The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Scarlet FeatherThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Scarlet FeatherAuthor: Houghton TownleyIllustrator: Will GreféRelease date: February 19, 2009 [eBook #28123]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET FEATHER ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Scarlet FeatherAuthor: Houghton TownleyIllustrator: Will GreféRelease date: February 19, 2009 [eBook #28123]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Title: The Scarlet Feather
Author: Houghton TownleyIllustrator: Will Grefé
Author: Houghton Townley
Illustrator: Will Grefé
Release date: February 19, 2009 [eBook #28123]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET FEATHER ***
Transcriber’s Notes:Spelling and punctuation have been preserved as printed except as indicated in the text by a dotted line under the change. Hover the mouse over the word and the original text willappear. A list of these changes can be foundhere.The following words were found in variable forms in the original text and both versions have been retained: armchair/arm-chair; byword/by-word; hearthrug/hearth-rug; housekeeping/house-keeping; sky pilot/sky-pilot; stockbroker/stock-broker.The illustration on Page 260 has been moved so that the illustration is not in the middle of a paragraph.
THE SCARLET FEATHER
THERE WAS SOMETHING MAGNETIC ABOUT THIS MAN WHOM SHE FEARED AND TRIED TO HATE.—Page 201
THERE WAS SOMETHING MAGNETIC ABOUT THIS MAN WHOM SHE FEARED AND TRIED TO HATE.—Page 201
Copyright, 1909 by
W. J. watt & company
Published June, 1909
Contents
THE SCARLET FEATHER
9
THE SCARLET FEATHER
CHAPTER ITHE SHERIFF’S WRIT
The residence of the Reverend John Swinton was on Riverside Drive, although the parish of which he was the rector lay miles away, down in the heart of the East Side. It was thus that he compromised between his own burning desire to aid in the cleansing of the city’s slums and the social aspirations of his wife. The house stood on a corner, within grounds of its own, at the back of which were the stables and the carriage-house. A driveway and a spacious walk led to the front of the mansion; from the side street, a narrow path reached to the rear entrance.
A visitor to-night chose this latter humble manner of approach, for the simple reason that this part of the grounds lay unlighted, and he hoped, therefore, to pass unobserved through the shadows. The warm, red light that streamed from an uncurtained French window on the ground floor only deepened the uncertainty of everything. The man stepped10warily, closing the gate behind him with stealthy care, and crept forward on tiptoe to lessen the sound of the crunching gravel beneath his heavy shoes. It was an undignified entry for an officer of the law who carried his authorization in his hand; but courage was not this man’s strong point. His fear was lest he should meet tall, stalwart Dick Swinton, who, on a previous occasion of a similar character, had forcibly resented what he deemed an unwarrantable intrusion on the part of a shabby rascal. The uncurtained window now attracted the attention of the sheriff’s officer, and he peered in. It was the rector’s study.
The rector himself was seated with his back toward the window, at his desk, upon which were piled account-books and papers in hopeless confusion. A shaded lamp stood upon the centre of the table, and threw a circle of light which included the clergyman’s silver-gray hair, his books, and a figure by the fireside—a handsome woman resplendent in jewels and wearing a low-cut, white evening gown—Mary Swinton, the rector’s wife. The room was paneled, and the shadows were deep, relieved by the glint of gilt on the bindings of the books that filled the shelves on the three sides. The fireplace was surmounted by a carved mantel, upon which stood two gilt candelabra and a black statuette. The walls11were burdened by scarce a single picture, and the red curtains at the windows were only half-drawn. On looking in, the impression given was one of luxury and of artistic refinement, an ideal room for a winter’s night, a place for retirement, peace and repose.
Mrs. Swinton sat in her own particular chair by the fireside—a most comfortable tub of a chair—and reclined with her feet outstretched upon a stool, smoking a cigarette. Her graceful head was thrown back, and, as she toyed with the cigarette, displaying the arm of a girl and a figure slim and youthful, it was difficult to believe that this woman could be the mother of a grown son and daughter. Her brown hair, which had a glint of gold in it, was carefully dressed, and crowned with a thin circlet of diamonds. Her shapely little head was poised upon a long, white throat rising from queenly shoulders. She looked very tall as she lounged thus with her feet extended and her head thrown back, watching the smoke curl from her full, red lips.
