With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness.
John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: “He’s a new man, quite like his old self.” Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic.
No longer did he pass his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money. The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing 108 his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog.
As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance—aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered—she was more anxious to please than ever before—and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished.
The rector’s cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire?
Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been 109 invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed.
For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman’s wife. She attended church meetings, mothers’ meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday—and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose.
That “if” was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair—she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question.
She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor?