DICK EXPLAINS TO DORA
Dora hardly knew how she reached home after her visit to Herresford. She
had no recollection of anything seen by the way. Her senses swam in an
ecstasy too great for words, too intense to allow of impressions from
outside. Tears of joy obscured her vision. It was only when she arrived
home, and saw her father, and recollected that he had deceived her
wilfully, that she had room in her heart for anything but happiness.
The colonel was in the library, turning over the leaves of a
house-agent's catalogue--his favorite occupation at the present time:
Ormsby had enlisted his help in search of a suitable home for his bride.
"Here's a nice little place," cried the colonel. "They give a picture of
it. Why, girl, what a color you've got!"
"Yes, father, it's happiness."
"That's right, my girl--that's right. I'm glad you're taking a sensible
view of things. What did I tell you?"
"You told me an untruth, father. You told me that Dick was dead."
Dora's eyes flashed, and the colonel looked sheepish. He covered his
embarrassment with anger.
"So, the young fool hasn't taken my advice then? He wants to turn
convict. Is that why you're happy?--because a man who presumed to make
love to you behind your father's back has come home to get sent to the
penitentiary, instead of remaining respectably dead when he had the
chance?"
"Father, I shall never marry Mr. Ormsby. I have told him so."
"What! you've been down to the bank?"
"No, I have just come from Asherton Hall. What passed there I cannot
explain to you at present, but I have written to Vivian, giving him his
_conge_."
"Do you mean to tell me," thundered the colonel, rising and thumping the
table with his clenched fist, "that you're going to throw over the
richest bachelor in the country for a blackguard, a forger, a man who
couldn't play the straight game?"
"Did you play the straight game, father, when you concealed the fact that
Dick lived? You meant to trick me into a speedy marriage with your
friend."
"I--I won't be talked to like this. There comes a time when a father must
assert his authority, and I say--"
"Father, you'll be ill, if you excite yourself like this."
"Don't talk about playing the straight game to me. I suppose you've been
to Asherton Hall to see the rascal. He's hiding there, no doubt."
"No, he's not. It is you who know where he is. You've seen him, and you
must tell me where to find him. I won't rest till I've heard the true
story of the forgery from his own lips."
"If I knew where he was at the present moment," exclaimed the colonel,
thumping the table again, "I'd give information to the police. As for
Ormsby, when he gets your letter--if you've written it--he'll search the
wide world for him. He will be saving me the trouble. Swinton must pay
the penalty--and the sooner the better."
"I've seen Mr. Herresford, who said it was only a question of money."
"Aha, that's where you're wrong. If Ormsby chooses to prosecute, no man
can help the young fool. He's branded forever as a criminal and a felon.
Why, if he could inherit his grandfather's millions, decent people would
shut their doors in his face, now."
"Then, his service to his country counts for nothing," faltered Dora.
"No; many a man has distinguished himself in the field, but that hasn't
saved him from prison. Dick Swinton is done for. Ormsby will see to
that."
"Vivian is a coward, then, and his action will only show how wise I was
to abandon all thought of marrying him."
"You haven't abandoned all thought of it. You're just a silly fool of a
girl who won't take her father's advice. It is an insult to Ormsby to
throw him over for a thieving rascal--"
"Father, you have always prided yourself on being a just man. Yet, you
condemn Dick without a hearing."
"Without a hearing! Haven't I given him a hearing? I saw him. He had the
chance then to deny the charge. His crime is set out in black and white,
and he can't get away from it. No doubt, he thinks he can talk over a
silly woman, and scrape his way back to respectable society by marrying
my daughter; but no--not if I know it! Marry Dick Swinton, and you go out
of my house, never to return. I'll not be laughed at by my friends and
pointed at as a man of loose principles, who allowed his daughter to mate
with a blackguard."
"Father, curb your tongue," cried Dora, flashing out angrily. Her color
was rising, and that determined little mouth, which had excited the
admiration of Herresford, was set in a hard, straight line. The colonel
was red in the face, and emphasizing his words with his clenched fists,
as if he were threatening to strike.
Dora was the first to recover her composure. She turned away with a
shrug, and walked out of the room to put an end to the discussion.
Her joy at Dick's return from the grave was short-lived. The appalling
difficulty of the situation was making itself felt. She left the colonel
to ramp about the house, muttering, and shut herself in her boudoir,
where she proceeded to make short work of everything associated with
Vivian Ormsby. His photograph was torn into little pieces; the gifts with
which he had loaded her were collected together in a heap; his letters
were burned without a sigh. She would have been sorry for him, if he had
not conspired with her father to conceal the truth about Dick's supposed
death. She shuddered to think what her position would have been, if she
had married Ormsby, and then discovered, when the die was cast, that
Dick, her idol, the only one who had touched a responsive chord in her
heart, was living, and set aside by fraud.
