If Dora was disappointed at failing to obtain explanations at Chillum, she was still more so at Canterbury. She ran the five miles under thirty minutes, and made sure she would be able to overtake Allen before he could escape her. There was a vague idea in her mind that, owing to what had been told him by Edermont--whatever it might be--he did not wish to submit himself to her questioning. This idea was confirmed by the discovery she made on reaching the tidy green-doored house near the Cathedral. Dr. Scott was not at home.
"And to tell the truth, miss," said Mrs. Tice, a large, ample, motherly person, who had been Allen's nurse and was now his housekeeper, "the doctor has gone to London."
"To London?" gasped Dora blankly, "and without letting me know?"
"Dear, dear; did he say nothing, miss? Well, to be sure! and Mr. Allen so considerate! You'll pardon me, miss, but I have been with him since he was a baby, and I should be sorry to think he had quarrelled with you. It's few as loves as Mr. Allen does."
"There is no quarrel," said Miss Carew, a trifle stiffly. "Dr. Scott saw my guardian, and then left the house without speaking to me. I have called to ask for an explanation."
"Well, miss, I'll--but, dear, dear! here I am keeping you out on the doorstep. A fine rage Mr. Allen would be in if he knew that, miss. Come in and rest, my dear lady, and I'll make you a cup of tea."
Dora accepted this hospitable offer with alacrity, not that she was anxious for rest or tea, but because it occurred to her that Mrs. Tice might throw some light on the darksome mysteries which were perplexing her brain. The old woman, as she had stated, had taken charge of Allen since he was a baby, so she, if anyone, would know about this Lady Burville who had been acquainted with Scott senior. But before Dora asked any questions concerning this remote past, she wanted first to learn the circumstances of Allen's hasty departure for London. When seated in Mrs. Tice's comfortable room, she spoke directly on the subject.
"Had Dr. Scott decided to go up to town this morning?"
"Why, no, miss," replied the housekeeper, poising a spoon over the caddy, "and that is just what puzzles me. Mr. Allen is not a young gentleman to make up his mind in a hurry like. But he came home about half an hour ago quite wild in his looks, and would not say what ailed him. Before I could turn round, he had put a few things into a black bag, and went off on his bicycle."
"To the station?"
"No, Miss: to Selling. He said he had a patient to see there, and would catch the four twenty-six train from that place."
Dora glanced at her watch. It was now three o'clock, and if she chose she could ride the nine miles to Selling before the up-train left that station. But this she determined not to do. If Allen insisted upon behaving so badly, she would do nothing to force him into an explanation. Sooner or later he would tell her his reasons for this strange conduct. But there was no doubt in her mind that his sudden departure was the result of his mysterious conversation with Mr. Edermont.
"When did Mr. Scott say he would return, Mrs. Tice?"
"To-morrow, miss; and then I have no doubt he will explain why he went off in such a hurry."
"He did not tell you, I suppose?"
"Not a word, miss," replied the housekeeper, pouring out the tea. "He'll be in a rare way when he finds out you have been here, and he not at home to make things pleasant for you. Your tea, miss."
"You will make them pleasant enough, Mrs. Tice. What delicious tea and bread and butter! I feel quite hungry after my ride. By the way," continued Dora, artfully preparing to take the housekeeper by surprise, "Allen told me that he had a new patient--Lady Burville."
Contrary to her expectation, Mrs. Tice did not appear to be astonished. From the composed expression of her face, from the friendly nod with which she received the news, Dora was convinced that she was absolutely unacquainted with the name. Failing in this attack, Dora attempted to gain the information she wanted, if it were to be gained, by approaching the subject from another quarter.
"I am so glad that the doctor is to prescribe for Lady Burville," she said softly; "she will be able to do Allen so much good in his profession. He only needs the chance, and with his talents he is sure to be successful."
"Mr. Allen is very clever indeed," said delighted Mrs. Tice, who could never hear her nursling praised sufficiently.
"And his father was clever also, I believe?" said Dora, unmasking her batteries. This time Mrs. Tice changed colour, and placed the cup she was holding carefully on the tray. Dora noticed that her hand trembled.
"The late Dr. Scott was eminent in his profession," she said in a low voice.
"What a pity he did not live to help Allen on!" pursued Dora, still observant; "how long ago is it since he died, Mrs. Tice?"
"Some twenty years, miss."
"Really! When Allen was five years old; and you have had charge of him ever since?"
Mrs. Tice recovered a little of her self-control.
"I had charge of him before that, miss," she said genially; "his poor mother died when he was born, so I have had him in my care since he was in his cradle. And, please God, I'll stay with him until I die--that is, miss, if you do not object to my continuing housekeeper after your marriage to my dear Mr. Allen?"
"You shall stay and look after us both," declared Dora impetuously; "we could not do without you."
"Your guardian, Mr. Edermont, will miss you when you marry, my dear lady."
Dora's lip curled. "I do not think so," she said quietly. "Mr. Edermont is too much wrapped up in himself to trouble about me. You have never seen him, have you?" And on receiving a shake of the head, Dora continued: "He is a little womanish man, with a fine head of silvery hair."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Tice, a startled expression coming into her eyes.
