THE CHECK
On the following morning, after breakfasting in her own room, Mrs.
Swinton came downstairs, to find the house seemingly empty. She was not
sorry to be left alone, for she was feeling out of sorts with all the
world. In the bright daylight, she looked a little older; her fair skin
showed somewhat faded and wan. She was nervously irritable just now, for
last night she had lost three hundred dollars at bridge. The
embarrassment over money filled her with wretchedness. There remained no
resource save to appeal to her father for the amount needed.
She strolled out with the intention of ordering Rudd to bring around the
carriage; but, as she stepped upon the porch, she stopped short at sight
of a man who was sprawled in a chair there, smoking a pipe.
"What is it you want?" she demanded haughtily, annoyed by the fellow's
obvious lack of deference, for he had not risen or taken the pipe from
his mouth.
"I've explained to the gent, ma'am, and he's gone out to get the money,"
was the prompt answer.
"You mean, my husband?"
"Yes, the parson, ma'am. I come to levy--execution. You understand,
ma'am."
Further questions dried up in her throat. The humiliation was too great
to allow parley. Such an advent as this had been threatened jestingly
many times. But the one actual visit of a like sort in the past had been
kept a secret from her. Now, in the face of the catastrophe, she felt
herself overwhelmed. Nevertheless, the necessity for instant action was
imperative.
She went back into the house, and rang for her maid to take the message
to Rudd. Then, she dressed hurriedly for the ride to her father's house.
Her hands were trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks. At
intervals, she muttered in rage against her father, whom at this moment
she positively hated.
For that matter, old Herresford, by reason of his unscrupulous operations
in augmenting his enormous fortune, was one of the most cordially hated
men in the country. Of late years, however, he had abandoned aggressive
undertakings, and rested content with the wealth he had already acquired.
Invalidism had been the cause of this change. The result of it had been
to develop certain miserly instincts in the man until they became the
dominant force of his life. By reason of this stinginess, his daughter
was made to suffer so much that she abominated her father. It was a long
time now since he had ceased to be a familiar figure in the world. For
some years, he had been confined to his bedchamber at Asherton Hall, his
magnificent estate on the Hudson. There, from a window, he could survey a
great part of his gardens, and watch his gardeners at their labors. With
a pair of field-glasses, he could search every wooded knoll of the park
for a half-mile to the river, in the hope of catching some fellow idling,
whom he could dismiss. In his senseless economies, he had discharged
servant after servant, until now his stately house was woefully ill-kept,
and even his favorite gardens were undermanned.
On this morning of his daughter's meeting with the sheriff's officer, he
was sitting up in his carved ebony bedstead. A black skull-cap was drawn
over his little head, and the long, white hair fell to his shoulders,
where it curled up at the ends. His sunken eyes gleamed like a hawk's,
and his dry, parchment skin was stretched tightly over the prominent
bones. His nose was hooked, and his lips sunken over toothless gums--for
he would not afford false teeth. His hands were as small as a woman's,
but claw-like.
On a round table by his bed stood the field-glasses with which he watched
his gardeners, and woe betide man who permitted a single leaf to lie on
the perfect lawns, which stretched away on the plateau before the
house.
The chamber in which the bed was set was lofty and bare. A few costly
rugs were scattered on the highly-polished floor, and the general effect
was funereal, for the ebony bedstead had a French canopy of black satin
embroidered with gold. By the window stood his writing-desk, at which his
steward and his secretary sat when they had business with him; and on the
table by the window in the bay, was a bowl of flowers, the only bright
spot of color in the room.
His daughter came unannounced, as she always did. He was warned of her
approach by the frou-frou of her silk, an evidence of refined femininity
that for a long time past had been absent from Asherton Hall. The old man
grunted at the sound, and stared straight ahead out of the window. He did
not turn until she stood by his bedside, and placed her gloved hand upon
his cold, bony fingers.
"Father, I have come to see you."
She kissed him on the brow, and his eyes darted an upward look, keen and
penetrating as an eagle's.
"Then you want something. The usual?"
"Yes, father--money."
This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but
each time with a bitterer spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The
result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser's hand tightened
upon his gold.
She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During
occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was
cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of
wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that
it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened
that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his
grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young
scamp.
"How much is it now?" asked the miser.
"A large sum, father," faltered Mrs. Swinton. "A thousand dollars! You
know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the
Mission Hall."
"What!" screamed the old man, in horror. "A thousand dollars! It's a
lie."
"You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a
long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had
given--"
"Like his insolence."
"And you promised a thousand dollars."
"A thousand? Nothing of the sort," snarled the miser, scratching the
coverlet with hooked fingers--always a sign of irritation with him. "I
said one, not one thousand."
She knew all his tricks. To avoid payment, he would always promise
generously; but, when it came to drawing a check, he whiningly protested
that five hundred was five, three hundred three, and so on.
"This time, father, it is very urgent. John is in a tight fix. Misfortune
has been assailing him right and left, and he is nearly bankrupt."
"Ha, ha! Serve him right," chuckled the old man. The words positively
rattled in his throat. "I always told you he was a fool. I told you, but
you wouldn't listen to me. You insisted upon marrying a sky pilot. Apply
up there for help." He pointed to the ceiling.
"Father, father, be reasonable. There is a man at our house--a sheriff's
officer. Think of it!"
"Aha, has it come to that!" laughed the miser. "Now, he will wake up.
Now, we shall see!"
"Not only that, father. Dick may go away."
"What, fleeing from justice?"
"No, no, father. He is going to volunteer for service in the war."
