_ CHAPTER XXII. THE BLIGHT OF FEAR
Breakfast at the rectory on the morning following Dick's sensational return was a very solemn meal, for the blight of fear had fallen upon the whole household. No one slept. The father and mother had remained with Dick until the small hours of the morning, and, when they finally bade each other good-night, both were conscious that the old days of sweet comradeship were over forever.
There would be no more heart-to-heart speaking between these two, no sharing of burdens. The man must go his way and the woman hers, each with a load of sorrow to bear.
The rector was the only one really glad to find that the news of Dick's death was not true; but the joy of finding him alive was nullified by the terror of coming trouble. Mary was mentally stunned by the shock of Dick's return. She had grown accustomed to the thought of him as dead, and, of late, had been almost glad, since it saved the whole family from social ruin. Now, what would happen? She could not think, every faculty seemed benumbed. She had arisen and dressed in a perfectly mechanical manner, and, even now that she was sitting at the breakfast-table, her eyes had the strange and set expression which one sees in the eyes of the sleep-walker. Her voice, too, had unfamiliar notes as she read aloud the headings of the news columns, making a wretched pretense of keeping up appearances before the servants.
The domestics had been sworn to secrecy. This was not difficult, as all were devoted to Dick. He had always been a favorite. His kindness and consideration for those who served him was always in marked contrast to Netty's haughty and exacting nature. There was not a creature in the house who would not have run personal risk to serve him.
He was still in a state of prostration, weaker far than he knew, and on the brink of a serious collapse. The need for secrecy made it dangerous to call in medical aid, and he tried to allay his father's anxiety by assuring him that rest was all he needed. He would soon be well enough to start on his way again.
During breakfast, Netty had made no comment on her brother's return. Her eyes were red with weeping, but only because she saw the possibility of her brother in the dock, and Harry Bent's mother opposing her marriage. The rector and his wife scarcely exchanged a word; it was obvious that there was a growing antagonism between them. The woman already suspected her husband of leaning toward her son, with designs upon her liberty and reputation. The rector was hoping that his wife would come to her senses, now that her boy had returned, and see the wisdom of confession, without forcing upon him the painful task of telling the dreadful truth. The situation had been argued out between them until words ceased to have meaning, and by common consent all action was suspended until this morning, when, it was hoped, Dick would be rested, and able to join the council.
If anything, Dick was worse; listless, nerveless, unable to rise, and spending his time in dozes that were perilously near unconsciousness.
The meal ended, Netty escaped. Her mother hurried up to Dick, and the rector to his study, where he awaited his wife.
Presently, she came down, dressed for walking.
"Where are you going, Mary?" he asked nervously.
"I'm going up to see father. It's the only thing to do. He cannot kill his own grandson. If Dick dies, his death will be at father's door."
"Mary, you are agitated and hysterical. You are not fit to see anyone. Your father can do nothing. The matter is in the hands of the bank. We must either remain passive, and await the issue of events, or see Ormsby and put the case to him, appealing to him for a withdrawal of the prosecution."
"What mercy do you think we shall get from him? You forget he is a prospective bridegroom, and his bride, Dora Dundas, is preparing for her wedding. What will Dora's action be, do you think, if she knows that Dick is here?"
"Dearest, if she believes him guilty, she will go on with her marriage. The understanding between Dick and Dora was informal. It was not like an engagement. She is engaged to Ormsby, and she will not go back on her word now, though I have grave doubts of the wisdom of allowing her to remain in ignorance of the truth."
"The girl loved Dick. There was a definite understanding between them. She has been breaking her heart over him. This engagement to Ormsby is a matter arranged by her father. No, the only person who can help us is my father, and I refuse to discuss it with you further. It's now a matter between me and Dick--a mother's utter ruin or a son's emigration. And, after all, why shouldn't Dick try his luck in another country? There's nothing for him here."
"What are you going to say?"
"I can't tell till I see father, and know what mood he is in. He has always abused Dick; but he always liked him. Dick was the only one who could speak out straight and defy him, and he appreciated it."
"I am helpless," cried the rector, throwing up his hands and turning away. "I know the path I should follow, but it is barred, and the way I am traveling is accursed."
"Then I must act alone, John. Good-bye. To-day must decide everything. John, won't you kiss me--won't you say good-bye?"
He still turned his back upon her, more in sorrow than in anger. She placed her gloved hand upon his shoulder appealingly, and turned a woe-begone face.
"It will all come right, John."
He sighed, and embraced her like the broken man he was, and she left him alone with his conscience.
And what a terrible companion that conscience had become! At times, it was a white-robed angel beckoning him, at others a red imp deriding in exultation, tormenting, wounding, maddening.
On the way to Asherton Hall, Mrs. Swinton framed a hundred speeches, and went through imaginary altercations. By the time she arrived, she was keyed up to a dangerous pitch of excitement, verging on hysteria. Nobody saw her coming and she entered the house through the eastern conservatory.
Herresford was back in the old bedroom, and Trimmer was there, superintending the removal of the breakfast things. The daughter, treading lightly, walked into the room, unannounced.
The old man looked up from his pillows, and started as if terrified.
"She's here again, Trimmer--she's here again," he whined.
Trimmer was no less surprised.
"Trimmer, you can leave us," cried Mary, whose eyes were glistening with an unusual light. There was a red patch in her cheeks, the lips were hard set, and her hands were working nervously in her muff. "I wish to speak to my father privately."
"If Mr. Herresford wishes--"
"I wish it. Please leave us!"
"Don't go! Don't go, Trimmer!" cried the miser extending one hand helplessly. "Raise me, Trimmer. Don't let her touch me."
