168CHAPTER XVCOLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND
Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters, and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning, sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing abstractedly into space.
People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference to the young man’s death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to facial signs, babbled to her of the rector’s trouble. The poor man was so broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly, and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed—but would it last? How dull it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son’s death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the course of a few days?169
Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony’s words were too true: “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.”
Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was opened, handed it to Dora.
“There’s something in this for you to read—a letter from Ormsby, Dora.”
“I don’t want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby.”
“I’ve read it,” said the colonel awkwardly, “as Mr. Ormsby requested me to. I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t see what he says.”
Dora’s face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter, addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father.
“My dear Miss Dundas,
I have been very wretched since our last interview, when you judged me unfairly and said many hard things, the worst of which was your dismissal, and your wish that I should not again enter your father’s house. He has invited me to come, and I am feverishly looking forward to your permission to accept the invitation.
I am not jealous now of a dead man, nor do I wish170to press my suit at such a time. But I desire to set myself right. You have no doubt learned by this time that the lies of which you accused me were painful truths. The hard things you said were not justified, and I only ask to be received as a visitor, for my life is colorless and miserable if I cannot see you.
There is one other matter I must discuss with you in full. It is, briefly, this: Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his account from our bank, of which I am a director and a partner, and demands the restitution of seven thousand dollars taken by poor Dick Swinton. My co-directors blame me for not acting at once when I suspected the first check. But they are not disposed to pay the money, and a lawsuit will result. You know what that means—a public scandal, a full exposure of my fellow-officer’s act of folly, a painful revelation concerning the affairs of the Swinton’s and their money troubles. All this, I am sure, would be most repugnant to you. For your sake, I am willing to pay this money, and spare you pain. If, however, you persist in treating me unfairly and breaking my heart, I cannot be expected to make so great a sacrifice to save the honor of one who publicly insulted me by striking me a cowardly blow in the face because I held a smaller opinion of him than did other people, and thoughtlessly revealed the fact by an unguarded remark.
I never really doubted his physical courage, and he has rendered a good account of himself, of which we are all proud. But seven thousand dollars is too171dear a price to pay without some fair recognition of my sacrifice on your behalf.”
“Father,” cried Dora, starting up, and reading no more, “I want you to let me have seven thousand dollars.”
“What!” cried the colonel, staring at her as though she had asked for the moon.
“I want seven thousand dollars. I’ll repay it somehow, in the course of years. I’ll economize—”
“Don’t think of it, my girl—don’t think of it. That miserly old man, who starves his family and washes his dirty linen in public, is going to have no money of mine.”
“But, father, give it to me. It’ll make no real difference to you. You are rich enough—”
“Not a penny, my girl—not a penny. Let Ormsby pay the money. Thank heaven, it’s his business, not ours. Your animosity against him is most unreasonable. Because you had a difference of opinion over a lad who couldn’t hold a candle to him as an upright, honorable man—”
“You sha’n’t speak like that, father.”
“But I shall speak! I’m tired of your pale face, and your weeping in secret, turning the whole house into a place of mourning. And what for? A man who would never have married you in any case. His172grandfather disowned him, he wouldn’t have gained my consent, and the chances are a hundred to one you would have married Ormsby. But, now, you suddenly insult my friend—you see nobody—we can’t talk about the war—and, damn me! what else is there to talk about? You call yourself a soldier’s daughter, and you’re going to break your heart over a man who couldn’t play the straight game. Why, his own father and mother can’t say a good word for him. Yet, Ormsby’s willing to pay seven thousand dollars to stifle a public exposure, just for your sake. Why, girl, it’s magnificent! I wouldn’t pay seven cents. Ormsby is coming here, and you’ll have to be civil to him. Write and tell him so.”
“Very well, father,” sighed Dora, to whom the anger of her parent was a very rare thing. There was some justice in his point of view, although it was harsh justice. For Dick’s sake, she could not afford to incense Ormsby. She swallowed her pride and humbled her heart, and, after much deliberation, wrote a reply that was short and to the point.
