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."