280CHAPTER XXVTRACKED
Vivian Ormsby refused to abandon all hope of winning Dora. He believed that, if he got Dick Swinton into jail, it would crush her romance forever. In his pride, he disdained appeal to Colonel Dundas. He knew her father’s view, and did not doubt that pressure would be brought to bear from that quarter. Dora could not well marry a penniless convict, and the colonel’s wealth was worth a little submission to parental authority. Dora would soon change her tone when all illusions were shattered. She was far too sensible to ruin her life by a reckless marriage. Time was on his side. Every hour that passed must intensify her humiliation.
He had realized the necessity of prompt action, and was in closest touch with the police. Detectives were in and out of the bank all day long, and a famous private detective had promised him that the fugitive would be captured within seven days.
Detective Foxley entered the bank one day to see Vivian Ormsby, and brought the banker news of his latest investigations. The inspector was a small,281thin-featured, sandy-haired man, with a calm exterior and a deliberate manner. He entered Ormsby’s private room unobtrusively, and closed the door after him with care.
“Well, what news, Foxley?”
“My men have shadowed everybody, but so far with no result. I thought it advisable to keep an eye on the young lady. He is sure to communicate with her, and she’ll try to see him. His people at the rectory know where he is, and I suspect that Mr. Herresford knows as well. My man reports that the young lady went to Asherton Hall after an interview with Mr. Herresford’s valet. She came out of the house in a state of excitement, and showed every sign of joy. She thought she was alone, and danced and ran like a child, from which we deduced that she had seen the young man, and that he was hiding in Asherton Hall. We went so far as to interview the housekeeper, who made it clear that the young man had not been there, and offered to let us search. But we are watching the house.”
“And the rectory?” asked Ormsby.
“He hasn’t been there. Miss Dundas called at the rectory as well, and after a short visit returned home on foot. Evidently, she is getting information from his relatives. It has occurred to me that she’ll possibly write to him, addressing him by some other282name. Can you, therefore, arrange to have her letters posted by some—some responsible servant who will take copies of all the addresses?”
“I have no doubt that can be done. The housekeeper at the colonel’s is a very good friend of mine. I have tipped her handsomely. The letters are all posted in a letter-box in the hall, and cleared by the same servant every day.”
“We have endeavored to approach the servants at the rectory, but—no go. They are of course stanch and loyal to their young master. That is only natural. Mrs. Swinton has been shadowed, and she has made no attempt to meet her son. Our only danger is that he may get out of the country again. Every port is watched.”
“What puzzles me is the visit of Miss Dundas to Herresford,” said Ormsby, thinking of his letter of dismissal, with the old miser’s monogram on it.
“She evidently went there to see him,” said the detective, “and heard from him the news of the young man’s escape. That, perhaps, accounted for her high spirits.”
“Briefly, then, your labors have had no result, and you are as far from the scent as on the first day.”
“Not exactly that, sir. We’ll nab him yet.”
“As for the people at the rectory,” Ormsby said, decisively, “I’ll tackle them myself.”283
“Be guarded, sir. We don’t want them to suspect that they are watched.”
“They probably know that already. I’m going to offer them terms. If they’ll advise their son to give himself up, seven thousand dollars shall be paid by some ‘friend,’ and he will get off with a light sentence. It isn’t as though I wanted him sent up for any great length of time. I only want him put in the dock. The whole United States will ring with the scandal, and the country’ll be too hot to hold him, even if he should be acquitted. He’s a reckless young fellow. There’s no knowing what he might do. He might—”
Ormsby did not finish the sentence. The detective muttered one comprehensive word.
“Suicide.”
Ormsby nodded.
“And the best thing, I should think,” grunted the detective.
The upshot of this conversation was a prompt visit to the rectory by Ormsby, whose arrival caused no little consternation in the household. The rector was flustered and ill at ease. He would have liked to deny the visitor, but was afraid. He knew the banker slightly, well enough to dread the steady fire of those stern eyes.
Ormsby offered his hand in friendly fashion, and284took stock of the trembling man before speaking.
“You can guess why I have come, Mr. Swinton.”
“It is not difficult to guess, Mr. Ormsby. It is the sad business of the checks. I hear you have issued a warrant for my son’s arrest, and you can scarcely expect to be received as a welcome guest in this house. What have you to say to me?”
“Only this, Mr. Swinton. If your son likes to give himself up, we will deal with him as leniently as possible to avoid delay and—expense. There’ll be no question of refunding the money. My co-directors are willing to put in a plea for the unfortunate young man as a first offender, on certain conditions.”
“And the conditions?”
“That he undertakes not to molest or in any way pursue Miss Dora Dundas.”
“Molest is rather a hard word, Mr. Ormsby. I am aware of the rivalry between you and my son, and I recognize that he has made a dangerous enemy. Surely, Miss Dundas is the best judge of her own feelings?”
“Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace son,” cried Ormsby, flashing out. “He has seen her, and has upset all my plans.”
