When Dora returned to the Red House, she made up her mind. Since Allen refused to tell her his secret, she would discover it herself, and judge if it were as serious a bar to their marriage as he asserted. She did not think for a moment that Allen knew who had killed Edermont, but she could not help concluding that he was aware of something likely to lead to the identification of the assassin. Perhaps he knew the story of Edermont's life, set forth in the manuscript which had been stolen from the bureau by the murderer. But whatever knowledge he was possessed of, Dora saw plainly enough that he was resolved to hold his peace. The truth is, she was afraid to admit his motive for silence even to herself. She half guessed the reason of his determination, but she neither spoke nor thought about it.
There were two ways in which she could go to work; either begin from the arrival of Lady Burville at Hernwood Hall, and progress onward to the committal of the crime, or begin from the fact of the murder, and trace back its motive to Lady Burville. After some consideration, she decided on the latter of these two courses. But Lady Burville had departed, and Dora was ignorant of her present address. Even if she did learn it, there was no excuse whereby she could gain an interview with the lady. She had no proof that this stranger was implicated in the crime, and if she were--a fact which Dora fully believed--there would be little chance of forcing her into confession. This course was therefore out of the question, but there remained the other. Starting with the evidence which had gathered round the crime itself, the theories, the suppositions, the beliefs, Dora thought she might piece together scattered hints and facts, which might be woven into a rope strong enough to hang the assassin. But the difficulty, in the absence of all absolute knowledge, was to discover the criminal.
And there was yet another thing to be remembered. The reward of fifty thousand pounds had brought into competition hundreds of men, bent upon gaining the prize. From far and near they came to Canterbury, and haunted the environs of the Red House. But not one of them entered the gates, for these were kept locked, and the famous postern through which the assassin had passed had been bricked up, by Dora's order. Every labourer and tramp and shopkeeper in the neighbourhood was questioned and cross-questioned by these pests, but none gained any information likely to solve the mystery. No trace could be found of Edermont's past life. He had appeared in the place twenty years before; he had bought the Red House, and a few farms; he had lived in retirement since that time. Beyond this nothing could be learned, and, notwithstanding the magnitude of the reward, no one was fortunate enough to make a step forward. Out of the night the assassin had come, into the night he had gone; and neither Inspector Jedd nor the many amateur detectives could trace him to his hiding-place. Hemmed in by these difficulties on all sides, with no information to go upon, with obstinate people like Joad, Allen, and Mrs. Tice to deal with, it can be easily seen how difficult was the problem which Dora wished to solve. On surveying the situation her heart failed her; she felt helpless.
One chance she had of making a beginning, and that was by questioning Joad as to the motive of the crime. That this motive was to be found in Edermont's past life Dora was certain; and as Joad was more likely than anyone else to know that past, he would be the proper person to apply to for information. From conversations which she had overheard, Dora was satisfied that the secret of the horror which had overshadowed Edermont's life--which had sent him to church and to the consolation of the Litany--was known to Joad. And as Joad evinced a decided admiration for her, she resolved to use such admiration for the purpose of discovering the truth. When she learned the secret of Edermont's past, she would learn the name of the person he dreaded; that name would identify the assassin, and if she found the assassin she might be able to learn and do away with the unknown obstacle to her marriage with Allen. She would gain also the fortune of the dead man; but that, in Dora's opinion, was a side issue.
In the meantime, and before she had time to formulate her plans--which, indeed, were but in their inception--Mrs. Tice came over, bag and baggage, to play the part of dragon at the Red House. Dora was glad to welcome her within its walls; not only because she promised to stand a bulwark of respectability against Joad, but also because Mrs. Tice might reveal by accident something of Edermont's past. The conversation at Canterbury had shown Dora very plainly that some time or another Mrs. Tice had been acquainted with the recluse; and that such acquaintance must have been prior to his purchase of the Red House. At that period had been engendered the terror which had haunted the poor creature, and Mrs. Tice might have some inkling of its nature.
The old housekeeper, however, was not to be cajoled into reminiscences of the past. She kept a guard over her tongue, and resolutely avoided all Dora's hints and significant remarks. It was quite a week before Dora could induce her to converse on the subject at all, and then she spoke in an ambiguous fashion. Life at that moment seemed to Dora to resemble a theatre with the curtain down. If she could induce Mrs. Tice to raise the curtain, what shadowy drama of the past might not be performed! Seven days after the arrival of Mrs. Tice she lifted the curtain a little--a very little--but revealed enough to excite the liveliest curiosity in the girl.
It was after nine o'clock, and as usual Joad had been turned out to have his supper, and talk classics with Mr. Pride, the schoolmaster. The gates were locked, the shutters of the windows were closed, and Mrs. Tice was seated in Dora's own sitting-room, with a basket of work before her. Dora sat by the one window, which had not yet been shut, and the pale light of the evening floated into the room, to mingle with the dim radiance of the solitary candle which illuminated the busy fingers of the housekeeper. Meg Gance was in her kitchen, resting after the labours of the day, so the two women were quite alone. Suddenly Dora yawned, and stretched out her hands.
Heigh-ho! said she in a wearied tone. "How long is this going on, I wonder?"
What are you referring to, Miss Carew? asked the housekeeper in her pleasant voice--"to your life here?"
Yes; to my lonely and miserable life. I feel simply wretched.
Do not say that, my dear young lady. You have health, and youth, and many blessings.
No doubt, replied Dora scornfully; "but I have lost the chief of my blessings."
You mean Mr. Allen? said the old lady in an embarrassed tone.
Yes, I do, Mrs. Tice. And since he has left me, I do not see why I should not accept the attentions of Mr. Lambert Joad. The wretched old man worships the ground I walk on.
Of course you are jesting? said Mrs. Tice, with an uneasy smile; "but I see that Mr. Joad admires you. More's the pity."
Why 'more's the pity'?
Well, you see, miss, he will not relish your rebuffing him for his impertinence; and he is likely to prove a dangerous enemy.
Pshaw! He can do me no harm.
I am not so sure of that, miss. He knows a good deal about Mr. Edermont's past life.
Dora turned round and looked sharply at the comely, withered face.
Is there anything in the past life of Mr. Edermont likely to be harmful to me?
Yes, said Mrs. Tice deliberately, "there is."
And do you know what it is?
Yes, miss; I know what it is, and so does Mr. Allen. It was a knowledge of that past which sent him up to London. Since he returned we have talked over the matter, and we have both concluded that it is best to hold our tongues. But if Mr. Joad knows the secret, and you rebuff him, he may not be wise enough to keep silent.
I am glad to hear you say so! cried Dora with animation. "Since I can learn the secret from no one else, I'll see if a rebuff cannot loosen Mr. Joad's tongue."
If you are wise, you will let well alone, warned Mrs. Tice, feeling that she had said too much.
Dora crossed the room, and stood with her hands behind her back, looking indignantly at the old woman.
Upon my word, it is a shame! she said in a low voice. "I am apparently surrounded by pitfalls on all sides, yet no one will tell me how to avoid them."
If you remain quiet, you won't fall into them, replied Mrs. Tice with a nod.
Quiet! cried Dora, frowning. "Good heavens! how can I remain quiet when I see my life falling into ruins? No, no, no!" She stamped her foot defiantly. "I must act, I must inquire, I must know what all these mysteries mean!"
You will never arrive at that knowledge, Miss Carew.
I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Tice. Remember your hint about that Joad creature. I'll wring it out of him, if I can't out of anyone else. Mrs. Tice--Dora flung herself on her knees before the housekeeper--"did you know Mr. Edermont before he came to the Red House?"
Yes, Miss Carew, I can admit that much: I knew Mr. Edermont.
Was that when you were Allen's nurse?
Yes, Miss Carew.
In the service of Allen's parents?
I was in the service of Dr. and Mrs. Scott, replied Mrs. Tice composedly. "Pray don't ask me any more questions, Miss Carew, for I cannot answer them."
You will not, you mean, said Dora, rising. "Never mind, I have found out something from the little you have told me."
Mrs. Tice looked up quickly.
Impossible, she said anxiously. "I have revealed nothing."
Oh, I can put two and two together, Mrs. Tice, said Dora quietly. "Allen told me that his parents lived in Christchurch, Hants--that his father and mother are buried there. Now, if you knew Mr. Edermont while you were nursing Allen, Mr. Edermont must have lived, or have been on a visit, at Christchurch. Consequently, if I go down to Christchurch I shall learn something of Mr. Edermont's past life."
Mrs. Tice fell into the skilfully-laid trap.
You won't find that the name of Edermont is known in those parts, she said, without thinking.
Precisely, said Dora coolly. "Edermont is a false name. I have suspected that for some time. Thank you, Mrs. Tice, for admitting it. I have learnt so much from you. Mr. Joad will tell me the rest."
Mr. Joad may or may not, said Mrs. Tice doubtfully. "Do not go too much by what I am saying, Miss Carew. You have a skilful and crafty person to deal with."
Are you talking of yourself?
By no means. I am neither skilful nor crafty. I allude to Mr. Joad.
You seem to be well acquainted with his character, Mrs. Tice. Did you know him at Christchurch?
No, my dear. I never saw the man until I came here--to this house. But I have eyes in my head, and I can see that he is singularly deceitful.
Perhaps, but harmless.
Mrs. Tice shook her head with pursed-up lips.
I disagree with you. The adder is harmless so long as it isn't trodden upon. Tread upon Mr. Joad, my dear young lady, and he will--bite.
To emphasize the last word Mrs. Tice snapped off a piece of thread, and looked up at Dora with a sharp nod. Evidently Joad had failed to impress her favourably.
I have no doubt you are right, said Dora, after reflection. "He would be dangerous if he got the chance, but I don't see where his opportunity for mischief comes in."
Neither do I, Miss Carew; but he'll watch for one, you mark my words.
Dora did not reply to this remark, as she was of the same opinion herself. She was thinking about Carver's remark touching a past romance of Edermont's, and of her own statement to Allen that Mrs. Tice might have been the woman who had to do with the same. It was now her desire to find out if there was any grain of truth in her supposition, but she did not know exactly how to put it to Mrs. Tice. At last she thought the best method to approach so delicate a subject was by a side issue.
Your husband is dead, isn't he, Mrs. Tice? she asked with apparent carelessness.
Yes, Miss Carew, replied the housekeeper; "he died more than twenty-five years ago, and his body is buried in the graveyard of Christchurch Priory."
Were you much in love with him?
We respected and liked one another, said Mrs. Tice judiciously: "but we were not madly in love."
Were you ever madly in love with anyone, Mrs. Tice?
No, my dear young lady, was the laughing reply, "never! I am not a romantic person."
Dora thought for a moment.
Was Mr. Edermont handsome when you knew him first?
He was passable, Miss Carew--a little, womanish man. Even in his youth his hair was white--the effect of nerves, I believe. He was always nervous, poor soul!
He had reason to be, evidently.
Yes, said Mrs. Tice sharply, "good reason. I never liked him, but I was sorry for him."
Determined to know the exact truth, Dora put her question plainly:
Were you in love with him?
What! said Mrs. Tice, laughing, "with that rat of a man? No, my dear: I had better taste."
This was conclusive, and Dora was satisfied that, whoever had played the part of heroine in her guardian's romance, it was not Mrs. Tice.
The next day Dora altered her demeanour towards Joad. Hitherto she had been cold and unapproachable; now she sought his society with smiles, and quite bewildered the poor man with kindness. If Joad, who was naturally very crafty, had not been in love, he would have mistrusted this sudden transformation and been on his guard. As it was, in the then state of his feelings, he ascribed Dora's changed behaviour to a desire to be on better terms with one who was bound, owing to the terms of the will, to come into contact daily with her. In this belief he reciprocated her advances, and vied with her in amiability.
On her part, Mrs. Tice viewed the comedy with displeasure. Nevertheless, she made no attempt to interfere. Although she was unwilling to be an active party in revealing the truth to Dora, yet she was by no means displeased that the girl should learn it from a third person. Dora was deeply in love with Allen; and the sooner she realized that there could be no union between them, the better it would be. To come to such an understanding, it was necessary that she should learn the secret. When she was possessed of such knowledge, the housekeeper was satisfied that, even if Dr. Scott did desire the match, Dora would refuse her consent thereto. Therefore Mrs. Tice preferred being spectator to actor. For some days Dora pursued her amiable tactics, and Joad fell deep and deeper in love. He was well aware, in his own heart, that this girl, young enough to be his granddaughter, would never consent to be his wife; but for all that, he put no restraint upon his feelings. Moreover, he had a weapon in his hand which he hoped to use with effect. In spite of his belief that Dora might not accept him voluntarily, he fancied that he could force her into the match by making use of the weapon aforesaid. But it was not to be brought into active service save as a last resource.
Meanwhile the comedy of May and December, of Methuselah in Arcady, of "An Old Man's Darling," went gaily on. Joad paid more attention to his dress, he drank less brandy, and talked more affably. Instead of burying himself in the library, he was to be found haunting the steps of Dora. He loved her very shadow, and was never tired of gazing at her face. She seemed to him to be the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most gracious woman in the world; and he gloated over her charms like an old satyr. Crafty, astute and worldly as he was, he fell prostrate at her feet, a debased Merlin entangled in the wiles of an artificial Vivien.
