He would not scruple to prosecute his own child for theft. He would certainly make her smart for her folly. The bad end, which he always prophesied for anyone who did not conform to his arrogant decrees, loomed imminent and forbidding. He was little better than a monster, with no more paternal instinct than the wild-cat. He would only chuckle and rub his hands in glee at the thought of her humiliation in the eyes of her friends. He might accuse the rector of complicity in her fraud. He would spread ruin around, rather than lose his dollars.

In the morning, half-an-hour after the bank opened, Mr. Barnby appeared again at the rectory, impelled by a strict sense of duty once more to enter the house of sorrow, on what was surely the most unpleasant errand ever undertaken by a man at his employer's bidding. The news of d.i.c.k's death had already spread over the town; and those who knew of the affair at the club dinner and the taunt of cowardice did not fail to comment on the glorious end of the brave young officer who had died a hero. A splendid coward they called him, ironically.

Mr. Barnby asked to see her ladyship, and not the rector. The recollection of John Swinton's haggard face had kept him awake half the night. The more he thought of the forgery, the more he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Swinton could explain the mystery of the checks. He knew, by referring to several banking-accounts, that she had recently been paying away large sums of money to tradesmen, and the amounts paid by d.i.c.k Swinton were not particularly large.

Mrs. Swinton stood outside the drawing-room door with her hand on her heart for a full minute, before she dared enter to meet the visitor.

Then, a.s.suming her most self-possessed manner, with a slight touch of hauteur, she advanced to greet the newcomer.

He arose awkwardly, and she gave him a distant bow.

"You wish to see me, I understand, and you come from some bank, I believe?"

She spoke in a manner indicating that her visitor was a person of whose existence she had just become aware.

"Your husband has not informed you of the purport of my visit last night, Mrs. Swinton?" asked Mr. Barnby.

"He spoke of some silly blunder about checks. Why have you come to me this morning--at a time of sorrow? Surely your wretched business can wait?"

"It cannot wait," replied Mr. Barnby, with growing coolness. He saw a terrified look in her eyes, and his own sparkled with triumph. It was easier to settle matters of business with a woman in this mood than with a tearful mother.

"I shall be as brief as possible, Mrs. Swinton. I only come to ask you a plain question. Did you recently receive from your father, Mr.

Herresford, a check for two dollars?"

"I--I did. Yes, I believe so. I can't remember."

"Did you receive one from him for two thousand dollars?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because the check for two dollars appears to have been altered into two thousand."

"Let me see it," she demanded with the greatest _sang froid_.

He produced the check, and she took it; but her hand trembled.

"This is certainly a check for two thousand dollars, but I know nothing of it."

"It was presented at the bank by your son, and cashed."

"I tell you I know nothing of it. My son is dead, and cannot be questioned now."

"I have another check here for five thousand dollars, made out to your son and cashed by him also. You will see that the ink has changed color in one part, and that the five has been altered to five thousand. The body of the check is in your handwriting, I believe."

"Yes, that is my handwriting."

"The additions were very cleverly made," ventured Mr. Barnby. "The forger must have imitated your handwriting wonderfully."

"Yes, it is wonderfully like," she replied, huskily.

"This check was also presented by your son, and honored by us. Both checks are repudiated by your father, who will only allow us to debit his account with seven dollars. Therefore, we are six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three dollars to the bad. Mr. Ormsby, our managing director, says we must recover the money somehow. Your son is dead, and cannot explain, as you have already reminded me. Unfortunately, a warrant has been applied for, for his arrest for forgery."

"You mean to insinuate that my son is a criminal?" she cried, with mock rage, drawing herself up, and acting her part very badly.

"If you say those checks were not altered by you, there can be little doubt of the ident.i.ty of the guilty person."

"My son is dead. How dare you bring such a charge against him. I refuse to listen to you, or to discuss money matters at such a time. My father must pay the money."

"He refuses, absolutely. And he says he will prosecute the offender, even if the forger be his own child."

"He has the wickedness and audacity to suggest that I--?"

"I merely repeat his words."

She rang the bell, sweeping across the room in her haughtiest manner, and drawing herself up to her full height. The summons was answered instantly.

"Show this gentleman to the door."

"Madam, I will convey the result of this interview to Mr. Ormsby."

The old man bowed himself out with a dignity that was more real than hers, and it had, as well, a touch of contempt in it.

The moment the door closed behind him, Mrs. Swinton dropped into a chair, white and haggard, gasping for breath, with her heart beating great hammer-strokes that sent the blood to her brain. The room whirled around, the windows danced before her eyes, she clutched the back of a chair to prevent herself from fainting.

"G.o.d help me!" she cried. "There was no other way. The disgrace, the exposure, the scandal would be awful. I should be cut by everybody--my husband pointed at in the streets and denounced as a partner in my guilt--for he has shared the money. It was to pay his debts as well, to save d.i.c.k and the whole household from ruin--for Netty's sake, too--how could Harry Bent marry a bankrupt clergyman's daughter? But it wasn't really my doing, it was his, his! He's no father at all. He's a miser, a beast of prey, a murderer of souls! From my birth, he's hated and cheated me. He has checked every good impulse, and made me regard his money as something to be got by trickery and misrepresentation and lies. And, now, I have lied on paper, and they suspect poor, dead d.i.c.k, who was the soul of honor. Oh, d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k! But they can't do anything to you, d.i.c.k--you're dead. Better to accuse you than ruin all of us. Your father couldn't hold up his head again, or preach a sermon from the pulpit. We should be beggars. I couldn't live that kind of a life. I should die. I have only one child now, and she must be my care. I've not been a proper mother to her, I fear, but I'll make up for it--yes, I'll make up for it. If I spoiled her life now, she would never forgive me--never! She is like me: she must have the good things of life, the things that need money. And, after all, it was my own money I took. It was no theft at all. It's only the wretched law that gives a miser the power to crush his own child for scrawling a few words on a piece of paper."

Then came the worst danger of all. How was she to explain to her husband--how make him see her point of view--how face his condemnation of her guilty act, and secure his consent to the d.a.m.nable sin of dishonoring her dead son's name to save the family from ruin.

CHAPTER XIII

d.i.c.k'S HEROISM

Everybody in the country heard of d.i.c.k Swinton's death and the way in which he died--except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm.

It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death--one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy's lines and carry dispatches--that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field.

Three men were chosen--two officers and a private--d.i.c.k Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pa.s.s through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory.

The enemy's lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.

Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet had grazed d.i.c.k Swinton's side did the others surrender. They were promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the dispatches.

The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of their captors, and d.i.c.k Swinton, who from his bearing seemed to be an officer, was exhorted to reveal the nature of his mission on promise of his life.

He refused. A further examination was made. Their boots were cut to pieces, the heels split open, their weapons smashed, and their clothes torn to ribbons, but without avail. They were brought before an officer high in command, who charged them with bearing important messages, and again promised them their lives, if they would betray their country. Each man doggedly refused. They were given an hour to reconsider their decision; at the end of that time, they were to be shot. A firing party was told off, and the men were led outside the house, where they were bound hand and foot, and flung upon the ground--for an engagement was in progress, and distant firing threatened a possible advance on the part of the Americans. So hot was the firing that the hour's respite was reduced to half-an-hour, and a surly old soldier was sent to inform them that he had orders to carry out their execution at once, if they would not speak.

They refused, without hesitation.