The Brute Part 28

"Has she agreed?"

"No. She has refused."

"Why do you insist on that?"

"Is it possible that you do not understand? What else can I do? If she returns to me, it must be with clean hands."

"You ask a great deal, Mr. Rogers. It seems to me that your chances for happiness would be a great deal better, if you were to let her keep this money."

"Man--do you realize what you are saying? Isn't there a greater question at stake than just my happiness? Isn't it right? Isn't it her duty?

Isn't it necessary to her own self-respect? I cannot see how she could hesitate for a moment."

"Then you do not understand women. There are not many of them, situated as she is, who could resist the temptation of thirty thousand dollars a year."

"Then you defend her, Mr. Brennan. I did not expect it from you. I had hoped you would see her--talk to her--show her what a terrible mistake she is making."

The lawyer rose, and began to walk up and down in deep thought. All his life, he had been concerned with the one idea, the one duty--that of preserving for his clients every dollar that the law allowed them. Money in a way had become almost sacred to him. Other points of view seemed foolish, quixotic. "I'm a cold-blooded, practical man, Mr. Rogers. Life as I have seen it has not made me sentimental. Lawyers rarely are. Half a million dollars is a large sum of money. It means freedom from all the wretched, grinding cares of existence, that fret out one's soul. Few things in life make much difference, after all, if one has a comfortable bank-balance. You ask your wife to give up all that this money means, and come back to poverty--comparatively speaking at least. It is a hard question for any woman to decide--a mighty hard question."

"You are wrong. You judge from the cynical, money-getting standpoint of Broadway. There are bigger and finer and n.o.bler things in the world than money. It's the right of the thing that counts."

"Perhaps it is, Mr. Rogers, but most women don't look at things that way. They are creatures of impulse. Logic is not their strong point. You expect too much of your wife. I have known a great many women--in my time--and my experience is that the best of them have their price." He noticed Donald's dissenting gesture, but waved his interruption aside.

"Don't misunderstand me. I do not necessarily mean in a wrong way. It may be a t.i.tle, or a million, with some--with others the price of a meal, or a lodging for the night. The man who expects too much of women is bound to be disappointed. Let your wife keep this money. With it she will be happy--contented. Without it, she will be miserable. She has tasted the pleasures of wealth--now--and her old life will seem doubly distasteful to her. Don't be unreasonable. Remember that after all, she is, like most women, a good deal of a child."

Donald took up his hat, and his face showed the disappointment he felt.

"Mr. Brennan," he said, "I'm sorry I can't think as you do. I was brought up to know the difference between right and wrong, and I haven't forgotten it. It would be impossible--absolutely impossible--for me to share in any way in this money, or to let my boy do so. On that point I am determined."

Brennan looked grave, and regarded Donald with cynical compa.s.sion. "I'm sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers. In that case I do not see that I can be of any service to you."

"Then you won't undertake to see Mrs. Rogers, and convince her of her mistake?"

"I do not think it will have any result. You are very young yet, Mr.

Rogers. You look at this thing entirely too seriously."

Donald turned away with a great sense of bitterness, of injustice, in his heart. "My G.o.d!" he cried. "How can you say such a thing? There is only one way to look at it, and that is the right way. In your heart, you know it. Don't you suppose it would be the easiest way, for me to take this money? Isn't there every reason why I should? My wife--my child--my business interests, all urge me to accept it--to make of myself that most contemptible thing in the world--a man who is willing to live on a woman--to share with her what she has got from her lover.

You know what they call such creatures. You know that no decent, self-respecting man could do what you have advised me to do. I value my wife--my home, more than most men do--I have given them the best I had in me--but one thing I value even more than them, and that is my self-respect. I have not made a great success in life, in a material way, but what I have made, I have made honestly. I have always been able to look the world squarely in the face, without feeling ashamed, and I propose to keep on doing so. Advise my wife as you please. Her mother and sister are with you. But I want you to understand--the whole lot of you--that she need not expect me to forgive her, and take her back, so long as she keeps a dollar of this man's money, for I won't do it--by G.o.d, I won't do it!" He flung angrily toward the door.

Mr. Brennan stared at him for a moment, then reached out his hand.

"Mr. Rogers," he said, "your views may not be practical, and they may not bring you happiness, but, by G.o.d, sir, I respect you for them. Good-day."

Donald went back to his office like a man who has met a crushing blow, but met it undaunted. He found Bobbie, tired of his pencil and paper, looking out of the window at the boats on the river, and wailing for his mother.

The father disposed of his mail while the boy played about his desk, gave his a.s.sistant a few instructions, and, with Bobbie holding his hand, once more started up-town. On the way, he bought the child some little chocolate cigars, thereby lulling him into temporary forgetfulness of his mother's absence. Life seemed all of a sudden to have become very gray and bitter.

One ray of light, however, pierced the overshadowing gloom. Forbes, his partner in the gla.s.s-plant venture, had wired Donald from Parkersburg that he had succeeded in securing from some bankers there the necessary money to tide over the crisis in the company's affairs. Several large orders had come in also. It appeared certain that they would be able to weather the storm. The good news seemed trifling, somehow, in his present state of mind, but it was something, and for the moment he felt grateful.

CHAPTER XX

Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left her the Sat.u.r.day before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths that Donald evidently suspected--she did not stop to consider that in all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald's place, and understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved and trusted--his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.

Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might wait for him to do so.

There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his att.i.tude.

Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration; even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to be like this before--he had always humored her, always been apologetic, regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and determined to use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past--her tears, her reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.

Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this intention. "I shouldn't go near him, my dear," she said, her eyes snapping. "Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to look after. That will bring him to his senses." Edith, however, would not listen to her. "I shall go, mother," she said. "After all, Donald has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I'm not going to give up this money. He ought not to ask it."

Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her plans had been upset. "What's the use of deluding yourself, Edith," she remarked pointedly. "Donald will make you give up that money as sure as fate. I never saw him so angry."

"Alice, you talk like a fool," said her mother. "How can he make her give it up? He's hardly likely to use a club."

"Wouldn't be a bad idea," Alice flung at them, as she left the room.

"Edith has needed one, for some time." Mrs. Pope was aghast. "Sometimes, Edith," she confided to the latter, "I think Alice is losing her mind."

Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister's judgment, and the latter's remark worried her.

There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair, ma.s.saging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful woman--she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval gla.s.s in her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. It did not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.

In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald's character.

Everything she wore, from her dainty _suede_ slippers to her costly hat, she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money.

The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.

Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. "You look stunning, dear--a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don't give in an inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage to win." She settled herself comfortably in her chair. "Would you mind ringing for Richards, my dear? I must have a refreshing drink of some sort. This heat is positively unbearable."

The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel particularly hungry--she was too nervous and excited for that; but she felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours to wait, before eight o'clock, at which time she felt that Donald would have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.

She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension through her. G.o.d, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed the same--even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door, the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She realized their familiarity, yet she might have been away for ages, so far removed from her present life did they seem.

Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her with grave politeness.

"Donald!" she cried, as he came toward her. "Where is Bobbie?"

"In his room," he replied.

"I want to see him."

"He's asleep."

He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she carried upon her arm, and frowned.

"How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken his heart to leave all his things--his pony, and his boat, and all. Is he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always am about what he has to eat."

Donald's frown deepened. "Bobbie is very well," he said slowly. "It seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that."

"Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?" she asked.