Part 4 (1/2)
”Oh, yes, of course, we'll be discreet. And, if I'm killed--well, n.o.body will know of our engagement.”
”d.i.c.k, if you died on the field of battle, I should be proud to proclaim to all the world that--”
She broke down and sobbed, in spite of some staring pa.s.sers-by, who saw that there was a lover's quarrel in progress.
”There's time enough to talk of my going when I am actually starting,”
said d.i.c.k haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height, and showing an obvious intention to depart in a huff. ”Good-bye.”
”d.i.c.k! Don't leave me like that.”
He was gone; and he left behind him a very wretched girl. As she watched him striding along the walk, she wanted to call him back, and beg him to adhere to his previous decision to stay at home that she might have him always near. When he was out of sight, tears still blurred Dora's vision, and she bowed her head. A strange faintness came over her. She wanted him now. After all, he was her lover, her future husband; his place was by her side. It was folly to send him away into danger.
Dora was the daughter of Colonel Dundas, a retired officer of considerable experience. At his club, he was the authority upon everything military. He fairly bristled with patriotism, and his views on the gradual departure of the service ”to the dogs, sir,” were well advertised, both in print and by word of mouth.
”The army is not what it was, sir, and, if we're not careful, we sha'n't have any army at all, sir,” was the burden of his plat.i.tudes; and his motherless daughter had listened reverently ever since she was born, and believed in him. He had taught her that every self-respecting, manly man should be a soldier.
d.i.c.k Swinton's equivocal position as the son of a needy clergyman and the very uncertain heir to a great fortune, ruled him out of the reckoning as an eligible bachelor, compared with Jack Lorrimer, Ned Carnaby, Harry Bent, and Vivian Ormsby, all rich men. The miser so frequently advertised the fact that his grandson would not inherit a penny of his money that people had come to believe it, and they looked upon d.i.c.k with corresponding coolness. He surely must be a scamp to be spoken of as his own grandfather spoke of him; and, of course, wherever he went, women flung themselves at his head. The usual attraction of a good-looking, soft-eyed Adonis gained favor by the whispered suggestion that he was dangerous.
But, in truth, d.i.c.k was only bored with women until he fell in love with Dora, and took the girl's heart by storm.
Ormsby was laying siege to the citadel cautiously, as was his way. Bluff Jack Lorrimer's courage was paralyzed by his love, and he drank deep to dispel his melancholy. Harry Bent--who was already under the spell of Netty Swinton, d.i.c.k's sister's--was indifferent, and Carnaby had been rejected three times, despite his millions.
Colonel Dundas saw nothing to alarm him in the admiration of these young men for his daughter until d.i.c.k Swinton came along, and Dora changed into a dreamy, solemn young person. She lost all her audacity, and her hot temper was put to rest for ever. d.i.c.k wors.h.i.+ped with his eyes in such a manner that only the blind could fail to read the signs. He was not loquacious, and Dora was unaccountably shy. They never spoke of love until one day d.i.c.k, with simple audacity, and favored by unusual circ.u.mstances--under the light of the moon--clasped the girl to his heart, and kissed her. She cried, and he imprisoned her in his arms for a full minute. For ransom and release, she gave her lips unresistingly, and he uncaged her.
”Now, you're mine,” he murmured, with a great sigh of relief, ”and we're engaged.”
She smiled and nodded, and came to his heart again of her own accord.
And not a word was said to anybody. It was all too precious and wonderful and beautiful. And yet she expected him to go away.
At the club, to-day everybody stared to see Ormsby and d.i.c.k Swinton meet as though nothing had happened overnight, and the news was soon buzzing around that Swinton was going, after all. Jack Lorrimer explained that d.i.c.k had at last procured the consent of his grandfather, without which it would have been impossible for him to go. Everybody wondered why they had not thought of that before, and laughed at the overnight business.
On his return to the rectory, d.i.c.k met his mother in the porch.
”Mother!” he cried, in a voice that was husky with emotion. ”I've got to go. I've just given my name in to the colonel, and the money must be found somehow. Ormsby has dared to insinuate that I'm a coward. I--”
”It's all right, d.i.c.k. You can have your outfit; I've got enough. I suppose five hundred dollars will cover it?”
”It'll have to, if that's all I can get, mother.”
”That is all I can spare.”
”Out of grandfather's two thousand?”
”Most of it has already gone. A thousand to your father for the builder man, a hundred to that wretch who was here yesterday, and the rest to pay some of my own debts. My luck has deserted me lately. I shall have to beg of your grandfather again to get the five hundred you want.”
d.i.c.k groaned.
”I know, my boy, that it is very humiliating to have to beg for money which really belongs to one--for it does belong to us, to you and me, I mean--as much as to him, doesn't it? It's maddening to think that the law allows a man to ruin his relations because senility has weakened his intellect.”