"Yes, and it will be some satisfaction to you to know that he has withdrawn his charge against his grandson. When I came before, he asserted most emphatically that the checks had been altered without his knowledge. He now declares angrily that I utterly mistook him, that he said nothing of the kind. He is prepared to swear that the checks are not forgeries at all."

"Ah! he has come to his senses, at last. I knew he would," she cried. "So, you see, Mr. Barnby, that you were utterly in the wrong."

"You forget, madam. You yourself admitted that the checks were altered without your knowledge."

"Did I? No—no; certainly not! You misunderstood me."

"Mr. Herresford and his family are fond of misunderstandings," said the manager stiffly, with a flash of scorn. He shrewdly guessed who the real forger was; but, in the face of the miser's declaration, he was powerless.

"This means, Mr. Barnby, that now my son will not be arrested, that the impudent affront put upon us by Mr. Ormsby will need an ample apology—a public apology. The scandal caused by your blunders has been spread far and wide."

"That is a matter for Mr. Ormsby. Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his previous assertion, and has given me a written statement, which absolves your son. I insisted upon it being written. It may have to be an affidavit."

The sound of the arrival of another carriage broke upon Mrs. Swinton's ear, and she listened in some surprise.

"Why are so many people arriving here at this hour?" she demanded, curiously.

Mr. Barnby shrugged his shoulders, to signify that it was no affair of his.

The front door was opened by Mr. Trimmer, who had hurriedly descended the stairs. Mrs. Swinton emerged from the library at the same moment, impatient to see her father. To her amazement, she beheld Dora Dundas enter. The girl carried in her hand a piece of paper. Her face was pale, her eyes were red with weeping, and her bearing generally was subdued. The message in her hand was a crumpled half-sheet of note-paper, in the miser's own handwriting, short and dramatic in its appeal:

"Come to me. I am dying."

"Trimmer, I must see my father at once," cried Mrs. Swinton, without waiting to greet Dora.

The girl gave her one look, a frozen glance of contempt, and turned her appealing eyes to Mr. Trimmer.

"Mr. Herresford," the valet announced, "wishes to see Miss Dundas. The doctor is with him. No one else must come up."

"But I insist," Mrs. Swinton cried.

"And I, too, insist," cried Trimmer, with glittering eyes and a voice thrilling from excitement. His period of servitude was nearly ended, and he cared not a snap of his fingers for Mrs. Swinton or for anyone else. His legacy of fifty thousand dollars was almost within his grasp.

The rector's wife fell back, too astonished to speak.

Dora followed Trimmer's lead up the stairs, and entered the death chamber with noiseless tread. The dying man was lying propped up with pillows as usual. One side of him was already at rest forever; but his right hand, with which he had written his last letter and signed the lying statement which was to absolve his grandson, was lovingly fingering a large bundle of bank-notes that Mr. Barnby, by request, had brought up from the bank. On a chair by the bedside, account-books were spread in confusion, and one—a black book with a silver lock—was lying on the bed. The physician stood on one side, half-screened by the curtains of the bed. Herresford beckoned Dora, who approached tremblingly.

The old man crumpled up the bank-notes, and placed them in her hand, murmuring something which she could not hear. She bent down nearer to his lips.

"For Dick—for present use—to put himself straight."

"I understand, grandfather."

The miser made impatient signs to her, which the doctor interpreted to mean that he desired her to kneel by his bedside. She dropped down, and her face was close to his; she could feel his breath upon her cheek.

"I'm saying—good-bye—"

"Yes."

"To my money.... All for you.... You'll marry him?"

"Yes."

"No mourning—no delays—no silly nonsense of that sort."

"It shall be as you wish."

"Marry at once. And my daughter—beware of her. A bad woman. I saved it from her clutches. It's there." He pointed to the account-books. "If I hadn't taken care of it for her, she would have squandered every penny—can't keep it from her any longer. Plenty for you and Dick. You'll take care of it—you'll take care of it? You won't spend it?" he whined, with sudden excitement.

Dora passed her hand over his hair, and soothed him. He moaned like a fretful child, then recovered his energies with surprising suddenness. He seized the little black account-book with the silver lock.

"It's all here," he cried, holding up the volume with palsied hand. "It runs into millions—millions!"

The doctor shook his head at Dora, as much as to say, "Take no notice; he is wandering."

Trimmer now interrupted, entering the room abruptly.

"Mrs. Swinton, sir, wishes to see you at once, on urgent business," he announced.

"Send her away!" cried the old man, throwing out his arm, and hurling the book from him so that it slid along the polished floor. He made one last supreme effort, and dragged himself up.

"Send her away," he screamed. "Liar!—Cheat!—Forger!—Thief! She sha'n't have my money—she sha'n't—"

The words rattled in his throat, and he fell forward into Dora's arms. She laid him back gently, and, after a few labored moments, he breathed his last.

The daughter, unable to brook delay, and furious at Trimmer's insolent opposition to her will, entered the room at this moment.

"Why am I kept away from my father?" she cried.

"Your father is no more," whispered the physician, gently.

"Dead?—dead?—And he never knew that I had found him out. The thief, dead—and I—Oh, father—!"

