The Brute Part 2

Existence had not dealt over kindly with this descendant of the dour land of Wallace and Bruce, but he met it with high courage, and head up, as befitted one of his race. Born in a small town along the upper reaches of the Hudson, he had known the love of a father only long enough to clutch his fingers in the first futile efforts to face the world upon two feet, instead of on all fours; the mother, however, had survived longer, and it was to her that Donald owed the st.u.r.dy lessons in the eternal rightness of things that underlay and governed all his actions.

He was sixteen when she was laid beside her long-expectant husband, and Donald, her only child, went out into the world with a very small patrimony and a very great grief. Yet this sweet-faced woman, locked in her long leaden sleep, was not dead; her faith, her courage, her high ideals, lived and breathed in her son, and no act of his life but showed in some way, however slight, their purifying effect.

Donald Rogers' father had been a steam engineer without a college education; his son determined to follow in his footsteps with one, and, with this purpose strong within him, gathered together the small store of worldly goods with which the fates had endowed him and went to New York and the engineering course at Columbia. It took him five years to complete the course, partly because his early education had been somewhat incomplete, partly owing to the necessity under which he labored, of earning sufficient money, as he went along, to piece out the fragments of his small inheritance and maintain himself. This he did by doing draughting work at night; it was hard on the eyes, but the experience helped him in his profession. At twenty-two he was graduated with honors; these, with his diploma, const.i.tuted his stock in trade; his weapons with which to win fame and fortune.

Five years of employment in subordinate positions had not only given him practical experience, but had taught him the futility of expecting the aforementioned fame and fortune while working on a salary; his courage, his savings and some staunch business friends all favored the idea of launching out for himself. The results had been encouraging; he now, after eight years, had a substantial, if small, practice, and an unshaken belief in himself and his future.

It was about the time he first opened his office as consulting engineer that he had met Edith Pope, and they were married within a year. She was a girl of unusual beauty, and through both inheritance and training quite his opposite. Perhaps it was because of this that she had attracted him.

Her father had been a real-estate dealer, and through his ability and industry had made during his somewhat short business career a large income. His wife, on the other hand, had shown such ability and industry in spending it that, when he died, which he did about the time that Edith was just entering her 'teens, he left only enough to provide a meager living for herself, her mother and her sister Alice, two years her junior. Mrs. Pope had never been able to accustom herself to the blow; she lived in a constant atmosphere of past glories and was never tired of recounting to her daughters all the comforts she had enjoyed when her "dear J. B.," as she mournfully designated her deceased better half, was alive. Never a day pa.s.sed, but Edith and her sister were warned against the evils and dangers of marrying a man without money; to some extent it might have appeared that Mrs. Pope hoped to regain, through the matrimonial successes of her daughters, those luxuries of existence which she fondly believed were, to her, absolute necessities.

Whether or not her children paid any serious attention to her advice it would be difficult to say; perhaps the best answer to the question lay in the fact that, when Edith met Donald in the boarding-house on Tenth Street, which was for the time being their mutual home, she straightway fell head over heels in love with him, and married him before the year was out, in spite of her mother's strenuous objections. That was eight years ago, and, if Edith Rogers was not entirely reconciled to living in a Harlem flat and doing her own housework, she at least found a large measure of compensation in her little boy, Bobbie, who was now six, and a darling, as even his grandmother was forced grudgingly to admit. Her a.s.sent was grudging because Mrs. Pope had never forgiven her son-in-law for depriving her of her daughter; one matrimonial a.s.set thus rudely s.n.a.t.c.hed away forced her to concentrate all her hopes upon Alice, and that young lady, at the age of rising twenty-six, had begun to show signs of extreme restiveness, possibly due to an inward conviction that even a Harlem flat and a four-by-six kitchenette possesses some advantages not to be found in boarding-houses of the less-expensive variety, and that a real live man with a living income is better than an old maid's dreams of a possible, but hitherto undisclosed, millionaire.

Emerson Hall, a friend of Donald's, whom she had met a few months before, a.s.sisted her greatly in arriving at these not unusual conclusions.

It was long after one o'clock when Donald Rogers, absorbed in a problem of power transmission, bethought himself of luncheon. One was his usual hour; he dropped his calculations, seized his hat, and in a moment was threading his way through the never ending throngs of lower Broadway, on his way to a little chop house in John Street, long famous for its English mutton chops and cream ale.

