The Scarlet Feather Part 24

"I shall not allow you," he murmured, seizing her arm in a strong grip, gently but firmly, and raising her. "I am ever at your service. You know that."

"Let go my arm, please."

"May I not take the other one as well, and look into your eyes, and ask you the question which has been in my mind for days?"

"It is useless, Mr. Ormsby. Let me go."

"No," he cried, coming quite close and surveying her with a glance so intense that she shrank away frightened. "I will not let you go. You are mine--mine! I mean to keep you forever. I'll shadow you till you die. You shall never cast me off. No other man shall ever approach you as near as I. I will not let him. I would kill him."

"You are talking nonsense, Mr. Ormsby, and you are hurting my arm."

"To prevent your escaping, I shall encircle you with bands of steel," and he put his arm around her quickly, and held her to him.

"I beg that you will behave decently and sensibly," she cried, with a sob. "I've given you to understand before that this sort of thing is repugnant to me. Let me go."

She struck him on the breast with the flat of her hand, and thrust herself away, compelling him to release her. Her anger spent itself in tears, and she hurried across to the piano stool, where she dropped down, feeling more helpless and hopeless than ever in her life before. Her father had given Ormsby the direct hint; and he had proposed again. She could not blame him for that. She could not deny that he was masterful, and handsome, and convincing. There was no escape; and the absurdity of sweeping out of the room in indignation was obvious. He was their guest, and would be their guest as long as her father chose.

The ardent lover held himself in check with wonderful self-possession. He drew forward an armchair, and, dropping into it, picked up the cigarettes from the floor, lighted one and settled himself callously to smoke, taking no further notice of her tears. It was better than offering sympathy that would be scorned. It was exactly the right thing at the moment, and Dora saw the wisdom of it and respected him. It lessened her fear; but she cried quietly for a little while; then, drying her tears, she fingered the music on the top of the grand piano, idly.

"I'm afraid you think me a very hysterical and stupid person, Mr.

Ormsby?" she said at last, growing weary of the strained silence and his indifferent nonchalance. "I don't usually cry like this, and make scenes, and behave like a schoolgirl."

"I'm making headway," was Ormsby's thought, "or she wouldn't take the trouble to excuse herself."

"I think you are the most sensible girl I ever met, Dora."

"You have no right to call me Dora."

"In future, I shall do just as I choose. You know your father's wishes--you know mine. I am patient, I can wait. After to-night, you are mine always, and forever. Some day, you will be my wife, and, instead of sitting apart from me over there, you will be here by my side, holding my hand."

"Never!" she cried, starting up, and emphasizing her determination by a blow with her hand upon the music lying on the piano top.

"Ah! you feel like that now. Dora, show your sweet reasonableness by playing to me for a little while. I promise, I shall not annoy you further."

"I don't feel like playing. You have upset me."

"Then, sit by the fire."

He drew forward a chair of which he knew she was fond, and brought it close to the hearth.

"Come! You used to smoke in the old days. Have a cigarette. It will help you to forget unpleasant things. It will calm you--if you don't feel inclined to play."

"I would rather play," she faltered.

"Whichever you please."

She settled herself at the piano, and fingered the music, irresolutely.

She had not touched the keys since d.i.c.k's death, and, if she had been less perturbed to-night, she would not for a moment have contemplated breaking that silence for the sake of Vivian Ormsby, but an extraordinary helplessness had taken possession of her. There was something magnetic about this man whom she feared, and tried to hate, something that compelled her to act against her will and better judgment.

She chose the first piece of music at hand--a waltz, a particularly romantic and melancholy refrain, that was soothing to the man in the chair. He sat with his head thrown back, blowing rings of smoke into the air and secretly congratulating himself upon his progress. In imagination, he experienced all the intoxication of the dance, and Dora in his arms, resting heavily upon him. In imagination, he was drawing her closer and closer, her eyes looking into his, and her breath upon his cheek.

