EDITH HAD SLOWLY RISEN FROM HER CHAIR, AND HER FACE WAS A PICTURE OF HORRIFIED AMAZEMENTEDITH HAD SLOWLY RISEN FROM HER CHAIR, AND HER FACE WAS A PICTURE OF HORRIFIED AMAZEMENT
“Half a million!” Mrs. Pope collapsed limply into a chair. “Edith! Half a million! Think of it!” She sat gazing before her with a half-incredulous smile, as though the thought of so much money were difficult of digestion.
“Mr. Brennan, I can’t understand it—I can’t believe it.” Donald’s voice was trembling with excitement. “Why should he have left Mrs. Rogers all this money? Had he no relatives—no connections—who would have a better right to it?”
“None, I understand. In any event, the will would stand. Mr. West has shown his affection for your wife by leaving her his entire fortune. No court could break that will.”
“What a man!” exclaimed Donald. “I knew he was very fond of us; we had been friends for years, but I never thought of anything like this.” He went up to his wife and took her hand. “Edith,” he said earnestly, “do you realize what it means? Poor old Billy has made you a rich woman.”
“I cannot take this money,” cried Edith, her face dull with despair. “I cannot—I cannot.” She tore herself away from her husband and faced Brennan with the look of an animal at bay.
“Edith, my dear, are you losing your senses?” inquired Mrs. Pope.
“I cannot take it,” repeated Mrs. Rogers, mechanically.
“Why not?” asked Donald. His question came like a blow.
She did not dare to tell him that—she clenched her hands until the blood came, looking at him in sudden confusion.
“Of course, it is a very large amount,” he went on, “but if he wished it—”
“You are right, Donald.” Mrs. Pope favored him with a smile which seemed almost genial, compared with those she usually bestowed upon him. “Edith, my dear, it is your duty to respect the wishes of the dead. Don’t you think so, Mr. Brennan?”
“The will allows me no latitude, madam. Whatever your daughter’s feelings in the matter may be, it is my duty as executor to turn over to her Mr. West’s estate in its entirety. What disposition she may see fit to make of it afterward is, of course, no affair of mine.” He turned and picked up his hat and coat from the chair where Donald had placed them. “It will be desirable, Mrs. Rogers, for youto come to my office at your early convenience for a business consultation. There are some papers I shall want you to sign. If possible, I should be glad to have you come to-morrow—say at twelve o’clock.”
“I—I tell you I don’t want this money,” faltered Edith. “I—I have no right to it—”
“Mr. Brennan has just explained to you, Edith, that the money is yours by law. He is obliged to turn it over to you. I can understand, of course, that it is a great surprise to you, but surely, if it washiswish, there is no reason for you to feel so strongly about it.” She fell to sobbing softly and, clutching at his arm, put her head upon it. “Donald—oh, Donald!” she moaned.
“I think, Mr. Brennan,” said Donald, turning to the lawyer, “that you can depend upon Mrs. Rogers coming in to see you at twelve to-morrow. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said the lawyer, as he bowed and left the room.
“Think of what this money will mean, Edith,” exclaimed her mother, her face aglow with anticipation, “to you—to Bobbie—to all of us.” Shelooked at Alice with a joyful smile. “I guess we can have that cottage after all.”
“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Edith. “My God, you don’t realize what you are saying.”
She swayed suddenly forward, overcome by the terrible strain of the past half-hour, and fell heavily to the floor.
At twelve o’clock the following day, Edith Rogers entered the offices of Messrs. Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, at Number 11 Wall Street, and asked to see Mr. Brennan. She was at once ushered into the latter’s private office, and found him awaiting her.
This visit to Mr. Brennan’s office was to Edith an ordeal that she greatly dreaded, and one that it had required all of her courage to face. All the night before she had lain awake, thinking about it, and even with the coming of the day her fears had not to any great extent left her.
For one thing, however, she felt thankful. Donald had, at the last moment, decided not to accompany her. At first he had insisted upon doing so, partly because of her unfamiliarity with business affairs, more because of her nervous and unstrung condition, the result of the terrible shock which the news of West’s death had given her. She had done her best to conceal her sufferings, or at least so to modifythem that Donald might have no suspicion of their real cause, and in this she had been more successful than she had supposed possible. After the first shock which Mr. Brennan’s words had given her, she was conscious of a reaction, resulting in a sort of numbness, in which her mind was filled less with thoughts of the man she had supposed she loved than with a ghastly fear lest the fact of this love might become known to her husband.
Had she been able to analyze, during all the eternities of that horrible night, the cause of this fear, she might have realized that her love for West had been no love at all, but only a sudden infatuation, born of her overweening vanity and love for the good things of life on the one hand, and her utter failure to appreciate her husband’s rugged honesty of purpose on the other. The very fact that her horror at the thought that Donald might learn of her affair with West overshadowed all else in her mind, might have told her that she still valued her husband’s love and that of her child, far above that of the man who had so suddenly been taken away from her.
Donald, who sat beside her most of the night, wastoo generous, too unsuspicious a nature, to attribute her tears to anything but a very natural grief at the loss of a dear friend. He felt the matter keenly himself, but, man-like, strove to hide his own sufferings in order that he might the more readily comfort her.
Mrs. Pope and Alice had remained until midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Edith would not permit it. “I’m all right, mother,” she said, choking back her tears. “Go home and get your rest. I’ll see you to-morrow.”
So the mother departed, accompanied by Alice. Her whole attitude toward Edith seemed to have undergone a sudden transformation. The latter was now rich—the possessor of half a million dollars, and hence no longer to be criticised or blamed for having married a poor man. Even toward Donald her manner had changed. She addressed him as “my dearest boy,” and threw out vague hints concerning Edith’s and Bobbie’s health and the sea air which they so greatly needed. Donald paid little attention to her. He recognized her shallow-souled adoration of money and secretly despised it.
It was after they had gone, and Edith had lainsobbing upon the bed for a long time, that Donald brought up the subject of her visit to Mr. Brennan’s office. “Perhaps I had better call him up in the morning and postpone it,” he said. “Any other day will do. There is no hurry, and I’m afraid, dear, that you are hardly in a condition to discuss business matters.”
“Oh—no—no. I’d better go and get it over with.” She dried her eyes and sat up, looking at him, half-frightened. “I’ll be all right in the morning. I’d better go.”
