Vivian Ormsby's illness dragged on from days into weeks. There was little or nothing to be done but nursing, and Dora took her share willingly. He was a very courteous, considerate person when the girl he loved was at his bedside, but very trying to the professional nurses. He insisted upon attending to business matters as soon as he recovered from his long period of unconsciousness, but the physicians strictly forbade visitors of any kind.

The patient was not allowed to read newspapers or hear news of the war. All excitement was barred, for it was one of the worst cases of concussion of the brain the specialists had ever known. Ormsby could not help watching Dora's face in the mornings, when the papers arrived; he saw her hand tremble and her eyes grow dim as she read. When the first lists of killed and wounded came to hand, she read with ashen face and quivering lip, but, when the name she sought, and dreaded to find, was not there, the color came back, and she glowed again with the joy and pride of youth.

He allowed himself idly to imagine that this was his home, and Dora his wife. It would always be like this—Dora at hand with her gentle, soothing touch upon his brow, her light, quick step, that he knew so well, and could distinguish in a moment from that of any other woman about the house, and her rich, penetrating voice, that never faltered, and carried even in a whisper, no matter how far away from his bedside. She laughed sometimes in talking to the nurses, finding it hard to restrain the natural vivacity of her temperament, and it hurt him when they hushed her down, and playfully ordered her from the room.

He loved to lie and watch her, and his great dark eyes at times exerted a kind of fascination. She avoided them, but could feel his gaze when she turned away, and was glad to escape. He loved her—there was no hiding the fact; and, when he was convalescent, and the time came for him to go away, he would declare it—if not before. The nurses discussed it between themselves, and speculated upon the chances. They knew that there was a rival, but he was far away, at the war—and he might never come back. The man on the spot had all the advantages on his side, the other all the love; it was interesting to the feminine mind to watch developments.

When there was talk of the patient getting up, he was increasingly irritable if Dora were away. One day, he seized her hand, and carried it to his lips—dry, fevered lips that scorched her.

"You have been very good to me," he murmured, in excuse for his presumption. And what could she say in rebuke that would not be churlish and ungracious?

At last, he was allowed to see Mr. Barnby, the manager at the bank, who came with a sheaf of letters and arrears of documents needing signature. The patient declared that he was not yet capable of attending to details, but he wanted to see the check signed by Herresford and presented by Dick Swinton.

"Which check?" asked Mr. Barnby; "the one for two thousand or the one for five thousand? I have them both."

"There are two, then?"

Ormsby's eyes glistened.

"Yes, with the same strange discoloration of the ink. This is the one; and I have brought the glass with me."

Ormsby examined Mrs. Swinton's second forgery under the magnifier, and was puzzled.

"The addition has been cleverly made. The writing seems to be the same. Whose handwriting is it—not Herresford's?"

"It seems to be Mrs. Swinton's. Compare it with these old checks in his pass-book, and you will see if I am not right. She has drawn many checks for him and frequently altered them, but always with an initial."

"Yes, the check was drawn by Mrs. Swinton in her father's presence, no doubt; and young Swinton may have added the extra words and figures. An amazingly clever forgery! You say he had all the money?"

"No, not all—but nearly all of it has been withdrawn."

"Then, he has robbed us of seven thousand dollars?"

"If the checks are forgeries, yes. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. If you doubted the first check—"

"The scoundrel! Go at once to Herresford. The old man must refund and make good the loss, or we are in a predicament."

"I'll go immediately. I suppose it is the young man's work? It is impossible to conceive that Mrs. Swinton—his own daughter—"

"Don't be a fool. Go to Herresford."



CHAPTER IX

HERRESFORD IS TOLD

Herresford was in a more than usually unpleasant frame of mind when the manager of Ormsby's bank came to bring the news that someone had robbed him of seven thousand dollars. The old man was no longer in the usual bedroom, lying on his ebony bed. A sudden impulse had seized him to be moved to another portion of the house, where he could see a fresh section of the grounds. He needed a change, and he wanted to spy out new defects. A sudden removal to a room in the front of the house revealed the fact that everything had been neglected except the portion of the garden which had formerly come within range of his field-glasses.

Rage accordingly! Stormy interviews, with violent threats of instant dismissal of the whole outdoor staff, petulant abuse of people who had nothing whatever to do with the neglect of the park, and a display of energy and mental activity surprising in one of such advanced age. He was in the middle of an altercation with his steward—who resigned his position about once a month—when the bank-manager was announced.

At the mention of the word bank, the old man lost all interest in things out of doors.

"Send him up—send him up—don't keep him waiting," he cried. "Time is money. He may have come to tell me that I must sell something. Nothing is more important in life than money. See that there are pens and paper, in case I have to sign anything."

The quiet, urbane bank-manager had never before interviewed this terrible personage. He had heard strange stories of an abusive old man in his dotage, who contrived to make it very unpleasant for any representative of the bank sent up to his bedroom to get documents signed, and was therefore surprised to see an alert, hawk-eyed old gentleman, with a skull-cap and a dressing-jacket, sitting up in bed in a small turret bedroom, smiling, and almost genial.

"Will you take a seat, Mr.——? I didn't quite catch your name."

"Barnby, sir."

"Take a seat, Mr. Barnby. You've come to see me about money?"

"Yes, sir, an unpleasant matter, I fear."

"Depression in the market, eh? Things still falling? Ah! It's the war, the war—curse it! Tell me more—tell me quickly!"

"It's a family matter, sir."

"Family matter! What has my family to do with my money—ha! I guess why you've come. Yes—yes—something to do with my grandson?"

"Just so, sir."

"What is it now? Debts, overdrawn accounts—what—what?"

"To put the matter in a nutshell, sir, two checks were presented some weeks ago, signed by you, one for two thousand dollars, the other for five thousand dollars—which—"

"What!—when? I haven't signed a check for any thousand dollars for months." This was true, as the miser's creditors knew to their cost. It was next to impossible to collect money from him.

"One check was made out to your daughter, Mary Swinton, and presented at the bank, and cashed by your grandson, Mr. Richard Swinton."

"Yes, for five dollars."

"Five thousand dollars, sir."

"But I tell you I never drew it."

"I'm very sorry to hear it, sir. The first check for two thousand dollars looks very much as though it had been altered, having been originally for two dollars; and, in the second check, made out to Mr. Swinton, the same kind of alteration occurs—five seems to have been changed into five thousand."

"What!" screamed the old man, raising himself on one hand and extending the other. "Let me look! Let me look!"

His bony claw was outstretched, every finger quivering with excitement.

"These are the checks, sir. That is your correct signature, I believe?"

"I never signed them—I never signed them. Take them away. They're not mine."

"Pardon me, sir, the signature is undoubtedly yours. Do you remember signing any check for two dollars or for five?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I gave her two—yes—and I gave her five—for the boy."

"Just so, sir. Well, some fraudulent person has altered the figures. You'll see, if you look through this magnifying glass, holding the glass some distance from the eyes, that the ink of the major part of the check is different. When Mr. Swinton presented these checks, the ink was new, and the alterations were not apparent. But, in the course of time, the ink of the forgery has darkened."

"The scoundrel!" cried the old man in guttural rage. "I always said he'd come to a bad end—but I never believed it—never believed it. Let me look again. The rascal! The scoundrel! Do you mean to say he has robbed your bank of seven thousand dollars?"

"No, he has robbed you, sir," replied the bank-manager, with alacrity, for his instructions were to drive home, at all costs, the fact that it was Herresford who had been swindled, and not the bank. They knew the man they were dealing with, and had no fancy for fighting on technical points. Unfortunately for the bank, Mr. Barnby was a little too eager.