“Yes, he has seen her—” The words slipped out before the clergyman knew what he was saying.285
“Ah, he has seen her,” cried Ormsby, sharply. “So, he’s either at Asherton Hall—or here.”
“I—I didn’t say that!” gasped the rector. “This house is mine—you have no right—Dear, dear, I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I’m saying.”
“You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have him, at last.”
“My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter may yet be set right.”
“It is in the hands of the police. Good-day.”
John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son’s defense. He led Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and weeping.
“Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I’ve doubly betrayed him. Nobody can help him now, unless—unless—”
He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the call of God, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever be raised in the house of God. His congregation would know him for a sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues were busy defaming286his son’s reputation; and not a word of protest had fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who had died gloriously—and no word had passed his lips, because only one declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had demanded Dick, even as God demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man’s justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it was an issue between God and himself.
He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house now—before his wife returned—and declare her guilt to the police and his own condonation of it; after that, to call together his own flock and make open confession of his sin, and say farewell to the priesthood. Then—chaos—poverty—new work, with Dick’s help—but work with clean hands.
The way was clear enough now—while Mary was away out of the house—while her voice no longer rang in his ears and the soft rustle of her skirts had died away. But, when she came back with her pale face and care-lined eyes, her soft voice and caressing287hand, pleading, pathetic, seeking protection from the horrible contact of a jail, would he be able to hold out?
His face was strained with mental agony, and his fingers worked convulsively on one another. He spread his arms upon the table and bowed his head as though racked with physical pain. The clarion voice of duty was calling; but, when the woman’s cry, “I am your wife, John, your very own—you and I are one—you cannot betray me!” next broke on his ear, would he be strong then? If he could bear the punishment with her, and stand in the dock by her side, it would be better than suffering alone, tortured by the thought of the hours of misery to be endured by a gently-nurtured woman in a cruel prison. Perhaps, they would take him, too, for his share in the fraud. Dick was right when he said a man could more easily bear the hardship of prison than could a woman. If it had been possible, he would gladly have borne his wife’s burden.
As usual, he did nothing. He put off the evil hour, and waited for Ormsby to act.
288CHAPTER XXVIMRS. SWINTON HEARS THE TRUTH
The junior clerk of Messrs Jevons & Jevons carried Mrs. Swinton’s card to the senior partner, a hoary-headed old man, well stricken in years. When the card was scrutinized, he could not recall the personality of Mrs. Swinton. He sent for his confidential clerk, who was also at a disadvantage, yet they both seemed to remember having heard the name before.
At last, however, the client was ushered in, and Mr. Jevons hoped that his eyes would repair the lapse of his memory. A pale, dark-eyed, slender woman, wrapped in furs, entered.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Jevons?”
“Ah! now I hear your voice, I remember. You are the daughter of Mr. Herresford.”
“You were once my mother’s lawyer, Mr. Jevons,” said Mrs. Swinton, plunging at once into business.
“I had that honor. Won’t you sit down?”
“It is twenty-five years ago—more than that.”
“Yes. You have married since then.”
“I married Mr. Swinton, the rector of St. Botolph’s.”289
“Indeed, indeed. That is very interesting. And now you are living—?”
“At the rectory, on Riverside Drive.”
“Ah, yes.—And your father is well, I presume.”
“As well as can be expected,” answered Mrs. Swinton, tartly. “It is about money-matters I have come to you, Mr. Jevons. I want to know if it is possible by any means to raise the sum of seven thousand dollars.”
“That is not a large sum. There ought to be no difficulty.”
“You think so!” she cried, eagerly.
“Well, it depends. The income your mother left you—if it is not in any way mortgaged—should give ample security.”
“My mother left me no income.”
“I beg your pardon?” queried the old man, curtly, as if he doubted his hearing.
“My income is pitifully small, Mr. Jevons—only four thousand a year, which my father allows me, and he makes a favor of that, often withholding it, and plunging me into debt.”
Mr. Jevons looked incredulous. “Four thousand a year. Did you see your mother’s will, Mrs. Swinton?”
“No. Did she make a will?”
“Yes, of course. I drew it up for her. You were290only a girl then, I remember. You were away in Europe, in a convent, were you not, when your mother died?”
“Yes, and father wouldn’t allow me to come home.”
“Under that will, your mother left you something more than twenty thousand a year.”
“Mr. Jevons, you are thinking of someone else. You have so many clients you are mixing them up. My father, who is little better than a miser, absorbed the whole of my mother’s income at her death.”
“Impossible! Impossible! Your mother left you considerably more than half-a-million dollars. It was because of a dispute over the sum that I withdrew from your father’s affairs. I was his lawyer once, you remember. A difficult man—a difficult man. You don’t mean to tell me that you have received from your father only four thousand a year? It’s incredible. It’s illegal.”
Mrs. Swinton laid her hand upon her heart, to still the throbbing set up by this startling turn of affairs.
