A KINSHIP SOMETHING LESS THAN KIND
"Pull the blinds higher and raise my pillows, do you hear, woman? I want
to see what that lazy scamp of a husband of yours is about--loafing for a
certainty, if he thinks no one can see him."
Herresford addressed his housekeeper, the wife of Ripon, the
head-gardener. Mrs. Ripon bit her lip as she tugged at the blind cords
savagely, and gave her master a defiant look, which he was quick to see.
It apparently amused him, for he smiled grimly.
"Oh, yes, yes, I know what you want to say," he snarled: "that I grind
you all down, and treat you as slaves. That, my good woman, is where you
make a mistake. Yet, you are slaves--slaves, do you hear? And I intend to
see that you don't rob me, for to waste the time that I pay for is to rob
me."
"Well, sir, if we don't suit you, we can go."
"My good woman, you'd have gone long ago, if it hadn't suited my
convenience to retain you. Ripon is a good gardener; you are a good
housekeeper. You both know the value of money. We happen to suit each
other. Your husband has more sense than you. He does the work of two men,
and he's paid for it. If the positions were reversed, he would be quite
as hard a master as I; that's why I like him. He gets quite as much out
of those under his control as I get out of him--only he doesn't pay 'em
double."
The old man looked like a wizened monkey as he screwed up his eyes and
chuckled. He was in a good temper this morning--good for him--and he
looked well pleased as his eye traveled slowly over the wonderful expanse
of garden which lay spread out like a fairy panorama below his window.
"Give me those field-glasses," he commanded sharply, "and then you can
get about your business. Those maids downstairs will be wasting their
time while you're up here."
"What will you take for luncheon to-day, sir?"
"Woman, I left enough chicken yesterday to feed a family. The chicken
curried, and don't forget the chutney." Then, after a mumbling interval,
"and, if anybody calls, I won't see 'em--except Notley, who comes at
eleven. And, when he comes, send him up at once--no kitchen gossip! I
don't pay lawyers to come here and amuse kitchen wenches. Why don't you
speak, eh? W-what?"
"Because I've nothing to say, sir."
"That's right, that's right. Now that you've left off 'speaking your
mind,' as you used to call it, you're becoming quite docile and useful.
Perhaps, I'll give Ripon another fifty dollars a year. I'm not a hard
man, you know, when people understand that I stand no nonsense. But I
always have my own way. No one can get over me. You and I understand each
other, Mrs. Ripon, eh? Yet, I doubt if you'd have remained so long, if
Ripon hadn't married you. He's made a sensible woman of you. Tell him I'm
going to give him an extra fifty dollars a year, but--but he must do with
a hand less in the gardens."
"What, another?"
"Yes. It'll pay, won't it, to get fifty dollars a year more, and save me
two hundred on the outdoor staff, eh?"
The woman made no answer, but crossed the room softly, and closed the
door. When she was on the other side of it, she shook her fist at him.
"You old wretch! If I had my way, I'd smother you. You spoil your own
life, and you're spoiling my man. He won't be fit to live with soon."
The sunlight streamed into the bedroom, and Herresford, drawing the
curtains of his ebony bedstead, lay blinking in their shadow, looking out
over his garden, and noting every beauty with the keen pleasure of an
ardent lover of horticulture--his only hobby. As advancing age laid its
finger more heavily upon him, he had become increasingly irritable and
impossible. Every human instinct seemed to have shriveled up and
died--all save the love of money and his passion for flowers. His
withered old lips almost smiled as he moved the field-glasses slowly,
bringing into range the magnificent stretch of soft turf, with its
patchwork of vivid color.
The face of the old man on the bed changed as he clutched the
field-glasses and brought them in nervous haste to his eyes, and a
muttered oath escaped him. A woman had come through one of the archways
in the hedge that surrounded the herb garden. She walked slowly, every
now and then breaking off a flower. As she tugged at a trail of late
roses, sending their petals in a crimson stream upon the turf, Herresford
dragged himself higher upon the pillows, his lips working in anger, and
his fingers clawing irritably at the coverlet.
"Leave them alone, leave them alone!" he cried. "How dare she touch my
flowers! I'll have her shut out of the place, daughter or no daughter.