Dora played her part bravely; but at times it was too much for her, and she would leave the house to scour the country on her bicycle. Joad was too old and shaky to accompany her, and she was thus relieved in some measure from his senile adoration. But, however near she approached to Canterbury, she never entered the town or sought out Allen.
No, she said to herself, when unusually impelled to make the visit; "first I shall learn the truth. Once in possession of Allen's secret, of the name of Mr. Edermont's assassin, and I shall know how to act; till then I shall remain absent."
But, with all her diplomacy, it was not so easy to gain the confidence of Joad. The least hint at Mr. Edermont's past, and he withdrew into himself. He evaded her most dexterous inquiries; and when she pressed him hard, assumed the character of a dull, stupid old man who knew nothing about the matter. Yet he was not unwilling to discuss the details of the murder and subsequent robbery, although he professed himself unable to account for either. By acting thus, he ignored the question of Edermont's secret enemy.
But one day Dora succeeded in forcing him into plain speaking; but the revelation made was one she was far from expecting. The beginning of the whole matter lay in the fact that she discovered Joad in the library the worse for drink. It was not that he was confused or maudlin, for the man's brain and speech were both clear. But he was filled with Dutch courage, which made him more audacious than usual. Dora reproved him for his vice.
You should be ashamed of yourself, drinking so much brandy, Mr. Joad! she said severely.
I have not touched brandy for weeks! said Joad, lying glibly, after the fashion of habitual drunkards.
Dora looked at him in contempt, and pointed out a tall mirror, before which they were both standing. It reflected her own tall, straight form, and also the figure of the disreputable old sinner.
Can you see your face and deny it? she said in a tone of rebuke. "Your eyes are red, your clothes are awry, your----"
Leave me to bear the burden of my own sins, said Joad sullenly; "if I take brandy, I don't ask you to pay for it."
But you are a gentleman, a scholar, persisted Dora, sorry for the wretched old creature; "you should be above such low vices."
We cannot be above the depths to which we have fallen, Miss Carew. My life has been one long failure, so it is scarcely to be wondered at that I fly to drink for consolation. Few men have been so hardly treated as I have been.
Yet Mr. Edermont helped you.
No doubt, retorted Joad viciously; "but he would not have stretched out a finger to save me if I had not forced him to."
You forced Mr. Edermont to----?
I forced him to nothing, interrupted Joad, seeing that he had gone too far. "It is only my way of speaking. Don't mind the ramblings of a foolish old failure."
Dora looked at him silently. His eyes were filled with tears, and, ashamed of betraying his emotion, he turned away to busy himself with dusting a book. In the few words which he had let slip Dora saw that he had possessed some power over the dead man which had won him house and home. That power she believed was connected with the lifelong misery of Edermont, and with the fact of his murder. The idea made her take an unexpected step. Seizing the astonished Joad by the arm, she whirled him round, so as to look straight into his eyes.
Did you kill Mr. Edermont? she asked abruptly. Joad looked at her in amazement, and sneered in her face.
O Lord! Have you got that idea into your head? said he contemptuously. "No, Miss Carew, I did not kill Mr. Edermont. One does not readily kill the goose with the golden eggs. By Julian's death I have lost a protector--almost a home. Do you take me for a fool?"
I take you for a man who knows more than he says, said Dora tartly.
Then I am wise. I keep my own counsel until the time comes for me to speak.
I do not understand you.
You will some day, retorted Joad with a leer, "and that sooner than you expect. I wonder at your accusing me of this crime," he continued in an injured tone. "By your own evidence the murder took place at one o'clock, and at that time I was talking to Mr. Pride in my cottage. I wonder at your talking like this, Miss Carew."
I beg your pardon, Mr. Joad, said Dora ceremoniously. "I know that you proved an alibi. There is one thing about you that I admire," she added, after a pause.
Joad's eyes glittered like stars as he turned an admiring glance in the direction of the young girl, and bent forward eagerly.
What is that? he demanded.
You do not care for money.
No, said Joad, after a pause; "I do not care particularly for money. As long as I have a roof, a crust, and my books, I am satisfied. My wants are simple. But why," he continued, looking at her in a puzzled way, "why do you make such a remark?"
Because you refuse to pocket fifty thousand pounds.
You allude to the reward. My dear lady, I cannot gain that.
I am not so sure of your inability to do so, said Dora coolly. "With your knowledge of Mr. Edermont's past life, you must know who it was he feared. If you know the name of that person, you know who killed him. With that knowledge, why not apply for the fifty thousand pounds?"
I am not so omniscient as you think, Miss Carew. But we will suppose, for the sake of argument, that I have such knowledge: what would it benefit me to gain this fortune?
You could do good with it.
Could I gain your love?
Dora turned away with a flushed face, feeling the delicacy of the position.
You must not talk to me like that, Mr. Joad, she said with great dignity.
Why not? I love you.
Then you ought to be ashamed to say so. I am the affianced wife of another man.
Allen Scott?
Yes, said Dora with emphasis, "Dr. Allen Scott.
Bah! Why should you think of him? Has he stood by you in this trouble? Not he! He left you to fight the matter out by yourself. Besides, there are reasons why you should not marry him.
Dora's heart beat rapidly. Was she about to learn the truth? Had her rebuff brought about the desired result, and would this old man reveal what so long had been hidden? She believed that such was the case, and could scarcely manage, so intense was her excitement, to ask the necessary question to lure him on to a full confession. However, by an effort of will she managed to keep her voice fairly steady.
Are there any special reasons that you know of?
Several! snarled Joad, rubbing his hands together, with an evil glitter in his eyes.
I should be glad to hear them, she said in the tone of an empress.
I dare say you would; but I don't intend to tell you what they are.
Why not? demanded Dora, trying to hide her disappointment at this unlooked-for result.
Because I don't choose to speak until it is my pleasure to do so, said Joad insolently. "Oh, I can see what you are up to, Miss Carew. You are trying to force the truth out of me for purposes of your own. But you shan't--shan't--shan't!"
The old creature stamped with rage, and his face grew so red in his excitement that Dora really thought he was about to have a fit. She looked at him in astonishment, while he strove to control his anger and assume a dignified demeanour. Such conduct was not to be tolerated, and Dora walked towards the door of the library.
I shall return when you know how to conduct yourself, she said coldly.
Before she could open the door the delinquent shuffled after her, in a state of childish repentance. "Do not go, do not go!" he cried piteously. "I am very sorry; indeed, I am very sorry."
Then why do you talk such nonsense? said Dora, seeing that she had gained an advantage. "Do you think I want to know your secrets, you foolish old man?"
Yes, yes; I am a foolish old man, he repeated, catching up her words eagerly; "but do not be angry with me. I love you. Oh, Dora, dear, sweet Dora, I love you!" and whining in this fashion the old man fell on his knees.
Rise, Mr. Joad! Do not be foolish. Get up at once--I insist!
Not until you promise to be my wife. I love you. I am old, but my heart is young. Listen, listen! he continued, glancing round. "If you want money, I can get fifty thousand pounds. I know who killed Julian!"
Dora tore her dress from his grasp in horror. "You know who killed Mr. Edermont!"
Yes; I will tell the name; I will gain the fortune; I will give it to you. Only consent to be my wife.
Your wife! cried Dora, shrinking back with visible repugnance.
Ah, I know that I am old, said Joad piteously, "but reflect. There is much to be gained by you. I cannot live long; you would soon be my widow. I would leave you all the money; and think how rich you would be!"
I wouldn't marry you if you offered me millions! said Dora with contempt. "I love one man only, and him only shall I marry."
Joad rose in a fury. "Don't tell me his name!" he shrieked; "I know it. Allen--that miserable wretch! But you shall never marry him--never!"
How can you prevent our marriage?
By telling the truth--by gaining the fortune! He stepped forward and seized her wrist. "I hold the life of your lover in the hollow of my hand!"
What do you mean? panted Dora. "Explain!"
You wish to know my secrets. Well, I shall tell you one--one only--that will make your heart sore and your face white. Who killed Julian? Who came here in the dead of night and struck his foul blow? Who but Allen Scott--Allen Scott, the murderer! Curse him!
This, then, was the weapon which Joad had reserved to strike his last blow. By denouncing Scott he hoped to win a fortune; but by keeping silent for Dora's sake he thought he could force her to marry him. In either case he stood to win. With his indifference to money, he preferred the girl to the fifty thousand pounds. It only remained for her to accept his hand, in order to save her lover from death on the gallows. But as yet this was doubtful. Certainly the bolt had been shot; but would the bolt fall? He waited.
With fixed eyes and bloodless face, Dora retreated slowly backwards. At length she reached the wall, and leant against it, overcome with mingled feelings of terror and astonishment. Joad, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, stood looking at her, with a doubtful smile on his pale lips. Seeing that she did not speak, he repeated his accusation in a different form. He was now calmer.
Your lover is the murderer of your guardian, said he, watching the effect of each word.
Something in the malice of his tones brought back the courage to Dora's heart with a rush. She flushed up bravely, and stepped forward boldly. Joad did not move, and she came close to him--so close that he could feel her breath on his withered cheek. For a final taunt he spoke again.
A murderer--that fine young man--your lover! Just think of it!
You lie! She brought out the words coldly, and without the least display of passion. Knowing Scott as she did, the charge was so monstrous that she could hardly forbear from breaking into hysterical laughter. As it was, she controlled herself admirably, and merely repeated her words. "You lie, Mr. Joad," she said steadily. "Your accusation springs from malice. You cannot substantiate your lie."
Without wasting time in asseverations, Joad simply raised his finger to emphasize his words. He related without preamble the grounds upon which he based his accusation.
Listen, he said, in his rich, deep voice; "you remember that day on which you brought Scott to see Julian. Very good. As you know, they had a serious quarrel. You heard yourself that Julian called out for protection. Scott wished to kill him at that moment."
But why--why? she stammered, making a vague gesture with her hand.
Ah! you ask me more than I can tell. I was not present during the conversation, you know. However, I can guess what took place. I refuse to tell all, but this much I dare speak. Julian cast certain reflections on the dead parents of Scott; he mentioned something which took place twenty and more years ago.
At Christchurch? she murmured.
He looked surprised.
I don't know who told you so much, he said brusquely, "but I admit that your information is correct. At Christchurch, Miss Carew, an episode took place which was not creditable to Dr. Scott's parents."
Had the episode to do with Mr. Edermont?
I cannot tell you. I am speaking of my grounds for suspecting your lover. What passed before matters nothing. Suffice it for you to understand that Julian quarrelled with Scott, and he was afraid lest the young man should murder him. You heard his cry for help.
Well? said Dora, seeing that he paused.
Well, replied Joad, with a suave smile, "he did murder him."
No; I do not believe it. Where are your proofs?
Joad darted an imperious glance at her shrinking form.
I am about to produce my proofs, he declared calmly. "On the night of the second of August I left here at nine o'clock. You assisted Julian to lock the gates behind me, if I remember. I went to my cottage and had my supper. Afterwards I waited for Mr. Pride, who had promised to look in on his return from Canterbury. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock struck, and still Pride did not come. I thought that he had arranged to stay all night in Canterbury, but shortly after twelve I went out on to the road to see if he was coming. I did not see him; I did see Dr. Scott."
Allen? cried Dora disbelievingly.
Himself. He was coming down the road on a bicycle.
How could you recognise him in the dark?
The moon was up. I recognised him in the moonlight.
Did he see you?
No; I was standing in the shadow. I was astonished to see him near the Red House at midnight, and I watched him. He passed the gates, and got off his bicycle at the end of the wall. Then he turned down the side path which leads to the postern gate. I waited to see if he would return, but as he did not I was about to follow him, when Pride arrived. Unwilling to say anything about what I had seen, lest it should compromise your lover, I took Pride into my house, and there I got talking to him till after two o'clock. In the interest of our conversation, I quite forgot Scott and his visit. But the next morning--he looked at her in a crafty way--"I heard of the murder, and I found the postern gate open."
And--and what inference do you draw from all this? murmured Dora, with white lips.
I infer that Scott called to see Julian with reference to their previous quarrel, perhaps to demand proofs as to the episode of Christchurch. I believe that he climbed the wall and entered the house through the glass door of the drawing-room, which Julian had not locked. I have no doubt that he found Julian in his study, that Julian told him the story of the episode was locked up in the bureau. No doubt Scott insisted upon having the papers which revealed the dishonour of his parents placed in his hands. Julian would naturally refuse. Then the quarrel would recommence, and the end of it would be--well, added Joad, with a shrug, "you know the rest. Julian was killed, and the bureau robbed of that paper. What further proof can you desire that Dr. Scott murdered your guardian?"
Dora heard this story with a suffocating feeling in her throat. She felt as though a net were being thrown round Allen, as though he would be tangled in its meshes. It was true that he had returned from London on the night of the murder; but she could not understand why he should have visited the Red House at midnight. Then she remembered that Allen had gone to town on business connected with that terrible conversation with Edermont. What if he had learnt that Edermont had spoken the truth regarding the dishonour of his parents, and had returned to revenge himself on the old man? These thoughts occurred to her with lightning rapidity; but in the end they all gave place to one. She must save him at any cost; to do so she must close Joad's mouth.
