Dick Swinton spent a wretched night after his humiliation at the dinner. When he awakened, the sun of spring was shining on the quivering leaves of the trees along the drive. He opened his window and looked out.

At the sound of the rattling casement, Rudd, who was at work on the lawn, looked up. Rudd was general factotum—coachman, gardener, footman,—and usually valeted his young master. Now, he hurried upstairs to Mr. Dick’s bedroom, where he duly appeared with a pile of letters.

“Mrs. Swinton and Miss Netty have breakfasted in their rooms, sir. The rector has gone out. And it’s nine o’clock.”

Dick took the bundle of letters—bills all of them, except two, one of which was addressed in the handwriting of Dora Dundas. Rudd knew the outside of a bill as well as his young master, and had selected the love-letter from the others, and placed it first.

When Dick was dressed, he opened the girl’s letter, and his face softened: 40

Dearest, I hear that everything was settled last night, and I must see you this morning. There are many things to be talked of before the dreadful good-bye. I shall be in the Mall, but I can’t stay long.

Your loving,

Dora.

“She imagines I’m going,” growled Dick, grinding his teeth and thinking of the shameful scene of last night. “Well, I’ll show them all that I have the courage of my convictions.”

But, despite his declarations, his feelings were greatly confused, and, although he would not confess the fact even to himself, he was now consumed with chagrin that he had refused the chance of service. To be branded thus with cowardice was altogether insupportable!

And then, while he was in this mood, he opened the other envelope, carelessly. His interest was first aroused by the fact that, as he glanced at it, there was no sign of a letter. A second examination revealed something contained there. Dick put in his fingers, and pulled forth a white feather. For a few seconds, he stared at it in bewilderment, wondering what this thing might mean. But, in the next instant, the significance of it flashed on him. Somewhere, some time, he had read the story of a soldier who was stigmatized by his fellows as a craven in this manner. The presentation of the white feather to him meant that he, Dick Swinton, was a coward. 41

As he realized the truth, the young man was stunned. It seemed to him a monstrous thing that any could so misunderstand. Yet, there was the evidence of his shame before his eyes. He grew white as he tried to imagine what the sender must think of him. And then, presently, in thinking of the sender, he was filled with an overmastering rage against the one who dared thus to impugn his courage. He looked at the envelope, which was addressed in a straggling hand, and was convinced that the writer had disguised the handwriting. But he felt that he had no need of evidence to know who his enemy was. Of his own circle, all were his friends, save only Captain Ormsby. And he had struck Ormsby. This, then, was Ormsby’s revenge. After all, it were folly to permit the malevolence of a cad so to distress him. Since he was not a coward, the white feather concerned him not at all.

Nevertheless, he was unable to dismiss his annoyance over the incident as completely as he wished, and he breakfasted without appetite. He was still disconsolate when he set out to keep his engagement in Central Park.

At five minutes past ten o’clock, there approached the spot where Dick stood waiting in the Mall a very charming girl of scarcely twenty years of age, of medium height, with a pretty, plump form delightfully outlined by the lines of her walking dress. 42 This was of a gray cloth, perfectly cut, but almost military in its severity. Her mouth was small and proud, her eyes gray and solemn, her color high from walking in the chilly air, and her hair of that nondescript brown usually described as fair. Uncommon, yet not sensational; but with a delicate charm that radiated from her like perfume from a flower.

At the sight of the lover awaiting her, Dora’s placid demeanor departed. Her eyes lighted up and moistened with tenderness. She could not wait for him to join her; she started forward with outstretched hands.

“You are not displeased?” she asked, with a blush. “I did so want to see you! Oh, to think that we must part so soon!”

“I suppose you’ve heard all about last night?” asked Dick, hoarsely.

“Yes. Mr. Ormsby called to see father for a moment. They talked incessantly about the war, and I overheard a little of their conversation—about last night. How sad for that poor fellow who turned coward, and was shamed before them all. Who was it?”

The color fled from Dick’s face, and left it white and drawn.

“You were wrongly informed. The man was insulted, and there was no question of cowardice about it. He couldn’t go, and he wouldn’t go.” 43

“But who was it? Not Jack Lorrimer or Harry Bent, surely?”

“Then, you don’t know?” he exclaimed.

Something in his face made her heart stand still.

Dora could not yet understand that a hideous blunder had been made, that her information came from a tainted source. Ormsby had told her father, in her hearing, of a vulgar scuffle, but her ears had not caught the name of the offender.

“Can’t you guess who it was they insulted?” cried Dick, bitterly. “It was I. I declined to go. How could I go? You know all about my finances. You know what it costs, the outfit, everything; and, darling, I was only just engaged to the dearest little girl in the world.”

“Dick!—you?” she cried, looking at him in cold amazement. Then, he knew to his cost what it was to love a soldier’s daughter, a girl born in a military camp, and reared among men who regarded the chance of active service as the good fortune of the gods. It had never occurred to her for a moment that Dick would hang back—certainly not on her account—after her loving message.

He hastened to explain the circumstances, and was obliged to confess to the girl whom he had only just won a good deal more of the unfortunate state of his family affairs than he had hoped would be necessary. Of course, she was sympathetic, and furiously 44 angry with Vivian Ormsby; but—and there came the rub—of course, he would go now, at all costs.

“Well, it was for you I said no,” he cried, at last. “But for you I’ll say yes. It’s not too late. I’ll have to swindle somebody to get my outfit, and add another to the long list of debts that are breaking my father’s heart; but still—”

“But your grandfather, Dick! Surely, only a word to him would be enough. He could not refuse to behave handsomely.”

“He never behaved handsomely in his life. He’s a mean old miser, who will probably fool us all in the end, and leave his money to strangers. But, as it’s settled, we need say no more. I suppose I shall see you again before I go—if it matters to you—I suppose you don’t care whether I am killed.”

“Oh, Dick!”

“Yes, I’m disappointed. I did hope that you thought the world well lost for love, and that, having braved the inevitable anger of your father in giving yourself to me, you’d show some feeling, and not look forward eagerly to my leaving you. You seem anxious to be rid of me.”

“Dick! Dick!” cried the girl. “I’m a soldier’s daughter. I—”

“Oh, pray spare me a repetition of your father’s platitudes—I’ve heard them often enough. I don’t 45 know much about the war, but all I’ve heard has set me against it. But never mind! And now, good-bye, my Spartan sweetheart.”

He extended his hand, sullenly and coldly.

“Hush! And don’t be hateful” Dora remonstrated. Then, she added, quickly: “It’s more than ever necessary, Dick, now that you are going away, to keep our secret. You mustn’t anger your grandfather.”

“Oh, yes, of course, we’ll be discreet. And, if I’m killed—well, nobody will know of our engagement.”

“Dick, 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 passers-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 Dick haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height, and showing an obvious intention to depart in a huff. “Good-bye.”

“Dick! 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. 46 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 platitudes; 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.

Dick 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 Dick 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 47 usual attraction of a good-looking, soft-eyed Adonis gained favor by the whispered suggestion that he was dangerous.

But, in truth, Dick 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, Dick’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 Dick 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. Dick worshiped 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 Dick, with simple audacity, and favored by unusual circumstances—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. 48

“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 Dick 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 Dick 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, Dick 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, Dick. 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.” 49

“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.”

Dick 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.”

“He’s an old brute,” growled Dick, as he strode away.