_ CHAPTER XV. COLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND
Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters, and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning, sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing abstractedly into space.
People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference to the young man's death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to facial signs, babbled to her of the rector's trouble. The poor man was so broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly, and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed--but would it last? How dull it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son's death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the course of a few days?
Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony's words were too true: "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones."
Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was opened, handed it to Dora.
"There's something in this for you to read--a letter from Ormsby, Dora."
"I don't want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby."
"I've read it," said the colonel awkwardly, "as Mr. Ormsby requested me to. I think you'll be sorry if you don't see what he says."
Dora's face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter, addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father.
"MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS,
I have been very wretched since our last interview, when you judged me unfairly and said many hard things, the worst of which was your dismissal, and your wish that I should not again enter your father's house. He has invited me to come, and I am feverishly looking forward to your permission to accept the invitation.
I am not jealous now of a dead man, nor do I wish to press my suit at such a time. But I desire to set myself right. You have no doubt learned by this time that the lies of which you accused me were painful truths. The hard things you said were not justified, and I only ask to be received as a visitor, for my life is colorless and miserable if I cannot see you.
There is one other matter I must discuss with you in full. It is, briefly, this: Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his account from our bank, of which I am a director and a partner, and demands the restitution of seven thousand dollars taken by poor Dick Swinton. My co-directors blame me for not acting at once when I suspected the first check. But they are not disposed to pay the money, and a lawsuit will result. You know what that means--a public scandal, a full exposure of my fellow-officer's act of folly, a painful revelation concerning the affairs of the Swinton's and their money troubles. All this, I am sure, would be most repugnant to you. For your sake, I am willing to pay this money, and spare you pain. If, however, you persist in treating me unfairly and breaking my heart, I cannot be expected to make so great a sacrifice to save the honor of one who publicly insulted me by striking me a cowardly blow in the face because I held a smaller opinion of him than did other people, and thoughtlessly revealed the fact by an unguarded remark.
I never really doubted his physical courage, and he has rendered a good account of himself, of which we are all proud. But seven thousand dollars is too dear a price to pay without some fair recognition of my sacrifice on your behalf."
"Father," cried Dora, starting up, and reading no more, "I want you to let me have seven thousand dollars."
"What!" cried the colonel, staring at her as though she had asked for the moon.
"I want seven thousand dollars. I'll repay it somehow, in the course of years. I'll economize--"
"Don't think of it, my girl--don't think of it. That miserly old man, who starves his family and washes his dirty linen in public, is going to have no money of mine."
"But, father, give it to me. It'll make no real difference to you. You are rich enough--"
"Not a penny, my girl--not a penny. Let Ormsby pay the money. Thank heaven, it's his business, not ours. Your animosity against him is most unreasonable. Because you had a difference of opinion over a lad who couldn't hold a candle to him as an upright, honorable man--"
"You sha'n't speak like that, father."
"But I shall speak! I'm tired of your pale face, and your weeping in secret, turning the whole house into a place of mourning. And what for? A man who would never have married you in any case. His grandfather disowned him, he wouldn't have gained my consent, and the chances are a hundred to one you would have married Ormsby. But, now, you suddenly insult my friend--you see nobody--we can't talk about the war--and, damn me! what else is there to talk about? You call yourself a soldier's daughter, and you're going to break your heart over a man who couldn't play the straight game. Why, his own father and mother can't say a good word for him. Yet, Ormsby's willing to pay seven thousand dollars to stifle a public exposure, just for your sake. Why, girl, it's magnificent! I wouldn't pay seven cents. Ormsby is coming here, and you'll have to be civil to him. Write and tell him so."
"Very well, father," sighed Dora, to whom the anger of her parent was a very rare thing. There was some justice in his point of view, although it was harsh justice. For Dick's sake, she could not afford to incense Ormsby. She swallowed her pride and humbled her heart, and, after much deliberation, wrote a reply that was short and to the point.
"Miss Dundas expects to receive Mr. Ormsby as her father wishes." _