Why did you not speak of this before? she asked in a trembling voice.
I wished to tell you first. You know that I love you. I wish you to be my wife. If you marry me, Scott will be safe. If not----
If not, what would you do?
My duty, said he solemnly.
The situation was frightful. Dora felt that she must scream, if only to relieve the tension of her nerves. If Joad denounced Allen, the doctor would be arrested; and what defence could he make, what explanation could he give, for coming to the Red House on the night, at the very time, of the committal of the crime? She said nothing, trying to collect her thoughts, while Joad blinked at her through his half-shut eyes.
And, after all, you couldn't marry him, he declared suddenly; "he is guilty."
That has yet to be proved, said Dora faintly. "I cannot believe that Allen committed so horrible a crime. His motive----"
His motive will be found in the papers he stole, said Joad brutally. "But come--your answer. Consent to be my wife, or I go to the police this evening."
You--you must give me time, she stammered.
Joad nodded.
That is only fair, he said gravely. "I will give you a week. If you do not promise by that time, well--your lover goes to the scaffold."
How Dora got out of the library and climbed the stairs to her own room she did not know. There was a humming in her ears, and the place seemed to go round and round. With an access of despair she threw herself on the bed, and tried to face the situation. Allen was innocent, she was certain, although no proofs of such innocence presented themselves at the moment. But, on the face of it, his conduct appeared to be suspicious. What was he doing at the Red House at midnight? Why had he come there by stealth? If Joad denounced him, Dora could see no hope of saving his life. Still, she could protect him by becoming the wife of this disreputable Silenus, whom she loathed with all her soul. But he held Allen's life in his hand, and the poor young fellow was doomed unless he could make some defence.
Defence! She sat up suddenly and thought. She had not yet heard Allen's side of the question. Perhaps he could explain himself, and give a reasonable excuse for his presence in the study at so untoward an hour. She remembered that Edermont had written asking Allen to call and see him. Might he not have appointed the conference for midnight, and have left the postern gate and the glass door open so that Allen could enter without attracting attention? All this was feasible enough, and might be put forward in his defence. But on second thoughts Dora gave way to despair. Even so straightforward a tale would be against the presumption of his innocence.
Assuming that he had been in the study at the appointed hour, how could he prove himself guiltless? The fact of the previous quarrel was known to herself and Joad. Nothing was more likely than that they might have continued their dispute. Perhaps Edermont might have threatened Allen with his pistol, and to protect himself Scott might have torn the knobkerrie from the wall. But had he struck the blow? Had he---- Dora closed her eyes with a faint cry, to shut out the vision of horror which that thought conjured into existence.
Without doubt Allen had been present in the study at the time of the murder. Joad saw him after twelve o'clock. Dora knew that the crime had been committed a minute or so before one. It was just possible that Allen had left the house before that time. But who could prove that he had so departed? Dora rose from her bed, and paced to and fro, distracted by a hundred thoughts that swarmed in her head like hiving bees.
The murder was committed before one o'clock, she said aloud. "I can prove that. The striking of the clock came almost on top of that cry for help. Could Allen have gone away before then? He must have done. I cannot believe that he would murder an inoffensive old man. No provocation would make him commit so brutal a crime. He is cool and collected; he is not passionate and impulsive. No, no, no! Allen is innocent! He left my guardian alive and well. Allen went--but who remained?"
Had two people been present? Dora remembered that Edermont had written other letters at the same time as that to Allen. Perhaps he had invited a third person to be present at that midnight conference. If so, when Allen departed, the third person might have remained to kill Edermont and rifle the desk. If such were the case, Allen must know the name of that third person. Why, then, did he not denounce that person to the police?--not so much for the gaining of fifty thousand pounds as to accomplish an act of justice. Why was he silent? Why did he not speak out in his own defence? Dora could not but acknowledge in her own heart that the circumstantial evidence was strong against her lover.
Oh, I can't stay here thinking--thinking! she cried fiercely; "it will drive me mad. I shall go to Canterbury and see Allen. He must speak out now, if only to defend himself from Joad. A week--a week--seven days--and his life and my happiness to be saved in that short space of time. I must think; I must act. Oh, Allen, Allen!"
She glanced at her watch. It was close on four o'clock. If she rode into Canterbury at once, she might find Allen at home. He usually came in between four and five to have tea. No one was likely to be present, so she would have him all to herself. At once she made up her mind, and without a word to Joad or to Mrs. Tice she went out of the house. In a few minutes she was spinning along the highroad as fast as her machine could go.
Dora was right in her surmise. Allen was at home, and at tea. She went straight into the dining-room and saw him at the table. He looked up with an air of astonishment at her appearance; and, noting his pale and startled face, Dora felt a pang. Was he guilty after all, or was the terror visible in his face merely the result of her sudden entrance? Without a word, she shut the door sharply, and took a seat by the side of the table. Allen welcomed her with an air of constraint. He offered her a cup of tea and a plate of cake. Dora pushed them both away in a state of fierce excitement, leant her arms on the table, and looked at him steadily. He stared at her in surprise, marvelling at her strange behaviour.
Allen, she said abruptly, "what were you doing at the Red House on the night of the murder?"
The young man turned even paler than before, dropped the plates he was holding, and fell into his chair as though he had been shot.
Who--who says I was there? he stammered.
Mr. Joad--he accuses you.
Accuses--acc------he could hardly get the words out--"accuses me--of what?"
Of murdering Mr. Edermont. Allen, don't look at me like that. It is not true?
Dora, said Allen, shaking as with palsy, "I--I--I am--I am innocent. I--I swear--I'm innocent!"
Dora made no reply. In spite of his asseverations of innocence, she saw that he felt himself in a trap. His pallid face, his wild eyes, his trembling hands--all these signs hinted at a realization of his helpless position. Week by week since that fatal conversation he had grown thinner and more haggard. He was the shadow of the comely lover who had met her by the wayside when she had taken him to see Edermont. He looked round the room, as though searching for some means of escape. One would have thought that the officers of the law were already at the door, and that he was guilty. Dora knew that this was not the case, but could not be sure until she heard his explanation. Suddenly he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.
I was mad on that night, he said in a hoarse tone.
Dora drew back with a gasp. Was he about to confess to the crime and allege temporary insanity by way of excuse? A violent trembling seized all her limbs, and she was obliged to lean against the table while waiting for his next words.
You say Joad saw me? he asked, looking at her. "Joad can denounce me?"
No, she murmured, "he will not denounce you."
But why should he show me such mercy? cried Allen with haggard surprise. "He admires you; he is jealous of me. To get rid of me he would willingly place a noose round my neck."
That is true, Allen. But--you are safe from him. He--he has asked me to be his wife.
Ah! said he, jealously seizing her hands. "And you--you---- No!" He abruptly tossed her hands away. "You could never bring yourself to marry that wretch, even for fifty thousand pounds."
He does not wish for that money, said Dora, with a calmness which surprised herself; "he wants me."
Like his insolence! Of course you told him that such a thing was impossible!
Dora raised her eyes to his with a look of pain.
How could I? she said slowly. "He saw you at the Red House on that night."
Dora--Allen again seized her hands--"you are sacrificing yourself to save me?"
I can do no less, Allen. I love you. Ah! she cried, with a burst of tears, "you will never know how I love you. I have suffered from your cruelty, your desertion, from your strange silence, but I still love you, as I have always done. As I cannot be your wife and make you happy, I can still marry this man and save you from the consequences of your crime."
Dora! You do not believe that I am guilty?
No, Allen, no; still, I cannot understand. You have refused me your confidence; you say you were mad on that night. Morally speaking, you are innocent, I am certain. But still, in a moment of anger----
I swear that I did not touch him! cried Allen violently. "I admit that I was at the Red House on that night. He asked me to come."
I guessed that. Joad posted a letter to you.
Yes, yes. Wait! He ran into the next room, wherein his desk was standing, and in two minutes he returned with a paper. "This is his letter. You see, Edermont asked me to come at midnight to the Red House--to enter by the postern gate, which he left open for my admittance."
He wished to add something to the conversation of the week before, said Dora, reading the letter. "But, my poor Allen, this letter rather condemns than saves you. It shows conclusively that you had an appointment at the Red House at midnight. And Mr. Edermont was killed at one o'clock."
I don't know at what hour he was killed, rejoined Allen, taking back the letter with a gloomy air. "As I told you, I was mad on that night. I lost all idea of time. Whether I was in his study at twelve or one I cannot say, but when I did enter I saw him dead."
Allen! Dora uttered a cry of horror. "You saw him dead?"
He was lying on the floor near the bureau, said Scott, speaking rapidly. "I see him now in my mind's eye--a limp heap, with his white hair dappled with blood. The Zulu club, torn from the savage weapons which decorated the walls, lay near him; his pistol was on the other side. He was dead--dead! Ah God, dead!"
During this recital Dora had sunk into a chair, overcome by the vehemence of his words. Allen strode to and fro, swinging his long arms, with a look of horror on his worn, white face. He pressed his hands to his eyes, as if to shut out the scene which his too vivid fancy had painted. Half swooning, Dora uttered a sob, and the next moment Allen was on his knees beside her, covering her hands with passionate and burning kisses.
My queen! my saint! he said hurriedly; "and you would sacrifice yourself for me. You would marry this drunkard, this parasite, this vile reptile, to save me from danger! No, Dora. No, I have been weak and foolish, but I am not guilty--I swear that I am not guilty. You shall not shield me at the cost of your own ruin. Oh, if I could only tell you all! But I dare not, I dare not!"
Carried away by his passion, angered at the sense of his weakness, he could have kissed her feet. But Dora placed her hand on his forehead and reasoned calmly with him. He was not to be saved by giving way to such whirlwinds of passion and despair. The prospect was terrible, but they must both face it boldly. Allen was innocent. He said so, and she believed him. That was everything. If he were not guilty, they might find a way out of the trap into which he had stumbled. To do so, she must know exactly what took place on that fatal night, and to this end she addressed her frenzied lover.
Allen, she said gravely, "this is not the way to save yourself from arrest, or me from a disgraceful marriage. I have obtained a week's time from Joad to think matters over. In seven days we can do a great deal, and we may see a way out of this terrible situation. Sit down beside me, and tell me exactly what you did on that night."
I shall not sit down beside you, Dora. I shall remain here at your feet. Ah, Heaven! to think of that cruel bar which prevents our marriage! You should know all, but I have not the courage to tell you.
Keep silent on that point, said Dora soothingly. "What I want to know now is the story of that night. You returned from London on the second, did you not?"
Yes, he replied in a tired voice. "In that conversation I had with Edermont he made certain statements which I could not believe. He said I could verify them in London, and told me how and where I could do so. I could not rest until I knew the truth, therefore I caught the express at Selling and went to town. Alas, alas! I found that he had spoken only too truly, and that you could never be my wife."
Repressing the curiosity which devoured her to learn the terrible secret of which he spoke, Dora smoothed his hair gently, and asked him to relate what had taken place on his return from this mysterious errand. He obeyed her like a child.
When I came home, he said with thoughtful deliberation, "I found that letter I showed you awaiting me. Edermont asked me to see him in his study at midnight on the second of the month. But how he knew that I should return on that day I cannot guess."
I can explain, said Dora quietly. "You wrote and told me when you would return, and I showed the letter to my guardian."
Why did you do that, Dora--especially when you knew about our quarrel?
I wished to point out to Mr. Edermont that you had gone to London, replied Dora, "and, if possible, induce him to explain your reason for going there."
Ah, he knew my reason well enough, said Allen with a frown; "but I suppose he refused to tell you what it was?"
Naturally. He refused to tell me anything. But now you know how Mr. Edermont learnt the date of your return, and appointed that midnight meeting for the date. Go on, Allen.
I was pleased to get his invitation, continued Allen, picking up the thread of his story, "as I fancied he might confess something further, likely to ameliorate the distressing situation in which I was placed by his previous revelation. I determined, therefore, to obey the summons, but as it yet wanted three hours till midnight the thought of the delay worked me into a fever of anxiety. The hopes, the fears, the vague terrors which beset me drove me nearly wild. I declare, Dora, that I was like a madman. A hundred ideas came into my head as to how I might do away with the effect of Edermont's secret and regain you. But one and all were dismissed, and I felt more helpless than ever. Only one man could put matters right, and that was the man who put them wrong; so there was nothing left for it but to wait until I saw him at midnight."
Had you any idea that a third person might be present at your meeting?
No. As you see, there is no mention of a third person in the letter, nor did I see a third person in the study--only the dead man's corpse. "Ugh!"--Allen shuddered--"I shall never forget that horrible sight."
It was gruesome enough in the morning, said Dora with a shiver, "so it must have been doubly horrifying at night. Well, did you remain indoors until you went to the Red House?"
No. I could not rest; I could not bear the confinement. I felt that I must be up and doing, so, in sheer despair, I went out on my bicycle. Where I went I do not know. The night was as bright as day with the rays of the moon, and I had sufficient sense to guide the machine rightly, while running blindly along, not knowing or caring whither I was going. I went up hill and down dale along those weary roads, until I wore myself out. Physically exhausted, for I must have been riding at nearly top speed for hours, I turned in the direction of Chillum. At what time I got there I do not know.
