 
Transcriber's Notes:
THE CLOCK STRUCK ONE.
THE CLOCK STRUCK ONE.
BYFERGUS HUME,AUTHOR OF | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER. | |
| I. | DIANA ON A BICYCLE; |
| II. | THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF DR. SCOTT; |
| III. | TO EVERY MAN HIS OWN FEAR; |
| IV. | MORE MYSTERIES; |
| V. | MR. EDERMONT'S HIGH SPIRITS; |
| VI. | WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT; |
| VII. | A NINE DAYS' SCANDAL; |
| VIII. | THE WILL OF JULIAN EDERMONT; |
| IX. | AN AMAZING REWARD; |
| X. | DR. SCOTT IS STILL OBSTINATE; |
| XI. | PREPARING THE GROUND; |
| XII. | A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION; |
| XIII. | DENIAL; |
| XIV. | WHAT DR. SCOTT SAW; |
| XV. | THE PEARL BROOCH; |
| XVI. | DORA IS STARTLED; |
| XVII. | A STORY OF THE PAST; |
| XVIII. | PALLANT MAKES A STATEMENT; |
| XIX. | MORE MYSTERIES; |
| XX. | THE SINS OF THE FATHER; |
| XXI. | SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR; |
| XXII. | WHAT DORA DISCOVERED; |
| XXIII. | THE MADNESS OF LAMBERT JOAD; |
| XXIV. | THE STOLEN MANUSCRIPT; |
| XXV. | CONFESSION; |
| XXVI. | A FINAL SURPRISE |
THE CLOCK STRUCK ONE
CHAPTER I.
DIANA ON A BICYCLE.
Over the bridge which spans the railway two miles from Canterbury a girl was riding a bicycle. She was perfect mistress of her machine--and nerves; for on the slope of the hill she let the wheels run freely, and did not trouble to use the brake. The white dust clouded the air as she spun down to the level; and the heat of the day--a July noon--was so great that she was fain to dismount for the sake of coolness. A wayside fence offered a tempting seat; and, with a questioning glance to right and left, the girl balanced herself lightly on the topmost rail. Here she perched in a meditative fashion, and fanned her flushed face with her straw hat. A pretty girl in so unconventional a position, unchaperoned and fearless, would have shocked the susceptibilities of our grandmothers. But this is the age of the New Woman, and the girl was a type of her epoch.
Assuredly a finer representative could not have been found. She was tall and straight, deep-bosomed and stately. Her sunburnt complexion, her serviceable tailor-made dress and her stout shoes of brown leather, denoted a preference for life out of doors. Across her broad forehead, round her well-shaped head, fluttered tiny curls in a loose mass of burnished gold. For the rest, a nose aquiline and two steady eyes of gray, a mouth rather wide, red-lipped and firm; there you have a portrait in your mind's eye of a charming gentlewoman--new style. Diana must have been just such another; but for brightness, sympathy, and womanly kindness the maid surpassed the goddess. If mythology is to be credited, Diana was cold, serene and--vide ActÆon's disaster--a trifle cruel. On the whole, this mortal was more lovable than that immortal, and less dangerous; otherwise the comparison holds good. Miss Dora Carew was a modern Diana--on a bicycle.
Shortly, Diana of Kent reassumed her hat, and, folding her arms, stared absently across the fields. She saw not sheep or meadow, hedge or ditch, windmill or rustling tree, for her mind was absorbed in her own thoughts; and these--as indexed by her changing expressions--did not seem to be over-pleasant. Dora frowned, smiled, wrinkled her forehead into two perpendicular lines between the eyebrows, and finally made a gesture of impatience; this last drawn forth by a glance at her watch.
"I do wish he would be punctual," she muttered, jumping off the fence; "if not, I must----"
Further speech was interrupted by the crisp vibration of a bell, and immediately afterwards a second bicycle, whirling down the slope, brought a young man to her feet. He was smart, lithe and handsome; also he was full of apologies for being late, and made the most reasonable excuses, hat in hand.
"But you know, Dora, a doctor's time is not his own," he concluded; "and I was detained by a new patient--an aristocratic patient, my dear"--this he said with subdued pride--"Lady Burville, a guest at Hernwood Hall."
"Lady Burville!" replied Miss Carew, starting. "Laura Burville?"
Dr. Scott looked profoundly surprised.
"I do not know that her name is Laura," he said; "and how you came to----"
"I heard it yesterday, Allen, for the first time."
"Indeed! From whom?"
"From the lips of my guardian."
"Mr. Edermont spoke of Lady Burville?" The young doctor frowned thoughtfully. "Strange! This morning Lady Burville spoke of Mr. Edermont."
"What did she say, Allen? No, wait"--with an afterthought--"why did she call you in? Is she ill?"
"Indisposed--slightly indisposed--nothing to speak of. Yesterday she was at church, and the heat was too much for her. She fainted, and so----"
He completed the sentence with a shrug.
"Oh!" said Dora, putting much expression into the ejaculation; "and yesterday my guardian also became indisposed in church."
"Really? Chillum Church?"
"Chillum Church."
They looked questioningly at one another, the same thought in the brain of each. Here was a stranger in the neighbourhood, a guest at Hernwood Hall, and she inquired for a recluse scarcely known beyond the walls of his house. Again, here was a man who had not been absent from the district for over twenty years, who dwelt in strict retirement, and he mentioned the name--the unknown Christian name--of the strange lady. This coincidence--if it could be called so--was odd in the extreme, and even these two unsuspicious young people were struck by its singularity. Dora was the first to speak, and her remark was apparently irrelevant.
"Come with me to the Red House," said she, moving towards her bicycle. "Mr. Edermont is ill."
"Consequent upon his indisposition of yesterday, I suppose," replied Scott, following. "Since you wish it, I obey; but do not forget my position in the house."
Miss Carew waited until he glided alongside, and they were both swinging easily down the road. Then she glanced at him with a smile--a trifle roguish, and wholly charming.
"What is your position in the house, Allen?"
"Is it necessary to explain, my dear? I am the son of Mr. Edermont's oldest friend. I am one of the few people he admits to see him. With his sanction, I am your most devoted lover. But"--and here the doctor became emphatic--"Mr. Edermont will not have me as a medical attendant--he will not have anyone. So my calling to see him professionally is rather--forgive me, my dearest--is rather impertinent."
"Then you must be impertinent enough to save his life," retorted Dora sharply. "He has never been really ill before, so far as I know, and there has been no occasion for a doctor at the Red House. But now"--her face assumed a serious expression--"he is not himself. He is agitated, distraught, terrified."
