PALLANT MAKES A STATEMENT.
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."