Opposite her, deep in an armchair, and scarcely visible behind a large fashion journal, sat Netty Swinton, her daughter, a girl of nineteen, a mere slip of a woman. The pet name for Netty was, “The Persian,” because she somewhat resembled a Persian cat in her ways, always choosing the warmest and most comfortable chairs, and curling up on sofas,12quite content to be quiet, only asking to be left alone and caressed at rare intervals by highly-esteemed persons.
From the ladies’ gowns, it was obvious that they were going somewhere; and, by the rector’s ruffled hair and shabby smoking-jacket, that he would be staying at home, busy over money affairs—the eternal worry of this household.
The rector was even now struggling with his accounts.
The clever man seemed to be a fool before the realities of life as set down in numerals. As a young man, he had been a prodigy. People then spoke of him as a future bishop, and he filled fashionable churches of the city with the best in the land. They came to hear his sensational sermons, and they patted him on the back approvingly in their drawing-rooms. He was immensely popular. Perhaps his wonderful masculine beauty was responsible for much of the interest he excited. It certainly captivated Mary Herresford, a girl of nineteen, who was among those bewitched. She adored the young preacher, whom later she married secretly; and the red flame of their passionate love had never died down. The wealthy father of the bride had only forgiven them to the extent of presenting his daughter with the property on Riverside Drive, where they had since made their home, to the considerable inconvenience of the rector13himself. Soon after the marriage, John Swinton had taken the rectorship of St. Botolph’s, that great church planned for the betterment of the most hopeless slums. The clergyman’s admirers believed that this was but the beginning of magnificent achievements. On the contrary, the result threatened disaster to his good-standing before the world. The population of the parish grew in poverty, rather than in grace. The rector was a man of ideals, generous to a fault. His means were small; his bounty was great. The income enjoyed by his wife did not count. Old Herresford allowed his daughter only sufficient for her personal needs, which were, naturally, rather extravagant, for she had been reared and had lived always in the atmosphere of wealth.
Matters were further complicated by the fact that Mrs. Swinton, though she adored her husband, hated his parish cordially. She belonged to the aristocracy, and she had no thought of tearing herself from the life with which she was familiar, while her husband, on the contrary, doted on his parish and avoided, so far as he might, the company of the frivolous idlers who were his wife’s companions. Husband and wife, therefore, agreed to differ, and to be satisfied with love. After their son was born, the wife drifted back to her old life, and was a most welcome figure in the gayest society. Yet, no scandal was ever associated with her name, and none14sneered at her love for her husband. The rector, when he yielded to her persuasions and accompanied her on social excursions, was as welcome as she; and everybody proclaimed Mrs. Swinton a clever woman to be able to live two entirely-different lives at the same time, with neither overlapping. At forty, she was still young and beautiful, with a ripe maturity that only the tender crow’s feet about the corners of the eyes betrayed to the inquisitive. She set the pace for many a younger woman, and was far more active than prim little Netty, her daughter. Needless to say, she was adored by her son, to whom she was both mother and chum.
Dick Swinton was like his father, the same gentlemanly spirit combined with a somewhat unpractical mind, which turned to the beautiful and the good, and refused to admit the ugliness of unpleasant facts. Indeed, the young man’s position was even more awkward than his father’s. As grandson and heir of Richard Herresford much was expected of him. Everybody did not know that the rich old man was such a miser that, after paying for his grandson’s education, at his daughter’s persuasion, he allowed him only a thousand dollars a year, and persistently refused to disburse this sum until it was dragged from him by Mrs. Swinton.
The rector turned over the leaves of the account-books, and sighed heavily.15
“It’s no use,” he cried, at last. “I can’t make them up. They are in a hopeless muddle. I know, though, that I can’t raise a thousand cents, much less a thousand dollars, and the builder threatens to make me bankrupt, if I don’t pay at once.”
“Bankrupt, John!” his wife murmured, languidly raising her brows. “You are exaggerating.”
