The Scarlet Feather Part 17

Those who heard of the heroic death of d.i.c.k Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circ.u.mstances 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 att.i.tude. 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 att.i.tude to take in such painful circ.u.mstances. 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, hoa.r.s.ely. "You don't mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that c.o.c.k-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 d.a.m.ned 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k? 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 d.i.c.k 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 h.o.a.rds 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 d.i.c.k? 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 d.i.c.k 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.