"H'm! Terrified? That is strange. Are you sure that his indisposition dates from service in Chillum Church?"
"It dates from the reading of the Litany," said Dora precisely. "You know, Allen, that for years my guardian has never failed to attend morning service at Chillum. You know also--for I have told you often--that at the prayers for deliverance from battle, murder, and sudden death he is accustomed to look questioningly round the congregation. He did so yesterday, as usual, and immediately afterwards he sank back half fainting in his seat. I wished him to leave the church at once, but he refused to go until the text was given out. Then he went home."
"And since then?"
"He has shut himself up in his room, and has neither eaten nor slept. He refuses to see me or speak to me. Several times I have been to his door to inquire if I could do anything, but he will not let me enter. He refuses admittance even to Mr. Joad. And all the hours he paces up and down, talking to himself."
"What does he talk about?" asked Scott curiously.
"I cannot say, as he speaks too low for me to hear. But I caught the name of Laura Burville twice. Alarmed lest he should fall seriously ill, I wrote to you yesterday, making this appointment, and waited at the bridge to explain. What do you think of it, Allen?"
Scott shrugged his shoulders.
"I can hardly say until I see Mr. Edermont. At the present moment I can be sure only of one thing--that the sight of Lady Burville upset your guardian in the church, and vice versÂ."
"But why should they be upset at the sight of one another? They are strangers."
"H'm! We cannot be certain of that," replied Allen cautiously. "That he should mention her name, that she should ask about him--these facts go to prove that, whatever they may be now to one another, they were not strangers in the past."
"Then the past must be quite twenty years ago," said Dora thoughtfully, "for Mr. Edermont has not left the Red House all that time. But what did Lady Burville say when you told her about my guardian?"
"She said--nothing. A wonderfully self-possessed little woman, although she looks like a doll and talks like a fool, Dora; therefore the fact of her fainting yesterday in church is all the more strange. I said that Mr. Edermont was averse to strangers, that he dwelt in the Red House, and that he was a good friend to me."
"You did not mention my name?"
"Dora! As though I should converse about you to a stranger! No, my dear. I merely told so much about Mr. Edermont, prescribed for the lady's nerves, and informed her host and Mr. Pallant that she would be all right to-morrow."
"And who is Mr. Pallant?"
"Did I not mention his name? Oh, he is another guest of Sir Harry's. He left the message that I was to call and see Lady Burville."
"Indeed. Why did not Sir Harry call in his own doctor?"
"Faith! that is more than I can say," replied Scott. "All the better for me that he did not. But how this Mr. Pallant found me out I do not know. It is my impression that, hearing he was riding into Canterbury, Lady Burville asked him privately to send her a doctor, and as he chanced on my door-plate first, he called on me. A lucky accident for a struggling practitioner, eh, Dora?"
"No doubt--if it was an accident," said she dryly. "What is this Mr. Pallant like, Allen?"
"A red-haired, blue-eyed, supercilious beast. I disliked him at sight. Rather a shame on my part, seeing that he has done me a good turn."
By this time they had arrived at the outskirts of Chillum, and alighted before a massive gate of wood set in a high brick wall, decorated at the top with broken glass.
The green spires of poplar-trees rose over the summit of this wall, and further back could be seen the red-tiled gable of a house. Opposite the gates on the other side of the dusty white road there was a small cottage buried in a plantation of fir-trees. An untidy garden extended from its front-door to the quickset hedge which divided the grounds from the highway, and the house had a desolate and solitary look, as though rarely inhabited.
"Does old Joad still sleep in his cottage?" asked Allen, with a careless glance at the tiny house.
"Of course! You know Mr. Edermont won't let anyone stay in the house at night but myself and Meg Gance."
"That is the cook?"
"Cook, housemaid, general servant, and all the rest of it," replied Dora gaily; "she and I between us manage the domestic affairs of the mansion. Mr. Edermont is too taken up with his library and Mr. Joad to pay attention to such details."
"He is always in the clouds," assented Allen, smiling. "By the way, who is Mr. Joad?"
Dora laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm sure I can't tell you that," she replied carelessly; "he is an old college friend of my guardian's, who gives him house-room."
"But not a bed?"
"No. Joad has to turn out at nine o'clock every night and return to his cottage. I believe he passes most of his evenings in the company of Mr. Pride."
"Pride, Pride?" said Allen thoughtfully--"oh, that is the chubby little man who is so like your guardian."
"He is like him in the distance," answered Dora, "but a nearer view dispels the illusion. Pride is, as you say, chubby, while Mr. Edermont is rather lean. But they are both short, both have heads of silvery hair, and both rejoice in patriarchal beards. Yes, they are not unlike one another."
While this conversation was taking place the young people were standing patiently before the jealously-closed gate. Dora had rung the bell twice, but as yet there was no sign that they would be admitted. The sun was so hot, the road so dusty, that Allen became impatient.
"Haven't you the key of the gate yourself, Dora?"
"No. Mr. Edermont won't allow anyone to have the key but himself. I don't know why."
"Let us go round to the little postern at the side of the wall," suggested Allen.
Dora shook her head with a laugh.
"Locked, my dear, locked. Mr. Edermont keeps the postern as firmly closed as these gates."
"A most extraordinary man!" retorted Scott, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he can be afraid of in this eminently respectable neighbourhood."
"I think I can tell you, Allen."
"Can you, my dear? Then Mr. Edermont has said why----"
"He has said nothing," interrupted Dora, "but I have eyes and ears, my dear Allen. Mr. Edermont is afraid of losing his----"
"His money," interrupted Allen in his turn. "Oh yes, of course."
"There is no 'of course' in the matter," said Miss Carew sharply; "he is afraid of losing his life."
"His life? Dora!"
"I am sure of it, Allen. Remember his favourite prayer in the Litany--the prayer which takes his wandering eyes round the church: 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'"
CHAPTER II
THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF DR. SCOTT.
The appearance of the individual who admitted them into what may be called the prison of Mr. Edermont was sufficiently odd to merit a description. Lambert Joad, the friend, factotum, and parasite of Dora's guardian, was a short, stout man verging on sixty years. He had a large bland face, clean-shaven, and bluish-red in hue; his mouth was loose, his chin double, his jowl pendulous; and his insignificant nose was scarcely redeemed by two watery eyes of a pale blue. A few tufts of white hair covered sparsely the baldness of his skull; and his ears, hands, and feet were all large and ill-shaped. He dressed in rusty black, wore carpet slippers, and a wisp of white ribbon did duty as a collar. This last adornment hinted at a clerical vocation, and hinted rightly, for Lambert Joad was an unsuccessful parson of the Anglican Church.