“Miss Dundas expects to receive Mr. Ormsby as her father wishes.”
173CHAPTER XVIMR. TRIMMER COMES HOME
“Mr. Trimmer is back.”
The words went around among the servants at Asherton Hall in a whisper; and everybody was immediately alert, as at the return of a master.
Mr. Trimmer was old Herresford’s valet, who had been away for a long holiday—the first for many years. Trimmer was a power for good and evil—some said a greater power than Herresford himself, over whom he had gained a mental ascendency.
Mr. Trimmer was sixty at least. Yet, his face bore scarce a wrinkle, his back was as straight as any young man’s. His hair was coal black—Mrs. Ripon declared that he dyed it. And he was about Herresford’s height, spare of figure, and always faultlessly dressed in close-fitting garments with a tendency toward a horsey cut. His head was large, and his thick hair suggested a wig, for two curly locks were brushed forward and brought over the front of the ears, and at the summit of the forehead was a wonderful curl that would not have disgraced a hair-dresser’s window block. Faultless and trim,174with glistening black eyes that were ever wandering discreetly, he was the embodiment of alert watchfulness. He could efface himself utterly at times, and would stand in the background of the bedchamber, almost out of sight, and as still as if turned to stone.
Interviews with Herresford were generally carried on in Trimmer’s presence, but, although the old man frequently referred to Trimmer in his arguments and quarrels, the valet acutely avoided asserting himself beyond the bounds of the strictest decorum while visitors were present. But, when they were gone, Trimmer’s iron personality showed itself in a quiet hectoring, which made him the other’s master. Mr. Trimmer was financially quite independent of his employer’s ill humors. He was wealthy, and his name was mentioned by the other servants with ’bated breath. He was the owner of three saloons which he had bought from time to time. In short, Mr. Trimmer was a moneyed man. His was one of those strange natures which work in grooves and cannot get out of them. Nothing but the death of Herresford would persuade him to break the continuity of his service. His master might storm, and threaten, and dismiss him. It always came to nothing. Mr. Trimmer went on as usual, treating the miser as a child, and administering his affairs, both financial and domestic, with an iron hand.
Never before had he taken a holiday, and on his175return there was much anxiety. The servants at the Hall had hoped that he was really discharged, at last. But no, he came back, smiling sardonically, and, as he entered the front door—not the servants’ entrance—his eye roved everywhere in search of backsliding. Mrs. Ripon met him in the hall with a forced smile and a greeting, but she dared not offer to shake hands with the great man.
“Anything of importance since I have been away?” asked Mr. Trimmer.
“Yes, Mr. Trimmer. Mr. Herresford has changed his bedroom.”
“Humph! We’ll soon alter that,” murmured Trimmer.
“That’s what I told him, Mr. Trimmer. I said you’d be annoyed, and that he’d have to go back when you returned.”
“Just so, just so! Any trouble with his family?”
“Mr. Dick—I daresay you have heard.”
“I’ve heard nothing.”
“Dead—killed in the war.”
“Dead! Well, to be sure.”
“Yes, poor boy—killed.”
“Dear, dear!” murmured Mr. Trimmer, growing meditative.
Mrs. Ripon knew what he was thinking—or imagined that she did. There was no one now to inherit Herresford’s money but Mrs. Swinton, and176she believed that Trimmer was wondering how much of it he would get for himself; for it was a popular delusion below stairs that Mr. Trimmer had mesmerized his master into making a will in his favor, leaving him everything.
“How did Mr. Dick get away?” asked Mr. Trimmer. “Surely, his creditors wouldn’t let him go.”
“Ah, now you have touched the sore point, Mr. Trimmer. The poor young man swindled—yes, swindled the bank, forged checks in his grandfather’s name.”
Mr. Trimmer allowed some human expression to creep into his stone face. He puckered his brows, and his usually marble-smooth forehead showed unexpected wrinkles.
“It was the very last thing we’d have believed, Mr. Trimmer; it was for seven thousand dollars.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Mr. Trimmer, sorrowfully. “That comes of my going away. I ought to have locked up the check-book. I suppose the young man came here to see his grandfather and stole the checks.”
“No, he never came—at least only once, and just for a moment. Then, his grandfather was so insulting that he only stayed a few minutes. That was when he came to say good-bye. But Mrs. Swinton came, trying to get money for the boy.”
“I must see Mr. Herresford about this.” Trimmer177walked mechanically upstairs to the former bedroom, quite forgetting that his master would not be there. He came out again with a short, sharp exclamation of anger, and at last found the old man in the turret room.
Herresford was reading a long deed left by his lawyer, and on a chair by his bedside was a pile of documents.
“Good morning, sir,” said Trimmer, in exactly the same tone as always during the last forty years, and he cast his eye around the untidy room.
“Oh, it’s you? Back again, eh?” grunted the miser. “About time, too! How long is it since valets have taken to doing the grand tour, and taking three months’ holiday without leave of their masters?”
“I gave myself leave, sir,” replied Trimmer, nonchalantly.
“And what right have you to take holidays without my permission?”
“You discharged me, sir—but I thought better of it.”
A grunt was the only answer to this impertinence.
“You seem to have been muddling things nicely in my absence,” observed Trimmer after a moment, with cool audacity.
“Have I? That’s all you know. Who told you what I’ve been doing?”178
“Your heir is dead, I hear. I hope you had nothing to do with that.”
“What do you mean, sir—what do you mean?”
“I mean that I hope you didn’t send him away to the war to save money and keep him from further debt.”
“My family affairs are nothing to do with you, sir.”
“So you have told me for the last forty years, sir. I liked the young man. There was nothing bad about him. But I hear you drove him to forgery.”
“It’s a lie—a lie!”
“How did he get your checks?”
The miser made no answer. Trimmer came over, and fixed glittering eyes upon him. The old man cowered.
“You’ve ruined the boy, and sent him to the war. I can see it in your face. I knew what would happen if I let you alone—I knew you’d do some rascally meanness that—”
“Trimmer, it’s a lie!” cried the old man, shaking as with a palsy, and drawing further down into his pillow. “I’m an old man—I’m helpless—I won’t be bullied.”
“This is one of the occasions when I feel that a shaking would do you good,” declared Trimmer.
“No, no—not now—not again! Last time, I179was bad for a week. The shock might kill me. It would be murder.”
“Well, and would that matter?” asked Trimmer, callously. He stood at the bedside, with a duster in one hand and a medicine-glass in the other, polishing the glass in the most leisurely fashion, and speaking in hard, even tones. He looked down upon the old wreck as on the carcase of a dead dog.
They were a strange pair, these two, and the world outside, although it knew something of the influence of Trimmer over his master, had no conception of its real extent. Trimmer ought to have been a master of men; but some defect in his mental equipment at the beginning of life, or an unkind fate, was responsible for his becoming a menial. He was a slave of habit, a stickler for scrupulous tidiness. A dusty room or an ill-folded suit of clothes would agitate him more than the rocking of an empire. He entered the service of Herresford when quite a young man, and that service had become a habit with him, and he could not break it. He was bound to his menial occupation by bonds of steel; and the idea of doing without Trimmer was as inconceivable to his master as the idea of going without clothes. The miser, who followed no man’s advice, nevertheless revealed more of his private affairs to his valet than to his lawyers. And Trimmer, who consulted nobody, and was by180nature secretive, jealously guarded his master’s interests, and insisted on being consulted in all private matters. A miser himself, Trimmer approved and fostered the miserly instincts of his master, until there had grown up between them an intimacy that was almost a partnership.
And, now that Herresford was broken in health, and had become a pitiful wreck, he preferred to be left entirely at Trimmer’s mercy.
“What are you going to do about an heir now?” asked the valet, curtly. “Have you made a new will?”
“No, I’ve not. Why should I? I left everything to the boy—with a reasonable amount for his mother. In the event of his death, his mother inherits. You wouldn’t have me leave my money to charities—or rascally servants like you, who are rolling in money? You needn’t be anxious. I told you that you would have your fifty thousand dollars, if you were in my service at my death and behaved yourself—and if I died by natural means! Ha, ha! I had to put in that clause, or you would have smothered me with my own pillows long ago.”
“Very likely—very likely,” murmured Trimmer indifferently, as though the suggestion were by no means strained. He had heard it many hundreds of times before. It was a favorite taunt.
“Who is that coming up the drive?” askedthe181invalid, craning his neck to look out of the window.
“It is Mrs. Swinton, sir, and Mr. Swinton.”
“On foot?” cried the old man. “And since when, pray, did they begin to take the walking exercise? Ha! ha! Coming to see me—about their boy. Of course, you’ve heard all about it, Trimmer.”
“Very little, sir.”
“Well, if you stay here, you’ll hear a little more.”
The decrepit creature chuckled with a sound like loose bones rattling in his throat. He laughed so much that he almost choked. Trimmer was obliged to lift him up and pat his back vigorously. The valet’s handling was firm, but by no means gentle; and, the moment the old man was touched, he began to whine as if for mercy, pretending that he was being ill-used.
Mrs. Swinton entered the room alone; the rector remained below in the library. She found her father well propped up with pillows, and his skull-cap, with the long white tassel, was drawn down over one eye, giving him a curious leer. The rakish angle of the cap, with the piercing eyes beneath, the hawk-like beak, and the shriveled old mouth, puckered into a sardonic smile, made him an almost comic figure. Trimmer stood at attention by the head of the bed like a sentinel. His humility and deference to both his master and Mrs. Swinton were almost servile; it182was always so in the presence of a third person.
“I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, father,” observed the daughter, after her first greeting.
“Oh, yes, I’m well—very well—better than you are,” grunted the old man. “I know why you have come.”
“I wish to talk on important family matters, father,” said Mrs. Swinton, dropping into the chair which Trimmer brought forward, and giving the valet a sharp, resentful look.
“You can talk before Trimmer. You ought to know that by this time. Trimmer and I are one.”
“If madam wishes, I will withdraw,” murmured Trimmer, retiring to the door.
“No—no—don’t leave me—not alone with her—not alone!” cried the old man, reaching out his hand as if in terror. But Trimmer had opened the door. He gave his master one sharp look of reproof, and closed the door—almost.
Father and daughter sat looking at each other for a full minute. The old man dragged down the tassel of his skull-cap with his bony fingers, and commenced chewing the end. The glittering eyes danced with evil amusement, and, as he sat there huddled, he resembled nothing so much as an ape.
“I am glad to find you in a good temper, father.”
“Good temper—eh!” He laughed, and again183the bones seemed to rattle in his throat. The fit ended with coughing and whining and abuse of the draughts and the cold.
“Why don’t you have a fire in the room, father? You’d be so much more comfortable.”
“Fire! We don’t throw away money here—nor steal it.”
“Father, I beg that you will not refer to Dick in this interview by offensive terms; I can’t stand it. My boy is dead.”
“Who was referring to Dick?”
His eyes sought hers, and searched her very soul. She felt her flesh growing cold and her senses swooning. It had been a great effort to come up and face him at such a time, but her mission was urgent. She came to entreat an amnesty, to beg that he would not drag the miserable business of the checks into court by a dispute with the bank, and there was something horrible in his mirth.
“Hullo, forger!” he cried at last, and he watched the play of her face as the color came and went.
“What do you mean, father?”
