Part 12 (1/2)
”That's right, my girl, play away. It's good to hear the piano going again. And, between ourselves, I'm beginning to feel depressed by the stillness of the house. It's difficult to believe that this is home since we took on hospital work. Between ourselves, I sha'n't be sorry when Ormsby says good-bye. As a strong man and a soldier, I like him; but, as a sick man, I've had enough of him. Never had a fancy for ambulance work or being near the hospital base.”
”I, too, shall be glad when we have the house to ourselves,” observed Dora. ”Of course, I'm fearfully sorry for Captain Ormsby, and all that; but I do wish he'd go. He's not very ill now. Couldn't you throw out a hint about his going, father?”
”Impossible! I--I am not a strategist; but you are. I will leave him to you, and you must get to work. But I don't know what you've got to grumble about with a man like Ormsby in the house to amuse you and admire you all the time.”
The colonel turned on his heel, and was out of the room before Dora could stop him.
She got up from the piano, and pushed the stool aside, impatiently. Her lovely face was clouded, and two little lines above the curving arch of her eyebrows were deeply set in thought. Ormsby's continued presence filled her with uneasy dread. For the past two weeks, he had watched her with an intentness that was embarra.s.sing. She knew that he meant to propose to her, if he succeeded in finding her alone; and she was undecided as to whether she should give, or deny, him the opportunity of hearing the worst. Perhaps, it would be better to let him speak; he could not possibly remain after she had refused him.
This decision made, she presently went into the library, where she found her father and their guest. The two men were talking earnestly, and, as she approached, her father shook hands heartily with Ormsby--for some unknown reason--and went out of the room. It looked like a plot to leave her at Vivian Ormsby's mercy. She made an excuse to follow her father.
Now that the moment was come, her courage failed her. She saw that the man was very much in earnest, and she knew that it would be difficult to turn him from his purpose.
”One moment,” said Ormsby, resting his hand on her arm. ”I have something to say to you. You must give me a few minutes--you really must, I insist.”
”Must! Captain Ormsby,” faltered Dora, with the color flooding her cheeks. ”I never allow anyone to use that word to me--not even father.”
”Then, let me beg you to listen.” He spoke softly, caressingly, but the mouth was hard, and his fine, full eyes held her as under a spell. ”What I have to say will not, I feel sure, come as a surprise, for you must have seen that I love you. I have your father's permission to ask you to be my wife.”
”Please, please, don't say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but--oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you--never--never--never!”
”Dora”--he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm--”you don't know what you are saying. Perhaps, I've startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me.”
”Mr. Ormsby, please, don't say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible--I do not care for you; I can never care for you--in that way.”
He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance.
”Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young d.i.c.k Swinton. But you'll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil his chances--yes, spoil them, and I will, by G.o.d! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?--a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure.”
”That is a falsehood--a deliberate lie!” cried Dora. ”You would not dare to say such a thing if d.i.c.k were in New York. It's only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with d.i.c.k at the dinner--I heard all about it. I'm glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you--as a liar deserves to be thrashed.”
”Gently, young lady, gently,” replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with pa.s.sion. ”You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let d.i.c.k Swinton feel it.” Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: ”Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but--really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him.”
”But I don't,” cried Dora, angrier than before.
”You will change presently.”
”Never!”
”Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again.”
”Forgery of what?” she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh.
”Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford's permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony.”
”You are saying this in spite--to frighten me.”
”Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot.”
”I don't believe you,” she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging.