Dora was undetermined in her attitude toward Dick’s enemy, who, for her sake, was ready to become his friend and save his name from public disgrace. She had a poor opinion of a man who was willing to further his own suit by making concessions to a rival, even though that rival were dead; but her attitude of mind toward Dick was changing slowly under outside influence—as it was bound to do with a clear-headed girl, trained to the strict code of honor that exists among military men concerning other people’s money. A soldier who had committed forgery could never hold up his head again in the eyes of his regiment, or of the woman he loved. He voluntarily made himself an outcast.

The colonel did not fail to drive home the inevitable moral, and congratulated himself upon his daughter’s escape. Dora was obliged to acknowledge that Dick, if not a villain, was at least a fool. The sorrow he had brought upon his father and mother was alone sufficient to warrant the heartiest condemnation. The colonel was never tired of commenting on the awful change in the mother’s appearance 196 and the blight upon John Swinton, who went about like a condemned man, evading his friends, and scarcely daring to look his parishioners in the face.

There had been talk of a memorial service in the parish church, but nothing came of it. Its abandonment was looked upon as a tacit recognition of a painful situation, which would only be augmented by a public parade of sorrow.

Ormsby treated Dora with the greatest consideration. No lover could have been more sympathetic—not a word about Dick Swinton or the seven thousand dollars. He laid himself out to please, and self-confidence made him almost gay—if gaiety could ever be associated with a man so somber and proud. The colonel persisted in throwing his daughter and the banker together in a most marked fashion, and Ormsby was at much pains to ignore the father’s blundering diplomacy.

As a result of his skilled tactics, Dora had ceased to shrink away from him—because she no longer feared that he would make love to her. She laughed at her father’s insinuations, because it was easier to laugh than to go away and cry. She put a brave face on things—for Dick’s sake. She did not want it to be thought that he had spread around more ruin and misery than already stood to his credit at the 197 rectory. Pride played its part. She supposed Ormsby understood that the idea of his being a lover was absurd. In this, she was rudely awakened one evening after the banker had dined at the house.

The colonel pleaded letters to write, and begged Dora to play a little and entertain their guest.

“Ormsby loves a cigarette over the fire, Dora, and he’s fond of music. I shall be able to hear you up in the study.”

Ormsby added his entreaties, and the colonel left them alone.

Dora was in a black evening-gown. It heightened the pallor of her skin, and made her look extremely slender and tall. Ormsby, whose clothes always fitted him like a uniform, looked his best in evening dress, with his black hair and dark eyes. His haughty bearing and stern, handsome features went well with the severe lines of his conventional attire. The colonel paused at the door before going out, and looked at the two on whom his hopes were now centred—Ormsby standing on the hearth-rug, straight as a dart, and Dora offering him the cigarette-box with a natural, sweet grace that was instinctive with her. He nodded in approval as he looked. Dora was an unfailing joy to him. She pleased his eye as she might have pleased a lover. He was proud of her, too, of her fearlessness, her 198 tact, her womanliness, and, above all, her air of breeding. She certainly looked charming to-night, a fitting chÂtelaine for the noblest mansion.

As the colonel remained in the doorway, still staring, Dora turned her head with a smile.

“What are you looking at, father?”

“I was only thinking,” said the colonel bluntly, “what a magnificent pair you two would make if you would only bring your minds to join forces, instead of always fencing and standing on ceremony like two proud peacocks.”

“My mind requires no making up, colonel,” responded Ormsby quickly, with an appealing, almost humble glance at Dora.

“Father, what nonsense you talk!” cried she, changing color and trembling so much that the cigarettes spilled upon the floor.

The colonel shut the door without further comment, and left them alone.

“How stupid of me,” murmured Dora, seeking to cover her confusion by picking up the cigarettes.

“I shall not allow you,” he murmured, seizing her arm in a strong grip, gently but firmly, and raising her. “I am ever at your service. You know that.”

“Let go my arm, please.”

“May I not take the other one as well, and look into your eyes, and ask you the question which has been in my mind for days?” 199

“It is useless, Mr. Ormsby. Let me go.”

“No,” he cried, coming quite close and surveying her with a glance so intense that she shrank away frightened. “I will not let you go. You are mine—mine! I mean to keep you forever. I’ll shadow you till you die. You shall never cast me off. No other man shall ever approach you as near as I. I will not let him. I would kill him.”