You had your watch with you?
Yes; but in my then perturbed state of mind it never struck me to look at it.
Mr. Joad said he saw you pass his cottage shortly before twelve o'clock.
It might have been, said Allen indifferently; "but to my mind it was nearer one o'clock. Indeed, it must have been, for, according to your showing, the murder was committed about that time, and when I entered the study I found Edermont dead."
Dead! Poor soul! cried Dora, clasping her hands.
The postern-gate was open, continued Allen rapidly, "also the side-door of that deserted drawing-room. This did not surprise me, as I had been led to expect from the letter that the way would be clear for me to enter. When I went into the study I was struck with horror at the sight. A candle, wasted nearly to the socket, was burning on the bureau. The desk itself was hacked and smashed, and the drawers forced open, as you saw it in the morning. Hundreds of letters and papers were scattered about, some on the bureau itself, others on the floor, and in the midst of all this disorder lay the ghastly dead body, terrible to look at in the pale glimmer of the expiring candle. The pistol was on one side, the knobkerrie on the other, and the dead man, with his face and head beaten and disfigured, lay between."
Did you hear anyone, or see anyone?
I heard nothing, I saw nothing. The door leading to the hall was closed, and there was no sign of the assassin. I saw in a flash the terrible position in which I was placed. I had quarrelled with Edermont, and here I was, in his private room at midnight, standing beside his dead body. I might be accused of the murder, and condemned on circumstantial evidence--for, on the face of it, I could make no defence. As I looked with horror on the scene, with these thoughts in my mind, the candle flamed up in one expiring flash, then died out in a blue flicker. I was alone in the darkness with the dead man; and, seized with a sudden panic--surely excusable under the circumstances--I turned and fled rapidly. In two minutes I was on my bicycle, running full speed for Canterbury. That is all I know, Dora.
Dora considered for a few moments after he had finished.
You are sure that there was nobody else in the Red House on that night? she asked, after a pause.
Allen hesitated.
I did not intend to speak, he murmured; "but for my own sake I must tell you all. When I was coming into Chillum I met a woman going towards Canterbury on a bicycle."
A woman, Allen! And at midnight--alone! Who was she?
At the time I passed her I did not know, said the doctor, rising; "but on my return journey, when I had left the house after the murder, I met her again, by the railway bridge. She was wheeling her machine down the hill, and called out to me to help her. The tyre of her back wheel was punctured. I got off at once, notwithstanding my anxiety to get home, and, with the aid of guttapercha, I soon mended the tiny hole. Then we rode on together until our roads parted."
Do you know who she was? asked Dora for a second time.
Yes, said Allen quietly. "I recognised her at once." He produced a brooch from his waistcoat pocket. "I found this in Edermont's study, where it had no doubt been dropped by her."
How do you know?
By putting two and two together. Look at the brooch.
Dora did so. It was a slender bar of pale gold, to which two letters formed of small pearls were attached. She uttered an exclamation of astonishment as she read them out. "L.B.," she said; "that stands for----"
For Laura Burville, finished Allen quickly. "Exactly. Laura Burville was the woman I met coming from Chillum. And, by the evidence of the brooch, Laura Burville was the woman who was in Edermont's study on the midnight of the second of August."
So the long-expected had happened at last, and the inevitable woman appeared on the scene. Dora was hardly astonished to hear of Lady Burville's connection with the crime. She had always believed that, sooner or later, the name of this woman would come into the matter. Nevertheless, it was terrible that she should have killed the wretched man with whom, in some mysterious fashion, she had been associated twenty years before. With the pearl-lettered brooch in her hand, Dora considered the position in which she was placed, the discovery she had made.
Do you think that Lady Burville really did kill him, Allen? she asked in a hesitating voice.
Who can say? answered Scott wearily. "I should be loath to accuse her on insufficient evidence. But look at the matter as it stands. Lady Burville fainted at the sight of Edermont; she asked me questions as to his whereabouts. On the night of the murder she visits him, as is proved by the finding of that brooch in the study. Immediately after passing her on the road I enter the house, to find Edermont dead. So far as we know, no one else was in the house on that night; so the inference must be drawn that this woman murdered your guardian. Yes," said Allen thoughtfully, "I think there is a strong case to be made out against Lady Burville."
But her motive, Allen? expostulated Dora. "She would not commit so terrible a crime without a motive."
I cannot guess her motive, Dora. I am as ignorant of Lady Burville's connection with the dead man as--as--you are.
But, Allen, said Dora, hesitating, "was not her name mentioned by Mr. Edermont during that conversation?"
Yes. He asked me where she was staying, but he gave me no information about her. She has nothing to do with the bar to our marriage. At least, I do not think so.
Then you are not certain?
No, said Allen in a low voice; "I cannot say that I am certain."
Dora looked at him impatiently, and a sigh escaped her. Evidently he was determined to give her no clue to the unravelling of these enigmas, and what she discovered she would discover unaided. Nevertheless, she did not lose heart, but took up the burden which he had laid down.
Why did you not tell me this before, Allen?
How could I? he said vehemently. "By visiting the Red House on that night I was in a dangerous position. If my movements had been known, I might have not only lost what little practice I have, but have been in danger of arrest. Even now I may be called upon to exonerate myself should this man Joad speak."
Joad will not speak, said Dora quietly; "at all events, not for a week. As I said before, a great deal may be done in seven days. You must let me take away this brooch."
Allen looked at her with an air of astonishment.
Why do you wish to take away the brooch? he asked.
I'll answer that question later on. Lady Burville is not now at Hernwood Hall?
I believe not, replied Scott. "She returned to London, I think, shortly after the discovery of the murder of Edermont. To my mind, her sudden departure seems suspicious."
On the face of it, I agree with you that it does, assented Dora. "But from what I have heard of the medical evidence, I doubt if Lady Burville killed Edermont--the murder was so brutal."
You are right there. The assassin must have had brutal instincts and a strong physique. Now, Lady Burville is small and delicate, not the sort of woman capable of using that heavy knobkerrie, or striking so terrible a blow. But then, Dora, added Allen, with a puzzled air, "if Lady Burville is innocent, who is guilty? There can't have been anyone else in the house on that night."
Why not? Mr. Edermont wrote letters to other people besides yourself.
Do you know the names of the persons to whom he wrote?
No, replied Dora promptly; "he was careful to post the letters himself."
But, Dora, expostulated Allen, "why should Edermont convene a meeting of so many people at such a late hour?"
I cannot guess. The explanation may be contained in the stolen manuscript. All my guardian's actions were wrapped up in mystery, and there may be more people connected with this matter than we dream of. But this is not the point. Can I take away this brooch?
As you please, said Allen indifferently; "except to exonerate myself in your eyes, I would not have betrayed Lady Burville, murderess as I believe her to be."
You would win fifty thousand pounds by doing so.
Blood money! said Scott angrily. "No, Dora; I do not wish to build up my fortunes in that way, on the ruin of others. I do not say, should Joad denounce me, that I would keep silent. One must save one's own neck if possible; but otherwise I say nothing, I do nothing. All things thought about, or done, cannot gain me your hand; the rest may go."
Well, my dear Allen, said Dora, pocketing the brooch, "you refuse to tell me this secret, and I have promised not to press you. But if I can't marry you, at least I can save you."
By becoming Joad's wife?
No; by seeing Lady Burville.
He looked at her in surprise.
My dear Dora, said he after a pause, "you have no reasonable excuse for seeking an interview with Lady Burville."
You have just given me an excellent excuse, Allen--the pearl brooch.
But Lady Burville will know that I have betrayed her.
No doubt. But I will show her that you have done so to save your own life.
Allen thought.
What do you intend to do? he asked abruptly.
Force Lady Burville to confess her share in these mysteries.
She will not do that, said Scott, shaking his head. "On the surface she is a frivolous little creature, but from what I saw of her I am inclined to believe that such frivolity conceals a strong will."
No doubt, Allen. She must be a clever and merciless woman to plan and carry out so dexterous a crime. I do not see why you should save her life at the expense of your own. Leave me to deal with her, and I'll force her to speak.
Would you have her arrested for the crime?
If Joad denounces you, I shall denounce her, said Dora quietly; "but there may be no necessity for such an extreme course. Wait until I see her."
But you do not know where to find her.
Oh, I can get her address from her late host, Sir Harry Hernwood.
And with this decision Dora took her leave. Here one may pause to reflect on the difference between these characters--a difference accentuated the more by the circumstances in which they found themselves entangled. It cannot be denied that Dora bore herself the better of the two. Shrewd, cool and determined, she saw her way to a definite end, and strove steadily towards its attainment. Allen, on the other hand, was dilatory and wavering. Knowing of a bar to his marriage, he should have informed the girl what this bar was, and have left her to judge of its insuperability. But this is exactly what he shrank from doing. He preferred to wait the turn of events, to refrain from action, until it was forced upon him. No; Allen Scott was not an heroic character. Dora knew this, despite her preference for him above all other men. Indeed, as is the way with good women, she loved him all the better for such weakness. However, as matters now were arranged, Allen sulked like a modern Achilles in his tent, and Dora went forth to take action.
With characteristic decision, she had determined upon her future course. To get the address of Lady Burville from Sir Harry, to call on Lady Burville in town, and to learn all she could of the events of the night from Lady Burville before leaving her house--this was the programme sketched out and adhered to by Dora Carew. As a first step towards the accomplishment of her purpose, she turned off the main road and took that which led to Hernwood Hall. She reached it before half-past six--an awkward hour for a call--and on inquiring for Sir Harry she was shown into the drawing-room. Here she was saluted by the man she came to see, and to whom she apologized for the lateness of her visit.
You must excuse me, Sir Harry, said Dora calmly. "I am Miss Carew, of the Red House, and I leave for London to-morrow by an early train. Hence my calling on you at so late an hour. If you would be so kind as to give me the address of Lady Burville, I should esteem it a favour."
This abrupt speech was hardly a graceful one under the circumstances; but Dora was so taken up with the intrigue in which she found herself involved that she paid no attention to necessary social observances. Sir Harry, a dapper little man, mincing and polite, was not at all indisposed to grant this request, especially to so handsome a woman.
Charmed to oblige you, Miss Carew, said he in a gallant fashion; "but--you will pardon me--may I ask why you wish for this address?"
Certainly, replied Dora, prepared for the question; "I have picked up a pearl brooch on the road"--she was afraid to state the actual finding-place--"which I have reason to believe belongs to Lady Burville. I wish to return it to her in person."
May I see the brooch, Miss Carew?
Certainly.
She handed it to him in silence. Sir Harry examined it, noted the initials, and returned it with a polite bow and the required information.
The address of Lady Burville, said he amiably, "is No. 22, Jersey Place, Mayfair. I am sure she will be greatly obliged to you for returning her brooch, which I recognise as one she usually wore. No doubt she dropped it on the road when out on her bicycle. But if it would save you trouble, Miss Carew, I should be happy to forward it myself."
There is no necessity, thank you, replied Dora, rising to take her leave. "I am going up to town to-morrow, in any event, so I can easily return it myself. Good evening, Sir Harry. I thank you for your good nature in seeing me at this hour, and your kindness in giving me the address."
Pray do not mention it, my dear Miss Carew. I am delighted to be of service to you.
During this conversation Sir Harry had discreetly refrained from remarking on the tragic end of Julian Edermont. He knew that Miss Carew was the ward of the dead man; but, afraid of a scene, and detesting trouble, he judged it wiser to ignore the fact. In the same way he gave the address of Lady Burville at once, as he was anxious to rid himself of his visitor. Sir Harry Hernwood, in a word, was a fool; and for that reason Dora was successful in her mission. A wiser man would have withheld the address of his late guest until better assured of the errand of the inquirer.
Dora thought of all these things as she rode homewards, and congratulated herself that Sir Harry had proved so foolish and weak. She had the address of Lady Burville, and could obtain the interview she sought. Now it remained to force the woman into confession of the crime by means of the pearl brooch. It would be difficult for Lady Burville to explain its presence in the study without inculpating herself in the murder.
Mrs. Tice, said Dora that night when Joad had departed, "I am going to town to-morrow."
Very good, Miss Carew, said the housekeeper placidly. "Will you return in the evening?"
Probably. If I do not, I shall send you a wire. But I want you to conceal from Mr. Joad that I have gone to London.
I shall not tell him, Miss Carew, if you do not wish him to know. But why, if I may be so bold?
Oh, said Dora, with a peculiar look, "I'll tell you that when I return."
You will tell me on your return? repeated Mrs. Tice, looking shrewdly at her companion. "I hope nothing is wrong, miss?"
Everything is wrong. I am endeavouring to put everything right.
That will be difficult, my dear young lady, in your present state of ignorance. You do not know all.
Dora laughed.
I know more than you give me credit for, Mrs. Tice. Allen has told me something.
The ruddy face of the housekeeper blanched suddenly.
Not--not--the secret? she stammered.
Not the secret you know of, replied Dora. "I am still ignorant of the bar to our marriage."
