DEBTS
Vivian Ormsby smarted under the blow given him by Dick at the dinner, and
burned to avenge the affront. He tingled with impatience to get another
look at the dubious check which promised such unexceptional possibilities
of retaliation if, as he suspected and hoped, it was a forgery. Dick
Swinton, publicly denounced as a felon, could not possibly hold up his
head again; and as a rival in love he would be remorselessly wiped out.
The young upstart should learn the penalty of striking an Ormsby.
The captain was a familiar figure at the bank, which belonged almost
entirely to his father and himself, and he had his private room there,
where he appeared at intervals. Now, Ormsby sat at his desk in the
manager's room. He rang the bell and ordered the check to be brought to
him once more. Then, he asked for Herresford's pass-book, and any checks
in the old man's handwriting that were available. He displayed renewed
eagerness in comparing the handwriting in the body of the check with
others of a recent date. The result of his scrutiny was evidently
interesting, as with his magnifying glass he once more examined every
stroke made by Mrs. Swinton's spluttering pen.
The color of the ink used by the forger was not the same as that in the
signature. It had darkened perceptibly and swiftly. An undoubted
forgery!
It was beyond imagination that Mrs. Swinton, the wife of the rector,
could stoop to a fraud. Surely, only a man would write heavily and
thickly like that. It was a clumsy alteration.
Dick Swinton had tampered with his grandfather's figures. Well, what
then? Would the old man thank his banker for making an accusation of
criminality against his grandson? Herresford might be a mean man, but the
honor of his name was doubtless dear to him.
What would come of a public trial? Obviously, Dick Swinton would be
disinherited and disgraced. The banker knew that it was his duty to
proceed at once, if he detected a fraud. But it was not the way of Mr.
Vivian Ormsby to act in haste--and it was near the hour for luncheon, to
which he had been invited by Colonel Dundas. To-morrow, he could, if
advisable, openly discover flaws in the check, and it would then be
better if action were taken by his manager, and not by himself.
Dora had been very sweet and kind to him--before Dick came along. Vivian
had gone so far as to consult his father about a proposal of marriage to
the rich colonel's daughter. They were cautious people, the Ormsbys, and
made calculations in their love-affairs as in their bank-books. The old
banker approved, and Vivian had hoped that Dora would accept him before
he went away. He knew that Dick Swinton stood in his path; but, if he
could drag his rival down, it was surely fair and honorable to do so
before Dora could commit herself to any sentimental relationship with a
criminal.
Ormsby took the chauffeur's seat in his waiting automobile, and drove as
fast as the traffic would permit, for he feared lest he might be late.
His pace in the upper part of Fifth avenue was far beyond anything the
law permitted. As he reached Eighty-eighth street, in which was Colonel
Dundas's house, he hardly slackened speed as he swung around the corner.
And there, just before him, a group of children playing stretched across
the street. Instantly, Ormsby applied the emergency brake. The huge
machine jarred abruptly to a standstill--so abruptly that both Ormsby and
his chauffeur in the seat beside him were hurled out. The chauffeur
scrambled to his feet after a moment, for he had escaped serious injury,
but the banker lay white and motionless on the pavement before Colonel
Dundas's door.
When the physician was asked to give his opinion some time later, he
expressed a belief that the patient would live, but he certainly would
not go to the war. In the meantime, he could not be moved. He must remain
where he was--in Dora's tender care.
And Dick was going to the war!
* * * * *
The bright morning sunlight was streaming in at the window of the
rector's study, sunlight which pitilessly showed up patches of
obliterated pattern in the carpet and sorry signs of wear in the leather
chairs. A glorious morning; one of those rare days which go to make the
magic of spring; a day when all the golden notes in the landscape become
articulate as they vibrate to the caress of the soft, warm air.
The rector was only dimly conscious of its rare beauty; for his face was
troubled as he paced his study, with head bent and hands behind his back.
Between his fingers was a letter which had sent the blood of shame
tingling to the roots of his hair, a letter that would also hurt his
wife--and this meant a great deal to John Swinton. He was an emotional,
demonstrative man, who loved his wife with all the force of his nature,
and he would have gone through fire and water for her dear sake, asking
no higher reward than a smile of gratitude.