She commenced to give him details, but he hushed her down. "How
much?--How much?" he asked, insultingly. "I told you before that you
have no justification for regarding your son as my heir. Who told you
that I was going to leave him a penny? He's a pauper, and dependent upon
his father, not upon me. I owe him nothing."
"Oh, father, father, it is expected of you."
"How much?" snapped the old man.
"Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my
allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars."
"What!" he screamed. "Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my
check-book--get me my check-book."
He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey,
thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the
desk, and placed it on her father's knees, and brought an inkstand and a
pen, which she put into his trembling fingers.
"Two thousand, father," she said, gently.
"No--two!" he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in
his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her,
tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word "Two" on the long line.
"Two. Do you understand?" he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face,
as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. "That's all you'll get out
of me." He filled in the figure two below, and straggling noughts for
the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his
remarks with the end of the penholder.
"I'll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and
begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing
it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little
legacy I leave you at my death."
She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing
to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he
would be more rational.
She replaced the blotting-pad, and dried the check in mechanical fashion;
but her face was white with anger. She folded the useless slip, and put
it in her bag.
"Have you no gratitude?" cried the old horror from the bed. "Can't you
say, thank you?"
"Thank you, father," she answered, coldly; "I am tired of your jests,"
and, without another word, she swept from the room.
"Two!" chuckled the old man in his throat, "two!"
On arriving at the rectory, she found the man reading a paper in the
hall, and the rector not yet returned. She guessed that her husband had
gone on a heart-breaking expedition to raise money. She wished to ask the
fellow the amount of the debt for which the execution was granted, but
could not bring herself to put the question. She went to her husband's
study, guessing that he would come there on his return, and, seating
herself in his armchair, leaned her elbows on the account-books and burst
into tears.
After all, how little John had gained by marrying her! She could do
nothing for him; she was powerless even to help her own son, who was
compelled to adopt miserable subterfuges and swallow his pride on every
occasion. She opened her purse and took out the check, intending to
destroy it in her rage, but she was stopped by the miserable thought
that, after all, every penny was of vital importance just now. She could
not afford the luxury of its destruction.
"My own father!" she cried bitterly, as she spread out the check before
her. "Two dollars!"
Then, she noticed that the word "two" had nothing after it on the long
line, and that the "2" below in the square for the numerals was
straggling toward the left. It only needed a couple of noughts in her
father's hand to put everything right. Two ciphers! They would indeed be
ciphers to him, for how could he feel the difference of a few thousands
more or less in his immense banking-account? A bedridden old man had no
use for money. Indeed, it was impossible that he could know how much he
was worth. She had often seen him signing checks by the dozen, groaning
over every one. When they were gone, they were out of his mind; and all
he troubled about was to ask for the total at the bank, and mumble with
satisfaction over the fine, fat figures of the balance.
Her face lighted up with a sudden reckless thought.
If she added those two ciphers herself with an old, spluttering pen, and
added the word "thousand" after the "two," who would be the wiser?
Certainly not her father. And the bank would pay without a murmur. She
seized a pen, prepared to act upon the impulse, then paused. She knew
vaguely that it was a wrong thing to do. But--her own father! Indeed, her
own money--for some of his wealth would be hers one day, and that day not
very far distant. It was ridiculous to have scruples at such a time.
She cleverly filled in the words in a shaky hand, and added the two
ciphers. She let the ink dry, and then surveyed her handiwork.
How her husband's face would light up when she told him of their good
fortune. Two thousand dollars! No, she could not imagine herself facing
the rector's gray eyes, and telling him an awful lie. It was bad enough
to alter the check. She had heard of people who had been put in prison
for altering checks!
Dick would take the check to the bank for her, so that she need not face
any inquisitive, staring clerks; and, when it was exchanged for notes,
she would be able to get rid of the loathly creature sitting in the
hall.
* * * * *
"Who presented this check?"
Vivian Ormsby, son of the banker, sat in his private room at Ormsby's
Bank, examining a check for two thousand dollars, and a cashier stood at
his side. Vivian Ormsby had just looked in at the bank for a few minutes,
and he was in a hurry.
"Young Mr. Swinton presented it, sir," the cashier explained.
Vivian Ormsby's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the check more closely.
"Leave it with me," he commanded, "and count out the notes."
As soon as he was alone, he went to a cupboard and took out a magnifying
glass.
"Ye gods! Forgery! Made out to his mother--and yet--the signature seems
all right. Of course, the alteration might have been made in Herresford's
presence. The simplest thing would be to apply to the old man himself. If
the young bounder has altered the figures--well, if he has--then let it
go through. It will be a matter for us then, not for Herresford, who
wouldn't part with a cent to save his own, much less his daughter's,
child." Vivian Ormsby had special reasons for hating Dick Swinton just
now, not unconnected with a certain Dora Dundas.
Yet, he sent for his cashier, and handed him the check.
"Pay it," he directed.
Through a glass panel in his room, the banker's son watched the departure
of Dick Swinton with considerable satisfaction. Dick was a fine, handsome
young fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and looking twenty-five at least
instead of his twenty-two years, with a kindly face, like his father's,
brown hair, hazel eyes, and a clean-shaven, sensitive mouth more suited
to a girl than to a man. Now, Ormsby smiled sardonically at the
unconscious swagger of the young man, and he wondered, too. Indeed, he
had more than a suspicion about that check. Everybody knew of his rival's
heavy debts, but that he should put his head into the lion's mouth was
amazing. Forgery!
How easy it would be to discover the fraud presently--when the money was
spent, and ere the woman was won. Not now, but presently.