Then what has Mr. Allen told you? asked Mrs. Tice, reassured on this point.
Ah, that's my secret. If you will not confide in me, I do not see why I should confide in you.
Mr. Allen could have said nothing very dreadful, was Mrs. Tice's reply; "we had a talk together on the evening he returned from London, and he told me everything then."
No doubt, said Dora, who was pleased to stimulate the housekeeper's curiosity, "but he did not tell you some things, for the simple reason that 'some things' had not happened. Remember, Mrs. Tice, the night of Allen's return was the night of the murder."
The murder! repeated Mrs. Tice in a scared tone.
Yes. Allen did not tell you what he knew about that, said Dora, and left the room.
The next day Dora excused her absence to Joad on the plea of a visit to a friend living the other side of Canterbury, and stated furthermore that she would not return until late that evening. It was absolutely necessary to make some such statement, as she knew not what conclusion would be drawn by the old man did he learn that her true destination was London. She suspected him of knowing more of Lady Burville than he chose to confess; and, with such knowledge, he might guess her intention. If so, it might be that he would warn Lady Burville, did he know her address, which was by no means unlikely; therefore Dora was resolved to keep him in ignorance of her plan. To blind Joad was no easy task, as he was artful, dangerous, and--she more than suspected--merciless.
To avert all suspicion, she rode to Selling on her bicycle, and there caught the early train to London. Resolved on economy, she purchased a third-class ticket, and had just time to stumble into a carriage before the train started. Then she became aware that she had but one companion in the compartment--a man. He turned his head as the train began to move, and she saw with astonishment and some annoyance that it was Mr. Pride. "Never mind," she thought, returning his greeting with a stiff nod; "he can tell Joad on his return if he pleases. It will then be too late for the old man to do anything, as I shall have seen Lady Burville."
Like Joad, this man was another protégé of Edermont's, who had procured for him a small post in a private school at Chillum. Pride was not unlike his late patron, being short and insignificant-looking, with a white beard, hardly so luxuriant as that of Edermont, and silvery-white hair. In the distance the resemblance was striking, but a closer inspection showed the difference between the two men, as Pride was plump and rosy, with mild eyes and a good-natured smile. He rubbed one fat hand over the over, and saluted Miss Carew in his usual cheery fashion.
I am glad to see you looking so well, Miss Carew, he said brightly. "You go to London?"
Only for the day, Mr. Pride, replied Dora coldly.
Ah! no doubt you wish to get away from those pests who swarm round the Red House in the hope of gaining a fortune.
Those amateur detectives? said Dora quietly; "do you think they will discover the truth?"
Who knows? was Pride's reply; "they will do their best to do so. Fifty thousand pounds is worth the earning."
Dora considered for a moment, then turned on him suddenly.
You were at Canterbury on the night the murder was committed?
Till close on eleven, returned Pride easily; "then I walked back to Chillum."
And you went into Mr. Joad's house?
I did. I was with him at one o'clock.
Did you meet anyone on a bicycle as you walked to Chillum from Canterbury?
Why, replied the schoolmaster after a moment's pause, "I met two people, and each rode a bicycle. One, a man, was riding towards Chillum; the other, a woman, was making for Canterbury."
Did you know who they were?
I, my dear Miss Carew! said Pride in great surprise--"why, no. I took no particular notice of them, in the first place; and in the second, they flitted along so swiftly and noiselessly that I was hardly aware of their passing."
I suppose you have no clue to the assassin? said Dora abruptly.
No. If I had, I should not scruple to earn the fortune.
Can you conjecture the motive for the crime, Mr. Pride?
I--am--afraid--not, said Pride slowly. "I knew Mr. Edermont well; but there was nothing in his past life likely to endanger his safety."
He thought otherwise. Mr. Edermont was always haunted by the dread of a violent death.
I knew that, Miss Carew. Monomania, my dear lady--monomania.
It could not be monomania if it came true, said Dora impetuously.
Why not? replied Pride in an argumentative tone. "Monomania is the dwelling on one particular idea until it fills the thoughts and life of the thinker. Mr. Edermont may have had reason to suppose that his life was in danger; but the original cause may have passed away. Nevertheless, the habit may have continued; and so," added Pride with a shrug, "we may reasonably ascribe our friend's death to a creature of his imagination."
Your argument is weak, replied Dora spiritedly. "Mr. Edermont believed that he would die a violent death, and what he believed came to pass. That does away with all your sophistries."
But, Miss Carew, the cause of his fear was done away with before your guardian died.
How do you know that?
Joad told me. We were discussing the possibility of the existence of this unknown enemy whom Mr. Edermont feared; and Joad mentioned that Mr. Pallant had set that fear at rest.
Do you mean to say that Mr. Pallant told him his enemy was dead?
Joad thought that such was the case.
Then you must see, cried Dora triumphantly, "that such a supposition does away with your theory of monomania. Evidently Mr. Edermont's fear was founded on no fancy, but on fact."
Well, I will agree with you for the sake of argument; said Pride hastily; "but granted that all you say is true, it brings us no nearer the solution of the mystery. Admitting that the enemy whom Mr. Edermont feared really existed: if such enemy died, as we suppose Mr. Pallant told our poor friend, who killed him, and verified his lifelong prediction that he would come to a violent end?"
I understand your meaning, was Dora's reply; "but I do not think all the talking in the world will aid us to discover the actual assassin. What is your belief, Mr. Pride?"
I cannot say that I have any particular belief, Miss Carew. These criminal problems are too intricate for me.
Don't you wish to earn the reward?
I should not mind doing so, replied Pride, with a good-natured laugh. "No man in his senses would lose the chance of gaining fifty thousand pounds. All the same, I am not clever enough to win it. I do not see where to begin."
Do you think that the manuscript in the bureau was the motive for the crime?
No. Why should anyone have killed Mr. Edermont to gain a worthless manuscript?
It might not have been worthless to the assassin, objected Dora; "it contained the story of Mr. Edermont's past life."
But what has his past life to do with his violent death?
Everything. You forget that Mr. Edermont believed himself to be a threatened man.
And so we get back to the starting-point of our argument! laughed Pride.
Dora laughed also; and, finding that they were arguing in a circle, changed that particular line of conversation.
You knew Mr. Edermont well? she asked, after a pause.
Yes--for quite fifteen years. He was very good to me, and helped me to the post I now hold.
Did you know Mr. Edermont at Christchurch?
Christchurch? repeated Pride slowly. "No; I did not know him then. Did he live there?"
I believe so, said Dora curtly, and closed the conversation.
Evidently there was nothing to be learnt from Pride. His knowledge of Edermont only extended back fifteen years; and Dora believed that the motive of the crime was to be found as far back as twenty. Moreover, if he knew anything conclusive, he would be certain to utilize it for his own benefit, and thus gain the reward. Under these circumstances Dora hardly regarded Pride in the light of an important factor in the course she was pursuing, and took no further notice of him from that point of view. They chatted on indifferent subjects until the train arrived at Victoria Station. Here Pride took his leave, and Dora went forward on her mission.
Jersey Place was easily found by asking a convenient policeman. Dora was impressed with the magnificence of the houses and by the aristocratic seclusion of the square. If possible, No. 22 was even more imposing than the surrounding mansions, and as Dora rang the bell she could not help thinking that she was undertaking a difficult task. Here was a rich and titled lady, evidently a power in society, fenced round, as it were, by wealth and position. Yet she proposed to accuse this powerful personage of a crime; she intended to save her lover at the cost of casting down this formidable goddess from her pedestal. It was a dangerous, almost a hopeless, task, but Dora did not shrink from its fulfilment. Too much depended upon the issue of the coming interview for her to retreat at the eleventh hour.
She was introduced by the footman into a small anteroom on the left of the entrance-hall, and there she remained while he took her card up to Lady Burville. In a few moments he returned with the information that his mistress would see her. Dora followed the man upstairs, and was shown into the drawing-room. It was empty at the moment, and she had ample leisure to survey the splendid room, and its still more splendid furniture. The apartment was sumptuous in the extreme. Everything that art and luxury could supply was gathered together between these four walls. The East and the West had contributed to adorn this house. It was more like a palace than the residence of a private person, and gave Dora large ideas of the wealth of Sir John Burville.
His portrait--as she guessed--hung in a conspicuous part of the room. A strong, burly man he appeared to be, with a shrewd, coarse face. Parvenu was writ large on his whole personality, and Dora could guess from his lowering looks that he possessed a violent temper. The portrait was not prepossessing, and she left it to look at the picture of a frail and delicate woman. This, without doubt, was Lady Burville, and her suspicion was confirmed in a few minutes, for as she was contemplating the portrait the door opened to admit the original.
Lady Burville was small, slender, and usually as daintily tinted as a statuette of Dresden china. But at the present moment her face was pale, and her eyes, filled with alarm, looked apprehensively at Dora from under the loose fringe of her golden hair. Arrayed in a tea-gown of some white filmy material, she looked like a ghost as she glided towards the girl. Dora put these terrified looks down to a secret knowledge of her guilt, and believed in her own mind that Lady Burville had really slain Mr. Edermont. But again, she thought, it was impossible that so frail a creature could have struck so deadly a blow. Yet, why was she so terrified?
Miss Carew, I believe? said Lady Burville, trying to smile with white lips. "Will you not be seated?"
No, thank you, Lady Burville, replied Dora stiffly. "I am obliged to you for granting me this interview."
I am only too pleased. You are a ward of Mr. Edermont's, I believe?
I was his ward, Lady Burville.
Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I forgot about that terrible murder.
Dora deliberately produced the pearl brooch from her pocket, and held it out towards the other.
Perhaps this will refresh your memory? she said slowly.
My brooch! said Lady Burville in surprise. "How did you come by it? How did you find it?"
I did not find it, but Dr. Scott did.
Really! Where?
On the floor of the room in which Mr. Edermont was killed.
Lady Burville's face turned even whiter than it was before.
I--I do not understand, she stammered, shrinking back.
I can explain, continued Dora pitilessly. "You visited the Red House on the night of the second of August; you dropped this brooch there, and you there killed my guardian."
No, no! I--I did not! Who dares to say such a thing?
I dare, said Dora calmly. "I say it again. You killed Mr. Edermont."
What--what proof have you? gasped Lady Burville, seizing a chair to keep herself from falling.
The proof of this brooch; the evidence of Dr. Scott, who met you returning from the Red House. You need not deny it, Lady Burville. I believe you to be guilty, and I shall denounce you.
No, no! You cannot--you dare not!
Why?
Lady Burville fell at her feet in a passion of tears.
I am your mother, she cried, "your unhappy mother!"
"My mother!" Echoing Lady Burville's exclamation, Dora stepped backward and surveyed with amazement the weeping woman kneeling at her feet. The situation perplexed her. She could not believe that Lady Burville spoke truly in claiming so close a relationship, and deemed that it was some trick to avert the danger of being arrested for the crime. She frowned as this thought came into her mind, and turned away coldly.
I do not believe you, Lady Burville. My parents are dead.
Your father is dead, said Lady Burville, rising slowly, "but your mother lives; I am really and truly your mother. Why should I say what is not true?"
Oh, you have enough excuse to do so, said Dora quietly. "You hope to close my mouth, and escape the consequences of your crime."
My crime! You believe, then, that I killed Mr. Edermont?
I do. You were in the room alone with him, and left the house hurriedly. When Dr. Scott was coming from Canterbury he met you.
He met me twice, said Lady Burville calmly; "once when I was coming from Chillum, and again when he assisted me to repair my bicycle."
Then you do not deny that you were at the Red House?
No; I can hardly do so in the face of the discovery of the pearl brooch. It is mine; I thought I had lost it on the road, but as it was found in Mr. Edermont's study I admit that I was there on the night of the second of August. If I were guilty, I would not admit as much, even to my own daughter.
I am not your daughter. Give me some proof that you are my mother.
What proof do you want? asked Lady Burville helplessly. "You cannot alter existing facts. If you choose to listen, I can tell you so much of my history as may convince you that what I say is true."
She seated herself on a near sofa, and put a frivolous lace handkerchief to her eyes. Dora looked at this woman, so frail, so helpless, so devoid of brain and courage, and pity entered her soul. If this was indeed her mother, the relationship was nothing to be proud of. And yet, would she confess to such a thing if it were not true? Dora could not answer this question, and resolved to suspend her judgment until she had heard the promised history. With some pity she seated herself beside the feeble little woman.
I am willing to hear your story, she said kindly; "but first you must assure me of your innocence."
Innocence! Oh, as to the murder. Yes, I am innocent. I never touched Julian; I did not kill him. I would not kill a fly. Who says I am guilty?
Dr. Scott saw----
I know he saw me! interrupted Lady Burville impatiently. "I do not deny it. But did he see the dead body of Mr. Edermont, since he is so sure of my guilt?"
He found your brooch lying by the dead body.
Ah! And what was he doing at the Red House on that night? When I left Julian, he was alive and well. No doubt Dr. Scott killed him, and blames me for the crime.
I do not believe that, said Dora decidedly. "Allen is innocent."
You think so because you love him, said Lady Burville bitterly. "No doubt you are right, my dear; but if he is innocent, who is guilty? Not I--not---- Don't look at me like that, Dora. I swear I did not kill Julian. How dare you accuse your mother of such a horrible thing!"
