“Thought you might have heard about it,” continued Hall, as he finished his drink.
“No.” Donald’s voice was strained—he was vaguely groping in his mind for some solid ground in the chaos that surrounded him. “I should have known, but I did not,” he continued; then began slowly to tear the check into bits.
“Women are the devil, aren’t they?” said Hall, as he rose and began to walk about the spacious veranda. “Perhaps her husband never even knew.”
Donald rose, and, going to the railing, dropped the pieces of the check in a shower upon the rose bushes beneath. “He never knew,” he repeated mechanically.
As he spoke, Edith appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is almost ready,” she announced gaily. “Haven’t the others come down yet?”
Donald Rogers had given eight years of his life to working for the welfare of his wife and his little boy. He was a man of one idea, and to that he bent his every effort. It may be that, in his devotion to the future, he had neglected the present, but the thought that Edith, the woman whom he had trusted and believed in all these years, could be unfaithful to him had never crossed his mind. The very idea seemed monstrous—as he looked up and saw her sweet, familiar smile, he felt that he must be the victim of some weird and horrible mistake.
Edith, her face flushed and happy, beamed upon them from the open doorway. Hall was the first to speak.
“Not yet, Mrs. Rogers,” he said, then looked curiously at Donald, as he noted the latter’s silence.
“I suppose you two have been having a nice, long talk about your college days?” said Edith, glancing from Hall to her husband.
“Yes, in a way. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Rogers, we were talking about poor old Billy West.” He turned to Donald as he spoke, and failed to observe the look of horror that crossed Edith’s face.
“Billy West?” she cried, with a gasp, as she started back, her eyes big with fear.
“Yes. You remember I went to see him in Denver that time—after your sister wired me—but I was too late.”
Donald interrupted him. His voice sounded harsh and unreal. “Tell Mrs. Rogers what you have just told me,” he said.
Hall looked from one to the other in surprise. He had evidently been treading on strange ground—he was unable to see his way clearly. “Why—I—well, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Rogers, I was gossiping a bit—something I don’t often do. I heard a curious story about West while I was out in Denver, and I was just telling your husband about it.”
“Go on!” cried Donald hoarsely.
“It wasn’t anything,” said Hall nervously. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. They told me at the hospital that he had left hisentire fortune to some married woman in New York with whom he was madly in love.”
Edith groped blindly forward. Her whole world had come clattering down in ruin about her head. She grasped the back of a chair with both hands, and tried to recover her self-control. “Yes,” she gasped. “I—I know.”
Hall saw her agitation, but did not in any way understand its cause. “Pardon me, Mrs. Rogers; I’m sorry,” he faltered, then turned to Donald. “I say, old man,” he said, “won’t you please take me out and kick me gently around the block? I feel that I am making all kinds of an ass of myself—gossiping here like an old woman.”
Donald stepped suddenly forward. “Mr. West’s death was a great shock to us both, Mr. Hall. Mrs. Rogers has never got over it. You can understand, of course.”
He came to her rescue almost unconsciously, protecting her from the breakdown which now seemed inevitable. She stood clutching the back of the chair, her face twitching with emotion, afraid to look at her husband, afraid to look at Hall, her eyes upon the distant blue of the Sound. The blow hadfallen—she knew that tragedy stood at her side, ready to strike her down. The tenseness of the situation was momentarily relieved by the appearance of Mrs. Pope and Alice.
“Are we late, dear?” asked her mother, puffing heavily out on the veranda.
Edith did not answer; she scarcely seemed to hear. Alice went up to Hall with a smile.
“I dressed in fifteen minutes,” she announced gaily. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Making an ass of myself, as usual,” he muttered; then looked toward Mrs. Rogers.
“What do you mean?” Alice inquired as she followed his glance. “What’s the matter, Sis?” she asked, going up to Edith, and putting a hand on her arm.
The other tried to smile. “Nothing, dear; nothing,” she said, her voice sounding far off. “Mr. Hall said something he thought made me feel bad, but it wasn’t anything—not anything at all.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Man, by saying mean things to my little sister?” demanded Alice playfully, shaking her finger at Hall.
His reply was interrupted by Mrs. Pope. “How long before dinner, Edith?” she inquired. “It’s almost seven now.”
“It will be a little late, mother. Perhaps ten minutes yet,” Edith managed to say. She glanced timidly at her husband, but his stern, impassive face contained no message that she could read.
“Then I needn’t have hurried, after all,” exclaimed Alice, in an aggrieved tone. “How would you like to take a look at the grounds before dinner, Emerson?”
“There’s hardly time, my dear.” Mrs. Pope’s manner was severely disapproving.
“Oh, yes, there is.” She took Hall by the arm, and moved toward the steps. “Come along, Emerson.”
“I will accompany you, Alice,” said her mother, hastily joining them. She evidently intended to keep Alice and the despised possessor of only four thousand a year under her watchful eye.
“Won’t you and Donald come too?” asked Alice sarcastically as she left the porch.
Donald regarded her without interest. He scarcely heard what she said. “No, we will waithere,” he replied; then looked searchingly at his wife.
“Call us when dinner is ready,” Alice flung back at them over her shoulder, as she and Mr. Hall disappeared around the corner of the veranda, Mrs. Pope puffing along in their wake, like a fussy little tugboat under full steam.
Edith was the first to break the silence. “Donald!” she faltered, her voice breaking pitifully; then took a step toward him.
“Is this story true?” he demanded.
“Wait, Donald—wait!” she cried. “Don’t judge me harshly.”
“Is this story true?” he repeated, his face drawn with anger.
She continued to approach him, her arms held out in piteous appeal. “Donald—what do you want me to say?”
Donald’s expression turned to one of bitter anguish. The denial he had half-hoped for, in spite of Hall’s story, was not forthcoming. In every word, in every gesture, his wife showed her guilt.
“My God, I can’t believe it!” he groaned. “Why did you do this thing?”
“Don’t ask me any more—don’t! Can’t you see it’s all past and gone?”
“No! It has only just begun. Were you in love with him? Don’t lie to me!”
“Donald—I—I—really wasn’t. I—” Her voice choked with sobs; she was unable to meet his searching gaze.
“I don’t believe you.”