“You are talking nonsense, Mr. Ormsby, and you are hurting my arm.”

“To prevent your escaping, I shall encircle you with bands of steel,” and he put his arm around her quickly, and held her to him.

“I beg that you will behave decently and sensibly,” she cried, with a sob. “I’ve given you to understand before that this sort of thing is repugnant to me. Let me go.”

She struck him on the breast with the flat of her hand, and thrust herself away, compelling him to release her. Her anger spent itself in tears, and she hurried across to the piano stool, where she dropped down, feeling more helpless and hopeless than ever in her life before. Her father had given Ormsby the direct hint; and he had proposed again. She could not blame him for that. She could not deny that he was masterful, and handsome, and convincing. There was no escape; and the absurdity of sweeping out of the room in indignation was obvious. 200 He was their guest, and would be their guest as long as her father chose.

The ardent lover held himself in check with wonderful self-possession. He drew forward an armchair, and, dropping into it, picked up the cigarettes from the floor, lighted one and settled himself callously to smoke, taking no further notice of her tears. It was better than offering sympathy that would be scorned. It was exactly the right thing at the moment, and Dora saw the wisdom of it and respected him. It lessened her fear; but she cried quietly for a little while; then, drying her tears, she fingered the music on the top of the grand piano, idly.

“I’m afraid you think me a very hysterical and stupid person, Mr. Ormsby?” she said at last, growing weary of the strained silence and his indifferent nonchalance. “I don’t usually cry like this, and make scenes, and behave like a schoolgirl.”

“I’m making headway,” was Ormsby’s thought, “or she wouldn’t take the trouble to excuse herself.”

“I think you are the most sensible girl I ever met, Dora.”

“You have no right to call me Dora.”

“In future, I shall do just as I choose. You know your father’s wishes—you know mine. I am patient, I can wait. After to-night, you are mine always, and forever. Some day, you will be my wife, 201 and, instead of sitting apart from me over there, you will be here by my side, holding my hand.”

“Never!” she cried, starting up, and emphasizing her determination by a blow with her hand upon the music lying on the piano top.

“Ah! you feel like that now. Dora, show your sweet reasonableness by playing to me for a little while. I promise, I shall not annoy you further.”

“I don’t feel like playing. You have upset me.”

“Then, sit by the fire.”

He drew forward a chair of which he knew she was fond, and brought it close to the hearth.

“Come! You used to smoke in the old days. Have a cigarette. It will help you to forget unpleasant things. It will calm you—if you don’t feel inclined to play.”

“I would rather play,” she faltered.

“Whichever you please.”

She settled herself at the piano, and fingered the music, irresolutely. She had not touched the keys since Dick’s death, and, if she had been less perturbed to-night, she would not for a moment have contemplated breaking that silence for the sake of Vivian Ormsby, but an extraordinary helplessness had taken possession of her. There was something magnetic about this man whom she feared, and tried to hate, something that compelled her to act against her will and better judgment. 202

She chose the first piece of music at hand—a waltz, a particularly romantic and melancholy refrain, that was soothing to the man in the chair. He sat with his head thrown back, blowing rings of smoke into the air and secretly congratulating himself upon his progress. In imagination, he experienced all the intoxication of the dance, and Dora in his arms, resting heavily upon him. In imagination, he was drawing her closer and closer, her eyes looking into his, and her breath upon his cheek.

He started up and faced her, watching the slender hands gliding over the keys, as if he could keep away no longer; then, he strolled over and stood behind her, ostensibly watching the music. She felt his presence oppressively. He bent lower, as if to scan the notes: yet, she knew that he could not read music. Her fingers faltered, and she looked over her shoulder nervously.

Her eyes met his, and the playing ceased. Those glittering orbs held her as if by a magic spell. She was rendered powerless when he put his arm about her, and touched her lips in a kiss.

Instantly, the spell was broken. She started up, and struck him in the face—even as Dick had done.

He only laughed—and apologized. The blow was a very slight one: and it gave him the opportunity of seizing her wrists, and holding her captive for 203 a few moments, until she confessed that she was sorry. Then she fled from the room.

“I’m getting on,” he murmured, as he dropped back into the armchair, and lighted another cigarette. “A little more boldness, a rigid determination, a constant repetition of my assurances that she cannot escape me, and she will surrender. They all do. It’s the law of nature. The man subdues the woman; and she surrenders at once when her strength is gone.”