AN UNEXPECTED TELEGRAM
As the days wore on, Dora went through many scenes with her father
concerning Vivian Ormsby. The banker pressed his suit remorselessly, yet
with a consideration for the girl, which did him the greatest credit. The
colonel made no secret of his keen desire for the match; and he informed
his friends, as well as Dora, that he looked upon the thing as settled.
Naturally, the girl's name was coupled with Ormsby's, and, wherever one
was invited, the other always appeared.
Ormsby showed himself at his best during this period. He would have made
no progress at all but for his tactful recognition of the fact that Dora
had loved Dick Swinton, and must be treated tenderly on that account. She
was grateful to him, for he seemed to be the only one who respected poor
Dick's memory. Other people were free in their comments, and remorseless
in their condemnation of the criminal act which, as the culmination of a
long series of follies, must inevitably have brought him to ruin if he
had not chosen to end his life at the war.
Nobody was surprised when the society columns of the newspapers hinted of
a coming engagement between the daughter of a well-known soldier and the
son of a banker, who came together under romantic circumstances, not
unconnected with a regrettable accident.
Later, there was a definite announcement: "An engagement has been
arranged between Miss Dundas, daughter of Colonel Herbert Dundas, and
Vivian Ormsby, eldest son of William Ormsby, the well-known banker."
Letters poured in on every side. Polly Ocklebourne drove over to
congratulate Dora in person, and found the affianced bride looking very
pale, and by no means happy. Dora hastened to explain that the engagement
would be a long one, possibly two years at least--and they laughed at
her. The girl had given her consent grudgingly, in half-hearted fashion,
with the stipulation that she might possibly withdraw from it. Her father
coaxed it out of her. But, when people came around and talked of the
wedding, and abused her for treating poor Ormsby shabbily by insisting on
an engagement of quite unfashionable and absurd length, the thought of
what she had done began to terrify her. She knew perfectly well that she
did not care for her lover; that, under certain circumstances, she almost
hated him. But there was no one she liked better, nor was there any
prospect of her dead heart coming to life again at all. And, in the
meantime, Ormsby was constantly by her side.
One morning, Ormsby drove up in his automobile, to propose an engagement
for the evening to Dora. His _fiancee_, however, had gone out for a walk,
and he was forced to content himself by leaving a message with her
father. The two men were chatting together in the library, when a servant
entered with a telegram. "For Miss Dundas, sir," was the explanation.
"I suppose I'd better open it," murmured the colonel, as he slit the
envelope.
He read the message, frowned, swore an oath, turned it over, then read it
again, with a look of blank amazement, whilst Ormsby watched.
"Bad news?"
"Read."
Ormsby took the slip between his fingers. His pale face hardened, and his
teeth ground together. His surprise was expressed in a smothered cry of
rage.
"It can't be!" he gasped. "Alive? Then, the story of his death was a lie.
His heroic death was a sham."
"Dora will have to be told," groaned the colonel.
"No, certainly not," cried Ormsby. "If he attempts to show his face in
New York, I'll have him arrested."
"No, no, Ormsby, you wouldn't do that. I must confess, it isn't any
pleasure to hear that he's alive. It's a confounded nuisance! His
death--damn it all! He sha'n't see her. They mustn't meet, Ormsby!"
"No, of course not--of course not. We'll have to send him to jail."
"Ormsby, you couldn't do it--you couldn't."
"Well, he mustn't see Dora."
"No--I'll attend to that."
The colonel read the telegram again.
"Arrived at Boston Parker House this morning. Start home this
afternoon. Send message. Dying to see you.
"DICK SWINTON."
"What does the fool want to come home for?" growled the colonel. "Hasn't
he any consideration for his mother and father and sister? Everybody
thinks he's dead--why doesn't he remain dead? He sha'n't upset my girl.
I'll see to that. I'll--I'll meet him myself."
"A good idea," observed Ormsby, who had grown thoughtful. "For my part,
my duty is plain. A warrant is out for his arrest. I shall give
information to the police that he is in the country again."
"No, Ormsby--no!" pleaded the colonel. "You'll utterly upset yourself
with Dora. You won't stand a ghost of a chance.