She collapsed, sobbing hysterically and screaming. The pent-up agony of the last few weeks burst forth, and she babbled and raved like a mad woman. The physician carried her shrieking from the room, and the miser was left in peace. By his bedside, his only friend, Dora, knelt and prayed silently.

Trimmer stole from the room, with bowed head and tears falling—tears for the first time since childhood. The strange, hypnotic spell of his servitude was finished. He walked about aimlessly, like one wandering in a mist. As yet, he could not lay hold on the freedom that was his at last.



CHAPTER XXIX

A PUBLIC CONFESSION

The physician and Mrs. Ripon between them managed to soothe Mrs. Swinton, and bring her back to consciousness of her surroundings; but the minutes were flying, and she dimly remembered that her husband, knowing nothing of what had passed, would go remorselessly through with his confession. She begged to be allowed to return home at once.

They helped her into the automobile, and she fell back on the cushions, listlessly. The quiet of the drive revived her a little. The window was open, and the cold air fanned her hot cheeks. But, as the car reached the city streets, a despairing helplessness settled down upon her. It seemed to her that she could even hear the bell of St. Botolph's, calling the congregation to listen to the confession which her husband would surely make.

On reaching the rectory, she bade the chauffeur wait, and then entered the house with faltering steps. She found Netty just ready to go out.

"Where is your father, Netty?" Mrs. Swinton demanded.

"Gone to the church, mother. He seems very strange."

"Did he leave no message?"

"No, but Mr. Barnby was here a few moments ago, and Mr. Barnby saw the police officers; and they went away, after he showed them a letter from grandfather, absolving Dick from all blame about the checks."

"Did he show your father the letter?"

"Yes."

"What happened then?"

"He crushed it in his hand, and cried 'Lies! lies! all lies!' and went out of the house, muttering and staring before him, like a man walking in his sleep."

"Netty, you must take a message to your father," Mrs. Swinton directed. "You must come with me in the automobile. Then, you must take my note into the vestry, and see that he gets it at once, before service. There will be plenty of time." Her voice was hoarse with fear.

She dragged off her gloves, and entered her husband's study, the scene of so many painful interviews, and yet of so many pleasant hours, during twenty-five years of married life. On a piece of sermon paper, the first that came to hand, and with trembling fingers, she scrawled a last, wild appeal, which also conveyed the information that her father was dead.

"This must be given into your father's hand, and he must read it before he goes into the pulpit, Netty, or we are all ruined. Your grandfather is dead—you understand?"

"Dead—at last!"

The joyous exclamation from the girl's lips jarred horribly. Yet, it was only an echo of her own old, oft-repeated lament at the length of the miser's life.

"Let him write me a reply, for you to bring back."

Netty took the letter, and then followed her mother to the automobile, which was driven rapidly to St. Botolph's. But, at the church, Mrs. Swinton had not the courage to enter. Instead, when she had hurried Netty toward the vestry, she approached a side window, where one of the panels stood open, and peered within, stealthily. At once, she perceived her husband by the lectern. He was calm and pale, droning out the service with unusual lassitude. The church was crammed. It was a vast edifice, and its ample accommodations were rarely strained; but to-night people were standing up in a black mass by the door. Pastor and congregation understood each other. An electric thrill passed through the expectant crowd. The news of Dick Swinton's arrest had been spread broadcast, despite the promise to the rector. Ormsby and the clerks of the bank, too, had scattered information. The general question was as to what course the clergyman would now pursue. He was an exceedingly popular preacher, and his services were usually well attended. But, to-night, the people were flocking to St. Botolph's, expecting they knew not what, yet certain that the rector would not go into the pulpit without making some reference to the calamity that had befallen him. The whispered disgrace had become a public record. Would he defend his son against the charges? All in all, it was a most sensational scandal—one sure to move a congregation more deeply than the richest oratory.

Everybody knew that the rector's heart was not in his words; for he never gabbled the prayers and hurried through the service as he was doing to-night. There was surely something coming. He, like them, was waiting for the moment when he should ascend the pulpit steps.

For a minute, a wild fury against him arose in the guilty woman's heart—a bitter sense of humiliation and injustice. And, when she looked upon the white-robed figure, standing apart from the serried mass of faces, she understood with a great pang how much he had been alone in the past twenty-five years, fighting his way through life amid alien surroundings, dragged down by the burden of her follies. He was walking to the pulpit now. He had gone out of sight of the congregation, and was near the window—within three yards of her, so near that she could almost touch him.

"John! John!" she cried; but her voice was hoarse, and the droning notes of the organ shut out her appeal.

At the bottom of the steps, he held the rail, and steadied himself. Twice he faltered. His face was as white as his surplice. He closed his eyes, and threw back his head, turning his face heavenward; his lips parted, and he seemed to be on the verge of fainting and falling backward.

She cried out again, and pressed her face close to the window. Her cry must have penetrated this time, for he looked around in a dazed fashion, as one who heard a voice from afar. It seemed to stimulate him. With one hand on his heart and the other gripping his Bible, he mounted the steps unsteadily. He spread out the Book on the red cushion, and read the text.

"Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may be healed."

The woman, listening outside the window, could not endure the suspense. She entered the church by a side door, and listened not far from the pulpit steps. Her husband's voice rang out amid a breathless silence, as he repeated his text.

"Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may be healed."

