DR. SCOTT IS STILL OBSTINATE.
Having failed with the grim lawyer, Dora resolved to see Allen. She
felt singularly lonely, and longed to have some person to advise her.
That should have been Allen's office, but after his cruel behaviour,
Dora could scarcely bring herself to consult him. Yet it was
imperative she should do so. She was an orphan, and had been kept so
secluded by the selfishness of Mr. Edermont that she had not a friend
in the world. If Allen failed her, the poor girl felt she would not
know what to do, or who to consult. He must love her, notwithstanding
his conduct, she thought; and perhaps if she told him how lonely she
was, how unhappy, how greatly in need of his counsel, he might soften
towards her. As Dora was naturally a haughty and self-reliant young
woman, it may be guessed how isolated she felt when she so far unbent
her pride as to turn for sympathy and consolation to the man who had
scorned her. But, after all, she was only a woman, and subject to the
weakness of her sex.
It was with slow and hesitating steps that she sought the house of her
lover. She was well aware that she would find him at home at this
hour; and the thought that she would soon see him face to face brought
the blood to her cheeks. Pausing at the door, she twice or thrice
resolved to go away; but the memory of her isolation, of her need of
sympathy, confirmed her original intention. She rang the bell, and the
door was opened by Mrs. Tice, who changed colour at the sight of the
girl.
"Deary me, Miss Carew!" she said in some confusion; "I had no idea it
was you. Is it the doctor you wish to see?"
"Yes, Mrs. Tice. Is he within?
"He is, my dear young lady. Come into the sitting-room, miss, and I'll
inquire if Mr. Allen will see you."
Left alone in the room, Dora sank into a chair. The ceremony with
which she had been received, the obvious confusion of Mrs. Tice,
touched her painfully. She wondered what could be the reason of such
things. They made her only the more determined to see Allen, and
demand an explanation. But he had refused her once before; it was
probable he would do so again. She felt her helpless condition keenly
at this moment.
While she was thus taken up with these sad thoughts, she heard a firm
step approach the door; it opened, and Allen stood before her. He
seemed even more haggard and worn than the last time she had seen him.
His shoulders were bent, his eyes lacked fire; altogether the man
looked so thoroughly ill, so consumed by trouble and vexation of
spirit, that Dora involuntarily took a step forward out of sheer
sympathy. Then she recollected his conduct, and stopped short. They
both looked steadily at one another.
"Why have you come to see me?" said Allen wearily. "It can do no good.
I can explain nothing."
"Allen, you loved me once."
"I love you still," he responded hastily. "I shall always love you."
"Words, words, words!" said Dora, after the manner of Hamlet. "Your
actions prove otherwise. Now listen to me, Allen: I have come to you
for advice."
"I am the worst person in the world to give it to you," replied Scott,
with cruel emphasis on the last words. "But if you wish it, I will do
so."
"I do wish it, Allen. I am an orphan. I have few acquaintances, and no
friends. My guardian is dead, and in all the world there is no living
soul who cares about me."
"Dora!" he cried in a tone of agony, "how can you speak so? I care! I
would rather die than see you suffer."
"I do not wish you to die," answered the girl with some bitterness;
"it is so easy to say so--so difficult, so difficult to do. No, Allen;
I wish you to live and help me. Let me put my position before you. My
guardian told me that I had five hundred a year. He deceived me; I
inherited nothing from my parents."
"Who told you this, Dora?"
"Mr. Carver, the lawyer. For some reason Mr. Edermont lied to me, and
confirmed his lie by paying me certain moneys which he said came from
my inherited income. I hear now that I am a pauper. But for his
bequest of two hundred a year and the freehold of the Red House, I
should be a beggar."
"I cannot understand his reason for deceiving you," said Allen,
drawing a long breath; "but at all events, he has made some reparation
by leaving you enough to live on. You will always have a home at the
Red House."
"You do not know the conditions of the will," was Dora's reply. "I
have to live at the Red House; I have to permit Mr. Joad to carry on
his former life, which means that I must see him daily, and I hate the
man," added Dora fervently; "I loathe him; and now that Mr. Edermont
is dead, I do not know to what length his audacity may carry him."
"What do you mean?" demanded Allen, frowning.
"I mean that Joad admires me."
"Admires you?" The young man stepped forward and clenched his fists.
"Impossible that he should dare!"
"Oh, trust a woman's instinct in such matters, Allen! Yes, Mr. Joad
admires me, and I believe he will soon put his admiration into words."
"If he does, I'll thrash him within an inch of his life!"
"As my affianced husband you no doubt have the right," replied Dora
steadily; "but have you the will? You say you love me, yet----"
"I do love you!" he burst out; "and it is because of my love for you
that I keep silent. On that fatal day Edermont, beside himself with
terror, betrayed to me a secret he had better have kept hidden. That
secret parts us for ever. I dare not marry you."
"You dare not? What secret can have the power to make you say such
words?"
"If I told you that, I should tell you all," replied Allen sullenly.
"Do not try me beyond my strength, Dora. If you suffer, I suffer also.
For your own sake I keep silent, and I love you too dearly to inflict
unnecessary pain."
"What you might inflict can be no worse than what you have inflicted,"
said Dora bitterly. "I see it is useless to ask you to confide in me.
But one word: has this secret to do with Mr. Edermont's death?"
Allen hesitated; then, turning away his head:
"I cannot answer you," he said resolutely.
"Oh!" said Dora in a taunting tone; "then you know something about the
death."
"I know nothing," replied Allen, with a white face.
"Yes, you do. Your refusal to explain shows me that the secret has to
do with the murder. Perhaps Mr. Edermont told you the name of the
person he was afraid of. Well, that person perhaps carried out his
wicked purpose."
"Why do you say 'perhaps'?" asked Allen suddenly. "You seem to be
doubtful."