"My money? Why should I lose money?" snapped the miser, turning around upon him. "I didn't alter the checks. You ought to keep your eyes open. If swindlers choose to tamper with my paper, what's it to do with me? It's your risk, your business, your loss, not mine."

"No, sir, surely not. A member of your own family—"

"A member of my own family be hanged, sir. He's no child of mine. He's the son of that canting sky-pilot, that parson of the slums."

"But he is your grandson, sir. I take it that you would not desire a scandal, a public exposure."

"A scandal! What's a scandal to me? Am I to pay seven thousand dollars for the privilege of being robbed, sir? No, sir. I entrusted you with the care of my money. You ought to take proper precautions, and safeguard me against swindlers and forgers."

"But he is your heir."

"Nothing of the sort. He is not my heir."

"But some day—"

"Some day! What has some day got to do with you, eh, sir? Are you in my confidence, sir? Have I ever told you that I intend to leave my money to my grandson?"

"No, sir, of course not. I beg your pardon if I presumed—"

"You do presume, sir."

Poor Mr. Barnby was in a perspiration. The keen, little old man was besting and flurrying him; he was no match for this irascible invalid.

"Then, sir, I take it, that you wish us to prosecute your grandson—who is at the war."

"Prosecute whom you like, sir, but don't come here pretending that you're not responsible for the acts of fraudulent swindlers."

"It has been fought out over and over again, and I believe never settled satisfactorily."

"Then, it is settled this time—unless you wish me to withdraw my account from your bank instantly—I'm the best customer you've got. Prosecute, sir—prosecute. Have him home from the war, and fling him into jail."

"Of course, sir, we have no actual evidence that the forgery was made by the young man, although he—er—presented the checks, and pursued an unusual course. He took the amount in notes. The second amount he took partly in notes, and paid the rest into his account, which has since gone down to a few dollars. Of course, it may have been done by—er—someone else. It is a difficult matter to decide who—er—that is who actually made the alterations. We have not yet brought the matter to the notice of Mrs. Swinton. She may be able to explain—"

"What! Do you mean to insinuate that my daughter—my daughter—sir, would be capable of a low, cunning forgery?"

"I insinuate nothing, sir. But mothers will sometimes condone the faults of their sons, and—er—it would be difficult, if she were to say—"

"Let me tell you that the two checks were signed by me for two and for five dollars, and given into the hands of my daughter. If she was fool enough to let them pass into the clutches of her rascally son, she must take the consequences, and remember, sir, you'll get no money out of me. I'll have my seven thousand, every penny."

Mr. Barnby subsided. The situation was clear enough. Herresford repudiated the checks, and it was for Mr. Ormsby to decide what action should be taken, and against whom. Mr. Barnby's personal opinion of the forgery was that it might just as well have been done by Mrs. Swinton as by her son. In fact, after a close perusal of the second check, to which he had brought some knowledge of handwriting, he was more inclined to regard her as the culprit. He knew Dick slightly, and certainly could not credit him with the act of a fool. As a parting shot, he asked:

"Just for the sake of argument, sir, I presume that you would not have us prosecute if it were your daughter; whereas, if it were your grandson—?"

"Women don't forge, sir," snarled the old man, "they're too afraid of paper money. I don't want to hear anything more about the matter. What I do want is a full statement of my balance. And, if there's a dollar short, I'll sue you, sir—yes, sue you!—for neglect of your trust."

"I quite understand, sir. I'll put your views before Mr. Ormsby. There is no need for hurry. The young man is at the war."

"Have him home, sir, have him home," snapped the old man, "and as for his mother—well, it serves her right—serves her right. Never would take my advice. Obstinate as a mule. But I'll pay her out yet, ha, ha! Forgery! Scandal, ha, ha! All her fine friends will stand by her now, of course. Unnatural father, eh? Unnatural, because he knew what he was dealing with. I knew my own flesh and blood. Like her mother—couldn't hold a penny. Yet, married a beggar—and ruined him, too—ha, ha! Goes to church three times on Sundays, and casts up her eyes to heaven, pleading for sinners, and gambles all night at bridge. Now, she'll have the joy of seeing her son in the dock—her dear son who was always dealt hardly with by his grandfather, because his grandfather knew the breed. No sense of the value of money. No brains! I'll have my revenge now. Yes, yes. What are you staring at, sir? Get out of the room. How dare you insult my daughter?"

"I said nothing, sir."

"Then, what are you waiting for? Get back to your bank, and look after my money."



CHAPTER X

HEARTS ACHE AND ACHE YET DO NOT BREAK

"That's right, my girl, play away. It's good to hear the piano going again. And, between ourselves, I'm beginning to feel depressed by the stillness of the house. It's difficult to believe that this is home since we took on hospital work. Between ourselves, I sha'n't be sorry when Ormsby says good-bye. As a strong man and a soldier, I like him; but, as a sick man, I've had enough of him. Never had a fancy for ambulance work or being near the hospital base."

"I, too, shall be glad when we have the house to ourselves," observed Dora. "Of course, I'm fearfully sorry for Captain Ormsby, and all that; but I do wish he'd go. He's not very ill now. Couldn't you throw out a hint about his going, father?"

"Impossible! I—I am not a strategist; but you are. I will leave him to you, and you must get to work. But I don't know what you've got to grumble about with a man like Ormsby in the house to amuse you and admire you all the time."

The colonel turned on his heel, and was out of the room before Dora could stop him.

She got up from the piano, and pushed the stool aside, impatiently. Her lovely face was clouded, and two little lines above the curving arch of her eyebrows were deeply set in thought. Ormsby's continued presence filled her with uneasy dread. For the past two weeks, he had watched her with an intentness that was embarrassing. She knew that he meant to propose to her, if he succeeded in finding her alone; and she was undecided as to whether she should give, or deny, him the opportunity of hearing the worst. Perhaps, it would be better to let him speak; he could not possibly remain after she had refused him.

This decision made, she presently went into the library, where she found her father and their guest. The two men were talking earnestly, and, as she approached, her father shook hands heartily with Ormsby—for some unknown reason—and went out of the room. It looked like a plot to leave her at Vivian Ormsby's mercy. She made an excuse to follow her father. Now that the moment was come, her courage failed her. She saw that the man was very much in earnest, and she knew that it would be difficult to turn him from his purpose.

"One moment," said Ormsby, resting his hand on her arm. "I have something to say to you. You must give me a few minutes—you really must, I insist."

"Must! Captain Ormsby," faltered Dora, with the color flooding her cheeks. "I never allow anyone to use that word to me—not even father."

"Then, let me beg you to listen." He spoke softly, caressingly, but the mouth was hard, and his fine, full eyes held her as under a spell. "What I have to say will not, I feel sure, come as a surprise, for you must have seen that I love you. I have your father's permission to ask you to be my wife."

"Please, please, don't say any more, Mr. Ormsby. I knew that you liked me, but—oh, I am so sorry! I can never be anything to you—never—never—never!"

"Dora"—he caught her sharply, roughly by the arm—"you don't know what you are saying. Perhaps, I've startled you. Listen, Dora. I am asking you to marry me. I have cared for you ever since the first moment I saw you, and I always wanted to make you my wife. You are everything in the world to me."

"Mr. Ormsby, please, don't say any more. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible—I do not care for you; I can never care for you—in that way."

He uttered an exclamation of bitter annoyance.

"Then, it is as I thought. You have given your love to young Dick Swinton. But you'll never marry him. I may not be able to win you, but I can spoil his chances—yes, spoil them, and I will, by God! Shall I tell you what sort of a man you have chosen for your lover?—a thief, a common thief, a man who will be wanted by the police, who will go into the hands of the police at my will and pleasure."

