“Pull the blinds higher and raise my pillows, do you hear, woman? I want to see what that lazy scamp of a husband of yours is about—loafing for a certainty, if he thinks no one can see him.”

Herresford addressed his housekeeper, the wife of Ripon, the head-gardener. Mrs. Ripon bit her lip as she tugged at the blind cords savagely, and gave her master a defiant look, which he was quick to see. It apparently amused him, for he smiled grimly.

“Oh, yes, yes, I know what you want to say,” he snarled: “that I grind you all down, and treat you as slaves. That, my good woman, is where you make a mistake. Yet, you are slaves—slaves, do you hear? And I intend to see that you don’t rob me, for to waste the time that I pay for is to rob me.”

“Well, sir, if we don’t suit you, we can go.”

“My good woman, you’d have gone long ago, if it hadn’t suited my convenience to retain you. Ripon is a good gardener; you are a good housekeeper. You both know the value of money. We 67 happen to suit each other. Your husband has more sense than you. He does the work of two men, and he’s paid for it. If the positions were reversed, he would be quite as hard a master as I; that’s why I like him. He gets quite as much out of those under his control as I get out of him—only he doesn’t pay ’em double.”

The old man looked like a wizened monkey as he screwed up his eyes and chuckled. He was in a good temper this morning—good for him—and he looked well pleased as his eye traveled slowly over the wonderful expanse of garden which lay spread out like a fairy panorama below his window.

“Give me those field-glasses,” he commanded sharply, “and then you can get about your business. Those maids downstairs will be wasting their time while you’re up here.”

“What will you take for luncheon to-day, sir?”

“Woman, I left enough chicken yesterday to feed a family. The chicken curried, and don’t forget the chutney.” Then, after a mumbling interval, “and, if anybody calls, I won’t see ’em—except Notley, who comes at eleven. And, when he comes, send him up at once—no kitchen gossip! I don’t pay lawyers to come here and amuse kitchen wenches. Why don’t you speak, eh? W-what?”

“Because I’ve nothing to say, sir.”

“That’s right, that’s right. Now that you’ve left 68 off ‘speaking your mind,’ as you used to call it, you’re becoming quite docile and useful. Perhaps, I’ll give Ripon another fifty dollars a year. I’m not a hard man, you know, when people understand that I stand no nonsense. But I always have my own way. No one can get over me. You and I understand each other, Mrs. Ripon, eh? Yet, I doubt if you’d have remained so long, if Ripon hadn’t married you. He’s made a sensible woman of you. Tell him I’m going to give him an extra fifty dollars a year, but—but he must do with a hand less in the gardens.”

“What, another?”

“Yes. It’ll pay, won’t it, to get fifty dollars a year more, and save me two hundred on the outdoor staff, eh?”

The woman made no answer, but crossed the room softly, and closed the door. When she was on the other side of it, she shook her fist at him.

“You old wretch! If I had my way, I’d smother you. You spoil your own life, and you’re spoiling my man. He won’t be fit to live with soon.”

The sunlight streamed into the bedroom, and Herresford, drawing the curtains of his ebony bedstead, lay blinking in their shadow, looking out over his garden, and noting every beauty with the keen pleasure of an ardent lover of horticulture—his only hobby. As advancing age laid its finger more 69 heavily upon him, he had become increasingly irritable and impossible. Every human instinct seemed to have shriveled up and died—all save the love of money and his passion for flowers. His withered old lips almost smiled as he moved the field-glasses slowly, bringing into range the magnificent stretch of soft turf, with its patchwork of vivid color.

The face of the old man on the bed changed as he clutched the field-glasses and brought them in nervous haste to his eyes, and a muttered oath escaped him. A woman had come through one of the archways in the hedge that surrounded the herb garden. She walked slowly, every now and then breaking off a flower. As she tugged at a trail of late roses, sending their petals in a crimson stream upon the turf, Herresford dragged himself higher upon the pillows, his lips working in anger, and his fingers clawing irritably at the coverlet.

“Leave them alone, leave them alone!” he cried. “How dare she touch my flowers! I’ll have her shut out of the place, daughter or no daughter. What does she want here? Begging again, I suppose. The only bond between us—money. And she sha’n’t have any. I’ll be firm about it.”