"Brethren, I stand before you to-night for the last time." A gasp and a murmur ran through the congregation, followed by an awed silence. "I am here to confess my sins, because I am unworthy to hold the sacred office, because for weeks past my life has been a living lie. At each service, I have mounted the steps of this pulpit, and have preached to you of sin and its atonement, and all the while my heart was sore, and my conscience eating into it like a canker.

"I am a husband and a father, like many of you here, with the love of wife and children strong in my breast. Alas! it has been stronger than my love for God. I have succumbed to the lusts of the flesh, and have listened to the voice of the devil. I come not to cry aloud unto you, 'A woman tempted me and I fell!' I blame no one but myself. The voice of the tempter spoke to me in devious ways, and I listened."

The preacher paused, and rested silent for a long time. But, at last, he spoke again, hesitatingly:

"You have doubtless heard of the terrible charge made against my brave son."

There was a murmur, a shuffling of feet, and a turning of heads; eyes looking into eyes, saying, "Ah, I told you so."

"On the very day that the news of my boy's supposed death reached me," John Swinton continued, more firmly, "an infamous charge was made against him. While on all sides praises of his bravery were being noised abroad, I learned that a warrant had been issued for his arrest. A respected member of this congregation, Mr. Barnby, the manager of the bank, was with me in the moment of my sorrow, and, with great consideration for my feelings, made no further reference to the misdemeanor my son was supposed to have committed. Let me tell you at once that my boy was innocent of the forgery of which you have all heard—innocent! Ah! you are surprised. You have heard the story—garbled, no doubt—how he presented to the bank two checks for small amounts which had been altered into large ones—the checks signed by his grandfather, Mr. Herresford. Such an act would have been infamous, and, when I fully understood the charge, I knew it was false. The bank had been defrauded, certainly, but not by my son. There was another culprit; and that culprit was known to me."

At this declaration, there was a louder murmur, and more shuffling of feet, as people leaned forward in the pews, and the old men put their hands to their ears for fear of missing a single word.

"While it was believed that my son was dead, no action could be taken. But tongues were busy circulating the slander, and the noble heroism of my boy was put into the shade, and forgotten. His name became a byword, his memory odious, and we, his parents, dared not mention him. Yet, all the time, I knew him to be innocent, and I held my peace. That was the sin of which I desire to purge myself by public confession. I allowed my boy's name to be dragged in the mire, in order to shield another dearer to me than my dead son. My life was a lie—a daily treachery. For the sake of the living, I consented to dishonor the dead, and live in wedlock with the woman who was afraid to speak, afraid to suffer and to atone. I can't explain to you all the circumstances, and make you realize the crying need for money which led my unhappy wife—God bless her, and forgive her, sinner though she be—to take that one false step in the hope of lightening the burdens that were pressing upon me and my son. My financial embarrassments have been well known to you for some time past. There was no secret about them. Much of my own indebtedness was due to foolish ventures for the good of the poor of this town. Money, for its own sake has never had any value to me; and I have been a bad steward of my own fortunes. I now have to confess to you that my dear wife thought to ease the family burden by an act of sin, lightly regarding the fraud as merely a family matter. The money she secured by unlawful means was, from her point of view, mere surplus wealth belonging to her father—wealth in which she had a reversionary interest. Indeed, we now know that she had more than reversionary interest—that Mr. Herresford, who died to-day—"

The murmuring and whispering and hoarse exclamations of astonishment at this announcement interrupted the preacher's discourse for a moment.

"—that Mr. Herresford unlawfully withheld from her a very large income, left by his wife. He is dead—God rest his soul!—and in this hour, when his clay is scarcely cold, it behooves us to be charitable, and to speak no ill of him; but that much I must tell you.

"My son, as you know, escaped from his captors, and reached the United States, only to find that the police were waiting for him, with a warrant for his arrest. His bravery was forgotten. His supposed crime was now branded on his reputation in letters deeper by far than those that told the other tale as to his heroism. He came home, ill and broken, to me, his father, and demanded an explanation of the foul slander that had shattered his honor. I told him the truth, that his erring mother was the culprit. And the boy was merciful, and ready to bear disgrace for his mother's sake. Even now, he would have me close my lips. But there is a duty to One on High."

The rector paused, and put his hand to his breast. He was silent for a few moments, with closed eyes, and his face, which a few moments before had been flushed with excitement, paled to an ashen gray. He was silent so long that the congregation became uneasy. One or two arose to their feet. The clergyman put forth a hand blindly for support, as though about to faint; but he recovered slowly, and, after resting for a few moments on both hands, continued his discourse in a lower key.

"There are many among you here, loyal husbands and wives, who will think that, under the circumstances, I ought to have remained silent, cherishing the wife of my bosom and protecting her from the rough usage of the world. Alas! in heaven, where there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, no distinctions are allowed. Sin is sin; right is right; and justice is justice. No young man at the outset of his life should be blasted and accursed among men because his father and mother, into whose hands God has given the care of his soul, are too weak to stand by the consequences of their wickedness and folly. The sin of the woman in the beginning was a small thing—evil done that good might come of it. The sin of the father—my sin—was ten times greater. I consented to, and acted, the lie: I, who lived in an atmosphere of sanctity—a hypocrite, a cheat, a fraud, admonishing sinners and backsliders—I, the greatest of them all.

"I will not enter into particulars of the inevitable prosecution for forgery, which must follow this declaration. Jealousy and spite have been imported into a plain issue; but the matter is now out of my hands. I—have—confessed! The rest is with the Lord."

The rector raised his arms, and flung them outward, as though casting off the mantle of deceit under which he had shielded himself—the heavy cloak that had bowed his shoulders till he looked like an old man. The arms that were flung upward did not descend for many seconds. His head was thrown back, looking upward, and he swayed.

Several women, overwrought and terrified by the misery written on the man's face, arose to their feet, and cried out loudly:

"He'll fall!"

The pulpit steps were behind him, and he balanced just a second, but regained his equilibrium, resting his left hand on the stone pillar around which the pulpit was built.

"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be ascribed all honor, might, majesty, dominion, and power henceforth and for ever. Amen."

Like an aged, feeble man, he turned to descend the pulpit steps. His left hand grasped the rail, which was too wide to give him much support. He took one step downward; then, his white head and shoulders suddenly disappeared from the view of the congregation. There was a scuffling sound, and a thud. The congregation stood up; many rushed from their pews. The guilty wife had heard every word. She had seen him descend the steps, and had turned to fly, dreading to meet him, afraid to look him in the face, now that she knew what he really thought of her. But the sound of his fall awakened all her wifely instincts, and she rushed into the sight of all.

"John! John!" she cried, as she bent over the huddled mass of humanity on the stairs. She was too weak to help him. He had fainted, but was reviving slowly.

The men who reached the pulpit thrust her to one side roughly, and carried the rector into the vestry. Fortunately, there were medical men in the congregation, and he was transferred to their charge, Mary standing by, wringing her hands and weeping. Her face was distorted with pain; for her grief was blended with rage and humiliation. How contemptuously all these people treated her—Smith, the church-warden, a grocer, and Harris, the coal-merchant. Their cringing respect to her had always been amusing in its servility; but now she was as dust beneath their feet. They turned their backs, and ignored her existence.

The physicians took pity on her, and sent her to the rectory to make preparations to receive her husband, whose consciousness did not return completely. In falling, he had struck his head against a jagged piece of carving on the pulpit rails, and there was an ugly wound in his temple.

Netty had already fled home from the church, and Dick, quite unconscious of the progress of affairs, was upstairs, quietly reading in snatches, and dreaming of Dora—dreams that were interspersed with misgivings and a shuddering fear of the future. In his present state of health, the prospect of jail did not seem so amusing as he had pretended to Dora.

Netty came rushing up to him with the news of what had happened in the church. He was deeply agitated, though not so astonished as his sister. The awakening of his father's conscience had always been an eventuality to be reckoned with; and the awakening had come.

They carried the rector into his home, and he was put to bed by the physicians. Mary, feeling that she was banned and shunned, shut herself up in her room, a prey to a hundred different emotions. Terror was the dominant one. Those dreadful, rough-spoken men, who had come to arrest Dick, would soon be arriving to take her away.

She commenced to pack a trunk. Flight was the only thing possible under the circumstances.



CHAPTER XXX

FLIGHT

Everybody supposed Mrs. Swinton to be locked in her room. The rector was attended by his daughter and the physicians, and lay in a state of collapse for many hours, causing considerable anxiety to the household; but, toward midnight, he rallied and asked for his wife.

Visitors were forbidden. The presence of Mrs. Swinton was not likely to have a soothing effect, and all emotion must be avoided. Nevertheless, under the peculiar circumstances, the physicians decided that she should be told of his asking for her, although she was not to be allowed to enter the sickroom.

Netty, in tears, crept upstairs to her mother's room, and knocked softly. There was no answer. Examination showed that the place was empty. The erring wife had fled, and no one knew whither—except Dick.

The young man's position was extremely painful. Unable to do anything, with scarcely strength enough to rise from his couch, he lay in torment. His mother had rushed into his room in a highly hysterical state, and announced her intention of fleeing before the consequences of her husband's public confession could culminate in arrest. In vain, the young man implored her to remain and face it out, and comfort the rector. It was impossible to reason with her, her terror and humiliation were too great. She could not, she declared, live another day in this atmosphere. He pointed out that, since the miser had acknowledged the checks, a prosecution was out of the question, and that she was as safe at home as a thousand miles away. It was, however, useless and painful to argue with her. Her double crime had been laid bare, and shame—all the more acute because it humbled a woman who had borne herself proudly all her life—as much as fright prompted her flight. Moreover, she believed that Ormsby might act upon the rector's confession, despite Herresford's dying acknowledgment.

* * * * *

For a time, they feared that the rector would slip out of the world. He lay quite still, but his lips moved incessantly, murmuring his wife's name; and from this condition he passed into a state of mental coma, from which he did not recover till next day, after a long and heavy sleep. Then, he asked again for his wife; and they told him that she had gone away—for the present.

"Poor Mary, poor Mary!" he murmured, and fell asleep again.

Dick's recovery was more swift. He was soon at his father's bedside, and the pleasure that the stricken man took in the presence of his son did more to help him back to full consciousness of his surroundings than anything else.

