The Scarlet Feather Part 26

The colonel ordered brandy. He was now able to get a better look at the returned hero. The change in the young man shocked him, and he could see that the hand of death had clutched d.i.c.k harshly before letting him go.

"What was it--fever?" he asked, with soldier-like abruptness, as he scanned the lean, weary face.

"Enteric and starvation, and a bit of a wound, too. I was taken prisoner, but, when the ambulance cart was left in a general stampede, I was just able to cry out to a n.i.g.g.e.r to cut my bonds. He set me free; but, afterward, I think I went mad. I was in our lines, I know. It was a good old Yankee who set me free; but, when reason came, I was again in the wrong camp. The ambulance cart had got into its own lines again. At any rate, I was in different hands, with a different regiment, packed off to a proper prison camp. I sent word home, or thought I'd sent word. I thought you all knew. By Jove, what a lark it will be to turn up and see their faces!"

d.i.c.k took a long draught at the brandy, and a little color came into his face.

"I suppose they'll be glad and all that, as I'm something of a hero," he continued. "A chap on the train told me that the story of my capture got into the papers, and was written up for all it was worth. Another smack in the eye for Ormsby, that! Nutt got away, and told you I was dead, I suppose."

"Yes," answered the colonel, gloomily; then, leaning across the table: "d.i.c.k, my boy, I don't want to be hard on you. We are all liable to err.

Don't you think it would have been better if you had remained dead?"

d.i.c.k looked blankly into his friend's face for some moments. A look of fear came into his eyes.

"What's the matter? What's happened? Dora's--alive?"

"Yes, of course."

"And my father and mother?"

"Oh, yes, yes, they're well--as well as can be expected under the circ.u.mstances."

"Well, what's the matter, then? What's happened?"

"d.i.c.k, you must know perfectly well what has happened. Your grandfather found out--the--er--what you did before you went away."

"What I did before I went away?"

"Well, it's no good skirmishing. Let's call it by its proper name--your forgery. Those two checks you cashed at the bank, originally for two and five dollars. I daresay you thought that your grandfather never looked at his pa.s.s-book. You were mistaken. And what a confounded fool you must have been to think that two amounts of such magnitude as two thousand and five thousand dollars could be overlooked."

d.i.c.k's lower jaw had dropped a little, and he looked at the colonel in blank surprise, yet with more listlessness than would a man in rude health when amazed. The colonel misread the signs, and saw only the astonishment of guilt unmasked.

"Your mother got the checks for you: but you added to the figures in another ink. The forgery was discovered, and by Ormsby, too, unfortunately, who is no friend of yours. The matter was hushed up, of course. You have to thank Dora for that. A warrant was out for your arrest, but Dora begged Ormsby to stay his hand for the sake of your mother and father. And--er--well, the long and short of it is that Ormsby was prepared to lose seven thousand dollars, rather than ruin your family. The news of your death--your heroic death, as we imagined--came at the opportune moment to help people to forget your folly."

d.i.c.k sat like a stone, calm, pale, holding his gla.s.s and listening intently. For an instant he seemed about to faint.

"Of course, we all thought," continued the colonel, "that you had put yourself into a tight corner on purpose, that you might respectably creep out of your difficulties by dying and troubling n.o.body. And we respected you for that. Everybody knew that you were up to your eyes in debt, and at loggerheads with your grandfather, that the old man had disinherited you, and all that. But surely you didn't owe seven thousand dollars!"

"Are you talking about the checks my mother gave me before I went away?"

d.i.c.k asked, quietly.

"Of course I am. You know the circ.u.mstances better than I do. It's no good playing the fool with me, and I don't intend to have my daughter upset by telegrams and surrept.i.tious communications. So, now, you know.

You've done for yourself, my lad, and you'd better face it and remain dead."

"But my mother--she has explained?"

"Of course, she has, and it's nearly broken her heart. Think of her awful position, to have to confess that her son altered her checks--checks actually drawn in her name--and the money filched from the bank by a dirty trick! The bank's got to lose it. Your grandfather won't pay a cent."

"But my mother--?" faltered d.i.c.k again, leaning forward heavily on the table, and gazing at the colonel with eyes so full of horror that the elder man wondered whether suffering had not turned d.i.c.k's brain.

"Ah, you may well ask about your mother. She tried to do her best, I believe, to get your grandfather to pay up; but the shame of the thing is what I look at. That's why I came to you here, to-day. If your mother knows no more than Dora and all the rest--if they still think you're dead--well, why not remain dead? It's only charity--it's only kind. Your father and mother think that you died a hero's death, and, naturally, aren't disposed to look upon your crime quite in the same light as other people. Why, in heaven's name, when you got a chance of slipping out of life, and out of the old set, and making a fresh start, didn't you seize it?"

"You mean, why didn't I get shot?" asked d.i.c.k, slowly.

"Well, not exactly that. You know as well as I do that lots of chaps go to the front to get officially shot, and have their names on the list of the killed--men who really mean to turn over a new leaf, and get a fresh lease of life in another country, under another name, when the war is over. Others get put right out of the way, because they haven't the courage to do it themselves."

"But my mother could have explained!" cried d.i.c.k, huskily. He was so weak that he was unable to cope with agitation.

"Tut, tut, man, your mother could explain nothing. She could only tell the truth--that she gave you two checks for small amounts, and you put bigger amounts to them, and cashed them at the bank; in short, that her son was a forger."

"My mother said that!"

"Yes."

"G.o.d help her!" gasped d.i.c.k, with a gulp. He put his hand to his throat, and fell forward on the table, senseless.

The colonel jumped up in alarm. Waiters rushed forward, and they revived the sick man by further applications of brandy. He recovered quickly, and food was again set before him.

He ate mechanically, and for a long time there was silence between the two men. The colonel wished himself well out of the business, and felt the brutality of using harsh words to a man in such a condition of health. Yet, he was resolute in his purpose.

d.i.c.k appeared somewhat stronger after the meal. Every now and again, he would look up at the colonel in a dazed fashion, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses. At last, he spoke again.

"I suppose--my brain isn't what it was. But I'm feeling better. Tell me again what my mother said--and my father."

The colonel detailed all that he knew, displaying considerable irritation in the process. This att.i.tude of ignorance and innocence nettled him. He wound up with a soldier-like abruptness.

"Well, are you going to live, or do you intend to remain dead?"

"I'm going home."

"To be arrested?"

"No, to ask some questions."

"Don't be a fool. You'll be arrested at the station."

"No, I sha'n't. I've done a little dodging lately. I shall travel to some other place, and walk home. I've faced worse things than--"

The sentence was never finished. He seemed to realize that there could be nothing worse than to be falsely denounced by his own mother--the mother whom he loved and idolized, the most wonderful mother son ever had, the most beautiful woman in New York, the wife of John Swinton, chosen man of G.o.d.

"You'd better not come home," urged the colonel; "at any rate, as far as we are concerned."

"Ah, that means you intend to cut me."

"Yes; and as far as Dora is concerned--Well, the fact is, she's engaged to Ormsby now."

"Engaged to Ormsby?"