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THE SCARLET FEATHER




[Illustration: THERE WAS SOMETHING MAGNETIC ABOUT THIS MAN WHOM SHE
FEARED AND TRIED TO HATE.--Page 201]




  THE SCARLET FEATHER

  BY
  HOUGHTON TOWNLEY

  Author of
  "The Bishop's Emeralds"

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY
  WILL GREFE

  NEW YORK
  GROSSET & DUNLAP
  PUBLISHERS




  COPYRIGHT, 1909 BY
  W. J. WATT & COMPANY

  _Published June, 1909_




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                         PAGE
        I  The Sheriff's Writ                        9
       II  The Check                                21
      III  The Dinner at the Club                   33
       IV  Dora Dundas                              39
        V  Debts                                    50
       VI  A Kinship Something Less Than Kind       66
      VII  Good-bye                                 82
     VIII  A Tiresome Patient                       89
       IX  Herresford is Told                       93
        X  Hearts Ache and Ache Yet Do Not Break   102
       XI  A House of Sorrow                       117
      XII  A Difficult Position                    125
     XIII  Dick's Heroism                          135
      XIV  Mrs. Swinton Confesses                  147
       XV  Colonel Dundas Speaks His Mind          168
      XVI  Mr. Trimmer Comes Home                  173
     XVII  Mrs. Swinton Goes Home                  190
    XVIII  A Second Proposal                       195
      XIX  An Unexpected Telegram                  204
       XX  The Wedding Day Arranged                221
      XXI  Dick's Return                           226
     XXII  The Blight of Fear                      237
    XXIII  Dora Sees Herresford                    249
     XXIV  Dick Explains to Dora                   262
      XXV  Tracked                                 280
     XXVI  Mrs. Swinton Hears the Truth            288
    XXVII  Ormsby Refuses                          297
   XXVIII  The Will                                307
     XXIX  A Public Confession                     320
      XXX  Flight                                  333
     XXXI  Dora Decides                            340
    XXXII  Home Again                              348
   XXXIII  The Scarlet Feather                     353




THE SCARLET FEATHER




THE SCARLET FEATHER


CHAPTER I

THE SHERIFF'S WRIT


The residence of the Reverend John Swinton was on Riverside Drive,
although the parish of which he was the rector lay miles away, down in
the heart of the East Side. It was thus that he compromised between his
own burning desire to aid in the cleansing of the city's slums and the
social aspirations of his wife. The house stood on a corner, within
grounds of its own, at the back of which were the stables and the
carriage-house. A driveway and a spacious walk led to the front of the
mansion; from the side street, a narrow path reached to the rear
entrance.

A visitor to-night chose this latter humble manner of approach, for the
simple reason that this part of the grounds lay unlighted, and he hoped,
therefore, to pass unobserved through the shadows. The warm, red light
that streamed from an uncurtained French window on the ground floor only
deepened the uncertainty of everything. The man stepped warily, closing
the gate behind him with stealthy care, and crept forward on tiptoe to
lessen the sound of the crunching gravel beneath his heavy shoes. It was
an undignified entry for an officer of the law who carried his
authorization in his hand; but courage was not this man's strong point.
His fear was lest he should meet tall, stalwart Dick Swinton, who, on a
previous occasion of a similar character, had forcibly resented what he
deemed an unwarrantable intrusion on the part of a shabby rascal. The
uncurtained window now attracted the attention of the sheriff's officer,
and he peered in. It was the rector's study.

The rector himself was seated with his back toward the window, at his
desk, upon which were piled account-books and papers in hopeless
confusion. A shaded lamp stood upon the centre of the table, and threw a
circle of light which included the clergyman's silver-gray hair, his
books, and a figure by the fireside--a handsome woman resplendent in
jewels and wearing a low-cut, white evening gown--Mary Swinton, the
rector's wife. The room was paneled, and the shadows were deep, relieved
by the glint of gilt on the bindings of the books that filled the shelves
on the three sides. The fireplace was surmounted by a carved mantel, upon
which stood two gilt candelabra and a black statuette. The walls were
burdened by scarce a single picture, and the red curtains at the windows
were only half-drawn. On looking in, the impression given was one of
luxury and of artistic refinement, an ideal room for a winter's night, a
place for retirement, peace and repose.

Mrs. Swinton sat in her own particular chair by the fireside--a most
comfortable tub of a chair--and reclined with her feet outstretched upon
a stool, smoking a cigarette. Her graceful head was thrown back, and, as
she toyed with the cigarette, displaying the arm of a girl and a figure
slim and youthful, it was difficult to believe that this woman could be
the mother of a grown son and daughter. Her brown hair, which had a glint
of gold in it, was carefully dressed, and crowned with a thin circlet of
diamonds. Her shapely little head was poised upon a long, white throat
rising from queenly shoulders. She looked very tall as she lounged thus
with her feet extended and her head thrown back, watching the smoke curl
from her full, red lips.