"I think he has quarrelled with Allen," pursued Dora, not noticing the change in the other's manner, "for he told him something which may prevent our marriage."
"What was it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Tice in some perturbation.
"I don't know; Mr. Edermont won't tell me. And I asked you about this Lady Burville because I feel sure she has something to do with it."
"But, Miss Carew, I do not understand!"
"Well, Mrs. Tice," cried Dora quickly, "Mr. Joad said Lady Burville knew my guardian and Allen's father, and--I'm sure I can't tell how--but it has something to do with our marriage being stopped and Allen's going to London."
By this time Mrs. Tice was perfectly livid, and trembling like a leaf. Out of the incoherencies of Dora's story she had picked an idea, and it was this which moved her so deeply. Dora looked at her in astonishment.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Tice? Are you ill?"
The housekeeper shook her head; then, rising with some difficulty, she went to a cupboard, and produced therefrom a book of portraits. Turning over the pages of this, she pointed out one to Dora.
"A little man with silvery hair," she said slowly--"is that your guardian, Miss Carew?"
Dora looked and saw the face--clean-shaven--of a young man. Notwithstanding the absence of beard, she recognised it at once. It was Julian Edermont, with some twenty years off his life.
"Yes, that is Mr. Edermont," she said, astonished at the discovery.
"And you are his--his daughter?" questioned the housekeeper.
"No; I am his ward. Mr. Edermont has never been married."
Mrs. Tice looked thoroughly frightened.
"You say Mr. Edermont had a conversation with Mr. Allen?"
"Yes: a conversation and a quarrel."
"Oh, great heavens! if he should have learnt the truth!" muttered the old lady.
"If who should have learnt the truth?" demanded Dora.
Mrs. Tice closed the book with a snap, and put it in the cupboard, shaking her head ominously. She kept her eyes turned away persistently from the face of the young girl. Whatever discovery she had made from displaying the photograph, it was evident that she did not intend to communicate it to her companion.
"How did you come possessed of Mr. Edermont's photograph, when you said you did not know him?" asked Dora suddenly.
"I did not know him until--five minutes ago. You had better ask me no more questions, Miss Carew."
"But can you not tell me, from your knowledge of Allen's parents, why Mr. Edermont has quarrelled with him?"
"If Mr. Edermont is the man I take him to be, I can. But I shallnottell you, Miss Dora."
"Why not?"
The housekeeper shuddered.
"I dare not," she said in a trembling tone. "Oh, my dear, why did you come to-day? I know much, but I dare not speak."
"Is your knowledge so very terrible?"
"It is more terrible than you can guess."
"Does Mr. Edermont know as much as you do?"
"Mr.--Edermont," said the housekeeper, with a pause before the name, "knows more than I do."
"I do not see why I should be kept in the dark," said Dora petulantly. "All that concerns Allen concerns me."
"In that case," observed Mrs. Tice calmly, "I can only recommend you to wait until Mr. Allen returns. If he chooses to tell you, well and good; but for my part, I prefer to keep silent about the past."
"But is that fair to me, Mrs. Tice?"
"Silence is more than fair to you in this case," said the old dame, looking steadily at the eager face of the young girl. "It is merciful."
"Merciful? That is a strange word to use."
"It is the only word that can be used," replied Mrs. Tice emphatically. "No, do not ask me any more, my dear young lady. The secret I hold is not my own to tell. Should Mr. Allen give me permission to reveal it, I shall do so; otherwise I prefer to be silent."
One would have thought that this speech was final; but Dora was too bent upon learning the truth of Allen's strange behaviour to be satisfied. She urged, she cajoled, she threatened, she implored, but all to no purpose. Whatever it was that Mrs. Tice knew detrimental to the past of Mr. Edermont, she was determined to keep it to herself. Evidently there was nothing left but to wait until Allen returned. From experience Dora knew that she could wheedle anything out of her easy-going lover.
"Do you know anything about Lady Burville?" asked Dora, finding she could not persuade Mrs. Tice into confessing what she knew.
"I know nothing--not even the name," said the housekeeper. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Lady Burville has something to do with the quarrel between Mr. Edermont and Allen."
"I can safely say that I know nothing on that point, Miss Carew. Lady Burville is a complete stranger to me, and, I should say, to Mr. Allen. I have never heard him speak of her."
"But Mr. Edermont knows her."
"Very probably. Mr. Edermont knows many people I am unacquainted with. You must remember, Miss Carew, that there is a vast difference between the position of a gentleman and that of a housekeeper."
"Then, Lady Burville has nothing to do with Mr. Edermont's past?"
"So far as I know she has not," replied Mrs. Tice promptly. "I don't know everything, my dear young lady."
"Can you guess the cause of this quarrel?"
"Yes. I told you so before; but I cannot speak of it."
"Do you fancy that Mr. Edermont told Allen this secret you speak of?"
Mrs. Tice made no immediate reply, but smoothed her silken apron with trembling hands. At length she said:
"I do not know. I trust he did not. But if he did speak----"
"Yes, Mrs. Tice," said Dora eagerly, "if he did speak?"