"A hero with handcuffs doesn't cut an agreeable figure, or stand much of
a chance. Dora has glorified him, you must remember. There will be a
reaction of feeling. She'll alter her opinion, when she knows he's a
criminal, flying from justice. They gave him his life, I suppose, because
he hadn't the courage to die, and keep his country's secrets. The
traitor!"
They resolved to say nothing of the arrival of the telegram. The colonel
gave out that business affairs necessitated a journey to Boston, and Dora
was to be told that he would be back in the evening.
Ormsby drove the colonel to the station in his motor. Afterward, he
called at police-headquarters, and then at the bank. There, he wrote a
letter to Herresford, reopening the matter of the seven thousand dollars,
which had lain dormant all this time, true to the promise made to Dora.
He had let the quarrel stand in abeyance in case of accidents. This was
characteristic of the cautious Ormsbys, and quite in keeping with the
remorseless character of the man who never forgave, and never desisted in
any pursuit where personal gain was the paramount consideration.
Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of Dick Swinton--up to a point.
The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many
self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He
was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced
pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His
supposititiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance
dear to the colonel's heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of
the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora's happiness in
the balance, excited a growing anger.
All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to
himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant
to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare Dick send telegrams to
his innocent child without her father's knowledge, in order that he might
work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope
with him--elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the
colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to
set right by plain speaking.
As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw Dick Swinton--or someone
like him--wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very
slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas,
and he tried to hurry, but his step was slow and uncertain. As they came
near each other, he seized the colonel's arm.
"Colonel! Colonel!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with
you?"
"Dora--no, sir! What do you take me for? Good God! what a wreck you are!
Where have you been? How is it you've come home?"
"I--I thought she would come!" gasped Dick, who looked very white. His
eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely
bones.
"Here, come out of the crowd," said the colonel, forgetting his
tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped
nothing like muscle. "Why, you're a skeleton, boy!" he exclaimed,
adopting the old attitude in spite of himself.
"Yes, I'm not up to the mark," laughed Dick. "I thought you knew all
about it."
"Knew all about it, man? You're dead--dead! Everyone, your father and
mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers."
"Yes; but I corrected all that," cried Dick, "My letters--they got my
letters?"
"What letters?"
"The two I sent through by the men that were exchanged. Young Maxwell
took one."
"Maxwell died of dysentery."
"Ah, that accounts for it. The other I gave to a sailor. He promised to
deliver it."
"To whom did you write?"
"To Dora. I asked her to go to mother and explain things, so as not to
give too great a shock. You don't mean to say that my mother doesn't
know!"
"No, of course not--not through Dora, at any rate."
"Good heavens! Let's get to a telegraph-office, and I'll send her word at
once. And father, too--dear old dad--he's had two months of sorrow that
might have been avoided. What a fool I was! I ought to have telegraphed
from Copenhagen."
"Copenhagen!"
"Yes; I escaped--nearly died of hunger--got on board a Danish ship as
stowaway, and arrived at Copenhagen half-starved. But I wasn't up to
traveling for a bit. I'm pulling around, gradually. I'm--well, to be
sure! And mother doesn't know. What a surprise it will be! What a
jollification! What a--!"
"Here, hold up, Dick--hold up, man--you're tottering."
The colonel's strong hand kept Dick on his feet. He led the young man
gently through the vestibule.
"Here, come to a quiet place. You mustn't be seen in public," growled the
colonel.
"Why not?" asked Dick. "I'm a little faint. You see, I haven't much
money. I had to borrow. A square meal, at your expense, would do me a
world of good, colonel. Let's go to the dining-room."
"Very well. We can get a quiet table there. But I want you to understand
at once that, though I'm here, I'm not your friend."
"Eh? What?"
"Well, you can't expect it."
"Oh, you're angry with me because I'm fond of Dora. I suppose you saw my
telegram and--intercepted it."
"Yes."
"Then Dora doesn't know!"
"No, Dora doesn't know--nor will she know. Better be dead, my boy--better
be dead!"
"I beg your pardon?" queried Dick, gazing at the colonel with dull, tired
eyes.
The colonel vouchsafed no explanation, but led the way into the
dining-room. He selected a table in a corner, and thrust the menu over to
Dick. The sick man's eyes ran listlessly down the card, and he gave it
back.
"I'm too done. You order. Perhaps, a drink'll pull me up."
