A PUBLIC CONFESSION
The physician and Mrs. Ripon between them managed to soothe Mrs. Swinton,
and bring her back to consciousness of her surroundings; but the minutes
were flying, and she dimly remembered that her husband, knowing nothing
of what had passed, would go remorselessly through with his confession.
She begged to be allowed to return home at once.
They helped her into the automobile, and she fell back on the cushions,
listlessly. The quiet of the drive revived her a little. The window was
open, and the cold air fanned her hot cheeks. But, as the car reached the
city streets, a despairing helplessness settled down upon her. It seemed
to her that she could even hear the bell of St. Botolph's, calling the
congregation to listen to the confession which her husband would surely
make.
On reaching the rectory, she bade the chauffeur wait, and then entered
the house with faltering steps. She found Netty just ready to go out.
"Where is your father, Netty?" Mrs. Swinton demanded.
"Gone to the church, mother. He seems very strange."
"Did he leave no message?"
"No, but Mr. Barnby was here a few moments ago, and Mr. Barnby saw the
police officers; and they went away, after he showed them a letter from
grandfather, absolving Dick from all blame about the checks."
"Did he show your father the letter?"
"Yes."
"What happened then?"
"He crushed it in his hand, and cried 'Lies! lies! all lies!' and went
out of the house, muttering and staring before him, like a man walking in
his sleep."
"Netty, you must take a message to your father," Mrs. Swinton directed.
"You must come with me in the automobile. Then, you must take my note
into the vestry, and see that he gets it at once, before service. There
will be plenty of time." Her voice was hoarse with fear.
She dragged off her gloves, and entered her husband's study, the scene of
so many painful interviews, and yet of so many pleasant hours, during
twenty-five years of married life. On a piece of sermon paper, the first
that came to hand, and with trembling fingers, she scrawled a last, wild
appeal, which also conveyed the information that her father was dead.
"This must be given into your father's hand, and he must read it before
he goes into the pulpit, Netty, or we are all ruined. Your grandfather is
dead--you understand?"
"Dead--at last!"
The joyous exclamation from the girl's lips jarred horribly. Yet, it was
only an echo of her own old, oft-repeated lament at the length of the
miser's life.
"Let him write me a reply, for you to bring back."
Netty took the letter, and then followed her mother to the automobile,
which was driven rapidly to St. Botolph's. But, at the church, Mrs.
Swinton had not the courage to enter. Instead, when she had hurried Netty
toward the vestry, she approached a side window, where one of the panels
stood open, and peered within, stealthily. At once, she perceived her
husband by the lectern. He was calm and pale, droning out the service
with unusual lassitude. The church was crammed. It was a vast edifice,
and its ample accommodations were rarely strained; but to-night people
were standing up in a black mass by the door. Pastor and congregation
understood each other. An electric thrill passed through the expectant
crowd. The news of Dick Swinton's arrest had been spread broadcast,
despite the promise to the rector. Ormsby and the clerks of the bank,
too, had scattered information. The general question was as to what
course the clergyman would now pursue. He was an exceedingly popular
preacher, and his services were usually well attended. But, to-night, the
people were flocking to St. Botolph's, expecting they knew not what, yet
certain that the rector would not go into the pulpit without making some
reference to the calamity that had befallen him. The whispered disgrace
had become a public record. Would he defend his son against the charges?
All in all, it was a most sensational scandal--one sure to move a
congregation more deeply than the richest oratory.
Everybody knew that the rector's heart was not in his words; for he never
gabbled the prayers and hurried through the service as he was doing
to-night. There was surely something coming. He, like them, was waiting
for the moment when he should ascend the pulpit steps.
For a minute, a wild fury against him arose in the guilty woman's
heart--a bitter sense of humiliation and injustice. And, when she looked
upon the white-robed figure, standing apart from the serried mass of
faces, she understood with a great pang how much he had been alone in the
past twenty-five years, fighting his way through life amid alien
surroundings, dragged down by the burden of her follies. He was walking
to the pulpit now. He had gone out of sight of the congregation, and was
near the window--within three yards of her, so near that she could
almost touch him.
"John! John!" she cried; but her voice was hoarse, and the droning notes
of the organ shut out her appeal.
At the bottom of the steps, he held the rail, and steadied himself. Twice
he faltered. His face was as white as his surplice. He closed his eyes,
and threw back his head, turning his face heavenward; his lips parted,
and he seemed to be on the verge of fainting and falling backward.
