This was not the only trouble that the post had brought. On the table lay a communication from his bishop, a kindly, earnest letter from man to man, warning him that he must immediately settle with a certain stockbroker, who had lodged a complaint against him, or run the risk of a public prosecution, which would mean ruin.

In his various troubles, he had almost forgotten the stockbroker to whom he gave orders to purchase shares weeks ago, orders faithfully carried out. The shares were now his, but a turn of the market had made them quite worthless. Nevertheless, they must be paid for.

He sighed heavily as he pocketed the bishop's letter. His affairs were in a more hopeless tangle than he had imagined. Seven hundred and fifty for d.i.c.k, and a thousand for the broker--seventeen hundred and fifty dollars more to be raised at once; and the two thousand just received from Herresford all gone.

Netty entered the room at the moment.

"Ah, here you are, father!" she cried, going over to the hearthrug and dropping down before the fire. "Why didn't you come in to breakfast?

Didn't you hear the gong? d.i.c.k went off at eight, and I've had to feed all alone. The bacon is cold by now, I expect; but go and have some. I'll wait here for you. I've got something to tell you."

"I don't want any breakfast, my child. I want to have a talk with you.

It's a long time since we had a chat, Netty. You're getting almost as much a social personage as your mother. Very soon, there'll be no one to keep the house warm, except the old man."

"You mustn't call yourself old. You're not even respectably middle-aged.

But what do you want to talk to me about?"

"Money, my dear, money."

"Money! Oh, dear! no--nothing so horrid. This is a red-letter day for me; and, when you talk about money, it turns everything gray."

"Yes, yes, I know it's not a pleasant subject; but, you see, we must talk about it, sometimes. You've been attending to the house-keeping lately, and I want you to try and cut down the expenses. I've had bad news this morning, news which I shall have to worry your mother about. By the way, what is she doing now?"

"I hope she's asleep. You mustn't worry her, you really mustn't. She's had a dreadful night, and her head's awful--and you mustn't worry me. The house-keeping is all right. It worried me, I hate it so. Jane's doing it, and she's more than careful--she's mean. And, now, my news. Can't you guess it? No, you'll never guess. Look!" the girl held out her hand.

"And what am I to look at?"

"Can't you see?--the ring! It's been in his family hundreds of years; but it's nothing compared to the other jewels; they are magnificent, worth a king's ransom. Why don't you say something--something nice and pretty and appropriate? You know you can make awfully nice speeches when you like, father--and I'm waiting for congratulations."

"Congratulations on having received a present? And who gave it to my Persian?" asked the rector, absently.

"Who gave it to me? It's my engagement ring. Harry and I settled everything last night."

"Harry?"

"I'm going to marry Harry Bent. You surely must have expected it. That's why you are not to talk about anything unpleasant or ugly to-day. If you do, it'll make me wretched, and I don't want to be wretched. I'm going to have a lovely time for always and always."

"G.o.d grant it," murmured the rector, with fervor; "but don't forget that life has its responsibilities and its dull patches; don't expect too much, my little girl. The rosy dawn doesn't always maintain its promise.

But we mustn't begin the Sunday sermon to-day, eh, Persian? And now, run away, for I must be quiet to think over what you have told me. It's a surprise, dear child, but, if it means your happiness, it's a glad surprise. By-the-bye, you're quite sure you're in love, little girl?"

"Silly old daddy, of course I am. He's an awfully good boy, and, when his uncle dies, he'll be immensely rich. It's a splendid match, and you ought to be very pleased about it. Ah, here's mother!" she cried, scrambling to her feet as Mrs. Swinton, dressed for driving in a perfect costume of blue, entered the study. "Now, you can both talk about it instead of your horrid money," and, throwing a kiss lightly to her father, she tripped out of the room.

"You don't look well, Mary," exclaimed the rector anxiously, as his wife sank down into a chair by the fire. "Another headache?" He rested his hand lovingly on her shoulder. "You are overdoing it, dearest. You must slow down and live the normal, dull life of a clergyman's wife."

"Don't, Jack, don't! I'm frightfully worried. What was it you and Netty were talking about?"

"Ah, what indeed! The child tells me she is engaged to Harry Bent, and that you know all about it."