Some forty years previously he had been a college friend of Edermont's, and in due course had taken orders, but either from lack of brains, or of eloquence, or perhaps from his Quilpish looks, he had failed to gain as much as a curacy. In lieu thereof he had earned a bare subsistence by making notes in the British Museum for various employers, and it was while thus engaged that Edermont had chanced upon him again; out of sheer pity the owner of the Red House had taken the unlucky Joad to Kent, and there permitted him to potter about library and garden--a vegetable existence which completely satisfied the unambitious brain of the creature. He was devoted to the god who had given him this ease.
But the odd part of the arrangement was that Edermont would not permit his hanger-on to remain in the house at night. Punctually at nine Mr. Joad betook himself to the small cottage fronting the gates, and there ate and slept until nine the next morning, when he presented himself again in the library, to read, and dust, and arrange, and catalogue the many books. For twenty years this contract had been faithfully carried out by the pair of college friends. From nine to nine daylight Joad haunted the house; from nine to nine darkness he remained in his tumbledown cottage.
Being now on duty, he admitted Dora and her lover, and after closing the gates, stood staring at them; with a book hugged to his breast, and a cunning look in his eyes. His swollen and red nose suggested snuff; his trembling hands and bloodshot eyes, drink; so that on the whole he was by no means a pleasant spectacle to behold. Dora threw a look of disgust on this disreputable, dirty Silenus, whom she particularly disliked, and addressed him sharply, according to custom.
"Where is Mr. Edermont?" said she, stepping back from his immediate neighbourhood; "I have brought Dr. Scott to see him."
"Julian is still in his bedroom," replied this Silenus in a voice of surprising beauty and volume; "but he does not wish to see anyone, least of all a doctor."
"Oh, never mind that, Mr. Joad," said Allen good-humouredly. "I come as a friend to inquire after the health of Mr. Edermont."
"I quite understand," grunted the other; "you will make medical suggestions in the guise of friendly remarks. So like your father, that is."
"My father, Mr. Joad? Did you know him?" asked Scott, considerably astonished.
"Yes; I do not think," added Joad, with a spice of maliciousness, "that you had that advantage."
"He died when I was five years old," replied Allen sadly, "so I remember him very slightly. But it is strange that I should have known you all these months without becoming aware of the fact that you were acquainted with my father."
"All this is beside the point," broke in Dora severely. "I want you to see Mr. Edermont. Afterwards you can talk to Mr. Joad."
"I shall be glad to do so. There are many things I wish to know about my father."
"Then, why ask me, Dr. Scott, when Julian is at hand?"
"Mr. Edermont refuses to answer my inquiries."
"In that case," said Joad, with great deliberation, "I should ask Lady Burville."
The young man was so startled by this speech that for the moment he could say nothing. By the time he had recovered his tongue Joad was already halfway across the lawn. Scott would have followed him, but that Dora laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
"Later on, Allen," she said firmly; "in the meantime, see my guardian."
"But, Dora, Lady Burville's name again hints----"
"It hints at all manner of strange things, Allen. I know that as well as you do. I tell you what, my dear: the coming of this woman is about to cause a change in our lives."
"Dora! On what grounds do you base such a supposition?"
"On the grounds that you know," she returned distinctly. "I can give you no others. But I have a belief, a premonition--call it what you will--that Lady Burville's coming is the herald of change. If you would know more, ask Mr. Edermont who she is, and why he fainted at the sight of her."
By this time they were standing on the steps of the porch, whence the wings of mellow red brick spread to right and left, facing the sunlit lawn. Square-framed windows extended along this front above and below, and an upper one of these over the porch was wide open. As Allen and Dora stood by the steps, a wild white face peered out and saw them in the sunlight. Had they looked up they would have seen Mr. Edermont, and have refrained from further conversation. But Fate so willed it that they talked on, unconscious of a listener. It was Allen who reopened the subject of his new patient, who had been referred to both by Edermont and Joad in so mysterious a way.
"After all," said Allen meditatively, "I do not see why you should have a premonition of change. That Lady Burville should know Mr. Edermont is nothing to you."
"Quite so; but that Lady Burville should know something about your late father is something to you. Did she mention anything about it this morning?"
"Not a word," he replied; "it was strange that she should not have done so."
"Not stranger than that you should have been called in to attend her."
"That was purely an accident."
"I don't think so," said Dora deliberately; "at least, not in the face of Mr. Joad's remark."
Dr. Scott looked puzzled.
"What do you make out of this Lady Burville?" he asked.
Before Dora could answer the question, a voice spoke to them from above.
"Do not talk any more of that woman," cried Mr. Edermont with a tremor in his tones. "Come upstairs, Allen; I have something for your private ear."
And then they heard the window hastily closed, as though Mr. Edermont were determined that the forthcoming conversation should be as private as possible.
"Go up at once, Allen," whispered Dora, pushing him towards the door. "You speak to my guardian, and I shall question Mr. Joad about Lady Burville. Mind, you must tell me all that Mr. Edermont says to you."
"There may not be anything to tell," said Allen doubtfully.
Dora looked at him seriously.
"I am sure that what is told will change your life and mine," she said.
"Dora! you know something?"
"Allen, I know nothing; I am going simply by my premonition."
"I am not superstitious," said Scott, and entered the house.
He was not superstitious, as he stated; yet at that moment he might well have been so, for in the mere act of ascending the stairs he was entering on a dark and tortuous path, at the end of which loomed the shadow of death.
When his gray tweeds vanished up the stairs, Dora turned her eyes in the direction of Mr. Joad. He was seated in a straw chair under a cedar-tree, and looked a blot on the loveliness of the view. All else was blue sky and stretches of emerald green, golden sunshine, and multicoloured flowers; this untidy, disreputable creature, a huddled up mass of dingy black, seemed out of place. But, for all that, Dora was glad he was within speaking distance, and alone. So to speak, he was the key to the problem which was then perplexing her--the problem of her premonition.