He was still muttering when Mrs. Swinton came into the room, bringing with her the sheaf of blossoms she had gathered as she came along.

“Who gave you permission to pick my flowers?” 70 the old man snarled, taking no notice of her greeting. “I allow no one to rob my garden. You are not to take those flowers home with you—do you understand? They belong to me.”

The daughter did not reply. She walked across the room very slowly, and rang the bell, waiting until a maid appeared.

“Take these flowers to Mrs. Ripon, and tell her to have them arranged and brought to Mr. Herresford’s room. And now,” she added, as the girl closed the door behind her, “we must have a little talk, my dear father. I want some money—in brief, I must have some. Dick is going, and his kit must be got ready at once. I must have a thousand dollars.”

“Must, must, must! I don’t know the meaning of the word. You come here dunning me for money as though I were made of it. Do you know what you and your husband have cost me? I tell you I have no money for you, and I won’t be intruded upon in this way. Your visits are an annoyance, madam, and they’d better cease.”

“Yes, I know, I know. And I should not have come here to-day unless our need had been great. My dear father, you simply must come to my aid. We haven’t a hundred dollars, and Dick’s honor is pledged. He must go to the war, and he must 71 have the money to go with. If I could go to anybody else and borrow it, I would; but there is no one. If you will let me have a check for the amount, I will promise that you hear nothing more of me—as long as you like. Come, father, shall I write out a check? You played a jest with me the other day, and only gave me two dollars.”

Herresford lay with his eyes closed and his lips tightly pressed together. He hated these encounters with his daughter, for she generally succeeded in getting something out of him; but he was determined she should have nothing this morning. He took refuge in silence, his only effectual weapon so far as Mrs. Swinton was concerned.

“Well?” she queried, after waiting for some minutes, and turning from the window toward the bed. “Well?” she repeated. “If it’s going to be a waiting game, we can both play it. I sha’n’t leave this room until you sign Dick’s check, and you know quite well that I go through with a thing when my mind is made up. It’s perfectly disgusting to have to insist like this, but you see, father, it’s the only way.”

She had spoken very quickly, yet very deliberately. She walked over to a table which stood in one of the windows, carefully selected a volume, and, drawing a chair to the side of her father’s bed, sat down. 72

Herresford had watched her from under his screwed-up eyelids, and, as she commenced to read, he sighed irritably.

“If you’ll come back this evening,” he whined, after a long pause, “I’ll see what I can do. I’m expecting Notley, my lawyer, this morning, and I don’t want to be worried. I’ve a lot of figures to go through. Now, run away, Mary, and I’ll think it over.”

“My dear father, why waste your time and mine? I told you I should not go from this room until I had the money, and I mean it—quite mean it,” she added, very quietly.

“It’s disgraceful that you should treat me in this way. I’ll give orders that you are not to be admitted again, unless by my express instructions. What was the amount you mentioned? Five hundred dollars? Do you realize what five hundred dollars really is?”

“Five hundred is next to useless. It is disgracefully little for an outfit and general expenses of your grandson.”

“The boy is a scamp; an idle, horse-racing young vagabond—a thief, too. Have you forgotten that horse he stole? I haven’t.”

“Rubbish, father. The horse belonged to Dick. You gave it to him, and it was his to sell. But we’re wasting time. Shall I write the check? Ah! 73 here’s the book,” and Mrs. Swinton drew it toward her as she seated herself at the desk.

She knew his ways so well that in his increasing petulance she saw the coming surrender.

“I am going to draw a check for a thousand, father,” she said with assumed indifference, and took up a pen as though the matter were settled.

“A thousand!—no, five hundred—no, it’s too much. Five hundred dollars for a couple of suits of khaki? Preposterous! Fifty would be too much.”

“Well, the very lowest is fifty, father,” she remarked, with a sudden abandonment of irritation, and a new light in her fine eyes.

“Ah! that’s more like it.”

“Then, I’ll make it fifty.”

“Fifty!—no, I never said fifty. I said five—too much,” and his fingers began to claw upon the coverlet, while his lips and tongue worked as with a palsy. “Fifty dollars! Do you want to ruin me? Make it five, and I’ll sign it at once. That’s more than I gave you last time.”

