“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.