Herresford recovered his composure very quickly after the departure of his daughter. A few harsh words from Trimmer silenced him, and he remained sitting up, staring out of the window. The next time Trimmer came into the room, he called him to his side, and gazed into his face with a look that the valet understood. Trimmer knew every mood, and there were some when the master ruled the servant and commands were not to be questioned.

“Trimmer, I have a commission for you. Go to the residence of Colonel Dundas. See his daughter, Dora. She has been here—you remember her?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Pretty girl, brown hair, determined mouth, steady eyes, quietly dressed—no thousand-dollar sables and coats of ermine. Came to tea—and didn’t cackle!”

“I can’t recall her, sir.”

“You must. We don’t have many women here. My memory is better than yours. I want to see her again; and, when she comes, I talk to her alone, you hear?” 250

“Yes, sir.”

“Trimmer, my grandson is alive.”

“Alive, sir?”

“Yes, and back from the war. He’s got to marry that girl; but she’s engaged to someone else—you understand?”

“I think so, sir.”

“So, be cautious. Bring her here secretly, or—I’ll sack you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go at once.”

“Yes, sir. Your medicine first.”

The old man dropped back into his querulous, peevish mood. Trimmer poured out the medicine, administered it, and then departed on his mission.

On his arrival at the colonel’s house, he sent word to Dora that he came from Mr. Herresford on important business.

When Dora received the message, her face flushed, and she looked puzzled and distressed. But she came to Trimmer presently, and listened with bent head to what he had to say. Afterward, she was silent for several minutes. She did not know what to say to his curious request that she would come immediately and see Mr. Herresford—on a matter of grave importance.

“Do I understand you to say that he himself sent you with this strange request?” she asked. 251

“Yes, miss. I have come straight from Mr. Herresford.”

“Did he not say why he wished to see me?”

“I am only his valet, miss; he would not be likely to tell me. What answer shall I take him?”

“I will call at Asherton Hall this afternoon,” the girl promised.

“I will acquaint Mr. Herresford with your decision,” replied Trimmer, and forthwith he took his departure.

When it was too late to recall her promise, Dora regretted having given it. She was rather frightened, and could not guess what the terrible old man could possibly want with her. The time of her marriage was drawing near, and she was striving to cast out of her heart all thoughts of Dick, or of the Swintons, or anybody connected with the old, happy days. If Mr. Herresford desired to see her, it could only be to talk about Dick.

The blood rushed to her cheeks. Then came a reaction, and her heart almost stood still as the wild idea came that perhaps, after all, Dick lived. Everybody else had regarded the idea of his being alive as preposterous; yet, for a long while, she had dreamed and hoped that the story of his death was false. Then, as time went on, the hope grew fainter; and, after many months, she abandoned it. She trembled now to think what her attitude would be if 252 that dream came true. Of course, the old man might want to see her about Dick’s affairs; and the summons probably meant nothing that could bring happiness. Nevertheless, having given her promise, she was determined to go through with it.

She trembled as she approached the great house, where half the blinds were down, and all was suggestive of neglect and decay. She had spent some pleasant afternoons in the splendid gardens and conservatories with Mrs. Swinton in the old days, but her one recollection of the eccentric old man was not very encouraging. She remembered how keenly he had eyed her, like a valuer summing up the points of a horse, and how glad she had been to escape his penetrating scrutiny. Others were present on that occasion. She was to face him alone now.

Mr. Trimmer met her in the hall with a face of stone, and conducted her up to the bedroom. Her heart beat wildly until she was actually in the room, and the little huddled-up figure on the bed came into view. Then, she lost all her terror, and felt only pity for the shriveled, ape-like creature.

“Sit down, Miss Dundas. It is kind of you to visit an old man. Trimmer, a chair for Miss Dundas, close to my bed. My hearing is not what it was.”

His voice was soft, and his manner genial. There was nothing at all terrifying about him. 253

“You wished me to come to you?” murmured Dora.

“Trimmer, go out of the room. You needn’t wait. Yes, Miss Dundas, I sent for you. I made your acquaintance two years ago. I was only in a bath-chair then; now, you see what I have come to.”

“I am deeply sorry.”

“When you came before,” said Herresford, bluntly, “I liked the look of you, Miss Dora; and I said to myself that, if Dick was not a fool and blind, he would choose you for his wife.”

“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Dora, with a sudden catch in her voice. “I’m engaged to marry Mr. Ormsby.”