Trimmer obeyed his master, ignoring Mrs. Swinton, and lifted the old bag of bones with a jerk that seemed to rattle it. He placed an especially large velvet-covered cushion behind the invalid's back, straightened the skull-cap so that the tassel should not fall over the eye; then, assuming a stony expression of face, turned to go.
Herresford mumbled and appealed until the door was closed; then, he seemed to recover his courage and his tongue.
"So, you're here again," he snapped. "What is it now--what is it now? Am I never to have peace?"
"I have strange news. Dick is alive."
"Not dead, eh! Humph! That does not surprise me. I expected as much. No man is dead in a war until his body is buried. So, he's come back, has he?"
"Yes, and that is why I'm here. The bank people will have him arrested."
There was a pause, which the miser ended by a fit of chuckling and choking laughter that maddened her.
"This is no laughing matter, father. Can't you see what the position is?"
"Oh, yes, it's a pretty position--quite a dramatic situation. Boy dead, shamefully accused; boy alive, and to be arrested for his mother's crime."
"Father, I've thought it all out. There is only one thing to do, and you must do it. You must pay that money to the bank, and compel them to abandon the prosecution by declaring that you made a mistake about the checks--that you really did authorize them."
"Add lie to lie, I suppose; and, according to your method of moral arithmetic, make two wrongs into one right. So, you want to drag me into it?"
"Father, if you have any natural feeling toward Dick--I don't ask you to think of me--you'll set this matter straight by satisfying the bank people."
"The bank people don't want to be satisfied. They've paid me my money--there's an end to it. You must appeal to Ormsby."
"But Ormsby hates Dick. He is marrying the woman Dick loves."
"And who is that, pray?" cried the old man, starting up and snapping his words out like pistol shots.
"Why, Dora Dundas, of course."
"Who's she?"
"The only daughter of Colonel Dundas, a wealthy man. His wealth, I suppose, attracted Ormsby. He will show Dick no mercy. You've met Colonel Dundas. You ought to remember him."
"Oh! the fool who writes to the papers about the war. I know him. What's the girl like? Is she as great an idiot as her father?"
"You've seen her. I brought her here with me one afternoon to see the gardens, and she came up and had tea with you. Don't you remember--about two years ago?"
The old man fingered the tassel of his cap, and chewed it meditatively for a few moments.
"I remember," he said, at last. "So, she's going to marry Ormsby, because Dick is supposed to be dead--and disgraced. Well, a sensible girl. Ormsby is rich. She knew that Dick would have money, lots of it, at my death; and, when she couldn't have him, she chose the next best man, the banker's son. Sensible girl, Dora Dundas. The question is--what's Dick going to do?"
"Father, Dick has behaved nobly, but unfortunately he is ill at home; and at any moment may be arrested. That's why I want to be prepared to prevent it. He talks of going abroad--emigrating--when he's strong enough."
"What!" screamed the old man, in astonishment. "He's not going to stand up for his honor, my honor, the honor of the family? What's he made of?"
"Father, father, can't you understand? If he speaks, he denounces me, his mother. Am I not one of the family? Think what my position is. It was as much for his sake as for John's that I took the money. You wouldn't save us from ruin. I was driven to desperation, you know I was. It was your fault, and you must do what is in your power to avert the threatened disgrace. Father, the bank people cannot possibly prosecute, if you pay them the seven thousand dollars. I will repay it out of my allowance in instalments."
There was silence for a few moments, during which the old man surveyed the situation with a clear mental vision, superior to that of his daughter.
"And you think Ormsby is going to compound a felony, and at the same time bring back to the neighborhood a young man in love with his future wife?"
"If I confessed everything, father, do you think that Ormsby would spare me, Dick's mother! Oh, it's all a horrible tangle. It's driving me mad!"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled the old man. "You're beginning to use your brain a little. You're beginning to realize the value of money--and you don't like it. Well, you can unravel your own tangle. Don't come to me."
The sight of her distress seemed to whet his appetite for cruelty. He rubbed salt into the open wounds with zest.
"Get your sky-pilot to help you out of it. I won't. Not a penny do I pay. Seven thousand dollars!"
"Father, a hundred thousand could not make any difference to you," she cried. "You must let me have the money. Take it out of my mother's allowance."
"What allowance? Who told you anything about any allowance?"
"Father, you're an old man, and your memory is failing you. You know, I'm entitled to an allowance from my mother's money. You don't mean to say you're going to stop that?"
"Who's stopping your allowance? Trimmer! Trimmer!" he cried.
Something in his manner--a look--a guilty terror in his eyes, made itself apparent to the woman. The reference to her mother frightened him. She saw behind the veil--but indistinctly.
It had always been a sore point that her father conceded only an allowance of a few thousands a year, whereas her mother had brought him an income of many thousands. Mrs. Herresford had always given her daughter to understand that wealth would revert to her, but, as the girl was too young to understand money matters at the time of her mother's death, she had been entirely at the mercy of her father.
In her present despair, she was ready to seize any floating straw. The idea came to her that she might have some unexpected reversionary interest in her mother's money, on which she could raise something.
Trimmer put an end to the interview by answering his master's call. The miser was gesticulating and mumbling, and frantically motioning his daughter to leave the room.
"She wants to rob me!--she wants to rob me!" This was all that she understood of his raving.
"It is useless to talk to him now, Mrs. Swinton," said Trimmer, with a suggestive glance toward the door.
She departed without another word, full of a new idea. Her position was such that only a lawyer could help her; and she was resolved to have legal advice. It was a forlorn hope, but one not to be despised; and there was not a moment to lose. As if by an inspiration, she remembered the name of a lawyer who used to be her mother's adviser--a Mr. Jevons, who used to come to Asherton Hall before her mother died, and afterward quarreled with Herresford. This was the man to advise her. He would be sure to know the truth about the private fortune of Mrs. Herresford, which the husband had absorbed after his wife's death. _