82CHAPTER VIIGOOD-BYE
“Go and get shot!”
The old man’s words rang in Dick’s ears as he rode away.
Well, perhaps he would be. His eyes traveled over the undulating glens of Asherton Park, where beeches and chestnuts in picturesque clumps intersected the rolling grass land, and wondered if this were the last time he would look upon the place. He wondered what Dora would be doing this time next year—if he were shot.
Well, it would be easier to face a rain of bullets than to step into the train that was to carry him away from Dora. To-day, they were to meet and part. To-morrow, he started.
At once, on returning to town, Dick hastened to the Mall in Central Park, where he was to meet Dora again, by appointment. There, the elms in the avenue were still a blaze of gold, that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.
Dora set out from home equipped for walking in a white Empire coat with a deep ermine collar, a granny muff to match, and a little white hat with a tall83aigrette. Her skirt was short, and her neat little feet were encased in high-heeled boots, that clicked on the gravel path as she hurried toward the Mall. She looked her best, and she knew it. She wanted Dick to take away an impression vivid and favorable, something to look back upon and remember with pleasure. She was no puling, sentimental girl to hang about his neck, and crush roses into his hand. The tears were in her heart; the roses in her cheeks. Warm kisses from her ruddy lips would linger longer than the perfume of the sweetest flowers. She had wept a great deal—but in secret—and careful bathing and a dusting of powder had removed all traces. As she proceeded down the avenue, her faultless, white teeth many times bit upon the under lip, which trembled provokingly; and the shiver of the golden elms in the Park beside her certainly was not responsible for the extreme haziness of her vision. It was her firm intention not to think of Dick going into the death zone. This might be their last interview; but she would not allow such an idea to intrude. It was a parting for a few months at most.
She turned into the Park and, after walking for a minute, caught sight of Dick, moodily awaiting her. She gave a great gulp, and pressed her muff to her mouth to avoid crying out. Oh, the horrid, shooting pain in her breast, and the stinging in her eyes! The tree trunks began to waver, and the ground was84as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?—absurd! A soldier’s daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs? Never!
She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her, so absorbed was he in meditation.
“Dora!” he cried.
He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like any civilian’s daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining through the rain.
“I didn’t mean to cry, Dick.”
“Nor I,” he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. “I knew it would be hard to go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with me, an abomination. I don’t know why I ever joined the wretched militia. Yes, I do—I joined for fun—without thinking—because others did. They had a good time, and wanted me to share it.”
“Dick, that is not the mind of a soldier.”
“Well, it’s my mind, anyway. You see, you’ve85been born and bred in the atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek. I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training tells, in spite of yourself.”
“But you’ll go now, and fight for your country and—for me. You’ll come back covered with glory, I know you will.”
“Perhaps—and maybe I sha’n’t come back at all.”
“Then, I shall mourn my hero as a noble patriot, who never showed the white feather.”
“Oh, it isn’t courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I’m in it like anybody else. It’s the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men shrieking in agony, gouging one another’s eyes out, and biting like wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals—all over a quarrel in which they have no part.”
“Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation’s quarrel is his own.”
“We won’t argue it, darling. It’s settled now, and I’m going through with it. I start to-morrow. You’ll write to me often?”
“Every day.”
“If you don’t often get replies you’ll know it’s the fault of the army postal service—and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well.”
“You certainly are a very bad letter-writer, Dick,”86she protested, with a laugh. “I’ve only had two notes from you, but those are very precious—precious as though written on leaves of gold.”
“You are sure, Dora, that you’re not sorry you engaged yourself to a useless person like me?”
“You shall not abuse yourself in that way!”
“You are quite sure?” he repeated.
“Quite sure, my hero.”
“And you never cared for that cad, Ormsby? not one little bit?”
“No. Not one little bit.”
“It’s a confounded nuisance, his being laid up in your house. But he won’t go to the front. That’s one comfort. He was so stuck-up about it! To hear him talk, you would have thought he was going to run the whole war. Why don’t they send him home, instead of letting you have all the bother of an invalid in your house?”
“Oh, it’s no bother. We have two trained nurses there, who take night and day duty. I only relieve them occasionally.”
Dick grunted contemptuously.
“You’ll send him away as soon as he gets well, won’t you?”