No word came from the wife, however. She was deeply wounded, as well as humiliated. She recognized that her god and the rector's were not the same. Hers was self. He had made peace with his Master; but her heart was still hard; and her god was only a graven image.

In an empty, barnlike hotel in an obscure town, with never a familiar face about her, she experienced her first sensation of utter desolation. She missed Dick. She missed Netty; yes, even Netty would have been a comfort. But, beyond all, she missed her husband.

Away from home, alone, in a strange place, she was able to survey herself and her affairs with a detachment impossible in the familiar surroundings of the rectory. Economy was no longer a consideration; expense mattered nothing now; but how surprisingly little she desired to spend when both hands were full! How trivial the difference that money really made in the things that mattered! It could not buy back the respect of husband and son. Yet, along with these thoughts came others full of hot rebellion, for her penitence was not yet complete. She alternated between regret for her folly and a passionate anger against the whole world. Was not all she had done for the good of others? Nothing had been placed in the balance to her credit. She was condemned as a selfish criminal, with no account taken of motives. Was it for herself she forged? Was it for herself she lied, when her sin came home to roost? Was it through any lack of love for Dick that she allowed the foul slander to besmirch his memory, when everybody had believed him dead? No, a thousand times no!

The position was a strange one, a hideous tangle of nice, sentimental distinctions. Small wonder that the woman should be blind, and set the balance in her own favor!

The vigor of her lamentations and the intensity of her resentment against everything and everybody brought the inevitable reaction. Truth began to arise from the mirage. Much contemplation of self brought humility, and, try as she would, she could not stifle an aching desire to know what was happening to John since that awful night in the church. She had left him when he was ill, because he had laid the lash upon her shoulders. Yet, her place was at his side. Netty was there, of course. But of what use could Netty be when John was ill? Dick, too, still needed her care. A wave of deep remorse swept over her when she remembered how weak and helpless he was.

Her natural curiosity to know the exact conditions of her father's will was satisfied by the gossip of the newspapers. And nothing amazed her more than the announcement that Dora Dundas, of all people in the world, was to inherit his millions. Thoughts of Dora sent cold shivers down her back. She knew the downright and straightforward nature so well that she could easily imagine the hot indignation flaming in the girl's breast for any wrong or injustice inflicted on Dick.

And there was no letter from Dick! Had they all cast her off utterly?

A week spent amid uncongenial surroundings and without communication from home, reduced her to a state of pitiable depression. The world did not want her. Even her newly-found wealth could not make her welcome in her own home. Dick, of course, would be consoled by Dora; and the marriage arranged by the miser would take place with as little delay as possible. Her son would then, indeed, be lost to her—Dick who had never uttered one word of reproach, Dick who had been ready to suffer for her sin!

Gradually, the fear of arrest died down. All sense of panic vanished on calm consideration of the facts; but this produced no real relief. Indeed, it made matters worse: it removed her only excuse for remaining in hiding.

Her first letter home was written to Netty, not to her husband. Pride would not allow a complete surrender. And how eagerly she waited for the reply!

When it did come, it was a bitter disappointment. It was stilted and commonplace. Netty regretted that her mother felt it necessary to absent herself from home, and she was very wretched because father was still far from well, although recovering slowly. He was in the hands of Dora Dundas, who had volunteered to nurse him; and it was "positively sickening" to see the way in which he and Dick allowed themselves to be led and swayed by Dora in everything. Mrs. Bent had at first consented to her engagement continuing, so long as Mrs. Swinton did not again make her appearance in New York until after the wedding. But, when she heard how rich Mrs. Swinton had become by the death of Herresford and the recovery of Mrs. Herresford's fortune, she changed her mind, and desired the marriage to take place as soon as the local scandal had blown over. There must be substantial settlements, however. A significant line came at the end of the letter: "Captain Ormsby has gone away on a three months' yachting cruise."

There was little mention of the rector, yet Mary was burning with desire to know what attitude he had taken up toward her: whether he ever mentioned her name, or regarded her as an outcast. Netty gave no clue at all to the real state of affairs at home.



CHAPTER XXXI

DORA DECIDES

"Dick, you are no longer an invalid, and it is absurd for you to pose as one."

"Well, I feel pretty rotten, and I need a lot of attention. Come here, little one, and look after me."

"It is absurd of you to describe yourself as weak, when you have a grip like that. Why, you positively bruised my arm."

Dora made a great show of reluctance in coming to Dick's side. He sat in his father's arm-chair in the study, near the window, where the warm sunshine could fall upon him.

"You are a prisoner, Dora, until you tell me why you have avoided me during the past few days."

"Your father requires so much attention."

"And don't I?"

"No, you are getting quite yourself again, and rough, and brutal, and tyrannical."

She looked at him indulgently, and made a little moue.

"You know, we're engaged, Dora, and, when a fellow is in love with a girl with lots of money, like you, it's only natural that he should take every opportunity of being with his sweetheart. And he doesn't expect that same sweetheart to give him the cold shoulder."

Dora drew forward a little hassock, and settled herself at his feet with a sigh. He bent forward, and looked into her eyes questioningly.

"Are you quite sure my going away didn't make any difference to you, Dora?"

"How foolish you are, Dick! That wretched will of your grandfather's made it necessary that I should marry you, and marry you I must, or you'll be a pauper. Father, who was opposed to the match at one time, is now all eagerness for it. I hate to think that money has any part in our marriage."

