The Scarlet Feather Part 3

d.i.c.k shook his head smilingly, and was terribly abashed. They waited a few moments longer--moments, during which a girl's face seemed to be looking at d.i.c.k with wistful, tender eyes--the same woman that Ormsby loved. And he saw, too, in a blurred mist, a vision of carnage and bloodshed that was horribly unnecessary and unjust. He could not explain all his reasons for evading this opportunity--that he was only just engaged, was in debt, and could not afford the money for his outfit. It needed some courage to sit there and say nothing.

"Fill him up a gla.s.s of champagne, a stiff one--it will give him some Dutch courage," remarked Captain Ormsby _sotto voce_, but loud enough for the others to hear, and they laughed awkwardly at the implied taunt of cowardice. Burly Jack Lorrimer, who stood by d.i.c.k's side and had had quite enough to drink, seized a bottle jocularly; Ormsby took it from him, and, leaning forward, was about to fill d.i.c.k's gla.s.s, when the young man jumped to his feet.

There was the beginning of a luke-warm cheer--arrested instantly, for d.i.c.k turned in a fury on Captain Ormsby, and struck him a blow in the face with the flat of his hand that resounded through the room. Then, he kicked his chair back, and strode to the door just behind him.

The colonel angrily hushed the murmurs of excitement that ensued, and with considerable tact proceeded to make a short speech to the volunteers as though nothing had happened.

The whole scene lasted only fifteen minutes. The ugly incident at the table was with one accord ignored, and the wine was attacked with vigor, everybody drinking everybody else's health. The captain was inwardly satisfied; for had he not succeeded in publicly branding his rival in love as a coward?

d.i.c.k Swinton went striding home, a prey to the bitterest humiliation. He had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and had disgraced himself in the eyes of his fellows.

And the forget-me-not in his pocket! That had had much to do with it, of course. It was a silent appeal from the girl he loved, who had been his own, his very own, for only twenty-four sweet hours. He took out her letter, which he had not yet perused, and read it under a street lamp--the letter of a soldier's daughter, born and reared among soldiers.

DEAREST, Of course you must go. Don't consider me. All the others are going. Our secret must remain sacred until your return. Your country calls, and her claim comes even before that of your own darling. Oh, I shall hate the days you are away, but it cannot be helped, can it? Father is already talking about your kit, and he wants you to come and see him that he may advise you what to buy and what to wear.--DORA.

He groaned as he realized that this note should have been read earlier.

It was too late now.

CHAPTER IV

DORA DUNDAS

d.i.c.k Swinton spent a wretched night after his humiliation at the dinner.

When he awakened, the sun of spring was shining on the quivering leaves of the trees along the drive. He opened his window and looked out.

At the sound of the rattling cas.e.m.e.nt, Rudd, who was at work on the lawn, looked up. Rudd was general factotum--coachman, gardener, footman,--and usually valeted his young master. Now, he hurried upstairs to Mr. d.i.c.k's bedroom, where he duly appeared with a pile of letters.

"Mrs. Swinton and Miss Netty have breakfasted in their rooms, sir. The rector has gone out. And it's nine o'clock."

d.i.c.k took the bundle of letters--bills all of them, except two, one of which was addressed in the handwriting of Dora Dundas. Rudd knew the outside of a bill as well as his young master, and had selected the love-letter from the others, and placed it first.

When d.i.c.k was dressed, he opened the girl's letter, and his face softened:

DEAREST, I hear that everything was settled last night, and I must see you this morning. There are many things to be talked of before the dreadful good-bye. I shall be in the Mall, but I can't stay long.

Your loving, DORA.

"She imagines I'm going," growled d.i.c.k, grinding his teeth and thinking of the shameful scene of last night. "Well, I'll show them all that I have the courage of my convictions."

But, despite his declarations, his feelings were greatly confused, and, although he would not confess the fact even to himself, he was now consumed with chagrin that he had refused the chance of service. To be branded thus with cowardice was altogether insupportable!

And then, while he was in this mood, he opened the other envelope, carelessly. His interest was first aroused by the fact that, as he glanced at it, there was no sign of a letter. A second examination revealed something contained there. d.i.c.k put in his fingers, and pulled forth a white feather. For a few seconds, he stared at it in bewilderment, wondering what this thing might mean. But, in the next instant, the significance of it flashed on him. Somewhere, some time, he had read the story of a soldier who was stigmatized by his fellows as a craven in this manner. The presentation of the white feather to him meant that he, d.i.c.k Swinton, was a coward.