“Very well, if you think best. Of course I shall go with you, and, really, the whole affair need not take long.”
The thought that Donald was to be with her was terrifying. For a time she was afraid to speak. She did not know what Mr. Brennan might have learned about herself and West—what information might have come to him along with the dead man’s papers and effects. Suppose Donald were to find out. She glanced at his careworn face, upon which the lines of suffering were set deep, and her heart smote her. He must never find out. After a time she spoke.
“I think, Donald, that perhaps I had better go alone.”
“Why?” He seemed surprised.
“Oh—I can hardly say. Mr. Brennan might prefer it so. Don’t you think it would look just a little—bad—for both of us to go—as though we were so anxious for poor—Billy’s—money?” Her tears broke out afresh.
He regarded the idea as a foolish whim, born of her hysterical condition, but good-naturedly humored her. “I’m not at all anxious to go,” he said. “Poor Billy—I don’t want his money. I only suggested going with you because I thought you would rather not go alone. We can decide in the morning, however. You’d better lie down now, and try to get some sleep.”
Edith began slowly to undress. As she did so, the letter from West, which she had been carrying about in her bosom all day, fell to the floor. Donald picked it up with a queer little smile and returned it to her. “Poor old Billy!” he murmured. “How strange, to think that we shall never see his handwriting again!”
The incident increased Edith’s fears; the letterwas filled with expressions of love, and Donald, unsuspecting, trusting her always, had not even asked to see it. She went into the kitchen on the plea of making a cup of tea, and burned the letter at the gas range, fearful every moment that he would come in and see what she was doing. There were many other similar letters, locked in a drawer of her bureau. She determined to destroy these as well, in the morning.
Later on, Donald slept, supposing that she was doing likewise, but she only made pretense, designed to hide her feelings. She sobbed softly to herself throughout the long hours till daybreak, but morning found her dry-eyed, ready to face whatever disaster the day might bring.
Mr. Brennan was standing behind his broad mahogany table-desk, his eyeglasses in one hand, the other grasping a package. Edith, in her agitation, did not observe the latter. She sank into a big leather-covered chair and looked at the lawyer expectantly.
He pushed some papers across the desk to her and requested her to sign them. She did so, without reading them, or knowing what they were. Theseformalities completed, he drew the package, which appeared to contain a large number of letters, toward him and began to tap it in gently emphatic fashion with his eyeglasses.
“There is a certain matter, Mrs. Rogers, about which I must speak to you,” he began, after a long contemplation of the letters.
“Yes?” she answered, with a rising inflection. Something in his manner warned her that what he was about to say would concern her very deeply.
“When Mr. West died, his papers and other effects were forwarded to me, as executor of the estate. Among them I find these letters.” He indicated the package on the desk before him.
“Yes!” she repeated, her heart sinking. A cold perspiration broke out all over her. She wiped her lips with the ineffective bit of lace which she held crushed in her hand.
Brennan reached over, took up the bundle of letters, and handed it to her. He knew from the handwriting, from the initials with which they were signed, from all the attendant circumstances, that she had written them. “As executor of the estate, Mrs. Rogers,” he said slowly, “I feel that the best use Ican make of these letters is to turn them over to you.”
For a moment she hardly grasped his meaning. His grave manner of speaking had made her believe that some terrible fate overhung her—some mysterious requirement of the law which she did not realize, or understand. Now, since it appeared that the only disposition of the letters that Brennan intended to make was to hand them over to her, she could scarcely believe that she had understood him aright. “You—you mean that I am to—to take them?” she said haltingly.
“Yes. Take them, and, madam, if you will permit me to advise you, I strongly recommend that you lose no time in destroying them.”
The color flew to her cheeks at his tone, implying as it did the guilty nature of the correspondence. It terrified her to think that this man had it in his power to destroy her utterly, merely by saying a few words to her husband. Yet he could not have any such intention, else why should he advise her to destroy the evidence of her folly, her guilt? She took the letters with trembling fingers and thrust them into her handbag. “I will destroy them at once,”she said faintly, but very eagerly, hardly daring to look at him.
The further conversation between them was short. Mr. Brennan informed her that he would be happy to advance her any money she might need, pending the legal formalities attendant upon the administration of the estate. She thanked him with downcast eyes, but assured him that she would not require any. The thought of touching any of West’s money horrified her. Her one concern had been to keep the knowledge of their mutual love from Donald—this, she felt, was now accomplished. To the money she did not at this time give so much as a single thought. On her way up-town she made a sincere effort to analyze her feelings. Why had West’s death not affected her more deeply? Why had the most important feature of the whole affair been her desire to keep the truth from Donald? The answer came, clear and vivid. It was Bobbie. She feared the destruction of her home on his account. It was love for him that had caused her to repent of her promise to West to go away with him, even before the latter had much more than started on his way to Denver.
The thought pursued her all the way home. When she arrived, Bobbie had finished his luncheon and was just going out with Nellie. She went up to the boy and clasped him in her arms. “Dear little man!” she said as she kissed him, then noticed, in her sudden thought of him, how pale and thin he looked. “Run along now, dear. The more fresh air you get, the better.”
After the child had gone, and she was alone, she took the letters Mr. Brennan had given her, drew from her bureau drawer those she had received from West, and, without looking at any of them, proceeded to make a bonfire of them all in a tin basin in the kitchen. It seemed hard to destroy his letters. They had meant so much to her when she had received them. For a moment she was tempted to read them all through for the last time, but the fear that, should she do so, she might weaken in her intention to destroy them stopped her. Donald must never know—Donald must never know. These letters were the only proof in the whole world of her wrong-doing. She applied a match to the mass of paper with trembling fingers, and, with tears in her eyes, watched the flames mount andcrackle, the sheets blacken and fall to soft gray dust.
In a short time the little funeral pyre—it seemed to her the funeral pyre of the past—with all her hopes and fears, her guilt and her love, had crumbled to a tiny pile of ashes. She threw them out of the window and watched them blow hither and thither in the eddying currents of wind. When she had closed the window, it seemed to her that she had also closed the door upon the past. Before her the future lay bright and smiling. She did not admit for a moment to herself that its brightness might be a reflection from Billy West’s gold. The very thought would have made her shudder. Nevertheless, the knowledge that one has half a million dollars in the bank is apt to lend a brightness to the future, no matter how clouded the immediate present may be.