The trouble was once more money--the bitterness of poverty, fresh-edged
and keen. He must again, as always, appeal to his wife for help, and she
would have to beg again from her father. The knowledge maddened him, for
he had endured all that a man may endure at the hands of Herresford.
The letter was short and emphatic:
SIR, I am requested by my client, Mr. Isaac Russ, to inform you
that if your son attempts to leave the state before his obligations
to my client ($750.00) are paid in full, he will be arrested.
Yours truly,
WILLIAM WISE.
This was not the only trouble that the post had brought. On the table lay
a communication from his bishop, a kindly, earnest letter from man to
man, warning him that he must immediately settle with a certain
stockbroker, who had lodged a complaint against him, or run the risk of a
public prosecution, which would mean ruin.
In his various troubles, he had almost forgotten the stockbroker to whom
he gave orders to purchase shares weeks ago, orders faithfully carried
out. The shares were now his, but a turn of the market had made them
quite worthless. Nevertheless, they must be paid for.
He sighed heavily as he pocketed the bishop's letter. His affairs were in
a more hopeless tangle than he had imagined. Seven hundred and fifty for
Dick, and a thousand for the broker--seventeen hundred and fifty dollars
more to be raised at once; and the two thousand just received from
Herresford all gone.
Netty entered the room at the moment.
"Ah, here you are, father!" she cried, going over to the hearthrug and
dropping down before the fire. "Why didn't you come in to breakfast?
Didn't you hear the gong? Dick went off at eight, and I've had to feed
all alone. The bacon is cold by now, I expect; but go and have some. I'll
wait here for you. I've got something to tell you."
"I don't want any breakfast, my child. I want to have a talk with you.
It's a long time since we had a chat, Netty. You're getting almost as
much a social personage as your mother. Very soon, there'll be no one to
keep the house warm, except the old man."
"You mustn't call yourself old. You're not even respectably middle-aged.
But what do you want to talk to me about?"
"Money, my dear, money."
"Money! Oh, dear! no--nothing so horrid. This is a red-letter day for me;
and, when you talk about money, it turns everything gray."
"Yes, yes, I know it's not a pleasant subject; but, you see, we must talk
about it, sometimes. You've been attending to the house-keeping lately,
and I want you to try and cut down the expenses. I've had bad news this
morning, news which I shall have to worry your mother about. By the way,
what is she doing now?"
"I hope she's asleep. You mustn't worry her, you really mustn't. She's
had a dreadful night, and her head's awful--and you mustn't worry me. The
house-keeping is all right. It worried me, I hate it so. Jane's doing it,
and she's more than careful--she's mean. And, now, my news. Can't you
guess it? No, you'll never guess. Look!" the girl held out her hand.
"And what am I to look at?"
"Can't you see?--the ring! It's been in his family hundreds of years; but
it's nothing compared to the other jewels; they are magnificent, worth a
king's ransom. Why don't you say something--something nice and pretty and
appropriate? You know you can make awfully nice speeches when you like,
father--and I'm waiting for congratulations."
"Congratulations on having received a present? And who gave it to my
Persian?" asked the rector, absently.
"Who gave it to me? It's my engagement ring. Harry and I settled
everything last night."
"Harry?"
"I'm going to marry Harry Bent. You surely must have expected it. That's
why you are not to talk about anything unpleasant or ugly to-day. If you
do, it'll make me wretched, and I don't want to be wretched. I'm going
to have a lovely time for always and always."
"God grant it," murmured the rector, with fervor; "but don't forget that
life has its responsibilities and its dull patches; don't expect too
much, my little girl. The rosy dawn doesn't always maintain its promise.
But we mustn't begin the Sunday sermon to-day, eh, Persian? And now, run
away, for I must be quiet to think over what you have told me. It's a
surprise, dear child, but, if it means your happiness, it's a glad
surprise. By-the-bye, you're quite sure you're in love, little girl?"