As he came abreast of the Singer Building, he felt someone grasp his arm from behind and heard a cheery voice, with a familiar ring about it, calling to him. He turned and looked into the handsome, smiling face of a tall bronzed man, whose costume indicated clearly that he hailed from the West.

"Billy West!" he exclaimed, gripping the new-comer's hand joyfully.

"Where on earth did you drop from? I thought you were in Colorado."

"I was, until four days ago. Thought I'd come East for awhile and look the old town over. How's everything?" His glance was full of smiling inquiry. "Making lots of money?"

"Not so much that I have to sit up nights thinking how to spend it,"

replied Rogers, a trifle bitterly. "Had your lunch?"

"No. Didn't want to eat alone. I've been away so long I hardly know a soul in this blessed burg."

Rogers took his arm. "Come along with me," he said. "I'm just on my way."

West nodded. "Got to see my lawyers some time to-day, but later will do just as well." In five minutes they were seated in the chop house, ordering luncheon.

"How are you getting along out there among the miners?" laughed Donald, as he dismissed the waiter with their order. "Hope you like it better than doing laboratory work down in Jersey. Ought to be wonderful opportunities for a man, out there." He paused for a moment, thoughtful.

"You know I always used to say, when we were in college, that I meant to go West some day. I've never got there, though. New York has become a habit, I'm afraid. Can't seem to break away from it."

West looked at his friend with a faintly quizzical smile, and hesitated for a moment, as though he almost feared to tell the other what had come into his mind. Then he leaned across the table, and his face suddenly became grave. "Don," he said earnestly, "the luck I've had out there has been so wonderful, so almost unbelievable, that, even though it happened nearly two years ago, I still can hardly realize that it's true."

"Strike a gold mine?" inquired Rogers, with a laugh.

"That's exactly what I did do, and believe me, Don, it's some mine. We capitalized it last year at a million, of which yours truly, owns half, and it paid over five per cent. from the start. I haven't got used to figuring up my income yet, but just at present I think it's running pretty close to thirty thousand a year, and more coming." He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "I'm vice-president of the concern. The Lone Star mine, it's called, up on the Little Ash river; but I haven't anything much to do with the management--leave all that to the Boston crowd that put in the money. They're a fine, conservative lot of fellows, with plenty of experience, and I know my interests are perfectly safe in their hands. So you see, I'm a sort of a gentleman of leisure just at present, with plenty of money to spend, and n.o.body in particular to spend it on, so I thought I'd take a run down to little old New York and put in a year or so getting acquainted with some of my old friends. I was on my way to my lawyers, as I said, when I met you, and, after attending to a little matter of business, I was coming right up to your office to see you. I looked up your address in the telephone book."

Donald, who by this time had succeeded in digesting this remarkable piece of news, reached across the table and took his friend's hand.

"Billy," he said, with a look which left no doubt as to the sincerity of his feelings, "congratulations from the bottom of my heart."

"Thanks, old man. I knew you would be glad to know about my good luck."

He attacked the chop, which the waiter set before him with a flourish.

"And now tell me about yourself. How's your wife, and the boy--it was a boy, wasn't it? The happy event occurred just before I went West, and I'm not exactly sure." He flashed on Rogers one of those brilliant smiles which had always made him loved by both s.e.xes, and particularly the one in petticoats.

"Edith is very well, and the boy is fine. I don't wonder you did not remember. They will be delighted to see you. Why not come up to dinner to-night. We can't offer you a feast, but you won't mind taking pot luck."

"Well, I should say not. I was hoping you would ask me. You can't imagine how lost I feel in this town. I suppose it would be different if I had any family, but you know I haven't even a second cousin I can call my own. I've often thought of you and Edith. You know that she might have been Mrs. West, once, years ago, if you hadn't stepped in and taken her away from me. I'd have been jealous of anyone but you, Don, but I guess the best man won." He laughed with a hearty frankness, and took up his mug of ale. "Here's to the youngster. May he live long and prosper."

Donald drained his gla.s.s. "I suppose you will be busy for a couple of hours," he said, "with your legal matters. Why not come up to my office when you get through--I'm in the Columbia Building, you know--and we'll go up-town together?"

"I'll do it. We can stop at my hotel on the way, and give me a chance to clean up a bit. I only got in this morning on the sleeper, you know, and I feel a bit grubby."