“But, when you were married, what was your husband thinking of not to see your mother’s will, and get proper settlements?”
“My husband has no head for money-affairs. It was a love match. We eloped, and father never forgave us.”291
Mr. Jevons gave vent to his anger in little, jerky exclamations of amazement.
“Mrs. Swinton, I ought to tell you that I always disapproved of your father’s management of your mother’s affairs—and his own. It was on this very question of your mother’s money that I split with him. He insulted me, put obstacles in the way of my transacting his legal business, and I had no option but to withdraw. There was a clause in your mother’s will which stipulated that your income should be paid to you quarterly, or at other intervals of time, according to your father’s discretion. He chose to read that to mean that he could pay you money at discretion in small or large sums, as he thought fit. You were a mere child at the time, and your father was your natural guardian. I always suspected him of having some designs upon that money, for he bitterly resented the idea of a girl having an income at all. He was peculiar in money matters—I will not say grasping.”
“He was a thief—is a thief!” cried Mrs. Swinton, breathing heavily, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Go on.”
“I withdrew altogether from your father’s affairs. I was busy, and had other matters to attend to. I naturally thought that your husband’s lawyers would take over the management of your affairs, and any292discrepancies due to the er—eccentricities of your father would be set right. But it appears that you have never questioned your father’s discretion.”
“I have questioned it again and again, and was always told that I was a pauper, that my mother’s money belonged to him. Oh, if I had only known! What misery it would have prevented! It would have saved my son from ruin—”
“Your son!”
“Yes, I have a boy and a girl, both thinking of marriage, both crippled by the want of money. I must have seven thousand dollars this very day.”
“I think it can be managed, Mrs. Swinton. I will see my partner about it, and probably let you have a check.”
Mr. Jevons went fully into her affairs for nearly an hour. Then, he handed her a newspaper, and left the room. She flung down the journal, and started to her feet.
Twenty thousand a year! More than half-a-million dollars withheld from her for twenty-five years by a grasping, unnatural father. It was like a wonderful dream. The revelation opened up a prospect of unlimited joy.
In a few minutes, Mr. Jevons returned with a signed check for the amount required. He placed it in his client’s hand, with a solemn bow. Mrs.293Swinton, too much moved to utter thanks, folded the check, and slipped it into the purse in her muff.
“Mr. Jevons, what am I to do about the—other money?”
“I’ve just been thinking of that. I mentioned it to my partner. If you wish us to act for you, I will bring pressure upon your father to have it restored at once. There is not the smallest flaw in the will. We must bring pressure.”
“Undoubtedly—every pressure that the law will allow. Expose him. Shame him. Humiliate him. Prosecute him, if need be.”
“It is certainly a flagrant instance of the abuse of parental authority. But a suit is quite unnecessary. Your father must hand over to you the half-million, plus compound-interest for twenty-five years—an enormous sum! There can be no possible question of your right to the money. If you wish us to advance anything more—seven thousand dollars is a very small sum—we shall be most happy.”
“I cannot believe it all yet, Mr. Jevons. I am so accustomed to penury and debt that it sounds like a fairy story. There is one other matter I wish to speak to you about. My son—my son is in trouble. Two checks, signed by my father, for small amounts were altered to larger ones, and cashed at our local bank. The amount in dispute came to294seven thousand dollars, and my father declines to be responsible, and wants to force the bank to lose the money. That is why I wanted this check. If I pay them back with this money, the affair will be ended, and nothing more can be said about it. That is so?”
“Dear, dear! Raising checks!”
“Yes—it was wrong. But it was all my father’s fault. He refused to give me money when—but that’s nothing to do with it. I want you to tell me it will be all right when the money is paid.”
“It depends entirely on the bank. Surely, your father will hush the matter up.”
“No, he wishes us to be disgraced—ruined—just because my husband is a clergyman, and I married contrary to his wishes. He never forgives.”
“But that was so many years ago! Surely, he won’t question the checks.”
“He has done so—and a warrant is out for my son’s arrest.”
“Dear, dear—that is very serious. I should take the money to the bank, and see what they can do. If the police have knowledge of the felony, they may take action on their own account, but these things can often be hushed up. I should advise you to see the responsible person at the bank. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a friend—at least I’m afraid he’s not much of a friend to my son.”
“Well, it’s a matter where a solicitor had better295not interfere. The fewer people who have cognizance of the fact that the law has been broken, the better.”
“I’ll do as you advise. I’ll see Mr. Ormsby to-day. You are quite sure, Mr. Jevons, that you’ve made no mistake about my mother’s money. Oh, it’s too wonderful—too amazing!”
“I am quite sure. I went thoroughly into the matter at the time, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to act for you against Mr. Herresford. If it should come to a suit, there can only be one issue.”
“I will see father myself,” observed Mrs. Swinton, with her teeth set and an ugly light in her eyes. “Mr. Jevons, you will come down to-morrow to see us, or next day?”
