THE BLIGHT OF FEAR
Breakfast at the rectory on the morning following Dick's sensational
return was a very solemn meal, for the blight of fear had fallen upon the
whole household. No one slept. The father and mother had remained with
Dick until the small hours of the morning, and, when they finally bade
each other good-night, both were conscious that the old days of sweet
comradeship were over forever.
There would be no more heart-to-heart speaking between these two, no
sharing of burdens. The man must go his way and the woman hers, each with
a load of sorrow to bear.
The rector was the only one really glad to find that the news of Dick's
death was not true; but the joy of finding him alive was nullified by the
terror of coming trouble. Mary was mentally stunned by the shock of
Dick's return. She had grown accustomed to the thought of him as dead,
and, of late, had been almost glad, since it saved the whole family from
social ruin. Now, what would happen? She could not think, every faculty
seemed benumbed. She had arisen and dressed in a perfectly mechanical
manner, and, even now that she was sitting at the breakfast-table, her
eyes had the strange and set expression which one sees in the eyes of the
sleep-walker. Her voice, too, had unfamiliar notes as she read aloud the
headings of the news columns, making a wretched pretense of keeping up
appearances before the servants.
The domestics had been sworn to secrecy. This was not difficult, as all
were devoted to Dick. He had always been a favorite. His kindness and
consideration for those who served him was always in marked contrast to
Netty's haughty and exacting nature. There was not a creature in the
house who would not have run personal risk to serve him.
He was still in a state of prostration, weaker far than he knew, and on
the brink of a serious collapse. The need for secrecy made it dangerous
to call in medical aid, and he tried to allay his father's anxiety by
assuring him that rest was all he needed. He would soon be well enough to
start on his way again.
During breakfast, Netty had made no comment on her brother's return. Her
eyes were red with weeping, but only because she saw the possibility of
her brother in the dock, and Harry Bent's mother opposing her marriage.
The rector and his wife scarcely exchanged a word; it was obvious that
there was a growing antagonism between them. The woman already suspected
her husband of leaning toward her son, with designs upon her liberty and
reputation. The rector was hoping that his wife would come to her
senses, now that her boy had returned, and see the wisdom of confession,
without forcing upon him the painful task of telling the dreadful truth.
The situation had been argued out between them until words ceased to have
meaning, and by common consent all action was suspended until this
morning, when, it was hoped, Dick would be rested, and able to join the
council.
If anything, Dick was worse; listless, nerveless, unable to rise, and
spending his time in dozes that were perilously near unconsciousness.
The meal ended, Netty escaped. Her mother hurried up to Dick, and the
rector to his study, where he awaited his wife.
Presently, she came down, dressed for walking.
"Where are you going, Mary?" he asked nervously.
"I'm going up to see father. It's the only thing to do. He cannot kill
his own grandson. If Dick dies, his death will be at father's door."
"Mary, you are agitated and hysterical. You are not fit to see anyone.
Your father can do nothing. The matter is in the hands of the bank. We
must either remain passive, and await the issue of events, or see Ormsby
and put the case to him, appealing to him for a withdrawal of the
prosecution."
"What mercy do you think we shall get from him? You forget he is a
prospective bridegroom, and his bride, Dora Dundas, is preparing for her
wedding. What will Dora's action be, do you think, if she knows that Dick
is here?"
"Dearest, if she believes him guilty, she will go on with her marriage.
The understanding between Dick and Dora was informal. It was not like an
engagement. She is engaged to Ormsby, and she will not go back on her
word now, though I have grave doubts of the wisdom of allowing her to
remain in ignorance of the truth."
"The girl loved Dick. There was a definite understanding between them.
She has been breaking her heart over him. This engagement to Ormsby is a
matter arranged by her father. No, the only person who can help us is my
father, and I refuse to discuss it with you further. It's now a matter
between me and Dick--a mother's utter ruin or a son's emigration. And,
after all, why shouldn't Dick try his luck in another country? There's
nothing for him here."
"What are you going to say?"