She came near to him, her look, her manner, her every movement an appeal for forgiveness. “Donald!” she cried. “I—I—only thought I was. It wasn’t true. I never loved anyone but you—don’t you see that I am telling you the truth?”
“You’ve got to tell me the truth.” His voice was stern—implacable. “Did West ask you to leave me, and go away with him?”
“Donald—dear—don’t!” she cried wildly. “Let me explain!”
“Answer me!” he demanded angrily.
“Yes.” The word was scarcely audible through her sobs.
Donald passed his hand unsteadily across his eyes and turned away. It seemed unbelievable. West—his bosom friend—the man he would have trustedwith his life. “The scoundrel! And I trusted him so!” he groaned, then looked again at his wife. “Did you agree to go?” he demanded.
“I did not know what I was doing—I was mad. Oh, Donald—forgive me—forgive me!” She put her hand on his arm, the tears streaming down her face.
“Did you agree to go?” His voice was even harder and more peremptory.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I did.”
The bitterness of it all almost overcame him. He loved her very deeply. “How could you?” he moaned. “How could you?”
She saw his momentary weakness, and, woman-like, took quick advantage of it. “Donald,” she cried, through her tears, “Donald! Forgive me! I agreed in a moment of madness. I have tried so hard, all these months, to be worthy of you—of your love. Can’t you believe me?”
“You would have gone,” he said bitterly. “You would have gone!”
“Donald! I—”
“Don’t deny it. I know it is true. What did he go to Denver for?”
“To sell his property—to—”
“To sell it out, so that he would be free to go away with you,” he interrupted hotly. “He died raving over your daily letters, and left you every cent he had in the world. Does that look as though you had changed your mind?” He turned from her with an expression of disgust. “What a fool you have made of me!” he cried.
“Donald! Listen to me. You must!”
“No! I’ll do the talking now. Did you know he had made his will in your favor?”
“No!”
“Why did you wire to find out how he was?”
“Because he was sick, and I was worried about him. I hadn’t heard a word from him for three days. I knew nothing about the money until that awful night when the lawyer came.”
“And you took it! In spite of all—you took it. You accepted this man’s money!”
“Donald—I couldn’t help it—I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid to refuse it, for fear you would not understand—for fear you would suspect—and think terrible things about me.”
“For fear I might find out the truth,” he flung at her angrily. “For fear you would not be able to hoodwink me, as you had in the past. For fear I might know how disloyal and unfaithful and untrue you had been to me.”
His words, and the way he spoke them, roused in her a sudden anger. “Yes, if you wish to put it that way,” she cried defiantly. “For fear you would no longer love me, when I had come to know that your love was the only thing I wanted in all the world.”
“And to keep my love,” he exclaimed bitterly, “you were willing to stoop to that—to accept this man’s money.”
“Oh—my dear—my dear! I didn’t want his money—I didn’t want it! Won’t you believe me?”
“You took it.”
“I had to take it. There wasn’t anything else I could do.”
“You could have given it away—you could have come to me, and told me the truth—anything but this.”
“Could I have done any more good with it by giving it away than I have by keeping it? Think ofwhat I have been able to do for my mother—my sister—our boy. Don’t you see? It wasn’t for myself I wanted the money. You will believe that, won’t you?”
“No! You have always wanted money. You never lost an opportunity to tell me how much I failed to give you. Now you’ve got it”—he glanced bitterly about him—“at the expense of your honor. You’ve lied to me, and tricked me, and made a fool of me, and now you’ve got it; and, to crown it all, you were even willing to let me share in it. You gave me that check, knowing all this.” He raised his hands in helpless fury. “My God! What a humiliation!”
Edith looked at her husband in a frightened way. “If he were alive to-day he would be glad to know that he had helped you,” she said pathetically, seeking some adequate answer to his accusations. Her choice was an unfortunate one—it only increased his rage.
“Stop!” he fairly shouted. “Don’t dare to say that to me! Do you think I would accept anything from him?—this man I loved and trusted and honored as a friend—this man that crept into my homeand tried to ruin me—to take from me everything I held dear in the world—this liar—this hypocrite—this crook—to helpme! God! You must have fallen pretty low to think that I would accept help from yourlover!”
Edith cowered before his biting scorn. “Oh! How can you—how can you?” she sobbed. “I did not love him.”
“I would respect you more if you had. You might have been honest with him, at least, if you couldn’t be with me. No—you did not love him. You turned from me, and gave yourself to him because he had money!Money!Money! You—you—God, I can’t say the word! Don’t you know what they call women who sell themselves for money?”
She flushed darkly at his words. “Don’t dare to say that to me!” she cried. “I may have been disloyal—I may have intended to leave you—but I never wanted his money—never—not for myself. It was for the others.”
“Look at yourself,” he interrupted. “Your clothes—your jewels—this place! Has all this been for others? Haven’t you enjoyed it? Isn’t itthe very breath of existence to you? What sort of a woman are you, anyway?”
“You are cruel, brutal!” she cried, dashing the tears from her eyes. “You have no right to say such things to me. I took this money because I couldn’t refuse it. If I had given it away, you would have suspected. I had begun to see what a terrible mistake I had made—I wanted to keep this thing from you—because I loved you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth—then—then—not leave me to find it out now? You knew if you told me about this money, you would have to give it up, and you thought you could deceive me.”
“No—no, it isn’t true!”
“It is true. You thought you could buy your fine clothes, your luxury, your happiness at the expense of my honor—and you have done it. What do you suppose Hall will think of all this when he knows the truth?”
“Why need he know anything about it?”
“Good God! Haven’t you any sense of decency—of right? Do you suppose for a moment I am going to let things go on like this?”
“Donald! What are you going to do?” sheasked. “Remember what all this means to others. Forgive me, and let us forget.”
“Don’t say that again!” He took a step toward her threateningly. “I don’t want to hear it. Give up every cent of this money, now—at once! Put on your cheap clothes, your home-made hat, your pride—if you have any left. They will look better on you than what you are wearing now. Go back to your cooking—your housework. It will be time enough then to talk about forgiveness.”
She shrank from him, her hands clutching nervously at her bosom. After all, even she herself had not realized how horrible the thought of her old life had become to her, now that she had tasted of the new. She shuddered before the sordid vision. “You can’t mean it—you can’t!”