As he realized the truth, the young man was stunned. It seemed to him a monstrous thing that any could so misunderstand. Yet, there was the evidence of his shame before his eyes. He grew white as he tried to imagine what the sender must think of him. And then, presently, in thinking of the sender, he was filled with an overmastering rage against the one who dared thus to impugn his courage. He looked at the envelope, which was addressed in a straggling hand, and was convinced that the writer had disguised the handwriting. But he felt that he had no need of evidence to know who his enemy was. Of his own circle, all were his friends, save only Captain Ormsby. And he had struck Ormsby. This, then, was Ormsby's revenge. After all, it were folly to permit the malevolence of a cad so to distress him. Since he was not a coward, the white feather concerned him not at all.

Nevertheless, he was unable to dismiss his annoyance over the incident as completely as he wished, and he breakfasted without appet.i.te. He was still disconsolate when he set out to keep his engagement in Central Park.

At five minutes past ten o'clock, there approached the spot where d.i.c.k stood waiting in the Mall a very charming girl of scarcely twenty years of age, of medium height, with a pretty, plump form delightfully outlined by the lines of her walking dress. This was of a gray cloth, perfectly cut, but almost military in its severity. Her mouth was small and proud, her eyes gray and solemn, her color high from walking in the chilly air, and her hair of that nondescript brown usually described as fair.

Uncommon, yet not sensational; but with a delicate charm that radiated from her like perfume from a flower.

At the sight of the lover awaiting her, Dora's placid demeanor departed.

Her eyes lighted up and moistened with tenderness. She could not wait for him to join her; she started forward with outstretched hands.

"You are not displeased?" she asked, with a blush. "I did so want to see you! Oh, to think that we must part so soon!"

"I suppose you've heard all about last night?" asked d.i.c.k, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes. Mr. Ormsby called to see father for a moment. They talked incessantly about the war, and I overheard a little of their conversation--about last night. How sad for that poor fellow who turned coward, and was shamed before them all. Who was it?"

The color fled from d.i.c.k's face, and left it white and drawn.

"You were wrongly informed. The man was insulted, and there was no question of cowardice about it. He couldn't go, and he wouldn't go."

"But who was it? Not Jack Lorrimer or Harry Bent, surely?"

"Then, you don't know?" he exclaimed.

Something in his face made her heart stand still.

Dora could not yet understand that a hideous blunder had been made, that her information came from a tainted source. Ormsby had told her father, in her hearing, of a vulgar scuffle, but her ears had not caught the name of the offender.

"Can't you guess who it was they insulted?" cried d.i.c.k, bitterly. "It was I. I declined to go. How could I go? You know all about my finances. You know what it costs, the outfit, everything; and, darling, I was only just engaged to the dearest little girl in the world."

"d.i.c.k!--you?" she cried, looking at him in cold amazement. Then, he knew to his cost what it was to love a soldier's daughter, a girl born in a military camp, and reared among men who regarded the chance of active service as the good fortune of the G.o.ds. It had never occurred to her for a moment that d.i.c.k would hang back--certainly not on her account--after her loving message.

He hastened to explain the circ.u.mstances, and was obliged to confess to the girl whom he had only just won a good deal more of the unfortunate state of his family affairs than he had hoped would be necessary. Of course, she was sympathetic, and furiously angry with Vivian Ormsby; but--and there came the rub--of course, he would go now, at all costs.

"Well, it was for you I said no," he cried, at last. "But for you I'll say yes. It's not too late. I'll have to swindle somebody to get my outfit, and add another to the long list of debts that are breaking my father's heart; but still--"

"But your grandfather, d.i.c.k! Surely, only a word to him would be enough.

He could not refuse to behave handsomely."

"He never behaved handsomely in his life. He's a mean old miser, who will probably fool us all in the end, and leave his money to strangers. But, as it's settled, we need say no more. I suppose I shall see you again before I go--if it matters to you--I suppose you don't care whether I am killed."

"Oh, d.i.c.k!"

"Yes, I'm disappointed. I did hope that you thought the world well lost for love, and that, having braved the inevitable anger of your father in giving yourself to me, you'd show some feeling, and not look forward eagerly to my leaving you. You seem anxious to be rid of me."

"d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k!" cried the girl. "I'm a soldier's daughter. I--"

"Oh, pray spare me a repet.i.tion of your father's plat.i.tudes--I've heard them often enough. I don't know much about the war, but all I've heard has set me against it. But never mind! And now, good-bye, my Spartan sweetheart."

He extended his hand, sullenly and coldly.

"Hush! And don't be hateful" Dora remonstrated. Then, she added, quickly: "It's more than ever necessary, d.i.c.k, now that you are going away, to keep our secret. You mustn't anger your grandfather."