What does she want here? Begging again, I suppose. The only bond between
us--money. And she sha'n't have any. I'll be firm about it."
He was still muttering when Mrs. Swinton came into the room, bringing
with her the sheaf of blossoms she had gathered as she came along.
"Who gave you permission to pick my flowers?" the old man snarled,
taking no notice of her greeting. "I allow no one to rob my garden. You
are not to take those flowers home with you--do you understand? They
belong to me."
The daughter did not reply. She walked across the room very slowly, and
rang the bell, waiting until a maid appeared.
"Take these flowers to Mrs. Ripon, and tell her to have them arranged and
brought to Mr. Herresford's room. And now," she added, as the girl closed
the door behind her, "we must have a little talk, my dear father. I want
some money--in brief, I must have some. Dick is going, and his kit must
be got ready at once. I must have a thousand dollars."
"Must, must, must! I don't know the meaning of the word. You come here
dunning me for money as though I were made of it. Do you know what you
and your husband have cost me? I tell you I have no money for you, and I
won't be intruded upon in this way. Your visits are an annoyance, madam,
and they'd better cease."
"Yes, I know, I know. And I should not have come here to-day unless our
need had been great. My dear father, you simply must come to my aid. We
haven't a hundred dollars, and Dick's honor is pledged. He must go to the
war, and he must have the money to go with. If I could go to anybody
else and borrow it, I would; but there is no one. If you will let me have
a check for the amount, I will promise that you hear nothing more of
me--as long as you like. Come, father, shall I write out a check? You
played a jest with me the other day, and only gave me two dollars."
Herresford lay with his eyes closed and his lips tightly pressed
together. He hated these encounters with his daughter, for she generally
succeeded in getting something out of him; but he was determined she
should have nothing this morning. He took refuge in silence, his only
effectual weapon so far as Mrs. Swinton was concerned.
"Well?" she queried, after waiting for some minutes, and turning from the
window toward the bed. "Well?" she repeated. "If it's going to be a
waiting game, we can both play it. I sha'n't leave this room until you
sign Dick's check, and you know quite well that I go through with a thing
when my mind is made up. It's perfectly disgusting to have to insist like
this, but you see, father, it's the only way."
She had spoken very quickly, yet very deliberately. She walked over to a
table which stood in one of the windows, carefully selected a volume,
and, drawing a chair to the side of her father's bed, sat down.
Herresford had watched her from under his screwed-up eyelids, and, as she
commenced to read, he sighed irritably.
"If you'll come back this evening," he whined, after a long pause, "I'll
see what I can do. I'm expecting Notley, my lawyer, this morning, and I
don't want to be worried. I've a lot of figures to go through. Now, run
away, Mary, and I'll think it over."
"My dear father, why waste your time and mine? I told you I should not go
from this room until I had the money, and I mean it--quite mean it," she
added, very quietly.
"It's disgraceful that you should treat me in this way. I'll give orders
that you are not to be admitted again, unless by my express instructions.
What was the amount you mentioned? Five hundred dollars? Do you realize
what five hundred dollars really is?"
"Five hundred is next to useless. It is disgracefully little for an
outfit and general expenses of your grandson."
"The boy is a scamp; an idle, horse-racing young vagabond--a thief, too.
Have you forgotten that horse he stole? I haven't."
"Rubbish, father. The horse belonged to Dick. You gave it to him, and it
was his to sell. But we're wasting time. Shall I write the check? Ah!
here's the book," and Mrs. Swinton drew it toward her as she seated
herself at the desk.
She knew his ways so well that in his increasing petulance she saw the
coming surrender.
"I am going to draw a check for a thousand, father," she said with
assumed indifference, and took up a pen as though the matter were
settled.
"A thousand!--no, five hundred--no, it's too much. Five hundred dollars
for a couple of suits of khaki? Preposterous! Fifty would be too much."
"Well, the very lowest is fifty, father," she remarked, with a sudden
abandonment of irritation, and a new light in her fine eyes.
"Ah! that's more like it."
"Then, I'll make it fifty."
"Fifty!--no, I never said fifty. I said five--too much," and his fingers
began to claw upon the coverlet, while his lips and tongue worked as with
a palsy. "Fifty dollars! Do you want to ruin me? Make it five, and I'll
sign it at once. That's more than I gave you last time."