"Yes. I've seen that he wanted her for months past; and she likes him, after a fashion. She'll never marry for love--never love anybody better than herself, I fear; and, since he's quite willing to give more than he receives, I see nothing against their engagement, except--except our dreadful financial position."

Mrs. Swinton spoke wearily. "We will discuss Netty later," she continued, "for I have something of the utmost importance to talk over with you. I must have a thousand dollars by Friday, and, if you haven't sent off that check to the builder of the Mission Hall, you must let it stand over. No, no, don't shake your head like that. I only want the money for a day or so, until I can see father, and get another check from him. But, in the meantime, I must have the money. It means dreadful trouble, if I can't have it."

"Mary, Mary, what are you saying! I can't let you have the money. I sent it away two days ago. I was afraid to hold it. Your plight can't be worse than mine, Mary," he groaned. "G.o.d help me, I didn't mean to tell you, but perhaps it's best, after all, that you should know everything--for it will make the parting with d.i.c.k less hard."

"With d.i.c.k? What has your trouble got to do with d.i.c.k? Tell me quickly--tell me," and her voice dropped to a sobbing whisper. She was terribly overwrought, and ready to expect anything.

"I've had a letter threatening his arrest."

"Arrest!" she cried, starting up. Her voice was a chord of fear.

"A money-lender intends to arrest him, if he attempts to leave the state--that is, unless I'm prepared to pay a debt of seven hundred and fifty dollars. I," added the rector, in a broken voice, "a man without a penny in the world--a spendthrift, a muddler, a borrower, a man dependent upon the bounty of others."

"Hush, John, hush!" cried his wife, coming closer to him. "You are not to blame. Your life is one long sacrifice to others. It is I who am wrong--oh! so wrong! But it shall all be different soon. I will stand by you and help you. No one shall be able to say that you work alone in the future. I'll live your life, dear. Only let us get out of this awful tangle, and all will be right. I'll go to father again, and tell him just how things stand; and, if he won't give me the money, he shall lend it to me. It will be ours some day. It is ours--it ought to be ours. He can't refuse--he shall not!"

She turned to pace the room feverishly for a few moments, then, going over to her husband again, she linked her arm affectionately in his. "It will be all right. Our luck must surely change, John. I feel it in my bones--not that there is any sign of it to-day. How can they arrest d.i.c.k if he goes to the war?"

"Oh! It's some legal technicality. I don't understand it. I've heard of it before. Some judgment has been given against him, and the money-lender has power to make him pay with the first cash he gets, or something of that kind. They've found out that he's been paying other people, I suppose."

"Arrest him! What insolence! As if we hadn't enough trouble of our own without d.i.c.k's affairs crippling us at such a time. He absolutely must go--especially after the things that cad Ormsby insinuated."

"But how about your own trouble, darling? Why must you have a thousand dollars?"

"Well, it's an awful matter. You see, I have rather a big bill with a dressmaker, and I wanted some more new frocks for the Ocklebournes'

parties. She has refused to give me any more credit without security, so I left some jewelry with her--old-fashioned stuff that I never wear."

"But, my darling, that was practically raising money on heirlooms. Your father distinctly warned you that the jewels were only lent. They are his, not yours."

"John, how can you side with father in that way? They are mine, of course they are. I'm not p.a.w.ning them. They are just security, that's all."

"It is the same thing, dear one. You certainly ought to get them back."

"It isn't a question of getting them back, John. The woman threatens to sell them, unless I can let her have a thousand dollars."

"Such a sum is out of the question. You must persuade the woman to wait."

"That is why I was going up to town to-day. But my debt far exceeds that sum."

"By how much?"

The rector rarely demanded any details of his wife's money-affairs, or troubled how she spent her private income. But the time for ceremony was past. There was a haggard perplexity in his look, and an expression of fear in his eyes.

"Nearly two thousand, John."

"For dresses--only dresses?"

With a sigh, the rector dropped into his chair. After a moment's despondency, he commenced to make calculations on his blotting-pad, while Mary stood looking out of the window, crying a little and shaping a new resolve. It was useless to go to her dressmaker with empty hands, and the everlasting cry for money could only be silenced by the one person who held it all--her father.

Once more, rage against him surged up in her heart, and she relieved her pent-up feelings in the usual way.