“As soon as he is able to move, of course; but that rests with father. You know how he loves to have someone to talk with about the war.”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with Ormsby when I come87back. Do you know what the cad said about me at the dinner?”
“No.”
“It was after I struck him in the face and went away—after the gathering broke up. He was naturally very sore and sick about the way he’d behaved, and the others told him it was caddish; but he said he knew a thing or two about the money affairs of my family, and mine in particular, and he wouldn’t be surprised to see me in jail one of these fine days.”
“How infamous!”
“The scoundrel went so far as to hint darkly that I almost owed my liberty to him—as much as to say that, if he chose to speak, I’d have to do a term in the penitentiary.”
“Oh, nonsense! It was just an angry man’s idle threat. He is the very essence of conceit and stubborn pride, and was probably smarting under the indignity of the blow you gave him.”
“I wish I’d made it half-a-dozen instead of one.” Then, with sudden tenderness: “Promise me, darling, that you’ll never listen to tales and abuse about me, no matter how plausible they may seem. I know I’ve been going the pace; but I’m going to pull up, for I’ve come into a fortune now more precious than my grandfather’s money-bags. I’ve won the dearest, sweetest, truest, bravest little girl, and I mean to be worthy of her.”88
“I’ll listen to no one and believe nothing, unless it comes from your dear lips.” The girl’s voice was very earnest as she made the promise.
Brave words! How easy to have faith, and swear before high heaven when strong arms are clasped about a yielding form, and eyes look into eyes seeking depths deeper than wells fashioned by the hands of men.
They strolled side by side, and exchanged vows, till twilight fell and the cold shadows darkened all the earth about them, and struck a chill to the girl’s heart. She clung to her lover, broken-hearted. Gone was the Spartan self-possession, the patriotic self-denial that was ready to offer up the love of a lifetime on the red altar of Mars. As he pressed his lips to her cheek and his hard breathing sounded in her ears, she seemed to hear the roaring of cannon, the clatter of hoofs, the rumble of artillery over bloodstained turf, the cries of men calling to one another in blind anger, shouting, cursing, moaning, and Dick wailing aloud in agony. She recovered herself with a start as a clock in the distance struck the hour, and reminded both of the flight of time.
At last, it was good-bye. The very end, the dreadful wrench—the absolute adieu!
89CHAPTER VIIIA TIRESOME PATIENT
Vivian Ormsby’s illness dragged on from days into weeks. There was little or nothing to be done but nursing, and Dora took her share willingly. He was a very courteous, considerate person when the girl he loved was at his bedside, but very trying to the professional nurses. He insisted upon attending to business matters as soon as he recovered from his long period of unconsciousness, but the physicians strictly forbade visitors of any kind.
The patient was not allowed to read newspapers or hear news of the war. All excitement was barred, for it was one of the worst cases of concussion of the brain the specialists had ever known. Ormsby could not help watching Dora’s face in the mornings, when the papers arrived; he saw her hand tremble and her eyes grow dim as she read. When the first lists of killed and wounded came to hand, she read with ashen face and quivering lip, but, when the name she sought, and dreaded to find, was not there, the color came back, and she glowed again with the joy and pride of youth.
He allowed himself idly to imagine that this was90his home, and Dora his wife. It would always be like this—Dora at hand with her gentle, soothing touch upon his brow, her light, quick step, that he knew so well, and could distinguish in a moment from that of any other woman about the house, and her rich, penetrating voice, that never faltered, and carried even in a whisper, no matter how far away from his bedside. She laughed sometimes in talking to the nurses, finding it hard to restrain the natural vivacity of her temperament, and it hurt him when they hushed her down, and playfully ordered her from the room.
He loved to lie and watch her, and his great dark eyes at times exerted a kind of fascination. She avoided them, but could feel his gaze when she turned away, and was glad to escape. He loved her—there was no hiding the fact; and, when he was convalescent, and the time came for him to go away, he would declare it—if not before. The nurses discussed it between themselves, and speculated upon the chances. They knew that there was a rival, but he was far away, at the war—and he might never come back. The man on the spot had all the advantages on his side, the other all the love; it was interesting to the feminine mind to watch developments.
When there was talk of the patient getting up, he was increasingly irritable if Dora were away. One91day, he seized her hand, and carried it to his lips—dry, fevered lips that scorched her.