“To-morrow, at your pleasure. I’ll bring a copy of the will, and prepare an exact calculation of the amount of your claim. Good-morning, Mrs. Swinton. I am pleased to have brought the color back to your cheeks. You looked very pale when you came in.”
“It’s the forgery—the dreadful business at the bank that frightens me.”
“Do your best alone. I am sure your power of persuasion cannot fail to melt the hardest heart,” the lawyer protested, with his most courtly air.
“The circumstances are peculiar. But I will try.”
Mrs. Swinton reëntered her cab with a strange296mixture of emotions. As she drove through the crowded thoroughfares, her feelings were divided between indignant rage against her father and joy at the thought of John Swinton’s troubles ended, the luxury and independence of the future, Netty no longer a dowerless bride, Dick a man of wealth without dependence upon his grandfather.
It is astonishing how soon one gets accustomed to a sudden change of fortune. The novelty of the situation had worn off by the time the home journey was finished. She was again in the grip of overwhelming fear. The horrible dread of a prosecution stood like a spectre in her path.
On her arrival at the bank, she found the doors closed; but she rang the bell so insistently that, at last, a porter appeared. And she even persuaded that grim person to violate all rules, and take her card to Vivian Ormsby, who was conferring with Mr. Barnby. In the end, she triumphed, and was admitted to the banker’s private room.
297CHAPTER XXVIIORMSBY REFUSES
Ormsby greeted Dick’s mother with marked coldness. He extended to her the politeness accorded to an enemy before a duel. He motioned her to a seat near his desk, and took up a position on the hearthrug. His pale face was hard set, and his dark eyes gleamed. His hands were clenched behind his back, and his whole attitude was that of a man holding himself in check. The very mention of the name of Swinton was enough to fill his brain with madness.
“I have come to pay you some money,” said Mrs. Swinton quietly, as she unfastened the catch of her muff bag. “Here is a check for seven thousand dollars. It is the sum required by you to make good the discrepancy in my father’s account with your bank. He is an old man in his dotage; and, as he repudiates his checks, you must not be the loser.” She spoke in a dull voice—a monotone—as though repeating a lesson learnt by heart.
Ormsby was rather staggered. How Mrs. Swinton could raise seven thousand dollars without getting it from Herresford was a mystery, and he had never expected the miser to disgorge.298
“May I ask you why you bring this money?” he demanded, at last.
“I have explained.”
“I hope you don’t think, Mrs. Swinton, that we are going to compound a felony, just because the criminal’s family pursues the proper course, and reimburses our bank.”
“Of course I do. When the money is paid, my family affairs are no business of yours.”
“A warrant is out for your son’s arrest, Mrs. Swinton, and we shall have him to-night. It pains me exceedingly to have to take this course, but—”
“You hypocrite!” she cried, starting up. “You are taking an unfair advantage of your position. You are playing a mean, contemptible trick. You are jealous of my son. Your action is not that of a man, but of a coward. Are you not satisfied with having robbed him of his wife that you must hound him down?”
“On the contrary, your son has robbed me of the woman I love,” said Ormsby, with cutting emphasis, “and he shall not have her. She may not marry me, but she shall not mate with a felon.”
“If it is money you want, you shall have more.”
“You insult me, Mrs. Swinton. It is not the money I care about. It is the principle. Your son insulted me publicly—struck me like a drunken brawler—and worked upon the feelings of a pure299and innocent woman, who will break her father’s heart if she persists in the mad course she has adopted. But she’ll change her mind, when she sees your son in handcuffs.”
“It must not be! It must not be!” cried the guilty woman. “If you were a man and a gentleman, you would not let personal spite and jealousy come into a matter like this. You would not ruin my son for life, and break my heart, because you cannot have the girl, who pledged herself to Dick before you had any chance with her. You’ll be cut by every decent person. Every door will be shut against you. If you do what you threaten, everyone shall know the truth—”
“The whole world may shut its doors—there is only one door that must open to me, the door of Colonel Dundas’s house, where, until to-day, I was sure of a welcome, and almost sure of a wife. I am sorry for you, because it is obviously painful for a mother to contemplate the downfall of her son. You naturally strive to screen him by every means in your power. It is the common instinct of humanity. But I tell you”—and here he raised his fist with unwonted emphasis—“I’ll kill him, hound him down, make his life unbearable. The country will be too hot to hold him. First a felon, then a convict, then an outcast, a marked man, a wastrel—”
“I beg of you—I beseech you! You don’t understand—everything.300If I could tell you, you would at least have a different point of view of Dick’s honor. It’s I who—who—”
“Honor! Don’t talk to me about honor! How is it he’s alive? Why isn’t he beside his comrade, Jack Lorrimer, who died rather than betray his country? It is easy to see how he escaped the bullets of the firing party. He told his secret, and heaven alone knows how many dead men lie at his door as the result of that treachery.”
“It is false!”