“What I say. How does it feel to be a forger—eh? What is it like to be a thief? I never stole money myself—not even from my parents. D’ye think I believe your story? D’ye think I don’t know who altered my checks—who had the money—who told the dirty lie to blacken the memory of her dead184son? D’ye think I’m going to spare you—eh?”
“Father! Father! Have mercy—I was helpless!” she cried in terror, flinging herself on her knees beside his bed. “I couldn’t ruin both husband and daughter for the sake of a boy who was gone.”
“You couldn’t ruin yourself, you mean—but you could sully the memory of my heir with a foul charge—the worst of all that can be brought against a man and a gentleman.”
“It was you, father—you—you who denounced him.”
“Lies, lies! I did nothing of the sort. The bank people suspected him because he was a man, because they didn’t think that any child of mine could rob me of seven thousand dollars—seven thousand dollars! Think of it, madam—seven thousand dollars! D’ye know how many nickels there are in seven thousand dollars? Why, I could send you to Sing-Sing for years, if I chose to lift my finger.”
“But you won’t father—you won’t! You’ll have mercy. You’ll spare us. If you knew what I have suffered, you’d be sorry for me.”
“Oh, I can guess what you have suffered. And you’re going to suffer a good deal more yet. Don’t tell me you’ve come up here to get more money—not more?”
“No, father—indeed, no. John and I are going to lead a different kind of life. I’ve come to185entreat you not to press the bank for that money. We’ll pay it all back, somehow. John and I will earn it, if necessary.”
“Earn it! Rubbish! You couldn’t earn a dime.”
“We’ll repay every penny—if you will only give us time, only stop pressing the bank—”
“I shall do nothing of the sort. You’ve robbed them, not me. You must answer to them. If you’ve got any of it left, pay it back to Ormsby. If your husband is such an idiot as to beggar himself to restore the spoils, more fool he, that’s all I can say. When you steal, steal and stick to it. Never give up money.”
“Father, you’ll not betray me! You won’t tell them—”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think it over. Get up off your knees, and sit on a chair. That sort of thing has no effect with me. You ought to have found that out long ago.”
She arose wearily, and dropped back limply into the chair like a witness under fire in a court of law. The old man sat chewing the tassel of his cap, and mumbling, sniggering, chuckling, spluttering with indecent mirth.
“Listen to me, madam,” he said at last, leaning forward. “Behind my back you’ve always called me a skinflint, a miser, a villain. I always told you186I’d pay you out some day—and now’s my chance. I’m not going to lose anything. I’m going to leave you to your own conscience and to the guidance of your virtuous sky-pilot. People’ll believe anything of a clergyman’s son. They’re a bad lot as a rule, but your boy was not; he was only a fool. But he was my heir. I’d left him everything in my will.”
“Father, you always declared that—”
“Never mind what I declared. It wasn’t safe to trust you with the knowledge while he lived. You would have poisoned me.”
“Father, your insults are beyond all endurance!” she cried, writhing under the lash and stung to fury. She started up with hands clenched.
“There, there, I told you so!” he whined, recoiling in mock terror. “Trimmer, Trimmer! Help! She’ll kill me!”
“It would serve you right if I did lay violent hands upon you,” she cried. “If I took you by the throat, and squeezed the life out of you, as I could, though you are my father. You’re not a man, you’re a beast—a monster—a soulless caricature, whose only delight is the torturing of others. I could have been a good woman and a good daughter, but for your carping, sneering insults. At different times, you have imputed to me every vile motive that suggested itself to your evil brain. You hated me187from my birth. You hate me still—and I hate you. Yes, it would serve you right if I killed you. It would separate you from your wretched money, and send your soul to torment—”
“Trimmer! Trimmer!” screamed the old man, as she advanced nearer with threatening gestures, and fingers working nervously.
Trimmer entered as noiselessly as a cat.