It took Edith Rogers many weeks to make up her mind to spend any of William West’s money, and then she did it on account of Bobbie. Her mother had used every effort to convince her that she was acting like a fool in not launching out at once upon a career of wild extravagance, but the thought of her love for West, the folly she had contemplated, the latter’s sudden and tragic death, all filled her with horror. The money lay idly in the bank, and she could not bring herself to touch it.
With the coming of the hot weather, however, she began to listen to her mother’s arguments with a more willing ear. Bobbie was clearly not well. His cough, product of a March cold, still hung on in spite of all her efforts. His appetite was failing, his cheeks pale and wan. She felt the desirability of getting him away from the oven-like city at once, and one evening broached the subject to Donald.
“Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “that I ought to take Bobbie to the seashore?”
Donald looked up quickly. “I do, indeed,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time.”
“Then why haven’t you said anything about it?”
“I was waiting for you, dear. I know how you have felt about using this money that West left you, and I hesitated to suggest it on that account.”
“Do you think I ought to use it?”
“I can see no reason why you should not. His wish was that you should have it. He wanted you to enjoy it, otherwise he would not have left it to you. I regretted the poor old chap’ death quite as keenly as you did, but for all that I cannot see why you should feel so strongly about this money.”
Edith knew very well that he could not see why she felt as she did, nor had she any intention of allowing him to do so. “Very well,” she replied quietly. “I think I’ll look for a cottage somewhere along the Sound to-morrow. That would be much nicer than staying at a hotel, and you could come down every week end. In fact, Donald, I don’t see why you couldn’t just as well give up business altogether, and spend the summer with us. In the fall we might go abroad.”
He frowned at this. “I couldn’t think of it,dear,” he replied. “I’ve got my practise to keep up and the business in West Virginia to look after. I shouldn’t care to live on you, you know.” He smiled, and, coming over to her, patted her head affectionately. “It’s very good of you, Edith, to want me with you, and I should enjoy it more than I can tell you, but I couldn’t give up my work, my independence. You wouldn’t respect me if I did.”
She did not attempt to argue the question with him. Perhaps in her heart she felt that he was right. “Mother is coming up to-morrow morning,” she said. “I think I’ll try New London. I was there one summer for a month when father was alive, and I have never forgotten how lovely it was. Mother knows all about it. We’ll run up there to-morrow and see what we can find.”
Led by Mrs. Pope, the expedition in search of a cottage by the sea was an unqualified success. Edith had had in mind a small bungalow—a tiny house with a view of the water, but Mrs. Pope was burdened with no such plebeian ideas. To her money-loving mind a cottage such as befitted her daughter’s newly acquired wealth consisted of a picturesque mansion of some eighteen or twenty rooms,with a private bathing beach, extensive grounds, garage, stables, and a retinue of servants.
She had some little difficulty in finding what she wanted. Edith remonstrated with her continually but she was not to be balked. She told the real-estate agent to whom they had gone on their arrival that her daughter was prepared to pay as high as five hundred dollars a month, for the proper accommodations, furnished, and she refused quite definitely to consider anything that did not front on the water.
There were but three places answering her description that were available. The first Edith thought perfect, but her mother dismissed it at once. “Quite too small, my dear,” she remarked, with up-turned nose. “And I never could endure a house with no conservatory.”
The second place had a conservatory, it seemed, but Mrs. Pope found the plumbing antiquated, the number of bathrooms insufficient, and the furnishings not at all to her taste.
“We shall entertain a great deal,” she informed the overpowered real-estate man, who was mentally trying to adapt Mrs. Pope’s extravagant ideas toher anything but extravagant clothes. Edith wondered whom they were going to entertain, but forebore asking her mother at this time.
The third place withstood even Mrs. Pope’s attempts at criticism, and Edith fell in love with it at once. It was not quite so large as they had wanted, her mother remarked, but it might do. Edith was very sure that it would do. The house, a long, low, shingled affair, with many timbered gables, was partly overgrown with ivy. Climbing roses, in full bloom, embowered the wide verandas. The gardens were filled with handsome shrubbery and well-kept flower beds. There was a stable, a greenhouse, and a little boathouse and wharf. The lawns were immaculate, the furnishings within artistic and costly. The agent explained that Mr. Sheridan, the banker, who owned the house, had left unexpectedly for Europe the week before, and the place had just been placed on the market. Mr. Sheridan had intended to occupy it himself until the last moment, but his wife had been taken ill, and was obliged to go to one of the Continental baths to be cured. The price was two thousand dollars for the season, and would have been a great deal more had the place been puton the market a month earlier. Two parties had looked at it already, and it was not likely to remain unoccupied very long.
“We’ll take it,” said Mrs. Pope promptly. “We’ll move in on Monday.” She began to plan aloud the disposition of the various bedrooms.
Mr. Hull, the agent, on the way to town, suggested the necessity of executing a lease and making a deposit to bind the bargain. “My daughter will give you a check for the first month’s rent in advance,” said Mrs. Pope loftily. “You have your check-book with you, my dear, I hope?”
Edith had. Her mother had insisted upon her taking it when they left the house. The first check she made against the income which William West’s half-million of capital was piling up to her credit at the bank was one for five hundred dollars to the order of Thomas Hull, agent. She signed it with trembling fingers.
Once the plunge was taken, however, the rest seemed easy. On the journey home Mrs. Pope mapped out a campaign of shopping that made her daughter’s head whirl, but she had ceased to object. One thing she insisted upon, in addition to her mother’snever-ending list of clothes, and that was a pony and cart for Bobbie. It had been the constant desire of his childish heart, ever since he had ridden in one the summer before at Brighton. Mrs. Pope approved the cart. She also suggested an automobile.
When Edith told Donald of the result of their trip that night his face became grave, but he said little. “It is your money, dear,” he contented himself with observing, “but if I were you I would not allow my mother to influence me too much. She has foolishly extravagant ideas. There is no use in burdening yourself with a mansion and a house full of servants just because you can afford it. The air isn’t any sweeter, the sun any brighter, because of them. I should have preferred a more modest establishment myself, but I suppose it’s too late to change matters now. I hope you have a wonderful summer, and that Bobbie and yourself get as well and strong as I should like to see you. I can’t be with you except on Saturdays and Sundays, but no doubt your mother and Alice will keep you company.”