The housekeeper drew a long breath. "If he did speak," she repeated, "you will never--never--never become the wife of Allen Scott."
After that extraordinary conversation with Allen's housekeeper, Dora returned home more mystified than ever. Like everyone else, Mrs. Tice hinted at secrets of the past likely to affect the future, yet refused any explanation of such hints. Edermont and Joad acted in the same unsatisfactory way, and Allen, to avoid questioning, absented himself from her presence. It was all very tiresome, she thought, and perfectly inexplicable. Only one fact stood out clearly in Dora's mind, namely, that Lady Burville was responsible for all this confusion; therefore, she argued, Lady Burville must hold the clue to a possible disentanglement. This was logical.
Had Dora obeyed the impulse of her nature, she would have gone directly to the cause of these perplexities and have demanded an unravelment. She would have put her questions in the crudest form, thus:
"My guardian was moved by the sight of you, and he orders me to avoid you. Your name formed the gist of conversation between my guardian and my lover, with the result that Mr. Edermont tells me I shall never marry Allen. Mrs. Tice, who is ignorant of your inexplicable influence, asserts the same thing; and the creature Joad hints that you knew Allen's father. On the surface these matters appear to be disconnected and incoherent; but I feel certain that a word from you will render them explicable. You must say that word to me, since it is upon me that the trouble you have created has descended."
So Dora thought, ranging the facts in such vague order as her ignorance permitted; but as she did not know Lady Burville, and had no plausible excuse for seeking her, she was forced to remain in ignorance for want of the explanation which she felt sure the woman could have supplied.
In her present dilemma, Dora, with her usual good sense, recognised that there was nothing to be done but to remain quiescent, and wait. Later on Allen would return from London--indeed, Mrs. Tice expected him back that day--and then he would be forced to explain his conduct. That explanation might put the matter in a plain light, and do away with the fiats of Mrs. Tice and Edermont regarding the impossibility of her marriage with Allen. Come what might, Dora was resolved that she would not give up her lover and spoil her life. But, pending explanation and resultant adjustment of the situation, she held her peace, and waited. The future was--the future. Dora knew no more than that.
For a week after that day of mysteries, life progressed as usual at the Red House. Joad came and went with his usual punctuality, and eyed Dora in a furtive manner, with a distinct avoidance of explanation. Edermont recovered his nerve to some extent, and moved in his accustomed petty orbit; and Dora, lacking other interests, attended to her household duties. To a casual spectator, all things would seem to be going on as usual, the life would have appeared tranquil and dull; but this was but surface calm. Beneath, dangerous elements were at work, which later on were destined to--but it is no use to recur to the hackneyed simile of a sleeping volcano.
All these seven days nothing was heard of Lady Burville or of Allen. The former still continued to be a guest at Hernwood Hall, the latter still remained in London. Not a line had been received from him by Dora, and, hurt in her maidenly pride, she became offended by his continued silence. Whatever extraneous circumstances had led to his behaviour,shehad not caused the breach--for breach she considered it--between them. Twice or thrice she had determined to go over to Canterbury and question Mrs. Tice, but pride withheld her. She remained at the Red House, waiting, waiting, and waiting. What else could she do?
Mention has been made of the high wall which surrounded the mansion of Mr. Edermont. This had been built by himself, and contained only two entrances, one from the road--a tall gate with spikes on the top--the other, a little door far down the right side. The house itself, like these gates, was kept always bolted and barred, and Mr. Edermont confessed to a fear of robbers. But, bearing in mind his particular prayer in the Litany, Dora was certain in her own mind that a greater fear than this moved him to take such precautions.
When Joad had retired to his cottage at nine o'clock, Mr. Edermont accompanied him personally to the gates, and saw that they were bolted and barred. Afterwards he examined the side postern, and then retreated to the mansion, where he closed the iron-clamped shutters and locked every door throughout the house. The woman who cooked and cleaned, and did all the work, was locked up in the kitchen, with bedroom adjoining, like a prisoner; Dora was barred in her own set of rooms, and Mr. Edermont shut himself up in equal isolation. Ever since Dora could remember, these precautions had been taken, and by night she felt as though she were in gaol. Certainly burglars could not break in; but, on the other hand, none of the three inmates could get out unless permitted to do so by the caprice of Mr. Edermont. And on this point he had no caprice.
A week after his conversation with Allen--the conversation which had terminated in so unexpected a manner--Edermont sat in his study. This was a small oak-panelled room on the left side of the house, and was entered directly from the hall. It was plainly, even penuriously, furnished, containing little beyond a bureau of innumerable drawers and cupboards, a dingy sofa, and three chairs, the most comfortable of which was placed in front of the desk. On the walls were paintings dark with age, and an assortment of flint pistols, ancient swords, savage weapons from Africa and the South Seas, and portions of rusty armour. A window looked out directly on the lawn, but there were two doors, one of which led into the hall, the other, on the opposite side, into the faded and lonely drawing-room, which was never used. This latter apartment had three windows in the same position as that of the study, and also a glass-door with shutters at the side of the house. The view from this door was bounded by a hedge of untrimmed laurel-trees. So much for the scene. Now for the drama.