"Because a day or two before the crime was committed, Mr. Pallant
called on my guardian. What he told him relieved him of the fear of
assassination. Therefore I do not know if Mr. Edermont's enemy killed
him."
Allen jumped up and looked eagerly at the girl.
"Did Pallant say that the person whom Mr. Edermont feared was--was
dead?"
"I cannot answer you that. Mr. Edermont only said that his nightmare
was at an end. I presume from such a speech that he felt there was no
more danger. Unfortunately, he was murdered shortly afterwards, so
that his hopes were vain. But you apparently know all about this
person whom my guardian feared. What is his name?"
"I can't tell you, Dora," said Allen with a groan.
"Oh, I do not want you to tell me!" she replied scornfully, "but tell
the authorities. No doubt you will be rewarded with fifty thousand
pounds--blood-money."
"Dora! How can you speak like this to me?"
"How else do you wish me to speak?" she retorted fiercely. "Do you
think that I have water in my veins, to put up with your neglect in
silence?"
"It is for your own good."
"You should permit me to be the best judge of that, Allen. My brain is
in confusion from the event of last week. I have suffered
indescribably. With Lady Burville and her fainting in church came
disaster. That woman caused a breach between us----"
"No, no! Lady Burville has nothing to do with my secret."
"Will you deny that her name was mentioned several times between you
and Mr. Edermont?"
"No, I will not deny it," he returned doggedly. "All the same, she has
nothing to do with the matter."
"So you say, for the preservation of your secret," said Dora
disdainfully; "but I believe that she has everything to do with the
matter. And what is more," continued the girl, raising her voice, "I
feel assured that indirectly she caused the death of my guardian."
Allen turned even paler than before.
"I assure you such is not the case, Dora."
"I decline to take your word for it. I will only believe the evidence
of my own senses, of my own researches."
"Your own researches?"
"Yes; I intend to find out this secret which is a bar to our marriage.
To do so I must solve the mystery of Mr. Edermont's death."
"I warn you not to do so;" cried Allen, breathing heavily; "you are
playing with fire!"
"I'll take the risk of that--if risk there is. Allen," she said,
placing her hands on his shoulders, "you laughed at my premonition of
evil when I spoke to you of Lady Burville. You see I was right. Now I
have a premonition of good. My researches will mend the breach between
us, and bring about our marriage."
"Impossible! and, moreover----" he hesitated. "Can you love me after
the cruel way in which I have been forced to behave to you?"
"Yes. You mention the poison and the antidote at once. You have been
cruel, but you have been forced, as I truly believe, to be so. When I
discover that force, I shall learn the bar to our marriage. If so, it
can be removed."
"I am afraid not," he replied, shaking his head.
"In the meantime," she continued, as though she had not heard him, "as
I am a pauper, I must remain at the Red House. But I refuse to do so
in the company of that creature Joad, unless I have a companion. Will
you let Mrs. Tice come and stay with me for a few weeks?"
"If Mrs. Tice will go, I shall be delighted that you should have her."
"Very good, Allen." She rose from her chair. "Now we understand one
another. When I know the truth, I shall come and see you again. Till
then, we must be strangers."
"I suppose so," said Scott gloomily; "but I warn you the danger is
great when you know the truth----"
"Well, what will be the result?"
Allen Scott looked at her pityingly.
"Your life will be ruined, as mine has been," he said.
Dora walked towards the window with a weary sigh.
"It is ruined already; I do not see how it can be much worse. I have
lost you; I have been deceived as regards my pecuniary position; I am
threatened with the attentions of that odious creature. It is all very
terrible."
Allen groaned.
"I wish I could give you hope, Dora, but I cannot. I see nothing in
the future but pain, and separation, and misery."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Dora with a hard laugh. "Since you can
give me up so easily, I have no doubt that you will speedily console
yourself for my loss. You will be married in a few years."
"Never! If I do not marry you--and that is impossible--I shall marry
no other woman."
"So you say; but I know what men are."
"Not from experience."
"I don't think a woman needs experience to divine the nature of the
other sex," said Dora loftily, with all the brave self-confidence of
youth; "our instinct teaches us what you are and how you will act. I
can't expect you to be true to a phantom all your life."
"Phantom! You are flesh and blood, my dear."
"Yes; but I mean that should I fail to discover this secret, or should
you persist in treating me as a child, we must part, and never see one
another again. I will then be nothing to you but a phantom--a memory.
No man can remain true to a memory."
"Strange as it may appear to you, Dora, there have been men thus
faithful, and I swear----"
"Do not swear fidelity. You will only perjure yourself in after years.
But it is no use discussing such things, my dear," she continued more
cheerfully. "I must return home."
"Will you come back and see me again?"
"If I have occasion to, I shall do so. I do not intend to part from
you until all mysteries are made plain. It shall be my business to
make them so."
"A hopeless task," sighed Allen, as he accompanied her to the door. "I
shall send Mrs. Tice over to you in the morning."
"Thank you. Do you know that Mrs. Tice was once acquainted with my
guardian?"
"Yes; she said something about it," he murmured, turning away his
head; "she knows something."
"I am convinced of that. She knows the celebrated past of Mr.
Edermont, about which so much has been said. I would not be surprised
if she knew the contents of that stolen manuscript."
"I dare say; but she may not know everything."
"She knows more than you give her credit for," said Dora dryly. "For
instance; when you returned from London, I dare say she knew why you
had gone there."
"Yes; that's true enough."
"And she knew why you quarrelled with my guardian."
"She did. What of that?"
"Only this," said Miss Carew triumphantly; "Mr. Carver said that he
believed the past whence this present trouble arose was connected with
a woman in love with Mr. Edermont. For all I know, that woman may
be--Mrs. Tice."