“Trimmer, save me from this woman—she’ll kill me. I’m an old man! I’m helpless. She’s threatening to choke me. Have her put out. I can’t protect myself, or I’d—I’d have her prosecuted—the vampire!”
Mrs. Swinton recovered herself in the presence of Trimmer, and drew away in contempt. She flung back the chair upon which she had been sitting with an angry movement, and she would have liked to sweep out of the room; but fear seized her at the thought of what she had done. This was not the way to mollify the old man, who could ruin her by a word.
“I am sorry, father,” she faltered. “I forgot that you are an invalid, and not responsible for your moods.”
He leaned forward on the edge of the bed, resting on his hands, and positively spat out his next words.188
“Bah! You’re a hypocrite. Go home to your sky-pilot. But keep your mouth shut—do you hear?”
“I hear, father.”
“Pay them back your money if you like, but don’t ask me for another cent, or I’ll tell the truth—do you hear?”
“I hear, father,” she replied, with a sob.
“Open the door for her, Trimmer.”
Trimmer darted to the door as if his politeness had been questioned, and bowed the daughter out.
When her footsteps had died away, he walked to the bed and looked down contemptuously at the mumbling creature. He surveyed him critically, as a doctor might look at a feverish patient.
“You’re overdoing it,” he said. “You’re getting foolish.”
“That’s right, Trimmer—that’s right. You abuse me, too!” whined the old man, bursting into tears. “Isn’t it bad enough to have one’s child a thief, without servants bullying one?”
“You are the last person to talk to Mrs. Swinton about stealing.”
“Keep your tongue still!”
“If your daughter knew what I know!”
“You don’t know anything, sir—you don’t know anything!”
“I know a good deal. Three times during your189illness, you were light-headed—you remember?”
“I tell you, I’m not a thief. The money was mine—mine! Her mother was my wife—it belonged to me. Doesn’t a wife’s money belong to her husband?”
“Tut, tut! Lie down and be quiet. I only kept quiet on condition that you set things straight for your daughter in your will, and left her the three thousand a year her mother placed in your care.”
“Trimmer, you’re presuming. Trimmer, you’re a bully. I’ll—I’ll cut your fifty thousand dollars out of my will—”
“And I’ll promptly cut you out of existence, if you do,” murmured Trimmer, bending down.
“That’s right, threaten me—threaten me,” whined the old man. “You’re all against me—a lot of thieves and scoundrels! What would become of the world, if there weren’t a few people like me to look after the money and save it from being squandered in soup-kitchens, and psalm-smiting, and Sunday schools?”
“Lie down and be quiet. You’ve done enough talking for to-day. I’m going to have you moved into the other room.”
“I’ll not be treated as a child, sir. I’ll stop your wages, sir. I’ll—”
“I’ve had no wages for many months. Lie down.”
190CHAPTER XVIIMRS. SWINTON GOES HOME
Mrs. Swinton returned to the rector, who was waiting in the library, with set face and clenched hands, pacing up and down like a caged beast. The increased whiteness of his hair and the extreme pallor of his skin gave to his sorrow-shadowed eyes an extraordinary brilliancy. His lips moved incessantly as thoughts, surging in his brain, demanded physical utterance. At intervals, he would wring his hands and look upward appealingly, like a man struggling in the toils of a temptation too great to be mastered. A long period of worry and embarrassment had broken his spirit. He was fated with the first real calamity that had ever overtaken him. With money difficulties, he was familiar. They scarcely touched his conscience. But, in this matter of his son’s honor, the divergent roads of right and wrong were clearly defined; unhappily, he was not strong enough fearlessly to tread the path of virtue.
His wife’s arguments seemed unanswerable. Indeed, whenever she was near, he hopelessly surrendered himself to her guidance. He knew perfectly well that the only proper course for a man of God191was to go forth into the market-place and proclaim his son’s innocence, to the shame of his wife, of himself, and of his daughter. It was not a question of precise justice. It was a plain issue between God and the devil. But Mary had pursued the policy of throwing dust in his eyes, and led him blindly along the road where he was bound to sink deeper and deeper into the mire.