“You dare say that?” he demanded; then became suddenly silent, and looked toward the door.
Edith followed his glance, and saw Bobbie standing on the threshold, his nurse behind him.
“Papa!” cried the little fellow, rushing up to his father with outstretched hands. “Have you seen my new pony?”
Donald put out his arms, and took the child tohis heart. “Bobbie—my dear little boy!” he cried, as he kissed him.
“Mamma got him for me yesterday,” the child prattled on. “He’s brown, and has a shaggy mane, and I like him ever so much better than the old one. I’ve named him Billikins, because he has such a funny face. Won’t you come and see him?” He caught his father by the hand, pulling him toward the door.
“I can’t come now,” said Donald, resisting him. “He’s asleep by this time. We’ll see him to-morrow.”
“And we’ll go in swimming, papa. I’ve learned a lot since you were here last week. I can keep up dog-fashion.” He capered about, illustrating with his arms. “Mamma’s going to get me a pair of white wings. Aren’t you, mamma?” He turned to his mother for confirmation.
“Yes, dear,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“And, papa, I’ve got a sailboat. Patrick is showing me how to sail it. Will you come to-morrow?”
“Yes, Bobbie,” his father answered mechanically.
“I wish you would stay here every day. I don’t want to ever go back to the nasty old city. Whydon’t you, papa?” He took his father’s hand again. “I want to show you where Patrick and me found a lot of clams yesterday.”
“Yes, dear.” Donald’s voice was scarcely audible. There were tears in his heart, if not in his eyes.
Edith came over to the child, and put her hand upon his curly head. “Kiss papa good-night, dear. It’s time you were in bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed.” The boy looked at his father appealingly. “Papa, mayn’t I stay up a little longer?”
“Why, Bobbie, you always go to bed at seven o’clock.”
“Not nights when papa comes, mamma.”
The nurse took a step forward. “Come, Bobbie, that’s a good boy,” she coaxed, and held out her hand.
The tumult in Donald Rogers’ brain ceased. His face took on a look of determination; it was evident that he had arrived at a decision. He put his arm about the child’s shoulder. “Fannie, wait in the dining-room,” he said. “I will call you when I want you.” The nurse turned and went into the house.
“Donald—what are you going to do?” Edithlooked at his set face, and a great fear entered her heart.
“Go over to that desk, and write what I tell you,” he demanded sternly, pointing to the writing-table in the hall.
“What—what do you mean?” Her voice trembled with fear, but she made no move to obey.
“Do what I tell you,” he said harshly.
“No! First I must know what I am to write.”
“You refuse?”
“Donald,” she cried piteously, “you can’t mean to ask me to give up everything—not now. Wait, dear—for Bobbie’s sake. No one has any claim on this money. I’ll give it all to you, to do with as you like, but I want Bobbie to have this summer. Don’t you see how well he looks—how brown and well and strong? I can’t let him go back to the city in all this heat—I can’t!” She was pleading now—desperately—for the sake of her boy.
“Will you do as I say?” he asked ominously.
The thought of the thing nerved her to sudden resistance. “No!” she declared angrily. “Not that way. You are asking more than you have any right to ask. I have been foolish, weak, disloyal, and Iregret it most bitterly. You can do what you please, to me, but you shall not revenge yourself upon my boy. This money is mine. It was left to me by a man who loved me dearly. I am not dishonoring either him or you by using it to make others happy. You want me to sacrifice my mother’s happiness, my sister’s, my child’s—all to satisfy your sense of pride. Now that someone else is able to do something for me you resent it because you cannot do it. You have no right to ask me to throw aside this wonderful opportunity for doing good. What would you have me do with this money? Give it away? To whom, then, should I give it, if not to those who are closest and dearest to me? What you ask is selfish. You only want to satisfy your man’s pride, your so-called sense of honor. What is your sense of honor to me, when the welfare of my child is at stake? Do what you like, think what you like, but don’t ask me to give up this money, for I won’t do it—I won’t—I won’t!” She stood facing him, her hands clenched, her face flushed with passionate determination.
Donald looked at her in amazement. He had thought, after the discovery of her disloyalty, thatshe would accept his forgiveness at any price. “What you have just said,” he exclaimed slowly, “shows me that henceforth your path and mine lie far apart. I did not think that you could have said such things, that you could have so far forgotten your sense of honesty and right. Even after all that has happened, I thought that you still loved me.”
“I do—I do—and you know it.”
“No,” he said bitterly, “you do not love me. A woman who loves her husband would live on crusts, and go in rags, and beg from door to door before she would sell herself for a few miserable dollars. What if you did have to give up your expensive dresses, your fine house, your automobiles? Is that anything, compared with giving up your husband’s love? Do you think I want my child to owe his health, his happiness, the bed he sleeps on, the nurse who cares for him, the food he eats, the very clothes on his back, to the scoundrel who tried to ruin me, who tried to deal me a deadlier blow than if he had stabbed me in the back with a knife? What if your home was poor, and simple, and plain? What if it had no luxuries, no purple and fine linen? At least, it was honest; at least, I could hold up my head in it, and feelthat it was all mine, that I was a man. Do you think I can do that here? Do you expect me to look about at all this luxury, and say to myself: God bless the man who stole my wife’s love from me, and gave me this in return? There may be men in the world who would take what you offer, and be glad of it, but I thank God I am not one of them. As long as you are my wife, what you have comes from me—do you understand, from me—and, whether it be much or little, for better or worse, you shall accept what I have, and make the best of it!”
Edith looked at him for a long time. She found no words with which to answer him. “Very well,” she said, at last, slowly. “At least I have my child.” She put out her arms. “Come, Bobbie,” she said.
Her husband swept the boy to him. “Get out of my way!” he cried roughly, as she attempted to intercept him; then started down the steps of the veranda.
“Donald!” she shrieked. “My God—what are you going to do?”
He paused on the steps. “I’m going to New York,” he cried. “You can live on the price of your shame, if you want to. I and my boy shallnot!” He dashed down the steps, and out toward the entrance to the grounds, the child held closely to his breast.
“Donald! Donald!” she screamed after him. “Come back! Come back!”