To Edermont, seated at his desk on this particular morning, entered Joad, with a card held between a dingy finger and thumb. He advanced towards his friend with a malignant grin, and dropped the card on to the blotting-pad.
"Here is something likely to startle you, Julian," said he with his usual familiarity. "Mr. Augustus Pallant, on behalf of Laura Burville, is waiting to see you."
The miserable Edermont turned pale, and began to whimper.
"Oh, Lambert, do you think he means to do me harm?"
"If he does, it is on behalf of your dear Laura," replied Joad quietly; "you had better pluck up your courage, Julian, and see him."
"It might be dangerous, Lambert. Oh dear, terribly dangerous!"
"It will be more dangerous if you don't see the man."
"Why so? After twenty years Laura can do nothing."
"I am not so sure of that, Julian. She might tell Dora who she is."
The mere suggestion struck a blow at the timid heart of Edermont.
"I'll see him! I'll see him!" he cried, getting nervously on his feet. "Admit him, Lambert, and bring him here. But"--he buttonholed his friend--"remain within hearing, Lambert. He might do me an injury. I am not strong, you know."
"You are a contemptible little coward!" snarled Joad, shaking him off. "I'll look after you. There is too much to lose for me to risk your death."
Edermont threw up his hands with a cry.
"Not that word, Lambert; there can be no danger after twenty years. 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'"
As was his custom, Joad sneered at this prayer, which Edermont had offered up daily for the last twenty years, and went out of the house. In a few minutes he returned with a tall, red-haired man, whom he introduced silently into the study. After the introduction he closed the door, and went across to his favourite seat under the cedar to await events. The first which occurred was the coming of Dora.
She had seen the introduction of the stranger from her window, and, wondering what the visit might portend--for visitors were rare at the Red House--she waited a reasonable time, then sought Joad on the lawn. He looked up at her graceful figure with admiration in his eyes--a look which Dora resented. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that, notwithstanding his age and physical defects, this creature, as she termed him, had presumed to fall in love with her. However, as at present he limited his mistaken passion to looks, she merely frowned at his amorous glances, and asked her question.
"Why has Mr. Pallant called?" she demanded.
"How do you know that is his name?" asked Joad, without altering his position.
"Dr. Scott described him to me," she said curtly. "Why has he called?"
"Julian can answer that question better than I can," answered Joad, with a chuckle at baffling her curiosity, and returned to his reading.
Dora, who knew that he revenged himself thus for the frown she had bestowed on him, strove to assuage his childish petulance.
"I think you might be civil, Mr. Joad," said she in an offended tone. "I have no friend but you."
"What about Allen Scott?"
"There is no question of friendship there," said Dora stiffly. "Allen Scott is my affianced husband."
"Ho, ho! Your affianced husband!" jeered Silenus, grinning. "Well, Miss Dora, while Dr. Scott holds that position, I am no friend to you."
"Why not?" asked Dora, nettled by the hinted menace in his tone.
"It's too long to explain; it's too early yet for plain speaking. But look you here, Miss Dora: a man is as old as he feels, not as he looks. I feel twenty-two--and at twenty-two"--he leant forward with a sly smile--"one falls in love."
"You are talking nonsense!" retorted Miss Carew, drawing back; "and your conversation is not to the point. I ask you why Mr. Pallant called to see my guardian."
"And I answer as I answered before," replied Joad, rendered sullen by the rebuff, "that you had better ask Julian. As I am not your friend, you can't ask me to tell you my secrets."
"I don't want to know your secrets, but those of Mr. Edermont."
"Then, speak to the right person," said Joad rudely. "I am not Julian."
After which speech he began reading again, utterly oblivious of the presence of the girl he admired. Dora made no reply, but went back to the house. At the door she was met by her guardian in a state of wild excitement. He ran out, shouting and holding out his hands. Behind him appeared the tall and well-dressed form of Mr. Pallant.
"Dora! Lambert!" shouted Edermont wildly. "Congratulate me! My nightmare is at an end! I am free! I am safe!"
Then he ran over to Joad, and talked to him with much gesticulation.
Thinking her guardian had suddenly gone out of his mind, Dora turned to Mr. Pallant for an explanation. He stared at her with undisguised admiration, and she resented it, as she had done that of Joad, with a frown.
"What is the matter with Mr. Edermont?" she asked abruptly.
"Why," said Mr. Pallant in a slow and sleepy voice, "I have brought him some good news."
"What good news?"
"I think Mr. Edermont will inform you himself," said Pallant.
And at that moment Edermont, still overwhelmed with joy, came running back.
"I am safe--safe!" he shouted; "and after twenty years of dread. No more of the Litany, no more of the--O God!"
His joy was too much for him, and he rolled over on the ground in a dead faint, at the very feet of Dora and Pallant.
And here was another mystery: Dora never learnt the good news which Pallant had brought to Edermont. The little man had fainted with excess of joy, and was carried off to bed by Joad; while Pallant took his leave of Dora, and was escorted by her to the gate. He smiled as she turned the key of the lock.
"No need for that now," said he, passing through the gate. "Mr. Edermont can sleep in peace without bolt or bar."
