"I'll listen to no one and believe nothing, unless it comes from your dear lips." The girl's voice was very earnest as she made the promise.

Brave words! How easy to have faith, and swear before high heaven when strong arms are clasped about a yielding form, and eyes look into eyes seeking depths deeper than wells fashioned by the hands of men.

They strolled side by side, and exchanged vows, till twilight fell and the cold shadows darkened all the earth about them, and struck a chill to the girl's heart. She clung to her lover, broken-hearted. Gone was the Spartan self-possession, the patriotic self-denial that was ready to offer up the love of a lifetime on the red altar of Mars. As he pressed his lips to her cheek and his hard breathing sounded in her ears, she seemed to hear the roaring of cannon, the clatter of hoofs, the rumble of artillery over bloodstained turf, the cries of men calling to one another in blind anger, shouting, cursing, moaning, and d.i.c.k wailing aloud in agony. She recovered herself with a start as a clock in the distance struck the hour, and reminded both of the flight of time.

At last, it was good-bye. The very end, the dreadful wrench--the absolute adieu!

CHAPTER VIII

A TIRESOME PATIENT

Vivian Ormsby's illness dragged on from days into weeks. There was little or nothing to be done but nursing, and Dora took her share willingly. He was a very courteous, considerate person when the girl he loved was at his bedside, but very trying to the professional nurses. He insisted upon attending to business matters as soon as he recovered from his long period of unconsciousness, but the physicians strictly forbade visitors of any kind.

The patient was not allowed to read newspapers or hear news of the war.

All excitement was barred, for it was one of the worst cases of concussion of the brain the specialists had ever known. Ormsby could not help watching Dora's face in the mornings, when the papers arrived; he saw her hand tremble and her eyes grow dim as she read. When the first lists of killed and wounded came to hand, she read with ashen face and quivering lip, but, when the name she sought, and dreaded to find, was not there, the color came back, and she glowed again with the joy and pride of youth.

He allowed himself idly to imagine that this was his home, and Dora his wife. It would always be like this--Dora at hand with her gentle, soothing touch upon his brow, her light, quick step, that he knew so well, and could distinguish in a moment from that of any other woman about the house, and her rich, penetrating voice, that never faltered, and carried even in a whisper, no matter how far away from his bedside.

She laughed sometimes in talking to the nurses, finding it hard to restrain the natural vivacity of her temperament, and it hurt him when they hushed her down, and playfully ordered her from the room.

He loved to lie and watch her, and his great dark eyes at times exerted a kind of fascination. She avoided them, but could feel his gaze when she turned away, and was glad to escape. He loved her--there was no hiding the fact; and, when he was convalescent, and the time came for him to go away, he would declare it--if not before. The nurses discussed it between themselves, and speculated upon the chances. They knew that there was a rival, but he was far away, at the war--and he might never come back. The man on the spot had all the advantages on his side, the other all the love; it was interesting to the feminine mind to watch developments.

When there was talk of the patient getting up, he was increasingly irritable if Dora were away. One day, he seized her hand, and carried it to his lips--dry, fevered lips that scorched her.

"You have been very good to me," he murmured, in excuse for his presumption. And what could she say in rebuke that would not be churlish and ungracious?

At last, he was allowed to see Mr. Barnby, the manager at the bank, who came with a sheaf of letters and arrears of doc.u.ments needing signature.

The patient declared that he was not yet capable of attending to details, but he wanted to see the check signed by Herresford and presented by d.i.c.k Swinton.

"Which check?" asked Mr. Barnby; "the one for two thousand or the one for five thousand? I have them both."

"There are two, then?"

Ormsby's eyes glistened.

"Yes, with the same strange discoloration of the ink. This is the one; and I have brought the gla.s.s with me."

Ormsby examined Mrs. Swinton's second forgery under the magnifier, and was puzzled.

"The addition has been cleverly made. The writing seems to be the same.

Whose handwriting is it--not Herresford's?"

"It seems to be Mrs. Swinton's. Compare it with these old checks in his pa.s.s-book, and you will see if I am not right. She has drawn many checks for him and frequently altered them, but always with an initial."

"Yes, the check was drawn by Mrs. Swinton in her father's presence, no doubt; and young Swinton may have added the extra words and figures. An amazingly clever forgery! You say he had all the money?"

"No, not all--but nearly all of it has been withdrawn."

"Then, he has robbed us of seven thousand dollars?"

"If the checks are forgeries, yes. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. If you doubted the first check--"

"The scoundrel! Go at once to Herresford. The old man must refund and make good the loss, or we are in a predicament."

"I'll go immediately. I suppose it is the young man's work? It is impossible to conceive that Mrs. Swinton--his own daughter--"

"Don't be a fool. Go to Herresford."

CHAPTER IX

HERRESFORD IS TOLD

Herresford was in a more than usually unpleasant frame of mind when the manager of Ormsby's bank came to bring the news that someone had robbed him of seven thousand dollars. The old man was no longer in the usual bedroom, lying on his ebony bed. A sudden impulse had seized him to be moved to another portion of the house, where he could see a fresh section of the grounds. He needed a change, and he wanted to spy out new defects.

A sudden removal to a room in the front of the house revealed the fact that everything had been neglected except the portion of the garden which had formerly come within range of his field-gla.s.ses.

Rage accordingly! Stormy interviews, with violent threats of instant dismissal of the whole outdoor staff, petulant abuse of people who had nothing whatever to do with the neglect of the park, and a display of energy and mental activity surprising in one of such advanced age. He was in the middle of an altercation with his steward--who resigned his position about once a month--when the bank-manager was announced.

At the mention of the word bank, the old man lost all interest in things out of doors.

"Send him up--send him up--don't keep him waiting," he cried. "Time is money. He may have come to tell me that I must sell something. Nothing is more important in life than money. See that there are pens and paper, in case I have to sign anything."

The quiet, urbane bank-manager had never before interviewed this terrible personage. He had heard strange stories of an abusive old man in his dotage, who contrived to make it very unpleasant for any representative of the bank sent up to his bedroom to get doc.u.ments signed, and was therefore surprised to see an alert, hawk-eyed old gentleman, with a skull-cap and a dressing-jacket, sitting up in bed in a small turret bedroom, smiling, and almost genial.

"Will you take a seat, Mr.----? I didn't quite catch your name."

"Barnby, sir."

"Take a seat, Mr. Barnby. You've come to see me about money?"

"Yes, sir, an unpleasant matter, I fear."

"Depression in the market, eh? Things still falling? Ah! It's the war, the war--curse it! Tell me more--tell me quickly!"

"It's a family matter, sir."

"Family matter! What has my family to do with my money--ha! I guess why you've come. Yes--yes--something to do with my grandson?"

"Just so, sir."

"What is it now? Debts, overdrawn accounts--what--what?"