"Shall be home to-morrow. Wife."
The rector was hourly growing uneasy, when he found that neither Dora nor d.i.c.k could give him any definite news concerning his wife"s return: but, when her telegram was placed in his trembling hand, he was unable to open it. He pa.s.sed it dumbly to d.i.c.k in piteous helplessness, who, after a hasty glance at the message, read it aloud cheerily, and with a splendid affectation of inconsequence, as though his mother"s return was a matter of course, and not an occasion for wonderment.
Then, at last, the rector"s tongue was let loose. He talked incessantly on trivialities, and fussed about the house, vainly imagining that no one noticed his delight and excitement. He visited his wife"s room, and ordered every conceivable comfort that his agitated mind could suggest.
Everything was to be arranged exactly as it had been before Mrs. Swinton went away, so that she could see no difference. The home had really undergone little change, yet the rector was not satisfied until every vase and cushion, plant, and book was as he remembered it.
d.i.c.k and Dora were in high glee at the success of their ruse, while Netty took to herself the sole credit of the idea. Dora went home from the rectory in the best of spirits. The colonel had fretted and fumed at her prolonged absence, for he missed her sorely, and was very glad of her return.
There came a sound of wheels on the rectory drive. d.i.c.k hurried upstairs, and the servants were nowhere to be seen. Everybody understood that the meeting between husband and wife was a thing too sacred for other eyes, and all disappeared as if by mutual consent. The rector"s heart almost failed him as he stepped toward the carriage. He was bareheaded, and his face was wan and thin in the strong light. When his eyes fell upon the beautiful woman, his expression changed. It was he who was strong now, the wife who faltered. As his fingers closed upon hers, she broke down, and with a helpless sob dropped into his arms.
He held her to his breast for a full minute. Then, at last, when she was able to hold him at arm"s length and look with anxious eyes into his stricken, careworn face, she read there the story of his sorrow and anguish. It was now her turn to lavish tenderness.
"Oh, my poor John, my poor John!" she cried, as together they pa.s.sed into the porch, leaving the cabman looking after them, wondering where his fare was coming from. Then Rudd appeared--from nowhere--and slipped the fare into the man"s hand. Rudd had caught the excitement of the household, and his face was beaming.
"Was that mother?" cried d.i.c.k from an upper window, in a loud whisper.
"Yes, sir, it"s herself right enough."
d.i.c.k nodded and disappeared. He was impatient enough to go down, but held himself in check, leaving his father and mother to enjoy uninterrupted communion.
It was a long time before Mary"s musical voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, asking, "Where"s d.i.c.k?"
"I"m here, mother, and as lively as a cricket."
This was not strictly correct, for he came downstairs very gingerly, and obviously relied on the banisters for support. He gave his mother a hearty hug, and, in reply to her questions concerning the whereabouts of Netty, explained that the daughter of the house had gone out in a state of agitation and tears, not stating her destination.
By a curious coincidence, the first visitor to arrive at the house after the return of Mrs. Swinton was one of d.i.c.k"s unpaid creditors, the very man who had threatened to have him arrested on the eve of his departure for the war. A small balance of the debt still remained unliquidated. But the mother was quite equal to the situation. She laughed gaily, like her old self, and went to the study check-book in hand to wipe out the last of the blots on the old life, with an easy conscience, knowing that the balance at the bank would never more be an uncertain quant.i.ty.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII
THE SCARLET FEATHER
Netty entered the room presently, and greeted her mother with a warmth of emotion beyond the usual. d.i.c.k took advantage of her coming to excuse himself for a little while. He had promised Dora immediate information concerning his mother"s coming, and he was now all eagerness to tell her of the new happiness in his home. He had telephoned for a hansom, and the drive through the Park to the colonel"s was quickly accomplished. Soon, the girl he loved was a sharer in his joy over the reunion of father and mother.
After a time, there came a lapse into silence, when the first subject had been gone over with fond thoroughness. It was broken by Dora:
"Do you know, d.i.c.k," she remarked, "that I shall be hard put to it to live up to you? You are such a hero!"
"Pooh! Nonsense!" the lover exclaimed, in much confusion.
But Dora shook her head, solemnly.
"It is a fact," she declared, "and all the world knows it. If I didn"t love you to distraction, I could never endure the way in which father raves about you. And he says, your brother officers are to give a dinner in your honor, and--"
"Good heavens!" d.i.c.k muttered, in consternation.
"--and they are going to club on a silver service for a wedding present.
Isn"t that lovely?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," d.i.c.k conceded. "But just think--if they should expect me to make a speech at the dinner! Good lord!"
Dora opened her clear, gray eyes wide:
"Why, d.i.c.k!" she remonstrated. "You don"t mean to tell me that you would show the white feather, just at the idea of making some response to a toast in your honor?"
"I never made a speech in my life," the lover answered, shamefacedly; "and I am frightened nearly out of my wits at the bare idea of being called on.... But you spoke of the white feather, dearest. I never told you that my miserable enemy, Ormsby, sent me one."
"What? He dared?" Dora sat erect, and her eyes flashed in a sudden wrath.
"Tell me about it, d.i.c.k."
The story was soon related, and the girl"s indignation against his whilom rival filled him with delight.
"The odd thing about it all was," he went on, "that I carried that white feather with me. I had a feeling, somehow, that it would serve as a talisman. And, perhaps, it did. Anyhow, I lived through the experience.
One thing I know for a certainty. While my memory of the white feather lasted, I could never be a coward of the sort Ormsby meant."
"Oh, d.i.c.k," Dora cried, "have you the feather still?"
"Yes, indeed," was the smiling answer. "You see, I got into the habit of keeping it by me."
"But you haven"t it with you, now?" The girl"s eyes were very wistful. To her imagination, there was a potent charm in this lying symbol, which had been the companion of the man whom she adored.
"Oh, yes, I have it," d.i.c.k replied, carelessly. He reached a hand into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and brought forth the feather, which he held out to the girl.
She accepted it reverently, but an expression of dissatisfaction showed on her face.
"It--it isn"t exactly a white feather now," she suggested. "It is really quite shockingly dirty. But I shall have it cleaned, and then set in a case or a frame of gold, decorated with--"
d.i.c.k interrupted, somewhat indignantly.
"You can"t expect a man living for months in the way I did to keep a white feather immaculate. And, anyhow, it is not so very dirty. Besides, I couldn"t help the blood--could I?"
"The blood!" Dora exclaimed, startled, and her face whitened. "What blood, d.i.c.k?"
"Mine. You see, it lay right alongside the place where that bullet sc.r.a.ped my side."
"Your blood!" The girl"s face was wonderfully alight. "And I said that I would have it cleaned. Why, the idea seems sacrilege! No, this feather shall never be cleaned from those precious stains, sweetheart. The white feather--and now it is scarlet with the blood of my hero. Ah, this scarlet feather shall be set in purest gold, and bordered with jewels. It shall be a shrine for my worship, d.i.c.k. And--"
The lover, who had taken her into his arms, bent his head suddenly, and kissed her to silence.
THE END
A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP"S