"On account of what you have told him to-day?"
"Precisely, Miss Carew; on account of what I have told him to-day."
Dora looked at his sneering mouth, at his bold blue eyes, and asked a question which had been in her mind since she had seen him from the window.
"Were you sent by Lady Burville to tell this news, Mr. Pallant?"
"No; I came of my own accord. May I ask what you know of Lady Burville?"
"I know nothing," said Dora gloomily. "I wish I did."
"Why, Miss Carew?"
The girl did not reply. Pallant was a stranger to her, and she did not care to tell him of her belief that the fatal name of Lady Burville had made trouble between herself and Allen. Pallant noticed her hesitation.
"I see you do not wish to speak to me openly," he said, sneering, "yet you may be glad to do so some day. Good-day, Miss Carew, and remember my words."
His horse was tethered to the wall, and on bidding her farewell he mounted to ride off. From the saddle he looked down at her fair face and smiled. Then he made a strange remark:
"I shall give you one last warning, Miss Carew: Beware of Allen Scott!"
The girl stared after him in surprise. Was all the world in conspiracy to torture her with hints and mysteries? Joad, Edermont, Allen and Mrs. Tice all knew of something about which they refused to speak. It would seem that Pallant--a complete stranger--was possessed also of the same knowledge. What did he mean by his warning? What had he to do with Allen Scott, or even with Edermont? Dora felt as though she were spied upon by a hundred eyes; as though she were playing a mechanical part in some terrible drama, without knowing plot, or actors, or end. She was ignorant, and therefore helpless.
For the next few days she tried to learn from Joad and her guardian what all these doings meant. Both of them refused to speak, and the tension of Dora's nerves was only relaxed by a letter from Allen, in which he stated that he would return on the second of August, and would see her the next day.
"He means to explain," thought the girl, putting the welcome letter away in her desk. "In two or three days I shall know why he quarrelled with my guardian, and why Mr. Pallant warned me against him. But I must scold Allen for his neglect."
The communication relieved her greatly. Of late she had been so bewildered and harassed that she had almost doubted whether Allen loved her truly. Yet he had told her so a hundred times, and she was satisfied that he spoke truly, from that subtle instinct which never deceives a woman. He loved her, he adored her, and none other than she would ever be his wife. Before that belief the dismal prophecies of Mrs. Tice and Edermont, the strange warning of Pallant, counted as nothing. Dora believed that Allen loved her, and could explain away all the mysteries of the past weeks. In that belief she was content to wait.
And all this time Mr. Edermont was surprisingly bright. A weight appeared to have been lifted off his shoulders, and he looked ten years younger. He was scarcely past fifty, notwithstanding his white locks and hoary beard; and he began to talk of leaving his retirement and going out to mix with the world once more. Dora knew that he had a large income, and could afford to live in the most luxurious manner. It had often been a surprise to her that he had lived so long in seclusion and almost penury. From sundry circumstances she gathered that he had for years been labouring under a dread of death by violence, hence his anxiety that the house should be carefully locked up. Now that dread had been removed--as he more than hinted--by a communication from Pallant, and he could take life easily. Looking back on the fears which had haunted him these twenty years, Dora no longer wondered at the cowardice and terror of the puny creature. Rather was she astonished that with so terrific a shadow to fight he had kept himself out of a lunatic asylum. Stronger men than he succumbed to such influences.
From force of habit Edermont still locked up the house at night; he still sent Joad to the cottage over the road; but he no longer trembled at that tremendous prayer of the Litany, nor did he look round the church searching for a possible danger. Whatever the mystery of his life could be--and Dora was quite unable to guess it--that mystery had been done away with, and Edermont talked of fraternizing again with his fellow-creatures.
One thing struck her as odd. When he recovered from the excess of joy caused by the communication of Pallant, he wrote a lengthy letter, and this he was particular to post himself. As a rule, Joad attended to the despatch of such rare epistles as were sent from the Red House, so Dora was astonished that her guardian should be so anxious about this especial letter. It occurred to her that it might possibly have been sent to Lady Burville, with whom she felt certain her guardian was connected in some underhanded way. But she had never learnt if her belief were correct. What she did learn, however, was that Edermont wrote to Allen at Canterbury during the last days of July; also, he sent a third letter, but to whom Dora did not know. The first and last of these communications were posted with his own hand; the middle one had been delivered to Joad in the usual way.
On the night of the second of August, Edermont dismissed Joad as usual, and locked the gates according to custom. Then he returned to bolt and bar the house. In his study he found Dora awaiting him.
"You have not seen to the little postern," she said.
"No matter," he replied impatiently. "I suppose it is locked; if not--why, I can afford to leave it as it is and sleep in peace. There is no more danger for me now."
"Of what danger are you talking, Mr. Edermont?"
"What is that to you?" he retorted with weak defiance. "Why are you here? Go to bed and leave my business alone!"
"I will go to bed when you have answered me one question."
"Only one?" he scoffed. "You are more moderate than most women. Well?"
"Why have you written to Allen Scott?"
"Who told you I had done so?"
"Mr. Joad."
