MRS. SWINTON CONFESSES
Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of
the disgraceful circumstances surrounding his departure. His volunteering
was now looked upon as a flight from justice; his death as a suicide to
avoid the inevitable punishment of his crime.
Everybody knew--except the rector.
He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son's
memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his
misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was
not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not
receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he
was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something
shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of
regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for
the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such
painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could
not understand, the constraint and diffidence of those people who did
pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry.
The revelation came, not through the proper channel--his wife--but from
an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke
out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman's slender, delicate
white fingers, exclaimed:
"I'm sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man,
and I'll not believe it was to avoid disgrace."
"Avoid disgrace?" cried the rector, astounded.
"Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold
him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather's money,
he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don't stand up
against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few
words that'd save their skins."
"Stole his grandfather's money! What do you mean?"
"Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby's are a
bad lot. I'd rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought
he was cheating, perhaps--that isn't like stealing from other people. But
this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save
the boy."
"I don't understand you," said the clergyman, haughtily.
"Well, I'll be more plain. He altered his grandfather's checks, and kept
the money for himself, didn't he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and
my wife hadn't the sense or the heart to shield him, I'd--" He broke off
abruptly.
"What you are saying is all double Dutch to me," cried the rector,
hoarsely. "You don't mean to tell me that the bank people have set about
that cock-and-bull story of repudiated checks? I told them they were
wrong. I thought they understood."
"Ay, you told them they were wrong; but your wife told them they were
right--at least, that's how the story goes. The boy altered her checks,
and robbed his grandfather--if you call it robbing. I call it getting a
bit on account by forcing the hand of a skinflint. For old Herresford is
worse than the Ormsbys, worse than the Jews. He has owed me money for
eighteen months, and I've got to go to the courts to force him to pay.
I've had a boy go wrong myself; but he's working with me now as straight
and good a lad as man could wish. Look them straight in the face,
Swinton, and tell them from the pulpit that the boy's fault in swindling
his grandfather out of what ought to be his, was wiped out by his service
to his country. It was a damned fine piece of pluck, sir. I take off my
hat to the boy; and, if there's to be any service of burial, or anything
of that sort, I'll come."
The rector parted from his candid friend, still unable to grasp the
situation thoroughly. That the bank had spread abroad the false report
seemed certain. He hurried, fuming with indignation, to call on Mr.
Barnby and have the matter out with him. But it was past three, and the
doors of the bank were shut.
If his wife had seen Barnby, there must have been some misunderstanding.
He hurried home, to find the house silent and deserted. In the study, the
light was fading and the fire had gone out. He was about to ring for the
lamp to be lighted when a stifled sob revealed the presence of someone in
the room.
"Mary!"
His wife was on the hearth-rug, with her arms spread out on the seat of
the little tub chair, and her head bowed down. She heard him come in, but
did not raise her head.
"Mary, Mary, you must not give way like this," he murmured, as he bent
over her and raised her gently. "Tears will not bring him back, Mary."
"It isn't that--it isn't that!" she cried, as he lifted her to her feet.
"Oh, I am so wretched! I must confess, John--something that will make you
hate and loathe me."
"And I have something to talk to you about, dearest. There is a horrible
report spread in the town, apparently, by the bank people. Just now, a
man came up and condoled with me, calling my son a thief and a forger."
"John! John!" cried his wife, placing her hands upon his shoulders, and
presenting a face strained with agony. "I am going to tell you something
that will make you hate me for the rest of your life."
The rector trembled with a growing dread.
"First, tell me what Barnby said to you, and what you said to him, about
those checks that you got from your father. You must have given Barnby an
entirely erroneous impression."
"It is about those checks I am going to speak. When you have heard me,
condemn me if you like, but don't ruin us utterly. That is all I ask.
Don't ruin us."
"Be more explicit. You are talking in riddles. Everybody seems to be
conspiring to hide something from me. What is it? What has happened? What
did Dick do before he went away? Did he do anything at all? Have you
hidden something from me?"
"John, the checks I got from father, with which we paid our debts to
stave off disgrace, were--forgeries."
"Lord help us, Mary! Do you mean that we have been handling stolen
money?"
"Don't put it like that, John, don't! I can't bear it."
"And is it true what they're saying about Dick? Oh! it's horrible. I'll
not believe it of our boy."