When the love of wife conflicts with the love of child, a father is between the horns of a dilemma. The woman was living; the boy dead. The arguments were overpoweringly plausible. Mrs. Swinton had her life to live through; whereas Dick’s trials were ended. And would a suspicious world believe he shared his wife’s plunder without knowing how it was obtained? In addition, Netty’s future would certainly be overshadowed to a cruel extent.
The arguments of the woman were, indeed, unanswerable: the misery of it was that the whole thing resolved itself into a simple question of right and wrong. As a clergyman of the church he could not countenance a lie, live a lie, and stand idly by while Herresford compelled the bank to refund the money stolen from them by his wife.
He had naturally argued the matter out with her, in love, in anger, in piteous appeal. It always came around to the same thing in the end—a compromise. The seven thousand dollars must be paid to the192miser, if it took the rest of their lives to raise it; if they starved, and denied themselves common necessities. And Herresford must say that he drew the checks for innocent Dick.
His wife agreed with him on these points; but on the question of confessing their sin—their joint sin it had become now—she was obdurate. She had yielded to his entreaties so far as to face the ordeal of an interview with her father, she agreed to the most painful economies; but further she would not go.
If Herresford consented to add lie to lie, and to exonerate Dick by acknowledging the checks, all might yet be well.
Now, when his wife came in, with flushed face and lips working in anger, he cried out, tremulously:
“Well, Mary?”
“It is useless, worse than useless!” she answered. “He is quite impossible, as I told you.”
“Then, he will not lend us the money?”
“No, indeed, no. Worse, John, he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I did it. He understood Dick well enough, in spite of his wicked abuse of him, and he had made him his heir. He accused me of altering the checks, and—I couldn’t deny it.”
“Mary! Mary! You have ruined all. He will denounce us.”193
“No, he doesn’t intend to do that, John. He knows the torture we are enduring, and he wants it to go on. He means to let the bank lose the money.”
“Then, the burden of the guilt still rests on the shoulders of our dead son.”
“Oh, don’t, John—don’t put it like that! I’ve borne enough—I can’t bear much more. I think I’m going mad. My brain throbs, everything goes dim before my sight, and my heart leaps, and shooting pains—”
She tottered forward into her husband’s arms. He clasped her close, drawing her to him and pressing kisses on her cheeks.
“My darling, my darling, be strong. It is not ended yet.”
“Take me home, John—take me home!” she sobbed.
“No, I’ll see the old man myself.”
“John! John! It’ll do no good—I beseech you! I cannot trust you out of my sight. I never know what you may do or what you will say. I know it’s hard for you to go against your principles; but you mustn’t absolutely kill me. I should die, John, if you played traitor to me, your wife, and allowed me to be sent to jail.”
“Don’t Mary—don’t!” he groaned.
“When a man leaves his father and mother, he cleaves unto his wife: and, when I left my home,194John, I was faithful and true to you. It was for you that I stooped to the trick which I now realize was a crime which my father uses as a whip to lash me with. We must live it down, John. The bank people are rich. It won’t hurt them much—whereas confession would annihilate us.”
“The money must be paid back,” he cried resolutely, striking the air with his clenched fist, while he held her to him with the other arm.
“It’s impossible, John, impossible. We cannot pay back without explaining why.”
“We must atone—for Dick’s sake. No man shall say that our son robbed him of money without compensation from us, his parents. Let us go home, Mary, and begin from to-day. The rectory must be given up. It must be let furnished, and the servants dismissed. We must go into some cheap place.”
“Yes, let us go home, John. You’ll talk more reasonably there, and see things in another light.”
The man listened, and allowed himself to be led. This was as it had been always; but it could not go on forever. Deep down in John Swinton’s vacillating nature, there was the spirit of a martyr.