“If I err, Mrs. Swinton, it is because I believe that a forger is always a sneak and a thief. I judge men as I find them. I speculate upon their unseen acts by what has gone before. A brave man is always a brave man, a coward always a coward, a thief always a thief, because it is his natural bent. It is useless to prolong this interview. You lose your son; I gain a wife. The world will be well rid of a dangerous citizen. Allow me to open the side door for you. It is the quickest way.”
Of what avail was her sudden avalanche of wealth? It could not move the determination of this remorseless man. If she confessed the truth—it was on her lips a dozen times to cry aloud her sin—he would only transfer his animosity to her, because it would hurt Dick the more. Next to humiliating his rival,301to humble the wife of the rector of St. Botolph’s would be a triumph for Ormsby. She took refuge in a last frantic lie.
“My father signed the checks for those amounts. The alterations were made in his presence—by me. I saw him sign them. He knew very well what he was doing then. But, since, he has forgotten. His denial is folly. Dick is innocent. I can swear to it.”
Ormsby smiled sardonically as he opened the door. “It does great credit to your imagination, Mrs. Swinton. Your statement, on the face of it, is false. Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it. It would only be adding folly to crime. I wish you good-day.”
He held the door wide open, still smiling with an evil light in his eyes. As she passed out, she was almost tempted to strike him, so great was her mortification.
“You are as bad as my father,” she cried. “Nothing pleases you men of money more than to wound and lacerate women’s hearts. Dora is well saved from such a cur.”
She reached the rectory in a state bordering on despair. Money could do nothing. She was powerless to evade the consequences of her folly. It was the302more maddening because she had only robbed her father of a little, whereas he had defrauded her of much—oh, so much!
One sentence let fall by Ormsby remained vividly in her memory. “Unless Mr. Herresford made that avowal with his own lips, no one would take the slightest notice of it.”
He should make the avowal; she would force it from him. The irony of the situation was fantastic in its horror.
She found her husband at home, looking whiter and more bloodless than ever.
“What news, Mary?” he asked awkwardly, avoiding her glance.
“The strangest, John—the strangest of all! My father is the biggest thief in America.”
“Mary, Mary, this perpetual abuse of your father, whom we have wronged, will not help us in the least.”
He led her into the study.
“John, John, you don’t understand what I mean. I’ve been to Mr. Jevons, and he says that my mother left me more than half-a-million dollars, which my father has stolen—stolen! He has kept us beggars ever since our marriage, by a trick. My mother left me twenty thousand a year; and—you know what we’ve had from him.”
“Mary, what wild things are you saying?”303
“Ah, it’s hard to believe; but it’s true. He’ll have to disgorge, or Mr. Jevons will take the business into court. He gave me the seven thousand dollars I wanted on the spot, and promised to get the rest for me, and give me as much more as I wanted. I’ve seen Ormsby, and paid him the money; but he’s obdurate. The jealous wretch is bent upon ruining Dick. Nothing will move him.”
“It is our sin crying for atonement, Mary. Money cannot buy absolution.”
“No, but father can say the word that will save us all. He must swear he made a mistake—that he did sign those checks for the amounts drawn from the bank. That will paralyze Ormsby, and leave him powerless.”
“Lies! lies!—we are wallowing in lies!” groaned the rector.
“When a lie can hurt no one, and can avert a terrible calamity, perjury can be no sin. God knows I have been punished enough.” Then, with a sudden anger and a burst of violence so unusual in his wife that it horrified the rector, she began to abuse her father, calling him every terrible, foolish name that came to her tongue.
“He shall pay the penalty of his fraud,” she cried. “Thief he calls me—well, it’s bred in the bone. Set a thief to catch a thief. I’ve run him to earth. He’ll have to lose hundreds of thousands, and more.304It will send him wild with terror. Think what that’ll mean! Think how he’ll cringe and whine and implore! It’ll be like plucking out his heart. I have the whip-hand of him now, and he shall dance to my tune. I shouldn’t be surprised if compulsory honesty and the restoration of ill-gotten wealth were to kill him.”
“Mary, Mary, be calm!”
“I’m going to him now,” she cried. “We’ll see who will be worsted in the fight. I’ll silence his taunts. There’ll be no more chuckling over his daughter’s misery—no more insults and abuse of you, John.”
“My dear Mary, you mustn’t think of going now. You’re unsprung, overcome. You’ll do something rash. Let us be satisfied for the present with this great change of fortune. One ghost at least is laid—the terror of poverty. The way lies open now for our honorable confession. You see that, don’t you?” he pleaded. “We can delay no longer. There is no excuse. By the return of our boy, the ground was cut from beneath our feet. What does it matter what the world says of us, when we have made things right with our God, when we have done justice by our brave son?”
“Oh, no—think of Netty.”
“Ah, Netty is in trouble, dearest. She’s had bad news to-day. Harry Bent talks of canceling his engagement.305The scandal has reached the ears of his family, and his money-affairs are dependent on his mother, whom he can’t offend. You see, darling, the sins of the fathers have begun to descend on the children—Dick and Netty both stricken. We must confess!—confess!”