Some half-hour later they were making their way slowly toward Broadway.

"What a great town it is, after all!" remarked West, as they turned the corner at John Street. "Every time a fellow goes away for a few years they seem to build it all over again before he gets back." He turned to look at the towering ma.s.s of the Singer Building. "That's a new one on me. Wouldn't it make some of my friends back in Colorado have cricks in their backs?"

"It is a wonderful city," replied Rogers grimly. "I don't think I should ever care about living anywhere else, but the man who wins out in it has got to deliver the goods. Big as it is, there is no room in it for failures." He waved his hand to West as the latter turned into Wall Street. "See you around four-thirty. So long."

"I'll be there. Wait for me if I'm a little late," was the reply, as the two separated.

Donald went back to his plain little office and his power-transmission problem with a curious feeling of futility. Thirteen years of hard work had given him but little more than the right to fight that never ceasing battle with the grim city which could excuse anything but failure.

West--pleasure-loving Billy West--who from his freshman days had looked upon the world as little more than an amazing joke, had by one stroke of fortune suddenly found all the pleasures, all the luxuries that life contained, at his feet. He did not envy West this good fortune, he was too staunch a friend for that, but he thought of Edith, and their little up-town flat, and as her tired face rose before him he suffered the pangs of that greatest of all forms of poverty, the inability to do for those we love.

CHAPTER III

During the year that preceded her marriage to Donald Rogers, Edith had seen a great deal of Billy West, and had liked him more than anyone except herself had realized. His was a personality, indeed, to compel the admiration of women. Tall, good-looking, of a reckless and laughter-loving type, he naturally appealed to that peculiar chord in the feminine make-up which responds so readily to the Cavalier in the opposite s.e.x, while paying scant attention to the st.u.r.dy adherence to duty characteristic of his Roundhead adversary. For this reason, it is probable that, at one period of Donald's courtship, she would have listened more kindly to the love-making of his friend, had the latter, indeed, seen fit to make any. That he did not was due to no Quixotic sense of friendship for Donald, but to a very real and honest belief on his part that marriage on the slender pay of an a.s.sistant chemist was not for one of his type, an opinion in which he was entirely correct.

Therefore he had hidden his love, which was in truth a real and lasting one, beneath his careless laughter, and had gone to Colorado when the occasion offered, neither heart whole nor fancy free, but just as determined to make much money with the utmost quickness as though he and Edith Pope had never laid eyes upon each other. After all, he and Edith were very much alike. They belonged to that cla.s.s which demands of life its luxuries almost before its necessities, and it is a curious fact that they nearly always get them.

After eight years of married life, Edith Rogers, busy with her child, her household cares and the various complexities of domesticity, had forgotten her husband's friend as completely as though he had never come into her life at all. He, on the contrary, had thought of her continually, for his life in the West had been too keenly devoted to business to leave either time or opportunity for dalliance with the opposite s.e.x. Hence the memory of his first and last love had not been effaced by the pa.s.sage of time, but remained in his heart as a sweet and pleasing memory, gathering increased strength from the years as they rolled swiftly by. It should not be inferred from this, however, that William West had the slightest thought of ever renewing his courtship of Edith, now that she had become Donald Rogers' wife. His love for her was like a pleasant recollection, a package of old letters, a book read and closed forever. For all that, he was conscious of a queer feeling in the region of his heart as he followed Donald into the tiny living-room of the Rogers' apartment in Harlem.

Mrs. Rogers had not been apprised of her husband's intention to bring a guest home for dinner, least of all so unexpected a one as Billy West.

The reason for this was that the Rogers' apartment boasted no telephone.

The servant problem they had solved by the simple expedient of not keeping any. Hence it was that West's first glimpse of the Edith of his dreams was of a tired little woman, flushed from her efforts over the gas range, and in no sweet temper with her husband for having taken her unawares and at such a disadvantage. It is a fact worthy of record, however, that West found her, in this homely garb, more humanly delightful and attractive than would have been the case had she spent hours of preparation at her toilette table. He had been living for five years among men who found women more attractive as helpmates than as ornaments, and she appealed to him accordingly. As for Donald, no thought crossed his mind that these two were, or ever had been, anything more to each other than the best of friends.