He went on, not heeding her cries, and, as the bells on the yachts in the harbor marked the hour of seven, she crumpled up upon the veranda floor, clutching at the arm of a chair as she fell; and lay there, a pathetic, sobbing figure, until her mother and sister found her, some ten minutes later.
When Alice Pope and the others returned from their walk in the garden they did not at first see the crumpled-up figure on the veranda floor as they came up the steps. Suddenly Hall started back with an exclamation, then ran over to the prostrate woman and lifted her in his arms.
“It’s Mrs. Rogers,” he cried. “Quick, some whiskey. She’s fainted.”
Alice poured out some of the spirits from the decanter on the table and gave it to him. “What can have happened?” she gasped, looking about. “Where is Donald?”
“He must be inside. He was here only a moment ago.” Mrs. Pope took one frightened look at her daughter’s white face, then rushed into the hall, calling loudly for her son-in-law.
They carried the unconscious woman into the house and placed her upon a big lounge in the hallway. Mrs. Pope was still waking the echoes of the place with her cries.
In a few moments Edith opened her eyes and looked about. “Donald,” she gasped, “come back—come back.”
“Where has he gone, Edith?” her mother demanded sharply. “I left you together.”
Mrs. Rogers continued to gaze, frightened, at the others as they crowded about her. She dared not speak—dared not tell them the truth of what had happened. “We—we had a quarrel,” she moaned. “Let me go to my room.” She struggled to her feet.
“But—my child—what is the matter? What has Donald said or done to you? Why has he left you like this? He never did have any consideration for you, but this is unpardonable. Where is he?” She glared about, eager to pour out the vials of her wrath upon her son-in-law’s head.
Edith staggered up, and made for the stairway. “He’s—he’s gone to New York. He took Bobbie with him—We had a frightful quarrel—Oh—I can’t tell you any more.” Sobbing loudly, she ran up the stairs.
The others looked at one another in amazement. Only Alice understood, and she but vaguely. How had Donald found out? What had been said? Shebethought herself of his talk with Hall, and turned on that young man, a dangerous glitter in her eyes.
“What did you say to Donald?” she demanded.
A look of astonishment overspread Mr. Hall’s usually placid countenance. The whole affair seemed absurd and meaningless to him, nor could he see wherein he had been at fault. “We were talking about—about our college days. I—I mentioned some story about Billy West—I don’t understand—”
Alice cut him short. “Never mind, Emerson. It isn’t your fault. They probably quarreled about something else. You and mother go in and have your dinner. I’ll go up and have a talk with Edith.”
Alice’s talk with her sister was short and to the point. Edith, between sobs, told her what Mr. Hall had said, and what, as a consequence, Donald had demanded—that she give up West’s money.
“Are you going to do it?” Alice asked.
“Oh—I don’t know—I don’t know.” Her sister tossed about on the bed where she had thrown herself, moaning as though her heart would break.
Alice regarded her thoughtfully. “I told you what he would do,” she remarked at length. “Idon’t blame him. But, after all, he might be a little less unreasonable—just now, too, when Emerson and I are about to be engaged. It’s a shame! Why didn’t you humor him—say you would give the money to mother, or something like that? He has no right to make such a tragedy of the matter. Why not wait a while and see what he does? He may reconsider, and come back.”
“He never will—he never will.”
“Well, then—it’s up to you to decide which you want more—him, or the money. It doesn’t look as though you could have both. Take my advice and go to sleep. Your mind will be clearer in the morning. I’ll have Richards bring you up some toast and tea. Now I’m going to see what I can do to set this thing right with Emerson.”
All the next day Edith lay in bed, tortured by the most agonizing thoughts. At one moment she would decide to go to Donald and beg his forgiveness, with all thoughts of the money cast to the four winds. At the next, she would recoil before the hideous prospect of giving up all that her life now held, and going back to the drudgery of her former existence. It was a difficult position for any woman to be in,she wailed to her mother, who sat beside her, alternately blaming Donald, and reproaching Edith for not having at once denied the whole affair.
“Why didn’t you laugh at Mr. Hall’s story?” she demanded. “Some hysterical tale of a nurse. Bah! I told you he was a fool. What right has Donald to object, I should like to know, if you did encourage Mr. West a little? I can’t see anything so terribly wrong in that. You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?” She became furious when Edith mumbled her denials. “The man is mad. He thinks he owns you, body and soul. Mr. West was worth a dozen like him. He could appreciate a woman’s wants and needs. The idea of demanding that you give up what rightfully belongs to you—just to please his whims. I’d let him understand that he couldn’t treat me as though I were a piece of property. What has he ever done for you, that you should be so grateful and obedient? Made you live like a servant. Don’t think of going to him. I forbid it. You are my child, and I have some rights. Let me talk to him. I’ll go up to town to-night, and tell him what I think of him. I’ve been waiting to do so for some time. As Alice suggests, if he objectsto your keeping this money, promise to give it to me. I’ll see that none of it is spent on him, since it seems to hurt his pride so. His honor dragged in the mud! Absurd! This honor he talks so much about isn’t going to pay your bills, and make your life worth living, is it? Selfish, my dear! That’s the way with all men. They want everything, and are willing to give nothing. Even my poor, dear J. B., kind as he was, never understood me thoroughly. He seemed to think that I should humor him, and wait on him, just as though I hadn’t any wifely rights at all. I tell you, Edith, husbands nowadays are getting to expect entirely too much. If they give you something to eat, and a place to sleep, they seem to think that they have done all that is required of them. I wouldn’t stand it, for one. I told your father he would have to give me what I was accustomed to, or I’d leave him. That’s the way to treat a man, my child. Don’t let Donald think you are a doormat.”
Edith scarcely heard her mother’s words as they rumbled on. Only one suggestion seemed good to her, and that was the latter’s plan to go to New York and see Donald. She felt too ill, too greatly unnerved,to do so herself, and she was not yet ready to sacrifice all the material joys of her existence to bring about a reconciliation. Perhaps some compromise might be effected. At least her mother’s visit would show Donald that she was ready to meet him on some common ground, whereas to ignore him altogether would but widen the breach between them. She consented, therefore, to her mother’s going, and wrote a little note to Donald, begging him to forgive her, and to return to New London at once. Meanwhile her mother hastened away to prepare herself for the fray.
