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
