mrs. tice was right: marriage with allen was out of the question. he could not make the daughter of a murderer his wife; no power, human or divine, would sanction such a union. dora no longer wondered at allen's strange silence. it was natural that he should shrink from telling her so terrible a story, and from branding her father with the terrible name of assassin. she remembered how she had been glad to know that her father had died without killing edermont; that he had gone to his account without blood on his hands. no wonder pallant had chuckled at her ignorance, and had forborne to enlighten her. george carew had taken a life in cold blood, with deliberation and malice aforethought. she, dora carew, was the daughter of a criminal.
dora said little to mrs. tice after the story had been told. indeed, there was nothing to say; for she knew her fate only too well. she could never marry allen; and if she did not become joad's wife, to save her lover from arrest, and possibly condemnation, she would be forced to remain single for the rest of her life, lonely and sorrowful. the sins of the father had been visited on the child, and dora was reaping the harvest of blood which george carew had sown. morally speaking, the end of all things had come to dora.
"i shall go over to canterbury with you," she said to mrs. tice, "and say good-bye to allen. i can never marry him; but i can at least see him for the last time, and tell him that he is safe from joad."
"but, my dear young lady, you will not marry that wicked man?"
"if i can save allen in no other way, i must," said dora firmly. "consider his position, mrs. tice, should joad accuse him of the crime! he quarrelled with edermont, he came here at the very hour of the murder, and when he left the house edermont was dead. to all this circumstantial evidence he can oppose only his bare word. i tell you he is in danger of being hanged, mrs. tice. nothing is left for me to do save to marry joad. he dare not speak then."
"the real assassin may be found yet," suggested mrs. tice hopefully.
"there is little chance of that, i am afraid. when all these hundreds of men, stimulated by that gigantic reward, have failed to track the murderer, how can i hope to succeed? no, mrs. tice; the name of the criminal will never be known, so it only remains for me to see allen for the last time, and return here to be joad's wife."
the housekeeper sighed. this indeed appeared the sole way out of the difficulty, and she could offer no advice on the subject. it went to her heart that dora should marry so disreputable a creature; but as the reason for such marriage was the safety of allen scott, she was content that it should take place. in her love for allen, the old nurse would have sacrificed a hundred women. dora's fate was hard; she admitted that, but it was necessary.
allen proved less ill than they expected to find him. he was annoyed that mrs. tice had been sent for, although he was glad to see both her and dora. nevertheless, he protested against being considered a sick man, or that he should take to his bed.
"i'm not well enough to go about my work," he said candidly; "at the same time, i am not sufficiently ill to retire to a sick-room. i shall be all right in a day or two."
he did not look as though he would recover in so short a time. in default of bed, he was lying on a sofa in the dining-room, covered with a rug, and he appeared to be thoroughly ill. his eyes were bright, his hands were burning, and every now and again he shivered with cold, as though suffering from an attack of ague. mrs. tice made him some beef-tea, and insisted upon his taking it, which he did after much persuasion.
"you see, dora," he said, with a smile, "the doctor has to be prescribed for by his old nurse. all my science and knowledge goes for nothing in comparison with mrs. tice's remedies."
"i know what is common-sense," said mrs. tice, smiling also. "lie still, mr. allen, and keep warm. miss carew will sit with you here while i look after the house. i dare say it has been dreadfully neglected in my absence."
"that is hardly a compliment to my management," said allen, trying to smile.
"oh, as to that, no gentleman can look after a house, mr. allen. it's woman's work to see to such things. let me manage at present, and when i am gone your wife can take my place."
"wife!" echoed dr. scott, with a sigh. "i shall never marry."
dora said nothing, but bent her head to hide the despair written on her face. feeling that she had said too much, mrs. tice hastened to excuse herself; in doing so, she only succeeded in making matters worse. the name of joad occurred in the midst of her excuses, and allen made a feeble gesture of displeasure.
"i wish you would not mention that creature," he said, clasping dora's hand. "i hate him as much as dora does. he is her enemy and mine."
"but, for all that, i must marry him, allen."
"no. you must not sacrifice yourself."
"mr. allen, be sensible!" cried mrs. tice. "you stand in a dreadful position; you are at the mercy of joad. should he speak you are lost."
"i can tell my story."
dora shook her head.
"it will not be believed in the face of joad's evidence," said she dolefully. "and then the quarrel you had with mr. edermont gives colour to his accusation."
dr. scott made a gesture of dissent, but mrs. tice supported dora.
"she is right, mr. allen. if joad speaks you are lost. talk it over with miss carew, sir, and i'll hear what you think when i come back. just now i must look after the house."
when she left the room, allen waited until the door was closed, then turned to look at dora. she was sitting by the side of the sofa with a drooping head, and a sad expression on her face. moved by her silent sorrow, and ascribing it rightly to the unhappy position in which they stood to one another, he took her hands within his own.
"do not look so sad, dora," he said softly; "i shall be better shortly. it is the knowledge of what was told to me by mr. edermont which has made me ill. but i shall recover, my dear, and bear my troubles like a man."
dora burst into tears.
"i can only bear my troubles like a woman," she sobbed. "oh, allen, allen! what have we done, you and i, that we should be made so unhappy? you are in a very dangerous position, and i can save you only by marrying a man i detest."
