The Scarlet Feather Part 34

"But where is he? I suppose I can write to him?"

"He's in hiding," said the rector, brokenly. The words seemed to be choking him.

"In hiding! d.i.c.k, who faced a dozen rifles and flung defiance in the teeth of his country's enemies--in hiding!"

"Just for the present--just for the present. You see, they would arrest him. It's so much better to prepare a defense when one has liberty than--than--from the Tombs."

"Then, you will not tell me where he is?"

The information Dora vainly sought came to her by an accident. Netty, unaware of the presence of a visitor in the house, walked into the study, and commenced to speak before she was well into the room.

"Father, d.i.c.k wants the papers. He's finished the book and--Oh, Miss Dundas!"

"He is here--in this house?" cried Dora, flushing angrily at the rector's want of trust. "Oh, why didn't you tell me? Do you think that I would betray him? Why didn't you let me know? How long has he been home? Oh, please let me go to him!"

Father and daughter looked at one another in confusion.

"I intended to tell you, Miss Dundas, after I had asked my son's permission. You see, we are all in league with him here. If the police got an inkling of his presence in the house, it would be very awkward."

"I don't think d.i.c.k would like to see you just now," interjected Netty.

"You see, he's ill--he's very ill, and much broken."

"Now that you know he is here," interposed the rector, "there can be no objection to your seeing him. I must first inform him of your coming--that he may be prepared. I'm sure he will be glad to see you."

The rector escaped to fulfil a difficult and painful mission. He had almost forgotten the existence of his son's sweetheart, and was only conscious that she added to the troubles of an already trying situation.

The n.o.ble fellow, who was prepared to take the burden of his mother's sin, would certainly find it hard to justify himself in the eyes of the woman he loved. And, if he set himself right in Dora's eyes, that would mean--? He trembled to think what it would mean.

Dora and Netty, in the study, maintained an unnatural reserve, in which there was silent antagonism. Dora relieved the situation by a commonplace.

"You must be overjoyed, Netty, to have your brother back again."

"Overjoyed!" exclaimed Netty, with a shrug. "I'm likely to lose a husband. A disgraced brother is a poor exchange."

"You don't mean to say that Harry Bent would be so mean as to withdraw because your brother--"

"Oh, yes, say it--because my brother is a criminal. I don't pity him, and you'll find your father less lenient than mine. All thought of an engagement between you and d.i.c.k is now, of course, absurd."

"That is for d.i.c.k to decide," said Dora, quietly. But there was a horrible sinking at her heart, and tears came to her eyes. She walked to the window to hide her emotion from unsympathetic eyes. She almost hated Netty. Everyone seemed to be conspiring to overthrow her idol. They would not give her half a chance of believing him innocent. She positively quaked at the prospect of hearing from d.i.c.k's own lips his version of the story.

When the clergyman came down, he entered with bowed head and haggard face, like a beaten man. He signed to Netty that he wished to be alone with Dora, and, when the girl was gone, went over to his visitor, and laid a trembling hand upon her shoulder.

"My dear Miss Dundas, my son desires to see you, and speak with you alone. He will say--he will tell you things that may make you take a harsh view of--of his parents. I exhort you, in all Christian charity, to suspend your judgment, and be merciful--to us, at least. I am a weak man--weaker than I thought. This is a time of humiliation for us, a time of difficulty, bordering on ruin. Have mercy. That is all I ask."

Without waiting for a reply, he led the way upstairs. Dora followed with beating heart, conscious of a sense of mystery. At the door of d.i.c.k's room, the rector left her.

"Go in," he murmured, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Dora!"

It was d.i.c.k's voice. He was reclining in a deck-chair, wrapped around with rugs, and with a book lying in his lap. He was less drawn and pinched than when he first returned, but the change in him was still great enough to give her a sudden wrench at the heart.

"Oh, d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k!" she cried, flinging away her m.u.f.f and rushing to him.

"Oh, my poor d.i.c.k! What have they done to you?"

He smiled weakly, and allowed her to wind her arms about his neck as she knelt by his side.

"They've nearly killed me, Dora. But I'm not dead yet. I'm in hiding here, as I understand father told you. You don't mean to give me the go-by just because people are saying things about me?"

"Indeed, no. But the things they're saying, d.i.c.k, are dreadful, and I wanted to hear from your own lips that they're not true."

"You remember what I said to you before I went away?"

"I remember, and I have been loyal to my promise."

"Well, you can continue loyal, little one. I am no forger--but I fear they're going to put me into jail, and I must go through with it, as I've had to go through lots of ugly things out there." He shuddered.

"But, d.i.c.k, if the charge is false, why cannot you refute it?"

"Ah, there you have me, Dora. If you force me to explain, I will. It concerns one who is near and dear to me, and I would rather be silent.

If, however, there is the slightest doubt in your mind of my innocence, you must know everything."

"I--I would rather know," pleaded Dora, whose curiosity was overmastering.

"But is your faith in me conditional? Is not my word enough?"

"It is enough for me, d.i.c.k--but it is the others--father, and--"

"Ah! I understand. But what do other people matter--now? You're going to marry Ormsby, I understand."

Dora looked down, and her hand trembled in his as she sought for words to explain a situation which was hardly explainable.

"Well--you see--d.i.c.k--they told me you were dead. We all gave you up as a lost hero."

"Yet, before the gra.s.s had grown over my supposed grave, you were ready to transfer your love to--that cad."

"Not my love, d.i.c.k--not my love! Believe me, I was broken-hearted. They said dreadful things about you, and I couldn't prove them untrue, and I didn't want everybody to think--Well, father pressed it. I was utterly wretched. I knew I should never love anybody else, dearest--n.o.body else in the world, and I didn't care whom I married."

It was the sweetest reasoning, and of that peculiarly feminine order which the inherent vanity of man cannot resist. d.i.c.k's only rebuke was a kiss.

"Well, Dora, I'm not a marrying man, now. I'm not even respectable. As soon as I'm well, I've got to disappear again. But the idea of your marrying Ormsby--"

"It's off, d.i.c.k--off! I gave him his dismissal the moment I heard--"

"Did your father tell you I was alive?"

"No, your grandfather told me."

"Ye G.o.ds! You don't mean to say you've seen him!"