That a healthy, breezy young woman should possess so morbid a fancy seems unreasonable; and Dora took this view of the matter herself. She was troubled rarely by forebodings, by premonitions, or vague fears; nevertheless, there was a superstitious side to her character. Hitherto, in her tranquil and physically healthy existence, there had been no chance for the development of this particular side; but now, from various causes, it betrayed itself in a feeling of depression. Mr. Edermont's fainting and mention of Lady Burville; that lady's fainting and anxiety concerning the recluse; and finally, Mr. Joad's assertion that Lady Burville had known Allen's father--all these facts hinted that something was about to happen. Dora did not know what the something could possibly be, but she felt vaguely that it would affect the lives of herself and her lover. Therefore she was anxious to know the worst at once, and accordingly, going out to meet her troubles, she walked forward to the Silenus on the lawn.
Joad saw her coming, and looked up with what was meant to be a fascinating smile. This disreputable old creature had the passions of youth in spite of his age, and in his senile way he greatly admired the ward of his patron. His admiration took the annoying form of constantly forestalling her wishes. If Dora wanted a book, a paper, a chair, a bunch of flowers, Joad was always at hand to supply her wants. At first she accepted these attentions carelessly enough, deeming them little but the kindly pertinacities of an amiable old man; but of late she had found Joad and his attentions rather troublesome. Moreover, his obsequious demeanour, his leers, his oily courtesies, made her feel uneasy. Nevertheless, she did not dream that the old creature was in love with her beauty. So absurd an idea never entered her head. But Joad was in love, for all that, and cherished ardently his hopeless passion.
"Mr. Joad," said Dora abruptly, coming to the point at once, "who is Lady Burville?"
"Dear Miss Carew," cried the old man, ignoring the question, and rising to his feet, "pray be seated in this chair. The sun is hot, but here you will be out of the glare."
"Never mind about the glare and the chair," said Dora, making an unconscious rhyme; "I asked you a question. Who is Lady Burville?"
"Lady Burville?" repeated Joad, seeing he could no longer escape answering; "let me see. Mr. Pride said something about her. Oh yes: she is the wife of Sir John Burville, the celebrated African millionaire, and I believe she is the guest of Sir Harry Hernwood at the Hall."
"Go on," said Dora, seeing that he paused; "what else do you know?"
"Nothing. What I repeated was only Pride's gossip. I am ignorant of the lady's history. And if you come to that, Miss Dora," added Joad with a grotesque smile, "why should I not be ignorant?"
"But you hinted that Lady Burville knew Allen's father," persisted Dora, annoyed by his evasion of her question.
"Did I?" said Joad, suddenly conveying a vacant expression into his eyes. "I do not remember, Miss Dora. If I did, I was not thinking of what I was saying."
"You are wilfully deceiving me, Mr. Joad."
"Why should I, Miss Dora? If I knew anything about this lady I would tell you willingly; but it so happens that I know nothing."
"You spoke as though you knew a good deal, retorted Dora angrily.
"I spoke at random, young lady. And if you--why, what's the matter with Julian?"
It was little wonder that he asked the question, for Edermont had opened his window again, and was hanging out of it crying and gesticulating like some terrible Punch.
"Lambert! Lambert!" he shrieked. "Come and help me! He will kill me--kill me!"
Joad shuffled towards the house as quickly as his old legs could take him. He was followed by the astonished Dora, and they were about to step into the entrance-hall, when Allen Scott came flying down the stairs. He was wild-eyed, breathless, and as gray in hue as the clothes he wore.
"Allen!" cried Dora, recoiling at his mad looks, "what is the matter?"
"Don't stop me, for God's sake!" said the doctor hoarsely, and avoiding her outstretched hand, he fled hastily down the garden-path. A click of the gate, which had not been locked by Joad, and he vanished from their sight.
Dora stared at Joad; he looked back at her with a malicious grin at the flight of her lover, and overhead, at the open window, they heard the hysterical sobbing of Julian Edermont.
CHAPTER III.
TO EVERY MAN HIS OWN FEAR.
After a pause of astonishment at the inexplicable flight of her lover, Dora ran upstairs to the room of Mr. Edermont. It was imperative that she should learn the truth of this disturbance, and, in the absence of Dr. Scott, her guardian was the proper person to explain the matter. Had Dora glanced back at Joad, who followed closely, she might have gathered from his malignant expression that he was likely also to afford an explanation; but in her anxiety she went directly to the door of Mr. Edermont's bedroom. It was wide open, and the occupier was still sobbing by the open window.
"What is the matter?" cried Dora, hurrying forward. "Why has Allen----"
Edermont lifted up a white face wet with tears, and flung out two thin hands with a low cry of terror. Then, with a sudden anxiety in his eyes, he staggered rather than walked across the room, and closed the door sharply. Joad had already entered, and, still hugging a book, stood looking grimly at the swaying figure of his patron. With his back to the door, Edermont interrogated his ward and his friend.
"Has he gone? Is the gate closed--is it locked and barred?"
"He has gone, and the gate is safe," said Joad, for Dora was too astonished by the oddity of these questions to reply.
Edermont wiped the sweat from his forehead, nodded weakly, and finally subsided into an armchair. Here he bowed his face in his hands, and Dora caught the drift of the words which he muttered in a low voice. They were those of his favourite prayer from the Litany.
"'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us,'" moaned the man; and then in some measure he recovered his serenity.
Seized with a sudden anger at the abject terror he had displayed, at the shameful accusation he had levelled against her lover, Dora stepped forward and faced Mr. Edermont with an indignant look.
"Now that you feel better," she said coldly, "perhaps you will afford me an explanation."
Edermont looked at her in a dazed manner. He was a little man, scarcely five feet in height, and had a noble head, which seemed out of place on so insignificant a body. With his long white locks and streaming beard, he was quite an imposing figure when seated; but when standing, the smallness of his body, of his hands and feet, detracted from the majesty of his patriarchal looks. Also, his eyes were timid and restless; the silvery beard, which swept his breast, hid a weak mouth; and, stripped of his venerable disguise, Mr. Edermont would, no doubt, have looked what he was--a puny, irresolute, and insignificant animal. As it was, he imposed on everyone--until they knew him better. Dora had long since fathomed the narrow selfishness of his nature, and she saw him for what he was, not as he appeared to the outside world. It is but fair to add that she always treated him with deference in public.
At the present moment there was no need to keep up appearances, and Dora spoke brusquely to the little man. In her heart she had as great a contempt for him as she had a disgust for Joad. They were both objectionable, she considered, and each had but one redeeming point--the noble head of Edermont, the noble voice of his friend. Beyond these, the first was more of a rabbit than, a man; the second rather a satyr than a human being. Never had Dora detested the pair more than she did at the present moment.