She had commenced the check. The date was filled in, and the name of her son as the payee.

“Five, madam—not a penny more. Five!”

The inspiration vibrated in her brain. Why not repeat the successful forgery? He would miss five thousand as little as five.

She wrote “five,” in letters, and lower down filled 74 in the numeral, putting it very near the dollar-sign.

“Father, you are driving me to desperation. It’s your fault if—”

“Give me the pen—give me the pen,” he snarled. “If you keep me waiting too long, I shall change my mind.”

She brought the blotting-pad and pen, and he scrawled his signature, scarcely looking at the check. She drew it away from him swiftly—for she had known him to tear up a check in a last access of covetous greed.

Five thousand dollars!

The same process of alteration as before was adopted. This time there was no flaw or suspicious spluttering.

The reckless woman, emboldened by her first success, plunged wildly on the second opportunity. The devil’s work was better done; but, unfortunately, she made the alteration, as before, with the rectory ink, which was of excellent quality, and in a few hours darkened to an entirely different tint. The color of the writing was uniform at first; but to-morrow there would be a difference.

She was running a great risk; but she saw before her peace and prosperity, her husband’s debts paid, her own dressmaker’s bills for the past two years wiped out, and Dick saved from arrest.

This would still leave a small balance in hand. 75

And they would economize in the future.

Vain resolves! The spendthrift is always the thriftiest person in intention. The rector had understated when he declared their deficit. Only the most persistent creditors were appeased. But their good fortune—for they considered it such—had become known to every creditor as if by magic. Bills came pouring in. If the aggressive builder of the new Mission Hall could get his money, why not the baker, the butcher, the tailor? The study table was positively white with the shower of “accounts rendered”—polite demands and abusive threats.

The rector had innocently and gratefully accepted the story of the gift of two thousand dollars, without question or surprise. His wonderful, beautiful wife always dragged him out of difficulties. He had ceased to do more than bless and thank her. He was glad of the respite, and had already begun to build castles in the air, and formulate a wonderful scheme for alleviating distress by advancing urgently needed money, to be refunded to him out of the proceeds of bazaars and concerts and public subscriptions later on.

The poor, too, seemed to have discovered that the rector was paying away money, and the most miserable, tattered, whining specimens of humanity rang his door-bell. They had piteous tales to tell of children dying for want of proper nourishment, of 76 wives lying unburied for lack of funds to pay the undertaker.

Dick returned, ignorant of his danger of arrest, and almost at the moment when his mother had accomplished her second forgery.

“Well, mother what luck with grandfather?” he cried anxiously, as he strode into the study. “I hear you’ve been up to the Hall. You are a brick to beard the old lion as you do.”

“Yes, I’ve been lucky this time. I’ve screwed out some more for all of us—quite a large sum this time. I put forward unanswerable arguments—the expense of your outfit—our responsibilities—our debts, and all sorts of things, and then got your grandfather to include everything in one check. It’s for five thousand.”

She dropped her eyes nervously, and heard him catch his breath.

“Five thousand!”

“Not all for you, Dick,” she hastened to add, “though your debts must be paid. There was a man here this morning to arrest you. At least, that was what he threatened; but they don’t do such things, do they?”

“Arrest me?”

“Yes. It was an awful blow to your father.” 77

“Arrest!” he groaned. “I feared it. But you’ve got five thousand. It’ll save us all!”

“The check isn’t cashed yet. Here it is.”

He seized the little slip eagerly, his eyes glistening. It was his respite, and might mean the end of all their troubles.

“I really must pay all my smaller debts, mother,” said Dick, as he looked down at the forged check. “You don’t know what a mean hound I’ve felt in not being able to pay the smaller tradesmen, for they are more decent than the bigger people. Five thousand! Only think of it. What a brick the old man is, after all.”

“How much do your debts amount to, Dick?” asked Mrs. Swinton, in some trepidation.

“I hardly know; but the ones which must be paid before I go will amount to a good many hundreds, I fear.”

“Oh, Dick! I’m sorry, but need all be paid now? You see, the money is badly wanted for other things.”

“Well, mother, I might not come back. I might be killed. And I’d like to feel that I’d left all straight at home.”

“Don’t, Dick, don’t!” she sobbed, rising and flinging her arms about him.