“Yes. They will be with me, of course. Mothersays she is looking forward to the happiest summer of her life. She hopes, too, she says, to entertain a great deal.”
“Entertain? Whom?”
“Why, all her old friends. And I’m going to have some of mine down, too, and Alice has already invited Mr. Hall to spend a week or two with us. He is coming east for his vacation.”
Donald raised his eyebrows. “I don’t mind the opinions of other people as a rule,” he remarked, “but how do you propose to explain our sudden wealth?”
Edith had not thought of that aspect of the matter. “I shall tell them the truth,” she answered, but the suggestion bothered her for many days thereafter. She by no means intended to tell her friends the truth. Such of them as had already heard the news had congratulated her upon her good fortune, with a secret wonder that West had left the money to her instead of to Donald, but Mrs. Pope, with characteristic bluntness, had set this right. “Poor, dear Mr. West had always been in love with my Edith,” she said. “He’d have married her, if it had not been for Donald. He hadn’t anyone elseto leave his money to, and, of course, he left it to Edith. He was a noble young man. We owe him a great deal.”
Edith shuddered as she listened, but could say nothing. Once she ventured the remark that Mr. West had been Donald’s lifelong friend, but her mother would have none of it. “Pooh!” she said. “It was you he cared for, my dear. Anyone with half an eye could see that. Didn’t he spend all his time with you, right up to the time he died?” After that Edith ceased to remonstrate. She felt that in this direction she was treading on dangerous ground.
Once launched upon a career of spending, Edith soon came to acquire the habit, as any other habit may be acquired, if dutifully persisted in. A few weeks before she would have stood aghast at the mere thought of paying fifty dollars for a hat. Now she bought costly hand-made lingerie dresses with the calm assurance of one whose bank-account is increasing at the rate of a thousand dollars a week, and signed checks in an off-hand manner that seemed as natural to her as though she had never haggled over a bargain counter, or searched the columnsof the daily papers for opportunities at marked-down sales.
She failed to satisfy her mother, however. That estimable lady seemed to think that Edith’s wealth was measured only by the number of checks in her check-book, and criticised her daughter loudly for her petty economies. “Don’t buy those cheap shoes, Edith,” she would remark. “It’s quite impossible to get anything fit to wear for less than ten dollars a pair.” Or, “Ready-made corsets, my dear, are an abomination. I insist that you go at once and be measured for half a dozen pair that will really fit.” Edith drew the line at such extravagances, and very nearly precipitated a row. “Let me alone, mother,” she said. “I know what I want, and, after all, it is my money we are spending, not yours.” My money! The irony of the thing did not occur to her. She bought Donald a new gold watch-chain, with match-box, cigar-cutter, knife, pencil and seals, all of gold, attached. When she presented it to him, she felt disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm, and wondered why he did not wear it. The reason was simple—as simple and homely as Donald himself. He detested jewelry, and contented himself with theleather fob initialed in gold which Edith had given him, years before, upon a birthday. He had loved this, because she had saved and denied herself to get it for him. The other, somehow, meant nothing to him.
Emerson Hall was a young civil engineer, who had pushed his way to the front in his chosen profession because he had both energy and ability. He had been graduated from Columbia some year or two later than Donald, and had at once left New York for Chicago, where he had entered the employ of a large contracting company. Sheer hard work had forced him to the front, and he was now one of the concern’s most trusted men.
Alice Rogers he had met, some time before, at a commencement hop, and he had straightway fallen in love with her. Being in New York but seldom, he had seen very little of her, but the impression she had made upon him persisted, and their courtship, carried on largely by means of an extensive correspondence, had progressed so favorably that Mrs. Pope felt obliged to place him under the ban of her displeasure. Alice, however, paid little attention to her mother’s objections. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted in the world, and whatshe wanted she determined to get. Emerson Hall was one of the things she wanted, and she bent all her energies to the task of making that young man conclude that life without her to share it would be but a barren waste.
Pursuant to her intentions, Alice had written to Mr. Hall, inviting him to spend his vacation with them at New London. She had asked Edith’s permission, and the latter had granted it gladly. The latter had never met Mr. Hall, but she felt as though she almost knew him, both because he had been an acquaintance of Donald’s and because Alice talked about him so much. Then, too, she felt that she owed him some recompense for his services at the time of West’s death. He had gone to the hospital, in answer to Alice’s wire, only to find that West had died some three days before. This information he had wired to Alice the following day.
The two girls looked forward to his coming with delight. The extensive entertaining which Mrs. Pope had planned had failed to materialize. She found that, after dropping from her visiting-list the friends of her poverty, there remained but few among the elect whose acquaintance she might claim, andthese, it seemed, were mostly away for the summer.
Hence the two girls were somewhat lonely in the big and stately house, and Edith found that the time between Monday morning, when Donald departed for the city, and Saturday afternoon, when he returned, hung heavily upon her hands.
She had no housekeeping details to occupy her—Mrs. Pope had insisted upon a competent housekeeper; her duties were confined to signing checks, her pleasures, to enjoying Bobbie’s delight in his surroundings. His pony cart, the boat she had got for him, all his new experiences, made the child feel that he had suddenly entered heaven itself. His cough, his pale cheeks, his fretful nights were a thing of the past. He lived the life of a little savage and health flowed in upon him accordingly.
Mrs. Pope did not share her daughter’s loneliness. The atmosphere in which she now lived and moved charmed her. With Alice and Edith at her side, a houseful of expensive and competent servants to gratify her slightest wish, with Donald on hand only over the week ends, she felt that her cup of blessedness was once more filled to the brim.
It was late Saturday afternoon. The Soundlay sparkling in the hot August sunshine. Mrs. Pope came into the handsomely appointed hall of their new home, and sank heavily into a padded-leather chair. After all, she felt, this was indeed life in its fullest sense. She fanned herself languidly with a lace fan, regarding her elaborate gown, meanwhile, with much satisfaction. She glanced up as Edith entered the room, looking very lovely in a costume of white lace.
“Has Alice come back from the station yet, mother?” inquired Edith.
“Not yet, my dear. I’m waiting for her now. I suppose I am expected to welcome this young Hall—though I can’t say I want to. I wish Alice had not invited him. If she would take my advice, she would send him about his business. Four thousand a year! Pooh! a beggar!”