"I am waiting for your explanation, Mr. Edermont," she said again, as he did not reply.
"I have no explanation for you," retorted her guardian wearily; "go away, Dora, and leave me in peace."
The girl took a seat, and folded her arms.
"I don't leave this room until I know why Allen left the house," she said firmly.
"What has that to do with you?" cried Edermont in shrill anger; "our conversation was about private matters."
"It was about Lady Burville."
"What do you know of that woman?" he demanded, shrinking back.
"I know that the mere sight of her caused you to faint," said Dora slowly, "and I know also that she was acquainted with Allen's father."
"Lambert, you have betrayed me!" said Edermont in a tone of terror.
"You have betrayed yourself, Julian," was Joad's reply. "I can guess why Allen Scott left the house."
"I--I could not help myself. I was--oh, I was afraid," muttered Edermont, passing his hand over his eyes.
"You have cause to be afraid--now," retorted Joad; and with a look of contempt at the shrinking figure of his friend he turned and left the room. Dora waited until his heavy footsteps died away, then she turned again to Edermont.
"Why did Allen leave the house?" she asked with obstinate insistence.
"That is my business."
"And mine also. I have a right to know why you have driven away the man whom I am about to marry."
Edermont burst into unpleasant mirth. "That's all over and done with, my dear," he said, staring at her. "Allen Scott will never marry you--now."
"What have you told him?" she gasped, turning pale.
"I have told him something which will keep him away from this house--something which will prevent him from ever seeing you again."
"What do you mean, Mr. Edermont?"
She had risen to her feet, and was standing over him with flushed face and indignant eyes. To force his speech she gripped the shoulder of the man until he winced with pain.
"You have said something against me," she continued, giving him a slight shake.
"I have been saying nothing against you. I am truly sorry for you, Dora."
"Sorry for me, Mr. Edermont? Why?"
"Because of your parents," said her guardian slowly.
Dora stepped back. Since she had been brought by Edermont to the Red House, a year-old babe, he had never mentioned the name of her parents. All questions she had put to him had been put aside. That her father and mother were dead, that she inherited five hundred a year, and that Mr. Edermont was her guardian until she reached the age of twenty-one--these facts were known to her; beyond them, nothing. Now it would seem that some mystery was connected with the dead, and that Mr. Edermont was about to divulge it.
"What did my parents do that you should be sorry for me?" she asked pointedly.
"I shall never tell you what they did, Dora. I have hinted too much already. It is sufficient for you to know that they sinned, and that their sin will be visited on you."
"How dare you speak to me like this!" cried Dora, clenching her hands; "what right have you to terrify me with vague hints? I demand an explanation!"
"You will never obtain one--from me," said Edermont in a quavering voice; "and if you are wise you will seek one nowhere else."
"I shall ask Allen."
"He is bound by a promise to me not to tell you."
"Then, I shall question Lady Burville."
Edermont rose with a bound, and gripped her arm with a strength of which she had not thought him capable.
"Girl," he cried earnestly, "do not go near that woman! She is an evil woman--one who has brought harm in the past, and will bring harm in the future. When I saw her in church it was no wonder that I turned faint. She has hunted me down; and she brings trouble in her train. Leave me to fight my own battles, Dora, and come not into the fray. If you cross her path she will show you such mercy as she has shown me. I implore you to say nothing, to think nothing. If you disobey me I cannot save you; you must be your own salvation."
Throughout this strange speech he kept his eyes fixed upon her face. When it was ended he dropped her arm and turned away.
"Leave me now," he said faintly; "I--I am not myself."
The poor creature seemed so exhausted that it would have been absolute cruelty to have questioned him further, and, anxious as Dora was to do so, she was moved from sheer pity to spare him. Without a word she left the room, closing the door after her, and went slowly downstairs to the hall. Here she paused and considered.
"I knew that some evil was coming," she thought, with a chill of fear, "and my premonition has come to pass. According to that coward upstairs, there is danger and evil on all sides. He has separated me from Allen; he warns me against Lady Burville; yet he refuses to enlighten my ignorance, and warns me against going to others. But I must know; I must learn what it is that threatens the future happiness of Allen and myself. I can't sit down with folded arms and await the bolt from the blue. I must know, I must consider, I must act."
Against two people Edermont had warned her, but he had omitted to specify a third. Out on the lawn, under the cedars, Dora saw the black figure of Joad. It would appear from his parting words to his patron that he knew what had been told to Allen. Dora was on the point of crossing to him, and wringing, if possible, the truth from his reluctant lips, but her instinctive repulsion to the man prevented her from taking him into her confidence. If she wanted help, she must rely on herself or upon Allen. He was her affianced lover, and she felt that she could trust him. But if his lips were sealed by the promise given to Edermont, why----
"But he will tell me--he must tell me," she said, with an angry stamp. "I shall go into Canterbury at once." She glanced at the old clock in the hall, which chimed half-past two. "I shall go at once," repeated Dora, and went for her bicycle.
At the gate she found Joad, with the key in his hand. He cast a sidelong look at her bicycle, and explained his presence on the spot.
"I quite forgot to lock the gate, Miss Dora," he said, in his deep tones; "it was fortunate for Dr. Scott that I did not, and unfortunate for you."
"Why was it unfortunate for me, Mr. Joad?" she asked coldly.
"Because, if Dr. Scott had not been able to get out, he would have been forced to remain; and if he had remained," said Joad, with another glance at the machine, "he might have saved you a journey to Canterbury."
"How do you know that I am going to Canterbury?"
"I guessed it. You wish to obtain from Scott the explanation which Julian refuses. As I said, it was unlucky Scott found this gate unlocked, else he might have made his explanation here."
"You are a shrewd observer, Mr. Joad," was Dora's reply; "and I admit that you are right. I am going to see Dr. Scott, as you say."
"It is a hot day, and a long journey. You will experience discomfort."
"Probably I shall," said Dora, with a significant look. "Suppose you save me the journey, Mr. Joad, and explain this mystery yourself?"
"To what mystery are you alluding, young lady?" asked Joad with childlike blandness.
"To the mystery of Allen's sudden departure. You know the reason for it. I heard you say so myself to Edermont."
"Mr. Edermont's secrets are not my secrets, and I do not betray my friends."
"You are wonderfully scrupulous," said Miss Carew scornfully. "Well, I won't ask you to play the part of a traitor. Allen will tell me what I want to know."
"I am afraid Allen will do no such thing, Miss Dora."
"I have a right to know what bar there is to my marriage."
