“No. I do not refuse to forgive her. I have told her that I am ready to do so, on one condition.”
“What is that condition, Mr. Rogers?”
“That she give up this man’s money.”
“Has she agreed?”
“No. She has refused.”
“Why do you insist on that?”
“Is it possible that you do not understand? What else can I do? If she returns to me, it must be with clean hands.”
“You ask a great deal, Mr. Rogers. It seems to me that your chances for happiness would be a great deal better, if you were to let her keep this money.”
“Man—do you realize what you are saying? Isn’t there a greater question at stake than just my happiness? Isn’t it right? Isn’t it her duty? Isn’t it necessary to her own self-respect? I cannot see how she could hesitate for a moment.”
“Then you do not understand women. There are not many of them, situated as she is, who could resist the temptation of thirty thousand dollars a year.”
“Then you defend her, Mr. Brennan. I did not expect it from you. I had hoped you would see her—talkto her—show her what a terrible mistake she is making.”
The lawyer rose, and began to walk up and down in deep thought. All his life, he had been concerned with the one idea, the one duty—that of preserving for his clients every dollar that the law allowed them. Money in a way had become almost sacred to him. Other points of view seemed foolish, quixotic. “I’m a cold-blooded, practical man, Mr. Rogers. Life as I have seen it has not made me sentimental. Lawyers rarely are. Half a million dollars is a large sum of money. It means freedom from all the wretched, grinding cares of existence, that fret out one’s soul. Few things in life make much difference, after all, if one has a comfortable bank-balance. You ask your wife to give up all that this money means, and come back to poverty—comparatively speaking at least. It is a hard question for any woman to decide—a mighty hard question.”
“You are wrong. You judge from the cynical, money-getting standpoint of Broadway. There are bigger and finer and nobler things in the world than money. It’s the right of the thing that counts.”
“Perhaps it is, Mr. Rogers, but most women don’tlook at things that way. They are creatures of impulse. Logic is not their strong point. You expect too much of your wife. I have known a great many women—in my time—and my experience is that the best of them have their price.” He noticed Donald’s dissenting gesture, but waved his interruption aside. “Don’t misunderstand me. I do not necessarily mean in a wrong way. It may be a title, or a million, with some—with others the price of a meal, or a lodging for the night. The man who expects too much of women is bound to be disappointed. Let your wife keep this money. With it she will be happy—contented. Without it, she will be miserable. She has tasted the pleasures of wealth—now—and her old life will seem doubly distasteful to her. Don’t be unreasonable. Remember that after all, she is, like most women, a good deal of a child.”
Donald took up his hat, and his face showed the disappointment he felt. “Mr. Brennan,” he said, “I’m sorry I can’t think as you do. I was brought up to know the difference between right and wrong, and I haven’t forgotten it. It would be impossible—absolutely impossible—for me to share in anyway in this money, or to let my boy do so. On that point I am determined.”
Brennan looked grave, and regarded Donald with cynical compassion. “I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers. In that case I do not see that I can be of any service to you.”
“Then you won’t undertake to see Mrs. Rogers, and convince her of her mistake?”
“I do not think it will have any result. You are very young yet, Mr. Rogers. You look at this thing entirely too seriously.”
Donald turned away with a great sense of bitterness, of injustice, in his heart. “My God!” he cried. “How can you say such a thing? There is only one way to look at it, and that is the right way. In your heart, you know it. Don’t you suppose it would be the easiest way, for me to take this money? Isn’t there every reason why I should? My wife—my child—my business interests, all urge me to accept it—to make of myself that most contemptible thing in the world—a man who is willing to live on a woman—to share with her what she has got from her lover. You know what they call such creatures. You know that no decent, self-respectingman could do what you have advised me to do. I value my wife—my home, more than most men do—I have given them the best I had in me—but one thing I value even more than them, and that is my self-respect. I have not made a great success in life, in a material way, but what I have made, I have made honestly. I have always been able to look the world squarely in the face, without feeling ashamed, and I propose to keep on doing so. Advise my wife as you please. Her mother and sister are with you. But I want you to understand—the whole lot of you—that she need not expect me to forgive her, and take her back, so long as she keeps a dollar of this man’s money, for I won’t do it—by God, I won’t do it!” He flung angrily toward the door.
