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 minutes dragged 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 his room, 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' MARRIED
BLISS.
WIFE GETS CHILDREN--HUSBAND A
SUICIDE.
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 short interval 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 accustomed air 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 drumming into 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 lots of 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 deep concern.
"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.