“Well, mother, now that we have asked him, we must make him welcome. How do you like my dress?” She came around in front of her mother’s chair.
Mrs. Pope observed it critically through her gold lorgnon. “Oh, it will do, my dear,” she replied. “I should have preferred the Irish point.”
“But, mother, it was five hundred dollars.”
“What of it? Why shouldn’t you look as well as possible? Of course, Donald would never care, but there are others. I heard several people at the hotel say last night that you were the best-looking and the best-dressed woman there.”
“I don’t care what they said, mother,” replied Edith, selecting a rose from a jar on the table, and putting it in her bosom. “I’d rather please Donald.”
Mrs. Pope sniffed audibly. “Oh, very well, my dear,” she observed. “Have your own way. It’s some satisfaction, at least, to know that you can buy a dress when you feel like it, without having to account to your husband for it. My poor, dear J. B. always gave me a most liberal allowance. I never could dress on less than three thousand a year.”
“Well, mother, you know you did manage to get along on much less, the last few years.”
Mrs. Pope assumed a deeply hurt expression. “Edith,” she exclaimed irritably, “it is most unkind of you to remind me of my temporary poverty. Before my poor, dear J. B. died—”
“Frightfully hot this evening, isn’t it?” Edith interrupted.
The mother glared at her daughter in annoyance. “Where’s Donald?” she suddenly asked.
“In his room, mother.”
“Didn’t he get here on the five-o’clock train?”
“Yes.”
“Then why doesn’t he come downstairs? I hope he bought the afternoon papers.”
“They’re in the library. Donald says the trip down was terribly hot and stuffy. He’s changing his things.”
Mrs. Pope snorted. “If he would spend the summer down here with you, as a husband ought, instead of staying in town, fooling with that engineering work of his, he wouldn’t have that hot trip to make every Saturday.”
“Nonsense, mother!” replied Edith. “Donald is perfectly right. I wouldn’t want him to become an idler, living on his wife. He has too much spirit for that.”
“Then if he must stay in town, why doesn’t he get a decent place to live? I don’t think it looks well for him to be staying at that cheap little flat, nowthat you have plenty of money to take your proper place in society.”
“He likes the old place. He says he was happy there. He thought he might as well stay on till the lease expired.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. If you are satisfied, I see no reason why I should object.” Mrs. Pope began to fan herself vigorously. “I can get along very well without him.”
Mrs. Rogers went to the door and looked down the long, shady drive.
“Alice seems to be gone a long time. I hope the machine hasn’t broken down.”
“The train is probably late. They generally are on this road. What room are you going to give Mr. Hall?”
“I thought I’d give him the one over the library,” said Edith, as she resumed her chair. “It has a lovely view of the Sound. I know he’ll be glad enough to see it again after being West over six months.”
Mrs. Pope snorted indignantly. “I wish he had stayed there,” she grumbled. “I cannot imagine what Alice sees in him to rave about.”
“Donald tells me he’s a very bright fellow. He knew him in college. She might do a great deal worse.”
“Not much. Why can’t she pick out a man of means, like poor Mr. West was? Think of what we owe that poor young man!”
“Don’t, mother!” Edith cried. “Please!”
She rose and went to the fireplace, her face convulsed with emotion.
“Why is it, Edith, that you always seem annoyed whenever I speak of Mr. West? You don’t show proper feeling. Think of all you owe him. I don’t see how you can let a day pass without thanking him from the bottom of your heart for all the happiness he has given you.”
“I appreciate it very much, mother.” Edith’s voice trembled—there was a trace of a sob in it.
“You certainly do not act like it,” pursued her mother relentlessly. “Every time I mention his name you change the subject.”
Edith turned, her face flushing. “Can’t you see,” she cried, “how it hurts me? I don’t want to be reminded of his death every minute of the day. God knows, I wish he were alive again!”
“There’s no use in wishing that, my dear,” remarked her mother. “God, in His wisdom, orders all things for the best.” She glanced about the richly furnished room with a satisfied smile.
Edith was about to reply, when the afternoon stillness was broken by the sound of wheels upon the gravel road, accompanied by the honk of an automobile horn. She hurried to the door, and, as she did so, Alice appeared, accompanied by a heavily built young fellow in blue serge, carrying a suit-case. Mrs. Pope rose.
“Well, mother, we’re here at last,” cried Alice. “The train was fifteen minutes late.” She turned to the man behind her. “Mother, you know Mr. Hall.”
“My dear Mr. Hall, I’m so glad to see you!” said Mrs. Pope effusively, as she offered the newcomer her hand.
Mr. Hall shook hands. He was a genial, whole-souled sort of a fellow, and, as he turned to acknowledge his introduction to Edith, she felt an instinctive liking for him. He was telling Mrs. Pope how glad he felt to be East again, after six nights in a sleeping-car.
“Yes,” he rattled on, in his breezy way, “I’ve come all the way from ’Frisco. We’re building some docks there. Ever been in ’Frisco, Mrs. Rogers?”
“No,” replied Edith, “though I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Great place. Nothing like it this side of the Rockies. Wide-open town, I can tell you.”
“Do you like that kind of a town, Mr. Hall?” asked Mrs. Pope grimly.
“Do I? Well, rather. Chinatown’s got anything I ever saw wiped right off the map. Great!”
“Indeed?” The amount of reproof that Mrs. Pope could put into that single word exceeds belief. “I should hardly suppose any respectable person would want to visit such places.”
“I’m afraid I’m not respectable, Mrs. Pope. I’m only honest,” laughed Hall, as he turned to Edith. “I looked for your husband on the train, Mrs. Rogers. Hoped I might be lucky enough to run across him.”
“He came earlier. He’s dressing now. I’m expecting him down at any moment.”
“Dressing!” ejaculated Mr. Hall, with a wry face. “Whew! I’m afraid I’ll disgrace the party.I didn’t bring my evening togs. Somehow, I’d got the idea from your sister that you were roughing it down here. She wrote me you had taken a cottage—” He looked about the stately hall with a broad smile. “Some cottage!” he observed.
“Don’t bother about not dressing, Mr. Hall. Mr. Rogers generally wears flannels, hot nights like this. Shall I show you to your room?”
