She broke down and sobbed, in spite of some staring passers-by, who saw that there was a lover’s quarrel in progress.
“There’s time enough to talk of my going when I am actually starting,” said Dick haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height, and showing an obvious intention to depart in a huff. “Good-bye.”
“Dick! Don’t leave me like that.”
He was gone; and he left behind him a very wretched girl. As she watched him striding along the walk, she wanted to call him back, and beg him to adhere to his previous decision to stay at home that she might have him always near. When he was out of sight, tears still blurred Dora’s vision, and she bowed her head. A strange faintness came over her. 46 She wanted him now. After all, he was her lover, her future husband; his place was by her side. It was folly to send him away into danger.
Dora was the daughter of Colonel Dundas, a retired officer of considerable experience. At his club, he was the authority upon everything military. He fairly bristled with patriotism, and his views on the gradual departure of the service “to the dogs, sir,” were well advertised, both in print and by word of mouth.
“The army is not what it was, sir, and, if we’re not careful, we sha’n’t have any army at all, sir,” was the burden of his platitudes; and his motherless daughter had listened reverently ever since she was born, and believed in him. He had taught her that every self-respecting, manly man should be a soldier.
Dick Swinton’s equivocal position as the son of a needy clergyman and the very uncertain heir to a great fortune, ruled him out of the reckoning as an eligible bachelor, compared with Jack Lorrimer, Ned Carnaby, Harry Bent, and Vivian Ormsby, all rich men. The miser so frequently advertised the fact that his grandson would not inherit a penny of his money that people had come to believe it, and they looked upon Dick with corresponding coolness. He surely must be a scamp to be spoken of as his own grandfather spoke of him; and, of course, wherever he went, women flung themselves at his head. The 47 usual attraction of a good-looking, soft-eyed Adonis gained favor by the whispered suggestion that he was dangerous.
But, in truth, Dick was only bored with women until he fell in love with Dora, and took the girl’s heart by storm.
Ormsby was laying siege to the citadel cautiously, as was his way. Bluff Jack Lorrimer’s courage was paralyzed by his love, and he drank deep to dispel his melancholy. Harry Bent—who was already under the spell of Netty Swinton, Dick’s sister’s—was indifferent, and Carnaby had been rejected three times, despite his millions.
Colonel Dundas saw nothing to alarm him in the admiration of these young men for his daughter until Dick Swinton came along, and Dora changed into a dreamy, solemn young person. She lost all her audacity, and her hot temper was put to rest for ever. Dick worshiped with his eyes in such a manner that only the blind could fail to read the signs. He was not loquacious, and Dora was unaccountably shy. They never spoke of love until one day Dick, with simple audacity, and favored by unusual circumstances—under the light of the moon—clasped the girl to his heart, and kissed her. She cried, and he imprisoned her in his arms for a full minute. For ransom and release, she gave her lips unresistingly, and he uncaged her. 48