“You have been very good to me,” he murmured, in excuse for his presumption. And what could she say in rebuke that would not be churlish and ungracious?
At last, he was allowed to see Mr. Barnby, the manager at the bank, who came with a sheaf of letters and arrears of documents needing signature. The patient declared that he was not yet capable of attending to details, but he wanted to see the check signed by Herresford and presented by Dick Swinton.
“Which check?” asked Mr. Barnby; “the one for two thousand or the one for five thousand? I have them both.”
“There are two, then?”
Ormsby’s eyes glistened.
“Yes, with the same strange discoloration of the ink. This is the one; and I have brought the glass with me.”
Ormsby examined Mrs. Swinton’s second forgery under the magnifier, and was puzzled.
“The addition has been cleverly made. The writing seems to be the same. Whose handwriting is it—not Herresford’s?”
“It seems to be Mrs. Swinton’s. Compare it with these old checks in his pass-book, and you will see if92I am not right. She has drawn many checks for him and frequently altered them, but always with an initial.”
“Yes, the check was drawn by Mrs. Swinton in her father’s presence, no doubt; and young Swinton may have added the extra words and figures. An amazingly clever forgery! You say he had all the money?”
“No, not all—but nearly all of it has been withdrawn.”
“Then, he has robbed us of seven thousand dollars?”
“If the checks are forgeries, yes. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. If you doubted the first check—”
“The scoundrel! Go at once to Herresford. The old man must refund and make good the loss, or we are in a predicament.”
“I’ll go immediately. I suppose it is the young man’s work? It is impossible to conceive that Mrs. Swinton—his own daughter—”
“Don’t be a fool. Go to Herresford.”
93CHAPTER IXHERRESFORD IS TOLD
Herresford was in a more than usually unpleasant frame of mind when the manager of Ormsby’s bank came to bring the news that someone had robbed him of seven thousand dollars. The old man was no longer in the usual bedroom, lying on his ebony bed. A sudden impulse had seized him to be moved to another portion of the house, where he could see a fresh section of the grounds. He needed a change, and he wanted to spy out new defects. A sudden removal to a room in the front of the house revealed the fact that everything had been neglected except the portion of the garden which had formerly come within range of his field-glasses.
Rage accordingly! Stormy interviews, with violent threats of instant dismissal of the whole outdoor staff, petulant abuse of people who had nothing whatever to do with the neglect of the park, and a display of energy and mental activity surprising in one of such advanced age. He was in the middle of an altercation with his steward—who resigned his position about once a month—when the bank-manager was announced.94
At the mention of the word bank, the old man lost all interest in things out of doors.
“Send him up—send him up—don’t keep him waiting,” he cried. “Time is money. He may have come to tell me that I must sell something. Nothing is more important in life than money. See that there are pens and paper, in case I have to sign anything.”
The quiet, urbane bank-manager had never before interviewed this terrible personage. He had heard strange stories of an abusive old man in his dotage, who contrived to make it very unpleasant for any representative of the bank sent up to his bedroom to get documents signed, and was therefore surprised to see an alert, hawk-eyed old gentleman, with a skull-cap and a dressing-jacket, sitting up in bed in a small turret bedroom, smiling, and almost genial.
“Will you take a seat, Mr.——? I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Barnby, sir.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Barnby. You’ve come to see me about money?”
“Yes, sir, an unpleasant matter, I fear.”
“Depression in the market, eh? Things still falling? Ah! It’s the war, the war—curse it! Tell me more—tell me quickly!”
“It’s a family matter, sir.”
“Family matter! What has my family to do with95my money—ha! I guess why you’ve come. Yes—yes—something to do with my grandson?”
“Just so, sir.”
“What is it now? Debts, overdrawn accounts—what—what?”
“To put the matter in a nutshell, sir, two checks were presented some weeks ago, signed by you, one for two thousand dollars, the other for five thousand dollars—which—”
“What!—when? I haven’t signed a check for any thousand dollars for months.” This was true, as the miser’s creditors knew to their cost. It was next to impossible to collect money from him.
“One check was made out to your daughter, Mary Swinton, and presented at the bank, and cashed by your grandson, Mr. Richard Swinton.”
“Yes, for five dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars, sir.”