Alice came in early in the afternoon, and told her that Mr. Hall had proposed and that she had accepted him. “I don’t know just what Emerson thinks,” she said. “He hasn’t mentioned the matter since, but I believe he half-suspects the truth. I’ve told him nothing, of course, except that you and Donald have had a quarrel, but that everything will be all right. He’s acted so nicely about it all, though, that I think I’ll tell him the truth. He’s going up to town with us this afternoon. Oh, yes, I am going, too. Mother is likely to make a mess of everything. You know how she goes on, when sheonce gets started. I’m sure I’d better be on hand to steady her a bit. Donald is in no humor to be trifled with.”
“No,” murmured her sister; “he isn’t. I never heard him speak so before. It was terrible.”
Alice drew her mouth into a mirthless smile and regarded Edith critically. “I don’t believe you know Donald as well as I do,” she remarked at length. “You’ve always thought him quiet, and mild, and easy-going. You’ve even complained to me that he had no backbone—that he didn’t master you. You once said you’d have cared for him more, if he had. You’re like lots of women, Edith. You think because a man loves you, and treats you tenderly, he’s weak. You’d rather be beaten than petted, I guess. Well, Sis—you’ve made a big mistake. Donald has always been like clay with you, because he loved you, but I guess the fire that you’ve started in him has burnt him hard. Don’t imagine you can pull any wool over his eyes now. He’s likely to give you the surprise of your life.” She went over to the dressing-table and began to arrange her hair. “Emerson is going to take mother and me to dinner as soon as we get in town, and then we’re going up to the apartment—abouteight, I think. We won’t be back until to-morrow.”
“Oh—if you could only bring Bobbie back with you!”
“Not likely, Edith. Donald loves that child with the love of a strong, silent man, and he’ll never give him up.”
“But he’s mine—mine.”
“Not a bit more than he is Donald’s. In fact, I rather think he has the law on his side, if you come to that.”
Edith renewed her sobbing. “I don’t know what to do—I can’t let him stay there in town, in all the heat. It would kill him.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t. Bobbie isn’t as frail as all that. Of course he’d be better off here, but I guess he’ll survive.”
“Then you do advise me to give up the money?” Edith’s voice held a note almost of anger.
“Not at all. I advise you to give it to mother. That will satisfy everybody—especially mother.”
“And you, I suppose,” remarked Edith petulantly.
“Oh—I don’t care a rap. I’m too happy, thinkingabout Emerson, to care about money. All that I ask is that you patch things up somehow, so as to avoid a scandal.” She turned to go. “Just suppose, Edith, that Donald had been on the point of leaving you with some other woman, and the woman had died, and left him a fortune. Would you like to spend any of it? Think it over. Good-by, now. We’ve got to hurry, to make that train.”
Mrs. Pope looked in for a moment on her way downstairs. “Cheer up, my dear,” she said. “Don’t let this thing worry you into a spell of sickness. I’ll arrange everything. I’m going to let Donald see that he isn’t the only one to be considered in this matter. The greatest good of the greatest number—that’s my policy. I won’t have any high-flown theatrical nonsense spoil your life.”
“Mother,” Edith called after her, “please be careful what you say.” Mrs. Pope paid no attention to her. The militant-looking feather upon her large black hat wagged ominously as she strode down the stairs. “Idiot!” she muttered to herself. “Why can’t he act like a sensible human being?”
Left to herself, Edith started once more the treadmill of thought which whirled around and around ina circle, and left her always just where she had begun. No matter how she strove to justify Donald in his anger, the dread specter of poverty grinned at her through all her arguments, and her resolutions fled. She looked about the room. The rose pink velvet carpet, the soft white bearskin rug beside the bed, the lovely wall paper, the exquisite hangings, the graceful mahogany furniture, all called to her compellingly. One of the maids, entering soft-footed, brought her some bouillon and the breast of a chicken, on a silver tray. The servant moved about noiselessly, pulling down the shades to shut out the afternoon sun. Edith drew her clinging silk night-dress about her throat, and sat up.
“Will madam have a glass of sherry?” the maid asked, as she removed an immense bunch of roses from the low wicker table, and placed the tray upon it.
Edith thought she would. Somehow, she was beginning to feel better. Her mother, with Alice’s assistance, would doubtless arrange everything satisfactorily. After all, she had done no wrong. She ate the chicken with considerable relish and sent the maid for some fruit. How different all this was from the dingy, ill-smelling little apartment of thepast, where half her life was spent over the gas range. It all seemed very far away from her, as she sank luxuriously back among the pillows and picked up a book she had been trying to read.
The book proved dull and uninteresting. In a little while she fell asleep. As she lay there, her firm round throat exposed, her lips, red and full, slightly parted over her small white teeth, she looked very alluring—very beautiful. The maid coming to the door, closed it softly, and went downstairs to discuss the scandal of Mr. Rogers’ disappearance with Patrick and Fannie and the other servants. Over the whole house brooded the hot white silence of a mid-August day.
It was close to midnight when Donald Rogers, with Bobbie asleep in his arms, reached the door of his apartment in One Hundred and Tenth Street. The little fellow had protested at first against this unexpected journey, but was too tired to give the matter much thought, and soon slipped away into the land of dreams, where he found himself gaily sailing his pony cart, which, strangely enough, seemed to resemble a sailboat, with the pony sitting beside him in a very dignified manner, acting as crew.
Donald himself spent a sleepless night. The cruel revelation of the treachery to which he had been subjected at the hands of his best friend, and, crowning this, the knowledge that his wife had been equally untrue, left him like a man shipwrecked on an island of desolation, with no one to whom he could turn for help or sympathy. He had trusted Edith implicitly—had given her the best there was in him all these years; and now it seemed that nothing but a cup of bitterness was to be his reward. The minutesdragged as though they were hours, and it seemed as though the dawn would never come. But at last the wretched night was over, and morning found him in the little kitchenette, trying painfully, with unaccustomed fingers, to prepare breakfast for Bobbie and himself.
Most of the day he spent with the child, wandering through the park, his thoughts never far removed from the tragic moments of the evening before. What would Edith do? was his incessant thought. He felt sure that she would come to him because of Bobbie, but he was by no means certain, realizing her innate vanity, that she would consent to give up the money which West had left her, in return for his forgiveness. On no other condition, however, would he treat with her. On this point he was fully determined.