"Never mind about that. Your father was all eagerness that you should marry Ormsby at one time, wasn't he?"

"Dick, I thought I told you never to mention that horrid man's name again."

"You are quite sure he is a horrid man?"

"Dick, don't be absurd." She flushed hotly. "What hurts me about our marriage is that you, the man, have no option in the matter. I am just a stepping-stone to wealth, so far as you are concerned, and I—I don't like it."

"Why not, darling?"

"Because it would have been so much nicer, if—if you had come to me with nothing, despised and friendless. Then, I could have shown my love by defying the whole world for your sake."

"Thanks, darling, but I prefer the money, if you don't mind."

"Ah! but you're a man."

"I only want mother to come back to be perfectly happy," Dick said, gravely. "You don't know mother. She could stand anything but rebuke. That sermon of father's must have almost done for her. Nothing could be more terrible in her eyes than to be held up to contempt. You must make allowances for mother, Dora."

"She must be wretchedly unhappy," Dora agreed. "Yet, she writes no letters that give any clue to her feelings."

"No, the letters she sends are merely to let us know where she is—never a word about father."

"Does she know how ill he has been?"

"Well, you see, I can't write much, and I hesitated to say anything that would hurt her feelings. I said he'd been very ill, but was mending slowly, and we hoped to see him himself again in a week or two."

"Does she know that he has given up St. Botolph's?"

"Yes, I told her that."

"She makes no mention of coming home?"

"Not a word."

"Dick, she must return, and at once," Dora declared, vehemently.

"Not to this place, Dora. She would never do it. It wouldn't be fair to ask her."

"But something must be done."

"I feel pretty sick about it. It was partly through me and my wretched debts that father and mother got so short of money. Mother was always hard up. It runs in the blood. And, what with one thing and another, we were all of us in a pretty tight fix; and she tried to get us out of it."

"I don't blame her for altering her father's checks. That's nothing," observed Dora, with typical feminine inconsequence, "but letting people think that—"

"I know, I know! But it couldn't really have done me any harm when I was under the turf; and it meant ruin to father, if she had done nothing. Look here, Dora, mother must come back, or father must go to her. We've got to arrange it between us. If mother won't come home, she must be fetched."

Dora sat for a few moments with her elbows resting on her knees and her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, watching the sparrows on the path outside.

"Can she ever forgive him?" she asked, after a pause.

"Well, the sermon was certainly pretty rough, especially after things had been all smoothed out. But father is a demon for doing nasty things when he thinks they've got to be done. You don't suppose he's any less fond of mother than before, do you?"

"No; but, you see, a woman feels differently about these things—things of conscience, I mean. Your mother probably thinks he despises her, and a proud woman can never stand that."

"But he doesn't. It was himself that he was troubled about, to think that he had strayed from the strict path of duty to such an extent as to allow me—his son—to be blamed for that—Well, it's all wrong, anyway, and mother's got to come home."

"How are we to set about it, Dick?"

"Dora, you'll have to go and fetch her. I've thought it all out."

"I? How can I? That wouldn't do at all, Dick. Don't you see that she would resent it—the advance coming from me, because I was one of those most concerned and affected by her sin; and, being a woman, more likely to be hard upon her than anyone else."

"You mean that you nearly married Ormsby because she led you to think that I wasn't worth a tinker's damn. Well, perhaps I wasn't—before the war. But I learned things out there. I had to pull myself together, and endure and go through such privation that a whole life on fifteen dollars a week would be luxury in comparison. I'd go to mother at once, if I were strong enough, but I'm not. So, what do you suggest, little girl?"

"I think we ought to sound your father on the matter first. He is difficult to approach. He has a trick of making you feel that he prefers to bear his sorrow alone; but I think it can be managed, if we use a little harmless deception."

"How?"

"Well, first of all, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get Jane to turn your mother's room out, and clean it as if getting ready for the return of the mistress of the house."

"I see," cried Dick, with a spasmodic tightening of the right hand which rested on Dora's shoulder. "Give father the impression that she's coming back, just to see how he takes it."

"Yes."

"Good! Set about it to-day."

"I'll find Jane at once. And, now, I've been here with you quite a long time, and there are many things for me to attend to."

"No, not yet," he pleaded with an invalid's sigh, a very mechanical one; but he had found it effectual in reaching Dora's heart on previous occasions. It was efficacious to-day. Her heart was full to bursting with joy and love and—the spring. Dick again raised the delicate question of the date of their marriage, and Dora no longer procrastinated. It should take place as soon as ever the rector and his wife were reconciled.

* * * * *

John Swinton, who was just beginning to move about the house, white-faced and shaky, with a lustreless eye and snow-white head, was awakened from his torpor by a tremendous bustling up and down stairs. Furniture strewed the landing outside his wife's room, and it was evident that something was going on.

"What is happening?" he asked on one occasion, when he found the road to the staircase absolutely barred.

"The mistress's room is being prepared for her return," replied Jane, to whom the query was addressed.

He started as though someone had struck him in the breast.

"Coming home," he gasped, staring at the woman with dropped jaw and wondering eye.

"Miss Dora's orders, sir. She said the room might be wanted any day now, and it must be cleaned."

