"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 frivolous7 lace handkerchief to her eyes. Dora looked at this woman, so frail8, so helpless, so devoid9 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 judgment10 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 kindly11; "but first you must assure me of your innocence12."
"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 guilt6?"
"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 astonishment13. "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 tangle14 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 shuddered15, 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 sentimental16 over the discovery. Mother and daughter had been so long parted and estranged17, that no revival18 of the maternal19 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 honeymoon20 he went to sea. I lived at Christchurch, in Hants, while he was away. Mr. Edermont was there also."
"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."
"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 annuity23 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," babbled24 Lady Burville, with great simplicity25. "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 frightful27 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, displeased28 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 misery29.
"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 defiantly30. "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 brute31!"
"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 dread26, 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 wring32 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."
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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