The Scarlet Feather Part 14

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 d.i.c.k? And they've taken him--killed him. Oh, d.i.c.k!"

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 d.i.c.k!--d.i.c.k! 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 a.s.sumed 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k have forged his grandfather's signature? Herresford, who was always down on d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k was more a.s.sumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation is beyond enduring."

"Does he accuse d.i.c.k?" she asked, in a strained voice; "d.i.c.k, who is dead?"

"Yes, darling. But don't think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the absurdity of discussing it. d.i.c.k 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 n.o.ble 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, d.i.c.k's future prospects had seemed to be a.s.sured. 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 d.i.c.k.

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 d.i.c.k, 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.