You forget I am not yet prepared to accept you as my mother.
I do not see why you should, said Lady Burville quietly. "I have not acted the part of a mother towards you. But what could I do? Julian took you away from me when you were a year old."
Had Mr. Edermont the right to do so?
Yes. He was my husband!
Your husband! cried Dora in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Edermont was my father?"
I say nothing of the sort, retorted Lady Burville impatiently. "Julian was my second husband; you were the offspring of my first."
Then my father is dead?
No, he isn't; I am sure I don't know; I thought he was, but it seems he isn't, said Lady Burville incoherently. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a tangle it all is!"
I cannot understand, said Dora in perplexity. "Perhaps if you tell me your story from the beginning I may gather what you mean."
I shall tell you as much as suits me, replied Lady Burville, "but I cannot tell you all. It is too terrible!" She shuddered, and looked round. "Perhaps you may be able to help me, Dora; I am in the power of a man."
Of what man?
Of Augustus Pallant. You know, he was down at Hernwood with me. Oh, my dear, he is a terrible man, and he knows all.
Knows all what?
All my story--all your story--all Julian's story. He threatened to tell my husband. Here her eyes wandered to the stern-faced portrait. "I am so afraid of my husband," she said, with a burst of tears, "and Mr. Pallant is merciless. Oh, my dear, my dear, if you could only help me!"
Tell me your story, and I may be able to do so, said Dora cheerfully.
She was beginning to believe that Lady Burville spoke truly, and that she was really her mother. It seemed doubtful as to whether she was guiltless or guilty, and Dora was prepared to hear both sides of the question before judging. But even if Lady Burville proved the truth of her assertion, Dora was not prepared to take her for a parent, and be sentimental over the discovery. Mother and daughter had been so long parted and estranged, that no revival of the maternal or filial feeling was possible. Dora pitied her mother; she was sorry for her; but she did not love her. In the meantime Lady Burville told her story, in her usual flippant manner, with many tears. The woman's nature was shallow in the extreme.
I was married to your father at an early age, she said. "He was a sea captain, and immediately after the honeymoon he went to sea. I lived at Christchurch, in Hants, while he was away. Mr. Edermont was there also."
Is not Edermont a feigned name? asked Dora suddenly.
How clever you are! said her mother. "Yes; Mr. Edermont's real name was Dargill--Julian Dargill. He was an old admirer of mine, and wanted to marry me, but I was forced by my parents to become the wife of George Carew."
Then I am really and truly Dora Carew?
Of course--your father's name. Well, after a few months I received news that my husband's ship was lost off the coast of Africa. All hands were drowned except the first mate. He was saved, and brought the story to England. So you see, my dear, I was a widow six months after marriage.
Are you sure that my father was drowned? demanded Dora doubtfully.
I am coming to that, said Lady Burville impatiently. "He was said to be drowned; and after a year of mourning I married Dargill."
You married Julian Edermont?
Yes; what else could I do? I was comparatively poor; I had no friends to speak of. Dargill was rich, so I married him. We were quite happy, he and I, and he was very fond of you, my dear.
Oh! I was born then? said Dora, rather naïvely, it must be confessed.
Certainly. Don't I tell you I married Dargill a year after your father died--eighteen months after my first marriage? Well, we were happy; and then your father returned. He also had been saved by some natives, who detained him on the Gold Coast. He managed to escape, and returned to England. Of course, he sought me out at Christchurch; and then, my dear, added Lady Burville impressively, "there was trouble."
Between my father and Mr. Dargill, alias Edermont?
Yes. Dargill was away at the time, and they never met. He was a coward, you know, my dear, and afraid of your father's violent temper--and he had a violent temper, truly awful. Dargill fled to America. George Carew followed him. Then Dargill escaped him in San Francisco, and returned to England. He wrote to me from London, and offered me an annuity if I would let him take you away.
And you did, said Dora reproachfully.
What could I do? said her mother fretfully. "I was poor without Dargill's money. I could hardly keep you alive, and Carew had left me in his search for Dargill. I accepted the annuity and let you go. Then Dargill disappeared, and I never heard of him again till I saw him in Chillum Church."
Did you make no attempt to find him? asked Dora coldly.
No; why should I have done so? said Lady Burville. "He was not my real husband, you know, since my first--your father, my dear--was alive. I never wanted to set eyes on Dargill again. I am sure he got me into enough trouble as it was. He absolutely worried me into marrying him, and, as he was rich, I thought it best to do so. We should have been happy enough if Captain Carew had not proved to be alive. Then I wished I hadn't married Dargill."
Because you loved my father so?
No, it wasn't that exactly, babbled Lady Burville, with great simplicity. "But Carew had a dreadful temper, and I thought he might kill me. However, he was more angry at Dargill than at me, and if he had caught him I really believe he would have killed him. But Dargill got away; he was an artful little creature, but a frightful coward. I don't know how I ever came to marry such a mouse of a man."
You forget he was rich.
Dora could not forbear making this satirical remark. Every word that came out of Lady Burville's mouth showed her to be a vain, shallow fool; a heartless woman, who cared more for dress and gaiety and money than anything else. On the whole, Dora thought it was just as well that Dargill, alias Edermont, had taken her away. She never would have got on with so frivolous a parent as Lady Burville.
You are right; he was rich, said her mother artlessly. "I married him for his money, and never saw him after he left me for at least twenty years. I did not mind much. But I did get a shock when I saw him in Chillum Church. I recognised him at once, in spite of his beard. He had always white hair, you know."
And that was why you fainted, I suppose? said Dora bitterly. "No doubt you are my mother, but you have acted anything but a mother's part towards your child."
Lady Burville whimpered, and tried to take Dora's hand. The girl drew away coldly. She could not feel any love for this weak little woman, who had acted so despicable a part.
Go on with your story, Lady Burville, she said calmly. "What of my father?"
I heard nothing of him for some time, Dora, said her mother, displeased at the lack of affection displayed by her newly-found child. "Then I saw a paragraph in an American paper which said that he was dead. Oh yes! there could be no doubt about it. The name George Theophilus Carew was given in full. It's not a common name, you know. I was satisfied that he was really dead."
And you married again?
What could I do? I was poor, said Lady Burville, for the third time giving her childish excuse. "Yes, I married Sir John Burville. He is a cruel and violent-tempered man, but he has plenty of money, and he is good to me."
And you are happy? said Dora, scornful of the weak nature which could draw happiness out of such misery.
Quite happy--at least, I was--till Augustus Pallant came.
When did he come? and who is he?
He came about two years ago from America. He told me that my husband was not dead, and that I had committed bigamy. I had to pay him to be quiet; he has cost me a lot of money.
And, knowing this, you still live with a man who is not your husband?
Yes; I am not going back to poverty, said her mother defiantly. "I shall remain Lady Burville till I die. Pallant knew all my story. Carew told it to him. He found out that Dargill was living near Canterbury under the name of Edermont. He induced me to go down to Hernwood Hall, and took me to Chillum Church. There I saw Dargill, and fainted. Of course, it was all done on purpose--the brute!"
Mr. Edermont fainted also, said Dora; "he was afraid."
I know he was. He was afraid lest Carew should find him out and kill him. He lived in a state of perpetual dread, for he told me so on the night I saw him.
Why did you go to the Red House at so late an hour? asked Dora.
Dargill sent me a note stating that he wanted to see me. I went; what could I do? He might have told Sir John about my past. Oh yes, I went; and Dargill told me that Pallant had been at him for a parcel of letters--an old correspondence between Dargill and myself. Pallant wanted to get them to increase his hold over me and wring money out of me. But Dargill, coward as he was, acted very well. He gave me the letters himself; that was why he sent for me. I went, I got the letters, and I came away. When I left the house Dargill--or Edermont, as he called himself--was as well as you or I.
But when Allen went into the study after you left it, he found Mr. Edermont dead, and the bureau robbed.
Then, if Dr. Scott did not kill him, someone else must have done so.
But Allen had no reason to kill him, argued Dora.
No, said Lady Burville, "but Carew had."
My father?
Yes; I believe that my first husband killed my second. In a word, George Carew killed Mr. Dargill.
Dora did not remain long with Lady Burville after she had heard the story; nor did her mother desire her to stay. There was no love lost between them, therefore there was no joy at their meeting, no sorrow at their parting. Lady Burville considered her daughter to be cold, proud, and unsympathetic. Dora saw that Lady Burville was a weak and frivolous fool, whom she could neither respect nor love. They parted with a feeling of mutual relief, but not before Lady Burville had extracted a promise of silence.
You must say nothing about what I've told you to anybody, she said imploringly. "My husband would never forgive me if he found out my past history. I told it to you so as to clear myself in your eyes as to the murder. Only Pallant knows my story, and he will keep silent while I give him money. As you are my child, you must be silent also. Say nothing--nothing."
But I wish to find out who killed my guardian, said Dora.
I tell you it was Carew. No one else had any reason to kill him. If you denounce Carew, you will hang your own father. Promise me to be silent.
I promise, said Dora curtly, and took her leave in the calmest manner.
She returned to Selling, and thence rode to Chillum on her bicycle. It was close on eight before she got home, and she found Joad waiting for her at the gate. He looked pleased to see her, and wheeled the machine into the grounds.
You are late, said he, following her every movement with greedy eyes. "I hope you had a pleasant day with your friend."
Very pleasant, Mr. Joad. Good-night; I am tired.
She walked off with a stiff nod, and left her elderly lover looking after her with a rather sulky expression. He had missed her greatly during the day, and resented her departure when he wanted to have a little chat before retiring to his own domicile across the road.
Never mind, chuckled Joad, rubbing his hands. "She'll have to marry me, or see Allen Scott in gaol as a murderer. And when we are man and wife, I'll find out some way to tame her proud spirit."
Dora partook of supper with Mrs. Tice, but answered that good lady's questions in a perfunctory manner. The housekeeper was anxious and uneasy. The visit of Dora to town struck her as strange--the more so as she connected it with recent events. Before departing Dora had promised an explanation of her movements, and Mrs. Tice waited for the fulfilment of that promise. But Dora said nothing. She ate her supper, talked on general subjects, and finally took herself off to bed without a word of explanation. Mrs. Tice was annoyed.
Miss Carew, she said, following her to the door, "I beg your pardon, but you promised to tell me why you went up to town to-day."
Did I? said Dora carelessly. "I've changed my mind, then."
I do not see why you should keep me in the dark, miss, exclaimed the housekeeper, in a mortified tone.
If you cast back your memory to our last conversation, you will see, Mrs. Tice. You are keeping me in the dark; so, by acting in the same way towards you, I am only giving you a Roland for an Oliver.
All the same, you could do worse than ask my advice, Miss Carew.
I have asked it, and you refuse to help me. Now I must see after things in my own way.
You will get into trouble if you are not careful, said Mrs. Tice sharply.
It will be no thanks to you if I do not, retorted Dora bitterly. "You have refused to help me."
What would you have me do, girl? cried Mrs. Tice, forgetting her respect in her anxiety. "I dare not tell you what I know. Mr. Allen made me promise to be silent."
Allen is acting in a very foolish manner, and so are you, said Dora quietly; "you seem to think that I am a child, to whom no secret can be confided. In ordinary cases, this would not matter to me, as I am the least curious of women. But as my happiness is at stake, I must strive to learn what you would want concealed."
It will do you no good if you do find out, said Mrs. Tice sullenly.
Perhaps not; but at least its discovery will throw a light on the mystery of this murder.
There you are wrong, Miss Carew. It will do no such thing.
Dora had argued this point before; therefore she made no reply, and with a weary nod prepared to leave the room. Again Mrs. Tice laid a detaining hand upon her sleeve.
Tell me, my dear, said she timidly, "what is it Mr. Allen said to you about the murder?"
You had better ask him, Mrs. Tice; it is no good coming to me. Unless you tell me what you know, I shall keep silent as to my knowledge.
Does Mr. Allen know anything about this crime?
Yes, he does; he knows a great deal.
Does he know who killed Mr. Edermont?
He does--and you know also.
No, no; I--I do not! gasped Mrs. Tice, shrinking back; "my knowledge has nothing to do with the matter."
Has your knowledge anything to do with my father?
Mrs. Tice gasped again, and sank into a chair. For a moment she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again Dora was gone. The housekeeper wiped her face.
Who can have told her about her father? she meditated. "If she gets to know about him, there will be trouble."
Then she drank a glass of water, and put away her work. But her thoughts wandered.
What has come to her? she said to herself again, as she made all safe for the night. "There is a worried look on her face, an anxious expression in her eyes. And why did she go up to London? Can she have learnt anything about the past? No, no. Mr. Allen knows it, Mr. Joad knows it, and myself. None of the three will tell her. Still, that question about her father! It is very, very strange."
In the meantime Dora was leaning out of her bedroom window, looking into the soft darkness of the night. Overhead the sky was fleecy with clouds, between the rifts of which twinkled the cold stars, and below, between the tree-tops and dry grass, hovered the thick gloom of night. She could see nothing in the shadows; all was as indistinct, as unknown, as strange, as this mystery which was torturing her life.