“No, my dear. The truth must be faced. Pressure is being applied in every direction. I signed a note, making myself security for the building of the Mission-room. And here are other threats of suits. I already have judgments against me, that they may try to satisfy at any moment. Why, even our furniture may be seized! And this man declares that he will make me bankrupt. It’s a horrible position—bad enough for any man, fatal for a clergyman. We’ve staved off the crash for about as long as we can.—And I’m tired of it all!”
He flung the account-book from him, and, brushing his gray hair from his forehead in an agitated fashion, started up. His brow was moist, and his hand trembled.
“Only a matter of a thousand dollars, John?” cried Mrs. Swinton, after another puff from her cigarette. Then, glancing attheclock, she added: “What a time they are getting the carriage ready! We shall be late. Netty, go and see why they are so long.” Netty slipped away.16
“Mary, you must be late for once,” cried the disturbed husband, striding over to her. “We must talk this matter out.”
She smiled up at him bewitchingly, and he melted, for he adored her still.
“Father will have to pay the money,” she said, rising lazily and facing him—as tall as he, and wonderfully graceful. She put her hand upon his shoulder.
“Yes, John, I’ll go to father once more. It’s really shameful! He absolutely promised you a thousand dollars for that Mission Hall, and then afterward refused to pay it.”
“Yes, of course, he did. That was why I became responsible. But you know what his promises are.”
“His promises should be kept like those of other men. It is wicked to give money with one hand, and then take it away with the other. He allowed you to compromise yourself in the expectation of this unusual lavishness on his part; and now he repudiates the whole thing, like the miser that he is.”
“Hush, darling! He is a very old man.”
“Oh, yes, it’s all very well for you to find excuses for him. You would find excuses for Satan himself, John. You are far too lenient. Just think what father would say, if you were to be made bankrupt. Can’t you hear his delighted, malevolent chuckles? Oh, it is too terrible, too outrageous! You know17what everyone would say—that you had been speculating, or gambling, just because you dabbled a little in mines a few years ago.”
“A thousand dollars would only delay the crash. We owe at least ten times as much as that,” groaned the unhappy man, sinking into the chair his wife had just vacated. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his throbbing head in his hands. “They’ll have to find another rector for St. Botolph’s. I’ve tried hard to satisfy everybody. I’ve begged and worked. We’ve had bazaars, concerts, collections, everything. But people give less and less, and they want more and more. The poor cry louder and louder.”
“John, you are too generous. It’s monstrous that father should cling to his money as he does. He has nobody to leave it to but us—in fact, it is as much ours as his. Yet, he cripples us at every turn. I have almost to go down on my knees for my own allowance—”
“And, when you get it, dearest, I have to borrow half. I’m a wretched muddler. I used to think great things of myself once, but now—well, they’d better make me bankrupt, and have done with it. At least, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that, if I have robbed the rich man and the trader, it has been to relieve the poor. Why, my own clothes are so shabby that I am ashamed to face the sunlight.”
It did not for one moment occur to his generous18nature to glance at the costly garments of his beautiful wife, who wanted for nothing, who spent her days in a round of pleasure. He took her hand as she stood beside him, and raised it to his lips.
“I have been a miserable failure as a husband for you, Mary,” he said. “You remember that they used jestingly to call you the bishop’s wife, and said that you would never regret having married a parson. Well, I really thought in those days that I should make up for the disparity in our relative positions, and raise you to an eminence worthy of you.”
“Poor old John!” laughed his wife, smoothing his gleaming, silvery hair. “It’s not your fault. Father ought to have done more. He’s a perfect beast. He is a miser, mean, deceitful, avaricious, spiteful, everything that’s wicked. He is ruining you, and he will ruin Dick, too. He threatens that, when he dies, we may find all his wealth left to charities. Charities, indeed, when we have to pinch and screw to satisfy insolent tradesmen, and the everlasting hunger of a lot of cringing, crawling loafers and vagabonds who won’t work!”
“Hush, hush, my darling! Don’t let’s get on that topic to-night. We never agree as to some things, and we never shall.”
“There’s talk, too, of Dick’s going to the front. And that will cost money. Anyway, I shall see father to-morrow. You must write to that wretched19builder man, and tell him he will have his money. I’ll get it somehow, if I have to pawn my jewels.”
“Your father has repeatedly informed you, dearest,” the rector objected, “that your jewels do not really belong to you—that he has only loaned them to you.”
