Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circumstances 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 attitude. 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 attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint 148 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. 149

“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, hoarsely. “You don’t mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that cock-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 damned 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.” 150

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 151 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 Dick 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?” 152

“Don’t put it like that, John, don’t! I can’t bear it.”

“And is it true what they’re saying about Dick? 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 Dick 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! 153 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 hoards 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 Dick? 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 154 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 Dick implicated?”

“John, I have done a more dreadful thing than stealing money.”

“Mary!” 155

“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.

“The bank people thought that Dick altered the checks, John. Of course, if he had lived, I should have confessed that it was not he, but I. I saw our chance when the dreadful news came. They couldn’t punish him for his mother’s sin, and they were powerless, if I denied altering the checks. I did deny it—no, John, don’t shrink away like that! I won’t let you go. No, hold me to you, John, or I can’t go on. Don’t you see that my disgrace would be far greater than a man’s? I should be cut by everyone, disowned by my own father, prosecuted by the bank, and sent to prison. John—don’t you understand? Don’t look at me like that! They’ll put me in a felon’s dock, if you speak. I, your wife, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph’s—think of it!”

She held out her hands appealingly to him; but he thrust her off in terror, as though she were an evil spirit from another world, breathing poisonous vapors. 156

“John, John, you must see that I’m right. Think of Netty. We have a child who lives. Dick is dead. How does it matter what they say about Dick’s money affairs? He died bravely. His name will go down honored and esteemed. The glamour of his heroism will blot out any taint of sin his mother may have put upon him. My denial will save his sister, his father, his mother—our home. Oh, John, you must see it—you must!”

“You must confess!” he cried, denouncing her with outstretched finger and in bitter scorn. “You shall!”

“No, no, John,” she screamed, wringing her hands in pitiful supplication. “Speak more quietly.”

“You have sullied the name of your dead son with a cowardly crime. Woman! Woman! This is devil’s work. They think our boy fled like a thief with his pockets full of stolen money, whilst all the time you and I were evading the just reward of our follies and extravagance.”

“John, the money was used to pay your debts and his debts, as well as mine; to stave off ruin from you and from him as well as from myself, and to keep Netty’s husband for her. Do you think that Harry Bent could possibly marry Netty, if her mother were sent to jail?”

“Don’t bring our children into this, Mary. You—” 157

“I must speak of Netty—I must! Would she ever forgive us, if her lover cast her off?”

“And will he marry her, now that her brother is disgraced?”

“Oh, her brother’s disgrace is nothing. It is only gossip. They can’t arrest Dick and imprison him. Oh, I couldn’t bear it—I couldn’t!”

“And, yet, you will see your son’s name defamed in the moment of his glory.”

“John, John, I did it to save you. I didn’t think of myself. I’ve never been afraid to stand by anything I’ve done before. But this! Oh, take me away and kill me, shoot me, say that it was an accident, and I’ll gladly endure my punishment. But a mother is never alone in her sin. The sins of the fathers—you know the text well enough, John. Last night, I tried to kill myself.”

“Mary!”

He groaned, with outstretched hands, revealing his love and the gap in his armor where he could still be pierced.

“Yes. I thought it would be best. I wrote a full confession of everything, such a letter as would cover my father with shame, and send him to his grave, dreading to meet his Maker. I meant to poison myself, but I thought of you in your double sorrow, John—what would you do without me?—and Netty, motherless when she most needs guidance. I 158 thought of the disgrace and the shame of it, the inquest and the newspaper accounts—oh, I’ve been through horrors untold, John. I’ve been punished a hundred times for all I’ve done. John! John! Don’t stand away from me like that! If you do, I shall go upstairs now—now!—and put an end to everything. I’ve got the poison there. I’ll go. God is my judge. I won’t live to be condemned by you and everybody, and have my name a by-word for all time—the daughter who ran away with a parson, and robbed her father to save her husband, and then was flung into jail by the godly man, who would rather see his daughter a social outcast and his wife in penal servitude than stand by her.”

“It’s a sin—a horrible sin!”

“Who are you to judge me? Would Dick have betrayed his mother?”

“Mary—Mary! Don’t tempt me—don’t—don’t! You know what my plain duty is. You know what our duty to our dead son is. Your father must be appealed to. We will go to him on our bended knees, and beg forgiveness. The bank people must be told the truth, and they must contradict publicly the slander upon Dick.”

“Then, you would have your wife humiliated and publicly branded as a thief and a forger? What do you think people will say of us, then? Shall I ever dare to show my face among my friends again?” 159

“We must go away, to a new place, a new country, where no one knows us and we mustn’t come back.”

“And Netty?”

“Netty must bear her share of the burden you have put upon us. We will bear it together.”

“No; Netty is blameless. You and I, John, must suffer, not she. It would be wicked to ruin her young life. You won’t denounce me, John. You can’t. You won’t have me sent to prison. You won’t disgrace me in the eyes of my friends. You won’t do anything—at least, until Netty is married—will you?”

“Harry Bent must know.”

“No, no, John. You know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional, purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married! Wait till then.”

“I don’t know what to do,” moaned the broken man, bursting into tears, and sinking into his chair at the table.

“Be guided by me, John. The dead can’t feel, while the living can be condemned to lifelong torture.”

“Have your own way,” he groaned. “I don’t know what to do. I shall never hold up my head again.”

“Oh, yes, you will, John, and—there is always 160 my shoulder to rest it upon, dearest. Let me comfort you.”

Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty, expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve.

She was in mourning—and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of Dick’s disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a parley, a visitor was announced—although visitors were not received to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up alone in his study.

“Miss Dundas.”

Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer’s black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent.

The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced 161 her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals.