She had gone seeking, and she had learnt much: that her mother lived, and her father; that the latter had been the incarnation of the deadly fear which had haunted Dargill, alias Edermont, throughout his long life. No wonder he had changed his name, had hidden himself in the Red House, had prayed for deliverance from murder and sudden death, when a man of violent passions had hunted him hot-footed through the world. Dora remembered what a despicable coward the dead man had been, and no longer marvelled at his fears; but what she did wonder at was the change that had come over Edermont after Pallant's visit. Then he had declared that the shadow was lifted from his life; that he could henceforth mix with his fellow-men, and dwell in safety. Such joy could only mean that his enemy was dead. Yet Edermont was dead also, of the very death he feared.
And there was no doubt in Dora's mind that her father had killed him. It seemed a cruel thing, for, after all, in marrying her mother Edermont--or Dargill, as he was called--had sinned unconsciously. Why should her father have so ardently desired his death? Dora began to think that her mother had not told her all, that there was something still hidden--a something which might account for the persistent desire of Carew for the death of Edermont.
Again, she had not asked her mother what was the bar which existed to prevent her marriage with Allen. Dora thought her mother knew this, and might reveal the obstacle. But then she would be forced to tell the portion of her story which she had hidden. Would she do so? Dora was doubtful, for the weak little coquette was as strong as steel in aught that concerned herself. Unblinded by filial love, Dora estimated her mother's character at its true value. There was no further hope of learning the truth in that quarter. And who, then, would tell her--Allen, Joad, Mrs. Tice? She would be forced to ask one of the three to speak. Since she knew so much, she might as well know more. And a fuller knowledge might enable her to save Allen, to marry Allen, to revenge the death of Edermont, and to win the fifty thousand pounds. But yet, all----
Dreams, dreams; vain, vain dreams! sighed Dora, and went to bed in as hopeless a frame of mind as can well be imagined.
Fate always arranges matters much better than ourselves. Here was Dora at a dead stop; she knew not what to do, or in which direction to turn. It seemed that no one would advise her as to the future; and that she must be content to lose Allen, and accept the humiliating position of Joad's wife. But while she was steeling her heart to face this dreary prospect Fate was at work, and next morning Pallant appeared. He came to point out the road.
Dora was surprised when Mrs. Tice informed her that a gentleman wished to see her. She was still more surprised when Pallant was shown into the morning-room where she sat. The old supercilious look was on his face, the old cynicism was looking out of his blue eyes, and as he stood bowing, with the strong sunlight glittering on his red beard, he looked as worldly and evil a man as could be imagined. Dora remembered how he had extorted money from her weak mother for over two years, and rose to meet him with a stern face.
What has brought you here, sir? she asked coldly.
You have, said Pallant, calmly taking a seat. "I saw Lady Burville yesterday, and she gave me the gist of your conversation."
I do not see how it can interest you, said she contemptuously; "you cannot get out of me what I have not got. I am poor, Mr. Pallant."
More's the pity! he replied, quite indifferent to her shaft. "With your beauty and my brains, we might do worse than marry!"
Marry--marry you!
I forgot. You are in love with that foolish young doctor, he said in his sleepy voice. "That is a pity. At our first meeting I warned you to beware of Allen Scott."
I know you did. Why did you warn me?
Ah! I see your mother did not tell you everything, Miss Carew, else you would not ask me such a question. I warned you, lest you should give him your heart. It would be foolish to do so, because you can never marry him.
Why?
That is my secret. I don't tell you all I know. It is not worth my while.
Dora looked at him scornfully.
It is worth your while to blackmail my mother!
It pays! it pays! said Pallant shamelessly. "I must live, you know. Lady Burville is greatly afraid of her present husband, so she keeps me well supplied with money to hold my tongue."
Where did you learn my mother's history? said Dora, disgusted with this brutal speech.
From the best of all authorities--her first husband.
My father?
Your father--George Theophilus Carew. I met him in San Francisco some years ago. He was a drunkard and a gambler, Miss Carew. We had some dealings over cards, for you must know that I am a gambler also, though it is to my credit that I don't drink. One day, in a fit of maudlin fear, he told me his story, and how he was seeking for Julian Dargill.
Mr. Edermont?
Precisely. The man who had taken away his wife. He wanted to kill him.
To kill him? echoed Dora, starting; "and--and did--did my father succeed in carrying out his intention? Was it George Carew who killed Mr. Edermont?"
Not exactly, Miss Carew, responded Pallant dryly, "for the simple reason that before your father could accomplish his object he died himself."
Died himself! Is my father dead?
Dead and buried, said Pallant concisely; "dead and buried."
When Pallant made this remarkable statement he looked up sharply to see how Dora was affected by it. Her face had flushed hotly, and her eyes had brightened. In place of sorrow, her whole expression was that of relief and gladness. Pallant could not forbear a cynical remark on her want of feeling.
You do not seem sorry to hear that your father is dead, Miss Carew.
I do not know why I should display a sorrow which I do not feel, she replied quietly. "You must remember, Mr. Pallant, that my parents are nothing to me. I was taken away from them when I was a year old, and I have no feeling of love towards them. I am glad that my father is dead."
May I ask why?
Because, had he lived, he might have been guilty of murder. At least, I am spared the dishonour of having a criminal for a parent.
Pallant chuckled, and seemed about to speak. However, he thought better of it, and merely turned away his face to hide a peculiar smile. Dora took little notice of his action, being absorbed in her own thoughts.
Is this what you told Mr. Edermont in the conversation you had with him?
Yes. I was sorry for the miserable little creature. The thought of Carew roaming the earth in search of him was his constant nightmare. It did not matter to me whether he knew or not. Certainly, it did not affect my plans, so--I never inflict useless cruelty, Miss Carew--I told him the truth: that his lifelong enemy was dead and buried; that henceforward he could sleep in safety.
The result proved your assertions to be false.
What is that to me? said Pallant with a shrug. "I am no prophet, to foretell the day and hour of a man's death. I said that Carew was past harming him. That was true. Carew did not kill him."
Then who did?
My dear young lady, if I could tell you that I should be the richer by fifty thousand pounds; but on that point I am as ignorant as you are. I held your father in my arms when he died; I saw him buried. It was not Carew who killed Dargill, alias Edermont, and there is nothing in the story told to me by your father likely to throw light on the mystery.
You--you do not think my mother killed him? faltered Dora.
Pallant scoffed at the idea.
Could those little hands wield a heavy club? Could those weak muscles deliver so terrible a blow? No, Miss Carew; your mother is too weak, too--if I dare say so--cowardly, to do such a thing. She is as innocent of this death as your father. Dargill's fate is not due to the vendetta of the past.
It must be due to something of the sort, Mr. Pallant. No one had any interest in killing so harmless a man.
No one in this neighbourhood, you mean.
Yes; I have lived here all my life, and I know everything about my guardian. He had few friends, and lived quietly among his books and flowers. Beyond his constant fear lest my father should find him out, I never saw him distressed in any way. And in some things Mr. Edermont was as transparent as a child. If he had been threatened by any person about here, I should have known of it.
Then you think his death must be due to what took place twenty years ago?
Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Pallant?
No, Miss Carew, I do not, replied the red-haired man quietly. "If your father had lived I might have held a different opinion. But, knowing the story of the past, you can see for yourself that, excepting Carew, no one had any motive or desire to kill Dargill."
Then what is your own theory? asked Dora, rather confounded by this argument.
Burglary. Yes! Mr. Edermont was known to be rich; this house is in a lonely situation, and I dare say the burglar made himself acquainted with the garrison of the mansion. Two women and one old man--small odds against a sturdy villain. Inspector Jedd, of Canterbury, is also of my opinion. The burglar, or burglars, broke in, ransacked the desk, killed Edermont, who interrupted them, and then bolted. That is my theory, Miss Carew.
I do not agree with you, replied Dora calmly; "you forget that nothing was taken out of the bureau but that manuscript containing the story of the past."
How do you know that the manuscript was in the bureau?
Mr. Edermont said so in his will.
Nevertheless, he might have changed its hiding-place, said Pallant coolly, "or my information that his enemy was dead might have induced him to burn it as useless. With the death of Carew ceased all necessity to keep that story in writing. And again, Miss Carew, how do you know but that money or jewels may have been hidden in the bureau?"
It is possible, but not probable, replied Dora cautiously; "I don't think Mr. Edermont kept anything there save bills and letters. No doubt he preserved also the packet of letters you wished to obtain."
And which he gave to Lady Burville, said Pallant. "Very possibly. I was vexed at not getting those letters."
What information did they contain?
Much that I know, and you don't, answered Pallant; "they related to you."
To me! cried Dora in surprise. "What about me?"
Ah! said Pallant grimly, "that is exactly what I wanted to find out. However, Lady Burville has them now, and she'll keep them."
He made this speech in a tone of such genuine regret that Dora saw he was in earnest. It was no use questioning him upon matters of which he was ignorant, so she changed the subject.
You warned me once against Allen Scott, said she, after a pause. "Did that mean you believed him to be guilty?"
No. At the time I made the remark Edermont was alive. Why I warned you was to make you give up the idea of marriage with him. I know from Lady Burville that Scott was here on the night the crime was committed; but for all that I do not believe him to be guilty.
I am thankful to hear you say so, Mr. Pallant.
You need not be, replied Pallant coldly. "If I thought Scott was guilty, I should have no hesitation in denouncing him. But I do not see what motive he had to commit so terrible a crime. He could not win you for a wife by doing so; he could not gain a fortune, and he would be running into danger without hope of reward. No; Allen Scott is innocent."
I believe he is myself, said Dora emphatically; "but you know, Mr. Pallant, he refuses to tell me the secret which Mr. Edermont confided to him, and which prevents our marriage."
He is quite right to do so, Miss Carew. I know that secret also, and it would do you no good to learn it. Besides, that knowledge had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Edermont.
But what about the paper taken out of the bureau?
If it was not destroyed, said Pallant, "it is hard to say what became of it. The manuscript, as we are told by the will, contained the story of Mr. Edermont's past life. Now, through Carew I know that story, and therefore the contents of that paper. Excepting Carew himself, I know no one who would have killed your guardian for the possession of that written information."
But undoubtedly the murder was committed to gain possession of the manuscript.
We don't agree on that point, said Pallant; "but granting for the sake of argument it was so, that is exactly why I can't name the assassin. If the possession of that paper was essential to his safety, if his name was mentioned in it in connection with the past of Mr. Edermont, I am ignorant of some of the past. Evidently Carew did not tell me all."
It is just as well he did not, said Dora, curling her lip; "you have made bad use of what you do know."
Oh, a man must live, you know, retorted Pallant coolly, as he rose to take his leave. "I prefer to get money without work, if I can. We all do."
I'll put a stop to your----
Quite right, was the insolent answer, "if you can; but you see, my dear young lady, you can't."
After which remark Pallant bowed himself out of the room. Dora accompanied him as far as the gate, and as he passed through she asked him a question which had been in her mind all the time of the interview. "Why did you come down here?" she asked abruptly. "It was not to condole with me."
No, it wasn't, candidly admitted Pallant; "but I want fifty thousand pounds, and I thought you might help me to get it."
I decline to do so, said Dora coldly; "and I don't see how I can help you."
As you decline to give your aid, said Pallant quietly, "there is no necessity to discuss the matter. But I fancied you might be able to tell me something about Mr. Joad."
You don't think he killed Edermont?
Why not? Certainly I did not know his name in connection with Mr. Edermont's past. But for all that he might have killed his patron.
For what reason, Mr. Pallant?
That is just where I require to be enlightened by you.
I am afraid I cannot enlighten you, she replied, "and I would not if I could. There is no sense in believing Joad killed my guardian. In the first place, far from being desirable, Mr. Edermont's death was a bad thing to happen for Joad's comfort. In the second, Mr. Joad was in his cottage at one o'clock in the morning, as was proved by Mr. Pride. To my own knowledge, the murder was committed about that time, so Mr. Joad could not have been the assassin."
It all seems clear enough, said Pallant, preparing to climb into the trap which was waiting for him; "but, all the same, I mistrust Joad. You say the murder was committed at one o'clock. Joad says he was in his cottage at one o'clock, and calls upon Mr. Pride to substantiate his statement. Very good. We will believe all that. But," added Pallant, gathering up the reins, "your clock in the hall might have been wrong."
After which remark he raised his hat, and drove off smiling. Dora did not think that his remark about the clock was worthy of consideration, for she had set her watch by it before retiring to bed on the night of the second of August. It was right then, and no one could possibly have put it wrong in the meantime. Joad had proved his alibi clearly enough, and there was no possible suspicion that he was guilty of the crime, especially as its committal had not been to his advantage.
Curiously enough, Joad knew nothing of Pallant's visit, nor did Dora intend to inform him of it. He had been in the library all the morning, reading ancient books, and sipping brandy out of the flask he carried constantly in the tail pocket of his dingy coat. Not wishing to disturb him in the midst of his pleasures, Dora returned to her own sitting-room, and sat down to think. While thus employed, Mrs. Tice entered the room with a letter in her hand. She looked distressed.