“Yes, that’s a device of his, although they belonged to my mother. At any rate, write the man a sharp letter.”
“Very well, my dear,” replied the rector, wearily, and he rose, and walked with bowed head toward his desk. “I’ll say that I hope to pay him.”
The two had been through scenes like this before, but never had the situation hitherto been so desperate as to-night.
Netty, soft-footed and soft-voiced, returned to announce that the carriage was ready. Mrs. Swinton thereupon threw away her cigarette, and gathered up her train. For one moment, she bent over her husband’s shoulder, and pressed her soft, fair cheek to his.
“Don’t look so worried, dear,” she murmured. “What’s a thousand dollars! Why, I might win that much at bridge, to-night.”
“Don’t, darling, don’t!” the husband groaned, distractedly.
Any mention of bridge was as salt upon an open wound to him. He knew that his wife played for20high stakes among her own set—indeed, every parishioner of St. Botolph’s knew it; it was a whispered scandal. Yet, her touch thrilled him, and he was as wax in her fingers. She spent her life in an exotic atmosphere, but he knew that there was no evil in her nature. There were weaknesses, doubtless; but who was weaker than he, and where is the woman in the world who is at once beautiful and strong?
The man without, lurking beside the window, watched the departure of the mother and daughter. He remained within the shadow until the yellow lights of the carriage had disappeared through the gates; then, he came forward, just as Rudd, the manservant, was closing the front door.
“What, you again?” gasped the servant.
“Yes. It’s all right, I suppose? He ain’t here?”
“The young master?” Rudd inquired, with a grin. “No. And it’s lucky for you that he ain’t.”
“Parson in?” came the curt query.
“Yes,” Rudd answered, reluctantly.
“Well, tell him I’m here,” the deputy commanded, with a truculent air. “He’ll want to see me, I guess. Anyhow, he’d better!”
21CHAPTER IITHE CHECK
On the following morning, after breakfasting in her own room, Mrs. Swinton came downstairs, to find the house seemingly empty. She was not sorry to be left alone, for she was feeling out of sorts with all the world. In the bright daylight, she looked a little older; her fair skin showed somewhat faded and wan. She was nervously irritable just now, for last night she had lost three hundred dollars at bridge. The embarrassment over money filled her with wretchedness. There remained no resource save to appeal to her father for the amount needed.
She strolled out with the intention of ordering Rudd to bring around the carriage; but, as she stepped upon the porch, she stopped short at sight of a man who was sprawled in a chair there, smoking a pipe.
“What is it you want?” she demanded haughtily, annoyed by the fellow’s obvious lack of deference, for he had not risen or taken the pipe from his mouth.
“I’ve explained to the gent, ma’am, and he’s gone out to get the money,” was the prompt answer.22
“You mean, my husband?”
“Yes, the parson, ma’am. I come to levy—execution. You understand, ma’am.”
Further questions dried up in her throat. The humiliation was too great to allow parley. Such an advent as this had been threatened jestingly many times. But the one actual visit of a like sort in the past had been kept a secret from her. Now, in the face of the catastrophe, she felt herself overwhelmed. Nevertheless, the necessity for instant action was imperative.
She went back into the house, and rang for her maid to take the message to Rudd. Then, she dressed hurriedly for the ride to her father’s house. Her hands were trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks. At intervals, she muttered in rage against her father, whom at this moment she positively hated.
For that matter, old Herresford, by reason of his unscrupulous operations in augmenting his enormous fortune, was one of the most cordially hated men in the country. Of late years, however, he had abandoned aggressive undertakings, and rested content with the wealth he had already acquired. Invalidism had been the cause of this change. The result of it had been to developcertainmiserly instincts in the man until they became the dominant force of his life. By reason of this stinginess, his daughter was23made to suffer so much that she abominated her father. It was a long time now since he had ceased to be a familiar figure in the world. For some years, he had been confined to his bedchamber at Asherton Hall, his magnificent estate on the Hudson. There, from a window, he could survey a great part of his gardens, and watch his gardeners at their labors. With a pair of field-glasses, he could search every wooded knoll of the park for a half-mile to the river, in the hope of catching some fellow idling, whom he could dismiss. In his senseless economies, he had discharged servant after servant, until now his stately house was woefully ill-kept, and even his favorite gardens were undermanned.