“But I tell you I never drew it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it, sir. The first check for two thousand dollars looks very much as though it had been altered, having been originally for two dollars; and, in the second check, made out to Mr. Swinton, the same kind of alteration occurs—five seems to have been changed into five thousand.”
“What!” screamed the old man, raising himself on one hand and extending the other. “Let me look! Let me look!”96
His bony claw was outstretched, every finger quivering with excitement.
“These are the checks, sir. That is your correct signature, I believe?”
“I never signed them—I never signed them. Take them away. They’re not mine.”
“Pardon me, sir, the signature is undoubtedly yours. Do you remember signing any check for two dollars or for five?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I gave her two—yes—and I gave her five—for the boy.”
“Just so, sir. Well, some fraudulent person has altered the figures. You’ll see, if you look through this magnifying glass, holding the glass some distance from the eyes, that the ink of the major part of the check is different. When Mr. Swinton presented these checks, the ink was new, and the alterations were not apparent. But, in the course of time, the ink of the forgery has darkened.”
“The scoundrel!” cried the old man in guttural rage. “I always said he’d come to a bad end—but I never believed it—never believed it. Let me look again. The rascal! The scoundrel! Do you mean to say he has robbed your bank of seven thousand dollars?”
“No, he has robbed you, sir,” replied the bank-manager, with alacrity, for his instructions were to drive home, at all costs, the fact that it was Herresford97who had been swindled, and not the bank. They knew the man they were dealing with, and had no fancy for fighting on technical points. Unfortunately for the bank, Mr. Barnby was a little too eager.
“My money? Why should I lose money?” snapped the miser, turning around upon him. “I didn’t alter the checks. You ought to keep your eyes open. If swindlers choose to tamper with my paper, what’s it to do with me? It’s your risk, your business, your loss, not mine.”
“No, sir, surely not. A member of your own family—”
“A member of my own family be hanged, sir. He’s no child of mine. He’s the son of that canting sky-pilot, that parson of the slums.”
“But he is your grandson, sir. I take it that you would not desire a scandal, a public exposure.”
“A scandal! What’s a scandal to me? Am I to pay seven thousand dollars for the privilege of being robbed, sir? No, sir. I entrusted you with the care of my money. You ought to take proper precautions, and safeguard me against swindlers and forgers.”
“But he is your heir.”
“Nothing of the sort. He is not my heir.”
“But some day—”
“Some day! What has some day got to do with98you, eh, sir? Are you in my confidence, sir? Have I ever told you that I intend to leave my money to my grandson?”
“No, sir, of course not. I beg your pardon if I presumed—”
“You do presume, sir.”
Poor Mr. Barnby was in a perspiration. The keen, little old man was besting and flurrying him; he was no match for this irascible invalid.
“Then, sir, I take it, that you wish us to prosecute your grandson—who is at the war.”
“Prosecute whom you like, sir, but don’t come here pretending that you’re not responsible for the acts of fraudulent swindlers.”
“It has been fought out over and over again, and I believe never settled satisfactorily.”
“Then, it is settled this time—unless you wish me to withdraw my account from your bank instantly—I’m the best customer you’ve got. Prosecute, sir—prosecute. Have him home from the war, and fling him into jail.”
“Of course, sir, we have no actual evidence that the forgery was made by the young man, although he—er—presented the checks, and pursued an unusual course. He took the amount in notes. The second amount he took partly in notes, and paid the rest into his account, which has since gone down to a few dollars. Of course, it may have been done by—er—someone99else. It is a difficult matter to decide who—er—that is who actually made the alterations. We have not yet brought the matter to the notice of Mrs. Swinton. She may be able to explain—”
“What! Do you mean to insinuate that my daughter—my daughter—sir, would be capable of a low, cunning forgery?”
“I insinuate nothing, sir. But mothers will sometimes condone the faults of their sons, and—er—it would be difficult, if she were to say—”
“Let me tell you that the two checks were signed by me for two and for five dollars, and given into the hands of my daughter. If she was fool enough to let them pass into the clutches of her rascally son, she must take the consequences, and remember, sir, you’ll get no money out of me. I’ll have my seven thousand, every penny.”