“An excellent match—a match that does credit to your head, my girl. But Ormsby is not a man—he’s only a machine. He thinks too much of his money. With him, it’s money, money—all money. A bad thing! A bad thing!”

Dora opened her eyes wide in surprise, wondering if she heard aright. Was this the miser?

“Now, Dick was a man—and he died like a gentleman—with his back to the wall—hurling defiance at the muzzles of the enemy’s rifles.”

Dora bowed her head, and the tears began to fall. She raised her muff to her face to hide the spasm of pain that distorted her features.

“Ah! a boy worth crying for, my dear,” said the 254 old man, dragging himself with difficulty to the edge of the bed; “but a shocking spendthrift. That’s where we quarreled—though we never quarreled much. I had my say—the boy had his. Sometimes I was hard, and sometimes he was harder. The taunts of the young cut the old deeper than the taunts of the old cut the young. Do you follow me?”

Dora nodded.

“Now, if he had married a wife like you, a girl with a level head and a stiff upper lip, a girl with not sufficient sentiment to make her a fool, nor enough brains to be a prig, but just clever enough to supply her husband’s deficiencies, he would have been my heir, and this place and all my money would have been his—and yours.”

“Why do you tell me these things, now?” she cried, a note of anger in her voice.

“Because I don’t want you to marry Ormsby.”

“Why not? It is to please my father. He wishes it, and—I must marry somebody. I’m not going to be an old maid. I shall never love anybody as I loved Dick, and I might as well recognize the fact.”

“Then, take the advice of an old man who married a woman who loved someone else. My wife married to please her father—married me. As my wife, she hated me. I hated her. She brought 255 up my daughter to look upon me as a monster. Everything I did was unreasonable, eccentric, wicked; everything I said, absurd; every admonition, harshness; every economy, meanness. Well; I’m the sort of man that, when people pull me one way, I go the other. She spoiled my life, and I consoled myself with money—money—money!”

The old man dragged himself nearer to the edge of the bed, and, reaching over, tapped his bony fingers on Dora’s knee. “Come, now—come—tell me that you’ll think it over, and not marry Ormsby.”

“O don’t!—don’t!” cried the girl, covering her face again, and sobbing bitterly.

“You can’t—you sha’n’t marry Ormsby. Dick’ll haunt you—and sooner than you know.”

“I’ve thought of that,” sobbed the girl, “and I’ve tried to conquer it.”

“Besides, no man is dead in a war till his body is buried. Get one lover under ground before you lead the other over his grave.”

“You don’t mean—you don’t mean to suggest that you think there’s any doubt?” cried Dora.

“There’s no doubt on one point,” chuckled the old man, relapsing into his usual sardonic manner. “You’re not going to marry Ormsby—ha! ha! He thought he’d do me out of seven thousand dollars—and I’ve robbed him of his wife. Good business!” 256

“You seem to dislike Mr. Ormsby,” said Dora, suspiciously.

“Not at all—not at all! Man of business—man of money—no good as a husband! To some men, money-bags are more beautiful than petticoats. When you’re his wife, he’ll leave you at home, and go down to the bank and woo his real mistress—money!—money! money! But you’re not going to marry Ormsby, are you?”

“No, I can’t—I can’t!” cried the girl, starting up and pacing the room. Herresford, with superlative cunning, had struck the right chord. It only needed a little brusque advice to set her in open revolt.

“Having decided not to marry him,” continued the old man “you’ll write him a letter now—at once. There’s pen and ink and paper on the desk. Write now, while your heart rings true; and you can tell him as well, if you like, that Mr. Herresford will alter his will to-morrow, and leave all his wealth to you.”

Dora turned and faced him in amazement, fearing that his reason was unhinged. But the strange, quizzical, amused smile with which he surveyed her expressed so much sanity that she could not fail to respect his utterances.

“Say that Mr. Herresford makes it a condition that you do not marry without his consent, and he 257 refuses his consent in so far as Mr. Ormsby is concerned.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Herresford, you know I can’t.”

“Come here,” he said, beckoning her authoritatively. “Have you any confidence in my judgment of what is best for you? If not, say so.”

“I have every confidence in your judgment. You have voiced the things that were in my heart. I know you are right.”

“Then, if you have confidence, do as I say, or you’ll bitterly regret it. As the mistress of Asherton Hall and all my money, you can have any man you wish. Do you know what I’m worth?”

She made no answer.