She was much overwrought, and her tears fell 78 fast. Dick embraced his beautiful mother, and kissed her with an affection that was almost lover-like.

“Mother, I really must pay up everyone before I go. You see, some of them look upon it as their last chance. They think that, if I once get out of the country, I shall never come back.”

“But I was hoping to help your father. He’s getting quite white with worry. Have you noticed how he has aged lately?”

“I don’t wonder at it, mother. Look at the way he works, writing half the night, tearing all over the town during the day, doing the work of six men. If you could manage another fifteen hundred for me, mother, I could go away happy. Don’t cry. You see, if I shouldn’t come back—you’ve got Netty.”

“What! Haven’t you heard?” she asked. “Don’t you know that Netty is going to leave us? Harry Bent proposed yesterday afternoon at the Ocklebournes’. He’s going away, too—and you may neither of you come back.”

“Hush, hush, mother! We’re all leaving somebody behind, and we can’t all come back. Don’t let us talk of it. I’ll run over and pay the check into my account, and then draw a little for everybody—something on account to keep them quiet.”

He looked at it—the check—lovingly, and sighed with satisfaction. 79

“Since grandfather has turned up trumps, mother,” Dick suggested, “it would only be decent of me to go up and thank him, wouldn’t it? I’ve got to go up and say good-bye, anyway.”

“No, Dick don’t go,” cried the guilty woman, nervously.

“But I must, mother. It won’t do to give him any further excuses for fault-finding.”

“If you go, say nothing about the money.”

“But—”

“Just to please me, Dick. Thank him for the money he has given you, and say nothing about the amount. Don’t remind him. He might relent, and—and stop the check or something of that sort.”

“All right, mother.” And Dick went off to the bank with the check, feeling that the world was a much-improved place.

On his return, he took a train to Asherton Hall, in order that he might thank his grandfather. There was no one about when he arrived, and he strode indoors, unannounced. As he reached the bedroom door, Mrs. Ripon was coming out, red in the face and spluttering with rage, arguing with Trimmer, the valet; and the old man’s voice could be heard, raised to a high treble, querulously storming over the usual domestic trifles.

Dick stepped into the strange room, and saluted his relative. 80

“Good-afternoon, grandfather. I’ve called to see you to say good-bye,” he said, cheerily.

“I don’t want to see you, sir,” snapped the old man, raising himself on his hands, and positively spitting the words out. His previous fit of anger flowed into the present interview like a stream temporarily dammed and released.

“I am going away to the war, grandfather, and I may never return.”

“And a good job, too, sir—a good job, too.”

Dick’s teeth were hard set. The insult had to be endured.

“Don’t come asking me for money, sir, because you won’t get it.”

“No, grandfather, I have enough, thank you. Your generosity has touched me, after your close-fis—your talks about economy, I mean.”

“Generosity—eh?” snarled the spluttering old man. “No sarcasm, if you please. You insolent rascal!” He positively clawed the air, and his eyes gleamed. “I’ll teach you your duty to your elders, sir. I’ve signed two checks for you. Do you think I’m going to be bled to death like a pig with its wizen slit?”

“I want no more money,” cried the young man, hotly. “You know that perfectly well, grandfather.”

“That’s good news, then.” 81

The old man subsided and collapsed into his pillows.

“I merely came to thank you, and to shake you by the hand. I am answering a patriotic call; and, if I fall in the war, you’ll have no heir but my mother.”

“Don’t flatter yourself that you’re my heir, sir. I’ll have you know you’re not, sir. No delusions. You need expect nothing from me.”

Dick gave a despairing sigh, and turned away.

“Well, then, good-bye, grandfather. If I get shot—”

“Go and get shot, sir—and be damned to you!” cried the old man.

“You are in a bad temper, grandfather. I’ve said my adieu. You have always misunderstood and abused me. Good-bye. I’ll offend you no longer.”

The young man stalked out haughtily, and old Herresford collapsed again; but he tried to rally. His strength failed him. He leaned over the side of his bed, gasping from his outburst, and called faintly:

“Dick! Dick! I’m an old man. I never mean what I say. I’ll pay—”

The last words were choked with a sigh, and he lay back, breathing heavily.