A STORY OF THE PAST.
"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."