"Billy!" Mrs. Rogers had gasped as she came into the room to greet her husband on his arrival, and had thus, by using the old familiar t.i.tle, established a footing between them that somehow refused to return to the more formal one of "Mrs. Rogers" and "Mr. West." After all it was of no great importance--Billy and Edith they had always been to each other, and Billy and Edith they remained. Donald, if he noticed it at all, was glad of the fact that his wife and his old friend liked each other so well. The meeting became a little reunion, in the pleasure of which Mrs.

Rogers soon forgot her plain, cheap house-gown and her flushed face, and entered into the spirit of the occasion with an unwonted gayety. She was a beautiful woman, in spite of her twenty-eight years; perhaps it would be more correct to say because of them, for while at twenty she had been exceedingly pretty, it was little more than a youthful promise of what she had now become.

Her grandmother had been a Southern woman, and a noted beauty in those much talked of days "before the war," and whether this lady's beauty had, as time pa.s.sed, taken on added glory, like most other things of that hallowed period, certain it is that Edith Rogers had received from some source a priceless inheritance as far as the perfection of her figure or the beauty of her coloring was concerned. Perhaps it was some forgotten strain of Irish blood that was responsible for her deep violet eyes and her dark chestnut hair, although her dusky complexion belied it.

West observed the change which the years had made in her, at once, and complimented her on it. "I have never seen you look so well," he said, as he grasped her hand. "You were a rosebud when I went away, now you are an American beauty." It pleased her mightily, for she felt that he meant it, and, like most married women, she heard few compliments from her husband. Mrs. Pope, her mother, never lost an opportunity to tell her that with her looks she could have married any man she pleased, but she paid no attention to remarks of this nature, knowing as she did that her mother was only trying to hit, indirectly, at Donald, whom she affected not to like.

She knew from West's voice that he was very glad to see her, and after all these years, when he grasped her hand, and pressed it in his strong, firm grip, she felt the old familiar shock, the sensation of gladness for she knew not what, that almost took her breath away. It had always been that way with him. He was very different from Donald in many ways, for, while Donald was serious and earnest and very conscientious, West was always merry and gay and careless, never seeming to worry about money, although his income, at the time of her marriage, had been smaller even than Donald's.

There was something about him that always attracted women. She felt this whenever she was with him, yet it did not come from any appreciation of his character, or his mind, for she knew very little about either. There was some sort of psychic magnetism about the man, some vibrating sense of physical vitality, which she felt whenever she was near him. His mere presence made her strangely silent and in a way afraid, yet, whatever it was that she feared, it at the same time attracted her, and made her sorry when it had pa.s.sed. She had never felt that way with Donald, although always she had liked to be with him, for somehow she felt more comfortable and sure, and could talk things over better, and plan out the future. She had not thought much about the future when she was with West--there did not seem to be any need for a future--the present had been all she had desired, but that she had desired very much. All this had pa.s.sed, years ago, but still it came back to her, in a measure, when she thus first met him again.

He looked at her, in that curiously intimate way he had, and even his smile made her happy. She felt his glance sweep over her face, her whole body, and almost embrace her in its pleasant radiance--it thrilled her, yet she almost resented the way in which it left her helpless and confused. In a moment he had looked beyond her, at Donald, and was making some laughing inquiry about their boy--and then she felt sorry and wanted him to look at her again.

Mrs. Pope had taught her daughters many things, but cooking was not one of them. Edith had been forced, like many another married woman, to learn it in the school of hard practical experience, and, to her credit be it said, she had learned it surprisingly well. She excused herself after the first greetings had been said, added an extra dish to the partially prepared meal, and hastened to her room to change her dress.

Of West's new fortunes she as yet knew nothing; it was to the man that she wanted to appeal, to the old friend, before whom her natural woman's vanity made her wish to appear at her best. When she served the dinner half an hour later, it was in a light-green pongee that seemed to West a triumph of the dressmaker's art. As a matter of fact she had made the dress herself, but it would have taken a far worse costume to have spoiled the lines of her superb figure, or dulled the sparkling mobility of her face.

Donald, with a father's pride in his boy, dug out Bobbie from the recesses of his mother's room, and brought him to West to be admired.

He was a manly little fellow, with a large share of his mother's good looks, and West took him upon his knee, wondering inwardly if he would ever have a son of his own to inherit his newly acquired fortune.