"He is too meddlesome!" cried Edermont angrily. "If he does not take care I shall dismiss him! What right had he to show you that letter?"
"Because he knows that I am engaged to Allen."
"I tell you the engagement must be broken off."
"Why, Mr. Edermont?" asked Dora indignantly.
"Allen will tell you. I wrote to him to call and see me. When he comes you shall speak to him in my presence, and from his own lips you shall hear that he can never be your husband."
"Until then I decline to consider the engagement as broken," said Dora, very pale, but firm. "I am not going to be your dupe, Mr. Edermont. I shall force you to explain."
"I--I forbid you to--to speak to me like this!" cried Edermont, shrinking back.
"I shall speak as I choose--I am tired of your selfish tyranny; and if Allen does not make me his wife, I shall go out into the world to earn my own living. At least I have enough to live on."
"Enough to live on?" he replied slowly. "Perhaps yes, perhaps no."
"What do you mean, sir?" she demanded imperiously.
A crafty smile played over the face of Mr. Edermont, and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Wait till Allen comes: then you may learn more than you care to listen to. Now go to bed. By the way, what about your toothache?"
"Toothache?"
"Joad said something about it," was Edermont's impatient remark; "you told him that toothache kept you awake at night."
"Very true. My nights have been sleepless for the last few weeks. I have heard that dreary sounding chime in the hall clock ring from midnight till dawn. But my tooth is better to-night, thank you. I have no pain, so there is every hope that I shall have a good night's rest."
"I am glad of that, my dear," said Edermont in a softer tone than was usual with him. "I would be fond of you, Dora, if you would let me. Remember, all these years I have stood in the place of a father to you."
"I do not forget that, Mr. Edermont," answered Dora kindly; "you have been goodness itself. The parents I have lost could not have been kinder to me."
"Perhaps not so kind," said Edermont, sitting on the chair in front of his desk. "I need not talk to you about your parents, Dora."
"Why not, Mr. Edermont? I should like to know----"
"A great many things," interrupted the old man gloomily; "but for reasons of my own, which you may learn some day, I am not prepared to gratify your curiosity; and after all," he added in a significant tone, "it would do you no good to hear the story."
"It would do me this much good," said Dora spiritedly: "I should learn the obstacle which is a bar to my marriage with Allen."
"What would be the use of your knowing the obstacle, Dora? You will never get rid of it--take my word for that. Now good-night."
"Good-night," replied Dora, thinking it useless to argue further.
"I think you might kiss me before you go," grumbled Edermont. "I stand in the place of your father."
Without a word, Dora returned and touched the forehead of the old man with her fresh young lips. As she passed through the door, a glance back showed her a picture which never left her memory in afterlife. Edermont, his noble head with its white hair leaning on his hand, sat by the bureau in gloomy thought. A single candle served rather to show than to dispel the darkness; and in the gulf of pale glimmer hollowed out of the gloom the man looked like some famous portrait by an old master. The burden of years was visible in his silvery hair and sweeping beard of snow; the burden of sorrow marked itself in the hollow eyes, the wrinkled cheek and forehead, the wasted hands. He looked the incarnation of eld as seen in that spectral light, in that tenebrous atmosphere. Dora never forgot that sight.
Once in her room, she lost no time in getting to bed. Her sleepless nights of the past week had worn her out; and now that the pain had left her tooth, she was glad to take advantage of the respite. At first she thought about her guardian and his untold miseries; afterwards of Allen's strange behaviour; lastly, her thoughts wandered to Joad's sly looks and hinted terrors, until sleep rolled like a wave over her weary brain, and she became oblivious of the material world. Nature revenged herself for many vigils, and soothed her into sound slumber.
How long she had been asleep she did not know, but suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, she woke with a start, and sat up in the bed, her nerves strung to their utmost tension, faculties all on the alert. It seemed to her that she had heard a muffled cry for help, a wild appeal for mercy; but now that she was listening with all her will, she could hear nothing. All was dark and quiet: not a sound broke the silence of the still night. After a moment or two, Dora believed that she had mistaken a dream for a reality, and, laughing softly at her own folly, lay down again to sleep. As her head touched the pillow, the deep bell of the hall clock chimed "one." Remembering how often she had heard those dreary tones in the past week, Dora smiled drowsily to herself, and was soon fast asleep again. When she again woke it was dawn.
Someone was knocking furiously at the door of the bedroom. Dora leaped out of her bed, unlocked it, and flung it wide open. Meg Gance, the cook, stood shaking on the threshold, as pale as a ghost.
"Miss Dora! O Lord, miss!" gasped the terrified woman. "The master is--is--is dead!"
"Dead?" replied Dora in a dazed tone.
"Murdered! And his head! O Lord! 'tis bashed in like a pumpkin!"
And this was the end of Julian Edermont's high spirits. For twenty years he had dreaded and guarded himself against a violent death; but the moment that the fear had been removed the end came. There was something ironical in the way in which Fate had lulled his suspicions only to smite the surer. One day he had been rejoicing in the thought that the reign of terror was over; the next he lay dead under his own roof-tree, and none knew who had slain him.
