The Scarlet Feather - Houghton Townley

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much?” snapped the old man.

      “Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars.”

      “What!” he screamed. “Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my check-book—get me my check-book.”

      He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey, thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the desk, and placed it on her father’s knees, and brought an inkstand and a pen, which she put into his trembling fingers.

      “Two thousand, father,” she said, gently.

      “No—two!” he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her, tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word “Two” on the long line.

      “Two. Do you understand?” he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face, as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. “That’s all you’ll get out of me.” He filled in the figure two below, and straggling 28 noughts for the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his remarks with the end of the penholder.

      “I’ll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little legacy I leave you at my death.”

      She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he would be more rational.

      She replaced the blotting-pad, and dried the check in mechanical fashion; but her face was white with anger. She folded the useless slip, and put it in her bag.

      “Have you no gratitude?” cried the old horror from the bed. “Can’t you say, thank you?”

      “Thank you, father,” she answered, coldly; “I am tired of your jests,” and, without another word, she swept from the room.

      “Two!” chuckled the old man in his throat, “two!”

      On arriving at the rectory, she found the man reading a paper in the hall, and the rector not yet returned. She guessed that her husband had gone on a heart-breaking expedition to raise money. She wished to ask the fellow the amount of the debt for 29 which the execution was granted, but could not bring herself to put the question. She went to her husband’s study, guessing that he would come there on his return, and, seating herself in his armchair, leaned her elbows on the account-books and burst into tears.

      After all, how little John had gained by marrying her! She could do nothing for him; she was powerless even to help her own son, who was compelled to adopt miserable subterfuges and swallow his pride on every occasion. She opened her purse and took out the check, intending to destroy it in her rage, but she was stopped by the miserable thought that, after all, every penny was of vital importance just now. She could not afford the luxury of its destruction.

      “My own father!” she cried bitterly, as she spread out the check before her. “Two dollars!”

      Then, she noticed that the word “two” had nothing after it on the long line, and that the “2” below in the square for the numerals was straggling toward the left. It only needed a couple of noughts in her father’s hand to put everything right. Two ciphers! They would indeed be ciphers to him, for how could he feel the difference of a few thousands more or less in his immense banking-account? A bedridden old man had no use for money. Indeed, it was impossible that he could know how much he was worth. She had often seen him signing checks 30 by the dozen, groaning over every one. When they were gone, they were out of his mind; and all he troubled about was to ask for the total at the bank, and mumble with satisfaction over the fine, fat figures of the balance.

      Her face lighted up with a sudden reckless thought.

      If she added those two ciphers herself with an old, spluttering pen, and added the word “thousand” after the “two,” who would be the wiser?

      Certainly not her father. And the bank would pay without a murmur. She seized a pen, prepared to act upon the impulse, then paused. She knew vaguely that it was a wrong thing to do. But—her own father! Indeed, her own money—for some of his wealth would be hers one day, and that day not very far distant. It was ridiculous to have scruples at such a time.

      She cleverly filled in the words in a shaky hand, and added the two ciphers. She let the ink dry, and then surveyed her handiwork.

      How her husband’s face would light up when she told him of their good fortune. Two thousand dollars! No, she could not imagine herself facing the rector’s gray eyes, and telling him an awful lie. It was bad enough to alter the check. She had heard of people who had been put in prison for altering checks!

      Dick would take the check to the bank for her, 31 so that she need not face any inquisitive, staring clerks; and, when it was exchanged for notes, she would be able to get rid of the loathly creature sitting in the hall.

      “Who presented this check?”

      Vivian Ormsby, son of the banker, sat in his private room at Ormsby’s Bank, examining a check for two thousand dollars, and a cashier stood at his side. Vivian Ormsby had just looked in at the bank for a few minutes, and he was in a hurry.

      “Young Mr. Swinton presented it, sir,” the cashier explained.

      Vivian Ormsby’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the check more closely.

      “Leave it with me,” he commanded, “and count out the notes.”

      As soon as he was alone, he went to a cupboard and took out a magnifying glass.

      “Ye gods! Forgery! Made out to his mother—and yet—the signature seems all right. Of course, the alteration might have been made in Herresford’s presence. The simplest thing would be to apply to the old man himself. If the young bounder has altered the figures—well, if he has—then let it go through. It will be a matter for us then, not for Herresford, who wouldn’t part with a cent to save his own, much less his daughter’s, child.” 32 Vivian Ormsby had special reasons for hating Dick Swinton just now, not unconnected with a certain Dora Dundas.

      Yet, he sent for his cashier, and handed him the check.

      “Pay it,” he directed.

      Through a glass panel in his room, the banker’s son watched the departure of Dick Swinton with considerable satisfaction. Dick was a fine, handsome young fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and looking twenty-five at least instead of his twenty-two years, with a kindly face, like his father’s, brown hair, hazel eyes, and a clean-shaven, sensitive mouth more suited to a girl than to a man. Now, Ormsby smiled sardonically at the unconscious swagger of the young man, and he wondered, too. Indeed, he had more than a suspicion about that check. Everybody knew of his rival’s heavy debts, but that he should put his head into the lion’s mouth was amazing. Forgery!

      How easy it would be to discover the fraud presently—when the money was spent, and ere the woman was won. Not now, but presently.

      33

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      Colonel Stone was the possessor of much political and social influence; moreover, he enjoyed considerable wealth; finally, he was flamboyantly and belligerently patriotic. In consequence of his qualities and influence, he conceived the project of raising a company for the war in Cuba, equipping it at his own expense. The War Department accepted his proposition readily enough, for

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