“I can’t, John, I can’t—I can’t. Dick won’t hear of it.”
“Dick has no voice in the matter at all. It is the voice of God that calls.”
“Yes, yes, I know, John, but—wait till I’ve seen father once more. I won’t listen to you, I won’t eat, I won’t sleep, until I’ve seen him. I’ll go to him at once.”
“I must come, too,” urged the rector weakly. Yet, the thought of facing the miser’s taunts at such a time filled him with unspeakable dread. And he could not tell her that Dick’s arrest was imminent.
“Have some food, dearest, and go afterward.”
“I couldn’t eat. It would choke me,” Mrs. Swinton said, rebelliously.
Netty, hearing her mother’s voice, came into the room, her eyes red with weeping.
“You’ve heard, mother?” she cried, plaintively.
“I’ve heard, Netty. To-morrow Mrs. Bent will be sorry. We’re no longer paupers, Netty.”
“Why, grandfather isn’t dead?”
“No, but we are rich. He’s a thief. We’ve always306been rich. Your grandfather has robbed us of hundreds of thousands—all my mother’s fortune. I’ve only just found it out to-day from a lawyer.”
“Oh, the villain!” cried Netty. “But I shall be jilted all the same. Dick has ruined and disgraced us all. I’m snubbed—jilted—thrown over, because my brother is a felon.”
“Silence, Netty. There are other people in the world beside yourself to think of,” cried the rector.
“Well, nobody ever thinks of me,” sobbed the girl, angrily.
There was a loud rattling at the front door. The rector started, and listened in terror.
“Too late!” he groaned, dropping into a chair. “It’s the police!”
“John, you have betrayed me—after all!” screamed his wife, looking wildly around like a hunted thing.
He bowed his head in assent. He misunderstood her meaning. “Ormsby has been here. He found out—by a slip of the tongue.”
307CHAPTER XXVIIITHE WILL
The police had arrived with a warrant to search the house. Mrs. Swinton seemed turned to stone. The rector drooped his head in resignation, and stood with hands clenched at his side, looking appealingly at his wife. He said nothing, but his eyes beseeched her to be brave, to say the words that would save her son, to surrender in the name of truth and justice.
She understood, but refused; and the police proceeded with their search.
Now that further concealment was useless, they were led upstairs. Dick, lying in his deck-chair, heard them coming, and guessed what had happened. He dropped his book upon his lap, and, when the police inspector and the detective entered the room, he was quite prepared.
“Well, so you’ve found me,” he cried, with a laugh. “It’s no good your thinking of taking me, unless you’ve brought a stretcher, for I can’t walk.”
“We sha’n’t take you without doctor’s orders, if you’re ill, sir.”
“Well, he won’t give you the order, so you’d better leave your warrant, and run away and play.”308
“I have to warn you, sir,” said the officer pompously, “that anything you say will be taken down in evidence against you.”
“Well, take that down in evidence—what I’ve just said. You’re a smart lot to look everywhere except in the most likely place. Take that down as well.”
“We don’t want any impudence. You’re our prisoner; we shall put an officer in the house.”
“Well, all I ask is that you won’t make things more unpleasant for my mother and father than is absolutely necessary. Now, get out. I’m reading an interesting book. If you should see Mr. Ormsby, you can give him my kind regards, and tell him he’s a bigger cad than I thought, and, when I’m free, I’ll repeat the dose I gave him at our club dinner. Say I’m sorry I didn’t rob his bank of seventy thousand instead of seven thousand.”
“Do I understand, sir,” said the officer, taking out his notebook, “that you confess to defrauding the bank of seven thousand dollars?”
“Oh, certainly! I’ll confess to anything you like, only get out.”
Netty had taken refuge in the drawing-room, where she locked herself in, inspired with an unreasoning terror, and a dread of seeing her brother handcuffed and carried out of the house. The309rector and his wife stood face to face in the study, with the table between them.
“For the last time, Mary, I implore you to speak.” He raised his hand, and his eyes blazed with a light new and strange to her.
“I tell you, there is no need for me to speak, John. This can all be settled in a few hours, when I have denounced father to his face, and compelled him to retract.”
“When you have compelled him to add lie to lie. Mary—wife—I charge you to speak, and save me the necessity of denouncing you.”
“John, you are mad. Trouble has turned your brain. What are you saying?”
“I am no longer your husband. I am your judge.”
“Oh, John, John—give me time—give me a little time. I promise you, I will set everything right in a few hours.”
The rector looked at the clock. “At half-past six, I go to conduct the evening service—my last service in the church. This is the end of my priesthood. I preach my last sermon to-night. Unless you have surrendered yourself to justice before I go into the pulpit for my sermon, I shall make public confession of our sin.”
“John, you no longer love me. You mean to310ruin me—you despise me—you want to get rid of me!” cried the wretched woman between her sobs, as she flung herself on her knees at his feet. “John! John! I can’t do it—I can’t!”