"Silly old daddy, of course I am. He's an awfully good boy, and, when his
uncle dies, he'll be immensely rich. It's a splendid match, and you ought
to be very pleased about it. Ah, here's mother!" she cried, scrambling to
her feet as Mrs. Swinton, dressed for driving in a perfect costume of
blue, entered the study. "Now, you can both talk about it instead of your
horrid money," and, throwing a kiss lightly to her father, she tripped
out of the room.
"You don't look well, Mary," exclaimed the rector anxiously, as his wife
sank down into a chair by the fire. "Another headache?" He rested his
hand lovingly on her shoulder. "You are overdoing it, dearest. You must
slow down and live the normal, dull life of a clergyman's wife."
"Don't, Jack, don't! I'm frightfully worried. What was it you and Netty
were talking about?"
"Ah, what indeed! The child tells me she is engaged to Harry Bent, and
that you know all about it."
"Yes. I've seen that he wanted her for months past; and she likes him,
after a fashion. She'll never marry for love--never love anybody better
than herself, I fear; and, since he's quite willing to give more than he
receives, I see nothing against their engagement, except--except our
dreadful financial position."
Mrs. Swinton spoke wearily. "We will discuss Netty later," she continued,
"for I have something of the utmost importance to talk over with you. I
must have a thousand dollars by Friday, and, if you haven't sent off that
check to the builder of the Mission Hall, you must let it stand over. No,
no, don't shake your head like that. I only want the money for a day or
so, until I can see father, and get another check from him. But, in the
meantime, I must have the money. It means dreadful trouble, if I can't
have it."
"Mary, Mary, what are you saying! I can't let you have the money. I sent
it away two days ago. I was afraid to hold it. Your plight can't be worse
than mine, Mary," he groaned. "God help me, I didn't mean to tell you,
but perhaps it's best, after all, that you should know everything--for
it will make the parting with Dick less hard."
"With Dick? What has your trouble got to do with Dick? Tell me
quickly--tell me," and her voice dropped to a sobbing whisper. She was
terribly overwrought, and ready to expect anything.
"I've had a letter threatening his arrest."
"Arrest!" she cried, starting up. Her voice was a chord of fear.
"A money-lender intends to arrest him, if he attempts to leave the
state--that is, unless I'm prepared to pay a debt of seven hundred and
fifty dollars. I," added the rector, in a broken voice, "a man without a
penny in the world--a spendthrift, a muddler, a borrower, a man dependent
upon the bounty of others."
"Hush, John, hush!" cried his wife, coming closer to him. "You are not to
blame. Your life is one long sacrifice to others. It is I who am
wrong--oh! so wrong! But it shall all be different soon. I will stand by
you and help you. No one shall be able to say that you work alone in the
future. I'll live your life, dear. Only let us get out of this awful
tangle, and all will be right. I'll go to father again, and tell him just
how things stand; and, if he won't give me the money, he shall lend it to
me. It will be ours some day. It is ours--it ought to be ours. He can't
refuse--he shall not!"
She turned to pace the room feverishly for a few moments, then, going
over to her husband again, she linked her arm affectionately in his. "It
will be all right. Our luck must surely change, John. I feel it in my
bones--not that there is any sign of it to-day. How can they arrest Dick
if he goes to the war?"
"Oh! It's some legal technicality. I don't understand it. I've heard of
it before. Some judgment has been given against him, and the money-lender
has power to make him pay with the first cash he gets, or something of
that kind. They've found out that he's been paying other people, I
suppose."
"Arrest him! What insolence! As if we hadn't enough trouble of our own
without Dick's affairs crippling us at such a time. He absolutely must
go--especially after the things that cad Ormsby insinuated."
"But how about your own trouble, darling? Why must you have a thousand
dollars?"
"Well, it's an awful matter. You see, I have rather a big bill with a
dressmaker, and I wanted some more new frocks for the Ocklebournes'
parties. She has refused to give me any more credit without security, so
I left some jewelry with her--old-fashioned stuff that I never wear."
"But, my darling, that was practically raising money on heirlooms. Your
father distinctly warned you that the jewels were only lent. They are
his, not yours."