Opposite her, deep in an armchair, and scarcely visible behind a large
fashion journal, sat Netty Swinton, her daughter, a girl of nineteen, a
mere slip of a woman. The pet name for Netty was, "The Persian," because
she somewhat resembled a Persian cat in her ways, always choosing the
warmest and most comfortable chairs, and curling up on sofas, quite
content to be quiet, only asking to be left alone and caressed at rare
intervals by highly-esteemed persons.

From the ladies' gowns, it was obvious that they were going somewhere;
and, by the rector's ruffled hair and shabby smoking-jacket, that he
would be staying at home, busy over money affairs--the eternal worry of
this household.

The rector was even now struggling with his accounts.

The clever man seemed to be a fool before the realities of life as set
down in numerals. As a young man, he had been a prodigy. People then
spoke of him as a future bishop, and he filled fashionable churches of
the city with the best in the land. They came to hear his sensational
sermons, and they patted him on the back approvingly in their
drawing-rooms. He was immensely popular. Perhaps his wonderful masculine
beauty was responsible for much of the interest he excited. It certainly
captivated Mary Herresford, a girl of nineteen, who was among those
bewitched. She adored the young preacher, whom later she married
secretly; and the red flame of their passionate love had never died down.
The wealthy father of the bride had only forgiven them to the extent of
presenting his daughter with the property on Riverside Drive, where they
had since made their home, to the considerable inconvenience of the
rector himself. Soon after the marriage, John Swinton had taken the
rectorship of St. Botolph's, that great church planned for the betterment
of the most hopeless slums. The clergyman's admirers believed that this
was but the beginning of magnificent achievements. On the contrary, the
result threatened disaster to his good-standing before the world. The
population of the parish grew in poverty, rather than in grace. The
rector was a man of ideals, generous to a fault. His means were small;
his bounty was great. The income enjoyed by his wife did not count. Old
Herresford allowed his daughter only sufficient for her personal needs,
which were, naturally, rather extravagant, for she had been reared and
had lived always in the atmosphere of wealth.

Matters were further complicated by the fact that Mrs. Swinton, though
she adored her husband, hated his parish cordially. She belonged to the
aristocracy, and she had no thought of tearing herself from the life with
which she was familiar, while her husband, on the contrary, doted on his
parish and avoided, so far as he might, the company of the frivolous
idlers who were his wife's companions. Husband and wife, therefore,
agreed to differ, and to be satisfied with love. After their son was
born, the wife drifted back to her old life, and was a most welcome
figure in the gayest society. Yet, no scandal was ever associated with
her name, and none sneered at her love for her husband. The rector, when
he yielded to her persuasions and accompanied her on social excursions,
was as welcome as she; and everybody proclaimed Mrs. Swinton a clever
woman to be able to live two entirely-different lives at the same time,
with neither overlapping. At forty, she was still young and beautiful,
with a ripe maturity that only the tender crow's feet about the corners
of the eyes betrayed to the inquisitive. She set the pace for many a
younger woman, and was far more active than prim little Netty, her
daughter. Needless to say, she was adored by her son, to whom she was
both mother and chum.

Dick Swinton was like his father, the same gentlemanly spirit combined
with a somewhat unpractical mind, which turned to the beautiful and the
good, and refused to admit the ugliness of unpleasant facts. Indeed, the
young man's position was even more awkward than his father's. As grandson
and heir of Richard Herresford much was expected of him. Everybody did
not know that the rich old man was such a miser that, after paying for
his grandson's education, at his daughter's persuasion, he allowed him
only a thousand dollars a year, and persistently refused to disburse this
sum until it was dragged from him by Mrs. Swinton.

The rector turned over the leaves of the account-books, and sighed
heavily.

"It's no use," he cried, at last. "I can't make them up. They are in a
hopeless muddle. I know, though, that I can't raise a thousand cents,
much less a thousand dollars, and the builder threatens to make me
bankrupt, if I don't pay at once."

"Bankrupt, John!" his wife murmured, languidly raising her brows. "You
are exaggerating."

"No, my dear. The truth must be faced. Pressure is being applied in every
direction. I signed a note, making myself security for the building of
the Mission-room. And here are other threats of suits. I already have
judgments against me, that they may try to satisfy at any moment. Why,
even our furniture may be seized! And this man declares that he will make
me bankrupt. It's a horrible position--bad enough for any man, fatal for
a clergyman. We've staved off the crash for about as long as we can.--And
I'm tired of it all!"

He flung the account-book from him, and, brushing his gray hair from his
forehead in an agitated fashion, started up. His brow was moist, and his
hand trembled.