The scrape into which Dick had got himself could not really be as serious
as her father imagined, since the grandfather of the culprit had spoken
of it so lightly--and, in any case, the crime of forgery never horrifies
a woman as do the supposedly meaner crimes of other theft and of
violence. It was surely something that could be put right, and, if it
could not, then it would become a battle of heart against conscience.
But, at present, love held the field.
It was absolutely necessary to see Dick, and get information on all
points; and, as it was quite impossible to extract information from her
father as to her lover's whereabouts, the rectory seemed to be the most
likely place to gather news. To the rectory, therefore, she went.
Dick was upstairs, ill. When her name was taken in to the clergyman--she
chose the father in preference to the mother from an instinctive distrust
of Mrs. Swinton which she could not explain--John Swinton trembled.
Cowardice suggested that he should avoid her questioning. He knew why she
came; and was not prepared with the answer to the inevitable inquiry,
"Where is Dick?" Yet, anything that contributed to Dick's happiness at
this miserable juncture was not to be neglected. Therefore, he received
her.
Dora was shocked to see the change in the clergyman. His hand trembled
when it met hers, and his eyes looked anywhere but into her face.
"Mr. Swinton, you can guess why I have come."
"I think I know. You have heard the glad news--indeed, everyone seems to
have heard it--that my son has been given back to me."
"And to me, Mr. Swinton."
"What! Then, you do not turn your back upon him, Miss Dundas!" he cried,
with tears in his voice.
"I have come to you, Mr. Swinton, to find out where he is, that I may go
to him, and hear from his own lips a denial of the atrocious charge
brought against him by the bank."
"Yes, yes, of course! I don't wonder that you find it hard to believe."
The guilty rector fidgeted nervously, and covered his confusion by
bringing forward a chair.
"I cannot stay, Mr. Swinton, thank you. I have just run down to beg you
to put me in communication with your son. Oh, you can't think what it has
meant to me. It has saved me from an unhappy marriage."
"Your engagement to Mr. Ormsby is broken off?"
"Yes."
"Because you think you'll be able to marry Dick?"
"Yes. Why do you speak of Dick like that?" she asked, with a sudden
sinking at the heart. "Surely, you do not join in the general
condemnation--you, his own father! Oh, it isn't true what they told
me--that he's a forger, who will have to answer to the law, and go to
prison. It isn't true."
"Dick himself is the only person who can answer your questions."
"But where is he? I suppose I can write to him?"
"He's in hiding," said the rector, brokenly. The words seemed to be
choking him.
"In hiding! Dick, who faced a dozen rifles and flung defiance in the
teeth of his country's enemies--in hiding!"
"Just for the present--just for the present. You see, they would arrest
him. It's so much better to prepare a defense when one has liberty
than--than--from the Tombs."
"Then, you will not tell me where he is?"
The information Dora vainly sought came to her by an accident. Netty,
unaware of the presence of a visitor in the house, walked into the study,
and commenced to speak before she was well into the room.
"Father, Dick wants the papers. He's finished the book and--Oh, Miss
Dundas!"
"He is here--in this house?" cried Dora, flushing angrily at the rector's
want of trust. "Oh, why didn't you tell me? Do you think that I would
betray him? Why didn't you let me know? How long has he been home? Oh,
please let me go to him!"
Father and daughter looked at one another in confusion.
"I intended to tell you, Miss Dundas, after I had asked my son's
permission. You see, we are all in league with him here. If the police
got an inkling of his presence in the house, it would be very awkward."
"I don't think Dick would like to see you just now," interjected Netty.
"You see, he's ill--he's very ill, and much broken."
"Now that you know he is here," interposed the rector, "there can be no
objection to your seeing him. I must first inform him of your
coming--that he may be prepared. I'm sure he will be glad to see you."
The rector escaped to fulfil a difficult and painful mission. He had
almost forgotten the existence of his son's sweetheart, and was only
conscious that she added to the troubles of an already trying situation.
The noble fellow, who was prepared to take the burden of his mother's
sin, would certainly find it hard to justify himself in the eyes of the
woman he loved. And, if he set himself right in Dora's eyes, that would
mean--? He trembled to think what it would mean.
Dora and Netty, in the study, maintained an unnatural reserve, in which
there was silent antagonism. Dora relieved the situation by a
commonplace.
"You must be overjoyed, Netty, to have your brother back again."
