dora bitterly. "I see it is useless to ask you to confide in me. But one word: has this secret to do with Mr. Edermont's death?"
Allen hesitated; then, turning away his head:
I cannot answer you, he said resolutely.
Oh! said Dora in a taunting tone; "then you know something about the death."
I know nothing, replied Allen, with a white face.
Yes, you do. Your refusal to explain shows me that the secret has to do with the murder. Perhaps Mr. Edermont told you the name of the person he was afraid of. Well, that person perhaps carried out his wicked purpose.
Why do you say 'perhaps'? asked Allen suddenly. "You seem to be doubtful."
Because a day or two before the crime was committed, Mr. Pallant called on my guardian. What he told him relieved him of the fear of assassination. Therefore I do not know if Mr. Edermont's enemy killed him.
Allen jumped up and looked eagerly at the girl.
Did Pallant say that the person whom Mr. Edermont feared was--was dead?
I cannot answer you that. Mr. Edermont only said that his nightmare was at an end. I presume from such a speech that he felt there was no more danger. Unfortunately, he was murdered shortly afterwards, so that his hopes were vain. But you apparently know all about this person whom my guardian feared. What is his name?
I can't tell you, Dora, said Allen with a groan.
Oh, I do not want you to tell me! she replied scornfully, "but tell the authorities. No doubt you will be rewarded with fifty thousand pounds--blood-money."
Dora! How can you speak like this to me?
How else do you wish me to speak? she retorted fiercely. "Do you think that I have water in my veins, to put up with your neglect in silence?"
It is for your own good.
You should permit me to be the best judge of that, Allen. My brain is in confusion from the event of last week. I have suffered indescribably. With Lady Burville and her fainting in church came disaster. That woman caused a breach between us----
No, no! Lady Burville has nothing to do with my secret.
Will you deny that her name was mentioned several times between you and Mr. Edermont?
No, I will not deny it, he returned doggedly. "All the same, she has nothing to do with the matter."
So you say, for the preservation of your secret, said Dora disdainfully; "but I believe that she has everything to do with the matter. And what is more," continued the girl, raising her voice, "I feel assured that indirectly she caused the death of my guardian."
Allen turned even paler than before.
I assure you such is not the case, Dora.
I decline to take your word for it. I will only believe the evidence of my own senses, of my own researches.
Your own researches?
Yes; I intend to find out this secret which is a bar to our marriage. To do so I must solve the mystery of Mr. Edermont's death.
I warn you not to do so; cried Allen, breathing heavily; "you are playing with fire!"
I'll take the risk of that--if risk there is. Allen, she said, placing her hands on his shoulders, "you laughed at my premonition of evil when I spoke to you of Lady Burville. You see I was right. Now I have a premonition of good. My researches will mend the breach between us, and bring about our marriage."
Impossible! and, moreover---- he hesitated. "Can you love me after the cruel way in which I have been forced to behave to you?"
Yes. You mention the poison and the antidote at once. You have been cruel, but you have been forced, as I truly believe, to be so. When I discover that force, I shall learn the bar to our marriage. If so, it can be removed.
I am afraid not, he replied, shaking his head.
In the meantime, she continued, as though she had not heard him, "as I am a pauper, I must remain at the Red House. But I refuse to do so in the company of that creature Joad, unless I have a companion. Will you let Mrs. Tice come and stay with me for a few weeks?"
If Mrs. Tice will go, I shall be delighted that you should have her.
Very good, Allen. She rose from her chair. "Now we understand one another. When I know the truth, I shall come and see you again. Till then, we must be strangers."
I suppose so, said Scott gloomily; "but I warn you the danger is great when you know the truth----"
Well, what will be the result?
Allen Scott looked at her pityingly.
Your life will be ruined, as mine has been, he said.
Dora walked towards the window with a weary sigh.
It is ruined already; I do not see how it can be much worse. I have lost you; I have been deceived as regards my pecuniary position; I am threatened with the attentions of that odious creature. It is all very terrible.
Allen groaned.
I wish I could give you hope, Dora, but I cannot. I see nothing in the future but pain, and separation, and misery.
Oh, I don't know, replied Dora with a hard laugh. "Since you can give me up so easily, I have no doubt that you will speedily console yourself for my loss. You will be married in a few years."
Never! If I do not marry you--and that is impossible--I shall marry no other woman.
So you say; but I know what men are.
Not from experience.
I don't think a woman needs experience to divine the nature of the other sex, said Dora loftily, with all the brave self-confidence of youth; "our instinct teaches us what you are and how you will act. I can't expect you to be true to a phantom all your life."
Phantom! You are flesh and blood, my dear.
Yes; but I mean that should I fail to discover this secret, or should you persist in treating me as a child, we must part, and never see one another again. I will then be nothing to you but a phantom--a memory. No man can remain true to a memory.
Strange as it may appear to you, Dora, there have been men thus faithful, and I swear----
Do not swear fidelity. You will only perjure yourself in after years. But it is no use discussing such things, my dear, she continued more cheerfully. "I must return home."
Will you come back and see me again?
If I have occasion to, I shall do so. I do not intend to part from you until all mysteries are made plain. It shall be my business to make them so.
A hopeless task, sighed Allen, as he accompanied her to the door. "I shall send Mrs. Tice over to you in the morning."
Thank you. Do you know that Mrs. Tice was once acquainted with my guardian?
Yes; she said something about it, he murmured, turning away his head; "she knows something."
I am convinced of that. She knows the celebrated past of Mr. Edermont, about which so much has been said. I would not be surprised if she knew the contents of that stolen manuscript.
I dare say; but she may not know everything.
She knows more than you give her credit for, said Dora dryly. "For instance; when you returned from London, I dare say she knew why you had gone there."
Yes; that's true enough.
And she knew why you quarrelled with my guardian.
She did. What of that?
Only this, said Miss Carew triumphantly; "Mr. Carver said that he believed the past whence this present trouble arose was connected with a woman in love with Mr. Edermont. For all I know, that woman may be--Mrs. Tice."