“Get away, woman—don’t touch me! You’re a bad woman. You have broken my faith in myself—almost my faith in God. I’ll have nothing further to do with you—or your father—or the money that you say is yours. Money has nothing to do with it. It is a matter of conscience, of courage, of truth! I’ve been a miserable coward, and my son has shamed me into a semblance of a brave man. I am going to do the right thing by the boy.”
“John! John!—you can’t—you won’t! You’ll keep me with you always. I’ll love you—oh—you shall not regret it. You cannot do without me.”
“Out of my sight!”
He rushed from the room, leaving his wife still upon her knees, with her arms outstretched appealingly. When the door slammed behind him, she uttered one despairing moan, and fell forward on her face, sobbing hysterically.
Her hands clawed at the carpet in her agony, yet she could not bring herself to make any effort towards the rehabilitation of her son’s honor. Her thoughts flew again to her father—the greatest sinner, as she regarded him—and the flash of hope311that had so elated her in the afternoon again blinded her. She struggled to her feet, still sobbing, and looked at the clock. If John persisted in his determination to denounce her at evening service, there was at least a three hours’ respite—time enough to go to her father.
The rector, in the hall, had met an officer coming down the stairs, who explained the situation to him—that a doctor’s certificate would be necessary, and that officers must remain in and about the house to keep watch on their prisoner. The rector listened to them with his mind elsewhere, as though their communication had little interest for him, and his lips moved with his thoughts. But, before they left, he pulled himself together, and addressed them.
“Officers, I beg one favor of you: that you will not make this matter public until after the service in the church this evening. You have arrested the wrong culprit. The real forger may possibly come to you at the police station with me to-night, and surrender.”
“Was that the meaning of the young man’s cheek?” wondered the officer, eying the pale-faced, distraught clergyman suspiciously. He had arrested defaulting priests before to-day, and was half-inclined to believe that the rector himself was the culprit indicated. However, he didn’t care to hazard a guess openly.312
“There is no objection to keeping our mouths shut for an hour or two, sir,” he answered.
“I am obliged to you for the concession. Until after the evening service then; after that you can do as you please.”
The rector picked up his hat, and walked out of the house without another word, leaving the policemen in some doubt as to the wisdom of allowing him out of sight.
Mary heard the talking in the hall, and her husband’s step past the window, and was paralyzed with terror, fearing lest he might already have betrayed her to the police. The easiest way to settle the doubt was to go into the hall, and see what had happened. To her infinite relief, the officer allowed her to pass out of the front door without molestation.
The automobile for which she had telephoned was already waiting. She entered hurriedly, and bade the chauffeur drive at top speed to Asherton Hall. The cold air outside in the darkening twilight revived her, and brought fresh energy. Her anger against her father grew with every turn of the wheels, and her rage was such that she almost contemplated killing him. Indeed, the vague idea was rioting in her mind that, rather than go to prison, she would die, first wreaking some terrible vengeance on the miser, who had ruined the happiness of313her married life and brought disaster on all belonging to her.
On her arrival, there were only three windows lighted in the whole front of the great house; but outside the entrance there were the blinking lamps of two carriages, one a shabby hired vehicle, the other a smart brougham, which she recognized at once as belonging to her father’s family physician.
Her heart sank with an awful dread. If her father were ill, and unable to give attention to her affairs, it spelled ruin.
The door was opened by Mrs. Ripon, who admitted Mrs. Swinton in silence. The hall was lighted by a single oil lamp, which only served to intensify the desolation and gloom of the dingy, faded house.
“I want to see my father at once, Mrs. Ripon,” the distracted woman declared.
“The doctor is with him, madam. He won’t be long. Will you step into the library? Mr. Barnby is there.”
The mention of that name caused her another fright. She was inclined to avoid the bank-manager. Curiosity, however, conquered, and she resolved to face him, in the hope of hearing why he had come to her father.
On her entrance, Mr. Barnby bowed with frigid politeness.314
“You have seen my father, Mr. Barnby. Is he well?” she asked, eagerly.
“He looked far from well. I was shocked at the change in him.”
“Did he send for you?”
“Yes, and it will be some satisfaction to you to know that he has withdrawn his charge against his grandson. When I came before, he asserted most emphatically that the checks had been altered without his knowledge. He now declares angrily that I utterly mistook him, that he said nothing of the kind. He is prepared to swear that the checks are not forgeries at all.”
“Ah! he has come to his senses, at last. I knew he would,” she cried. “So, you see, Mr. Barnby, that you were utterly in the wrong.”
“You forget, madam. You yourself admitted that the checks were altered without your knowledge.”
“Did I? No—no; certainly not! You misunderstood me.”
“Mr. Herresford and his family are fond of misunderstandings,” said the manager stiffly, with a flash of scorn. He shrewdly guessed who the real forger was; but, in the face of the miser’s declaration, he was powerless.