“Netty, is your mother really ill?” asked Dora, as she extended her hand, “or is she merely not receiving anyone?”

“Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset.”

“Oh, Netty, it is terrible!” sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. “It can’t be true—it can’t!”

“What can’t be true?” asked Netty, coldly.

“Poor dear Dick’s death. It will kill me.”

“I don’t think there is any doubt about it,” snapped Netty. “And I don’t see why you should feel it more than anybody else.”

“Netty, that is unkind of you—ungenerous. You know I loved Dick. He was mine—mine!”

“Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne’s, and the dear friend of I don’t know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a scrape before he went away.”

“There has been some hideous blunder.”

“No, it is simple enough,” said Netty, curling herself up on a low settee. “Think what it may mean to me—just engaged to Harry Bent—and now, there’s no knowing what he may do. His people 162 may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a—forger.”

“Netty, you sha’n’t speak of Dick like that!”

“Why shouldn’t I? Did he think of me? Really, you are too absurd! I don’t see why you should excite yourself about it. If you think that he cared for you only, you are merely one more foolish victim.”

“Netty, how can you talk of your brother so! He is accused of a horrible crime. Why don’t you stand up for him? Why don’t you do something to clear him? What is your father doing—and your mother?”

“Surely, they can be left to manage their affairs as they think best.”

“And I, who loved him, must do nothing, I suppose,” cried Dora, hysterically. “I loved him, I tell you, and he loved me. We were engaged.”

“Engaged! What nonsense! Really, Dora!”

“No one knew, Netty,” sobbed Dora, aching for a little feminine sympathy, even from Netty. “Here is his ring, upon this ribbon round my neck.”

“Surely, you don’t think that is interesting to me—and at such a time.”

“Well, if it isn’t,” cried Dora, flashing out through her tears, “perhaps your brother’s honor is. I must see your mother, and urge her to refute the awful slanders spread about by Vivian Ormsby.” 163

“Oh, so your other admirer is responsible for spreading the story of Dick’s misdeeds. I think he might have kept silent. You must know that it is only because Ormsby made himself ridiculous about you, and because Dick hated Ormsby, that he flirted with you, and so caused bad blood between them. I think that you might leave Dick alone, now that he is dead.”

“Dead! Dead! He can’t be,” cried Dora desperately. “I must see your mother,” she insisted. “I shall go up to her room. This is no ordinary time, and my business is urgent.”

Netty shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the room, apparently to inform her mother of the visit. After a long delay, Mrs. Swinton entered, looking white and haggard.

“What is it you want of me?” she asked, with a feeble assumption of her usual languid tone.

“Oh, Mrs. Swinton, it isn’t true—tell me it isn’t true! I can’t believe it of him.”

“You are referring to Dick’s trouble? Our sorrow is embittered by the knowledge that our poor boy went away—”

Words failed her. She could not lie to this girl, whose eyes seemed to be searching her very soul. What did she suspect?

“My father told me of the checks,” said Dora. “They were made out to you. Yet, they say he 164 forged them. How could he? I don’t understand these things; and father’s explanation didn’t enlighten me at all. I loved Dick—you know I did.”

“I suspected it, Dora, and had things gone well with us, I should have been as pleased as anybody, if the affection between you ripened—”

“Ripened!” cried Dora, with fine contempt: “He loved me, and I loved him. We were engaged. No one was to know till he came back, but now—well, what does it matter who knows? But those who slander him and take away his good name must answer to me. Vivian Ormsby was always his enemy. But you—you must have known what he was doing. He couldn’t take all that money and go away in debt, and talk as he did of having got money from his grandfather by extortion. He told me that you’d been able to arrange things for him.”

“He told you that!” cried Mrs. Swinton, startled into revealing her alarm.

“Yes, he told me that his grandfather had grown impossible, and that you were the only one who could get money out of him. He said you’d got lots of money, and that things were better for everybody at home—those were his words. Yet, they say he altered checks. What do they mean? How could he?”

“My dear, it is too complicated a matter for a girl like you to understand. You must know that to 165 discuss such a matter with me in this time of sorrow is little less than cruel.”

“Cruel? Isn’t it cruel to me, too? Isn’t his honor as dear to me as to his mother? I tell you, I won’t rest until he is set right before the world. Where is Mr. Swinton? He is a man, and can make a public denial on behalf of his son. Surely, he’s not going to sit quiet, and let Mr. Ormsby—”

“It is not Mr. Ormsby—it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks, Dora. Don’t you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you think I didn’t love Dick? Do you think that, if there were any way of refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is useless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public at all.”

“That’s what I told father,” faltered Dora.

“The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don’t anger him. Don’t urge him on to blacken Dick’s memory, as he is sure to do if you don’t look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He told me so when I met him 166 at dinner at the Bents’. Your father wishes it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too—that you would do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy. He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was weak, like his mother. What am I saying—what am I saying? My sense of right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I’m a very wretched woman, Dora!” cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair Dora brought forward. “Take warning by me. Love with your head and not your heart, Dora. Don’t risk everything for a foolish girl’s passion, when a rich man offers you a proud position.”

“I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby,” said Dora, scornfully, “I shall never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!—I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton—I thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as though Dick were unworthy—you whom he idolized.”

“Don’t taunt me, Dora!” moaned the wretched mother. “I shall always be fond of you for Dick’s sake. Good-bye—and forgive me.” Mrs. Swinton tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.

Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it 167 matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in Dick’s home, and shadowed by remembrances of him.

The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild.

“Oh, you, Miss Dundas,” he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. “I thought I heard my wife’s voice.”

“I have come to offer my condolences,” murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.

“Yes, yes—thank you—thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time.”

With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.

Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick’s home, crept away.