FLIGHT
Everybody supposed Mrs. Swinton to be locked in her room. The rector was
attended by his daughter and the physicians, and lay in a state of
collapse for many hours, causing considerable anxiety to the household;
but, toward midnight, he rallied and asked for his wife.
Visitors were forbidden. The presence of Mrs. Swinton was not likely to
have a soothing effect, and all emotion must be avoided. Nevertheless,
under the peculiar circumstances, the physicians decided that she should
be told of his asking for her, although she was not to be allowed to
enter the sickroom.
Netty, in tears, crept upstairs to her mother's room, and knocked softly.
There was no answer. Examination showed that the place was empty. The
erring wife had fled, and no one knew whither--except Dick.
The young man's position was extremely painful. Unable to do anything,
with scarcely strength enough to rise from his couch, he lay in torment.
His mother had rushed into his room in a highly hysterical state, and
announced her intention of fleeing before the consequences of her
husband's public confession could culminate in arrest. In vain, the young
man implored her to remain and face it out, and comfort the rector. It
was impossible to reason with her, her terror and humiliation were too
great. She could not, she declared, live another day in this atmosphere.
He pointed out that, since the miser had acknowledged the checks, a
prosecution was out of the question, and that she was as safe at home as
a thousand miles away. It was, however, useless and painful to argue with
her. Her double crime had been laid bare, and shame--all the more acute
because it humbled a woman who had borne herself proudly all her life--as
much as fright prompted her flight. Moreover, she believed that Ormsby
might act upon the rector's confession, despite Herresford's dying
acknowledgment.
* * * * *
For a time, they feared that the rector would slip out of the world. He
lay quite still, but his lips moved incessantly, murmuring his wife's
name; and from this condition he passed into a state of mental coma, from
which he did not recover till next day, after a long and heavy sleep.
Then, he asked again for his wife; and they told him that she had gone
away--for the present.
"Poor Mary, poor Mary!" he murmured, and fell asleep again.
Dick's recovery was more swift. He was soon at his father's bedside, and
the pleasure that the stricken man took in the presence of his son did
more to help him back to full consciousness of his surroundings than
anything else.
No word came from the wife, however. She was deeply wounded, as well as
humiliated. She recognized that her god and the rector's were not the
same. Hers was self. He had made peace with his Master; but her heart was
still hard; and her god was only a graven image.
In an empty, barnlike hotel in an obscure town, with never a familiar
face about her, she experienced her first sensation of utter desolation.
She missed Dick. She missed Netty; yes, even Netty would have been a
comfort. But, beyond all, she missed her husband.
Away from home, alone, in a strange place, she was able to survey herself
and her affairs with a detachment impossible in the familiar surroundings
of the rectory. Economy was no longer a consideration; expense mattered
nothing now; but how surprisingly little she desired to spend when both
hands were full! How trivial the difference that money really made in the
things that mattered! It could not buy back the respect of husband and
son. Yet, along with these thoughts came others full of hot rebellion,
for her penitence was not yet complete. She alternated between regret for
her folly and a passionate anger against the whole world. Was not all she
had done for the good of others? Nothing had been placed in the balance
to her credit. She was condemned as a selfish criminal, with no account
taken of motives. Was it for herself she forged? Was it for herself she
lied, when her sin came home to roost? Was it through any lack of love
for Dick that she allowed the foul slander to besmirch his memory, when
everybody had believed him dead? No, a thousand times no!
The position was a strange one, a hideous tangle of nice, sentimental
distinctions. Small wonder that the woman should be blind, and set the
balance in her own favor!
The vigor of her lamentations and the intensity of her resentment against
everything and everybody brought the inevitable reaction. Truth began to
arise from the mirage. Much contemplation of self brought humility, and,
try as she would, she could not stifle an aching desire to know what was
happening to John since that awful night in the church. She had left him
when he was ill, because he had laid the lash upon her shoulders. Yet,
her place was at his side. Netty was there, of course. But of what use
could Netty be when John was ill? Dick, too, still needed her care. A
wave of deep remorse swept over her when she remembered how weak and
helpless he was.
Her natural curiosity to know the exact conditions of her father's will
was satisfied by the gossip of the newspapers. And nothing amazed her
more than the announcement that Dora Dundas, of all people in the world,
was to inherit his millions. Thoughts of Dora sent cold shivers down her
back. She knew the downright and straightforward nature so well that she
could easily imagine the hot indignation flaming in the girl's breast for
any wrong or injustice inflicted on Dick.
And there was no letter from Dick! Had they all cast her off utterly?
A week spent amid uncongenial surroundings and without communication from
home, reduced her to a state of pitiable depression. The world did not
want her. Even her newly-found wealth could not make her welcome in her
own home. Dick, of course, would be consoled by Dora; and the marriage
arranged by the miser would take place with as little delay as possible.
Her son would then, indeed, be lost to her--Dick who had never uttered
one word of reproach, Dick who had been ready to suffer for her sin!
Gradually, the fear of arrest died down. All sense of panic vanished on
calm consideration of the facts; but this produced no real relief.
Indeed, it made matters worse: it removed her only excuse for remaining
in hiding.
Her first letter home was written to Netty, not to her husband. Pride
would not allow a complete surrender. And how eagerly she waited for the
reply!
When it did come, it was a bitter disappointment. It was stilted and
commonplace. Netty regretted that her mother felt it necessary to absent
herself from home, and she was very wretched because father was still far
from well, although recovering slowly. He was in the hands of Dora
Dundas, who had volunteered to nurse him; and it was "positively
sickening" to see the way in which he and Dick allowed themselves to be
led and swayed by Dora in everything. Mrs. Bent had at first consented to
her engagement continuing, so long as Mrs. Swinton did not again make her
appearance in New York until after the wedding. But, when she heard how
rich Mrs. Swinton had become by the death of Herresford and the recovery
of Mrs. Herresford's fortune, she changed her mind, and desired the
marriage to take place as soon as the local scandal had blown over. There
must be substantial settlements, however. A significant line came at the
end of the letter: "Captain Ormsby has gone away on a three months'
yachting cruise."
There was little mention of the rector, yet Mary was burning with desire
to know what attitude he had taken up toward her: whether he ever
mentioned her name, or regarded her as an outcast. Netty gave no clue at
all to the real state of affairs at home.