"The bank people thought that d.i.c.k 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.
"John, John, you must see that I"m right. Think of Netty. We have a child who lives. d.i.c.k is dead. How does it matter what they say about d.i.c.k"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--"
"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 d.i.c.k 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 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.dly 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k."
"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?"
"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 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 d.i.c.k"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 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 d.i.c.k"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 d.i.c.k. 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a--forger."