"That is a falsehood—a deliberate lie!" cried Dora. "You would not dare to say such a thing if Dick were in New York. It's only cowards who take advantage of the absent. I know of the quarrel you had with Dick at the dinner—I heard all about it. I'm glad he struck you. If he could know what you have just said, he would thrash you—as a liar deserves to be thrashed."

"Gently, young lady, gently," replied Ormsby, quietly, yet his face livid with passion. "You are foolish to take up this tone with me. I hold the whip, and, thanks to you, I intend to let Dick Swinton feel it." Then, with swift change of voice, from which all anger had vanished, he continued: "Forgive me, forgive me! I should not speak to you like this, but—really that fellow is not worthy of you. His own grandfather disowns him."

"But I don't," cried Dora, angrier than before.

"You will change presently."

"Never!"

"Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again."

"Forgery of what?" she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh.

"Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford's permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony."

"You are saying this in spite—to frighten me."

"Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot."

"I don't believe you," she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging.

"Will you believe it if I show you the warrant for his arrest? It will be here this afternoon. Barnby, our manager, will apply for it, unless the rector can reimburse us. He's always up to his eyes in debt. I'm sorry for the vicar and Mrs. Swinton, yet you cannot blame me for feeling glad that my rival has shown himself unworthy of the sweetest girl that—"

"Stop! I will not listen—I won't believe unless I hear it from his own lips."

"You shall see the police warrant."

"I will not believe it, I tell you. His last words to me were a warning against you. He told me to be true and believe no lies that you might utter. And I will be true. Good-morning, Mr. Ormsby, and—good-bye. I presume you will be returning home this afternoon. You are quite well now—robust, in fact—and you are showing your gratitude for the kindness received at our hands in a very shabby way. Good-day."

With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness.

* * * * *

John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: "He's a new man, quite like his old self." Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic.

No longer did he pass his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money. The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog.

As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance—aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered—she was more anxious to please than ever before—and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished.

The rector's cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire?

Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed.

For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman's wife. She attended church meetings, mothers' meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday—and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose.

That "if" was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair—she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question.

She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor?

No. He would do something, but what? She dared not contemplate. She dared not think of the frailness of the barriers which stood between herself and the possible consequences of her crime. Sometimes, she awoke in the night with a damp sweat upon her, and saw herself arraigned in the dock as a criminal charged with robbing her father. In the daylight, she rated her possible punishment as something lower. Perhaps, he would arrange to have his money back by stopping her allowance, and so leave her stranded until the debt was paid off—or he would beggar her by stopping it altogether. Another thought came often. Before anything was found out, the old man might die. That would mean her deliverance. Yet, again, if he left her nothing, or Dick either, then it spelt ruin, which would shadow all their lives. The thought was unbearable. She tried to forget it in a ceaseless activity.

The thunderbolt fell on a day that she had devoted to her husband's interests.

The bishop was having luncheon with the rector. The Mission Hall was to be opened in the afternoon, and the bishop had promised to be present. The full amount of the building funds had been subscribed, thus reimbursing the clergyman to the extent of a thousand dollars, the amount promised by Herresford and never paid.

The ceremony brought to St. Botolph's Mission Hall the oddly-assorted crowd which generally finds its way to such functions. There were smart people, just a scattering of the cultured, dowdy and dull folk, who had "helped the good cause," and expected to get as much sober entertainment in return as might be had for the asking. Then, there were the ever-present army of free sight-seers, and a leaven of real workers.

On the platform with the bishop and other notables, both men and women, sat Mrs. Swinton, and she sighed with unspeakable weariness. It had been one of those dull, monotonous, clerical days, replete with platitudes, the tedium of custom, and all the petty ceremonies and observances that she hated. She returned home worn out physically, and mentally benumbed. Netty, who had remained away, on pretence of a bad cold, met her mother in the hall.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Polly's in the drawing-room, and she says she's come to see what a high tea is like, and to be introduced to the dear bishop. Muriel West and Major Joicy are with her. They're singing comic songs at the piano."

Mrs. Swinton looked annoyed. So far, she had avoided any clashing between her smart friends and her clerical acquaintances. Mrs. Ocklebourne was the last person in the world she wanted to see to-day.

"Ah, here's our dear, saintly Mary, with her hands full of prayer-books!" exclaimed Polly Ocklebourne, as her hostess came into the room. "So glad you're home, dear. This little handful of sinners wants to be put through its paces before coming into the rarefied atmosphere of bishops and things. Where is the dear man?"

"He is coming later, with John."

"I hope you don't mind our coming, but we're awfully curious to see you presiding at a high tea, with the bishop's lady and her satellites. What are you going to feed the dears on, Mary? You'll ask us to stay, won't you? And, if I laugh, you'll find excuses for me."

"Don't be absurd, Polly. I'd very much rather you hadn't come—you know that. But, since you're here, do try to be normal."

"There you are!" cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; "I told you she wouldn't stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop."

"An unexpected pleasure," exclaimed the rector, who had just entered the room, coming forward to greet Mrs. Ocklebourne. "You should have come to the ceremony? We had a most eloquent address from the bishop—let me make you known to each other."

"Delighted," murmured Mrs. Ocklebourne, with a smirk at her hostess, who was supremely uncomfortable, "and I do so want to know your dear wife, bishop. So does Major Joicy. He's tremendously interested in the Something Society, which looks after the poor black things out in Nigeria—that is the name of the place, isn't it?"—this with a sweet smile at the major, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and thoroughly unhappy. When detached from the racecourse or the card-table, his command of language was nil. He would rather have encountered a wild beast than a bishop's wife, and Mrs. Ocklebourne knew this.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, for she was full of mischief, and the present situation promised to yield a rich harvest. But another look at the weary face of Mrs. Swinton made her change her tactics. She laid herself out to amuse the bishop, and also to charm his wife.

"The sinner has beguiled the saint," whispered Mrs. Ocklebourne, as the party made a move for the dining-room, "but I'm hungry, and, if I were really good, I believe I should want a high tea every day."

The meal was a merry one. Polly Ocklebourne had the most infectious laugh in the world, and she kept the conversation going in splendid fashion, whipping up the laggards and getting the best out of everybody. She even succeeded in making the major tell a funny story, at which everybody laughed.

A little while before the time for the bishop to leave, a servant whispered to the rector that a gentleman was waiting in the study to see him. He did not trouble to inquire the visitor's name. Since money affairs had been straightened out, these chance visitors had lost their terror, and anyone was free to call upon the clergyman, with the certainty of a hearing, at morning, noon, or night, on any day in the week.

Mr. Barnby was the visitor. He came forward to shake the rector's hand awkwardly.

"What is it, Barnby?" cried the rector, with a laugh. "No overdrawn account yet awhile, surely."

"No, Mr. Swinton, nothing as trivial as that. I have just left Mr. Herresford at Asherton Hall, and he makes a very serious charge concerning two checks drawn by him, one for two thousand, the other for five thousand dollars. He declares that they are forgeries."

"Forgeries! What do you mean?"

"To be more accurate, the checks have been altered. The first was originally for two dollars, the second for five dollars. These figures were altered into two thousand and five thousand. You will see, if you take them to the light, that the ink is different—"

"But what does all this signify?" asked the rector, fingering the checks idly. "Herresford doesn't repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad."

"He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your son, Mr. Richard Swinton, and it's Mr. Herresford's opinion that the alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son—"

"But the checks are signed by Herresford!" cried Swinton, hotly. "This is some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It nearly landed me in bankruptcy."