They found the body in the study, lying near the desk, which was broken open and terribly damaged. As Meg, the cook, stated, his head was smashed in like a pumpkin, and near by lay the weapon with which the deed had been done--a Zulu knobkerrie, which had been torn from the decorative weapons of the wall. Dora was an exceptionally brave woman, cool in danger and collected in trouble; but even she felt qualmish to see that revered head all beaten, all splashed with gore. The place was like a shambles. Amid the blood lay a pistol, near to the hand of the dead man, and many papers were scattered about it, tossed in confusion from the bureau.
Mr. Edermont had been nothing more to Dora than her legal guardian. He had been a selfish, cowardly creature, who had done nothing to win her love; yet, as Dora looked at the body lying there, red with blood, battered, and beaten, and bruised, she felt at once sorry and angered. The first, that so harmless--so far as she knew--a creature had been so cruelly done to death; the second, that his assassin had escaped. However, as the deed was done, and the man was dead, no time was to be lost in raising the alarm. It was just possible that the murderer might be secured if prompt measures were taken.
Dora knew now that the cry she had heard in the night had been no fancy, no dreaming, but a terrible reality; and the striking of the clock immediately afterwards enabled her to fix the exact time when the crime had been committed. However, she was wise enough to say nothing on the point until called upon to do so. But raising, with the aid of Meg, the dead body on to the sofa, she sent the woman across the road to summon Joad. Hardly had she issued the order when the voice of that very person, in surprised tones, was heard in the drawing-room off the study.
Considerably astonished at his early arrival, for it was not yet eight o'clock, Dora ran into the next room. At the door she paused in sheer amazement. The glass door at the side of the apartment had no shutters up, and was wide open, while Joad was looking through it, apparently as much taken aback by her appearance as she was by his.
"What is it? What is it?" he demanded hastily. "This door ajar--the postern gate open--you here----"
"The postern gate open?" cried Dora suddenly. "The assassin must have escaped that way."
"Assassin! What do you mean?" stammered the new-comer, turning pale with fright.
"Come in at once, Mr. Joad, and I will show you. The sight requires no explanation."
Still amazed, Joad heaved his fat body through the door, and followed Dora into the room of death. When he saw what had taken place--the blood on the floor, the dead body on the sofa--his jaw dropped, his skin turned the colour of a dirty yellow, and he stared dumbfounded at the sight. So long did he remain in his semi-trance, that Dora was obliged to shake him by the elbow to bespeak his attention.
"You see Mr. Edermont has been murdered. Meg found him like that when she came to clean up the study."
"Aye, I did for sure!" cried Meg, her coarse face blanched with dread. "Master did not lock kitchen last night, and I found doors all wide. I came here with broom and dust-pan, and there I saw he with poor head bashed to jelly."
Joad approached the sofa and examined the body, then reverently spread his handkerchief over the disfigured face.
"My poor friend!" he muttered with emotion. "And you thought that you were safe!"
"Does that mean you know who killed him?" asked Dora, making a step forward.
"No, I do not know who killed him. Julian was always afraid that he would be murdered by a certain person; but who that person is, or why he should desire Julian's death, I know no more than you do."
Dora only believed half of this statement. From what she had seen it would appear that Joad had been completely in the confidence of the dead man, and his denial seemed to be unnecessary. However, she made no comment on the speech, but with sudden suspicion asked Joad how it was he had come to the Red House before his usual time. He guessed what was in her mind, and laughed slyly.
"If you think I know anything of this terrible deed, you are wrong," said he slowly; "it is not likely I should kill the only friend I have in the world, and reduce myself to beggary."
"Good heavens, Mr. Joad! I never accused you of such a thing!" cried Dora indignantly.
"Nevertheless, you thought it, Miss Carew," he replied smoothly, "and you deemed that I had come thus early to look at my handiwork. You are wrong: it's my custom to take a short walk to get an appetite for breakfast. In crossing the fields, I saw to my amazement that the postern door was open. Knowing that Julian was particular to keep it locked, I went to see what was the matter. I came up to the house, and saw the side door was open also. In my surprise I uttered an ejaculation, and you appeared. You know the rest."
Dora did know the rest, but she did not know who had killed her guardian. However, now that a man was on the spot, she wished him to take the management of the matter into his own hands. But Joad declined to saddle himself with any such responsibility. He said that Dora was a New Woman, who thought that the weaker sex was the stronger of the two. This being the case, Mr. Joad suggested that she should prove her boast by assuming the position of the necessary male. Dora was annoyed at his niggling arguments, and disgusted at his laziness; but, not deeming the matter worth discussing, she took all authority into her own hands.
They proved to be very capable hands. She sent a man to Canterbury for the police, and put them in charge of the body and the house. To the inspector she related all she knew, and Meg followed suit. As for Joad, he interviewed the authorities on his own account, and gave the same unvarnished statement as he had given to the two women. Mr. Inspector heard all that was to be heard, saw all that was to be seen; and after leaving a couple of policemen in charge, he returned to Canterbury to rack his brains as to the whereabouts of the assassin. He also detailed a doctor to examine the body; and with this doctor came Allen.