She had commenced the check. The date was filled in, and the name of her
son as the payee.
"Five, madam--not a penny more. Five!"
The inspiration vibrated in her brain. Why not repeat the successful
forgery? He would miss five thousand as little as five.
She wrote "five," in letters, and lower down filled in the numeral,
putting it very near the dollar-sign.
"Father, you are driving me to desperation. It's your fault if--"
"Give me the pen--give me the pen," he snarled. "If you keep me waiting
too long, I shall change my mind."
She brought the blotting-pad and pen, and he scrawled his signature,
scarcely looking at the check. She drew it away from him swiftly--for she
had known him to tear up a check in a last access of covetous greed.
Five thousand dollars!
The same process of alteration as before was adopted. This time there was
no flaw or suspicious spluttering.
The reckless woman, emboldened by her first success, plunged wildly on
the second opportunity. The devil's work was better done; but,
unfortunately, she made the alteration, as before, with the rectory ink,
which was of excellent quality, and in a few hours darkened to an
entirely different tint. The color of the writing was uniform at first;
but to-morrow there would be a difference.
She was running a great risk; but she saw before her peace and
prosperity, her husband's debts paid, her own dressmaker's bills for the
past two years wiped out, and Dick saved from arrest.
This would still leave a small balance in hand.
And they would economize in the future.
Vain resolves! The spendthrift is always the thriftiest person in
intention. The rector had understated when he declared their deficit.
Only the most persistent creditors were appeased. But their good
fortune--for they considered it such--had become known to every creditor
as if by magic. Bills came pouring in. If the aggressive builder of the
new Mission Hall could get his money, why not the baker, the butcher, the
tailor? The study table was positively white with the shower of "accounts
rendered"--polite demands and abusive threats.
The rector had innocently and gratefully accepted the story of the gift
of two thousand dollars, without question or surprise. His wonderful,
beautiful wife always dragged him out of difficulties. He had ceased to
do more than bless and thank her. He was glad of the respite, and had
already begun to build castles in the air, and formulate a wonderful
scheme for alleviating distress by advancing urgently needed money, to be
refunded to him out of the proceeds of bazaars and concerts and public
subscriptions later on.
The poor, too, seemed to have discovered that the rector was paying away
money, and the most miserable, tattered, whining specimens of humanity
rang his door-bell. They had piteous tales to tell of children dying for
want of proper nourishment, of wives lying unburied for lack of funds to
pay the undertaker.
* * * * *
Dick returned, ignorant of his danger of arrest, and almost at the moment
when his mother had accomplished her second forgery.
"Well, mother what luck with grandfather?" he cried anxiously, as he
strode into the study. "I hear you've been up to the Hall. You are a
brick to beard the old lion as you do."
"Yes, I've been lucky this time. I've screwed out some more for all of
us--quite a large sum this time. I put forward unanswerable
arguments--the expense of your outfit--our responsibilities--our debts,
and all sorts of things, and then got your grandfather to include
everything in one check. It's for five thousand."
She dropped her eyes nervously, and heard him catch his breath.
"Five thousand!"
"Not all for you, Dick," she hastened to add, "though your debts must be
paid. There was a man here this morning to arrest you. At least, that was
what he threatened; but they don't do such things, do they?"
"Arrest me?"
"Yes. It was an awful blow to your father."
"Arrest!" he groaned. "I feared it. But you've got five thousand. It'll
save us all!"
"The check isn't cashed yet. Here it is."
He seized the little slip eagerly, his eyes glistening. It was his
respite, and might mean the end of all their troubles.
"I really must pay all my smaller debts, mother," said Dick, as he looked
down at the forged check. "You don't know what a mean hound I've felt in
not being able to pay the smaller tradesmen, for they are more decent
than the bigger people. Five thousand! Only think of it. What a brick the
old man is, after all."
"How much do your debts amount to, Dick?" asked Mrs. Swinton, in some
trepidation.
"I hardly know; but the ones which must be paid before I go will amount
to a good many hundreds, I fear."
"Oh, Dick! I'm sorry, but need all be paid now? You see, the money is
badly wanted for other things."
"Well, mother, I might not come back. I might be killed. And I'd like to
feel that I'd left all straight at home."
