The color fled from Dick’s face, and left it white and drawn.
“You were wrongly informed. The man was insulted, and there was no question of cowardice about it. He couldn’t go, and he wouldn’t go.” 43
“But who was it? Not Jack Lorrimer or Harry Bent, surely?”
“Then, you don’t know?” he exclaimed.
Something in his face made her heart stand still.
Dora could not yet understand that a hideous blunder had been made, that her information came from a tainted source. Ormsby had told her father, in her hearing, of a vulgar scuffle, but her ears had not caught the name of the offender.
“Can’t you guess who it was they insulted?” cried Dick, bitterly. “It was I. I declined to go. How could I go? You know all about my finances. You know what it costs, the outfit, everything; and, darling, I was only just engaged to the dearest little girl in the world.”
“Dick!—you?” she cried, looking at him in cold amazement. Then, he knew to his cost what it was to love a soldier’s daughter, a girl born in a military camp, and reared among men who regarded the chance of active service as the good fortune of the gods. It had never occurred to her for a moment that Dick would hang back—certainly not on her account—after her loving message.
He hastened to explain the circumstances, and was obliged to confess to the girl whom he had only just won a good deal more of the unfortunate state of his family affairs than he had hoped would be necessary. Of course, she was sympathetic, and furiously 44 angry with Vivian Ormsby; but—and there came the rub—of course, he would go now, at all costs.
“Well, it was for you I said no,” he cried, at last. “But for you I’ll say yes. It’s not too late. I’ll have to swindle somebody to get my outfit, and add another to the long list of debts that are breaking my father’s heart; but still—”