"I can't recall her, sir."

"You must. We don't have many women here. My memory is better than yours.

I want to see her again; and, when she comes, I talk to her alone, you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Trimmer, my grandson is alive."

"Alive, sir?"

"Yes, and back from the war. He's got to marry that girl; but she's engaged to someone else--you understand?"

"I think so, sir."

"So, be cautious. Bring her here secretly, or--I'll sack you."

"Yes, sir."

"Go at once."

"Yes, sir. Your medicine first."

The old man dropped back into his querulous, peevish mood. Trimmer poured out the medicine, administered it, and then departed on his mission.

On his arrival at the colonel's house, he sent word to Dora that he came from Mr. Herresford on important business.

When Dora received the message, her face flushed, and she looked puzzled and distressed. But she came to Trimmer presently, and listened with bent head to what he had to say. Afterward, she was silent for several minutes. She did not know what to say to his curious request that she would come immediately and see Mr. Herresford--on a matter of grave importance.

"Do I understand you to say that he himself sent you with this strange request?" she asked.

"Yes, miss. I have come straight from Mr. Herresford."

"Did he not say why he wished to see me?"

"I am only his valet, miss; he would not be likely to tell me. What answer shall I take him?"

"I will call at Asherton Hall this afternoon," the girl promised.

"I will acquaint Mr. Herresford with your decision," replied Trimmer, and forthwith he took his departure.

When it was too late to recall her promise, Dora regretted having given it. She was rather frightened, and could not guess what the terrible old man could possibly want with her. The time of her marriage was drawing near, and she was striving to cast out of her heart all thoughts of d.i.c.k, or of the Swintons, or anybody connected with the old, happy days. If Mr.

Herresford desired to see her, it could only be to talk about d.i.c.k.

The blood rushed to her cheeks. Then came a reaction, and her heart almost stood still as the wild idea came that perhaps, after all, d.i.c.k lived. Everybody else had regarded the idea of his being alive as preposterous; yet, for a long while, she had dreamed and hoped that the story of his death was false. Then, as time went on, the hope grew fainter; and, after many months, she abandoned it. She trembled now to think what her att.i.tude would be if that dream came true. Of course, the old man might want to see her about d.i.c.k's affairs; and the summons probably meant nothing that could bring happiness. Nevertheless, having given her promise, she was determined to go through with it.

She trembled as she approached the great house, where half the blinds were down, and all was suggestive of neglect and decay. She had spent some pleasant afternoons in the splendid gardens and conservatories with Mrs. Swinton in the old days, but her one recollection of the eccentric old man was not very encouraging. She remembered how keenly he had eyed her, like a valuer summing up the points of a horse, and how glad she had been to escape his penetrating scrutiny. Others were present on that occasion. She was to face him alone now.

Mr. Trimmer met her in the hall with a face of stone, and conducted her up to the bedroom. Her heart beat wildly until she was actually in the room, and the little huddled-up figure on the bed came into view. Then, she lost all her terror, and felt only pity for the shriveled, ape-like creature.

"Sit down, Miss Dundas. It is kind of you to visit an old man. Trimmer, a chair for Miss Dundas, close to my bed. My hearing is not what it was."

His voice was soft, and his manner genial. There was nothing at all terrifying about him.

"You wished me to come to you?" murmured Dora.

"Trimmer, go out of the room. You needn't wait. Yes, Miss Dundas, I sent for you. I made your acquaintance two years ago. I was only in a bath-chair then; now, you see what I have come to."

"I am deeply sorry."

"When you came before," said Herresford, bluntly, "I liked the look of you, Miss Dora; and I said to myself that, if d.i.c.k was not a fool and blind, he would choose you for his wife."

"Don't! Don't!" cried Dora, with a sudden catch in her voice. "I'm engaged to marry Mr. Ormsby."

"An excellent match--a match that does credit to your head, my girl. But Ormsby is not a man--he's only a machine. He thinks too much of his money. With him, it's money, money--all money. A bad thing! A bad thing!"

Dora opened her eyes wide in surprise, wondering if she heard aright. Was this the miser?

"Now, d.i.c.k was a man--and he died like a gentleman--with his back to the wall--hurling defiance at the muzzles of the enemy's rifles."

Dora bowed her head, and the tears began to fall. She raised her m.u.f.f to her face to hide the spasm of pain that distorted her features.

"Ah! a boy worth crying for, my dear," said the old man, dragging himself with difficulty to the edge of the bed; "but a shocking spendthrift. That's where we quarreled--though we never quarreled much. I had my say--the boy had his. Sometimes I was hard, and sometimes he was harder. The taunts of the young cut the old deeper than the taunts of the old cut the young. Do you follow me?"

Dora nodded.

"Now, if he had married a wife like you, a girl with a level head and a stiff upper lip, a girl with not sufficient sentiment to make her a fool, nor enough brains to be a prig, but just clever enough to supply her husband's deficiencies, he would have been my heir, and this place and all my money would have been his--and yours."

"Why do you tell me these things, now?" she cried, a note of anger in her voice.

"Because I don't want you to marry Ormsby."

"Why not? It is to please my father. He wishes it, and--I must marry somebody. I'm not going to be an old maid. I shall never love anybody as I loved d.i.c.k, and I might as well recognize the fact."

"Then, take the advice of an old man who married a woman who loved someone else. My wife married to please her father--married me. As my wife, she hated me. I hated her. She brought up my daughter to look upon me as a monster. Everything I did was unreasonable, eccentric, wicked; everything I said, absurd; every admonition, harshness; every economy, meanness. Well; I'm the sort of man that, when people pull me one way, I go the other. She spoiled my life, and I consoled myself with money--money--money!"

The old man dragged himself nearer to the edge of the bed, and, reaching over, tapped his bony fingers on Dora's knee. "Come, now--come--tell me that you'll think it over, and not marry Ormsby."

"O don't!--don't!" cried the girl, covering her face again, and sobbing bitterly.

"You can't--you sha'n't marry Ormsby. d.i.c.k'll haunt you--and sooner than you know."

"I've thought of that," sobbed the girl, "and I've tried to conquer it."

"Besides, no man is dead in a war till his body is buried. Get one lover under ground before you lead the other over his grave."

"You don't mean--you don't mean to suggest that you think there's any doubt?" cried Dora.

"There's no doubt on one point," chuckled the old man, relapsing into his usual sardonic manner. "You're not going to marry Ormsby--ha! ha! He thought he'd do me out of seven thousand dollars--and I've robbed him of his wife. Good business!"