CHAPTER XXI
DICK’S RETURN
The deepest stillness of night had settled down on Riverside Drive, when Dick Swinton came cautiously along the cross-town street, and paused near the corner, looking suspiciously to left and to right. Convinced, at last, that no one was about, he advanced toward his home in the shadow of the houses, going warily. At the beginning of the rectory grounds, he stopped and leaned against the wall, peering into the shadows for signs of a watching figure. All was silent as the grave. He slipped to the side gate without meeting anyone. Still going cautiously, he entered without a sound. The place was in shadow, but from a window on the ground floor a narrow beam of light shot out on the drive and across the lawn. It came from between the half-closed curtains of his father’s study.
The rector was at work. It was Friday. Dick had chosen the day and the hour because he knew that it was his father’s custom to sit up far into the night, preparing his Sunday sermon. Sunday morning’s discourse was prepared on Friday evening; the evening homily on Saturday. 227
He crept to the window, and looked in. The light from the lamp was shining on his father’s hair. How white it was! The iron-gray streaks were quite gone. And yet how little time had elapsed! The rector’s Bible was at his elbow, lying open, and the desk was covered with sheets of manuscripts, spread about in unmethodical fashion. At the moment when Dick looked in, the rector picked up his Bible, and laid it open before him on the desk.
“He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth them shall have mercy.”
John Swinton arose from the table, and closed the book abruptly. His study fire had burned low, yet the sermon was only half-finished.
For weeks past, his life had been a hideous burden. It was unendurable. Every time he opened his Bible, he read his own condemnation; and, as he slowly paced his study, he muttered text after text, always dealing with the one thing—confession.