The Scarlet Feather Part 43

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 pa.s.sed 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.

d.i.c.k'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 d.i.c.k. 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 pa.s.sionate 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 d.i.c.k 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? d.i.c.k, 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 s.h.i.+vers 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 d.i.c.k.

And there was no letter from d.i.c.k! 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. d.i.c.k, 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--d.i.c.k who had never uttered one word of reproach, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 att.i.tude 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

DORA DECIDES

"d.i.c.k, you are no longer an invalid, and it is absurd for you to pose as one."

"Well, I feel pretty rotten, and I need a lot of attention. Come here, little one, and look after me."

"It is absurd of you to describe yourself as weak, when you have a grip like that. Why, you positively bruised my arm."

Dora made a great show of reluctance in coming to d.i.c.k's side. He sat in his father's arm-chair in the study, near the window, where the warm suns.h.i.+ne could fall upon him.

"You are a prisoner, Dora, until you tell me why you have avoided me during the past few days."

"Your father requires so much attention."

"And don't I?"

"No, you are getting quite yourself again, and rough, and brutal, and tyrannical."

She looked at him indulgently, and made a little _moue_.

"You know, we're engaged, Dora, and, when a fellow is in love with a girl with lots of money, like you, it's only natural that he should take every opportunity of being with his sweetheart. And he doesn't expect that same sweetheart to give him the cold shoulder."

Dora drew forward a little ha.s.sock, and settled herself at his feet with a sigh. He bent forward, and looked into her eyes questioningly.

"Are you quite sure my going away didn't make any difference to you, Dora?"

"How foolish you are, d.i.c.k! That wretched will of your grandfather's made it necessary that I should marry you, and marry you I must, or you'll be a pauper. Father, who was opposed to the match at one time, is now all eagerness for it. I hate to think that money has any part in our marriage."

"Never mind about that. Your father was all eagerness that you should marry Ormsby at one time, wasn't he?"

"d.i.c.k, I thought I told you never to mention that horrid man's name again."

"You are quite sure he is a horrid man?"

"d.i.c.k, don't be absurd." She flushed hotly. "What hurts me about our marriage is that you, the man, have no option in the matter. I am just a stepping-stone to wealth, so far as you are concerned, and I--I don't like it."

"Why not, darling?"

"Because it would have been so much nicer, if--if you had come to me with nothing, despised and friendless. Then, I could have shown my love by defying the whole world for your sake."

"Thanks, darling, but I prefer the money, if you don't mind."

"Ah! but you're a man."

"I only want mother to come back to be perfectly happy," d.i.c.k said, gravely. "You don't know mother. She could stand anything but rebuke.

That sermon of father's must have almost done for her. Nothing could be more terrible in her eyes than to be held up to contempt. You must make allowances for mother, Dora."

"She must be wretchedly unhappy," Dora agreed. "Yet, she writes no letters that give any clue to her feelings."

"No, the letters she sends are merely to let us know where she is--never a word about father."

"Does she know how ill he has been?"

"Well, you see, I can't write much, and I hesitated to say anything that would hurt her feelings. I said he'd been very ill, but was mending slowly, and we hoped to see him himself again in a week or two."

"Does she know that he has given up St. Botolph's?"