“Come here.” He beckoned again, and was about to whisper the amount, when his mood changed. “No, no! Nobody shall know what I’m worth. They’ll want money out of me. They’ll come around begging and borrowing and dunning. The less I pay, the more I have. Go, write the letter, girl—write the letter. Don’t take any notice of me and my money. I’m an old man. You’ve got all your life before you—one of the greatest heiresses in the country! And I know a man who’ll marry you for your money and love you as well—or I’ll know the reason why.”

There was something strangely sympathetic between 258 these two widely-contrasted beings—the young, clear-brained, high-spirited girl and the old misanthrope. She obeyed him as though mesmerized, and, flinging down her muff, took off her gloves, and seated herself at the writing-table. There was determination in every movement. The invalid mumbled and chuckled with satisfaction from the depths of his pillows; but she paid no further heed to him. With the first pen that came to hand, she dashed off a curt note to Ormsby:

“Dear Vivian, I cannot marry you, after all. It was all a mistake—a mistake. My heart always was and always will be another’s. Good-bye. Don’t come to see us any more. My decision is unalterable. It will only cause us both pain. I am very, very sorry.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, “I am going somewhere, right away, for a long time.”

Again, she paused thoughtfully, and Herresford made signs to her which she could not see, signifying that he wished to see the letter.

“Let me read,” he cried.

She handed him the letter as a matter of course, and he nodded approvingly as he read.

“Now, then, my girl, I’ll tell you a secret. Can you keep secrets?” 259

“I have always been able to.”

“It’s a big secret. How long could you keep a very big secret?”

“Quite as long as a little one.”

“Then, bend down and I’ll tell you.” His face lighted up with amusement; the ape-like features were transformed; the wrinkles of care and pain wreathed into smiles.

“Can’t you guess?” he asked, with a hoarse chuckle, and his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. “Bend lower.” He grasped her arm, and drew his lips close to her ear. “Dick’s alive.”

She gave a great gasp, and broke away, uncertain whether this were not some devilish jest.

“Oh, it’s true—it’s true!” he cried, nodding.

“Alive!—alive! Not dead! Dick!”

“But keep it secret.”

“But why? Why?” cried Dora.

“For reasons of my own. Oh, it’s true. You needn’t look at me like that. I’m not in my dotage yet.”

“Dick alive!—alive!” she cried. She clasped her hands, and swung around and around in excitement too great to be controlled.

“Yes, alive, but in hiding,” said the old man, “until I can get him out of that ugly scrape—cheaply.” 260

“But where—where? Tell me!”

“That’s my secret. You’ve got to keep your own.”

“Oh! but I must tell father.”

“Your father knows it already. He’s not to be trusted.”

“Father knows, and yet—?”

“Yet, he’d let you marry Ormsby. It’s a way fathers have when they want their daughters to marry rich men. So, you see, he’s not as honest as I am. Now, go home like a good girl, and in a day or two you shall hear from Dick. In the meantime, I tell you this much: The boy is ill and broken. You’ve both been fools. If you had come to me like sensible children, and told me that you wanted to get married, I’d have paid his debts and transferred the burden of responsibility to you—for he is a responsibility, and always will be—mark my words!”

“A responsibility I will gladly undertake, grandfather.” She dropped on her knees beside the bed, and clasped his hand with a frankness and naturalness quite strange and wonderful to him. He raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them with unusual emotion.

“That’s right, call me grandfather. Good girl—good girl!” He reverted to his usual snappy manner. “Put on your gloves, girl. Get away home. Keep a still tongue in your head. Wait till you hear from me. Give me the letter. Trimmer shall post it.”

261

Dora obeyed, and watched him as she drew on her gloves. When the last button was fastened, she took up her muff.

“Good-bye—good-bye!” he grunted brusquely, offering a bony hand.

“Oh, good-bye—good-bye, you dear, dear old man!” she cried, dropping on her knees beside him once more, and flinging her arms around his neck, weeping for joy at the great news.

“Get away! Get away! You’ll kill me. Enough—enough for one day.”

She kissed him, and he broke down. When she released him, he fell back on his pillows, breathing heavily. There were tears in his eyes. Trimmer entered at the opportune moment, and opened the door. Dora passed out and ran down the stairs. When in the open air, she wanted to dance, to laugh, to cry, to sing, all at once in the centre of the drive. Only a stern sense of decorum prevented an hysterical outburst. She walked faster and faster, until she almost ran.

“Dick! Dick! Dick!” she cried, shouting riotously to the leafless elms in the avenue, and scampering like a joyous child. She waved her arms and sang to the breeze.