"I can't tell till I see father, and know what mood he is in. He has
always abused Dick; but he always liked him. Dick was the only one who
could speak out straight and defy him, and he appreciated it."
"I am helpless," cried the rector, throwing up his hands and turning
away. "I know the path I should follow, but it is barred, and the way I
am traveling is accursed."
"Then I must act alone, John. Good-bye. To-day must decide everything.
John, won't you kiss me--won't you say good-bye?"
He still turned his back upon her, more in sorrow than in anger. She
placed her gloved hand upon his shoulder appealingly, and turned a
woe-begone face.
"It will all come right, John."
He sighed, and embraced her like the broken man he was, and she left him
alone with his conscience.
And what a terrible companion that conscience had become! At times, it
was a white-robed angel beckoning him, at others a red imp deriding in
exultation, tormenting, wounding, maddening.
On the way to Asherton Hall, Mrs. Swinton framed a hundred speeches, and
went through imaginary altercations. By the time she arrived, she was
keyed up to a dangerous pitch of excitement, verging on hysteria. Nobody
saw her coming and she entered the house through the eastern
conservatory.
Herresford was back in the old bedroom, and Trimmer was there,
superintending the removal of the breakfast things. The daughter,
treading lightly, walked into the room, unannounced.
The old man looked up from his pillows, and started as if terrified.
"She's here again, Trimmer--she's here again," he whined.
Trimmer was no less surprised.
"Trimmer, you can leave us," cried Mary, whose eyes were glistening with
an unusual light. There was a red patch in her cheeks, the lips were hard
set, and her hands were working nervously in her muff. "I wish to speak
to my father privately."
"If Mr. Herresford wishes--"
"I wish it. Please leave us!"
"Don't go! Don't go, Trimmer!" cried the miser extending one hand
helplessly. "Raise me, Trimmer. Don't let her touch me."
Trimmer obeyed his master, ignoring Mrs. Swinton, and lifted the old bag
of bones with a jerk that seemed to rattle it. He placed an especially
large velvet-covered cushion behind the invalid's back, straightened the
skull-cap so that the tassel should not fall over the eye; then, assuming
a stony expression of face, turned to go.
Herresford mumbled and appealed until the door was closed; then, he
seemed to recover his courage and his tongue.
"So, you're here again," he snapped. "What is it now--what is it now? Am
I never to have peace?"
"I have strange news. Dick is alive."
"Not dead, eh! Humph! That does not surprise me. I expected as much. No
man is dead in a war until his body is buried. So, he's come back, has
he?"
"Yes, and that is why I'm here. The bank people will have him arrested."
There was a pause, which the miser ended by a fit of chuckling and
choking laughter that maddened her.
"This is no laughing matter, father. Can't you see what the position
is?"
"Oh, yes, it's a pretty position--quite a dramatic situation. Boy dead,
shamefully accused; boy alive, and to be arrested for his mother's
crime."
"Father, I've thought it all out. There is only one thing to do, and you
must do it. You must pay that money to the bank, and compel them to
abandon the prosecution by declaring that you made a mistake about the
checks--that you really did authorize them."
"Add lie to lie, I suppose; and, according to your method of moral
arithmetic, make two wrongs into one right. So, you want to drag me into
it?"
"Father, if you have any natural feeling toward Dick--I don't ask you to
think of me--you'll set this matter straight by satisfying the bank
people."
"The bank people don't want to be satisfied. They've paid me my
money--there's an end to it. You must appeal to Ormsby."
"But Ormsby hates Dick. He is marrying the woman Dick loves."
"And who is that, pray?" cried the old man, starting up and snapping his
words out like pistol shots.
"Why, Dora Dundas, of course."
"Who's she?"
"The only daughter of Colonel Dundas, a wealthy man. His wealth, I
suppose, attracted Ormsby. He will show Dick no mercy. You've met Colonel
Dundas. You ought to remember him."
"Oh! the fool who writes to the papers about the war. I know him. What's
the girl like? Is she as great an idiot as her father?"
