"You seem to dislike Mr. Ormsby," said Dora, suspiciously.

"Not at all--not at all! Man of business--man of money--no good as a husband! To some men, money-bags are more beautiful than petticoats. When you're his wife, he'll leave you at home, and go down to the bank and woo his real mistress--money!--money! money! But you're not going to marry Ormsby, are you?"

"No, I can't--I can't!" cried the girl, starting up and pacing the room.

Herresford, with superlative cunning, had struck the right chord. It only needed a little brusque advice to set her in open revolt.

"Having decided not to marry him," continued the old man "you'll write him a letter now--at once. There's pen and ink and paper on the desk.

Write now, while your heart rings true; and you can tell him as well, if you like, that Mr. Herresford will alter his will to-morrow, and leave all his wealth to you."

Dora turned and faced him in amazement, fearing that his reason was unhinged. But the strange, quizzical, amused smile with which he surveyed her expressed so much sanity that she could not fail to respect his utterances.

"Say that Mr. Herresford makes it a condition that you do not marry without his consent, and he refuses his consent in so far as Mr. Ormsby is concerned."

"I can't do that, Mr. Herresford, you know I can't."

"Come here," he said, beckoning her authoritatively. "Have you any confidence in my judgment of what is best for you? If not, say so."

"I have every confidence in your judgment. You have voiced the things that were in my heart. I know you are right."

"Then, if you have confidence, do as I say, or you'll bitterly regret it.

As the mistress of Asherton Hall and all my money, you can have any man you wish. Do you know what I'm worth?"

She made no answer.

"Come here." He beckoned again, and was about to whisper the amount, when his mood changed. "No, no! n.o.body shall know what I'm worth. They'll want money out of me. They'll come around begging and borrowing and dunning.

The less I pay, the more I have. Go, write the letter, girl--write the letter. Don't take any notice of me and my money. I'm an old man. You've got all your life before you--one of the greatest heiresses in the country! And I know a man who'll marry you for your money and love you as well--or I'll know the reason why."

There was something strangely sympathetic between these two widely-contrasted beings--the young, clear-brained, high-spirited girl and the old misanthrope. She obeyed him as though mesmerized, and, flinging down her m.u.f.f, took off her gloves, and seated herself at the writing-table. There was determination in every movement. The invalid mumbled and chuckled with satisfaction from the depths of his pillows; but she paid no further heed to him. With the first pen that came to hand, she dashed off a curt note to Ormsby:

"DEAR VIVIAN, I cannot marry you, after all. It was all a mistake--a mistake. My heart always was and always will be another's. Good-bye.

Don't come to see us any more. My decision is unalterable. It will only cause us both pain. I am very, very sorry." Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, "I am going somewhere, right away, for a long time."

Again, she paused thoughtfully, and Herresford made signs to her which she could not see, signifying that he wished to see the letter.

"Let me read," he cried.

She handed him the letter as a matter of course, and he nodded approvingly as he read.

"Now, then, my girl, I'll tell you a secret. Can you keep secrets?"

"I have always been able to."

"It's a big secret. How long could you keep a very big secret?"

"Quite as long as a little one."

"Then, bend down and I'll tell you." His face lighted up with amus.e.m.e.nt; the ape-like features were transformed; the wrinkles of care and pain wreathed into smiles.

"Can't you guess?" he asked, with a hoa.r.s.e chuckle, and his shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. "Bend lower." He grasped her arm, and drew his lips close to her ear. "d.i.c.k's alive."

She gave a great gasp, and broke away, uncertain whether this were not some devilish jest.

"Oh, it's true--it's true!" he cried, nodding.

"Alive!--alive! Not dead! d.i.c.k!"

"But keep it secret."

"But why? Why?" cried Dora.

"For reasons of my own. Oh, it's true. You needn't look at me like that.

I'm not in my dotage yet."

"d.i.c.k alive!--alive!" she cried. She clasped her hands, and swung around and around in excitement too great to be controlled.

"Yes, alive, but in hiding," said the old man, "until I can get him out of that ugly sc.r.a.pe--cheaply."

"But where--where? Tell me!"

"That's my secret. You've got to keep your own."

"Oh! but I must tell father."

"Your father knows it already. He's not to be trusted."

"Father knows, and yet--?"

"Yet, he'd let you marry Ormsby. It's a way fathers have when they want their daughters to marry rich men. So, you see, he's not as honest as I am. Now, go home like a good girl, and in a day or two you shall hear from d.i.c.k. In the meantime, I tell you this much: The boy is ill and broken. You've both been fools. If you had come to me like sensible children, and told me that you wanted to get married, I'd have paid his debts and transferred the burden of responsibility to you--for he is a responsibility, and always will be--mark my words!"

"A responsibility I will gladly undertake, grandfather." She dropped on her knees beside the bed, and clasped his hand with a frankness and naturalness quite strange and wonderful to him. He raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them with unusual emotion.

"That's right, call me grandfather. Good girl--good girl!" He reverted to his usual snappy manner. "Put on your gloves, girl. Get away home. Keep a still tongue in your head. Wait till you hear from me. Give me the letter. Trimmer shall post it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OH, GOOD-BYE--GOOD-BYE, YOU DEAR, DEAR OLD MAN!" SHE CRIED, DROPPING ON HER KNEES BESIDE HIM.--Page 261]

Dora obeyed, and watched him as she drew on her gloves. When the last b.u.t.ton was fastened, she took up her m.u.f.f.

"Good-bye--good-bye!" he grunted brusquely, offering a bony hand.

"Oh, good-bye--good-bye, you dear, dear old man!" she cried, dropping on her knees beside him once more, and flinging her arms around his neck, weeping for joy at the great news.

"Get away! Get away! You'll kill me. Enough--enough for one day."

She kissed him, and he broke down. When she released him, he fell back on his pillows, breathing heavily. There were tears in his eyes. Trimmer entered at the opportune moment, and opened the door. Dora pa.s.sed out and ran down the stairs. When in the open air, she wanted to dance, to laugh, to cry, to sing, all at once in the centre of the drive. Only a stern sense of decorum prevented an hysterical outburst. She walked faster and faster, until she almost ran.

"d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k!" she cried, shouting riotously to the leafless elms in the avenue, and scampering like a joyous child. She waved her arms and sang to the breeze.