On this morning of his daughter’s meeting with the sheriff’s officer, he was sitting up in his carved ebony bedstead. A black skull-cap was drawn over his little head, and the long, white hair fell to his shoulders, where it curled up at the ends. His sunken eyes gleamed like a hawk’s, and his dry, parchment skin was stretched tightly over the prominent bones. His nose was hooked, and his lips sunken over toothless gums—for he would not afford false teeth. His hands were as small as a woman’s, but claw-like.
On a round table by his bed stood the field-glasses with which he watched his gardeners, and woe betide man who permitted a single leaf to lie on the perfect24lawns, which stretched away on the plateau before the house.
The chamber in which the bed was set was lofty and bare. A few costly rugs were scattered on the highly-polished floor, and the general effect was funereal, for the ebony bedstead had a French canopy of black satin embroidered with gold. By the window stood his writing-desk, at which his steward and his secretary sat when they had business with him; and on the table by the window in the bay, was a bowl of flowers, the only bright spot of color in the room.
His daughter came unannounced, as she always did. He was warned of her approach by the frou-frou of her silk, an evidence of refined femininity that for a long time past had been absent from Asherton Hall. The old man grunted at the sound, and stared straight ahead out of the window. He did not turn until she stood by his bedside, and placed her gloved hand upon his cold, bony fingers.
“Father, I have come to see you.”
She kissed him on the brow, and his eyes darted an upward look, keen and penetrating as an eagle’s.
“Then you want something. The usual?”
“Yes, father—money.”
This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but each time with a bitterer25spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser’s hand tightened upon his gold.
She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young scamp.
“How much is it now?” asked the miser.
“A large sum, father,” faltered Mrs. Swinton. “A thousand dollars! You know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the Mission Hall.”
“What!” screamed the old man, in horror. “A thousand dollars! It’s a lie.”
“You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had given—”
“Like his insolence.”
“And you promised a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand? Nothing of the sort,” snarled26the miser, scratching the coverlet with hooked fingers—always a sign of irritation with him. “I said one, not one thousand.”
She knew all his tricks. To avoid payment, he would always promise generously; but, when it came to drawing a check, he whiningly protested that five hundred was five, three hundred three, and so on.
“This time, father, it is very urgent. John is in a tight fix. Misfortune has been assailing him right and left, and he is nearly bankrupt.”
“Ha, ha! Serve him right,” chuckled the old man. The words positively rattled in his throat. “I always told you he was a fool. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen to me. You insisted upon marrying a sky pilot. Apply up there for help.” He pointed to the ceiling.
“Father, father, be reasonable. There is a man atourhouse—a sheriff’s officer. Think of it!”
“Aha, has it come to that!” laughed the miser. “Now, he will wake up. Now, we shall see!”
“Not only that, father. Dick may go away.”
“What, fleeing from justice?”
“No, no, father. He is going to volunteer for service in the war.”
She commenced to give him details, but he hushed her down. “How much?—How much?” he asked, insultingly. “I told you before that you27have no justification for regarding your son as my heir. Who told you that I was going to leave him a penny? He’s a pauper, and dependent upon his father, not upon me. I owe him nothing.”
“Oh, father, father, it is expected of you.”
“How much?” snapped the old man.
“Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars.”
“What!” he screamed. “Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my check-book—get me my check-book.”
He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey, thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the desk, and placed it on her father’s knees, and brought an inkstand and a pen, which she put into his trembling fingers.
“Two thousand, father,” she said, gently.
“No—two!” he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her, tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word “Two” on the long line.
“Two. Do you understand?” he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face, as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. “That’s all you’ll get out of me.” He filled in the figure two below, and straggling28noughts for the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his remarks with the end of the penholder.
“I’ll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little legacy I leave you at my death.”
She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he would be more rational.
She replaced the blotting-pad, and dried the check in mechanical fashion; but her face was white with anger. She folded the useless slip, and put it in her bag.
“Have you no gratitude?” cried the old horror from the bed. “Can’t you say, thank you?”
“Thank you, father,” she answered, coldly; “I am tired of your jests,” and, without another word, she swept from the room.