“Let me do so, Edith,” said Mrs. Pope, puffing forward importantly. “And, really, I’m going up, anyway.”
She swept up the staircase, with their guest meekly following in her rear.
“Dinner at seven,” called Alice, after them.
“Well, Edith, how do you like him?” she asked, when they were alone.
“He’s awfully breezy, isn’t he? I imagine he’s very sincere and straightforward.”
“Emerson’s as straight as they make them. No foolishness about him. We’re engaged—almost, that is. Don’t let on to mother.”
“Engaged! Not really! When did he ask you?”
“Coming up from the station.”
“He certainly didn’t lose any time,” observed Edith, laughing. “Did you accept him?”
“Of course not. Now he’ll have to do it all over again. To-night, perhaps, down on the rocks. I shouldn’t think of accepting a man in an automobile. It isn’t romantic enough.”
“Didn’t he feel discouraged?”
“Not a bit. You couldn’t discourage Emerson with a pile-driver. Anyway—I guess he understood.” She smiled quietly to herself.
“I thought,” Edith said, somewhat nervously, “that he seemed rather surprised at the way we are living here. I suppose he wonders where all the money is coming from.”
“I suppose so. He did seem a bit overcome, when he saw the auto. Asked me if Donald had struck a gold mine.”
“A gold mine! Alice! He doesn’t know anything about the—will, does he?” Mrs. Rogers seemed troubled, her face had lost its animation, her eyes took on a hunted look.
“I don’t think so,” replied her sister, “but why shouldn’t he?”
“I’d rather he didn’t. It might look—well, sortof queer—and then, Donald might not want him to think—”
“To think what?” interrupted Alice sharply.
“Oh, nothing! I suppose he’ll have to know, some time. Only it seems, somehow, to make Donald look sort of cheap—don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t,” said Alice bluntly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of—at least, nothing that anybody knows anything about. You seem to be getting awfully considerate of Donald lately.”
“Perhaps I’m only just beginning to find out what a splendid fellow he is.”
“Well, if you are, I’m glad of it, but I shouldn’t get up any more excitement about this money if I were you. It will look suspicious.”
“Did Mr. Hall ever write you anything more about—about Mr. West after that telegram we sent him?”
“No, never. You remember the answer he sent the next day, telling us poor Billy was dead. He’s never mentioned the matter since. You know he left Denver shortly after that.”
“Yes, I remember. I wonder if he could know anything.”
Alice looked disgusted. “Don’t be absurd, Edith,” she said. “How could he? How could anybody? For heaven’s sake, don’t get yourself all worked up about nothing. I’m the only person in the world, outside of yourself, that knows anything about your affair with Billy West, and I certainly am not going to say anything. I wouldn’t have Emerson know for the world. He might change his mind about me.”
“Alice!” exclaimed her sister. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t mind his knowing that Billy left you the money. I think he ought to know that. But when it comes to his knowing why he left it—I draw the line. Of course, he couldn’t blame me, but if he thought that my sister was living on the money left her by her—well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Edith, but he might not care so much about becoming one of the family.”
Edith shrank away from her sister, her face quivering. “You say that to me—you, who advised me to take it!”
“Don’t try to blame it on me, Edith. I advised you to keep your mouth shut, and not make thingsany worse than they were. I advise you to do the same thing now.”
“So that you can go on enjoying the fruits of my wrong-doing.” Mrs. Rogers looked at her sister scornfully—defiantly.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t get so melodramatic. The thing’s past. Why not forget it?”
“Can you forget it? You are ashamed to let the man you love know about it, for fear he might not want to marry you—not want to marry you, on account of me.”
“You take the thing too seriously, Edith. You never told me much about your affair with Billy West, and I never asked you. Every family has a skeleton in its closet. Most of them are lucky if they haven’t several, but they don’t make a practice of parading them before the public. What on earth do you want to talk about this thing for? It can’t do any good now.”
“Because I’m sick of living this lie. I’ve a great mind to tell Donald everything.”
“You are getting just plain, ordinary dippy, Edith. You ought to take something for it. Do you know what he would do?”
“He couldn’t do anything that would make matters worse than they are.”
“He couldn’t? You think he couldn’t? Well, I’ll tell you what he would do. He’d make you give up every cent of this money so quick it would make your hair stand on end.”
“Alice! What do you mean?” Mrs. Rogers was horror-struck. This phase of the matter had evidently not occurred to her.
“I should think it was plain enough. He couldn’t do anything else. If you didn’t do as he wished, he would leave you. He might do it, anyway. He isn’t the sort of a man who would stand for any foolishness, kind as he is. You know that. You’d lose either your husband or your money. Then where would you be?”
“Donald would never do a thing like that.”
“Of course he would. Any man would, who had a grain of self-respect. Then you’d have the pleasure of giving up all this”—she waved her hand about the room—“and going back to that wretched hole in Harlem, and doing your own cooking, while Bobbie plays on the sand pile on the corner lot, and pretends he has a pony cart with a soap box. Youwould enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Oh, of course you would!”
“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Edith, with a shudder. “I could never stand it—never!”
“Furthermore,” pursued her sister, “Emerson would be bound to know. He’s seen this place, and wouldn’t understand what it all meant, if you gave it up. He probably would have no further use for me. I’m sorry for you, Edith, but you have got us all into this situation, and you haven’t any right to upset it—at least, not now. Wait until Emerson and I are married, at any rate.”
Edith was on the verge of tears. “I ought to have told him long ago,” she wailed. “In the very beginning. Now it’s too late. If he knew the truth, he might never forgive me.”
“I wouldn’t take any chances, if I were you,” observed Alice dryly.
“And Donald has been so fine, so strong, so splendid,” sobbed her sister. “I never realized before all that he has been to me. I can’t tell you how I admire him.”
“Very likely. It’s a great deal easier for a woman to realize her husband’s good points whenshe has thirty thousand dollars a year than when she hasn’t thirty cents.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Rogers, drying her eyes. “I guess I’ll have to make the best of it.”
“That’s sensible, Edith. Nothing else to do. Now I think I’ll go up and dress. What’s on for this evening?”
“We might go to the hotel for an hour or so. There’s a dance. After that you and Mr. Hall can take a walk along the beach. That will give him another chance,” she added, with a meaning smile. “Mother isn’t at all favorable.”
