“Then, you will not tell me where he is?”
The information Dora vainly sought came to her by an accident. Netty, unaware of the presence of a visitor in the house, walked into the study, and commenced to speak before she was well into the room.
“Father, Dick wants the papers. He’s finished the book and—Oh, Miss Dundas!”
“He is here—in this house?” cried Dora, flushing angrily at the rector’s want of trust. “Oh, why didn’t you tell me? Do you think that I would betray him? Why didn’t you let me know? How 270 long has he been home? Oh, please let me go to him!”
Father and daughter looked at one another in confusion.
“I intended to tell you, Miss Dundas, after I had asked my son’s permission. You see, we are all in league with him here. If the police got an inkling of his presence in the house, it would be very awkward.”
“I don’t think Dick would like to see you just now,” interjected Netty. “You see, he’s ill—he’s very ill, and much broken.”
“Now that you know he is here,” interposed the rector, “there can be no objection to your seeing him. I must first inform him of your coming—that he may be prepared. I’m sure he will be glad to see you.”
The rector escaped to fulfil a difficult and painful mission. He had almost forgotten the existence of his son’s sweetheart, and was only conscious that she added to the troubles of an already trying situation. The noble fellow, who was prepared to take the burden of his mother’s sin, would certainly find it hard to justify himself in the eyes of the woman he loved. And, if he set himself right in Dora’s eyes, that would mean—? He trembled to think what it would mean. 271
Dora and Netty, in the study, maintained an unnatural reserve, in which there was silent antagonism. Dora relieved the situation by a commonplace.