"But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration."

"Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?"

A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a telegram.

A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers. Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face.

"My son"—he explained.

"Nothing serious, I hope. Not—?"

"Yes—dead!"

There was a long pause, during which the rector stood breathing heavily, with one hand upon his heart. Mr. Barnby folded the forged checks mechanically, and stammered out:

"Under—the—er—circumstances, I think this interview had better be postponed. Pray accept my condolences, sir. I am deeply, truly sorry."

"Gone!—killed!—and he didn't want to go."

With the tears streaming down his cheeks, the stricken man turned once more to the telegram, and muttered the vital purport of its message:

"Died nobly rendering special service to his country. Captured and shot as a spy having courageously volunteered to carry dispatches through the enemy's lines."



CHAPTER XI

A HOUSE OF SORROW

Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and re-read it until the words lost their meaning.

"Gone—gone—poor Dick gone!" he murmured, "and just as we were beginning to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor boy—my poor boy!"

A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched his fists and cursed the war.

Light, rippling music broke on his ear. Netty was at the piano in the drawing-room. He must calm himself. His hand was shaking and his knees trembling. He could only murmur, "Poor Dick! Poor Dick!" and weep like a child.

The music continued in a brighter key, and jarred upon him. He covered his ears, and paced up and down the room as though racked with pain.

"How can I tell them—how can I tell them?" he sobbed. "Our poor boy—our fine boy—our little Dick, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He died gloriously—yes, there's some consolation in that. But it doesn't wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd of ruffians leveling their guns at you—my poor lad—"

He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety.

"Stop!" he cried in his agony.

At the moment, the study door opened gently—the soft rustle of silk—his wife.

In an instant, she was at his side.

"What is it—what has happened?"

He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. "Dick—"

"Is dead! Oh!"

A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. "I knew it—I felt it coming. Oh, Dick—Dick, why did they make you go?"

"He died gloriously, darling—for his country, performing an act of gallantry—volunteering to run a great risk. A hero's death."

They wept in each other's arms for some moments, and the gay music stopped of its own accord.

"Netty will be here in a moment, and she'll have to be told," said Mrs. Swinton. "The bishop and the others mustn't get an inkling of what has happened. Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John—send them away."

"They'll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain why. Pull yourself together. We've faced trouble before, and must face this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty."

"Netty! Netty!" cried his wife, with a petulance that almost shocked him. "What is she compared with Dick? And they've taken him—killed him. Oh, Dick!"

Netty's voice could be heard, laughing and talking in a high key as she opened the drawing-room door. "I'll find her," she was saying, and in another moment she burst into the study.

"Mother—mother, they're all asking for you. The bishop is going now. Why, what is the matter?"

"Your mother and I are not very well, Netty, dear. Tell them we shall be back in a moment."

"More money worries, I suppose," sighed Netty with a shrug, as she went out of the room.

"You see how much Netty cares," cried Mrs. Swinton.

"You're rather hard on the girl, dearest. Your heart is bitter with your loss. Let us be charitable."

"But Dick!—Dick! Our boy!" she sobbed. Then, with a wonderful effort, she aroused herself, dried her eyes, and composed her features for the ordeal of facing her guests again. With remarkable self-control, she assumed her social manner as a mummer dons his mask; and, after one clasp of her husband's hand and a sympathetic look, went back to her guests with that leisurely, graceful step which was so characteristic of the popular and self-possessed Mary Swinton.

Netty, who was quick to read the signs, saw that something was wrong, and that her mother was eager to get rid of her guests. She expedited the farewells with something of her mother's tact, and with an artificial regret that deceived no one. The bishop went unbidden to the study of his old friend, the rector, ostensibly to say good-bye, but in reality to drop a few hints concerning the unpleasant complaints that had reached him during the year from John Swinton's creditors. He knew Swinton's worth, his over-generous nature, his impulsive optimism and his great-hearted Christianity; but a rector whom his parishioners threatened to make bankrupt was an anxiety in the diocese. While the clergyman listened to the bishop's friendly words, he could not conceal the misery in his heart.

"What's the matter?" cried the bishop at last, when John Swinton burst into tears, and turned away with a sob.

The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the bishop took it up.

"Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the present moment, old friend," he said, placing his hand on the other's shoulder. "Everyone's heart will open to you, John, in this time of trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is best left to the care of his wife."

The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman's voice was husky as he uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his side.

"Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You've had news from the war. What is it—nothing has happened to Harry?"

"No, child—your brother."

"Oh!"

The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty's shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured:

"Is Dick wounded or—?"

"The worst, Netty dear. He is gone."

He spoke with his face still hidden. "Go to your mother," he pleaded, for he wished to be alone.

A furious anger against the war—against all war and bloodshed, was rising up within him. All a father's protective instinct of his offspring burst forth. Revenge entered into his soul. He beat the air with clenched fists, and with distended eyes saw the muzzles of rifles presented at his helpless boy.

Of a sudden, he remembered Mr. Barnby's accusation against his son's honor. The horrible, abominable suggestion of forgery.

Everybody seemed to have been against the boy. How could Dick have forged his grandfather's signature? Herresford, who was always down on Dick, had made an infamous charge—the result of a delusion in his dotage. It mattered little now, or nothing. Yet, everything mattered that touched the honor of his boy. It was disgraceful, disgusting, cruel.

Netty had gone to her own room, weeping limpid, emotional tears, with no salt of sorrow in them. The mother was in the drawing-room, sobbing as though her heart would break. A chill swept over the house. In the kitchen, there was silence, broken by an occasional cry of grief.

The rector pulled himself together, and went to his wife. He found her in a state of collapse on the hearth-rug, and lifted her up gently. He had no intention of telling her of Barnby's mistake, or of uttering words of comfort. In the thousand and one recollections that surged through his brain touching his boy, words seemed superfluous.

He put his arm tenderly around the queenly wife of whom he was so proud, for she was more precious to him than any child—and led her back to his study. He drew forward a little footstool by the fire, which was a favorite seat with her, and placed her there at his feet, while he sat in the tub chair; and she rested between his knees, in the old way of years ago, when they were lovers, and gossiped over the fire after all the house was quiet and little golden-haired Dick was fast asleep upstairs.

And thus they sat now, till the fire burned out, and the keen, frosty air penetrated the room, chilling them to the bone.

"Grieving will not bring him back, darling," murmured the broken man. "Let us to bed. Perhaps, a little sleep will bring us comfort and strength to face the morrow, and attend to our affairs as usual."

She arose wearily, and asked in quite a casual manner, as if trying to avoid the matter of their sorrow:

"What did Barnby want?"

"Oh, he came with some crazy story about—some checks Dick cashed for you, which your father repudiates. The old man must be going mad!"

"Checks?" she asked huskily, and her face was drawn with terror.

"Checks for quite large amounts," said the rector. "Two or five thousand dollars, or something like that. The old man's memory must be failing him. He's getting dangerous. I always thought his animosity against Dick was more assumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation is beyond enduring."

"Does he accuse Dick?" she asked, in a strained voice; "Dick, who is dead?"

"Yes, darling. But don't think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the absurdity of discussing it. Dick has had no money except what you got for him."

She made no reply, but with bowed head walked unsteadily out of the room.



CHAPTER XII

A DIFFICULT POSITION

There was no rest for John Swinton that night. After the first rush of sorrow, he began to rebel against the injustice of his Master, who seemed to heap trouble upon him with both hands, and reward his untiring efforts in the cause of good by a crushing load of worry. His was a temperament generally summed up by the world in the simple phrase, good-natured. He was soft-hearted, and weaker of spirit than he knew. Those in trouble always found in him a sympathetic listener; and the distress and poverty among his people often pained him more acutely than it did the actual sufferers born in, and inured to, hardship and privation.

