COLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND
Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters, and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning, sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing abstractedly into space.
People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference to the young man’s death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to facial signs, babbled to her of the rector’s trouble. The poor man was so broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly, and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed—but would it last? How dull it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son’s death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the course of a few days? 169
Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony’s words were too true: “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.”
Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was opened, handed it to Dora.
“There’s something in this for you to read—a letter from Ormsby, Dora.”
“I don’t want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby.”
“I’ve read it,” said the colonel awkwardly, “as Mr. Ormsby requested me to. I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t see what he says.”
Dora’s face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter, addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father.
“My dear Miss Dundas,