The dusk of evening found Bobbie and himself dining solemnly together in a little restaurant at which he had been in the habit of getting his meals during the hot weather.
On their return to the apartment, Donald, avoiding Bobbie’s questions as far as he could, regarding his mother’s absence, sent the little fellow to hisroom, and sank into his accustomed seat by the desk, staring moodily into space. The sound of the buzzer in the kitchen, announcing that the janitor was ready to remove the garbage, brought him back with a sudden shock from his dreaming, and he began to realize his utter loneliness. He picked up a paper, and made an ineffectual attempt to read; but for some minutes was unable to concentrate his mind on the page before him. Presently there emerged from the maze of type the flaring headline:
DIVORCED AFTER TEN YEARS’ MARRIEDBLISS.WIFE GETS CHILDREN—HUSBAND ASUICIDE.
He threw down the paper with a curse, and strode impatiently up and down the room, glancing from time to time at his watch. A faint voice from the bedroom door caused him to pause.
“Papa,” it said.
He turned and saw Bobbie standing in the doorway. “Why don’t you go to bed, Bobbie?” he exclaimed,almost irritably, but his manner changed as he observed the pathetic, appealing little figure. The child had taken off his blouse, and wore only his little undershirt and his shoes.
“Won’t you take off my shoes, papa? I got them all tied in knots.” He glanced reproachfully down at the cause of his trouble.
With a great pain gripping at his heart at the helplessness of the child, Donald came quickly forward, and, seating himself, placed the boy on his knee.
“We’ll soon fix that, little man,” he said, as he began to remove the shoes.
“Papa—where is mamma?”
“She’s in the country, dear.”
“When is she coming?”
“I don’t know, Bobbie,” he responded, with a heavy sigh. In his interest in the child he had for the moment almost forgotten the absence of his wife.
“Is she coming to-night, papa?” the little fellow continued tremulously.
“No, Bobbie, not to-night.”
“Why isn’t she, papa?” And then, after a shortinterval of puzzled reflection: “She belongs here, doesn’t she?”
“She can’t come to-night, my child. And you must be a good little fellow, and not ask papa any more about it. Now, it’s time you went to sleep,” he concluded, as he finished his task.
“Papa, are you angry with mamma?”
The childish question hurt him to the quick. “Don’t bother your little head about it, my child. You wouldn’t understand. Remember that she is your mother, and you must love her always.”
“I do, papa. She got me my pony, and my boat, and lots of things. I wish she was here right now.”
“You must be patient, dear, and go to sleep quietly, like a good boy. To-morrow I will get a nice, kind lady to take care of you.”
“I don’t want a nice, kind lady. I want my mamma. She always hears me say my Now-I-lay-me.”
“Your what?” he asked, not understanding.
“My Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep. That’s my prayers. She always hears me say them when she comes to kiss me good-night.”
He looked away, with a sudden rush of pain.There were tears in his eyes now. “Of course. Bobbie—I—I understand,” he faltered.
“She said I must never, never skip, for the Lord would know, and be angry.”
“Let me hear you, dear.”
“Do you know prayers?” The child looked at his father in wonder. “I didn’t know men knew prayers.”
“Yes, Bobbie. Sometimes they do. Go ahead.”
The child folded his hands, and stood at his father’s knee. “If I don’t remember it all, you must tell me,” he continued.
“Very well, dear; I will.” The tears were coming fast now.
“‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to—to—’” The quavering little voice halted.
“‘Keep,’” his father supplied.
“‘Keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.’” He looked at his father expectantly. “You didn’t say, ‘Amen,’ papa. Mamma always says it.”
“‘Amen,’” repeated Donald gravely, as he kissed the boy’s tousled head.
“Do you think, papa, if I pray the Lord to send mamma back, she will come?”
“I think she might, dear. When you go to bed, you must wish that she will just as hard as you can.”
“And then to-morrow she will be here?” cried the child eagerly.
“I—I hope so, dear. Are you ready now?” He rose and led the little fellow toward the bedroom door.
“Yes, papa. I’m not afraid now. Good-night.” He put up his face to be kissed.
“Good-night, dear.” The father kissed him almost reverently, and, after the door was closed, stood for a long time gazing at it—his face twitching. Then he threw himself into a chair, rested his arms upon the desk, and buried his face in his hands, in a paroxysm of sobbing. It was the first time in many years that Donald Rogers had cried.
It was some ten minutes later that he was roused by the ringing of the door-bell. He rose, crossed to the door, and opened it, to admit Mrs. Pope and Alice.
Mrs. Pope advanced into the room with her accustomedair of ruffled dignity. “Donald—what does all this foolishness mean?” she inquired.
“I don’t understand you,” he answered shortly. “What do you want here?”
“Can you have the audacity to ask me that? I am here to protect my daughter’s rights.”
“Did she send you?” he asked quietly.
“I do not need anyone to send me when my child’s happiness is at stake. What does this outrageous conduct mean?”
“Mother! For goodness sake, be a little more polite,” interjected Alice.
“Alice, be quiet!” Her mother regarded her with stern disapproval. “This is no time for mincing matters.” She turned angrily to her son-in-law. “Do you intend to answer my question?”
Donald regarded her with a dislike he took no pains to hide. “I owe no explanation of my conduct to you,” he said.
“Sir, do you think a mother has no rights?”
Again Alice interrupted. “Mother—wait—please.” She stepped between them. “Edith is suffering very much, Donald.”
“So am I,” he remarked grimly.
“Then why don’t you stop it?” Mrs. Pope was not to be put off. “What do you mean by dashing out of the house like a madman, kidnaping your child, and disgracing us all before a stranger? It’s outrageous!”
“Disgracing you! What about my disgrace?” Donald turned from her and addressed himself to Alice. “Alice,” he asked, “does your mother know why I left New London? Do you?”
“Yes—I—know what Emerson said.”
Again Mrs. Pope interrupted. “I know that you accuse my daughter of carrying on a love-affair with Mr. West,” she cried. “I don’t believe it—but what of it? What if she did? You did precious little for her, goodness knows. Now that she has a little happiness, you want to take it away from her, just because you didn’t give it to her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“I’ll settle this matter with my wife—not with you.” Donald’s voice showed his irritation at her interference.