His energy was tremendous where a noble end was to be achieved; but he loved the good things of life, and hated its trivial worries, the keeping of accounts, the payment of cash on the spot, and the attendance of committee meetings, where men met together to talk of doing what he could accomplish single-handed while they were deliberating. He was worldly enough to know that a great deal could be done by money, and his hand was always in his pocket to help those less fortunate than himself. The influence of a wife that had no sympathy with plain, common people who wore the wrong clothes, and said the wrong things, and desired to be guided in their ridiculous, trivial affairs, had more to do with his failure than he knew.

He was always drawn between two desires, the one to be a great and beloved divine, the other to be a country gentleman, living in refinement, and in surroundings sympathetic to his emotional artistic temperament. The early promise of his youth, unfulfilled in his middle age, had disappointed him. But there was always one consolation. His son would endure no privation and limitation such as hampered a man without private means, like himself. As the heir to Herresford's great wealth, Dick's future prospects had seemed to be assured. But the lad himself, careless of his own interests, like his father, ran wild at an awkward period when his grandfather, breaking in mind and body, developed those eccentricities which became the marked feature of his latter days. The animosity of the old man was aroused, and once an enemy was always an enemy with him. He cared nothing for his daughter. Indeed, he cherished a positive hatred of her at times; and never lost an opportunity of humiliating the rector and making him feel that he gained nothing by marrying the daughter against her father's wishes.

It was bad enough to have troubles coming upon him in battalions without this final blow—the charge of forgery against Dick.

The wife, unable to rest, arose and paced the house in the small hours. She dreaded to ask for further particulars of the charge brought by the bank against poor Dick, for fear she should be tempted to confess to her husband that she had robbed her own father. The horrible truth stood out now in its full light, naked and terrifying. With any other father, there might have been a chance of mercy. But there was none with this one. The malevolent old miser's nature had ever been at war with her own. From her birth, he had taunted her with being like her mother—a shallow, worthless, social creature, incapable of straight dealing and plain economy. From her childhood, she had deceived him, even in the matter of pennies. She had lied to him when she left home to elope with John Swinton; and it was only by threatening him with lawyers and a public scandal that she had been able to make him disgorge a part of the income derived from her dead mother's fortune, which had been absorbed by the miser through a legal technicality at his wife's death.

He would not scruple to prosecute his own child for theft. He would certainly make her smart for her folly. The bad end, which he always prophesied for anyone who did not conform to his arrogant decrees, loomed imminent and forbidding. He was little better than a monster, with no more paternal instinct than the wild-cat. He would only chuckle and rub his hands in glee at the thought of her humiliation in the eyes of her friends. He might accuse the rector of complicity in her fraud. He would spread ruin around, rather than lose his dollars.

In the morning, half-an-hour after the bank opened, Mr. Barnby appeared again at the rectory, impelled by a strict sense of duty once more to enter the house of sorrow, on what was surely the most unpleasant errand ever undertaken by a man at his employer's bidding. The news of Dick's death had already spread over the town; and those who knew of the affair at the club dinner and the taunt of cowardice did not fail to comment on the glorious end of the brave young officer who had died a hero. A splendid coward they called him, ironically.

Mr. Barnby asked to see her ladyship, and not the rector. The recollection of John Swinton's haggard face had kept him awake half the night. The more he thought of the forgery, the more he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Swinton could explain the mystery of the checks. He knew, by referring to several banking-accounts, that she had recently been paying away large sums of money to tradesmen, and the amounts paid by Dick Swinton were not particularly large.

Mrs. Swinton stood outside the drawing-room door with her hand on her heart for a full minute, before she dared enter to meet the visitor. Then, assuming her most self-possessed manner, with a slight touch of hauteur, she advanced to greet the newcomer.

He arose awkwardly, and she gave him a distant bow.

"You wish to see me, I understand, and you come from some bank, I believe?"

She spoke in a manner indicating that her visitor was a person of whose existence she had just become aware.

"Your husband has not informed you of the purport of my visit last night, Mrs. Swinton?" asked Mr. Barnby.

"He spoke of some silly blunder about checks. Why have you come to me this morning—at a time of sorrow? Surely your wretched business can wait?"

"It cannot wait," replied Mr. Barnby, with growing coolness. He saw a terrified look in her eyes, and his own sparkled with triumph. It was easier to settle matters of business with a woman in this mood than with a tearful mother.

"I shall be as brief as possible, Mrs. Swinton. I only come to ask you a plain question. Did you recently receive from your father, Mr. Herresford, a check for two dollars?"

"I—I did. Yes, I believe so. I can't remember."

"Did you receive one from him for two thousand dollars?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because the check for two dollars appears to have been altered into two thousand."

"Let me see it," she demanded with the greatest sang froid.

He produced the check, and she took it; but her hand trembled.

"This is certainly a check for two thousand dollars, but I know nothing of it."

"It was presented at the bank by your son, and cashed."

"I tell you I know nothing of it. My son is dead, and cannot be questioned now."

"I have another check here for five thousand dollars, made out to your son and cashed by him also. You will see that the ink has changed color in one part, and that the five has been altered to five thousand. The body of the check is in your handwriting, I believe."

"Yes, that is my handwriting."

"The additions were very cleverly made," ventured Mr. Barnby. "The forger must have imitated your handwriting wonderfully."

"Yes, it is wonderfully like," she replied, huskily.

"This check was also presented by your son, and honored by us. Both checks are repudiated by your father, who will only allow us to debit his account with seven dollars. Therefore, we are six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three dollars to the bad. Mr. Ormsby, our managing director, says we must recover the money somehow. Your son is dead, and cannot explain, as you have already reminded me. Unfortunately, a warrant has been applied for, for his arrest for forgery."

"You mean to insinuate that my son is a criminal?" she cried, with mock rage, drawing herself up, and acting her part very badly.

"If you say those checks were not altered by you, there can be little doubt of the identity of the guilty person."

"My son is dead. How dare you bring such a charge against him. I refuse to listen to you, or to discuss money matters at such a time. My father must pay the money."

"He refuses, absolutely. And he says he will prosecute the offender, even if the forger be his own child."

"He has the wickedness and audacity to suggest that I—?"

"I merely repeat his words."

She rang the bell, sweeping across the room in her haughtiest manner, and drawing herself up to her full height. The summons was answered instantly.

"Show this gentleman to the door."

"Madam, I will convey the result of this interview to Mr. Ormsby."

The old man bowed himself out with a dignity that was more real than hers, and it had, as well, a touch of contempt in it.

The moment the door closed behind him, Mrs. Swinton dropped into a chair, white and haggard, gasping for breath, with her heart beating great hammer-strokes that sent the blood to her brain. The room whirled around, the windows danced before her eyes, she clutched the back of a chair to prevent herself from fainting.

"God help me!" she cried. "There was no other way. The disgrace, the exposure, the scandal would be awful. I should be cut by everybody—my husband pointed at in the streets and denounced as a partner in my guilt—for he has shared the money. It was to pay his debts as well, to save Dick and the whole household from ruin—for Netty's sake, too—how could Harry Bent marry a bankrupt clergyman's daughter? But it wasn't really my doing, it was his, his! He's no father at all. He's a miser, a beast of prey, a murderer of souls! From my birth, he's hated and cheated me. He has checked every good impulse, and made me regard his money as something to be got by trickery and misrepresentation and lies. And, now, I have lied on paper, and they suspect poor, dead Dick, who was the soul of honor. Oh, Dick, Dick! But they can't do anything to you, Dick—you're dead. Better to accuse you than ruin all of us. Your father couldn't hold up his head again, or preach a sermon from the pulpit. We should be beggars. I couldn't live that kind of a life. I should die. I have only one child now, and she must be my care. I've not been a proper mother to her, I fear, but I'll make up for it—yes, I'll make up for it. If I spoiled her life now, she would never forgive me—never! She is like me: she must have the good things of life, the things that need money. And, after all, it was my own money I took. It was no theft at all. It's only the wretched law that gives a miser the power to crush his own child for scrawling a few words on a piece of paper."

