CHAPTER XVII
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.
CHAPTER XVIII
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.