Mr. Brennan stared at him for a moment, then reached out his hand. “Mr. Rogers,” he said, “your views may not be practical, and they may not bring you happiness, but, by God, sir, I respect you for them. Good-day.”
Donald went back to his office like a man who has met a crushing blow, but met it undaunted. He found Bobbie, tired of his pencil and paper, lookingout of the window at the boats on the river, and wailing for his mother.
The father disposed of his mail while the boy played about his desk, gave his assistant a few instructions, and, with Bobbie holding his hand, once more started up-town. On the way, he bought the child some little chocolate cigars, thereby lulling him into temporary forgetfulness of his mother’s absence. Life seemed all of a sudden to have become very gray and bitter.
One ray of light, however, pierced the overshadowing gloom. Forbes, his partner in the glass-plant venture, had wired Donald from Parkersburg that he had succeeded in securing from some bankers there the necessary money to tide over the crisis in the company’s affairs. Several large orders had come in also. It appeared certain that they would be able to weather the storm. The good news seemed trifling, somehow, in his present state of mind, but it was something, and for the moment he felt grateful.
Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left her the Saturday before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths that Donald evidently suspected—she did not stop to consider that in all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald’s place, and understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved andtrusted—his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.
Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might wait for him to do so.
There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his attitude. Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration; even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to be like this before—he had always humored her, always been apologetic, regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and determinedto use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past—her tears, her reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.
Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this intention. “I shouldn’t go near him, my dear,” she said, her eyes snapping. “Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to look after. That will bring him to his senses.” Edith, however, would not listen to her. “I shall go, mother,” she said. “After all, Donald has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I’m not going to give up this money. He ought not to ask it.”
Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her plans had been upset. “What’s the use of deluding yourself, Edith,” she remarked pointedly. “Donald will make you give up that money as sure as fate. I never saw him so angry.”
“Alice, you talk like a fool,” said her mother. “How can he make her give it up? He’s hardly likely to use a club.”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Alice flung at them, as she left the room. “Edith has needed one, for some time.” Mrs. Pope was aghast. “Sometimes, Edith,” she confided to the latter, “I think Alice is losing her mind.” Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister’s judgment, and the latter’s remark worried her.
There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair, massaging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful woman—she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval glass in her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. Itdid not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.
In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald’s character. Everything she wore, from her daintysuèdeslippers to her costly hat, she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money. The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.
Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. “You look stunning, dear—a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don’t give in an inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage to win.” She settled herself comfortably in her chair. “Would you mind ringing for Richards, my dear? I must havea refreshing drink of some sort. This heat is positively unbearable.”
The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel particularly hungry—she was too nervous and excited for that; but she felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours to wait, before eight o’clock, at which time she felt that Donald would have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.
She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension through her. God, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed the same—even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door, the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She realized their familiarity,yet she might have been away for ages, so far removed from her present life did they seem.
Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her with grave politeness.
“Donald!” she cried, as he came toward her. “Where is Bobbie?”
“In his room,” he replied.
“I want to see him.”
“He’s asleep.”
He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she carried upon her arm, and frowned.
“How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken his heart to leave all his things—his pony, and his boat, and all. Is he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always am about what he has to eat.”
Donald’s frown deepened. “Bobbie is very well,” he said slowly. “It seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that.”
“Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?” she asked.
He gazed at her for a few moments in moodysilence. “Did you come here to tell me that?” he presently asked.
“No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness.”
“You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter,” he interrupted.
“Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up. Don’t you know that all I have done has been for him?” She glanced significantly toward the door of the bedroom.
Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she considered her rights.
“Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and run away with another man?” he asked bitterly.