"I agree with you there," replied Joad, putting the key in the lock of the gate. "All the same, Dr. Scott will keep his own counsel. But I'll tell you one thing, Miss Dora--Julian is right: you will never marry Allen Scott."
"Who will stop the marriage?" asked Dora indignantly.
"Scott himself. He will ask you to break the engagement."
Dora looked at Joad with ineffable contempt, and wheeled the bicycle out on the dusty road.
"I will never believe that until I hear it from his own lips," she said. And the next moment she was spinning at full speed towards Canterbury.
Joad looked after her with a grim smile, and locked the gates with the greatest deliberation. Then he went up to the house, swinging the key on his finger and talking aloud.
"This," said Joad, chuckling, "is the beginning of the end."
CHAPTER IV.
MORE MYSTERIES.
If Dora was disappointed at failing to obtain explanations at Chillum, she was still more so at Canterbury. She ran the five miles under thirty minutes, and made sure she would be able to overtake Allen before he could escape her. There was a vague idea in her mind that, owing to what had been told him by Edermont--whatever it might be--he did not wish to submit himself to her questioning. This idea was confirmed by the discovery she made on reaching the tidy green-doored house near the Cathedral. Dr. Scott was not at home.
"And to tell the truth, miss," said Mrs. Tice, a large, ample, motherly person, who had been Allen's nurse and was now his housekeeper, "the doctor has gone to London."
"To London?" gasped Dora blankly, "and without letting me know?"
"Dear, dear; did he say nothing, miss? Well, to be sure! and Mr. Allen so considerate! You'll pardon me, miss, but I have been with him since he was a baby, and I should be sorry to think he had quarrelled with you. It's few as loves as Mr. Allen does."
"There is no quarrel," said Miss Carew, a trifle stiffly. "Dr. Scott saw my guardian, and then left the house without speaking to me. I have called to ask for an explanation."
"Well, miss, I'll--but, dear, dear! here I am keeping you out on the doorstep. A fine rage Mr. Allen would be in if he knew that, miss. Come in and rest, my dear lady, and I'll make you a cup of tea."
Dora accepted this hospitable offer with alacrity, not that she was anxious for rest or tea, but because it occurred to her that Mrs. Tice might throw some light on the darksome mysteries which were perplexing her brain. The old woman, as she had stated, had taken charge of Allen since he was a baby, so she, if anyone, would know about this Lady Burville who had been acquainted with Scott senior. But before Dora asked any questions concerning this remote past, she wanted first to learn the circumstances of Allen's hasty departure for London. When seated in Mrs. Tice's comfortable room, she spoke directly on the subject.
"Had Dr. Scott decided to go up to town this morning?"
"Why, no, miss," replied the housekeeper, poising a spoon over the caddy, "and that is just what puzzles me. Mr. Allen is not a young gentleman to make up his mind in a hurry like. But he came home about half an hour ago quite wild in his looks, and would not say what ailed him. Before I could turn round, he had put a few things into a black bag, and went off on his bicycle."
"To the station?"
"No, Miss: to Selling. He said he had a patient to see there, and would catch the four twenty-six train from that place."
Dora glanced at her watch. It was now three o'clock, and if she chose she could ride the nine miles to Selling before the up-train left that station. But this she determined not to do. If Allen insisted upon behaving so badly, she would do nothing to force him into an explanation. Sooner or later he would tell her his reasons for this strange conduct. But there was no doubt in her mind that his sudden departure was the result of his mysterious conversation with Mr. Edermont.
"When did Mr. Scott say he would return, Mrs. Tice?"
"To-morrow, miss; and then I have no doubt he will explain why he went off in such a hurry."
"He did not tell you, I suppose?"
"Not a word, miss," replied the housekeeper, pouring out the tea. "He'll be in a rare way when he finds out you have been here, and he not at home to make things pleasant for you. Your tea, miss."
"You will make them pleasant enough, Mrs. Tice. What delicious tea and bread and butter! I feel quite hungry after my ride. By the way," continued Dora, artfully preparing to take the housekeeper by surprise, "Allen told me that he had a new patient--Lady Burville."
Contrary to her expectation, Mrs. Tice did not appear to be astonished. From the composed expression of her face, from the friendly nod with which she received the news, Dora was convinced that she was absolutely unacquainted with the name. Failing in this attack, Dora attempted to gain the information she wanted, if it were to be gained, by approaching the subject from another quarter.
"I am so glad that the doctor is to prescribe for Lady Burville," she said softly; "she will be able to do Allen so much good in his profession. He only needs the chance, and with his talents he is sure to be successful."
"Mr. Allen is very clever indeed," said delighted Mrs. Tice, who could never hear her nursling praised sufficiently.
"And his father was clever also, I believe?" said Dora, unmasking her batteries. This time Mrs. Tice changed colour, and placed the cup she was holding carefully on the tray. Dora noticed that her hand trembled.
"The late Dr. Scott was eminent in his profession," she said in a low voice.
"What a pity he did not live to help Allen on!" pursued Dora, still observant; "how long ago is it since he died, Mrs. Tice?"
"Some twenty years, miss."
"Really! When Allen was five years old; and you have had charge of him ever since?"
Mrs. Tice recovered a little of her self-control.
"I had charge of him before that, miss," she said genially; "his poor mother died when he was born, so I have had him in my care since he was in his cradle. And, please God, I'll stay with him until I die--that is, miss, if you do not object to my continuing housekeeper after your marriage to my dear Mr. Allen?"
"You shall stay and look after us both," declared Dora impetuously; "we could not do without you."
"Your guardian, Mr. Edermont, will miss you when you marry, my dear lady."
Dora's lip curled. "I do not think so," she said quietly. "Mr. Edermont is too much wrapped up in himself to trouble about me. You have never seen him, have you?" And on receiving a shake of the head, Dora continued: "He is a little womanish man, with a fine head of silvery hair."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Tice, a startled expression coming into her eyes.
"I think he has quarrelled with Allen," pursued Dora, not noticing the change in the other's manner, "for he told him something which may prevent our marriage."
"What was it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Tice in some perturbation.
"I don't know; Mr. Edermont won't tell me. And I asked you about this Lady Burville because I feel sure she has something to do with it."
"But, Miss Carew, I do not understand!"
"Well, Mrs. Tice," cried Dora quickly, "Mr. Joad said Lady Burville knew my guardian and Allen's father, and--I'm sure I can't tell how--but it has something to do with our marriage being stopped and Allen's going to London."