Mr. Barnby subsided. The situation was clear enough. Herresford repudiated the checks, and it was for Mr. Ormsby to decide what action should be taken, and against whom. Mr. Barnby’s personal opinion of the forgery was that it might just as well have been done by Mrs. Swinton as by her son. In fact, after a close perusal of the second check, to which he had brought some knowledge of handwriting, he was more inclined to regard her as the culprit. He knew Dick slightly, and certainly could not credit100him with the act of a fool. As a parting shot, he asked:
“Just for the sake of argument, sir, I presume that you would not have us prosecute if it were your daughter; whereas, if it were your grandson—?”
“Women don’t forge, sir,” snarled the old man, “they’re too afraid of paper money. I don’t want to hear anything more about the matter. What I do want is a full statement of my balance. And, if there’s a dollar short, I’ll sue you, sir—yes, sue you!—for neglect of your trust.”
“I quite understand, sir. I’ll put your views before Mr. Ormsby. There is no need for hurry. The young man is at the war.”
“Have him home, sir, have him home,” snapped the old man, “and as for his mother—well, it serves her right—serves her right. Never would take my advice. Obstinate as a mule. But I’ll pay her out yet, ha, ha! Forgery! Scandal, ha, ha! All her fine friends will stand by her now, of course. Unnatural father, eh? Unnatural, because he knew what he was dealing with. I knew my own flesh and blood. Like her mother—couldn’t hold a penny. Yet, married a beggar—and ruined him, too—ha, ha! Goes to church three times on Sundays, and casts up her eyes to heaven, pleading for sinners, and gambles all night at bridge. Now, she’ll have the joy of seeing her son in the dock—her dear son who101was always dealt hardly with by his grandfather, because his grandfather knew the breed. No sense of the value of money. No brains! I’ll have my revenge now. Yes, yes. What are you staring at, sir? Get out of the room. How dare you insult my daughter?”
“I said nothing, sir.”
“Then, what are you waiting for? Get back to your bank, and look after my money.”
102CHAPTER XHEARTS ACHE AND ACHE YET DO NOT BREAK
“That’s right, my girl, play away. It’s good to hear the piano going again. And, between ourselves, I’m beginning to feel depressed by the stillness of the house. It’s difficult to believe that this is home since we took on hospital work. Between ourselves, I sha’n’t be sorry when Ormsby says good-bye. As a strong man and a soldier, I like him; but, as a sick man, I’ve had enough of him. Never had a fancy for ambulance work or being near the hospital base.”
“I, too, shall be glad when we have the house to ourselves,” observed Dora. “Of course, I’m fearfully sorry for Captain Ormsby, and all that; but I do wish he’d go. He’s not very ill now. Couldn’t you throw out a hint about his going, father?”
“Impossible! I—I am not a strategist; but you are. I will leave him to you, and you must get to work. But I don’t know what you’ve got to grumble about with a man like Ormsby in the house to amuse you and admire you all the time.”
The colonel turned on his heel, and was out of the room before Dora could stop him.103
She got up from the piano, and pushed the stool aside, impatiently. Her lovely face was clouded, and two little lines above the curving arch of her eyebrows were deeply set in thought. Ormsby’s continued presence filled her with uneasy dread. For the past two weeks, he had watched her with an intentness that was embarrassing. She knew that he meant to propose to her, if he succeeded in finding her alone; and she was undecided as to whether she should give, or deny, him the opportunity of hearing the worst. Perhaps, it would be better to let him speak; he could not possibly remain after she had refused him.
This decision made, she presently went into the library, where she found her father and their guest. The two men were talking earnestly, and, as she approached, her father shook hands heartily with Ormsby—for some unknown reason—and went out of the room. It looked like a plot to leave her at Vivian Ormsby’s mercy. She made an excuse to follow her father. Now that the moment was come, her courage failed her. She saw that the man was very much in earnest, and she knew that it would be difficult to turn him from his purpose.
“One moment,” said Ormsby, resting his hand on her arm. “I have something to say to you. You must give me a few minutes—you really must, I insist.”104
“Must! Captain Ormsby,” faltered Dora, with the color flooding her cheeks. “I never allow anyone to use that word to me—not even father.”
“Then, let me beg you to listen.” He spoke softly, caressingly, but the mouth was hard, and his fine, full eyes held her as under a spell. “What I have to say will not, I feel sure, come as a surprise, for you must have seen that I love you. I have your father’s permission to ask you to be my wife.”
“Please, please, don’t say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but—oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you—never—never—never!”