She reproached him, pleading with her eyes, her voice. “Oh—don’t—don’t!” she cried. “Can’t you forgive me? Can’t you?”
“Not until you show yourself worthy of forgiveness. You belong to him as long as you accept his money.”
She came up to him, her hands outstretched. “Donald!” she cried. “That is what I want to talkto you about. I have been a very foolish woman. I have done things that I can never forgive myself for as long as I live. I am bitterly—bitterly—sorry. If it were not for our boy, I would go away, and never trouble you again. I have been a miserable fool, and I cannot blame you if you hate and despise me. I threw away everything that was dear to me for nothing—nothing! Now I know that it is your love and my boy’s that I want more than anything in the world. But, Donald, what has this money to do with what I have done? Will it make it any the less wrong, to give it up? If you are really willing to give me another chance, can’t you do it without bringing this question of money into the matter? Can’t you do it because I am sincerely, honestly repentant; because I love you, and want your love, your forgiveness so much—so very much?” She put her hand upon his arm, and there were tears in her eyes. “Donald, listen to me, please—won’t you?”
“If you had come here in the same poor things you wore before all this happened,” he said, turning coldly from her, “it would be easier for me to forget. What do you mean by flaunting this man’smoney in my face, with your jewels—your finery?” He looked at her, and a feeling almost of disgust crept over him. “Can’t you see that everything about you reeks of him?”
“Oh, Donald,” she cried, “don’t be angry with me—please don’t. I didn’t think about my clothes—indeed, I didn’t.” She seemed unable to understand that it was not her clothes he objected to, but what they represented.
“You mean you did not think about my feelings. You never do think about the things that count.”
She turned away from him, sobbing. “Oh, don’t! How can you say such things to me? Isn’t it the repentance of my heart that counts?”
“If there were any real repentance in your heart,” he said, “you would put those things from you as though they were polluted.” He began to walk up and down the room, unable to contain his anger.
Edith saw that upon the one point—that of West’s money—he was inflexible. She looked up with an air of resignation. “Very well,” she said suddenly. “I will do as you ask. I will give up this money. I will never touch another penny of itas long as I live, but I want it put aside for Bobbie.”
“Never!” he cried angrily.
He had thought, when she began to speak, that she had yielded; her concluding words told him that she was only quibbling.
“Donald, you can’t mean what you say. Think of his future!”
“I don’t want to argue the question,” he exclaimed impatiently. “You know perfectly well I will never consent to what you ask. It’s contemptible.”
Again she began to sob. “How can you be so cruel? How can you?” she moaned.
“Isn’t it true?” he replied indignantly.
“It doesn’t make any difference how you hurt me—I know I deserve it—but you shall not take this chance away from my boy. It isn’t right! it isn’t fair! Hurt me all you want to, revenge yourself upon me to the best of your ability, but don’t take it out on him. I am fighting for his happiness, and I intend to give it to him.”
“Then you are going about it in a very strange way. Let him grow up and go out into the world with clean hands and a clear conscience; let himknow that truth, and right, and honor are more important than all the money in the world, and I’ll answer for his happiness.”
“He need never know,” she began.
“You know, and I know. I refuse to degrade myself, even for his sake.”
“There is nothing I would not do for his sake.”
“Nothing! The very first thing is to give up this shameful inheritance, and you refuse to do it.”
“It is for his sake that I refuse.”
Donald turned away from her. There seemed no use in trying to appeal to her sense of right.
“Donald,” she began again, “if you will not let Bobbie have the money, then give it to my mother.”
“No, I won’t do it, and I have told her so. Even your sister, it seems, has decency enough to see that I am right.”
“If Alice had been married eight years, and had a child, she might feel differently.”
“I hope not,” he said, without looking at her.
Edith threw herself disconsolately into a chair. “You make everything so hard—so very hard,” she cried. “Is there nothing I can say that will move you? Is your business in West Virginia nothingto you? Tell me, Donald, are you willing to see that fail?”
