“Netty, you must take a message to your father,” Mrs. Swinton directed. “You must come with me in the automobile. Then, you must take my note into the vestry, and see that he gets it at once, before service. There will be plenty of time.” Her voice was hoarse with fear.
She dragged off her gloves, and entered her husband’s study, the scene of so many painful interviews, and yet of so many pleasant hours, during twenty-five years of married life. On a piece of sermon paper, the first that came to hand, and with trembling fingers, she scrawled a last, wild appeal, which also conveyed the information that her father was dead. 322
“This must be given into your father’s hand, and he must read it before he goes into the pulpit, Netty, or we are all ruined. Your grandfather is dead—you understand?”
“Dead—at last!”
The joyous exclamation from the girl’s lips jarred horribly. Yet, it was only an echo of her own old, oft-repeated lament at the length of the miser’s life.
“Let him write me a reply, for you to bring back.”
Netty took the letter, and then followed her mother to the automobile, which was driven rapidly to St. Botolph’s. But, at the church, Mrs. Swinton had not the courage to enter. Instead, when she had hurried Netty toward the vestry, she approached a side window, where one of the panels stood open, and peered within, stealthily. At once, she perceived her husband by the lectern. He was calm and pale, droning out the service with unusual lassitude. The church was crammed. It was a vast edifice, and its ample accommodations were rarely strained; but to-night people were standing up in a black mass by the door. Pastor and congregation understood each other. An electric thrill passed through the expectant crowd. The news of Dick Swinton’s arrest had been spread broadcast, despite the promise to the rector. Ormsby and the clerks of the bank, too, had scattered information. 323 The general question was as to what course the clergyman would now pursue. He was an exceedingly popular preacher, and his services were usually well attended. But, to-night, the people were flocking to St. Botolph’s, expecting they knew not what, yet certain that the rector would not go into the pulpit without making some reference to the calamity that had befallen him. The whispered disgrace had become a public record. Would he defend his son against the charges? All in all, it was a most sensational scandal—one sure to move a congregation more deeply than the richest oratory.
Everybody knew that the rector’s heart was not in his words; for he never gabbled the prayers and hurried through the service as he was doing to-night. There was surely something coming. He, like them, was waiting for the moment when he should ascend the pulpit steps.
For a minute, a wild fury against him arose in the guilty woman’s heart—a bitter sense of humiliation and injustice. And, when she looked upon the white-robed figure, standing apart from the serried mass of faces, she understood with a great pang how much he had been alone in the past twenty-five years, fighting his way through life amid alien surroundings, dragged down by the burden of her follies. He was walking to the pulpit now. He had gone out of sight of the congregation, and was near 324 the window—within three yards of her, so near that she could almost touch him.
“John! John!” she cried; but her voice was hoarse, and the droning notes of the organ shut out her appeal.