"dora, you must not marry joad. i cannot accept safety at the price of your lifelong misery."
"what does it matter about my marrying that creature?" she said, drying her tears. "i can never become your wife."
allen groaned.
"true, true; ah, how true it is that the sins of the father are visited on the children! it is shameful that we should suffer as we do for the evil of others."
"we cannot help our position, allen. there is no hope."
"you are right," said allen in a despairing tone; "there is no hope. ah, dora, if you only knew the truth!"
"i do know the truth."
"who told you?" he asked, sitting up with a look of astonishment.
"lady burville told me that----"
"lady burville!" he interrupted sharply; "what does she know?"
"everything. and it is no wonder, seeing that she is the root of all the evil."
"how do you mean that she is the root of all the evil?"
"lady burville is my mother, allen."
"great heavens! your mother--mrs. carew!"
"yes. mrs. carew, mrs. dargill, lady burville--whatever you like to call her. i know her story, allen, and what she failed to relate mrs. tice told. i know that my father killed yours, and that we can never marry."
"lady burville--your mother told you this!" he stammered; "and i was so careful to hide the truth from you!"
"i know you spared me, in the goodness of your heart, allen, but it was better that i should know the truth. yes, i went up to town; i restored the pearl brooch to lady burville--i cannot call her my mother--and i heard her story."
"dora!" allen seized her hand again. "did your mother kill mr. edermont?"
"no. thank god, she is innocent of that crime!"
"then how was it i found her brooch by the dead body?"
"she dropped it in the room when she went to see mr. edermont on that night."
"but why did she see edermont?"
"he sent for her to deliver up a packet of letters she had written to him. it is a long story, allen, and a sad one. listen, and i will tell you all."
allen signified his desire to hear the story, and listened eagerly while she told him what her mother had related. to make the information complete, dora passed on to the history of the murder, as told by mrs. tice. when she finished, and allen was in possession of all the facts, she waited for him to comment thereon. this he was not long in doing.
"i see that you know all, dora," he said with a melancholy smile. "yes, this is what mr. edermont told me on that day. i lost my head when he ended; i believe i advanced towards him in a threatening manner, to thrash him for the share he had taken in the matter. it was then that he threw up the window and cried out that i wished to kill him. probably i was wrong to act as i did, as the miserable little creature was not responsible for the death of my father; but i did not consider that at the moment. when he cried out to you and joad, i left the room, and the house. you remember, i would not speak to you when i went. i could not, my dear; the revelation had proved too much for my self-control. i felt half-mad, for i saw that i had lost you for ever."
"and why did you go up to london?" asked dora anxiously.
"edermont referred me to a file of the morning planet, containing an account of the tragedy which ended in the death of my father."
"you went up to see an account of your father's murder?"
"yes. i could not bring myself to believe that matters were so bad as he made out. but in london i went to the office of the paper; i turned up the report, and it was true enough. your father shot mine, as was stated by edermont. afterwards i went down to christchurch, and found out the rest of the story from an old housekeeper."
"did you learn that lady burville was my mother?"
"no: nor did edermont tell me so. why, i do not know. he only stated the bare facts of the case, and how my father had been killed. now you know why i told you nothing, dora--why i kept silent. i was afraid lest your father should be arrested for the double murder, and bring shame and pain on you, my poor dear."
"the double murder?"
"yes. george carew killed my father; and, in accordance with his oath, i believe he murdered mr. edermont--found him out after many years and killed him."
"you are wrong, allen. i told you how pallant blackmailed my mother, and learnt the whole story from my wretched father. well, captain carew died two years ago in san francisco."
"are you sure?"
"i am certain. he died in mr. pallant's arms. pallant has no reason to lie over that story."
"then, if carew did not kill edermont, who did?"
"ah," said dora with a weary sigh, "that is just what we must find out, if only to save your life and prevent my marrying joad."
"dora," said allen after a pause, "do you know why pallant wanted that packet of letters?"
"yes. he desired to confirm his possession of my mother. by threatening to show the letters to sir john burville, he hoped to get whatever money he wished."
"the scoundrel! what particular information did the letters contain to render them so valuable?"
"i don't know. mr. pallant hinted that they were about me."
"about you?" allen reflected for a few moments. "dora," he said at length, "i dare say those letters passed between your mother and your guardian after the tragedy at christchurch. probably they contained a full account of the crime, and details as to how your mother parted with you. in fact, i believe they contained a summary of lady burville's life. if pallant had obtained those letters, no wonder he could have extorted money. if they had been shown to sir john burville, his wife--your mother--could have denied nothing. her own handwriting would prove the falsity of her denial."
"i quite understand," said dora; "but mr. edermont was wise enough to give them to my mother himself."
"and that is just it!" cried allen. "supposing lady burville had unconsciously let pallant know that she was going to the red house to receive the letters; supposing he followed her, and was too late to intercept the packet. do you think he might have killed edermont in a fit of rage at losing the letters?"
"no, allen, i do not think so for a moment. mr. pallant is too cautious to act so foolishly. besides, if it was as you say, he could easily have followed lady burville along that lonely road, and have forced her to give him the letters. no. whoever killed my guardian, it was not mr. pallant."
"then who is guilty?" asked allen in despair.
"ah!" said dora with a melancholy sigh. "that secret is worth fifty thousand pounds and your life, my dear allen."