He turned on her, indignant. “I did not think you would come here and taunt me with that! Let it fail—a thousand times; let every cent I have in it go, rather than owe its success to him!”
“How can you be so bitter?”
“Haven’t you done enough to make me so?”
“If this business does fail, what then?”
He swept his hand about the room. “This,” he said. “Whatever I have—however little it may be—as long as it is honest.”
She followed his gaze and shivered, as though the place chilled her. “And you expect me to come back to such a life?” she asked bitterly.
“If you come back at all—yes.”
“To cook, and scrub, and scrape, and save, and wear out my life like a servant! Ugh!” She shuddered.
“So it was yourself you were thinking of, after all,” he cried scornfully. “After what you have done, you ought to thank God for the chance.”
She got up and approached him, holding out her hands appealingly. “Oh, Donald—Donald!” shecried. “Please don’t make me do this—please don’t. I can’t stand it—indeed, I can’t.”
“I do not make you do it,” he answered her. “I do not even ask you to do it. You know the conditions under which you can return here. Do as you please.”
“Can’t you show a little generosity? I had hoped to come to you and talk over our affairs in a friendly spirit.”
“There is nothing to talk over. You know your duty. There is only one question, and that question is, are you going to do it?”
She stood for a long time, as though unable to make up her mind. Suddenly she put the whole thing aside. “It is too big a question to decide off-hand,” she said, walking away from him, her hands clenched. “Donald—” she turned—“I want to see Bobbie.” She took a step toward the bedroom door.
Donald stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “No!” he cried passionately. “No!”
“Donald! Don’t!” she exclaimed, alarmed at his manner.
“You cannot come in here.”
“I cannot see my own child? You dare tell me that?”
“Yes. You shall not see him. You shall not go near him, until you agree to do as I say.”
“You shall not do this!” she cried, her eyes blazing. “It is wrong—wrong!”
“Then come to your senses.”
“Is it possible that you could be so cruel?” she asked slowly. “Is it possible that you could deprive that innocent child of his mother’s love?”
“It is you who are depriving him of it—not I.”
“Have you thought what it will mean, if you do this thing? Don’t you know that it will break his heart? Night after night he will cry for me—for his mother—and you cannot comfort him, and all through the long days he will want me, and ask for me, and will not understand. You talk about giving him truth, and right, and honor. What are those things to him, compared to a mother’s love? You shall not come between me and my boy—you shall not—you shall not!” She concluded with a burst of hysterical sobbing, then again started toward the bedroom. “Open that door!” she demanded. “Open it, I say! I want my boy!”
Donald did not move. “No,” he said quietly. “Bobbie stays here with me.”
“You cannot take him from me. The law will not allow you.” Her face blazed with angry defiance.
“I am not taking him from you. Your home is here. It is the best that I can provide. If you are not satisfied with it—if you leave it—you leave me and your child as well. No law can give him back to you.”
She had grown furiously angry by this time. “Do you think you can force me to do as you wish through my love for my child?” she cried.
“I am not trying to force you to do anything,” he replied. “You came here. I did not ask you to come. Whether you stay or not depends entirely upon yourself. The decision is yours.”
She turned quickly to the chair, and picked up her coat and purse.
“Very well,” she said bitterly. “If you can be determined, so can I. I shall demand my child in court. We shall see who has the better right to him.”
“You would not dare.”
“You shall see.” She started toward the door.
“You are making a terrible mistake,” he warned her.
She paused, turning to him. “No,” she said slowly. “It is you who are making the mistake. I came here with nothing but love, and sorrow, and regret in my heart. You have turned them all to hate, with your cruelty—your brutality. You have tried to hurt me through my love for my little boy, and I hate you for it—I hate you!” She swept toward the door, weeping hysterically.
“I have asked you to do nothing but what is right, and you know it.”
“No—I do not know it. Is it right to keep me from my child? Is it right to ask me to sacrifice his whole future? If that is right—I want none of it.” She placed her hand upon the door-knob, and turned it. Donald followed her, an ominous look in his eyes. “Edith—where are you going?” he demanded.