"Overjoyed!" exclaimed Netty, with a shrug. "I'm likely to lose a
husband. A disgraced brother is a poor exchange."
"You don't mean to say that Harry Bent would be so mean as to withdraw
because your brother--"
"Oh, yes, say it--because my brother is a criminal. I don't pity him, and
you'll find your father less lenient than mine. All thought of an
engagement between you and Dick is now, of course, absurd."
"That is for Dick to decide," said Dora, quietly. But there was a
horrible sinking at her heart, and tears came to her eyes. She walked to
the window to hide her emotion from unsympathetic eyes. She almost hated
Netty. Everyone seemed to be conspiring to overthrow her idol. They would
not give her half a chance of believing him innocent. She positively
quaked at the prospect of hearing from Dick's own lips his version of the
story.
When the clergyman came down, he entered with bowed head and haggard
face, like a beaten man. He signed to Netty that he wished to be alone
with Dora, and, when the girl was gone, went over to his visitor, and
laid a trembling hand upon her shoulder.
"My dear Miss Dundas, my son desires to see you, and speak with you
alone. He will say--he will tell you things that may make you take a
harsh view of--of his parents. I exhort you, in all Christian charity, to
suspend your judgment, and be merciful--to us, at least. I am a weak
man--weaker than I thought. This is a time of humiliation for us, a time
of difficulty, bordering on ruin. Have mercy. That is all I ask."
Without waiting for a reply, he led the way upstairs. Dora followed with
beating heart, conscious of a sense of mystery. At the door of Dick's
room, the rector left her.
"Go in," he murmured, hoarsely.
"Dora!"
It was Dick's voice. He was reclining in a deck-chair, wrapped around
with rugs, and with a book lying in his lap. He was less drawn and
pinched than when he first returned, but the change in him was still
great enough to give her a sudden wrench at the heart.
"Oh, Dick! Dick!" she cried, flinging away her muff and rushing to him.
"Oh, my poor Dick! What have they done to you?"
He smiled weakly, and allowed her to wind her arms about his neck as she
knelt by his side.
"They've nearly killed me, Dora. But I'm not dead yet. I'm in hiding
here, as I understand father told you. You don't mean to give me the
go-by just because people are saying things about me?"
"Indeed, no. But the things they're saying, Dick, are dreadful, and I
wanted to hear from your own lips that they're not true."
"You remember what I said to you before I went away?"
"I remember, and I have been loyal to my promise."
"Well, you can continue loyal, little one. I am no forger--but I fear
they're going to put me into jail, and I must go through with it, as I've
had to go through lots of ugly things out there." He shuddered.
"But, Dick, if the charge is false, why cannot you refute it?"
"Ah, there you have me, Dora. If you force me to explain, I will. It
concerns one who is near and dear to me, and I would rather be silent.
If, however, there is the slightest doubt in your mind of my innocence,
you must know everything."
"I--I would rather know," pleaded Dora, whose curiosity was
overmastering.
"But is your faith in me conditional? Is not my word enough?"
"It is enough for me, Dick--but it is the others--father, and--"
"Ah! I understand. But what do other people matter--now? You're going to
marry Ormsby, I understand."
Dora looked down, and her hand trembled in his as she sought for words to
explain a situation which was hardly explainable.
"Well--you see--Dick--they told me you were dead. We all gave you up as a
lost hero."
"Yet, before the grass had grown over my supposed grave, you were ready
to transfer your love to--that cad."
"Not my love, Dick--not my love! Believe me, I was broken-hearted. They
said dreadful things about you, and I couldn't prove them untrue, and I
didn't want everybody to think--Well, father pressed it. I was utterly
wretched. I knew I should never love anybody else, dearest--nobody else
in the world, and I didn't care whom I married."
It was the sweetest reasoning, and of that peculiarly feminine order
which the inherent vanity of man cannot resist. Dick's only rebuke was a
kiss.
"Well, Dora, I'm not a marrying man, now. I'm not even respectable. As
soon as I'm well, I've got to disappear again. But the idea of your
marrying Ormsby--"
"It's off, Dick--off! I gave him his dismissal the moment I heard--"
"Did your father tell you I was alive?"
"No, your grandfather told me."
"Ye gods! You don't mean to say you've seen him!"
"Yes, Dick, and I think he's the dearest old man alive. He was most
charming. He isn't really a bit horrid. My letter dismissing Mr. Ormsby
was posted at his own request. So, if you want me, Dick, I am yours
still. More wonderful still, he told me things I could hardly believe."
"He's a frightful old liar, is grandfather."