“Poor child! My poor child! Why will you not listen to reason?”
“I don’t care to discuss the matter any further.Our ideas are too different on some subjects.” He went over toward the desk, turning his back upon the others.
Mrs. Pope, however, refused to be turned aside. “I should hope they were,” she asserted doggedly. “I didn’t come here to discuss the matter, either. I came to ask you to come back to New London with Bobbie at once.”
“What you ask is impossible,” said Donald, without turning. “I shall never go back there again.”
“What! After taking the house for the summer? What will everyone think?”
“It makes no difference to me what they think. It is what I think that concerns me now.”
“You always did think of no one but yourself. Do you expect my daughter to spend the summer there alone? Can’t you see that it is out of the question?” Mrs. Pope was shaking with rage.
“No,” cried Donald, turning on her angrily. “I do not expect her to spend the summer there alone. I expect her to return here to me.”
“To return here!” exclaimed Mrs. Pope, aghast. “To spend the summer in this place! Are you mad?”
“No—I am not. Sometimes I think money has made you so.”
Mrs. Pope paid no attention to his words. She was too busy trying to grasp the full purport of what she had just heard. “What can you be thinking of?” she cried. “Spend the summer here—in this tenement—with thirty thousand dollars a year?”
Donald regarded her coldly. “My wife will not have thirty thousand dollars a year if she returns here,” he said. “She will have what I am able to give her, and no more.”
“Then what on earth will she do with her money?”
“I intend that she shall give it to charity.”
“Charity! Doesn’t charity begin at home? If you are mad enough to deprive her of it, she must give it to Alice and to me.”
“Never—with my consent. That would be the same as if she had it herself.”
“Half a million dollars! To charity! I shall use every effort to prevent her from making such a fool of herself. I insist that she give the money to Alice and me.”
“Count me out, mother,” exclaimed Alice, with a short laugh. “Emerson wouldn’t let me touch a cent of it. He told me so.”
“Does Mr. Hall know about this?” asked Donald suddenly.
“Of course he does. How could he help it? Do you suppose I could keep it from him, after what you did last night? Edith in hysterics—you and Bobbie gone—mother carrying on like a chicken with its head off. What could you expect?”
“And he refuses to let you have any share in this money?”
“I don’t believe he’d marry me, if I had. Emerson’s mighty independent. He says he has enough for both of us, and what he hasn’t we’ll do without.”
“God bless him!” said Donald earnestly. “He’s a man!”
“He’s a fool,” Mrs. Pope exclaimed angrily; “as big a one as you are.”
Her words, her manner since entering the room, had slowly been causing Donald to lose his temper.
“No!” he blazed out, facing her. “You are the one who is a fool. What have you been drumminginto your daughters’ heads for years? Money! Money! Nothing but money! You would put up your children at auction, and sell them to the highest bidder, just for money. You come here and blame me for all this trouble, and you haven’t sense enough to see that it is all your fault, and yours alone. Ever since Edith and I were married you have talked to her of nothing but my poverty, my shortcomings, my failures. You have preached discontent to her until she was ready to fall in love with the first man who came along with a little more money than I had. You are the cause of all this trouble—you, and nobody else. Don’t come here and talk to me about my conduct. Try to be a little more careful of your own.”
Mrs. Pope took out her handkerchief and applied it gently to her eyes. “And is this the thanks I get, after all these years?” she said tearfully. Then she turned to Alice: “Are you against your poor sister, too?”
“No, I’m not. I want to see Edith happy, and I don’t think she ever will be as long as she keeps a cent of this money. I know I advised her to keep it in the first place. I thought she could do lotsof good with it. So she could, if Emerson hadn’t put his foot in it. As it is, I don’t see anything for her to do but give it up.”
“You’ve changed a good deal, it seems to me,” remarked her mother stiffly.
“I have. I’ve talked it over with Emerson.”
“Emerson! Pooh!” Mrs. Pope gave an indignant snort.
“Never you mind about Emerson,” said Alice with spirit. “He and I are going to find happiness in Chicago, in our own way. I know you don’t like him, so perhaps it’s just as well we are going to live a thousand miles off.”
Mrs. Pope began to weep audibly. “Of all the thankless tasks,” she groaned, “a mother’s is the worst. Here I’ve spent twenty-five years in raising you girls, living for you, waiting on you, slaving for you; and, now, you turn on me like this. It’s a shame—that’s what it is—a shame! When my poor, dear J. B. was alive—”
“Never mind about that now, mother. We didn’t come up here to have a family row. Let’s see if we can’t fix up this trouble between Donald and Edith.” She turned to her brother-in-law with a look of deepconcern. “Mother insisted upon this interview, Donald. I told her it would do no good.”
“Not if Donald insists upon making beggars of us all,” Mrs. Pope interrupted tearfully.
Alice took no notice of her interruption. “You got Edith’s note?” she continued.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to her?”
“No. She must come to me. You can tell her so. But I insist upon seeing her alone.” He glanced significantly at Mrs. Pope.
“I shall not inflict my company upon you any longer, Mr. Rogers,” exclaimed the latter indignantly. “Good-night!” She swept toward the door. Alice followed her.
“Good-night, Donald,” Alice said, as she left the room. “I hope you and Edith will come to some sort of an agreement. Remember Bobbie.”
Left alone, Donald went slowly over to the chair in which he had been sitting, and, stooping, gathered up Bobbie’s little shoes and stockings, and placed them gently within the bedroom. Then he began to pace endlessly up and down the floor.
On the following morning Donald Rogers determined to go down to Mr. Brennan’s office and have a talk with him. As the executor of West’s estate, as well as Mrs. Rogers’ attorney, he felt that the lawyer might be able to suggest a basis for an understanding of some sort between Edith and himself. Bobbie he took to his own office and left in the care of his draughtsman. The child was delighted, and spent the morning drawing ships and dogs and many other things upon a great sheet of cardboard with which the latter provided him.
Mr. Brennan was luckily in. Perhaps he suspected the object of Donald’s visit—at any rate he received him at once, dismissed the stenographer who had been taking notes at his side, and waved his caller to a chair.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Rogers,” he began. “How is Mrs. Rogers? I trust she is enjoying her stay at the seashore.”