The young man appeared haggard and ill. His face was pale, his eyes were wild, and he looked as though he had been sitting up for several nights in succession. When he saw Dora he made no effort to embrace or kiss her, but stood before her with downcast eyes, like a detected criminal. The girl was profoundly astonished at this conduct. Ordinarily Scott was blithe and light-hearted, with a smile and a word for everybody. Now he looked dejected and worried, and had not a word to say, even to the girl to whom he was betrothed. After a time Dora, finding him so unsatisfactory, took him to her own sitting-room, and sat him in a chair. Then she spoke bluntly, and with some anger, which was surely natural.
"I am glad to see you, Allen," she said abruptly, "as I wish to have an explanation of your singular conduct."
"I have none to give you," he said, flushing.
"Indeed! Then why did you come over to-day?"
"I heard of this murder, for one thing," said Allen slowly; "and for another, I wish to put an end to our engagement."
Dora started. She remembered the prophecy of Mrs. Tice and of the dead man. It had come true sooner than she expected, and in a fashion she did not anticipate. Many things might have arisen to prevent their marriage, but if she and Allen were true to one another, she hoped to overleap all obstacles. But here was the man himself--the man who had vowed a thousand times that he could not live without her--and he proposed to part. She could hardly believe her ears; and from outraged pride tears sprang to her eyes.
"I thought you loved me, Allen!" said she, then flung herself on the sofa and sobbed as though her heart would break.
Dr. Scott rose suddenly, and stood looking down at her, his face working with passion. He would fain have taken her in his arms; he would have assured her of his love and undying fidelity. But between him and Dora a shadow was standing--the shadow of a dead man.
"I do love you, Dora," said Allen, as soon as he could command his voice; "I shall always love you; but I can never make you my wife."
"But why? What is your reason?"
"I dare not tell you my reason; but you shall learn this much: Mr. Edermont told me something which parts us for ever."
"What did he tell you?"
"I dare not say."
Dora rose slowly and looked steadily into his face. His eyes dropped before hers, and he would have turned away, but she compelled him to face her.
"Allen, you know who killed Mr. Edermont."
"No, no! As God is in heaven I do not!" he said vehemently. "I have my suspicions, but they count as nothing. Don't ask me anything, Dora, for I can tell you nothing."
"At least tell me why you wish our engagement ended," said she, very pale.
"I cannot," he groaned, and sank into a chair.
"Then listen to me, Allen," she said in a firm voice. "Until you tell me the reason of this conduct I refuse to release you from the engagement. I love you; you say that you love me; so there is no reason why we should part. If you will not speak, others will; and I shall devote myself to finding out the truth. When I do find it," she added slowly, "then we may part. Until then"--her voice rose--"you are my affianced husband."
Allen rose from his chair and walked slowly towards the window, where he stood looking out at the green lawn, the brilliant sunshine. In his then mood of self-torture and sorrow, the brightness of the day seemed a cruel contrast to his own dark thoughts. His life was over, his joys were at an end; a deadly trouble, greater than he could bear, had come upon him. Yet the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, the sunlight bathed stretches of green grass and clumps of stately trees in its golden rays, as in mockery of his puny grief and trivial ruin. The contrast struck him as so ironical that he burst into bitter laughter; but the mirth thus wrung from his breaking heart ended in a sigh of regret.
"Why do you laugh, Allen?" asked Dora, scared by this cruel merriment. "Why do you not answer?"
"I laugh because of the contrast between the joy of Nature and our own sorrows," he replied, turning his pale face towards her, "and I did not reply because I was thinking."
"You heard what I said?"
He took her hands within his own, and looked at her anguished face with a great love in his eyes.
"I heard you, and I agree," said he softly. "God bless you for a good woman, Dora, for you have behaved nobly. Many a woman would have cast me off in scorn for my refusal to speak. But you are content to wait in hope. Alas, my darling!" he cried, with a burst of sorrow; "there is no hope; there never can be hope. You and I are parted as surely as though the one were following the other to the graveyard."
"But, Allen, we have committed no sin. Why should we part?"
"Because of the sins of others. Our trouble comes from the past, Dora, and it was that dead man who revealed it to me. Did I tell you what he said, you would agree with me that the only thing left to us is to kiss and part. But I dare not tell you; in mercy to yourself I spare you the burden of the secret which has made my life so bitter."
"I know that you act in all kindness, Allen, but you are wrong. It would be better to tell me all, and let me share your troubles. I am strong; I can bear anything."
"Not this, not this," replied Allen, releasing her hands and going to the door; "it would wreck your life, your happiness, as it has wrecked mine."
"Happiness!" she said in a tone of despair; "I have done with that."
"I hope not. Oh, my dear, I trust not. Time may bring you the content that I cannot give you. I accept your noble offer, Dora. Let us still continue our engagement, although we must rarely meet. But if you are wise, you will not seek to know the secret. It will bring you no good, only evil. For your own sake I keep silent. I can do no more; I can do no less."
He paused at the door, looking at her sadly. She stood in the centre of the room, a quiet and sorrowful figure in her black dress. Allen returned, and kissed her twice on the forehead; then he left her under the same roof as the dead man, and passed out of her life--as he thought--for ever.