195CHAPTER XVIIIA SECOND PROPOSAL
Dora was undetermined in her attitude toward Dick’s enemy, who, for her sake, was ready to become his friend and save his name from public disgrace. She had a poor opinion of a man who was willing to further his own suit by making concessions to a rival, even though that rival were dead; but her attitude of mind toward Dick was changing slowly under outside influence—as it was bound to do with a clear-headed girl, trained to the strict code of honor that exists among military men concerning other people’s money. A soldier who had committed forgery could never hold up his head again in the eyes of his regiment, or of the woman he loved. He voluntarily made himself an outcast.
The colonel did not fail to drive home the inevitable moral, and congratulated himself upon his daughter’s escape. Dora was obliged to acknowledge that Dick, if not a villain, was at least a fool. The sorrow he had brought upon his father and mother was alone sufficient to warrant the heartiest condemnation. The colonel was never tired of commenting on the awful change in the mother’s appearance196and the blight upon John Swinton, who went about like a condemned man, evading his friends, and scarcely daring to look his parishioners in the face.
There had been talk of a memorial service in the parish church, but nothing came of it. Its abandonment was looked upon as a tacit recognition of a painful situation, which would only be augmented by a public parade of sorrow.
Ormsby treated Dora with the greatest consideration. No lover could have been more sympathetic—not a word about Dick Swinton or the seven thousand dollars. He laid himself out to please, and self-confidence made him almost gay—if gaiety could ever be associated with a man so somber and proud. The colonel persisted in throwing his daughter and the banker together in a most marked fashion, and Ormsby was at much pains to ignore the father’s blundering diplomacy.
As a result of his skilled tactics, Dora had ceased to shrink away from him—because she no longer feared that he would make love to her. She laughed at her father’s insinuations, because it was easier to laugh than to go away and cry. She put a brave face on things—for Dick’s sake. She did not want it to be thought that he had spread around more ruin and misery than already stood to his credit at the197rectory. Pride played its part. She supposed Ormsby understood that the idea of his being a lover was absurd. In this, she was rudely awakened one evening after the banker had dined at the house.
The colonel pleaded letters to write, and begged Dora to play a little and entertain their guest.
“Ormsby loves a cigarette over the fire, Dora, and he’s fond of music. I shall be able to hear you up in the study.”
Ormsby added his entreaties, and the colonel left them alone.
Dora was in a black evening-gown. It heightened the pallor of her skin, and made her look extremely slender and tall. Ormsby, whose clothes always fitted him like a uniform, looked his best in evening dress, with his black hair and dark eyes. His haughty bearing and stern, handsome features went well with the severe lines of his conventional attire. The colonel paused at the door before going out, and looked at the two on whom his hopes were now centred—Ormsby standing on the hearth-rug, straight as a dart, and Dora offering him the cigarette-box with a natural, sweet grace that was instinctive with her. He nodded in approval as he looked. Dora was an unfailing joy to him. She pleased his eye as she might have pleased a lover. He was proud of her, too, of her fearlessness, her198tact, her womanliness, and, above all, her air of breeding. She certainly looked charming to-night, a fitting châtelaine for the noblest mansion.
As the colonel remained in the doorway, still staring, Dora turned her head with a smile.
“What are you looking at, father?”
“I was only thinking,” said the colonel bluntly, “what a magnificent pair you two would make if you would only bring your minds to join forces, instead of always fencing and standing on ceremony like two proud peacocks.”
“My mind requires no making up, colonel,” responded Ormsby quickly, with an appealing, almost humble glance at Dora.
“Father, what nonsense you talk!” cried she, changing color and trembling so much that the cigarettes spilled upon the floor.
The colonel shut the door without further comment, and left them alone.
“How stupid of me,” murmured Dora, seeking to cover her confusion by picking up the cigarettes.
“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?”199
“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.200He 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,201and, 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 Dick’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.202
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 Dick 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 for203a 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 repetition of my assurances 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.”