"Don't, Dick, don't!" she sobbed, rising and flinging her arms about
him.
She was much overwrought, and her tears fell fast. Dick embraced his
beautiful mother, and kissed her with an affection that was almost
lover-like.
"Mother, I really must pay up everyone before I go. You see, some of them
look upon it as their last chance. They think that, if I once get out of
the country, I shall never come back."
"But I was hoping to help your father. He's getting quite white with
worry. Have you noticed how he has aged lately?"
"I don't wonder at it, mother. Look at the way he works, writing half the
night, tearing all over the town during the day, doing the work of six
men. If you could manage another fifteen hundred for me, mother, I could
go away happy. Don't cry. You see, if I shouldn't come back--you've got
Netty."
"What! Haven't you heard?" she asked. "Don't you know that Netty is going
to leave us? Harry Bent proposed yesterday afternoon at the
Ocklebournes'. He's going away, too--and you may neither of you come
back."
"Hush, hush, mother! We're all leaving somebody behind, and we can't all
come back. Don't let us talk of it. I'll run over and pay the check into
my account, and then draw a little for everybody--something on account to
keep them quiet."
He looked at it--the check--lovingly, and sighed with satisfaction.
"Since grandfather has turned up trumps, mother," Dick suggested, "it
would only be decent of me to go up and thank him, wouldn't it? I've got
to go up and say good-bye, anyway."
"No, Dick don't go," cried the guilty woman, nervously.
"But I must, mother. It won't do to give him any further excuses for
fault-finding."
"If you go, say nothing about the money."
"But--"
"Just to please me, Dick. Thank him for the money he has given you, and
say nothing about the amount. Don't remind him. He might relent, and--and
stop the check or something of that sort."
"All right, mother." And Dick went off to the bank with the check,
feeling that the world was a much-improved place.
On his return, he took a train to Asherton Hall, in order that he might
thank his grandfather. There was no one about when he arrived, and he
strode indoors, unannounced. As he reached the bedroom door, Mrs. Ripon
was coming out, red in the face and spluttering with rage, arguing with
Trimmer, the valet; and the old man's voice could be heard, raised to a
high treble, querulously storming over the usual domestic trifles.
Dick stepped into the strange room, and saluted his relative.
"Good-afternoon, grandfather. I've called to see you to say good-bye," he
said, cheerily.
"I don't want to see you, sir," snapped the old man, raising himself on
his hands, and positively spitting the words out. His previous fit of
anger flowed into the present interview like a stream temporarily dammed
and released.
"I am going away to the war, grandfather, and I may never return."
"And a good job, too, sir--a good job, too."
Dick's teeth were hard set. The insult had to be endured.
"Don't come asking me for money, sir, because you won't get it."
"No, grandfather, I have enough, thank you. Your generosity has touched
me, after your close-fis--your talks about economy, I mean."
"Generosity--eh?" snarled the spluttering old man. "No sarcasm, if you
please. You insolent rascal!" He positively clawed the air, and his eyes
gleamed. "I'll teach you your duty to your elders, sir. I've signed two
checks for you. Do you think I'm going to be bled to death like a pig
with its wizen slit?"
"I want no more money," cried the young man, hotly. "You know that
perfectly well, grandfather."
"That's good news, then."
The old man subsided and collapsed into his pillows.
"I merely came to thank you, and to shake you by the hand. I am answering
a patriotic call; and, if I fall in the war, you'll have no heir but my
mother."
"Don't flatter yourself that you're my heir, sir. I'll have you know
you're not, sir. No delusions. You need expect nothing from me."
Dick gave a despairing sigh, and turned away.
"Well, then, good-bye, grandfather. If I get shot--"
"Go and get shot, sir--and be damned to you!" cried the old man.
"You are in a bad temper, grandfather. I've said my adieu. You have
always misunderstood and abused me. Good-bye. I'll offend you no
longer."
The young man stalked out haughtily, and old Herresford collapsed again;
but he tried to rally. His strength failed him. He leaned over the side
of his bed, gasping from his outburst, and called faintly:
"Dick! Dick! I'm an old man. I never mean what I say. I'll pay--"
The last words were choked with a sigh, and he lay back, breathing
heavily.