Then came the worst danger of all. How was she to explain to her husband—how make him see her point of view—how face his condemnation of her guilty act, and secure his consent to the damnable sin of dishonoring her dead son's name to save the family from ruin.



CHAPTER XIII

DICK'S HEROISM

Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton's death and the way in which he died—except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm.

It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death—one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy's lines and carry dispatches—that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field. Three men were chosen—two officers and a private—Dick Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory.

The enemy's lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.

Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet had grazed Dick Swinton's side did the others surrender. They were promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the dispatches.

The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of their captors, and Dick Swinton, who from his bearing seemed to be an officer, was exhorted to reveal the nature of his mission on promise of his life. He refused. A further examination was made. Their boots were cut to pieces, the heels split open, their weapons smashed, and their clothes torn to ribbons, but without avail. They were brought before an officer high in command, who charged them with bearing important messages, and again promised them their lives, if they would betray their country. Each man doggedly refused. They were given an hour to reconsider their decision; at the end of that time, they were to be shot. A firing party was told off, and the men were led outside the house, where they were bound hand and foot, and flung upon the ground—for an engagement was in progress, and distant firing threatened a possible advance on the part of the Americans. So hot was the firing that the hour's respite was reduced to half-an-hour, and a surly old soldier was sent to inform them that he had orders to carry out their execution at once, if they would not speak.

They refused, without hesitation.

Jack Lorrimer was unbound, and led around to the side of the farmhouse. They tied him to a halter-ring on the wall. Three times, he was given the chance of saving his life by treachery; and his only reply was: "I'm done. Damn you—shoot!" The rifles were raised; there was a rattling volley, a drooping figure on the halter-cord, and the officer turned his attention to the others.

"Now then, the next."

Dick Swinton and Nutt were lying side by side. Nutt had taken advantage of the interest excited by the execution to wriggle himself free of his loosely-tied fetters, which consisted of cords binding his wrists behind his back and passed around to a knot on his breast. He called upon Dick to aid him. Dick Swinton rolled over, and with his teeth loosened the first knot, then fell back into the old position.

Nutt remained as though still bound.

Dick was next unbound, and led around the farmhouse. That was Nutt's opportunity. He saw them first drag away the dead body of Jack Lorrimer, and fling it on one side; then they thrust Dick back against the wall out of sight.

There was a pause while the firing party loaded their rifles. This was the moment chosen by Nutt for shaking off his bonds. He crawled a few yards, heard the appeal to Dick Swinton, and Dick's defiant refusal—then the order to fire, and the volley. He arose to his feet and ran.

All the men in the ravine were gone forward to repel the dreaded advance, and the path was moderately clear. He ran for dear life until he reached the firing line, where he seized a wounded soldier's rifle, and dropped down as though he were dead. Here, he remained until the firing line retreated slowly before the American advance, and he heard the tramp of feet and the bad language of the soldiers, groaning, swearing, cursing. Then, he got up, turned around, and with a yell of triumph entered into the battle against his former captors.

At the end of the fighting, he reported himself at headquarters. He told his story to the general, and to a newspaper correspondent. He made the most of it, and informed them how, as he wriggled free of his bonds, he heard the officer commanding the firing party call upon Dick Swinton three times, as upon the preceding victim. Each time, there came Dick's angry refusal, in a loud, defiant tone. Then, as he ran, there was the ugly volley. When he looked back, the firing party were dragging away the dead body, preparatory to stripping it.

The sympathy with the rector was profound. Letters of condolence poured in. Yet, the bereaved man could not absolutely reconcile himself to the belief that Dick was no more. But it was evident that the authorities regarded Nutt's news as convincing, or they would not have sent an official intimation of his death.

Colonel Dundas read the news in his morning paper. It was his custom to seize the journals the moment they arrived, and read to Dora at the breakfast-table all war news of vital interest—and a good deal more that was prosy, and only interesting to a soldier. By chance, he saw the story of Dick's death before his daughter came upon the scene, and was discreet enough not to mention the matter. Since Dora's refusal of Ormsby, he was fairly certain as to the nature of his daughter's feelings toward Dick, and in his displeasure made no reference whatever to the young man whom formerly he had so welcomed to his home.

Dora was left to find out the truth four days later, when she came upon a stray copy of a weekly paper belonging to the housekeeper. Dick's portrait stared out at her from the middle of the page, and the whole story was given in detail. She was stunned at first, and, like the rector, refused to believe. It seemed possible that, at the last moment, the firing party might have missed their aim—a preposterous idea, seeing that the prisoner was set with his back against the wall, a dozen paces from his executioners.

She understood why her father had not mentioned it. For the last day or two, he had sung the praises of Captain Ormsby, who was coming to dine with them on Monday. He had thrown out a very distinct hint as to his own admiration for that gentleman's sterling qualities.

There was no one to help Dora bear her sorrow. It prostrated her. But for the forlorn hope that the escaped trooper might have made a mistake, and that, after all, Dick might have been saved, she would have broken down utterly.

It was unnecessary to tell the colonel that his well-meant postponement of the sad news was wasted effort. He ventured awkwardly to comment upon the death of their old friend.

"A good chap—a wild chap," he observed "but of no real use to anybody but his country, which has reason to thank him. If I'd been in his place, I should have done the same. But, if I'd done what he did before he left home, I think I should have died in the firing line, quietly and decently. Poor chap! Poor chap!"

"What do you mean by 'if you had done what he did before he left home?'" asked the grief-stricken girl.

"I mean the forgery."

"What forgery?"

"Do you mean to say you haven't heard? Why, everybody knows about it. Ormsby kept it dark as long as he could, but Herresford forced his hand. Don't you know what they're saying?"

"I know what Mr. Ormsby said. But I warn you not to expect me to believe any lie that ungenerous, cruel man has circulated about the man I loved."

"Well, they say he went out to the war to get shot."

"It's a lie!"

"He was in an awful hole, up to his eyes in debt, and threatened with arrest. He almost ruined his father and mother, and forged his grandfather's signature to two checks, robbing him of seven thousand dollars—or, rather, defrauded the bank, for Herresford won't pay, and the bank must. It is poor Ormsby who will be the sufferer. He suspected the checks, and said nothing—just like him—the only thing he could do, after the row at the club dinner."

"Is it on the authority of Mr. Ormsby that these foul slanders on my dead lover have been made? Are they public property, or just a private communication to you, father?"

"It is the talk of the town, girl. Why, his own mother has had to own up that the checks were forgeries. He cashed two checks for her, and saw his opportunity to alter the amounts, passing over to her the original small sums, while he kept the rest to pay his debts. Herresford's opinion of him has been very small all along; but nobody expected the lad to steal. Such a pity! Such a fine chap, too—the sort of boy girls go silly about, but lacking in backbone and stability. The matter of the checks has been kept from his father for the present, poor man. He knows nothing whatever about it."

"Father, the things you tell me sound like the horrible complications of a nightmare. They are absurd."