“Dora”—he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm—“you don’t know what you are saying. Perhaps, I’ve startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me.”
“Mr. Ormsby, please, don’t say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible—I do not care for you; I can never care for you—in that way.”
He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance.
“Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young Dick Swinton. But you’ll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil105his chances—yes, spoil them, and I will, by God! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?—a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure.”
“That is a falsehood—a deliberate lie!” cried Dora. “You would not dare to say such a thing if Dick were in New York. It’s only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with Dick at the dinner—I heard all about it. I’m glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you—as a liar deserves to be thrashed.”
“Gently, young lady, gently,” replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with passion. “You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let Dick Swinton feel it.” Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: “Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but—really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him.”
“But I don’t,” cried Dora, angrier than before.
“You will change presently.”
“Never!”
“Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again.”106
“Forgery of what?” she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh.
“Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford’s permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony.”
“You are saying this in spite—to frighten me.”
“Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot.”
“I don’t believe you,” she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging.
“Will you believe it if I show you the warrant for his arrest? It will be here this afternoon. Barnby, our manager, will apply for it, unless the rector can reimburse us. He’s always up to his eyes in debt. I’m sorry for the vicar and Mrs. Swinton, yet you cannot blame me for feeling glad that my rival has shown himself unworthy of the sweetest girl that—”
“Stop! I will not listen—I won’t believe unless I hear it from his own lips.”
“You shall see the police warrant.”
“I will not believe it, I tell you. His last words to me were a warning against you. He told me to107be true and believe no lies that you might utter. And I will be true. Good-morning, Mr. Ormsby, and—good-bye. I presume you will be returning home this afternoon. You are quite well now—robust, in fact—and you are showing your gratitude for the kindness received at our hands in a very shabby way. Good-day.”
With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness.
John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: “He’s a new man, quite like his old self.” Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic.
No longer did he pass his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money. The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing108his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog.
As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance—aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered—she was more anxious to please than ever before—and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished.
The rector’s cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire?
Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been109invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed.
For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman’s wife. She attended church meetings, mothers’ meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday—and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose.
That “if” was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair—she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question.
She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor?
No. He would do something, but what? She dared not contemplate. She dared not think of the frailness of the barriers which stood between herself and the possible consequences of her crime. Sometimes, she awoke in the night with a damp sweat upon her, and saw herself arraigned in the dock as a criminal charged with robbing her father. In the110daylight, she rated her possible punishment as something lower. Perhaps, he would arrange to have his money back by stopping her allowance, and so leave her stranded until the debt was paid off—or he would beggar her by stopping italtogether. Another thought came often. Before anything was found out, the old man might die. That would mean her deliverance. Yet, again, if he left her nothing, or Dick either, then it spelt ruin, which would shadow all their lives. The thought was unbearable. She tried to forget it in a ceaseless activity.
The thunderbolt fell on a day that she had devoted to her husband’s interests.
The bishop was having luncheon with the rector. The Mission Hall was to be opened in the afternoon, and the bishop had promised to be present. The full amount of the building funds had been subscribed, thus reimbursing the clergyman to the extent of a thousand dollars, the amount promised by Herresford and never paid.
The ceremony brought to St. Botolph’s Mission Hall the oddly-assorted crowd which generally finds its way to such functions. There were smart people, just a scattering of the cultured, dowdy and dull folk, who had “helped the good cause,” and expected to get as much sober entertainment in return as might be had for the asking. Then, there were111the ever-present army of free sight-seers, and a leaven of real workers.
On the platform with the bishop and other notables, both men and women, sat Mrs. Swinton, and she sighed with unspeakable weariness. It had been one of those dull, monotonous, clerical days, replete with platitudes, the tedium of custom, and all the petty ceremonies and observances that she hated. She returned home worn out physically, and mentally benumbed. Netty, who had remained away, on pretence of a bad cold, met her mother in the hall.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. Polly’s in the drawing-room, and she says she’s come to see what a high tea is like, and to be introduced to the dear bishop. Muriel West and Major Joicy are with her. They’re singing comic songs at the piano.”
Mrs. Swinton looked annoyed. So far, she had avoided any clashing between her smart friends and her clerical acquaintances. Mrs. Ocklebourne was the last person in the world she wanted to see to-day.
