The Scarlet Feather Part 25

"No, no, Ormsby, you wouldn't do that. I must confess, it isn't any pleasure to hear that he's alive. It's a confounded nuisance! His death--d.a.m.n it all! He sha'n't see her. They mustn't meet, Ormsby!"

"No, of course not--of course not. We'll have to send him to jail."

"Ormsby, you couldn't do it--you couldn't."

"Well, he mustn't see Dora."

"No--I'll attend to that."

The colonel read the telegram again.

"Arrived at Boston Parker House this morning. Start home this afternoon. Send message. Dying to see you.

"d.i.c.k SWINTON."

"What does the fool want to come home for?" growled the colonel. "Hasn't he any consideration for his mother and father and sister? Everybody thinks he's dead--why doesn't he remain dead? He sha'n't upset my girl.

I'll see to that. I'll--I'll meet him myself."

"A good idea," observed Ormsby, who had grown thoughtful. "For my part, my duty is plain. A warrant is out for his arrest. I shall give information to the police that he is in the country again."

"No, Ormsby--no!" pleaded the colonel. "You'll utterly upset yourself with Dora. You won't stand a ghost of a chance.

"A hero with handcuffs doesn't cut an agreeable figure, or stand much of a chance. Dora has glorified him, you must remember. There will be a reaction of feeling. She'll alter her opinion, when she knows he's a criminal, flying from justice. They gave him his life, I suppose, because he hadn't the courage to die, and keep his country's secrets. The traitor!"

They resolved to say nothing of the arrival of the telegram. The colonel gave out that business affairs necessitated a journey to Boston, and Dora was to be told that he would be back in the evening.

Ormsby drove the colonel to the station in his motor. Afterward, he called at police-headquarters, and then at the bank. There, he wrote a letter to Herresford, reopening the matter of the seven thousand dollars, which had lain dormant all this time, true to the promise made to Dora.

He had let the quarrel stand in abeyance in case of accidents. This was characteristic of the cautious Ormsbys, and quite in keeping with the remorseless character of the man who never forgave, and never desisted in any pursuit where personal gain was the paramount consideration.

Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of d.i.c.k Swinton--up to a point.

The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His supposit.i.tiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance dear to the colonel's heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora's happiness in the balance, excited a growing anger.

All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare d.i.c.k send telegrams to his innocent child without her father's knowledge, in order that he might work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope with him--elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to set right by plain speaking.

As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw d.i.c.k Swinton--or someone like him--wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas, and he tried to hurry, but his step was slow and uncertain. As they came near each other, he seized the colonel's arm.

"Colonel! Colonel!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with you?"

"Dora--no, sir! What do you take me for? Good G.o.d! what a wreck you are!

Where have you been? How is it you've come home?"

"I--I thought she would come!" gasped d.i.c.k, who looked very white. His eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely bones.

"Here, come out of the crowd," said the colonel, forgetting his tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped nothing like muscle. "Why, you're a skeleton, boy!" he exclaimed, adopting the old att.i.tude in spite of himself.

"Yes, I'm not up to the mark," laughed d.i.c.k. "I thought you knew all about it."

"Knew all about it, man? You're dead--dead! Everyone, your father and mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers."

"Yes; but I corrected all that," cried d.i.c.k, "My letters--they got my letters?"

"What letters?"

"The two I sent through by the men that were exchanged. Young Maxwell took one."

"Maxwell died of dysentery."

"Ah, that accounts for it. The other I gave to a sailor. He promised to deliver it."

"To whom did you write?"

"To Dora. I asked her to go to mother and explain things, so as not to give too great a shock. You don't mean to say that my mother doesn't know!"

"No, of course not--not through Dora, at any rate."

"Good heavens! Let's get to a telegraph-office, and I'll send her word at once. And father, too--dear old dad--he's had two months of sorrow that might have been avoided. What a fool I was! I ought to have telegraphed from Copenhagen."

"Copenhagen!"

"Yes; I escaped--nearly died of hunger--got on board a Danish s.h.i.+p as stowaway, and arrived at Copenhagen half-starved. But I wasn't up to traveling for a bit. I'm pulling around, gradually. I'm--well, to be sure! And mother doesn't know. What a surprise it will be! What a jollification! What a--!"

"Here, hold up, d.i.c.k--hold up, man--you're tottering."

The colonel's strong hand kept d.i.c.k on his feet. He led the young man gently through the vestibule.

"Here, come to a quiet place. You mustn't be seen in public," growled the colonel.

"Why not?" asked d.i.c.k. "I'm a little faint. You see, I haven't much money. I had to borrow. A square meal, at your expense, would do me a world of good, colonel. Let's go to the dining-room."

"Very well. We can get a quiet table there. But I want you to understand at once that, though I'm here, I'm not your friend."

"Eh? What?"

"Well, you can't expect it."

"Oh, you're angry with me because I'm fond of Dora. I suppose you saw my telegram and--intercepted it."

"Yes."

"Then Dora doesn't know!"

"No, Dora doesn't know--nor will she know. Better be dead, my boy--better be dead!"

"I beg your pardon?" queried d.i.c.k, gazing at the colonel with dull, tired eyes.

The colonel vouchsafed no explanation, but led the way into the dining-room. He selected a table in a corner, and thrust the menu over to d.i.c.k. The sick man's eyes ran listlessly down the card, and he gave it back.

"I'm too done. You order. Perhaps, a drink'll pull me up."