“I know it. She thinks Emerson hasn’t money enough. She’s right, too; he hasn’t. But I guess he will have, some day. I’m willing to take a chance, anyway. You know, Edith, I’m very fond of mother, but I don’t intend to let her interfere between Emerson and myself. As a mother-in-law I can see her weak points. I’ve never said so before, but I believe she is responsible for nine-tenths of the trouble between Donald and yourself.”
“What trouble?”
“Oh, your discontent and everything. You would never have thought of running away with Billy Westif she hadn’t sympathized with you all the time. When I get married I’m going to live as far away as possible—somewhere where I shall see mother about once in six months. I don’t propose to have her making any trouble in my domestic arrangements.” She started toward the staircase. “I’ve barely time to dress. Hello, Donald!” she said, as she met her brother-in-law descending the stairs. “How’s everything?”
Donald Rogers looked worried, although he tried not to show it. He glanced about the hall eagerly.
“Where’s Bobbie?” he inquired.
“Having his supper, dear. He was out driving when you came. They drove over to the lighthouse to try his new pony. You can’t imagine how delighted he is with it. I’m trying to keep him out of doors as much as possible. He looks like another child already. The sea air is just what he needs.”
“Great, isn’t it?” Donald said. “I don’t wonder he feels better. You are looking very charming yourself to-night, Edith. You’re gaining weight.”
“I’ve gained eight pounds since we’ve been here. I shouldn’t have believed it possible, but I weighed myself the day we came just to see. I wish you would take a few weeks off, and have a good rest—you don’t look yourself. What’s the matter? Business?”
“Yes. Things aren’t going very well.”
She came up to him, and put her hand affectionately upon his arm.
“After all, Don,” she said, looking at him fondly, “it doesn’t make so much difference—now.”
“Just as much as ever, dear,” he said, taking her hand. “You know how I feel about this money. I’m glad, for your sake, and Bobbie’s, but it isn’t mine, and I can’t forget it.”
“Everything I have is yours, dear—everything! You know that.”
“Thank you, Edith. I appreciate it even if I can’t take advantage of it. I want to succeed on my own account—I can’t stop work just because my wife happens to be a rich woman. You wouldn’t respect me if I did that. I’ll win out, all right. You believe that, don’t you?” He looked at her eagerly.
“Of course I do,” she replied, patting his hand. “I know you will. I only wish you would let me make it easier for you. It spoils all my happiness, not to be able to do so.”
“I don’t see what you could do, Edith, more than you are doing.”
“Howisbusiness, Donald?”
He began to walk gloomily up and down. “Thework at the office is all right,” he said presently. “It’s that confounded glass plant that worries me. We haven’t enough working capital, and can’t seem to borrow any. The worst of it is, there’s a payment due on the property September first, five thousand dollars. You know the condition of the money-market, I suppose. The papers are full of it.”
“You mean about the stock-market?” asked Edith timidly.
Donald threw himself into a chair. “Yes,” he replied, “that and the Western Securities decision, and the failure of the Columbian Trust Company. Things look pretty bad. The banks are afraid to lend a dollar without gilt-edged security. Just my luck! Any other year things would have been different. You remember I was afraid of this, in the spring. I spoke to Billy West about it.”
“Why shouldn’t I lend you the money?” said Edith, coming over and standing by his chair.
“I couldn’t let you do that, dear,” he replied, looking up at her.
“But why? You know I have over twenty thousand dollars lying idle in the bank—interest, not principal. You must let me lend it to you. Howmuch do you want?” She went over to a desk in the corner and drew a check-book from one of the drawers. “Please, Donald. It will be such a pleasure to me.” She looked at him in eager expectancy.
“I can’t accept it, Edith. I want to stand on my own feet. Now that you have all this money, I’m doubly anxious to do it. I don’t want to be just Mrs. Rogers’ husband.”
“You could never be that, dear. I want you to do all you say—can’t you see that’s one reason I’m so anxious to help you? We will make it a business transaction—you can give me a mortgage, or whatever you call it, just as if you were borrowing from some hard-fisted old miser. I have a perfect right to invest my money in a glass factory, if I please. You wouldn’t owe me anything.” She paused, smiling.
“You are a great financier, Edith,” laughed her husband. “You have discovered the art of borrowing money without owing it.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Donald,” she protested. “I’m in earnest. I want you to take it—just to oblige me. You will—won’t you, dear?”
“Would you think just as much of me?” he asked,evidently revolving the matter carefully in his mind.
“How can you ask me such a question? It would be a mighty poor sort of a world, if we couldn’t help one another over a hard place, once in a while.”
Donald rose from his seat, and went over toward his wife. “I didn’t intend to speak of this, Edith,” he said, “but now that I have—perhaps poor Billy would be glad, if he knew. I’ll take it—but as a loan only, mind you, and with proper security.”
At this reference to West, Edith shivered slightly and turned away to hide her feelings. “How much do you need?” she asked in a strained voice. “Fifteen thousand?”
“Oh, no. Ten will be ample. But it isn’t necessary to bother about it now. Wait until I go back to town.”
“No, Don. You might change your mind. You’d best take it now.” She hurriedly began to write out a check. “You can send the mortgage, or note, or whatever it is, down to me—that is, if you really want to do it that way.”
“I certainly shouldn’t think of doing it any other,” said Donald.
Edith rose, and, going up to her husband, put thecheck in his hand. “Here, Donald,” she said. “I hope this will fix everything all right. If it does, it will make me very happy.”
“Thank you, Edith,” he remarked simply, putting the check in his pocket. “I shall never forget this,—never. You have been very good to me. I only hope I shall not have to keep it long.”
“Don’t thank me, Donald. Just consider it a little loan from a dear friend.” He put his arm about her, and drew her to him. “God bless you, dear, you and poor old Billy. How I wish he were here to enjoy it all.” He kissed her lovingly, then started in surprise. “Why, Edith, you are crying,” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter, dear? There’s nothing wrong, is there?” He smoothed back the hair from her forehead tenderly.
“Nothing,” she cried, as she escaped from his embrace, and, going over to the desk, put the check-book back into the drawer, which she locked.
As she did so, they both turned at the sound of someone descending the stairs. It was Hall.
“Hello, Hall! Glad to see you.” Donald went up to their guest with outstretched hand.