“Two!” chuckled the old man in his throat, “two!”
On arriving at the rectory, she found the man reading a paper in the hall, and the rector not yet returned. She guessed that her husband had gone on a heart-breaking expedition to raise money. She wished to ask the fellow the amount of the debt for29which the execution was granted, but could not bring herself to put the question. She went to her husband’s study, guessing that he would come there on his return, and, seating herself in his armchair, leaned her elbows on the account-books and burst into tears.
After all, how little John had gained by marrying her! She could do nothing for him; she was powerless even to help her own son, who was compelled to adopt miserable subterfuges and swallow his pride on every occasion. She opened her purse and took out the check, intending to destroy it in her rage, but she was stopped by the miserable thought that, after all, every penny was of vital importance just now. She could not afford the luxury of its destruction.
“My own father!” she cried bitterly, as she spread out the check before her. “Two dollars!”
Then, she noticed that the word “two” had nothing after it on the long line, and that the “2” below in the square for the numerals was straggling toward the left. It only needed a couple of noughts in her father’s hand to put everything right. Two ciphers! They would indeed be ciphers to him, for how could he feel the difference of a few thousands more or less in his immense banking-account? A bedridden old man had no use for money. Indeed, it was impossible that he could know how much he was worth. She had often seen him signing checks30by the dozen, groaning over every one. When they were gone, they were out of his mind; and all he troubled about was to ask for the total at the bank, and mumble with satisfaction over the fine, fat figures of the balance.
Her face lighted up with a sudden reckless thought.
If she added those two ciphers herself with an old, spluttering pen, and added the word “thousand” after the “two,” who would be the wiser?
Certainly not her father. And the bank would pay without a murmur. She seized a pen, prepared to act upon the impulse, then paused. She knew vaguely that it was a wrong thing to do. But—her own father! Indeed, her own money—for some of his wealth would be hers one day, and that day not very far distant. It was ridiculous to have scruples at such a time.
She cleverly filled in the words in a shaky hand, and added the two ciphers. She let the ink dry, and then surveyed her handiwork.
How her husband’s face would light up when she told him of their good fortune. Two thousand dollars! No, she could not imagine herself facing the rector’s gray eyes, and telling him an awful lie. It was bad enough to alter the check. She had heard of people who had been put in prison for altering checks!
Dick would take the check to the bank for her,31so that she need not face any inquisitive, staring clerks; and, when it was exchanged for notes, she would be able to get rid of the loathly creature sitting in the hall.
“Who presented this check?”
Vivian Ormsby, son of the banker, sat in his private room at Ormsby’s Bank, examining a check for two thousand dollars, and a cashier stood at his side. Vivian Ormsby had just looked in at the bank for a few minutes, and he was in a hurry.
“Young Mr. Swinton presented it, sir,” the cashier explained.
Vivian Ormsby’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the check more closely.
“Leave it with me,” he commanded, “and count out the notes.”
As soon as he was alone, he went to a cupboard and took out a magnifying glass.
“Ye gods! Forgery! Made out to his mother—and yet—the signature seems all right. Of course, the alteration might have been made in Herresford’s presence. The simplest thing would be to apply to the old man himself. If the young bounder has altered the figures—well, if he has—then let it go through. It will be a matter for us then, not for Herresford, who wouldn’t part with a cent to save his own, much less his daughter’s, child.”32Vivian Ormsby had special reasons for hating Dick Swinton just now, not unconnected with a certain Dora Dundas.
Yet, he sent for his cashier, and handed him the check.
“Pay it,” he directed.
Through a glass panel in his room, the banker’s son watched the departure of Dick Swinton with considerable satisfaction. Dick was a fine, handsome young fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and looking twenty-five at least instead of his twenty-two years, with a kindly face, like his father’s, brown hair, hazel eyes, and a clean-shaven, sensitive mouth more suited to a girl than to a man. Now, Ormsby smiled sardonically at the unconscious swagger of the young man, and he wondered, too. Indeed, he had more than a suspicion about that check. Everybody knew of his rival’s heavy debts, but that he should put his head into the lion’s mouth was amazing. Forgery!
How easy it would be to discover the fraud presently—when the money was spent, and ere the woman was won. Not now, but presently.