The colonel ordered brandy. He was now able to get a better look at the
returned hero. The change in the young man shocked him, and he could see
that the hand of death had clutched Dick harshly before letting him go.
"What was it--fever?" he asked, with soldier-like abruptness, as he
scanned the lean, weary face.
"Enteric and starvation, and a bit of a wound, too. I was taken prisoner,
but, when the ambulance cart was left in a general stampede, I was just
able to cry out to a nigger to cut my bonds. He set me free; but,
afterward, I think I went mad. I was in our lines, I know. It was a good
old Yankee who set me free; but, when reason came, I was again in the
wrong camp. The ambulance cart had got into its own lines again. At any
rate, I was in different hands, with a different regiment, packed off to
a proper prison camp. I sent word home, or thought I'd sent word. I
thought you all knew. By Jove, what a lark it will be to turn up and see
their faces!"
Dick took a long draught at the brandy, and a little color came into his
face.
"I suppose they'll be glad and all that, as I'm something of a hero," he
continued. "A chap on the train told me that the story of my capture got
into the papers, and was written up for all it was worth. Another smack
in the eye for Ormsby, that! Nutt got away, and told you I was dead, I
suppose."
"Yes," answered the colonel, gloomily; then, leaning across the table:
"Dick, my boy, I don't want to be hard on you. We are all liable to err.
Don't you think it would have been better if you had remained dead?"
Dick looked blankly into his friend's face for some moments. A look of
fear came into his eyes.
"What's the matter? What's happened? Dora's--alive?"
"Yes, of course."
"And my father and mother?"
"Oh, yes, yes, they're well--as well as can be expected under the
circumstances."
"Well, what's the matter, then? What's happened?"
"Dick, you must know perfectly well what has happened. Your grandfather
found out--the--er--what you did before you went away."
"What I did before I went away?"
"Well, it's no good skirmishing. Let's call it by its proper name--your
forgery. Those two checks you cashed at the bank, originally for two and
five dollars. I daresay you thought that your grandfather never looked at
his pass-book. You were mistaken. And what a confounded fool you must
have been to think that two amounts of such magnitude as two thousand and
five thousand dollars could be overlooked."
Dick's lower jaw had dropped a little, and he looked at the colonel in
blank surprise, yet with more listlessness than would a man in rude
health when amazed. The colonel misread the signs, and saw only the
astonishment of guilt unmasked.
"Your mother got the checks for you: but you added to the figures in
another ink. The forgery was discovered, and by Ormsby, too,
unfortunately, who is no friend of yours. The matter was hushed up, of
course. You have to thank Dora for that. A warrant was out for your
arrest, but Dora begged Ormsby to stay his hand for the sake of your
mother and father. And--er--well, the long and short of it is that Ormsby
was prepared to lose seven thousand dollars, rather than ruin your
family. The news of your death--your heroic death, as we imagined--came
at the opportune moment to help people to forget your folly."
Dick sat like a stone, calm, pale, holding his glass and listening
intently. For an instant he seemed about to faint.
"Of course, we all thought," continued the colonel, "that you had put
yourself into a tight corner on purpose, that you might respectably creep
out of your difficulties by dying and troubling nobody. And we respected
you for that. Everybody knew that you were up to your eyes in debt, and
at loggerheads with your grandfather, that the old man had disinherited
you, and all that. But surely you didn't owe seven thousand dollars!"
"Are you talking about the checks my mother gave me before I went away?"
Dick asked, quietly.
"Of course I am. You know the circumstances better than I do. It's no
good playing the fool with me, and I don't intend to have my daughter
upset by telegrams and surreptitious communications. So, now, you know.
You've done for yourself, my lad, and you'd better face it and remain
dead."
"But my mother--she has explained?"
"Of course, she has, and it's nearly broken her heart. Think of her awful
position, to have to confess that her son altered her checks--checks
actually drawn in her name--and the money filched from the bank by a
dirty trick! The bank's got to lose it. Your grandfather won't pay a
cent."
"But my mother--?" faltered Dick again, leaning forward heavily on the
table, and gazing at the colonel with eyes so full of horror that the
elder man wondered whether suffering had not turned Dick's brain.