"Coming home," murmured the rector, as he steadied himself with the aid of the banister, "coming home! coming home!" There was a different inflection in his voice each time he repeated the phrase. Tenderness crept into the words, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he passed slowly into his study. "Coming home! Mary coming home!"

Dick and Dora were rather alarmed at the result of their plot. They dreaded the effect of possible disappointment; but they had learned what they wanted to know—that was the main point. The rector was inconsolable without his wife. Her return was the only thing that could dispel the torpor which rendered him indifferent to daily concerns.

Netty was called into counsel to decide what was to be done. Her simple settlement of the difficulty was very welcome.

"I shall just write and tell mother what you've done. Then, she can act as she pleases; but I expect she'll be very angry."



CHAPTER XXXII

HOME AGAIN

Netty's letter to her mother was characteristic:

"MY DEAR MOTHER,

I do wish you would come home. It's positively hateful here without you. Dora Dundas goes to-morrow, thank goodness, and, of course, Dick is in the dumps. She has managed the house as though it were her own, and I, for one, shall be heartily glad to see the back of her.

"I am very miserable for many reasons. Since that wretched business about the checks, Mrs. Bent has been so different, and so has Harry. He is always at the Ocklebournes', and you know what Nelly Ocklebourne is. The way she behaves is disgraceful. Harry was always particularly friendly in that quarter, and it is absurd of them to talk about the friendship of a lifetime as an excuse for a quite disgraceful familiarity. Wherever he goes, Nell is certain to turn up, too. It is quite marked.

"We all want you to come home, father included. Dora and Dick had your room turned out yesterday, and, when father saw the muddle, he asked why. They told him your room was being got ready for your return. He seemed overjoyed and quite overcome, and for the first time since his illness he looks something like his old self. He is studying the time-tables and the clocks all day, expecting you at any minute, so you need not be afraid the excitement will be too much for him."

Mrs. Swinton read no more than this. A sudden wild happiness seized her. She pressed the letter to her lips, and sobbed with relief. All the pent-up misery of the last few weeks were washed away in tears; the barriers of pride were broken down; she was as humble and contrite as a little child. She startled her maid by an unusual morning activity, and consulted the time-tables quite as eagerly as John. He wanted her; that was enough. She cared nothing now for the censorious tongues. Her gentle, sweet-spirited husband awaited her return. All else melted away into insignificance. He was a beacon in the darkness, a very mountain of light on the horizon. He was calling on her—this hero of schoolgirl days, this lover of her runaway marriage.

The eleven-o'clock express found her, accompanied by her faithful and astonished maid, being carried toward New York. On the way, she sent a telegram, announcing her return. In the momentous message, there was no shirking the main issue. It was to John himself:

"Shall be home to-morrow. Wife."

The rector was hourly growing uneasy, when he found that neither Dora nor Dick could give him any definite news concerning his wife's return: but, when her telegram was placed in his trembling hand, he was unable to open it. He passed it dumbly to Dick in piteous helplessness, who, after a hasty glance at the message, read it aloud cheerily, and with a splendid affectation of inconsequence, as though his mother's return was a matter of course, and not an occasion for wonderment.

Then, at last, the rector's tongue was let loose. He talked incessantly on trivialities, and fussed about the house, vainly imagining that no one noticed his delight and excitement. He visited his wife's room, and ordered every conceivable comfort that his agitated mind could suggest. Everything was to be arranged exactly as it had been before Mrs. Swinton went away, so that she could see no difference. The home had really undergone little change, yet the rector was not satisfied until every vase and cushion, plant, and book was as he remembered it.

Dick and Dora were in high glee at the success of their ruse, while Netty took to herself the sole credit of the idea. Dora went home from the rectory in the best of spirits. The colonel had fretted and fumed at her prolonged absence, for he missed her sorely, and was very glad of her return.

There came a sound of wheels on the rectory drive. Dick hurried upstairs, and the servants were nowhere to be seen. Everybody understood that the meeting between husband and wife was a thing too sacred for other eyes, and all disappeared as if by mutual consent. The rector's heart almost failed him as he stepped toward the carriage. He was bareheaded, and his face was wan and thin in the strong light. When his eyes fell upon the beautiful woman, his expression changed. It was he who was strong now, the wife who faltered. As his fingers closed upon hers, she broke down, and with a helpless sob dropped into his arms.

He held her to his breast for a full minute. Then, at last, when she was able to hold him at arm's length and look with anxious eyes into his stricken, careworn face, she read there the story of his sorrow and anguish. It was now her turn to lavish tenderness.

"Oh, my poor John, my poor John!" she cried, as together they passed into the porch, leaving the cabman looking after them, wondering where his fare was coming from. Then Rudd appeared—from nowhere—and slipped the fare into the man's hand. Rudd had caught the excitement of the household, and his face was beaming.

"Was that mother?" cried Dick from an upper window, in a loud whisper.

"Yes, sir, it's herself right enough."

Dick nodded and disappeared. He was impatient enough to go down, but held himself in check, leaving his father and mother to enjoy uninterrupted communion.

It was a long time before Mary's musical voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, asking, "Where's Dick?"

"I'm here, mother, and as lively as a cricket."

