“Mr. Ormsby showed you the checks?”
“Yes. Dora—Dora—don’t look like that! I understand, my girl. I know you were fond of the boy, and I disapproved of it from the beginning. I said nothing, in case he didn’t come home from the front. Put him out of your heart, my girl—out of mind. I’m as sorry about everything as if he were a boy of my own, and, if I could do anything for poor John Swinton and his wife, I would. I saw Mrs. Swinton yesterday driving, looking superbly handsome, as usual, but turned to stone. Poor old John goes about, saying, ‘My son isn’t dead! My son isn’t dead!’ and nobody contradicts him.”
“And Netty?” asked Dora, with a sob.
“Oh! nobody bothers about her. It’ll postpone her marriage with Harry Bent, I suppose, for a little while. They were to have been married as soon 144 as he was well enough. Sit up, my girl—sit up. Keep a straight upper lip. You’re under fire, and it’s hot.”
“I can’t—I can’t!” sobbed Dora, burying her face in her hands, and swaying dangerously. Her father rushed forward to catch her, and held her to his heart, where she sobbed out her grief. While they stood thus, in the centre of the room, the servant announced Mr. Ormsby.
At the mention of his name, Dora cried out in anger, and declared that she would not see him. But her father hushed her, and nodded to the servant as a sign that the unwelcome gentleman was to be shown into the room.
“We’re a little upset, Ormsby—we’re a little upset,” cried the colonel. “But a soldier’s daughter is not afraid of her tears being seen. We were talking about poor Swinton. Dora has only just heard. How do things go at the rectory? And what’s Herresford going to do about the checks?”
“He insists upon our paying, and we must get the money from somebody. Mrs. Swinton has none. We must put the case to the rector, and get him to reimburse the bank to avoid a lawsuit and a public scandal. Poor Swinton set things right by his death. There was no other way out. He died like a brave man, and he will be remembered as a hero, except by those who know the truth; and I am powerless to 145 keep that back now. Believe me, Miss Dundas, if I had known of his death, I would have cut out my tongue rather than have published the story of the crime, which was the original cause of his going to the war.”
“So, you still believe him to be a coward as well as a thief,” she cried, hotly. “You are a hypocrite. It was you who really sent him away. He never meant to go. He didn’t want to go. And now you have killed him.”
“Hush, hush, Dora!” cried the colonel.