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."