By this time Mrs. Tice was perfectly livid, and trembling like a leaf. Out of the incoherencies of Dora's story she had picked an idea, and it was this which moved her so deeply. Dora looked at her in astonishment.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Tice? Are you ill?"
The housekeeper shook her head; then, rising with some difficulty, she went to a cupboard, and produced therefrom a book of portraits. Turning over the pages of this, she pointed out one to Dora.
"A little man with silvery hair," she said slowly--"is that your guardian, Miss Carew?"
Dora looked and saw the face--clean-shaven--of a young man. Notwithstanding the absence of beard, she recognised it at once. It was Julian Edermont, with some twenty years off his life.
"Yes, that is Mr. Edermont," she said, astonished at the discovery.
"And you are his--his daughter?" questioned the housekeeper.
"No; I am his ward. Mr. Edermont has never been married."
Mrs. Tice looked thoroughly frightened.
"You say Mr. Edermont had a conversation with Mr. Allen?"
"Yes: a conversation and a quarrel."
"Oh, great heavens! if he should have learnt the truth!" muttered the old lady.
"If who should have learnt the truth?" demanded Dora.
Mrs. Tice closed the book with a snap, and put it in the cupboard, shaking her head ominously. She kept her eyes turned away persistently from the face of the young girl. Whatever discovery she had made from displaying the photograph, it was evident that she did not intend to communicate it to her companion.
"How did you come possessed of Mr. Edermont's photograph, when you said you did not know him?" asked Dora suddenly.
"I did not know him until--five minutes ago. You had better ask me no more questions, Miss Carew."
"But can you not tell me, from your knowledge of Allen's parents, why Mr. Edermont has quarrelled with him?"
"If Mr. Edermont is the man I take him to be, I can. But I shall not tell you, Miss Dora."
"Why not?"
The housekeeper shuddered.
"I dare not," she said in a trembling tone. "Oh, my dear, why did you come to-day? I know much, but I dare not speak."
"Is your knowledge so very terrible?"
"It is more terrible than you can guess."
"Does Mr. Edermont know as much as you do?"
"Mr.--Edermont," said the housekeeper, with a pause before the name, "knows more than I do."
"I do not see why I should be kept in the dark," said Dora petulantly. "All that concerns Allen concerns me."
"In that case," observed Mrs. Tice calmly, "I can only recommend you to wait until Mr. Allen returns. If he chooses to tell you, well and good; but for my part, I prefer to keep silent about the past."
"But is that fair to me, Mrs. Tice?"
"Silence is more than fair to you in this case," said the old dame, looking steadily at the eager face of the young girl. "It is merciful."
"Merciful? That is a strange word to use."
"It is the only word that can be used," replied Mrs. Tice emphatically. "No, do not ask me any more, my dear young lady. The secret I hold is not my own to tell. Should Mr. Allen give me permission to reveal it, I shall do so; otherwise I prefer to be silent."
One would have thought that this speech was final; but Dora was too bent upon learning the truth of Allen's strange behaviour to be satisfied. She urged, she cajoled, she threatened, she implored, but all to no purpose. Whatever it was that Mrs. Tice knew detrimental to the past of Mr. Edermont, she was determined to keep it to herself. Evidently there was nothing left but to wait until Allen returned. From experience Dora knew that she could wheedle anything out of her easy-going lover.
"Do you know anything about Lady Burville?" asked Dora, finding she could not persuade Mrs. Tice into confessing what she knew.
"I know nothing--not even the name," said the housekeeper. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Lady Burville has something to do with the quarrel between Mr. Edermont and Allen."
"I can safely say that I know nothing on that point, Miss Carew. Lady Burville is a complete stranger to me, and, I should say, to Mr. Allen. I have never heard him speak of her."
"But Mr. Edermont knows her."
"Very probably. Mr. Edermont knows many people I am unacquainted with. You must remember, Miss Carew, that there is a vast difference between the position of a gentleman and that of a housekeeper."
"Then, Lady Burville has nothing to do with Mr. Edermont's past?"
"So far as I know she has not," replied Mrs. Tice promptly. "I don't know everything, my dear young lady."
"Can you guess the cause of this quarrel?"
"Yes. I told you so before; but I cannot speak of it."
"Do you fancy that Mr. Edermont told Allen this secret you speak of?"
Mrs. Tice made no immediate reply, but smoothed her silken apron with trembling hands. At length she said:
"I do not know. I trust he did not. But if he did speak----"
"Yes, Mrs. Tice," said Dora eagerly, "if he did speak?"
The housekeeper drew a long breath. "If he did speak," she repeated, "you will never--never--never become the wife of Allen Scott."
CHAPTER V.
MR. EDERMONT'S HIGH SPIRITS.
After that extraordinary conversation with Allen's housekeeper, Dora returned home more mystified than ever. Like everyone else, Mrs. Tice hinted at secrets of the past likely to affect the future, yet refused any explanation of such hints. Edermont and Joad acted in the same unsatisfactory way, and Allen, to avoid questioning, absented himself from her presence. It was all very tiresome, she thought, and perfectly inexplicable. Only one fact stood out clearly in Dora's mind, namely, that Lady Burville was responsible for all this confusion; therefore, she argued, Lady Burville must hold the clue to a possible disentanglement. This was logical.
Had Dora obeyed the impulse of her nature, she would have gone directly to the cause of these perplexities and have demanded an unravelment. She would have put her questions in the crudest form, thus:
"My guardian was moved by the sight of you, and he orders me to avoid you. Your name formed the gist of conversation between my guardian and my lover, with the result that Mr. Edermont tells me I shall never marry Allen. Mrs. Tice, who is ignorant of your inexplicable influence, asserts the same thing; and the creature Joad hints that you knew Allen's father. On the surface these matters appear to be disconnected and incoherent; but I feel certain that a word from you will render them explicable. You must say that word to me, since it is upon me that the trouble you have created has descended."
So Dora thought, ranging the facts in such vague order as her ignorance permitted; but as she did not know Lady Burville, and had no plausible excuse for seeking her, she was forced to remain in ignorance for want of the explanation which she felt sure the woman could have supplied.
In her present dilemma, Dora, with her usual good sense, recognised that there was nothing to be done but to remain quiescent, and wait. Later on Allen would return from London--indeed, Mrs. Tice expected him back that day--and then he would be forced to explain his conduct. That explanation might put the matter in a plain light, and do away with the fiats of Mrs. Tice and Edermont regarding the impossibility of her marriage with Allen. Come what might, Dora was resolved that she would not give up her lover and spoil her life. But, pending explanation and resultant adjustment of the situation, she held her peace, and waited. The future was--the future. Dora knew no more than that.