"There is no need to believe it, John. He is innocent, though they
condemn him. Yet, the checks were forgeries."
"Then, who? You got the checks, didn't you? I thought--Ah!"
"I am the culprit, John. I altered them."
"You?"
"Yes, John. Don't look at me like that. Father was outrageous. There was
no money to be got from him, and I had no other course. Your bankruptcy
would have meant your downfall. That dressmaker woman was inexorable. You
would have been sued by your stock-broker, and--who knows what
wretchedness was awaiting us?--perhaps absolute beggary in obscure
lodgings, and our daily bread purchased with money begged from our
friends. You know what father is: you know how he hates both you and me,
how he would rub salt into our wounds, and gloat over our humiliation.
If--if Dick hadn't gone to the front--"
"Mary, Mary, what are you saying! You have robbed your father of money
instead of facing the result of our follies bravely? You have sent our
boy to the war--with money filched by a felony! Don't touch me! Stand
away! No; I thought you were a good woman!"
"I didn't know. I didn't realize."
"You are not a child, without knowledge of the ways of the world. You
must have known what you were doing."
"I thought that father would never know," she faltered, chokingly. "He
hoards his money, and a few thousands more or less would make no
difference to him. There was every chance that he would never discover
the loss. It was as much mine as his. He has thousands that belonged to
my mother, which he cheated me out of. I added words and figures to the
checks, like the fool that I was, not using the same ink that father used
for the signatures, and--and the bank found out."
"Horrible! horrible! But what has this to do with poor Dick? Why do
people turn away from me and stammer at the mention of his name, as
though they were ashamed? He, poor boy, knew nothing of all this."
"John, John, you don't understand yet!" she whispered, creeping nearer to
him, with extended hands, ready to entwine her arms about his neck. He
retreated, white-faced and terrified, thinking of the serpent in Eden and
the woman who tempted. She was tempting him now, coming nearer to wind
her soft arms about him and hold him close, so that he would be
powerless, as he always was when her breath was on his cheek, and her
eyes pleading for a bending of his stern principles before her
more-worldly needs.
She held him tight-clasped to her until he could feel the beating of her
heart and the heaving of her bosom against his breast. It was thus that
she had often cajoled him to buy things that he could not afford, to
entertain people that he would rather not see, to indulge his children in
vanities and follies against his better judgment, to desert his plain
duty to his Church in favor of some social inanity. She was always
tempting, caressing, and charming him with playful banter when he would
be serious, weakening him when he would be strong, coaxing him to play
when he would have worked. He had been as wax in her hands; but hitherto
her sins had been little ones, and chiefly sins of omission.
"John! John!" she whispered huskily, with her lips close to his ear. "You
must promise not to hate me, not to curse me when you have heard. You'll
despise me, you'll be horrified. But promise--promise that you won't be
cruel."
"I am never cruel, Mary. Tell me--how is Dick implicated?"
"John, I have done a more dreadful thing than stealing money."
"Mary!"
"I have denied my sin--not for my own sake; no, John, it was for all our
sakes--for yours, for Netty's, for her future husband's, for the good of
the church where you have worked so hard and have become so
indispensable."
"Don't torture me! Speak plainly--speak out!" he gasped, with labored
breath, as though he were choking.
"The bank people thought that Dick 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. Dick is dead. How does it matter what they say about Dick'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 Dick 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. God 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 godly
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 Dick 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 Dick."
"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
Dick'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 Dick'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 Dick. 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 scrape 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."
"Netty, you sha'n't speak of Dick like that!"
"Why shouldn't I? Did he think of me? Really, you are too absurd! I don't
see why you should excite yourself about it. If you think that he cared
for you only, you are merely one more foolish victim."
"Netty, how can you talk of your brother so! He is accused of a horrible
crime. Why don't you stand up for him? Why don't you do something to
clear him? What is your father doing--and your mother?"
"Surely, they can be left to manage their affairs as they think best."
"And I, who loved him, must do nothing, I suppose," cried Dora,
hysterically. "I loved him, I tell you, and he loved me. We were
engaged."
"Engaged! What nonsense! Really, Dora!"
"No one knew, Netty," sobbed Dora, aching for a little feminine sympathy,
even from Netty. "Here is his ring, upon this ribbon round my neck."
"Surely, you don't think that is interesting to me--and at such a time."
"Well, if it isn't," cried Dora, flashing out through her tears, "perhaps
your brother's honor is. I must see your mother, and urge her to refute
the awful slanders spread about by Vivian Ormsby."
"Oh, so your other admirer is responsible for spreading the story of
Dick's misdeeds. I think he might have kept silent. You must know that it
is only because Ormsby made himself ridiculous about you, and because
Dick hated Ormsby, that he flirted with you, and so caused bad blood
between them. I think that you might leave Dick alone, now that he is
dead."
"Dead! Dead! He can't be," cried Dora desperately. "I must see your
mother," she insisted. "I shall go up to her room. This is no ordinary
time, and my business is urgent."
Netty shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the room, apparently to
inform her mother of the visit. After a long delay, Mrs. Swinton entered,
looking white and haggard.
"What is it you want of me?" she asked, with a feeble assumption of her
usual languid tone.
"Oh, Mrs. Swinton, it isn't true--tell me it isn't true! I can't believe
it of him."
"You are referring to Dick's trouble? Our sorrow is embittered by the
knowledge that our poor boy went away--"
Words failed her. She could not lie to this girl, whose eyes seemed to be
searching her very soul. What did she suspect?
"My father told me of the checks," said Dora. "They were made out to you.
Yet, they say he forged them. How could he? I don't understand these
things; and father's explanation didn't enlighten me at all. I loved
Dick--you know I did."
"I suspected it, Dora, and had things gone well with us, I should have
been as pleased as anybody, if the affection between you ripened--"
"Ripened!" cried Dora, with fine contempt: "He loved me, and I loved him.
We were engaged. No one was to know till he came back, but now--well,
what does it matter who knows? But those who slander him and take away
his good name must answer to me. Vivian Ormsby was always his enemy. But
you--you must have known what he was doing. He couldn't take all that
money and go away in debt, and talk as he did of having got money from
his grandfather by extortion. He told me that you'd been able to arrange
things for him."
"He told you that!" cried Mrs. Swinton, startled into revealing her
alarm.
"Yes, he told me that his grandfather had grown impossible, and that you
were the only one who could get money out of him. He said you'd got lots
of money, and that things were better for everybody at home--those were
his words. Yet, they say he altered checks. What do they mean? How could
he?"
"My dear, it is too complicated a matter for a girl like you to
understand. You must know that to discuss such a matter with me in this
time of sorrow is little less than cruel."
"Cruel? Isn't it cruel to me, too? Isn't his honor as dear to me as to
his mother? I tell you, I won't rest until he is set right before the
world. Where is Mr. Swinton? He is a man, and can make a public denial on
behalf of his son. Surely, he's not going to sit quiet, and let Mr.
Ormsby--"
"It is not Mr. Ormsby--it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks,
Dora. Don't you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you
think I didn't love Dick? Do you think that, if there were any way of
refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is
useless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and
saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero
he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was
the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really
his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public
at all."
"That's what I told father," faltered Dora.
"The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don't anger
him. Don't urge him on to blacken Dick's memory, as he is sure to do if
you don't look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He
told me so when I met him at dinner at the Bents'. Your father wishes
it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too--that you would
do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a
splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy.
He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was
weak, like his mother. What am I saying--what am I saying? My sense of
right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I'm a very
wretched woman, Dora!" cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair
Dora brought forward. "Take warning by me. Love with your head and not
your heart, Dora. Don't risk everything for a foolish girl's passion,
when a rich man offers you a proud position."
"I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby," said Dora, scornfully, "I shall
never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!--I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton--I
thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as
though Dick were unworthy--you whom he idolized."
"Don't taunt me, Dora!" moaned the wretched mother. "I shall always be
fond of you for Dick's sake. Good-bye--and forgive me." Mrs. Swinton
tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora
stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.
Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it matter that his feet were
clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if
unable to move. This room was in Dick's home, and shadowed by
remembrances of him.
The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and
drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his
eyes looked wild.
"Oh, you, Miss Dundas," he murmured, as he advanced with an extended,
limp hand. "I thought I heard my wife's voice."
"I have come to offer my condolences," murmured Dora, unable to do more
than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.
"Yes, yes--thank you--thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we
shall be reconciled in time."
With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not
trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.
Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out
of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick's home, crept
away.