“I am going back to New London. If you have any regard for me, if you have any regard for your child, you will come to me there.” She threw the door open, and stood upon the threshold.
Donald approached her still more closely. “If you go out of that door, you go out of my life forever,” he said sternly. “I shall never come to you—of that you may be sure.”
“Very well—you—you brute!” she cried, and turned to go.
“Stop!” he cried, springing toward her.
“No. You have gone too far.” She swept into the hall.
He took her roughly by the arm. “Come back here,” he cried, beside himself with fury. “Since you say I am a brute, I will act like one.” He pulled her forcibly into the room and slammed the door.
“Don’t,” she cried, resisting him. “Oh! You are hurting me—Donald!” She looked at him in wonder.
“Be quiet!” he said. “I am not hurting you half so much as you are hurting me. I have told you what you must do, and you have got to do it.”
“What do you want with me?” she cried, still struggling with him. “Let go my arm—let go of me, I tell you! I want to go! Oh!”
“You shall not go.”
“I will! You have no right to keep me here.”
“Be quiet, I say.” He forced her toward the center of the room.
She burst into tears. “How dare you treat me like this?” she cried. “How dare you? Are you mad?”
“If I am, it is you who have made me so,” he said, in a fury. “You talk about love, and repentance, and you come here and insult and humiliate me with every word you say—with everything about you. Whom do you have to thank for that dress, that coat, those diamonds, that jeweled purse, and the money in it? West! West! West!” He swept upon her a look that made her eyes fall. “I tell you I won’t have it—do you understand? I won’t have it!”
She stared at him in absolute amazement, and, with her wonder there came a feeling of admiration, almost, at his mastery of her. Never before, in all the eight years of their married life, had she seen him as he was now—never before had he dominated her. She felt a child in his grasp, and in some strange way her anger began to leave her, and a sense almost of gladness at this primitive method ofdealing with the problem which confronted them swept over her.
“Donald,” she called softly to him. “Donald!” but he did not hear her.
“You are my wife—mine, do you hear?” he cried, then tore from her arm the jeweled purse, and flung it violently from him. “Take off those things—take them off! The sight of them insults me!” He grasped the lace coat she held over her arm, and threw it aside. “He gave you this necklace—damn him!” he cried, tearing it from her neck, and throwing it upon the floor.
She looked up at him, amazed. “Donald—listen to me—please!” she cried.
He paid no attention to her. “Do as I tell you,” he commanded. “Take off that stuff—take it off!”
She tremblingly removed from her fingers a diamond and ruby ring, and another of pearls, which her mother had persuaded her to buy.
“Give them to me.” He took the rings, and hurled them across the room.
“Donald, how can you treat me like this?” she protested weakly.
“I shall treat you as I like. Henceforth I am master in this house.”
“You have no right—” she began.
He took her by the arm, and flung her to the floor. “Get down on your knees,” he said, “and thank God that you have your husband, and your child, and a roof above your head.”
She looked up at him in wonder. He seemed no longer the kind and patient husband whom she had held in secret contempt because of what had seemed to her his lack of force—of spirit. Here was a man who meant to be obeyed.
“And, when you have done so,” she heard him saying, “ask Him to help you to be worthy of them. God knows you need it.” He stood over her, looking down at her with fierce determination.
She caught his glance, and her eyes fell. “You—you won’t let me go?” she faltered.
“No. Your place is here, and here you shall stay. I have stood all of this folly that I intend to stand.”
She buried her face in the pillows of the couch beside which she was kneeling, and lay thus for a long time, shaking with sobs. Into her mind had come anew emotion—a new understanding of her love for her husband. Always before he had failed to master her, to make her feel that in the conjunction of their two lives he was the dominant spirit, willing even to govern her by force, when force seemed necessary to her welfare. What had changed him so? What had caused him to keep her here, at his side, against her will? What, indeed, but his love for her? She knew it was that, knew that, had he been indifferent to her, he would have let her pass from his life without lifting a hand to prevent it. A fierce joy rose within her heart that this man desired her so greatly—that he held her, as the primitive man held his women, by the right of might. She wanted all the luxuries that had come to her—wanted them still, but, compared with the joy of realizing that Donald still loved her, they seemed as nothing.