"John, how can you side with father in that way? They are mine, of course
they are. I'm not pawning them. They are just security, that's all."
"It is the same thing, dear one. You certainly ought to get them back."
"It isn't a question of getting them back, John. The woman threatens to
sell them, unless I can let her have a thousand dollars."
"Such a sum is out of the question. You must persuade the woman to
wait."
"That is why I was going up to town to-day. But my debt far exceeds that
sum."
"By how much?"
The rector rarely demanded any details of his wife's money-affairs, or
troubled how she spent her private income. But the time for ceremony was
past. There was a haggard perplexity in his look, and an expression of
fear in his eyes.
"Nearly two thousand, John."
"For dresses--only dresses?"
With a sigh, the rector dropped into his chair. After a moment's
despondency, he commenced to make calculations on his blotting-pad, while
Mary stood looking out of the window, crying a little and shaping a new
resolve. It was useless to go to her dressmaker with empty hands, and the
everlasting cry for money could only be silenced by the one person who
held it all--her father.
Once more, rage against him surged up in her heart, and she relieved her
pent-up feelings in the usual way.
"Oh, it is shameful, shameful! Father is to blame--father! He's driving
us to ruin. There's nothing too bad one can say about him. He deserves to
be robbed of his miserly hoard."
"Hush, hush, dearest," murmured the rector; "your father's money is his
own, not ours. If he were to find out that you had pledged your jewels,
there's no knowing what he might not do."
"Do! What could he do?" she replied, with a mirthless laugh. "A man can't
prosecute his own child."
"Some men can, and do. Your father is just the sort to outrage all family
sentiment, and defy public opinion."
"You don't think that!" she cried, turning around on him very suddenly,
with a terrified look in her eyes.
They were interrupted by a tap at the door.
"A gentleman to see you, sir; at least, sir, to see Mr. Dick." The
manservant's manner was halting and embarrassed.
"What does he want with Mr. Dick?"
"Well, sir, he says--"
"Well, what does he say?"
The man looked at his master and mistress hesitatingly, as though he
would rather not speak. "He says, sir--"
"Well?"
"That he has come to arrest him--but he would like to see you first."
"There must be some mistake. Send him in."
A thick-set, burly, bearded man entered, hat in hand, bowed curtly to the
rector, and endeavored to bow more ceremoniously to Mrs. Swinton, who
stood glaring at him in fear.
"Why have you come?" asked the rector.
"Well, there's a warrant. It has been reported he was going to skip."
"Why have you come so soon? I only received Wise's letter this morning."
"It was sent the day before yesterday."
The rector picked up the letter, and found that it was dated two days
ago.
"There was evidently a delay in transmission. What are we to do?" asked
the clergyman, turning to his wife despairingly.
She stood white and irresolute. It was a most humiliating moment. She
longed to call her manservant to turn the fellow out of doors, but she
dared not.
"My instructions were to give reasonable time, and not to proceed with
the arrest if there was any possibility of the money being forthcoming,
or a part of it, not less than two hundred and fifty--cash."
"Can you wait till this evening?" pleaded the rector, hopelessly, "while
I see what can be done. You've taken me at a disadvantage. My son is not
here now. He won't be back till after midday."
"If there is any likelihood of your being able to do anything by evening,
of course--"
"He'll wait. He must wait," cried Mrs. Swinton, taking up her muff. "I'll
have to see father about it."
"You must wait till this evening, my man."
"All right, then. Until six o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Very well, six o'clock," the man agreed, and withdrew.
"I can't bear to think of your going to your father again, Mary," sighed
the rector, bitterly. "Dick has been a shocking muddler in his
affairs--as bad as his father, without his father's excuse. God knows,
I've been too busy with parish affairs to attend properly to my own,
whereas he--"
"He is young, John," pleaded the indulgent mother, "and ought to be in
receipt of a handsome allowance from his grandfather. He has only been
spending what really should be his."
"Sophistry, my darling, sophistry!"
"At any rate, I'm going up to my father to get money from him, by hook or
by crook. We must have it, or we are irretrievably ruined."