“This means, Mr. Barnby, that now my son will not be arrested, that the impudent affront put upon us by Mr. Ormsby will need an ample apology—a315public apology. The scandal caused by your blunders has been spread far and wide.”
“That is a matter for Mr. Ormsby. Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his previous assertion, and has given me a written statement, which absolves your son. I insisted upon it being written. It may have to be an affidavit.”
The sound of the arrival of another carriage broke upon Mrs. Swinton’s ear, and she listened in some surprise.
“Why are so many people arriving here at this hour?” she demanded, curiously.
Mr. Barnby shrugged his shoulders, to signify that it was no affair of his.
The front door was opened by Mr. Trimmer, who had hurriedly descended the stairs. Mrs. Swinton emerged from the library at the same moment, impatient to see her father. To her amazement, she beheld Dora Dundas enter. The girl carried in her hand a piece of paper. Her face was pale, her eyes were red with weeping, and her bearing generally was subdued. The message in her hand was a crumpled half-sheet of note-paper, in the miser’s own handwriting, short and dramatic in its appeal:
“Come to me. I am dying.”
“Trimmer, I must see my father at once,” cried Mrs. Swinton, without waiting to greet Dora.316
The girl gave her one look, a frozen glance of contempt, and turned her appealing eyes to Mr. Trimmer.
“Mr. Herresford,” the valet announced, “wishes to see Miss Dundas. The doctor is with him. No one else must come up.”
“But I insist,” Mrs. Swinton cried.
“And I, too, insist,” cried Trimmer, with glittering eyes and a voice thrilling from excitement. His period of servitude was nearly ended, and he cared not a snap of his fingers for Mrs. Swinton or for anyone else. His legacy of fifty thousand dollars was almost within his grasp.
The rector’s wife fell back, too astonished to speak.
Dora followed Trimmer’s lead up the stairs, and entered the death chamber with noiseless tread. The dying man was lying propped up with pillows as usual. One side of him was already at rest forever; but his right hand, with which he had written his last letter and signed the lying statement which was to absolve his grandson, was lovingly fingering a large bundle of bank-notes that Mr. Barnby, by request, had brought up from the bank. On a chair by the bedside, account-books were spread in confusion, and one—a black book with a silver lock—was lying on the bed. The physician stood on one side, half-screened by the curtains of the bed. Herresford317beckoned Dora, who approached tremblingly.
The old man crumpled up the bank-notes, and placed them in her hand, murmuring something which she could not hear. She bent down nearer to his lips.
“For Dick—for present use—to put himself straight.”
“I understand, grandfather.”
The miser made impatient signs to her, which the doctor interpreted to mean that he desired her to kneel by his bedside. She dropped down, and her face was close to his; she could feel his breath upon her cheek.
“I’m saying—good-bye—”
“Yes.”
“To my money.... All for you.... You’ll marry him?”
“Yes.”
“No mourning—no delays—no silly nonsense of that sort.”
“It shall be as you wish.”
“Marry at once. And my daughter—beware of her. A bad woman. I saved it from her clutches. It’s there.” He pointed to the account-books. “If I hadn’t taken care of it for her, she would have squandered every penny—can’t keep it from her any longer. Plenty for you and Dick.318You’ll take care of it—you’ll take care of it? You won’t spend it?” he whined, with sudden excitement.
Dora passed her hand over his hair, and soothed him. He moaned like a fretful child, then recovered his energies with surprising suddenness. He seized the little black account-book with the silver lock.
“It’s all here,” he cried, holding up the volume with palsied hand. “It runs into millions—millions!”
The doctor shook his head at Dora, as much as to say, “Take no notice; he is wandering.”
Trimmer now interrupted, entering the room abruptly.
“Mrs. Swinton, sir, wishes to see you at once, on urgent business,” he announced.
“Send her away!” cried the old man, throwing out his arm, and hurling the book from him so that it slid along the polished floor. He made one last supreme effort, and dragged himself up.
“Send her away,” he screamed. “Liar!—Cheat!—Forger!—Thief! She sha’n’t have my money—she sha’n’t—”
The words rattled in his throat, and he fell forward into Dora’s arms. She laid him back gently, and, after a few labored moments, he breathed his last.
The daughter, unable to brook delay, and furious319at Trimmer’s insolent opposition to her will, entered the room at this moment.
“Why am I kept away from my father?” she cried.
“Your father is no more,” whispered the physician, gently.
“Dead?—dead?—And he never knew that I had found him out. The thief, dead—and I—Oh, father—!”
She collapsed, sobbing hysterically and screaming. The pent-up agony of the last few weeks burst forth, and she babbled and raved like a mad woman. The physician carried her shrieking from the room, and the miser was left in peace. By his bedside, his only friend, Dora, knelt and prayed silently.
Trimmer stole from the room, with bowed head and tears falling—tears for the first time since childhood. The strange, hypnotic spell of his servitude was finished. He walked about aimlessly, like one wandering in a mist. As yet, he could not lay hold on the freedom that was his at last.