Everybody knew—except the rector.
He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son’s memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint 148 and diffidence of those people who did pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry.
The revelation came, not through the proper channel—his wife—but from an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman’s slender, delicate white fingers, exclaimed:
“I’m sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man, and I’ll not believe it was to avoid disgrace.”
“Avoid disgrace?” cried the rector, astounded.
“Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather’s money, he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don’t stand up against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few words that’d save their skins.”
“Stole his grandfather’s money! What do you mean?”
“Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby’s are a bad lot. I’d rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought he was cheating, perhaps—that isn’t like stealing from other people. But this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save the boy.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the clergyman, haughtily. 149
“Well, I’ll be more plain. He altered his grandfather’s checks, and kept the money for himself, didn’t he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and my wife hadn’t the sense or the heart to shield him, I’d—” He broke off abruptly.