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? She
bethought 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. "I don'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 objects to 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 she once 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--about eight, 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, thinking about 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 in a 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 the past,
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.