"Only a matter of a thousand dollars, John?" cried Mrs. Swinton, after
another puff from her cigarette. Then, glancing at the clock, she added:
"What a time they are getting the carriage ready! We shall be late.
Netty, go and see why they are so long." Netty slipped away.

"Mary, you must be late for once," cried the disturbed husband, striding
over to her. "We must talk this matter out."

She smiled up at him bewitchingly, and he melted, for he adored her
still.

"Father will have to pay the money," she said, rising lazily and facing
him--as tall as he, and wonderfully graceful. She put her hand upon his
shoulder.

"Yes, John, I'll go to father once more. It's really shameful! He
absolutely promised you a thousand dollars for that Mission Hall, and
then afterward refused to pay it."

"Yes, of course, he did. That was why I became responsible. But you know
what his promises are."

"His promises should be kept like those of other men. It is wicked to
give money with one hand, and then take it away with the other. He
allowed you to compromise yourself in the expectation of this unusual
lavishness on his part; and now he repudiates the whole thing, like the
miser that he is."

"Hush, darling! He is a very old man."

"Oh, yes, it's all very well for you to find excuses for him. You would
find excuses for Satan himself, John. You are far too lenient. Just think
what father would say, if you were to be made bankrupt. Can't you hear
his delighted, malevolent chuckles? Oh, it is too terrible, too
outrageous! You know what everyone would say--that you had been
speculating, or gambling, just because you dabbled a little in mines a
few years ago."

"A thousand dollars would only delay the crash. We owe at least ten times
as much as that," groaned the unhappy man, sinking into the chair his
wife had just vacated. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his
throbbing head in his hands. "They'll have to find another rector for St.
Botolph's. I've tried hard to satisfy everybody. I've begged and worked.
We've had bazaars, concerts, collections, everything. But people give
less and less, and they want more and more. The poor cry louder and
louder."

"John, you are too generous. It's monstrous that father should cling to
his money as he does. He has nobody to leave it to but us--in fact, it is
as much ours as his. Yet, he <DW36>s us at every turn. I have almost to
go down on my knees for my own allowance--"

"And, when you get it, dearest, I have to borrow half. I'm a wretched
muddler. I used to think great things of myself once, but now--well,
they'd better make me bankrupt, and have done with it. At least, I shall
have the satisfaction of knowing that, if I have robbed the rich man and
the trader, it has been to relieve the poor. Why, my own clothes are so
shabby that I am ashamed to face the sunlight."

It did not for one moment occur to his generous nature to glance at the
costly garments of his beautiful wife, who wanted for nothing, who spent
her days in a round of pleasure. He took her hand as she stood beside
him, and raised it to his lips.

"I have been a miserable failure as a husband for you, Mary," he said.
"You remember that they used jestingly to call you the bishop's wife, and
said that you would never regret having married a parson. Well, I really
thought in those days that I should make up for the disparity in our
relative positions, and raise you to an eminence worthy of you."

"Poor old John!" laughed his wife, smoothing his gleaming, silvery hair.
"It's not your fault. Father ought to have done more. He's a perfect
beast. He is a miser, mean, deceitful, avaricious, spiteful, everything
that's wicked. He is ruining you, and he will ruin Dick, too. He
threatens that, when he dies, we may find all his wealth left to
charities. Charities, indeed, when we have to pinch and screw to satisfy
insolent tradesmen, and the everlasting hunger of a lot of cringing,
crawling loafers and vagabonds who won't work!"

"Hush, hush, my darling! Don't let's get on that topic to-night. We never
agree as to some things, and we never shall."

"There's talk, too, of Dick's going to the front. And that will cost
money. Anyway, I shall see father to-morrow. You must write to that
wretched builder man, and tell him he will have his money. I'll get it
somehow, if I have to pawn my jewels."

"Your father has repeatedly informed you, dearest," the rector objected,
"that your jewels do not really belong to you--that he has only loaned
them to you."

"Yes, that's a device of his, although they belonged to my mother. At any
rate, write the man a sharp letter."

"Very well, my dear," replied the rector, wearily, and he rose, and
walked with bowed head toward his desk. "I'll say that I hope to pay
him."

The two had been through scenes like this before, but never had the
situation hitherto been so desperate as to-night.

Netty, soft-footed and soft-voiced, returned to announce that the
carriage was ready. Mrs. Swinton thereupon threw away her cigarette, and
gathered up her train. For one moment, she bent over her husband's
shoulder, and pressed her soft, fair cheek to his.

"Don't look so worried, dear," she murmured. "What's a thousand dollars!
Why, I might win that much at bridge, to-night."

"Don't, darling, don't!" the husband groaned, distractedly.

Any mention of bridge was as salt upon an open wound to him. He knew that
his wife played for high stakes among her own set--indeed, every
parishioner of St. Botolph's knew it; it was a whispered scandal. Yet,
her touch thrilled him, and he was as wax in her fingers. She spent her
life in an exotic atmosphere