“Rogers!” exclaimed the latter, shaking Donald’shand vigorously. “You look just the same as you did back in ninety-five. How are you?”
“Pretty well. How are things in the West?”
“Oh, about as usual—too much politics, and not enough rain.”
Donald laughed.
“Sit down, Mr. Hall,” said Edith. “I must go and see to dinner. I’ll be back presently.” She started toward the door.
“I hope you are not making any extra preparation on my account,” Hall exclaimed.
“Oh—no—nothing unusual,” Edith laughed. “We are going to treat you as one of the family.”
“That will make a hit with me, Mrs. Rogers,” said Hall, joining in her laugh.
“I thought it would,” she cried, as she left the room.
“How would a high-ball strike you, eh?” asked Donald.
“Right where I live.”
Donald led the way to the veranda. “Suppose we sit out here. It’s a bit cooler, I think. There’s some whiskey on the table.”
“All the comforts of home, I see. Nice placeyou’ve got here, Rogers.” He seated himself comfortably in a wicker lounging chair.
“Yes, very.” Donald’s voice had a peculiar note—he felt the irony of the situation. “Shall I pour you out a drink?” he asked, going to the table.
“Thanks, old man. Here’s to you!” Hall raised his glass. “Nothing like the seashore, after all, in the summer for health and happiness. How’s your little boy?”
“Great. Growing like a weed.” Donald took a chair opposite his guest and drew a cigar-case from his pocket. “Have a cigar?”
“No, thanks; not before dinner. I’ll light a cigarette, though, if you don’t mind.” He took out a box of cigarettes and offered it to his host. “Have one?”
“Thanks.” Donald put his cigar-case back into his pocket, and took a cigarette. “I understand,” he said, “that you are with the Pioneer Construction Company of Chicago.”
“Yes. I’ve been with them for several years. Made me chief engineer last year.”
“Good work! Ought to be a splendid job.Keeps you moving about a good deal, though, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. More than I like. I’ve pretty well covered the West, this past year. Meet a lot of Columbia men, off and on. I like ’Frisco. Wonderful place. Dennett, ninety-six, is in business there. You knew him, didn’t you?”
“Slightly. He was in the class below me.”
“And Walker, ninety-five. Remember him?”
“Tall fellow? Wears glasses? Yes, I remember him. Very bright man. How long did you stay in ’Frisco?”
“Two months. Finished up a job in Denver before that.”
“Denver? That’s where poor Billy West died. He was a ninety-five man. You knew him, didn’t you?”
“Slightly. Great friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, I thought everything of him. His death was a terrible shock.”
“So sudden, too. He was ill only a few days. Appendicitis, they told me.”
“Yes. He died right after the operation.”
“I was in Denver at the time; but I didn’t thinkto look him up. Didn’t even know he was sick until I got your telegram.”
“My telegram?” Donald looked at his guest in sudden surprise.
“Well, perhaps not yours, exactly. Miss Pope wired me that he was sick, and asked me to find out how he was. I supposed it was on your account.”
“Miss Pope?”
“Yes. Your sister-in-law.”
Donald’s surprise and confusion were painfully evident. “I—I—don’t understand why she should have wired. I didn’t even know he was sick, myself.”
“Shemust have known it,” replied Hall, a trifle uneasily. “I went to the hospital at once. They told me he had been dead several days.”
“Strange,” muttered Donald. “I can’t see why she should have wired.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Rogers asked her to do so. She didn’t know me, herself, you know.”
“You went to the hospital, you say?”
“Yes. He had been buried by that time, poor chap. I had a talk with the nurse who attended him.”
“Did he suffer much?”
“No, not physically, that is. They told me he worried terribly over his illness. Died raving about some woman.”
“Some woman? That’s strange.”
“Why so? Most men do, don’t they?”
“West didn’t. He never cared much about women.”
“He must have, from what I heard.”
“Why so?” Donald shifted uneasily in his chair.
“It’s a queer story. I suppose the nurse ought not to have told me, but she must have thought I was a very dear friend of his. It seems he was terribly in love with some married woman here in New York—wrote to her every day, almost—up to the last. I understand she did to him, too.”
“A married woman?” cried Donald, in astonishment. “I don’t believe it. I knew Billy West intimately. He had scarcely any woman friends. It’s hardly likely he could have been carrying on such an affair without my knowing it. I saw him every day, almost.”
Hall took out his cigarette-case and lighted a fresh cigarette. “I don’t know,” he replied. “That’swhat the nurse said. She used to read him her letters. They had arranged that she was to leave her husband, and she and West were going to run away together—to Europe. He’d gone out to Denver to close up his affairs, and turn all his property into money. They had everything arranged to go as soon as he returned to New York. That’s what made it so hard for him to die.”
Donald gazed at the face of the man opposite him with horrified intentness. “Who was she?” he asked suddenly.
“I haven’t the least idea. I didn’t ask the nurse, and she probably didn’t know. It was the strange outcome of the affair that interested me particularly. I wonder if you heard it.”
Donald looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly.
“Well, it was like this: West, I understand, was worth a lot of money.” Hall leaned forward in his chair, and addressed his host impressively. “The day before he died,” he said slowly, “he called in a lawyer, and made a will, leaving every cent he had in the world to the woman he was in love with.”
Donald Rogers allowed his half-smoked cigaretteto drop unheeded to the floor. He started forward in his chair, his face flushed, his whole appearance that of a man who had suffered a sudden and terrible shock. “It’s a lie!” he gasped hoarsely, then sank back in horror.
A look of amazement spread over Hall’s face. “Pardon me, old man,” he said slowly. “I didn’t suppose you’d feel so strongly about the matter, or I should never have mentioned it. I only know what the nurse told me.”
Donald recovered himself with an effort. He tried to stem the tumult that surged through his brain. “Excuse me, Hall,” he said weakly. “It—it was a great shock.” Then he began nervously to light another cigarette.
Hall looked at him in astonishment. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “It surprised me a good deal, too. I guess it’s true, though. The nurse would have had no reason to lie about it. I’ve often wondered what sort of a man this woman’s husband must have been, to let her take the money—if he did. Pretty cheap skate, to stand for a thing like that—don’t you think?”
“If he did,” repeated Donald mechanically, and,fumbling in his pocket, drew forth the check which his wife had given him a short time before.