Part 19 (2/2)
”It is not Mr. Ormsby--it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks, Dora. Don't you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you think I didn't love d.i.c.k? Do you think that, if there were any way of refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is useless. You will serve d.i.c.k best by burying your love in your heart, and saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public at all.”
”That's what I told father,” faltered Dora.
”The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don't anger him. Don't urge him on to blacken d.i.c.k's memory, as he is sure to do if you don't look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He told me so when I met him at dinner at the Bents'. Your father wishes it, and, if d.i.c.k could speak now, he would wish it, too--that you would do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy.
He wors.h.i.+ps you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor d.i.c.k, who was weak, like his mother. What am I saying--what am I saying? My sense of right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I'm a very wretched woman, Dora!” cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair Dora brought forward. ”Take warning by me. Love with your head and not your heart, Dora. Don't risk everything for a foolish girl's pa.s.sion, when a rich man offers you a proud position.”
”I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby,” said Dora, scornfully, ”I shall never marry anybody. Oh, d.i.c.k!--I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton--I thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as though d.i.c.k were unworthy--you whom he idolized.”
”Don't taunt me, Dora!” moaned the wretched mother. ”I shall always be fond of you for d.i.c.k's sake. Good-bye--and forgive me.” Mrs. Swinton tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.
Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in d.i.c.k's home, and shadowed by remembrances of him.
The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild.
”Oh, you, Miss Dundas,” he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. ”I thought I heard my wife's voice.”
”I have come to offer my condolences,” murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.
”Yes, yes--thank you--thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time.”
With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.
Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at d.i.c.k's home, crept away.
CHAPTER XV
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 s.p.a.ce.
People who knew of her regard for d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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,
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