“Ah, here’s our dear, saintly Mary, with her hands full of prayer-books!” exclaimed Polly Ocklebourne, as her hostess came into the room. “So glad you’re home, dear. This little handful of sinners wants to be put through its paces before coming into the rarefied atmosphere of bishops and things. Where is the dear man?”
“He is coming later, with John.”112
“I hope you don’t mind our coming, but we’re awfully curious to see you presiding at a high tea, with the bishop’s lady and her satellites. What are you going to feed the dears on, Mary? You’ll ask us to stay, won’t you? And, if I laugh, you’ll find excuses for me.”
“Don’t be absurd, Polly. I’d very much rather you hadn’t come—you know that. But, since you’re here, do try to be normal.”
“There you are!” cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; “I told you she wouldn’t stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop.”
“An unexpected pleasure,” exclaimed the rector, who had just entered the room, coming forward to greet Mrs. Ocklebourne. “You should have come to the ceremony? We had a most eloquent address from the bishop—let me make you known to each other.”
“Delighted,” murmured Mrs. Ocklebourne, with a smirk at her hostess, who was supremely uncomfortable, “and I do so want to know your dear wife, bishop. So does Major Joicy. He’s tremendously interested in the Something Society, which looks after113the poor black things out in Nigeria—that is the name of the place, isn’t it?”—this with a sweet smile at the major, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and thoroughly unhappy. When detached from the racecourse or the card-table, his command of language was nil. He would rather have encountered a wild beast than a bishop’s wife, and Mrs. Ocklebourne knew this.
She was thoroughly enjoying herself, for she was full of mischief, and the present situation promised to yield a rich harvest. But another look at the weary face of Mrs. Swinton made her change her tactics. She laid herself out to amuse the bishop, and also to charm his wife.
“The sinner has beguiled the saint,” whispered Mrs. Ocklebourne, as the party made a move for the dining-room, “but I’m hungry, and, if I were really good, I believe I should want a high tea every day.”
The meal was a merry one. Polly Ocklebourne had the most infectious laugh in the world, and she kept the conversation going in splendid fashion, whipping up the laggards and getting the best out of everybody. She even succeeded in making the major tell a funny story, at which everybody laughed.
A little while before the time for the bishop to leave, a servant whispered to the rector that a gentleman was waiting in the study to see him. He did114not trouble to inquire the visitor’s name. Since money affairs had been straightened out, these chance visitors had lost their terror, and anyone was free to call upon the clergyman, with the certainty of a hearing, at morning, noon, or night, on any day in the week.
Mr. Barnby was the visitor. He came forward to shake the rector’s hand awkwardly.
“What is it, Barnby?” cried the rector, with a laugh. “No overdrawn account yet awhile, surely.”
“No, Mr. Swinton, nothing as trivial as that. I have just left Mr. Herresford at Asherton Hall, and he makes a very serious charge concerning two checks drawn by him, one for two thousand, the other for five thousand dollars. He declares that they are forgeries.”
“Forgeries! What do you mean?”
“To be more accurate, the checks have been altered. The first was originally for two dollars, the second for five dollars. These figures were altered into two thousand and five thousand. You will see, if you take them to the light, that the ink is different—”
“But what does all this signify?” asked the rector, fingering the checks idly. “Herresford doesn’t repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad.”
“He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your son, Mr. Richard Swinton,115and it’s Mr. Herresford’s opinion that the alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son—”
“But the checks are signed by Herresford!” cried Swinton, hotly. “This is some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It nearly landed me in bankruptcy.”
“But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration.”
“Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?”
A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a telegram.
A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers. Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face.
“My son”—he explained.
“Nothing serious, I hope. Not—?”
“Yes—dead!”
There was a long pause, during which the rector116stood breathing heavily, with one hand upon his heart. Mr. Barnby folded the forged checks mechanically, and stammered out:
“Under—the—er—circumstances, I think this interview had better be postponed. Pray accept my condolences, sir. I am deeply, truly sorry.”
“Gone!—killed!—and he didn’t want to go.”
With the tears streaming down his cheeks, the stricken man turned once more to the telegram, and muttered the vital purport of its message:
“Died nobly rendering special service to his country. Captured and shot as a spy having courageously volunteered to carry dispatches through the enemy’s lines.”