"That's right, my girl, play away. It's good to hear the piano going again. And, between ourselves, I'm beginning to feel depressed by the stillness of the house. It's difficult to believe that this is home since we took on hospital work. Between ourselves, I sha'n't be sorry when Ormsby says good-bye. As a strong man and a soldier, I like him; but, as a sick man, I've had enough of him. Never had a fancy for ambulance work or being near the hospital base."

"I, too, shall be glad when we have the house to ourselves," observed Dora. "Of course, I'm fearfully sorry for Captain Ormsby, and all that; but I do wish he'd go. He's not very ill now. Couldn't you throw out a hint about his going, father?"

"Impossible! I--I am not a strategist; but you are. I will leave him to you, and you must get to work. But I don't know what you've got to grumble about with a man like Ormsby in the house to amuse you and admire you all the time."

The colonel turned on his heel, and was out of the room before Dora could stop him.

She got up from the piano, and pushed the stool aside, impatiently. Her lovely face was clouded, and two little lines above the curving arch of her eyebrows were deeply set in thought. Ormsby's continued presence filled her with uneasy dread. For the past two weeks, he had watched her with an intentness that was embarra.s.sing. She knew that he meant to propose to her, if he succeeded in finding her alone; and she was undecided as to whether she should give, or deny, him the opportunity of hearing the worst. Perhaps, it would be better to let him speak; he could not possibly remain after she had refused him.

This decision made, she presently went into the library, where she found her father and their guest. The two men were talking earnestly, and, as she approached, her father shook hands heartily with Ormsby--for some unknown reason--and went out of the room. It looked like a plot to leave her at Vivian Ormsby's mercy. She made an excuse to follow her father.

Now that the moment was come, her courage failed her. She saw that the man was very much in earnest, and she knew that it would be difficult to turn him from his purpose.

"One moment," said Ormsby, resting his hand on her arm. "I have something to say to you. You must give me a few minutes--you really must, I insist."

"Must! Captain Ormsby," faltered Dora, with the color flooding her cheeks. "I never allow anyone to use that word to me--not even father."

"Then, let me beg you to listen." He spoke softly, caressingly, but the mouth was hard, and his fine, full eyes held her as under a spell. "What I have to say will not, I feel sure, come as a surprise, for you must have seen that I love you. I have your father's permission to ask you to be my wife."

"Please, please, don't say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but--oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you--never--never--never!"

"Dora"--he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm--"you don't know what you are saying. Perhaps, I've startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me."

"Mr. Ormsby, please, don't say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible--I do not care for you; I can never care for you--in that way."

He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance.

"Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young d.i.c.k Swinton. But you'll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil his chances--yes, spoil them, and I will, by G.o.d! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?--a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure."

"That is a falsehood--a deliberate lie!" cried Dora. "You would not dare to say such a thing if d.i.c.k were in New York. It's only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with d.i.c.k at the dinner--I heard all about it. I'm glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you--as a liar deserves to be thrashed."

"Gently, young lady, gently," replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with pa.s.sion. "You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let d.i.c.k Swinton feel it." Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: "Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but--really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him."

"But I don't," cried Dora, angrier than before.

"You will change presently."

"Never!"

"Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again."

"Forgery of what?" she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh.

"Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford's permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony."

"You are saying this in spite--to frighten me."

"Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot."

"I don't believe you," she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging.

"Will you believe it if I show you the warrant for his arrest? It will be here this afternoon. Barnby, our manager, will apply for it, unless the rector can reimburse us. He's always up to his eyes in debt. I'm sorry for the vicar and Mrs. Swinton, yet you cannot blame me for feeling glad that my rival has shown himself unworthy of the sweetest girl that--"

"Stop! I will not listen--I won't believe unless I hear it from his own lips."

"You shall see the police warrant."

"I will not believe it, I tell you. His last words to me were a warning against you. He told me to be true and believe no lies that you might utter. And I will be true. Good-morning, Mr. Ormsby, and--good-bye. I presume you will be returning home this afternoon. You are quite well now--robust, in fact--and you are showing your grat.i.tude for the kindness received at our hands in a very shabby way. Good-day."

With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness.

John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: "He's a new man, quite like his old self." Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic.

No longer did he pa.s.s his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money.

The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog.

As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance--aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered--she was more anxious to please than ever before--and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished.

The rector's cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire?

Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed.

For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman's wife. She attended church meetings, mothers' meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday--and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose.

That "if" was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair--she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question.

She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor?

No. He would do something, but what? She dared not contemplate. She dared not think of the frailness of the barriers which stood between herself and the possible consequences of her crime. Sometimes, she awoke in the night with a damp sweat upon her, and saw herself arraigned in the dock as a criminal charged with robbing her father. In the daylight, she rated her possible punishment as something lower. Perhaps, he would arrange to have his money back by stopping her allowance, and so leave her stranded until the debt was paid off--or he would beggar her by stopping it altogether. Another thought came often. Before anything was found out, the old man might die. That would mean her deliverance. Yet, again, if he left her nothing, or d.i.c.k either, then it spelt ruin, which would shadow all their lives. The thought was unbearable. She tried to forget it in a ceaseless activity.

The thunderbolt fell on a day that she had devoted to her husband's interests.

The bishop was having luncheon with the rector. The Mission Hall was to be opened in the afternoon, and the bishop had promised to be present.

The full amount of the building funds had been subscribed, thus reimbursing the clergyman to the extent of a thousand dollars, the amount promised by Herresford and never paid.

The ceremony brought to St. Botolph's Mission Hall the oddly-a.s.sorted crowd which generally finds its way to such functions. There were smart people, just a scattering of the cultured, dowdy and dull folk, who had "helped the good cause," and expected to get as much sober entertainment in return as might be had for the asking. Then, there were the ever-present army of free sight-seers, and a leaven of real workers.

On the platform with the bishop and other notables, both men and women, sat Mrs. Swinton, and she sighed with unspeakable weariness. It had been one of those dull, monotonous, clerical days, replete with plat.i.tudes, the tedium of custom, and all the petty ceremonies and observances that she hated. She returned home worn out physically, and mentally benumbed.

Netty, who had remained away, on pretence of a bad cold, met her mother in the hall.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Polly's in the drawing-room, and she says she's come to see what a high tea is like, and to be introduced to the dear bishop. Muriel West and Major Joicy are with her. They're singing comic songs at the piano."

Mrs. Swinton looked annoyed. So far, she had avoided any clashing between her smart friends and her clerical acquaintances. Mrs. Ocklebourne was the last person in the world she wanted to see to-day.

"Ah, here's our dear, saintly Mary, with her hands full of prayer-books!"

exclaimed Polly Ocklebourne, as her hostess came into the room. "So glad you're home, dear. This little handful of sinners wants to be put through its paces before coming into the rarefied atmosphere of bishops and things. Where is the dear man?"