"I don't think he was lying, Dick. You'll laugh at his latest
eccentricity. He told me he would alter his will and leave everything to
me--not to you--to me."
"But why?"
"Well, I suppose--I suppose that he thought--"
Dora played with the fringe of the rug on Dick's knee as she still knelt
by his side, and seemed embarrassed.
"I think I understand," laughed Dick. "He's taken a fancy to you."
"Yes, Dick, I think he has. It is because he thinks--that you have taken
a fancy to me--that--oh, well, can't you understand?"
She rested her cheek against his, and, as he folded her to his heart, he
understood.
"So, grandfather has turned matchmaker. I'll warrant he thinks you are a
skinflint, and will take care of his money."
"That's it, Dick. He thinks I'm the most economical person. I saw him
looking at my dress, a cheap, tweed walking affair. Oh, good gracious, if
he had seen my wardrobe at home, or the housekeeping and the stable
accounts!"
"Then, you'll have to keep it up, darling. Next time you go to see him,
borrow a dress from your maid."
"Dick, your grandfather talked of getting you out of your scrape. What
does that mean? If he pays the seven thousand dollars, will it get you
off?"
"It is not a question of money, now. It is a question of the
penitentiary, darling. And I don't see that it is fair to hold you to any
pledges. I've got to go through with this business. You couldn't marry an
ex-convict."
"Dick, if you are not guilty, if you have done no wrong, you are
shielding someone else who has." Dora arose to her feet impatiently, and
stood looking down almost angrily.
"Dora, Dora, don't force it out of me!" he pleaded. "If you think a
little, you'll understand."
"I have thought. I can understand nothing. They told me that your
mother's checks--"
Even as she spoke, she understood. The knowledge flashed from brain to
brain.
"Oh, Dick--your mother!--Mrs. Swinton! Oh!"
"Grandfather drove her to it, Dora. You mustn't be hard on her."
"And she let them accuse you--her son--when you were supposed to have
died gloriously--oh, horrible!"
"Ah, that's the worst of being a newspaper hero. The news that I'm home
has got abroad somehow, and those journalist fellows are beginning to
write me up again. I wish they'd leave me alone. They make things so
hard."
"Dick, you're not going to ruin your whole career, and blacken your
reputation, because your mother hasn't the courage to stand by her
wickedness."
"It wasn't the sort of thing you'd do, Dora, I know. But mother's
different. Never had any head for money, and didn't know what she was
doing. She looked upon grandfather's money as hers and mine."
"But when they thought you were dead--oh, horrible. It was infamous!"
"Dora, Dora, you promised to be patient."
"Does your father know? He does, of course! A clergyman!"
"Leave him out of it. Poor old dad--it's quite broken him up. Think of
it, Dora, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's parish to go to jail.
That's what it would mean. The rector himself disgraced, and his children
stigmatized forever. An erring son is a common thing; and an erring
brother doesn't necessarily besmirch a sister's honor. Can't you see,
Dora, that it's hard enough for them to bear without your casting your
stone as well?"
"Oh, Dick, I can't understand it. Has she no mother feeling? How could a
woman do such a thing? Her own son! To take advantage of his death to
defile his memory. Oh, if I had known, I--I would have--"
"Hush, hush, Dora! If you knew what my mother has suffered, and if you
could look into my father's stricken heart, you'd be willing to overlook
a great deal. When I get out of the country, I'm going to make a fresh
start. Ormsby has set spies around the house like flies, and, as you've
thrown him over now, he'll be doubly venomous. I only wanted to set
myself right in your eyes, and absolve you from all pledges."
"But I don't want to be absolved," sobbed Dora, dropping on her knees
again, and seeking his breast. "Oh, Dick, Dick, you are braver than they
know. Was it not easier to face the firing party than to endure the
ignominy of this unmerited disgrace?"
"There's no help for it. I must go through with it. Don't shake my
courage. A man must stick up for his mother."
"Oh, Dick, there must be some other way."
"There is no other--unless--unless my grandfather consents to acknowledge
those checks, and declares that the alterations were made with his
knowledge. But that he will not do--because he knows who did it--and he
is merciless. I don't care a snap of my finger for the world. You are my
world, Dora. If you approve, then I am game. I shall be all right in a
few days, and then--then I'll go and do my bit of time, and see the
inside of Sing-Sing. It'll be amusing. There's a cab. That's mother come
home."
"Oh, I can't face her!" cried Dora, with hardening mouth.
"Go away without seeing her, darling. Promise you won't reveal what I've
told you."
"I can't promise. It's horrible!"
"You must--you must, little girl."
And in the end, much against her will, she was persuaded to keep silence.