I have been very wretched since our last interview, when you judged me unfairly and said many hard things, the worst of which was your dismissal, and your wish that I should not again enter your father’s house. He has invited me to come, and I am feverishly looking forward to your permission to accept the invitation.
I am not jealous now of a dead man, nor do I wish 170 to press my suit at such a time. But I desire to set myself right. You have no doubt learned by this time that the lies of which you accused me were painful truths. The hard things you said were not justified, and I only ask to be received as a visitor, for my life is colorless and miserable if I cannot see you.
There is one other matter I must discuss with you in full. It is, briefly, this: Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his account from our bank, of which I am a director and a partner, and demands the restitution of seven thousand dollars taken by poor Dick Swinton. My co-directors blame me for not acting at once when I suspected the first check. But they are not disposed to pay the money, and a lawsuit will result. You know what that means—a public scandal, a full exposure of my fellow-officer’s act of folly, a painful revelation concerning the affairs of the Swinton’s and their money troubles. All this, I am sure, would be most repugnant to you. For your sake, I am willing to pay this money, and spare you pain. If, however, you persist in treating me unfairly and breaking my heart, I cannot be expected to make so great a sacrifice to save the honor of one who publicly insulted me by striking me a cowardly blow in the face because I held a smaller opinion of him than did other people, and thoughtlessly revealed the fact by an unguarded remark.
I never really doubted his physical courage, and he has rendered a good account of himself, of which we are all proud. But seven thousand dollars is too 171 dear a price to pay without some fair recognition of my sacrifice on your behalf.”
“Father,” cried Dora, starting up, and reading no more, “I want you to let me have seven thousand dollars.”
“What!” cried the colonel, staring at her as though she had asked for the moon.
“I want seven thousand dollars. I’ll repay it somehow, in the course of years. I’ll economize—”
“Don’t think of it, my girl—don’t think of it. That miserly old man, who starves his family and washes his dirty linen in public, is going to have no money of mine.”
“But, father, give it to me. It’ll make no real difference to you. You are rich enough—”
“Not a penny, my girl—not a penny. Let Ormsby pay the money. Thank heaven, it’s his business, not ours. Your animosity against him is most unreasonable. Because you had a difference of opinion over a lad who couldn’t hold a candle to him as an upright, honorable man—”