She cried out again, and pressed her face close to the window. Her cry
must have penetrated this time, for he looked around in a dazed fashion,
as one who heard a voice from afar. It seemed to stimulate him. With one
hand on his heart and the other gripping his Bible, he mounted the steps
unsteadily. He spread out the Book on the red cushion, and read the
text.
"Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may
be healed."
The woman, listening outside the window, could not endure the suspense.
She entered the church by a side door, and listened not far from the
pulpit steps. Her husband's voice rang out amid a breathless silence, as
he repeated his text.
"Confess your faults one to another and pray one for another that ye may
be healed."
"Brethren, I stand before you to-night for the last time." A gasp and a
murmur ran through the congregation, followed by an awed silence. "I am
here to confess my sins, because I am unworthy to hold the sacred office,
because for weeks past my life has been a living lie. At each service, I
have mounted the steps of this pulpit, and have preached to you of sin
and its atonement, and all the while my heart was sore, and my conscience
eating into it like a canker.
"I am a husband and a father, like many of you here, with the love of
wife and children strong in my breast. Alas! it has been stronger than my
love for God. I have succumbed to the lusts of the flesh, and have
listened to the voice of the devil. I come not to cry aloud unto you, 'A
woman tempted me and I fell!' I blame no one but myself. The voice of the
tempter spoke to me in devious ways, and I listened."
The preacher paused, and rested silent for a long time. But, at last, he
spoke again, hesitatingly:
"You have doubtless heard of the terrible charge made against my brave
son."
There was a murmur, a shuffling of feet, and a turning of heads; eyes
looking into eyes, saying, "Ah, I told you so."
"On the very day that the news of my boy's supposed death reached me,"
John Swinton continued, more firmly, "an infamous charge was made
against him. While on all sides praises of his bravery were being noised
abroad, I learned that a warrant had been issued for his arrest. A
respected member of this congregation, Mr. Barnby, the manager of the
bank, was with me in the moment of my sorrow, and, with great
consideration for my feelings, made no further reference to the
misdemeanor my son was supposed to have committed. Let me tell you at
once that my boy was innocent of the forgery of which you have all
heard--innocent! Ah! you are surprised. You have heard the
story--garbled, no doubt--how he presented to the bank two checks for
small amounts which had been altered into large ones--the checks signed
by his grandfather, Mr. Herresford. Such an act would have been infamous,
and, when I fully understood the charge, I knew it was false. The bank
had been defrauded, certainly, but not by my son. There was another
culprit; and that culprit was known to me."
At this declaration, there was a louder murmur, and more shuffling of
feet, as people leaned forward in the pews, and the old men put their
hands to their ears for fear of missing a single word.
"While it was believed that my son was dead, no action could be taken.
But tongues were busy circulating the slander, and the noble heroism of
my boy was put into the shade, and forgotten. His name became a byword,
his memory odious, and we, his parents, dared not mention him. Yet, all
the time, I knew him to be innocent, and I held my peace. That was the
sin of which I desire to purge myself by public confession. I allowed my
boy's name to be dragged in the mire, in order to shield another dearer
to me than my dead son. My life was a lie--a daily treachery. For the
sake of the living, I consented to dishonor the dead, and live in wedlock
with the woman who was afraid to speak, afraid to suffer and to atone. I
can't explain to you all the circumstances, and make you realize the
crying need for money which led my unhappy wife--God bless her, and
forgive her, sinner though she be--to take that one false step in the
hope of lightening the burdens that were pressing upon me and my son. My
financial embarrassments have been well known to you for some time past.
There was no secret about them. Much of my own indebtedness was due to
foolish ventures for the good of the poor of this town. Money, for its
own sake has never had any value to me; and I have been a bad steward of
my own fortunes. I now have to confess to you that my dear wife thought
to ease the family burden by an act of sin, lightly regarding the fraud
as merely a family matter. The money she secured by unlawful means was,
from her point of view, mere surplus wealth belonging to her
father--wealth in which she had a reversionary interest. Indeed, we now
know that she had more than reversionary interest--that Mr. Herresford,
who died to-day--"
The murmuring and whispering and hoarse exclamations of astonishment at
this announcement interrupted the preacher's discourse for a moment.
"--that Mr. Herresford unlawfully withheld from her a very large income,
left by his wife. He is dead--God rest his soul!--and in this hour, when
his clay is scarcely cold, it behooves us to be charitable, and to speak
no ill of him; but that much I must tell you.
"My son, as you know, escaped from his captors, and reached the United
States, only to find that the police were waiting for him, with a warrant
for his arrest. His bravery was forgotten. His supposed crime was now
branded on his reputation in letters deeper by far than those that told
the other tale as to his heroism. He came home, ill and broken, to me,
his father, and demanded an explanation of the foul slander that had
shattered his honor. I told him the truth, that his erring mother was the
culprit. And the boy was merciful, and ready to bear disgrace for his
mother's sake. Even now, he would have me close my lips. But there is a
duty to One on High."