"Absurd! Why, I've seen the forged checks, girl. The silly young fool forgot to use the same colored ink as in the body of the check. A few days afterward, the added figures and words dried black as jet, whereas the ink used by Herresford dried a permanent blue."

"Mr. Ormsby showed you the checks?"

"Yes. Dora—Dora—don't look like that! I understand, my girl. I know you were fond of the boy, and I disapproved of it from the beginning. I said nothing, in case he didn't come home from the front. Put him out of your heart, my girl—out of mind. I'm as sorry about everything as if he were a boy of my own, and, if I could do anything for poor John Swinton and his wife, I would. I saw Mrs. Swinton yesterday driving, looking superbly handsome, as usual, but turned to stone. Poor old John goes about, saying, 'My son isn't dead! My son isn't dead!' and nobody contradicts him."

"And Netty?" asked Dora, with a sob.

"Oh! nobody bothers about her. It'll postpone her marriage with Harry Bent, I suppose, for a little while. They were to have been married as soon as he was well enough. Sit up, my girl—sit up. Keep a straight upper lip. You're under fire, and it's hot."

"I can't—I can't!" sobbed Dora, burying her face in her hands, and swaying dangerously. Her father rushed forward to catch her, and held her to his heart, where she sobbed out her grief. While they stood thus, in the centre of the room, the servant announced Mr. Ormsby.

At the mention of his name, Dora cried out in anger, and declared that she would not see him. But her father hushed her, and nodded to the servant as a sign that the unwelcome gentleman was to be shown into the room.

"We're a little upset, Ormsby—we're a little upset," cried the colonel. "But a soldier's daughter is not afraid of her tears being seen. We were talking about poor Swinton. Dora has only just heard. How do things go at the rectory? And what's Herresford going to do about the checks?"

"He insists upon our paying, and we must get the money from somebody. Mrs. Swinton has none. We must put the case to the rector, and get him to reimburse the bank to avoid a lawsuit and a public scandal. Poor Swinton set things right by his death. There was no other way out. He died like a brave man, and he will be remembered as a hero, except by those who know the truth; and I am powerless to keep that back now. Believe me, Miss Dundas, if I had known of his death, I would have cut out my tongue rather than have published the story of the crime, which was the original cause of his going to the war."

"So, you still believe him to be a coward as well as a thief," she cried, hotly. "You are a hypocrite. It was you who really sent him away. He never meant to go. He didn't want to go. And now you have killed him."

"Hush, hush, Dora!" cried the colonel.

"I believe it was all some scheme of your own," cried the girl, hysterically. "You are the coward. I shall believe nothing until I've seen Mrs. Swinton, and hear what the rector has to say about it. Dick was the soul of honor. He was no thief."

"He was in debt, my girl," cried the colonel. "You don't understand the position of a young man placed as he was. Herresford was understood to have discarded him as his heir. No doubt the young fellow had raised money on his expectations. Creditors were making existence a burden to him. Many a soldier has ended things with a revolver and an inquest for less than seven thousand dollars."

"Ah, that sort of death requires a different kind of courage," sneered Ormsby, who was nettled by Dora's taunts.

"I won't listen to you," she cried. "You are defaming the man I love. He couldn't go away with such things on his conscience. It is all some wicked plot."

Ormsby shrugged his shoulders, and the colonel sighed despondently, while Dora swept out of the room, drawing her skirts away from Ormsby as though his touch were contamination.



CHAPTER XIV

MRS. SWINTON CONFESSES

Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circumstances surrounding his departure. His volunteering was now looked upon as a flight from justice; his death as a suicide to avoid the inevitable punishment of his crime.

Everybody knew—except the rector.

He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son's memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint and diffidence of those people who did pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry.

The revelation came, not through the proper channel—his wife—but from an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman's slender, delicate white fingers, exclaimed:

"I'm sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man, and I'll not believe it was to avoid disgrace."

"Avoid disgrace?" cried the rector, astounded.

"Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather's money, he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don't stand up against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few words that'd save their skins."

"Stole his grandfather's money! What do you mean?"

"Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby's are a bad lot. I'd rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought he was cheating, perhaps—that isn't like stealing from other people. But this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save the boy."

"I don't understand you," said the clergyman, haughtily.

"Well, I'll be more plain. He altered his grandfather's checks, and kept the money for himself, didn't he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and my wife hadn't the sense or the heart to shield him, I'd—" He broke off abruptly.

"What you are saying is all double Dutch to me," cried the rector, hoarsely. "You don't mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that cock-and-bull story of repudiated checks? I told them they were wrong. I thought they understood."

"Ay, you told them they were wrong; but your wife told them they were right—at least, that's how the story goes. The boy altered her checks, and robbed his grandfather—if you call it robbing. I call it getting a bit on account by forcing the hand of a skinflint. For old Herresford is worse than the Ormsbys, worse than the Jews. He has owed me money for eighteen months, and I've got to go to the courts to force him to pay. I've had a boy go wrong myself; but he's working with me now as straight and good a lad as man could wish. Look them straight in the face, Swinton, and tell them from the pulpit that the boy's fault in swindling his grandfather out of what ought to be his, was wiped out by his service to his country. It was a damned fine piece of pluck, sir. I take off my hat to the boy; and, if there's to be any service of burial, or anything of that sort, I'll come."

The rector parted from his candid friend, still unable to grasp the situation thoroughly. That the bank had spread abroad the false report seemed certain. He hurried, fuming with indignation, to call on Mr. Barnby and have the matter out with him. But it was past three, and the doors of the bank were shut.

If his wife had seen Barnby, there must have been some misunderstanding. He hurried home, to find the house silent and deserted. In the study, the light was fading and the fire had gone out. He was about to ring for the lamp to be lighted when a stifled sob revealed the presence of someone in the room.

"Mary!"

His wife was on the hearth-rug, with her arms spread out on the seat of the little tub chair, and her head bowed down. She heard him come in, but did not raise her head.

"Mary, Mary, you must not give way like this," he murmured, as he bent over her and raised her gently. "Tears will not bring him back, Mary."

"It isn't that—it isn't that!" she cried, as he lifted her to her feet. "Oh, I am so wretched! I must confess, John—something that will make you hate and loathe me."

"And I have something to talk to you about, dearest. There is a horrible report spread in the town, apparently, by the bank people. Just now, a man came up and condoled with me, calling my son a thief and a forger."

"John! John!" cried his wife, placing her hands upon his shoulders, and presenting a face strained with agony. "I am going to tell you something that will make you hate me for the rest of your life."

The rector trembled with a growing dread.

"First, tell me what Barnby said to you, and what you said to him, about those checks that you got from your father. You must have given Barnby an entirely erroneous impression."

"It is about those checks I am going to speak. When you have heard me, condemn me if you like, but don't ruin us utterly. That is all I ask. Don't ruin us."

"Be more explicit. You are talking in riddles. Everybody seems to be conspiring to hide something from me. What is it? What has happened? What did Dick do before he went away? Did he do anything at all? Have you hidden something from me?"

"John, the checks I got from father, with which we paid our debts to stave off disgrace, were—forgeries."

"Lord help us, Mary! Do you mean that we have been handling stolen money?"

"Don't put it like that, John, don't! I can't bear it."

"And is it true what they're saying about Dick? Oh! it's horrible. I'll not believe it of our boy."

"There is no need to believe it, John. He is innocent, though they condemn him. Yet, the checks were forgeries."

"Then, who? You got the checks, didn't you? I thought—Ah!"

"I am the culprit, John. I altered them."

"You?"

