The Scarlet Feather Part 41

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 d.i.c.k--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 d.i.c.k.

You'll take care of it--you'll take care of it? You won't spend it?" he whined, with sudden excitement.

Dora pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 d.i.c.k 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 hoa.r.s.e 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.