My dear young lady, she said hastily, "I am afraid I must return to Mr. Allen. He is ill."
Ill! cried Dora, jumping up. "What is the matter with him?"
I fancy he has fretted himself into a kind of fever, said Mrs. Tice, glancing at the letter. "This has just been sent over. Emma wrote it." Emma was a servant in Scott's house. "Mr. Allen did not want me to be told, but Emma thought it best I should know. I must really return and nurse my dear Mr. Allen," concluded Mrs. Tice, smoothing down her apron with trembling hands.
You shall go this afternoon, cried Dora. "I'll send Meg to the hotel for a trap, and we will go over together."
Mrs. Tice smiled and looked grateful.
I hope you won't think me unkind, Miss Carew?
Oh dear no! Meg will protect me against Joad, said Dora. And, after a pause, she added abruptly: "You do not ask me what I was doing in London yesterday."
I did not think you wished to let me know, miss. You refused to tell me last night.
I know I did; but I'll tell you now, because you may be able to help me. Mrs. Tice, said Dora solemnly, "I have seen Lady Burville."
Yes, miss; and what of that? asked Mrs. Tice cheerfully.
Do you know who Lady Burville is?
I know nothing about her, miss, save she's a patient of Mr. Allen's.
Then I'll tell you, Mrs. Tice: she is my mother.
The housekeeper's ruddy face paled, and she sat down on the nearest chair.
Your mother, Miss Carew! Are you sure?
I am certain. Lady Burville informed me of the relationship, and told me her story.
In that case, said Mrs. Tice with emphasis, "you know now why a marriage between you and Mr. Allen is impossible."
That is just what I do not know, was Dora's reply. "My mother did not tell me all her story. Now, I want you to relate what she kept hidden."
Tell me what you have heard, miss, and I'll see, said Mrs. Tice, after a pause.
Very good, said Dora, taking a seat near the old dame. "I'll tell my story, you will tell yours, and between us we may save Allen's life."
When Dora made that last remark, the face of Mrs. Tice grew red and indignant. She looked at the girl with a fiery eye, and demanded crossly what she meant by saying such a thing. Knowing the attachment of the housekeeper to Allen, this was natural enough.
The fact is, explained Dora, "Mr. Joad accuses Allen of murdering Mr. Edermont."
And what next, I wonder! cried Mrs. Tice in high dudgeon; "it is more likely Mr. Joad killed the man himself! Can he substantiate his accusation?"
He can state that Allen was in this house on the night of the murder.
That does not say Mr. Allen committed the crime, retorted Mrs. Tice, her face a shade paler. "Mr. Allen told me in confidence that he had seen the dead body, and had kept silent for his own sake. I quite agreed with him that it was the best thing to do. And he told you also, Miss Carew?"
Yes, he told me also; but he did not inform Joad.
Then how does Joad know that Mr. Allen was here on that night?
He saw him from the door of his cottage, said Dora quietly; "but you need not be afraid for Allen, Mrs. Tice. I can save him, and close Joad's mouth."
But how, my dear? asked the housekeeper, greatly perplexed.
By becoming the wife of Mr. Joad.
Mercy on me, Miss Carew! You would not do that! exclaimed Mrs. Tice, lifting up her hands in horror.
I won't do it unless I am forced to, said Dora gloomily. "But supposing Joad denounces Allen, how can he defend himself? I know that he is innocent; but his presence here on that night looks guilty."
Appearances are against him, certainly. But if Mr. Allen is arrested, he will have to save his life by denouncing your father as the murderer.
My father is not the murderer.
I say that he is! cried Mrs. Tice emphatically. "For twenty years George Carew has been hunting down Mr. Dargill--I suppose Lady Burville told you his real name?--and he caught him at last and killed him."
You are wrong, said Dora, shaking her head. "I thought as you did before Mr. Pallant arrived. He undeceived me."
What does Mr. Pallant know about it?
He knows everything. He met my father in San Francisco two years ago, and my father told him the whole story before he died.
Died! Do you mean to say that George Carew is dead?
He is dead and buried.
Captain Carew dead! muttered Mrs. Tice in a bewildered tone; "dead--and without avenging himself on the man who stole his wife! Then, who killed Mr. Dargill--or rather, Mr. Edermont?"
I do not know. That is just what I wish to find out.
No one else had any reason to kill him, said the housekeeper in dismay, "and yet he is dead--dead--murdered. You are right, my dear," she added in a firm tone; "this is a serious matter for Mr. Allen. Joad hates him so that he would willingly perjure himself to see my dear boy hanged. But we must save him, you and I; we must save him, Miss Carew."
To do so, we must understand one another, said Dora; "you must tell me all."
I shall do so, cried Mrs. Tice energetically--"yes. Hitherto I have said nothing, out of consideration for your feelings. Now I shall tell you why Captain Carew--your father, my dear--hated Mr. Edermont so deeply. But first let me hear what your mother revealed. I may be able to relate those things which she kept hidden from you."
Thus adjured to confess, Dora related the story of the past, as told to her by Lady Burville--she could not bear even to think of her as "mother." Mrs. Tice listened in severe silence, only nodding her head now and then at some special point in the story. When Dora concluded, she sat quiet for two minutes, then gravely delivered herself of her opinion.
I see that you do not look upon this woman as a mother, my dear young lady, she said solemnly, "and you are right to do so. May I speak plainly?"
As plainly as you like, Mrs. Tice. I have no filial feeling for the mother who deserted me, and left her helpless child to be brought up by a stranger.
Mr. Dargill was scarcely a stranger, corrected Mrs. Tice: "he was your mother's second husband, as she told you. Oh, heavens! you are quite right! Mrs. Carew, as I knew her, was always a light-headed, selfish woman, given over to vanity and pleasure. She cared only for money and idleness, and I'll be bound she was only too glad to get rid of you, so as to give herself a chance of a third marriage as an unencumbered widow. Yet what she came through would have sobered many a woman. But there, Mrs. Carew was always a feeble, frail coquette. She loved only one thing in the world then, and she loves only one thing now--herself."
Was what she told me true?
Oh yes; the tale she told is true enough, but it is trimmed and cut to suit her own ends. She was ashamed to tell you everything, I suppose. A wicked woman she is, Miss Carew, for all that she is your mother. Owing to her coquetry and love of money, poor Mr. Dargill came to his end as surely as if she had killed him herself.
We don't know that yet, said Dora thoughtfully. "Remember, it was not her first husband who killed him."
That is true, assented Mrs. Tice. "Nevertheless, I can think of no other person who had an interest in your guardian's death. But I had best tell you my story, Miss Carew, and you can judge for yourself."
Will your story enable me to discover the real murderer?
I don't say that, replied Mrs. Tice reluctantly; "as I said before, you must judge for yourself."
She took her spectacles off and laid them on the table; then, folding her mittened hands on her lap, she began the amended version of that story which Lady Burville had told to Dora. The missing portion, supplied by the memory of the housekeeper, was by far the most exciting episode of the tale.
The whole affair took place at Christchurch, in Hampshire, she said slowly; "you were right in your guess as to the locality, Miss Carew. I was born and brought up and married there, but twenty-five years ago my husband died, and to support myself I had to go out again to service. Dr. and Mrs. Scott took me in as a nurse to their newly-born child--Mr. Allen, that is. His mother died shortly after giving him birth, and his bringing up was left to me. Dr. Scott took little heed of the child. He was a handsome man, clever in his profession, but fond of going about the country to pleasure parties, and of flirting with his lady patients. He was said to be deeply in love with Mrs. Carew."
Was my father with her then?
No, my dear. This was two years after Mr. Allen was born, and your mother was not married then. A Miss Treherne she was, a pretty, fair-haired girl, shallow and frivolous. She had three suitors: Dr. Scott was one, Mr. Julian Dargill was the second, and Captain Carew the third.
Was Mr. Edermont rich then?
Mr. Julian Dargill was rich, corrected Mrs. Tice. "I prefer to talk of Mr. Edermont by his real name, my dear. He was a weak, effeminate little man, with a noble head, and even then his hair was of a silvery whiteness. It was your description that made me recognise him on the day I showed you his picture."
He wore no beard then? said Dora, remembering the portrait.
No; he was clean shaven. No doubt he afterwards adopted the beard as a disguise to escape Captain Carew. Well, Miss Treherne hesitated between the three suitors for many months. At last her parents decided for her, and for some reason forced her to marry Carew. Why, I do not know, for the Captain was not rich; he was of a violent temper, and usually he was absent at sea. However, she married him and became Mrs. Carew, and shortly after the honeymoon her husband went to sea. While he was absent Mrs. Carew carried on with Mr. Dargill and Dr. Scott. I must say she behaved very badly, and public opinion was quite against her--so much, indeed, that six months afterwards she left Christchurch.
Had she received news of my father's supposed death then? said Dora, flushing a little at the disapproving way in which Mrs. Tice spoke of her mother.
Yes; the mate of Captain Carew's ship was saved, and came home to tell the story. Then Mrs. Carew went away with what small property she had. It was supposed she went to London, and it was noticed that Mr. Dargill left Christchurch after she did. When she reappeared at Christchurch she brought you, Miss Carew, and her new husband, Mr. Dargill.
That was a year afterwards?
Yes, it was quite a year, if not more, said Mrs. Tice. "But she married Mr. Dargill as soon as she could after the report of her first husband's death."
Was my mother in love with Mr. Dargill?
In love! echoed the housekeeper contemptuously. "She was never in love with anyone but herself."
Are you not rather hard on her, Mrs. Tice? said Dora, reflecting that after all this despised woman was her mother, and entitled to some consideration.
Far from it, my dear young lady, was the emphatic rejoinder of Mrs. Tice; "indeed, out of pity for your position and feelings, I am speaking as well as I can of her. But what can you think of a woman who marries three husbands, and leaves her child to be brought up far away from her? In all these twenty years, Miss Carew," added the old dame, nodding, "I dare swear your mother has not given you a single thought."
She was willing enough to recognise me, said the girl, attempting a defence of the indefensible.
She made the best of a bad job, you mean, retorted Mrs. Tice. "If you had not produced that brooch, and showed Lady Burville plainly that she was in your power, she would never have acknowledged the relationship. She knew you could not denounce your own mother, and that is why she spoke up."
She might wish to make amends for her conduct.
Mrs. Tice shook her head.
Laura Carew, Laura Dargill, Laura Burville, whatever you like to call her, she said, "is not the kind of woman to regret her conduct in any way. No, no; don't you deceive yourself. Lady Burville was in a trap, and she used her knowledge of your birth to get out of it."
But all this is beside my question, said Dora, wearied of this constant blame; "I asked you if my mother was in love with Mr. Dargill?"
No, she was not. What woman could love that miserable little creature? You saw enough of him, Miss Carew, and I am sure you neither loved nor respected him.
No, I certainly did not, said Dora gravely; "and yet, seeing that he brought me up out of charity, I should certainly have paid him more attention."
He acted well by you, I don't deny, answered Mrs. Tice reluctantly; "and it was good of him to help Lady Burville by taking charge of you. But what I cannot understand is why he did not stay with her."
How could he, Mrs. Tice? For, in the first place, his marriage was void, as my father was alive. And in the second, you may be sure that Captain Carew kept a watch on my mother to see if Mr. Dargill would come near her. No doubt he thought to trap him in that way.
Perhaps, replied Mrs. Tice ambiguously; "but if your father kept watch upon his wife, why did he permit her to marry Sir John Burville?"
I cannot say, said Dora, colouring; she knew her mother's opinion on that point. "But my mother thought that Captain Carew was dead, else you may be sure that she would not have married again."
I am not so sure of that, grumbled Mrs. Tice. "Your mother would do anything for money. I remember that she took----"
Spare me further details, said Dora, blushing, "and finish your story. I have not heard yet why Allen cannot marry me."
I will say no more, then, said Mrs. Tice hastily; "but, to make a long story short, Captain Carew was not dead, and returned to claim his wife. As I have said, he was madly jealous of his wife, and he had a fearful temper; when he heard that his wife had married again, he swore he would kill her second husband. Dargill was away at the time, and Captain Carew kept such a watch on his wife that she could send no warning. He wished to kill Dargill, who was expected back by a late train. All this came out at the inquest, my dear. It was Dargill's habit to cross the lawn and enter the drawing-room by the French window. As afterwards was stated by the servants, Captain Carew found this out, and hid himself in the drawing-room with a pistol. He saw a man approaching at nine o'clock, and as the stranger stepped into the room he shot him."
Shot Mr. Dargill?
No, Miss Carew, said Mrs. Tice, shaking her head; "he made a mistake. He shot Dr. Scott."
Dr. Scott--Allen's father! cried Dora, rising to her feet with a pale face.
Yes, Mr. Allen's father. Mrs. Dargill, your mother, had sent for him to see how her second husband was to be saved from the fury of Captain Carew. He fell into the trap laid for Mr. Dargill, and was shot through the heart. Then Captain Carew fled, and was never caught. It was supposed that he had gone to the Continent. And now, Miss Carew, you know why Mr. Allen cannot marry you.
Because--because of that murder! gasped Dora in broken tones.
Yes. Mr. Allen cannot marry the daughter of the man who killed his father in cold blood.