"Yes, John. Don't look at me like that. Father was outrageous. There was no money to be got from him, and I had no other course. Your bankruptcy would have meant your downfall. That dressmaker woman was inexorable. You would have been sued by your stock-broker, and—who knows what wretchedness was awaiting us?—perhaps absolute beggary in obscure lodgings, and our daily bread purchased with money begged from our friends. You know what father is: you know how he hates both you and me, how he would rub salt into our wounds, and gloat over our humiliation. If—if Dick hadn't gone to the front—"

"Mary, Mary, what are you saying! You have robbed your father of money instead of facing the result of our follies bravely? You have sent our boy to the war—with money filched by a felony! Don't touch me! Stand away! No; I thought you were a good woman!"

"I didn't know. I didn't realize."

"You are not a child, without knowledge of the ways of the world. You must have known what you were doing."

"I thought that father would never know," she faltered, chokingly. "He hoards his money, and a few thousands more or less would make no difference to him. There was every chance that he would never discover the loss. It was as much mine as his. He has thousands that belonged to my mother, which he cheated me out of. I added words and figures to the checks, like the fool that I was, not using the same ink that father used for the signatures, and—and the bank found out."

"Horrible! horrible! But what has this to do with poor Dick? Why do people turn away from me and stammer at the mention of his name, as though they were ashamed? He, poor boy, knew nothing of all this."

"John, John, you don't understand yet!" she whispered, creeping nearer to him, with extended hands, ready to entwine her arms about his neck. He retreated, white-faced and terrified, thinking of the serpent in Eden and the woman who tempted. She was tempting him now, coming nearer to wind her soft arms about him and hold him close, so that he would be powerless, as he always was when her breath was on his cheek, and her eyes pleading for a bending of his stern principles before her more-worldly needs.

She held him tight-clasped to her until he could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her bosom against his breast. It was thus that she had often cajoled him to buy things that he could not afford, to entertain people that he would rather not see, to indulge his children in vanities and follies against his better judgment, to desert his plain duty to his Church in favor of some social inanity. She was always tempting, caressing, and charming him with playful banter when he would be serious, weakening him when he would be strong, coaxing him to play when he would have worked. He had been as wax in her hands; but hitherto her sins had been little ones, and chiefly sins of omission.

"John! John!" she whispered huskily, with her lips close to his ear. "You must promise not to hate me, not to curse me when you have heard. You'll despise me, you'll be horrified. But promise—promise that you won't be cruel."

"I am never cruel, Mary. Tell me—how is Dick implicated?"

"John, I have done a more dreadful thing than stealing money."

"Mary!"

"I have denied my sin—not for my own sake; no, John, it was for all our sakes—for yours, for Netty's, for her future husband's, for the good of the church where you have worked so hard and have become so indispensable."

"Don't torture me! Speak plainly—speak out!" he gasped, with labored breath, as though he were choking.

"The bank people thought that Dick altered the checks, John. Of course, if he had lived, I should have confessed that it was not he, but I. I saw our chance when the dreadful news came. They couldn't punish him for his mother's sin, and they were powerless, if I denied altering the checks. I did deny it—no, John, don't shrink away like that! I won't let you go. No, hold me to you, John, or I can't go on. Don't you see that my disgrace would be far greater than a man's? I should be cut by everyone, disowned by my own father, prosecuted by the bank, and sent to prison. John—don't you understand? Don't look at me like that! They'll put me in a felon's dock, if you speak. I, your wife, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph's—think of it!"

She held out her hands appealingly to him; but he thrust her off in terror, as though she were an evil spirit from another world, breathing poisonous vapors.

"John, John, you must see that I'm right. Think of Netty. We have a child who lives. Dick is dead. How does it matter what they say about Dick's money affairs? He died bravely. His name will go down honored and esteemed. The glamour of his heroism will blot out any taint of sin his mother may have put upon him. My denial will save his sister, his father, his mother—our home. Oh, John, you must see it—you must!"

"You must confess!" he cried, denouncing her with outstretched finger and in bitter scorn. "You shall!"

"No, no, John," she screamed, wringing her hands in pitiful supplication. "Speak more quietly."

"You have sullied the name of your dead son with a cowardly crime. Woman! Woman! This is devil's work. They think our boy fled like a thief with his pockets full of stolen money, whilst all the time you and I were evading the just reward of our follies and extravagance."

"John, the money was used to pay your debts and his debts, as well as mine; to stave off ruin from you and from him as well as from myself, and to keep Netty's husband for her. Do you think that Harry Bent could possibly marry Netty, if her mother were sent to jail?"

"Don't bring our children into this, Mary. You—"

"I must speak of Netty—I must! Would she ever forgive us, if her lover cast her off?"

"And will he marry her, now that her brother is disgraced?"

"Oh, her brother's disgrace is nothing. It is only gossip. They can't arrest Dick and imprison him. Oh, I couldn't bear it—I couldn't!"

"And, yet, you will see your son's name defamed in the moment of his glory."

"John, John, I did it to save you. I didn't think of myself. I've never been afraid to stand by anything I've done before. But this! Oh, take me away and kill me, shoot me, say that it was an accident, and I'll gladly endure my punishment. But a mother is never alone in her sin. The sins of the fathers—you know the text well enough, John. Last night, I tried to kill myself."

"Mary!"

He groaned, with outstretched hands, revealing his love and the gap in his armor where he could still be pierced.

"Yes. I thought it would be best. I wrote a full confession of everything, such a letter as would cover my father with shame, and send him to his grave, dreading to meet his Maker. I meant to poison myself, but I thought of you in your double sorrow, John—what would you do without me?—and Netty, motherless when she most needs guidance. I thought of the disgrace and the shame of it, the inquest and the newspaper accounts—oh, I've been through horrors untold, John. I've been punished a hundred times for all I've done. John! John! Don't stand away from me like that! If you do, I shall go upstairs now—now!—and put an end to everything. I've got the poison there. I'll go. God is my judge. I won't live to be condemned by you and everybody, and have my name a by-word for all time—the daughter who ran away with a parson, and robbed her father to save her husband, and then was flung into jail by the godly man, who would rather see his daughter a social outcast and his wife in penal servitude than stand by her."

"It's a sin—a horrible sin!"

"Who are you to judge me? Would Dick have betrayed his mother?"

"Mary—Mary! Don't tempt me—don't—don't! You know what my plain duty is. You know what our duty to our dead son is. Your father must be appealed to. We will go to him on our bended knees, and beg forgiveness. The bank people must be told the truth, and they must contradict publicly the slander upon Dick."

"Then, you would have your wife humiliated and publicly branded as a thief and a forger? What do you think people will say of us, then? Shall I ever dare to show my face among my friends again?"

"We must go away, to a new place, a new country, where no one knows us and we mustn't come back."

"And Netty?"

"Netty must bear her share of the burden you have put upon us. We will bear it together."

"No; Netty is blameless. You and I, John, must suffer, not she. It would be wicked to ruin her young life. You won't denounce me, John. You can't. You won't have me sent to prison. You won't disgrace me in the eyes of my friends. You won't do anything—at least, until Netty is married—will you?"

"Harry Bent must know."

"No, no, John. You know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional, purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married! Wait till then."

"I don't know what to do," moaned the broken man, bursting into tears, and sinking into his chair at the table.

"Be guided by me, John. The dead can't feel, while the living can be condemned to lifelong torture."

"Have your own way," he groaned. "I don't know what to do. I shall never hold up my head again."

"Oh, yes, you will, John, and—there is always my shoulder to rest it upon, dearest. Let me comfort you."

* * * * *

Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty, expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve.

She was in mourning—and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of Dick's disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a parley, a visitor was announced—although visitors were not received to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up alone in his study.