“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.