So he had held her—meant to hold her, against everything in the world—against even herself, and her own folly. She rejoiced in the thought, and her sobbing ceased. After all—he—he and her little boy—were more to her than anything that money could buy. Had Donald temporized with her—allowedher to keep the money that had come to her, she knew in her heart that she would have secretly despised him, that in the end she would have ceased to love him. It seemed good to be home again—good to be alive. She had always wanted someone to rule her—she felt strangely humble, knowing her own weakness. Presently she raised her head, and found him standing beside her. With a swift, eager movement she grasped his hand.
“I’m so—very—very glad!” she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears. “I did not—want—to go. I never—never—want to—go away from you—again.” She looked up, her eyes shining. “Donald—do you—still care for—me—a little?” she asked, in a quavering voice. “Do you?”
Donald’s sudden burst of rage had gone. He stood looking at her with a deep sadness in his eyes. After all, she seemed so much a child. “Do you think I would take the trouble to keep you here, if I did not?” he asked.
She began to sob violently. “Donald—forgive me—forgive me!” she cried. “I shall—never go away from you—and—Bobbie—as—long—as—I live.”
“YOU—YOU WON’T LET ME GO?” SHE FALTERED“YOU—YOU WON’T LET ME GO?” SHE FALTERED
He looked down, not understanding this sudden change in her. “I have kept you here for the sake of our boy,” he said slowly, “and here you must stay. But, for your sake and mine, independent of him, you must answer me one question. Were you West’s mistress?”
She started to her feet, and dashed the tears from her eyes. “No!” she cried. “Before God—no! I was just as bad, I know, for I intended to be, but that one thing I had not done.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Oh, Donald, I am—I am!” she cried hysterically.
“Then there is still a chance for you, and for me,” he said, his face lighting up with sudden joy.
“Donald!” she cried; “Donald!” and tried to smile through her tears. As she spoke, the door of the bedroom opened, and she heard a childish voice. “Mamma!” it said, and Bobbie rushed up to her, and threw his arms about her.
She reached down and clasped him to her breast. “My darling—my darling!” she cried, as she kissed him.
“Mamma—I’m so glad you’ve come. I hadsuch awful dreams. I dreamed that you and papa were fighting, and I came and called, and you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Never mind, precious. It’s all right now,” she said, soothing him.
“Papa told me if I prayed very hard for you to come back, you would—and youdid, didn’t you, mamma?”
“Yes, dear,” she said; then looked toward her husband, and smiled happily.
“And you won’t ever go away and leave me any more, mamma?”
“No, Bobbie—never more.” She rose, and, tearing off her hat, flung it carelessly aside, then went up to her husband, holding out her hands. “Donald,” she said, “I am ready to do anything you wish—anything.” She appeared very happy, and looked at him with a new and almost girlish embarrassment.
He held out his arms, and took her to his heart. “Edith!” he said; then softly kissed her hair.
TITLES SELECTED FROMGROSSET & DUNLAP’S LISTMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.HIS HOUR.By Elinor Glyn. Illustrated.A beautiful blonde Englishwoman visits Russia, and is violently made love to by a young Russian aristocrat. A most unique situation complicates the romance.THE GAMBLERS.By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.A big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits—or repudiate the methods.CHEERFUL AMERICANS.By Charles Battell Loomis. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn and others.A good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some Americans at home and abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation.THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD.By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.Clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the best solutions of them. A book every girl and woman should possess.THE LIGHT THAT LURES.By Percy Brebner. Illustrated. Handsomely colored wrapper.A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a Frenchwoman.THE RAMRODDERS.By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett.A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play—even in their romances.Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted FictionGrosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
HIS HOUR.By Elinor Glyn. Illustrated.
