CHAPTER IV
DORA DUNDAS
Dick Swinton spent a wretched night after his humiliation at the dinner. When he awakened, the sun of spring was shining on the quivering leaves of the trees along the drive. He opened his window and looked out.
At the sound of the rattling casement, Rudd, who was at work on the lawn, looked up. Rudd was general factotum—coachman, gardener, footman,—and usually valeted his young master. Now, he hurried upstairs to Mr. Dick’s bedroom, where he duly appeared with a pile of letters.
“Mrs. Swinton and Miss Netty have breakfasted in their rooms, sir. The rector has gone out. And it’s nine o’clock.”
Dick took the bundle of letters—bills all of them, except two, one of which was addressed in the handwriting of Dora Dundas. Rudd knew the outside of a bill as well as his young master, and had selected the love-letter from the others, and placed it first.
When Dick was dressed, he opened the girl’s letter, and his face softened: 40
Dearest, I hear that everything was settled last night, and I must see you this morning. There are many things to be talked of before the dreadful good-bye. I shall be in the Mall, but I can’t stay long.
Your loving,
Dora.