“Mrs. Rogers is very well.” Donald nervouslybegan to light a cigar, fumbling with the matches awkwardly in his agitation. Now that he was with Mr. Brennan, he felt at a loss to know how to begin.
“Let me see. You are at New London, are you not? Beautiful old place. I spent a summer there, once. You go down for the week ends, I presume.”
Donald ceased his efforts to light the cigar, threw the box of matches, which Mr. Brennan had handed him, upon the desk, and looked up.
“Yes. I was there on Saturday. I left Saturday night. I had a disagreement with Mrs. Rogers. That’s what I came to see you about.”
Mr. Brennan raised his eyebrows, put on his glasses slowly, and inspected his caller with deliberate care. “I’m very sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “Nothing serious, I trust?”
“I’m afraid it is—very.”
“Hm-m. Dear me! And what can I do in the matter?”
“You are a friend of both Mrs. Rogers and myself. I want your advice. I want you to see her—to talk to her.”
“What’s the trouble?” Brennan sat back in his chair, prepared to listen, with a grave suspicion inhis mind as to the cause of Donald’s heavy eyes and careworn face.
“Before I can discuss the matter with you, Mr. Brennan, I want to ask you one question.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Do you know why West left his money to my wife?”
“My dear sir. That is a very peculiar question. How should I know?”
“You were the executor of his will.”
“Undoubtedly. Yet I fail to see what that has to do with it.”
“You must have seen his papers—his letters.” Donald looked at the lawyer intently. “Answer me frankly, Mr. Brennan. Do you know?”
“Surely, Mr. Rogers, you can hardly expect me to answer such a question, even granting that I could do so.”
“Why not?”
“As executor of Mr. West’s will, it is certainly not my business to discuss the reasons which may have prompted him to make it.”
Donald rose and went over to the lawyer. “Mr. Brennan,” he cried, “don’t try to quibble with me.I have asked you a plain, blunt question. You are under no obligation to answer it, of course, but, until you do so, we can proceed no further.”
“I always supposed it was because he was very fond of her,” ventured the lawyer uneasily.
“Fond of her! Yes! But how, Mr. Brennan? How?”
“They were very old friends, were they not?”
“Were they nothing more?” Donald leaned over the desk and fixed his eyes keenly upon those of the man opposite him. He felt the blood surging to his temples. “Why don’t you answer me, Mr. Brennan?” he went on, as the lawyer dropped his eyes. “Were they nothing more?”
His searching questions began to annoy the lawyer. “Why do you ask me such a question, Mr. Rogers?” he snapped.
“Only to find out how much you know. Mrs. Rogers has confessed everything to me. You can do her no harm by telling me the truth, and you will make it much easier for us to go ahead. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Brennan answered at length, in a low voice.
“How?”
“All the letters your wife wrote to West came to me along with his other papers.”
Donald recoiled in bitterness of spirit. However certain he had been of Edith’s guilt, he still hoped that Mr. Brennan, in some way, might disclose mitigating circumstances, facts of which he himself was not cognizant, whereby her affair with West might present an appearance less damning.
“My God!” he muttered. “And you read them?”
“Yes. I considered it my duty to examine all his papers.”
“How did you know they were from my wife?”
“By her initials, signed to them—by the handwriting.”
“And you have known this all these months, and said nothing?” Donald strode to the window and looked out. The North River, quivering in the hot sunlight, was a clutter of barges, tugs and ferry-boats, but his eyes, blurred with tears, saw nothing. Presently he turned. “Where are those letters now?” he asked.
“I do not know. I gave them to Mrs. Rogers.I advised her to destroy them. I presume she has done so.”
An angry light crept into Donald’s eyes. “You had no right—” he began hotly.
Mr. Brennan raised his hand. “You are in error, Mr. Rogers. I had every right. The letters belonged to your wife, by law. Mr. West left her everything he possessed.”
“What did she say to him?” He strode excitedly toward the desk. “Tell me, man. Can’t you see what it means to me?”
“They were the letters of a weak, foolish woman, Mr. Rogers—not a bad one—of that I am sure.”
“Not a bad one? You mean—?”
“I mean, Mr. Rogers, that whatever your wife may have intended to do—however far she may have intended to go—West’s death saved her from the one step which the world considers unforgivable.”
“I hope you are right—God knows I hope you are right.”
“I am sure that I am. Now tell me what has happened.”
“I have left my wife. I have left her, and taken my boy.”
“Well—now that you have taken that step, what do you propose to do next?”
“I don’t know. That is what I want to discuss with you. It is a terrible situation. I scarcely know which way to turn. She has sent me a letter, asking me to see her. I have agreed to do so—to-day. What I shall say to her I do not know. Within the past forty-eight hours I have had every good and kind and generous impulse within me shattered and destroyed. The friend that I loved and trusted has betrayed me. The wife for whom I would have given my life has proven disloyal—false. My self-respect is gone. My home is a wreck. The money that keeps it up comes from a man who did his best to ruin me.” He began to walk about, distracted, his voice choking with feeling. “Is it any wonder that I feel bitter? Is it any wonder that I do not know what to do?”
The lawyer removed his glasses and considered them carefully for a long time. The problem was indeed a serious one.
Presently he spoke. “The first consideration, of course, is your child.”
“I know it. I have taken him from his mother.He wants her—needs her. Have I the right to deprive him of her love?”
“Not unless she has proven herself unworthy of it.”
“Hasn’t she? Is a woman who is unfaithful to her husband—who is willing to live on the money given her by the man who made her so—is such a woman fit to bring up a child—to teach him to be straightforward, and honest, and good?”
“You use strong terms, Mr. Rogers. As I said before, I do not believe your wife has been unfaithful to you.”
“I do not refer to any specific act. Unfaithfulness is not alone a physical thing. She has fallen in love with another man. She has agreed to abandon her husband, and run away with him. She was willing to sacrifice even her child, by robbing him of his father. In one week more, but for this man’s death, she would have done all these things. Is not such a woman unfaithful? Is not that enough? Could any one act have made her more so? If your wife were to do these things, would you not call her unfaithful?”
“You refuse to forgive her, then?”