A beautiful blonde Englishwoman visits Russia, and is violently made love to by a young Russian aristocrat. A most unique situation complicates the romance.
THE GAMBLERS.By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
A big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits—or repudiate the methods.
CHEERFUL AMERICANS.By Charles Battell Loomis. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn and others.
A good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some Americans at home and abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation.
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD.By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the best solutions of them. A book every girl and woman should possess.
THE LIGHT THAT LURES.By Percy Brebner. Illustrated. Handsomely colored wrapper.
A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a Frenchwoman.
THE RAMRODDERS.By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett.
A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play—even in their romances.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York
TITLES SELECTED FROMGROSSET & DUNLAP’S LISTMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.A CERTAIN RICH MAN.By William Allen White.A vivid, startling portrayal of one man’s financial greed, its wide spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American novel.IN OUR TOWN.By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W. Glackens.Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.NATHAN BURKE.By Mary S. Watts.The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence. Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.THE HIGH HAND.By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the one side, and a “kid glove” politician on the other. A pretty girl, interested in both men, is the chief figure.THE BACKWOODSMEN.By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS.By Herbert Quick.A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at night. Brilliantly clever and original.THE PROFESSOR’S MYSTERY.By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated by Hanson Booth.A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped in a big mystery.Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted FictionGrosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
A CERTAIN RICH MAN.By William Allen White.
A vivid, startling portrayal of one man’s financial greed, its wide spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American novel.
IN OUR TOWN.By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W. Glackens.
Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.
NATHAN BURKE.By Mary S. Watts.
The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence. Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.
THE HIGH HAND.By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.
A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the one side, and a “kid glove” politician on the other. A pretty girl, interested in both men, is the chief figure.
THE BACKWOODSMEN.By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.
Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.
YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS.By Herbert Quick.
A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at night. Brilliantly clever and original.
THE PROFESSOR’S MYSTERY.By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated by Hanson Booth.
A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped in a big mystery.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York
TITLES SELECTED FROMGROSSET & DUNLAP’S LISTMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.THE SILENT CALL.By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play.The hero of this story is the Squaw Man’s son. He has been taken to England, but spurns conventional life for the sake of the untamed West and a girl’s pretty face.JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER.By George W. Cable.A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. As fragrant in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of mystery and racial troubles as any romance of “after the war” days.MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES.By E. W. Hornung.This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player out of the toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and amusing.FORTY MINUTES LATE.By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated by S. M. Chase.Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a lecturer’s laughable experience because he’s late, a young woman’s excursion into the stock market, etc.OLD LADY NUMBER 31.By Louise Forsslund.A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the adventures of an old couple in an old folk’s home, their sunny, philosophical acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity.THE HUSBAND’S STORY.By David Graham Phillips.A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much food for thought. A young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich—the wife in the most aristocratic European society—but at the price of their happiness.THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by Maynard Dixon.One of the best stories of “Vagabondia” ever written, and one of the most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted FictionGrosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
THE SILENT CALL.By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
The hero of this story is the Squaw Man’s son. He has been taken to England, but spurns conventional life for the sake of the untamed West and a girl’s pretty face.
JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER.By George W. Cable.
A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. As fragrant in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of mystery and racial troubles as any romance of “after the war” days.
MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES.By E. W. Hornung.
This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player out of the toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and amusing.
FORTY MINUTES LATE.By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated by S. M. Chase.
Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a lecturer’s laughable experience because he’s late, a young woman’s excursion into the stock market, etc.
OLD LADY NUMBER 31.By Louise Forsslund.
A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the adventures of an old couple in an old folk’s home, their sunny, philosophical acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity.
THE HUSBAND’S STORY.By David Graham Phillips.
A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much food for thought. A young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich—the wife in the most aristocratic European society—but at the price of their happiness.
THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by Maynard Dixon.
One of the best stories of “Vagabondia” ever written, and one of the most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26thSt., New York