He started up and faced her, watching the slender hands gliding over the keys, as if he could keep away no longer; then, he strolled over and stood behind her, ostensibly watching the music. She felt his presence oppressively. He bent lower, as if to scan the notes: yet, she knew that he could not read music. Her fingers faltered, and she looked over her shoulder nervously.

Her eyes met his, and the playing ceased. Those glittering orbs held her as if by a magic spell. She was rendered powerless when he put his arm about her, and touched her lips in a kiss.

Instantly, the spell was broken. She started up, and struck him in the face--even as d.i.c.k had done.

He only laughed--and apologized. The blow was a very slight one: and it gave him the opportunity of seizing her wrists, and holding her captive for a few moments, until she confessed that she was sorry. Then she fled from the room.

"I'm getting on," he murmured, as he dropped back into the armchair, and lighted another cigarette. "A little more boldness, a rigid determination, a constant repet.i.tion of my a.s.surances that she cannot escape me, and she will surrender. They all do. It's the law of nature.

The man subdues the woman; and she surrenders at once when her strength is gone."

CHAPTER XIX

AN UNEXPECTED TELEGRAM

As the days wore on, Dora went through many scenes with her father concerning Vivian Ormsby. The banker pressed his suit remorselessly, yet with a consideration for the girl, which did him the greatest credit. The colonel made no secret of his keen desire for the match; and he informed his friends, as well as Dora, that he looked upon the thing as settled.

Naturally, the girl's name was coupled with Ormsby's, and, wherever one was invited, the other always appeared.

Ormsby showed himself at his best during this period. He would have made no progress at all but for his tactful recognition of the fact that Dora had loved d.i.c.k Swinton, and must be treated tenderly on that account. She was grateful to him, for he seemed to be the only one who respected poor d.i.c.k's memory. Other people were free in their comments, and remorseless in their condemnation of the criminal act which, as the culmination of a long series of follies, must inevitably have brought him to ruin if he had not chosen to end his life at the war.

n.o.body was surprised when the society columns of the newspapers hinted of a coming engagement between the daughter of a well-known soldier and the son of a banker, who came together under romantic circ.u.mstances, not unconnected with a regrettable accident.

Later, there was a definite announcement: "An engagement has been arranged between Miss Dundas, daughter of Colonel Herbert Dundas, and Vivian Ormsby, eldest son of William Ormsby, the well-known banker."

Letters poured in on every side. Polly Ocklebourne drove over to congratulate Dora in person, and found the affianced bride looking very pale, and by no means happy. Dora hastened to explain that the engagement would be a long one, possibly two years at least--and they laughed at her. The girl had given her consent grudgingly, in half-hearted fas.h.i.+on, with the stipulation that she might possibly withdraw from it. Her father coaxed it out of her. But, when people came around and talked of the wedding, and abused her for treating poor Ormsby shabbily by insisting on an engagement of quite unfas.h.i.+onable and absurd length, the thought of what she had done began to terrify her. She knew perfectly well that she did not care for her lover; that, under certain circ.u.mstances, she almost hated him. But there was no one she liked better, nor was there any prospect of her dead heart coming to life again at all. And, in the meantime, Ormsby was constantly by her side.

One morning, Ormsby drove up in his automobile, to propose an engagement for the evening to Dora. His _fiancee_, however, had gone out for a walk, and he was forced to content himself by leaving a message with her father. The two men were chatting together in the library, when a servant entered with a telegram. "For Miss Dundas, sir," was the explanation.

"I suppose I'd better open it," murmured the colonel, as he slit the envelope.

He read the message, frowned, swore an oath, turned it over, then read it again, with a look of blank amazement, whilst Ormsby watched.

"Bad news?"

"Read."

Ormsby took the slip between his fingers. His pale face hardened, and his teeth ground together. His surprise was expressed in a smothered cry of rage.

"It can't be!" he gasped. "Alive? Then, the story of his death was a lie.

His heroic death was a sham."

"Dora will have to be told," groaned the colonel.

"No, certainly not," cried Ormsby. "If he attempts to show his face in New York, I'll have him arrested."