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 his
entire 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 had fallen--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 wait here," 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
trusted with 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 of what 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 home and tried to ruin
me--to take from me everything I held dear in the world--this liar--this
hypocrite--this crook--to help _me_! God! You must have fallen pretty
low to think that I would accept help from your _lover_!"
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 it
the 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?" she asked. "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 to his 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. Why don'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?" Edith looked 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 I regret 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, that she 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 feel that 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 shall not!" 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.