This was not strictly correct, for he came downstairs very gingerly, and obviously relied on the banisters for support. He gave his mother a hearty hug, and, in reply to her questions concerning the whereabouts of Netty, explained that the daughter of the house had gone out in a state of agitation and tears, not stating her destination.

By a curious coincidence, the first visitor to arrive at the house after the return of Mrs. Swinton was one of Dick's unpaid creditors, the very man who had threatened to have him arrested on the eve of his departure for the war. A small balance of the debt still remained unliquidated. But the mother was quite equal to the situation. She laughed gaily, like her old self, and went to the study check-book in hand to wipe out the last of the blots on the old life, with an easy conscience, knowing that the balance at the bank would never more be an uncertain quantity.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SCARLET FEATHER

Netty entered the room presently, and greeted her mother with a warmth of emotion beyond the usual. Dick took advantage of her coming to excuse himself for a little while. He had promised Dora immediate information concerning his mother's coming, and he was now all eagerness to tell her of the new happiness in his home. He had telephoned for a hansom, and the drive through the Park to the colonel's was quickly accomplished. Soon, the girl he loved was a sharer in his joy over the reunion of father and mother.

After a time, there came a lapse into silence, when the first subject had been gone over with fond thoroughness. It was broken by Dora:

"Do you know, Dick," she remarked, "that I shall be hard put to it to live up to you? You are such a hero!"

"Pooh! Nonsense!" the lover exclaimed, in much confusion.

But Dora shook her head, solemnly.

"It is a fact," she declared, "and all the world knows it. If I didn't love you to distraction, I could never endure the way in which father raves about you. And he says, your brother officers are to give a dinner in your honor, and—"

"Good heavens!" Dick muttered, in consternation.

"—and they are going to club on a silver service for a wedding present. Isn't that lovely?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," Dick conceded. "But just think—if they should expect me to make a speech at the dinner! Good lord!"

Dora opened her clear, gray eyes wide:

"Why, Dick!" she remonstrated. "You don't mean to tell me that you would show the white feather, just at the idea of making some response to a toast in your honor?"

"I never made a speech in my life," the lover answered, shamefacedly; "and I am frightened nearly out of my wits at the bare idea of being called on.... But you spoke of the white feather, dearest. I never told you that my miserable enemy, Ormsby, sent me one."

"What? He dared?" Dora sat erect, and her eyes flashed in a sudden wrath. "Tell me about it, Dick."

The story was soon related, and the girl's indignation against his whilom rival filled him with delight.

"The odd thing about it all was," he went on, "that I carried that white feather with me. I had a feeling, somehow, that it would serve as a talisman. And, perhaps, it did. Anyhow, I lived through the experience. One thing I know for a certainty. While my memory of the white feather lasted, I could never be a coward of the sort Ormsby meant."

"Oh, Dick," Dora cried, "have you the feather still?"

"Yes, indeed," was the smiling answer. "You see, I got into the habit of keeping it by me."

"But you haven't it with you, now?" The girl's eyes were very wistful. To her imagination, there was a potent charm in this lying symbol, which had been the companion of the man whom she adored.

"Oh, yes, I have it," Dick replied, carelessly. He reached a hand into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and brought forth the feather, which he held out to the girl.

She accepted it reverently, but an expression of dissatisfaction showed on her face.

"It—it isn't exactly a white feather now," she suggested. "It is really quite shockingly dirty. But I shall have it cleaned, and then set in a case or a frame of gold, decorated with—"

Dick interrupted, somewhat indignantly.

"You can't expect a man living for months in the way I did to keep a white feather immaculate. And, anyhow, it is not so very dirty. Besides, I couldn't help the blood—could I?"

"The blood!" Dora exclaimed, startled, and her face whitened. "What blood, Dick?"

"Mine. You see, it lay right alongside the place where that bullet scraped my side."

"Your blood!" The girl's face was wonderfully alight. "And I said that I would have it cleaned. Why, the idea seems sacrilege! No, this feather shall never be cleaned from those precious stains, sweetheart. The white feather—and now it is scarlet with the blood of my hero. Ah, this scarlet feather shall be set in purest gold, and bordered with jewels. It shall be a shrine for my worship, Dick. And—"

The lover, who had taken her into his arms, bent his head suddenly, and kissed her to silence.

THE END



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Transcriber's Notes:

The following changes were made to the original text. The change is enclosed in brackets:

Page 15: Then, glancing at he clock, [the]

Page 22: The result of it had been to develop certainly miserly instincts [certain]

Page 26: There is a man at out house [our]

Page 41: He looked at he envelope, [the]

Page 57: It's splendid match, [added 'a': It's a splendid match]

Page 110: would beggar her by stopping it altogther [altogether]

Page 169: MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS [added beginning double quote]

Page 180: "Who is that coming up the drive?"; asked th [the]

Page 208: This was characteristic of the cautious Ormsby's [Ormsbys]

Page 216: and I don't intend of have my daughter [to]

Page 231: And, as I've disgraced the family, I'd— [added missing double quote mark at the end of the sentence]

Page 257: he said, beckoning her authoritively. [authoritatively]

Page 265: Dick Swinton in done for. [is]

Page 274: It is enough for me, Dick—but it is the others—father, and— [added missing double quote mark at the end of the sentence]

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.