"He is coming later, with John."

"I hope you don't mind our coming, but we're awfully curious to see you presiding at a high tea, with the bishop's lady and her satellites. What are you going to feed the dears on, Mary? You'll ask us to stay, won't you? And, if I laugh, you'll find excuses for me."

"Don't be absurd, Polly. I'd very much rather you hadn't come--you know that. But, since you're here, do try to be normal."

"There you are!" cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; "I told you she wouldn't stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop."

"An unexpected pleasure," exclaimed the rector, who had just entered the room, coming forward to greet Mrs. Ocklebourne. "You should have come to the ceremony? We had a most eloquent address from the bishop--let me make you known to each other."

"Delighted," murmured Mrs. Ocklebourne, with a smirk at her hostess, who was supremely uncomfortable, "and I do so want to know your dear wife, bishop. So does Major Joicy. He's tremendously interested in the Something Society, which looks after the poor black things out in Nigeria--that is the name of the place, isn't it?"--this with a sweet smile at the major, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and thoroughly unhappy. When detached from the racecourse or the card-table, his command of language was nil. He would rather have encountered a wild beast than a bishop's wife, and Mrs. Ocklebourne knew this.

She was thoroughly enjoying herself, for she was full of mischief, and the present situation promised to yield a rich harvest. But another look at the weary face of Mrs. Swinton made her change her tactics. She laid herself out to amuse the bishop, and also to charm his wife.

"The sinner has beguiled the saint," whispered Mrs. Ocklebourne, as the party made a move for the dining-room, "but I'm hungry, and, if I were really good, I believe I should want a high tea every day."

The meal was a merry one. Polly Ocklebourne had the most infectious laugh in the world, and she kept the conversation going in splendid fashion, whipping up the laggards and getting the best out of everybody. She even succeeded in making the major tell a funny story, at which everybody laughed.

A little while before the time for the bishop to leave, a servant whispered to the rector that a gentleman was waiting in the study to see him. He did not trouble to inquire the visitor's name. Since money affairs had been straightened out, these chance visitors had lost their terror, and anyone was free to call upon the clergyman, with the certainty of a hearing, at morning, noon, or night, on any day in the week.

Mr. Barnby was the visitor. He came forward to shake the rector's hand awkwardly.

"What is it, Barnby?" cried the rector, with a laugh. "No overdrawn account yet awhile, surely."

"No, Mr. Swinton, nothing as trivial as that. I have just left Mr.

Herresford at Asherton Hall, and he makes a very serious charge concerning two checks drawn by him, one for two thousand, the other for five thousand dollars. He declares that they are forgeries."

"Forgeries! What do you mean?"

"To be more accurate, the checks have been altered. The first was originally for two dollars, the second for five dollars. These figures were altered into two thousand and five thousand. You will see, if you take them to the light, that the ink is different--"

"But what does all this signify?" asked the rector, fingering the checks idly. "Herresford doesn't repudiate his own paper! The man must be mad."

"He repudiates these checks, sir. They were presented at the bank by your son, Mr. Richard Swinton, and it's Mr. Herresford's opinion that the alterations were made by the young man. He holds the bank responsible for the seven thousand dollars drawn by your son--"

"But the checks are signed by Herresford!" cried Swinton, hotly. "This is some sardonic jest, in keeping with his donation of a thousand dollars to the Mission Hall, given with one hand and taken away with the other. It nearly landed me in bankruptcy."

"But the checks themselves bear evidence of alteration."

"Do you, too, sir, mean to insinuate that my son is a forger?"

A sudden rat-tat at the door silenced them, and a servant entered with a telegram.

A telegram! Telegrams in war time had a special significance. The bank-manager understood, and was silent while John Swinton held out his hand tremblingly and opened the yellow envelope with feverish fingers.

Under the light, he read words that swam before his eyes, and with a sob he crumpled the paper. All the color was gone from his face.

"My son"--he explained.

"Nothing serious, I hope. Not--?"

"Yes--dead!"

There was a long pause, during which the rector stood breathing heavily, with one hand upon his heart. Mr. Barnby folded the forged checks mechanically, and stammered out:

"Under--the--er--circ.u.mstances, I think this interview had better be postponed. Pray accept my condolences, sir. I am deeply, truly sorry."

"Gone!--killed!--and he didn't want to go."

With the tears streaming down his cheeks, the stricken man turned once more to the telegram, and muttered the vital purport of its message:

"Died n.o.bly rendering special service to his country. Captured and shot as a spy having courageously volunteered to carry dispatches through the enemy's lines."

CHAPTER XI

A HOUSE OF SORROW

Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and re-read it until the words lost their meaning.

"Gone--gone--poor d.i.c.k gone!" he murmured, "and just as we were beginning to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor boy--my poor boy!"

A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched his fists and cursed the war.

Light, rippling music broke on his ear. Netty was at the piano in the drawing-room. He must calm himself. His hand was shaking and his knees trembling. He could only murmur, "Poor d.i.c.k! Poor d.i.c.k!" and weep like a child.

The music continued in a brighter key, and jarred upon him. He covered his ears, and paced up and down the room as though racked with pain.

"How can I tell them--how can I tell them?" he sobbed. "Our poor boy--our fine boy--our little d.i.c.k, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He died gloriously--yes, there's some consolation in that. But it doesn't wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd of ruffians leveling their guns at you--my poor lad--"

He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety.

"Stop!" he cried in his agony.

At the moment, the study door opened gently--the soft rustle of silk--his wife.

In an instant, she was at his side.

"What is it--what has happened?"

He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. "d.i.c.k--"

"Is dead! Oh!"

A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. "I knew it--I felt it coming. Oh, d.i.c.k--d.i.c.k, why did they make you go?"

"He died gloriously, darling--for his country, performing an act of gallantry--volunteering to run a great risk. A hero's death."