"Ah, you may well ask about your mother. She tried to do her best, I
believe, to get your grandfather to pay up; but the shame of the thing is
what I look at. That's why I came to you here, to-day. If your mother
knows no more than Dora and all the rest--if they still think you're
dead--well, why not remain dead? It's only charity--it's only kind. Your
father and mother think that you died a hero's death, and, naturally,
aren't disposed to look upon your crime quite in the same light as other
people. Why, in heaven's name, when you got a chance of slipping out of
life, and out of the old set, and making a fresh start, didn't you seize
it?"
"You mean, why didn't I get shot?" asked Dick, slowly.
"Well, not exactly that. You know as well as I do that lots of chaps go
to the front to get officially shot, and have their names on the list of
the killed--men who really mean to turn over a new leaf, and get a fresh
lease of life in another country, under another name, when the war is
over. Others get put right out of the way, because they haven't the
courage to do it themselves."
"But my mother could have explained!" cried Dick, huskily. He was so weak
that he was unable to cope with agitation.
"Tut, tut, man, your mother could explain nothing. She could only tell
the truth--that she gave you two checks for small amounts, and you put
bigger amounts to them, and cashed them at the bank; in short, that her
son was a forger."
"My mother said that!"
"Yes."
"God help her!" gasped Dick, with a gulp. He put his hand to his throat,
and fell forward on the table, senseless.
The colonel jumped up in alarm. Waiters rushed forward, and they revived
the sick man by further applications of brandy. He recovered quickly, and
food was again set before him.
He ate mechanically, and for a long time there was silence between the
two men. The colonel wished himself well out of the business, and felt
the brutality of using harsh words to a man in such a condition of
health. Yet, he was resolute in his purpose.
Dick appeared somewhat stronger after the meal. Every now and again, he
would look up at the colonel in a dazed fashion, as if unable to believe
the evidence of his senses. At last, he spoke again.
"I suppose--my brain isn't what it was. But I'm feeling better. Tell me
again what my mother said--and my father."
The colonel detailed all that he knew, displaying considerable irritation
in the process. This attitude of ignorance and innocence nettled him. He
wound up with a soldier-like abruptness.
"Well, are you going to live, or do you intend to remain dead?"
"I'm going home."
"To be arrested?"
"No, to ask some questions."
"Don't be a fool. You'll be arrested at the station."
"No, I sha'n't. I've done a little dodging lately. I shall travel to some
other place, and walk home. I've faced worse things than--"
The sentence was never finished. He seemed to realize that there could be
nothing worse than to be falsely denounced by his own mother--the mother
whom he loved and idolized, the most wonderful mother son ever had, the
most beautiful woman in New York, the wife of John Swinton, chosen man of
God.
"You'd better not come home," urged the colonel; "at any rate, as far as
we are concerned."
"Ah, that means you intend to cut me."
"Yes; and as far as Dora is concerned--Well, the fact is, she's engaged
to Ormsby now."
"Engaged to Ormsby?"
Dick put out his hand almost blindly to take his cap, and adjusted it on
his head like a man drunk. He arose and staggered from the table. This
was the last straw.
"Look here, boy--you want some money," exclaimed the colonel, brusquely.
"I've come prepared. You'll find some bills in this envelope. Put it in
your pocket."
Dick's hands hung limply at his sides. The colonel seized him by the
loose front of his ulster, and kept him from swaying, at the same time
thrusting the envelope into one of his pockets. Then, he took the young
man's arm, and led him out into the vestibule.
"Bear up, my boy--bear up," he whispered. "You've got to face it. You're
dead--remember that. Nobody but myself knows the truth. Be a man, for
God's sake--for your mother's sake--for your father's. You've got the
whole world before you. If things go very wrong--well, you can rely upon
me for another instalment--just one more, like the one in your pocket.
Write to me under some other name. Call yourself John Smith--do you
hear?"
"Yes--John Smith," echoed Dick, huskily.
"Well, good-bye, my boy--good-bye," the colonel exclaimed. "I must catch
my train." He tried to say something else. Words failed him. He turned
and ignominiously escaped, leaving Dick standing alone, helpless and
dazed.
"I'm going home--I'm going home," muttered Dick, as he thrust his hands
into his ulster pockets, and tottered along toward the elevator, for he
felt that he must get to his room at once.
"My own mother!--I can't believe it."