The rector paused, and put his hand to his breast. He was silent for a
few moments, with closed eyes, and his face, which a few moments before
had been flushed with excitement, paled to an ashen gray. He was silent
so long that the congregation became uneasy. One or two arose to their
feet. The clergyman put forth a hand blindly for support, as though about
to faint; but he recovered slowly, and, after resting for a few moments
on both hands, continued his discourse in a lower key.
"There are many among you here, loyal husbands and wives, who will think
that, under the circumstances, I ought to have remained silent,
cherishing the wife of my bosom and protecting her from the rough usage
of the world. Alas! in heaven, where there is neither marriage nor giving
in marriage, no distinctions are allowed. Sin is sin; right is right; and
justice is justice. No young man at the outset of his life should be
blasted and accursed among men because his father and mother, into whose
hands God has given the care of his soul, are too weak to stand by the
consequences of their wickedness and folly. The sin of the woman in the
beginning was a small thing--evil done that good might come of it. The
sin of the father--my sin--was ten times greater. I consented to, and
acted, the lie: I, who lived in an atmosphere of sanctity--a hypocrite, a
cheat, a fraud, admonishing sinners and backsliders--I, the greatest of
them all.
"I will not enter into particulars of the inevitable prosecution for
forgery, which must follow this declaration. Jealousy and spite have been
imported into a plain issue; but the matter is now out of my hands.
I--have--confessed! The rest is with the Lord."
The rector raised his arms, and flung them outward, as though casting off
the mantle of deceit under which he had shielded himself--the heavy cloak
that had bowed his shoulders till he looked like an old man. The arms
that were flung upward did not descend for many seconds. His head was
thrown back, looking upward, and he swayed.
Several women, overwrought and terrified by the misery written on the
man's face, arose to their feet, and cried out loudly:
"He'll fall!"
The pulpit steps were behind him, and he balanced just a second, but
regained his equilibrium, resting his left hand on the stone pillar
around which the pulpit was built.
"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be
ascribed all honor, might, majesty, dominion, and power henceforth and
for ever. Amen."
Like an aged, feeble man, he turned to descend the pulpit steps. His left
hand grasped the rail, which was too wide to give him much support. He
took one step downward; then, his white head and shoulders suddenly
disappeared from the view of the congregation. There was a scuffling
sound, and a thud. The congregation stood up; many rushed from their
pews. The guilty wife had heard every word. She had seen him descend the
steps, and had turned to fly, dreading to meet him, afraid to look him in
the face, now that she knew what he really thought of her. But the sound
of his fall awakened all her wifely instincts, and she rushed into the
sight of all.
"John! John!" she cried, as she bent over the huddled mass of humanity on
the stairs. She was too weak to help him. He had fainted, but was
reviving slowly.
The men who reached the pulpit thrust her to one side roughly, and
carried the rector into the vestry. Fortunately, there were medical men
in the congregation, and he was transferred to their charge, Mary
standing by, wringing her hands and weeping. Her face was distorted with
pain; for her grief was blended with rage and humiliation. How
contemptuously all these people treated her--Smith, the church-warden, a
grocer, and Harris, the coal-merchant. Their cringing respect to her had
always been amusing in its servility; but now she was as dust beneath
their feet. They turned their backs, and ignored her existence.
The physicians took pity on her, and sent her to the rectory to make
preparations to receive her husband, whose consciousness did not return
completely. In falling, he had struck his head against a jagged piece of
carving on the pulpit rails, and there was an ugly wound in his temple.
Netty had already fled home from the church, and Dick, quite unconscious
of the progress of affairs, was upstairs, quietly reading in snatches,
and dreaming of Dora--dreams that were interspersed with misgivings and a
shuddering fear of the future. In his present state of health, the
prospect of jail did not seem so amusing as he had pretended to Dora.
Netty came rushing up to him with the news of what had happened in the
church. He was deeply agitated, though not so astonished as his sister.
The awakening of his father's conscience had always been an eventuality
to be reckoned with; and the awakening had come.
They carried the rector into his home, and he was put to bed by the
physicians. Mary, feeling that she was banned and shunned, shut herself
up in her room, a prey to a hundred different emotions. Terror was the
dominant one. Those dreadful, rough-spoken men, who had come to arrest
Dick, would soon be arriving to take her away.
She commenced to pack a trunk. Flight was the only thing possible under
the circumstances.