d.i.c.k was lifted by his father from the floor to the couch, and the conscience-stricken mother looked on with drawn, white face. Love conquered her fear, and she put her arms about him and kissed him; but, when he opened his eyes, she drew away out of sight, fearing reproach.

His first words might be bitter denunciation.

"He knows all; he understands," whispered the rector.

The study door stood open, and in another moment they became conscious of the half-clad figure of Jane, the housekeeper, looking in.

"Mr. d.i.c.k!" she screamed. "Mr. d.i.c.k! Not dead!" She turned and rushed upstairs to Netty's room.

She found Netty in a panic, pale and trembling.

"What has happened?"

"Mr. d.i.c.k--he's alive! alive! He's come home."

"He'll be arrested," was Netty's only thought, and she thrust Jane out of the room, telling her to hold her tongue. It was bitterly cold, and she went back to bed. She guessed that there must be a painful interview in progress down in the study, and her own joy--if any--at the return of her disgraced brother could wait.

She had no two points of view. She was sorry that d.i.c.k had returned. She regretted that the forger was not dead. It was so hideously inconvenient when one wanted to get married to have a disreputable brother in the family. She then and there resolved that d.i.c.k need not think he would ever get money out of Harry Bent.

It was a strange home-coming for the prodigal. His intention to emigrate as soon as he had seen his father and mother was frustrated by an attack of weakness, which made it impossible for him to be moved. He was helped to bed, miserably conscious that self-sacrifice would entail more than emigration. If he took upon his shoulders the family burden, it would be as a prisoner and a convict. The secret of his home-coming could not be kept, and Ormsby's warrant must take effect.

CHAPTER XXII

THE BLIGHT OF FEAR

Breakfast at the rectory on the morning following d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k. 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 a.s.suring 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, d.i.c.k would be rested, and able to join the council.

If anything, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sive, 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 d.i.c.k is here?"

"Dearest, if she believes him guilty, she will go on with her marriage.

The understanding between d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. 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 d.i.c.k--a mother's utter ruin or a son's emigration. And, after all, why shouldn't d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k; but he always liked him. d.i.c.k 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. n.o.body 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 m.u.f.f. "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 ta.s.sel should not fall over the eye; then, a.s.suming a stony expression of face, turned to go.