The moment the door closed behind him, Mrs. Swinton dropped into a chair, white and haggard, gasping for breath, with her heart beating great hammer-strokes that sent the blood to her brain. The room whirled around, the windows danced before her eyes, she clutched the back of a chair to prevent herself from fainting.
“God help me!” she cried. “There was no other way. The disgrace, the exposure, the scandal would be awful. I should be cut by everybody—my husband pointed at in the streets and denounced as a partner in my guilt—for he has shared the money. It was to pay his debts as well, to save 133 Dick and the whole household from ruin—for Netty’s sake, too—how could Harry Bent marry a bankrupt clergyman’s daughter? But it wasn’t really my doing, it was his, his! He’s no father at all. He’s a miser, a beast of prey, a murderer of souls! From my birth, he’s hated and cheated me. He has checked every good impulse, and made me regard his money as something to be got by trickery and misrepresentation and lies. And, now, I have lied on paper, and they suspect poor, dead Dick, who was the soul of honor. Oh, Dick, Dick! But they can’t do anything to you, Dick—you’re dead. Better to accuse you than ruin all of us. Your father couldn’t hold up his head again, or preach a sermon from the pulpit. We should be beggars. I couldn’t live that kind of a life. I should die. I have only one child now, and she must be my care. I’ve not been a proper mother to her, I fear, but I’ll make up for it—yes, I’ll make up for it. If I spoiled her life now, she would never forgive me—never! She is like me: she must have the good things of life, the things that need money. And, after all, it was my own money I took. It was no theft at all. It’s only the wretched law that gives a miser the power to crush his own child for scrawling a few words on a piece of paper.”
Then came the worst danger of all. How was 134 she to explain to her husband—how make him see her point of view—how face his condemnation of her guilty act, and secure his consent to the damnable sin of dishonoring her dead son’s name to save the family from ruin.
CHAPTER XIII
DICK’S HEROISM
Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton’s death and the way in which he died—except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm.
It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death—one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy’s lines and carry dispatches—that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field. Three men were chosen—two officers and a private—Dick Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a 136 bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory.
The enemy’s lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.