"You've seen her. I brought her here with me one afternoon to see the
gardens, and she came up and had tea with you. Don't you remember--about
two years ago?"
The old man fingered the tassel of his cap, and chewed it meditatively
for a few moments.
"I remember," he said, at last. "So, she's going to marry Ormsby, because
Dick is supposed to be dead--and disgraced. Well, a sensible girl. Ormsby
is rich. She knew that Dick would have money, lots of it, at my death;
and, when she couldn't have him, she chose the next best man, the
banker's son. Sensible girl, Dora Dundas. The question is--what's Dick
going to do?"
"Father, Dick has behaved nobly, but unfortunately he is ill at home;
and at any moment may be arrested. That's why I want to be prepared to
prevent it. He talks of going abroad--emigrating--when he's strong
enough."
"What!" screamed the old man, in astonishment. "He's not going to stand
up for his honor, my honor, the honor of the family? What's he made of?"
"Father, father, can't you understand? If he speaks, he denounces me, his
mother. Am I not one of the family? Think what my position is. It was as
much for his sake as for John's that I took the money. You wouldn't save
us from ruin. I was driven to desperation, you know I was. It was your
fault, and you must do what is in your power to avert the threatened
disgrace. Father, the bank people cannot possibly prosecute, if you pay
them the seven thousand dollars. I will repay it out of my allowance in
instalments."
There was silence for a few moments, during which the old man surveyed
the situation with a clear mental vision, superior to that of his
daughter.
"And you think Ormsby is going to compound a felony, and at the same time
bring back to the neighborhood a young man in love with his future
wife?"
"If I confessed everything, father, do you think that Ormsby would spare
me, Dick's mother! Oh, it's all a horrible tangle. It's driving me
mad!"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled the old man. "You're beginning to use your brain a
little. You're beginning to realize the value of money--and you don't
like it. Well, you can unravel your own tangle. Don't come to me."
The sight of her distress seemed to whet his appetite for cruelty. He
rubbed salt into the open wounds with zest.
"Get your sky-pilot to help you out of it. I won't. Not a penny do I pay.
Seven thousand dollars!"
"Father, a hundred thousand could not make any difference to you," she
cried. "You must let me have the money. Take it out of my mother's
allowance."
"What allowance? Who told you anything about any allowance?"
"Father, you're an old man, and your memory is failing you. You know, I'm
entitled to an allowance from my mother's money. You don't mean to say
you're going to stop that?"
"Who's stopping your allowance? Trimmer! Trimmer!" he cried.
Something in his manner--a look--a guilty terror in his eyes, made itself
apparent to the woman. The reference to her mother frightened him. She
saw behind the veil--but indistinctly.
It had always been a sore point that her father conceded only an
allowance of a few thousands a year, whereas her mother had brought him
an income of many thousands. Mrs. Herresford had always given her
daughter to understand that wealth would revert to her, but, as the girl
was too young to understand money matters at the time of her mother's
death, she had been entirely at the mercy of her father.
In her present despair, she was ready to seize any floating straw. The
idea came to her that she might have some unexpected reversionary
interest in her mother's money, on which she could raise something.
Trimmer put an end to the interview by answering his master's call. The
miser was gesticulating and mumbling, and frantically motioning his
daughter to leave the room.
"She wants to rob me!--she wants to rob me!" This was all that she
understood of his raving.
"It is useless to talk to him now, Mrs. Swinton," said Trimmer, with a
suggestive glance toward the door.
She departed without another word, full of a new idea. Her position was
such that only a lawyer could help her; and she was resolved to have
legal advice. It was a forlorn hope, but one not to be despised; and
there was not a moment to lose. As if by an inspiration, she remembered
the name of a lawyer who used to be her mother's adviser--a Mr. Jevons,
who used to come to Asherton Hall before her mother died, and afterward
quarreled with Herresford. This was the man to advise her. He would be
sure to know the truth about the private fortune of Mrs. Herresford,
which the husband had absorbed after his wife's death.