For a week after that day of mysteries, life progressed as usual at the Red House. Joad came and went with his usual punctuality, and eyed Dora in a furtive manner, with a distinct avoidance of explanation. Edermont recovered his nerve to some extent, and moved in his accustomed petty orbit; and Dora, lacking other interests, attended to her household duties. To a casual spectator, all things would seem to be going on as usual, the life would have appeared tranquil and dull; but this was but surface calm. Beneath, dangerous elements were at work, which later on were destined to--but it is no use to recur to the hackneyed simile of a sleeping volcano.
All these seven days nothing was heard of Lady Burville or of Allen. The former still continued to be a guest at Hernwood Hall, the latter still remained in London. Not a line had been received from him by Dora, and, hurt in her maidenly pride, she became offended by his continued silence. Whatever extraneous circumstances had led to his behaviour, she had not caused the breach--for breach she considered it--between them. Twice or thrice she had determined to go over to Canterbury and question Mrs. Tice, but pride withheld her. She remained at the Red House, waiting, waiting, and waiting. What else could she do?
Mention has been made of the high wall which surrounded the mansion of Mr. Edermont. This had been built by himself, and contained only two entrances, one from the road--a tall gate with spikes on the top--the other, a little door far down the right side. The house itself, like these gates, was kept always bolted and barred, and Mr. Edermont confessed to a fear of robbers. But, bearing in mind his particular prayer in the Litany, Dora was certain in her own mind that a greater fear than this moved him to take such precautions.
When Joad had retired to his cottage at nine o'clock, Mr. Edermont accompanied him personally to the gates, and saw that they were bolted and barred. Afterwards he examined the side postern, and then retreated to the mansion, where he closed the iron-clamped shutters and locked every door throughout the house. The woman who cooked and cleaned, and did all the work, was locked up in the kitchen, with bedroom adjoining, like a prisoner; Dora was barred in her own set of rooms, and Mr. Edermont shut himself up in equal isolation. Ever since Dora could remember, these precautions had been taken, and by night she felt as though she were in gaol. Certainly burglars could not break in; but, on the other hand, none of the three inmates could get out unless permitted to do so by the caprice of Mr. Edermont. And on this point he had no caprice.
A week after his conversation with Allen--the conversation which had terminated in so unexpected a manner--Edermont sat in his study. This was a small oak-panelled room on the left side of the house, and was entered directly from the hall. It was plainly, even penuriously, furnished, containing little beyond a bureau of innumerable drawers and cupboards, a dingy sofa, and three chairs, the most comfortable of which was placed in front of the desk. On the walls were paintings dark with age, and an assortment of flint pistols, ancient swords, savage weapons from Africa and the South Seas, and portions of rusty armour. A window looked out directly on the lawn, but there were two doors, one of which led into the hall, the other, on the opposite side, into the faded and lonely drawing-room, which was never used. This latter apartment had three windows in the same position as that of the study, and also a glass-door with shutters at the side of the house. The view from this door was bounded by a hedge of untrimmed laurel-trees. So much for the scene. Now for the drama.
To Edermont, seated at his desk on this particular morning, entered Joad, with a card held between a dingy finger and thumb. He advanced towards his friend with a malignant grin, and dropped the card on to the blotting-pad.
"Here is something likely to startle you, Julian," said he with his usual familiarity. "Mr. Augustus Pallant, on behalf of Laura Burville, is waiting to see you."
The miserable Edermont turned pale, and began to whimper.
"Oh, Lambert, do you think he means to do me harm?"
"If he does, it is on behalf of your dear Laura," replied Joad quietly; "you had better pluck up your courage, Julian, and see him."
"It might be dangerous, Lambert. Oh dear, terribly dangerous!"
"It will be more dangerous if you don't see the man."
"Why so? After twenty years Laura can do nothing."
"I am not so sure of that, Julian. She might tell Dora who she is."
The mere suggestion struck a blow at the timid heart of Edermont.
"I'll see him! I'll see him!" he cried, getting nervously on his feet. "Admit him, Lambert, and bring him here. But"--he buttonholed his friend--"remain within hearing, Lambert. He might do me an injury. I am not strong, you know."
"You are a contemptible little coward!" snarled Joad, shaking him off. "I'll look after you. There is too much to lose for me to risk your death."
Edermont threw up his hands with a cry.
"Not that word, Lambert; there can be no danger after twenty years. 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'"
As was his custom, Joad sneered at this prayer, which Edermont had offered up daily for the last twenty years, and went out of the house. In a few minutes he returned with a tall, red-haired man, whom he introduced silently into the study. After the introduction he closed the door, and went across to his favourite seat under the cedar to await events. The first which occurred was the coming of Dora.
She had seen the introduction of the stranger from her window, and, wondering what the visit might portend--for visitors were rare at the Red House--she waited a reasonable time, then sought Joad on the lawn. He looked up at her graceful figure with admiration in his eyes--a look which Dora resented. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that, notwithstanding his age and physical defects, this creature, as she termed him, had presumed to fall in love with her. However, as at present he limited his mistaken passion to looks, she merely frowned at his amorous glances, and asked her question.
"Why has Mr. Pallant called?" she demanded.
"How do you know that is his name?" asked Joad, without altering his position.
"Dr. Scott described him to me," she said curtly. "Why has he called?"
"Julian can answer that question better than I can," answered Joad, with a chuckle at baffling her curiosity, and returned to his reading.
Dora, who knew that he revenged himself thus for the frown she had bestowed on him, strove to assuage his childish petulance.
"I think you might be civil, Mr. Joad," said she in an offended tone. "I have no friend but you."
"What about Allen Scott?"
"There is no question of friendship there," said Dora stiffly. "Allen Scott is my affianced husband."
"Ho, ho! Your affianced husband!" jeered Silenus, grinning. "Well, Miss Dora, while Dr. Scott holds that position, I am no friend to you."
"Why not?" asked Dora, nettled by the hinted menace in his tone.
"It's too long to explain; it's too early yet for plain speaking. But look you here, Miss Dora: a man is as old as he feels, not as he looks. I feel twenty-two--and at twenty-two"--he leant forward with a sly smile--"one falls in love."
"You are talking nonsense!" retorted Miss Carew, drawing back; "and your conversation is not to the point. I ask you why Mr. Pallant called to see my guardian."