THE DINNER AT THE CLUB
Colonel Stone was the possessor of much political and social influence;
moreover, he enjoyed considerable wealth; finally, he was flamboyantly
and belligerently patriotic. In consequence of his qualities and
influence, he conceived the project of raising a company for the war in
Cuba, equipping it at his own expense. The War Department accepted his
proposition readily enough, for in his years of active service he had
acquired an excellent reputation as an officer of ability, and he was
still in the prime of life. Rumors of the undertaking spread through his
club, although he endeavored to keep the matter secret as long as
possible. Unfortunately, he consulted with that military authority,
Colonel Dundas, who was unable to restrain his garrulity concerning
anything martial. The current report had it that the colonel intended to
make his selection of officers from among certain young men of his
acquaintance who were serving, or had served, with the National Guard.
Among such, now, the interest was keen, for the war spirit was abroad in
the land, and the colonel's project seem to offer excellent opportunity
to win distinction. And then, at last, Colonel Stone sent invitations to
a select few young men to dine with him at his club. The action was
regarded as significant, inasmuch as the colonel was not given to this
sort of hospitality. Among those to receive the honor of an invitation
was Dick Swinton.
When the rector's son entered the private dining-room of the club on the
night appointed, he found there besides his host five of his
acquaintances: Will Ocklebourne, the eldest son of the railway magnate;
Vivian Ormsby, who at this time was a captain in the National Guard; Ned
Carnaby, the crack polo-player; Jack Lorrimer, a leader in athletics as
well as cotillions; and Harry Bent, the owner of the famous racing stud.
Without exception, the five, like Dick himself, were splendid specimens
of virile youth, and in their appearance amply justified the colonel's
choice.
Just before the party seated itself at the table, a servant entered with
a letter for Dick. He opened it eagerly, and a sprig of forget-me-not
fell into his hand. He folded this within the letter, which he had not
time at the moment to read. But he understood the message of the flower,
for the handwriting on the envelope was that of Dora Dundas. And he
sighed a little. The lust of adventure was in his blood, and the war
called him.
The dinner progressed tamely enough until the dessert was on the table.
Then, the colonel arose, and set forth his plans, and called for
volunteers to join him in this service to his country.
"Some of you--perhaps all--" he concluded, "are willing to go with me.
Let such as will stand up."
Instantly, Captain Ormsby was on his feet. He stood martially erect,
fingering his little, black mustache nervously, his dark eyes gleaming.
He was a handsome, slim, dark man of forty, with a slightly Jewish cast
of countenance, crimped black hair, parted in the centre, a large, but
well-shaped nose, a full, round chin, and a low, white forehead--a face
that suggested the Spaniard or the modern Greek Jew.... There came a
little outburst of applause from the fellow-guests, a recognition of his
promptness in acceptance of the colonel's offer.
Then, the others stood up together: Ocklebourne, Carnaby, Lorrimer,
Bent--all except Dick Swinton, the rector's son. The group turned
expectant eyes on him, awaiting his rising to complete the group. Yet, he
sat there with his fellow-officers standing, Captain Ormsby on one side
of him, Jack Lorrimer on the other, in the most prominent place in the
room, leaning back in his chair, with eyes downcast, and playing with his
knife nervously.
He seemed ashamed to look up, and was overcome by the unexpected
prominence into which he was thrown. He was deathly pale; but his mouth
expressed dogged determination.
"Not Swinton?" asked the colonel, reproachfully.
Dick shook his head smilingly, and was terribly abashed. They waited a
few moments longer--moments, during which a girl's face seemed to be
looking at Dick with wistful, tender eyes--the same woman that Ormsby
loved. And he saw, too, in a blurred mist, a vision of carnage and
bloodshed that was horribly unnecessary and unjust. He could not explain
all his reasons for evading this opportunity--that he was only just
engaged, was in debt, and could not afford the money for his outfit. It
needed some courage to sit there and say nothing.
"Fill him up a glass of champagne, a stiff one--it will give him some
Dutch courage," remarked Captain Ormsby _sotto voce_, but loud enough for
the others to hear, and they laughed awkwardly at the implied taunt of
cowardice. Burly Jack Lorrimer, who stood by Dick's side and had had
quite enough to drink, seized a bottle jocularly; Ormsby took it from
him, and, leaning forward, was about to fill Dick's glass, when the young
man jumped to his feet.
There was the beginning of a luke-warm cheer--arrested instantly, for
Dick turned in a fury on Captain Ormsby, and struck him a blow in the
face with the flat of his hand that resounded through the room. Then, he
kicked his chair back, and strode to the door just behind him.
The colonel angrily hushed the murmurs of excitement that ensued, and
with considerable tact proceeded to make a short speech to the volunteers
as though nothing had happened.
The whole scene lasted only fifteen minutes. The ugly incident at the
table was with one accord ignored, and the wine was attacked with vigor,
everybody drinking everybody else's health. The captain was inwardly
satisfied; for had he not succeeded in publicly branding his rival in
love as a coward?
Dick Swinton went striding home, a prey to the bitterest humiliation. He
had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and had disgraced
himself in the eyes of his fellows.
And the forget-me-not in his pocket! That had had much to do with it, of
course. It was a silent appeal from the girl he loved, who had been his
own, his very own, for only twenty-four sweet hours. He took out her
letter, which he had not yet perused, and read it under a street
lamp--the letter of a soldier's daughter, born and reared among
soldiers.
DEAREST, Of course you must go. Don't consider me. All the others
are going. Our secret must remain sacred until your return. Your
country calls, and her claim comes even before that of your own
darling. Oh, I shall hate the days you are away, but it cannot be
helped, can it? Father is already talking about your kit, and he
wants you to come and see him that he may advise you what to buy
and what to wear.--DORA.
He groaned as he realized that this note should have been read earlier.
It was too late now.