The Brute Part 8

"It isn't possible you are thinking of--" She paused and left her sentence incomplete, gazing intently at her sister. "Do you care for him?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I do. You know what my life has been here. You know what it is going to be, for years. I suppose you will think me very disloyal and wicked, but, when a woman's whole existence is made up, year after year, of wishing for all the things that make life worth while, and never, never being able to afford them, her love for her husband seems somehow to become dried up, and unimportant."

"Hm-m--I suppose it does. I've never yet got to the point, myself, where I can really enjoy making over my last season's clothes. I try to think they look as good as new, but they never do. I'm afraid I haven't enough imagination. But all that doesn't make any difference now. You're married to Donald, and you've got to make the best of it. What a pity you didn't choose Billy! Half a million--hm-m--it sounds like heaven to me. I wonder if he wouldn't like me as a second choice," she rattled on.

"We certainly ought to try to keep that money in the family, somehow."

"Alice, don't talk such nonsense. It isn't Billy's money I'm thinking of."

"If you can persuade yourself that that's true," said her sister grimly, "you really must be in love with him. But what's the use of talking about it? It's absurd."

Edith stood up and walked nervously over to the desk, where she began idly fumbling with the papers upon it. Presently she turned to her sister who was regarding her with an inquiring look.

"He--he wants me to leave Donald," she cried, in a half-frightened way.

"No! What a nerve!" Alice seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge joke.

"He says that I am wearing myself out," continued her sister, "that I am wasting all the youth, and sweetness and joy of life, grinding on here in this hopeless situation. He says that, if Donald really loved me, he would see that, too."

"It sounds like the latest best seller. The hero always says that to the neglected wife, doesn't he?"

"If you are going to make fun of me," remarked Edith with a show of anger, "I think we had better drop the subject."

Alice got up and went over to her sister. "Oh, come now, Edith," she said kindly, "don't get so grouchy. I don't see anything so tragic in all this. Suppose Billy does love you--what does he propose to do about it--run away with you?"

"Yes." Her sister's quiet tones had a ring of earnestness to them, of finality almost, that was alarming.

"The idea! Billy West of all people! I can't believe it. I suppose you indignantly refused."

"No, I didn't. He told me how lonely he was; how bad it all made him feel; how it seemed so disloyal to Donald, but he--he couldn't help it.

He said I was everything in the world to him--that he had never loved any other woman, and never would--"

"Oh, I can imagine what he said," interrupted Alice. "That's easy. The question is, what did you say?"

Edith looked at her in a frightened way, seemingly for a moment unwilling to meet her glance. "Alice," she said, slowly and very softly, "I--I told him I would go."

"Edith, you really can't mean it."

"Yes," said Mrs. Rogers, nodding her head slowly. "Yes. That was over two weeks ago. We had gone down to Garden City in the auto, and had luncheon there. It was a wonderful day--so clear, and bright and beautiful. I had had a row with Donald, the night before. It was about going away this summer. When I met Billy the next day, everything seemed so different. He was telling me about a wonderful trip he was planning, to India, and the East. We talked it over like two children, and then all of a sudden he said he wouldn't--he couldn't go, unless I went, too--"

"It sounds fine." Alice's voice was not approving. "But what about Bobbie?"

Her sister pa.s.sed her hand over her forehead and shivered slightly, glancing as she did so at the door of the adjoining bedroom. "Can't you see that is why I cannot do it?" she cried with bitterness.

"Oh--you aren't going to, then!" exclaimed Alice in a tone of relief. "I thought you said you had agreed to go."

"I did. I must have been mad. I didn't think of Bobbie, or of Donald, or anything, except that Billy and I loved each other, and were going away together, to be happier than I had ever dreamed of being in all my life.

It all seemed so wonderful--almost like being born over again and living a new existence in a new and happier world. Then when I got home--" She hesitated, and a look of pain crossed her face.

"You weakened on the proposition, of course. That's the effect of habit.

It's a wonderful thing how it keeps us in the straight and narrow path.

I once heard a divorced woman say that it took her over a year to get out of the habit of being married to her first husband. What did Billy say when you told him you had changed your mind? I'll bet he was furious."

Again Mrs. Rogers seemed unable to meet her sister's keen gaze. "I haven't told him," she exclaimed, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Good heavens! Why not?"

"Because he had gone away. He went to Denver that same night. Didn't you know?"

"Now that you mention it, I believe I did hear you say that he was out of town. I thought it strange I hadn't seen anything of him, lately.

What did he go to Denver for? I must say, it seems rather inconsiderate of him, under the circ.u.mstances."

"He went to Denver, Alice, because his property is there. He intends to sell out his interest in the mine, and close up his affairs so that we can go away together, don't you see? He said he was going to dispose of everything he had, and put all the money in bonds, so that he would be free to go away, and stay away the rest of his life, if he felt like it."

"Well, I must say," cried her sister, "he seems to be in earnest, at any rate, even if you are not."

"Alice, Billy West loves me as truly and deeply as any woman was ever loved."

"Then it seems to me that you are treating his love pretty shabbily. Why don't you tell him the truth?"

"It wasn't until after he had gone away that I began to realize what a terrific mistake it would all be--that I would probably ruin his life as well as my own. I ought to have written him at once, and told him I couldn't do what I had agreed."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I suppose I was weak. I hadn't the courage. Every day I put it off till the next."

"Well, it isn't too late yet, is it? If I were you, I would sit right down and write him a letter."

Edith flung herself despairingly into a chair. "I don't know whether it is too late or not," she wailed. "That's what is worrying me so. I haven't slept for three nights--ever since I got his last letter."

Alice went over to her sister's chair, and put her arm about her shoulder. "Look here, Edith," she said, her tone showing plainly her anxiety--"what's all this about, anyway? You seem to be terribly upset.

I can't make head or tail of the matter. What's worrying you so?"

"Three days ago," said Edith, with quivering lips, "I got a letter from him. He'd been writing me every day up to then. That letter told me that he had appendicitis, and had gone to a hospital in Denver to be operated on. It was written last Thursday--that's six days ago. Since then, I haven't heard a single word."

Alice appeared greatly relieved. "Is that all?" she cried. "I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. When anyone is lying flat on his back in a hospital, he doesn't feel much like writing letters. Appendicitis isn't very dangerous. I've known any number of people that have had it."

"I know, but I can't help worrying. I don't know what to do."

"I should think the first thing you would do would be to sit down and write him that letter."

"I don't dare to."

"I don't see why not."

"Suppose something has happened to him. How can I know who might get the letter? I don't dare to write the things I've got to say to him."

Alice considered a moment. "No, I don't suppose you'd better. I didn't think of that. Can't you find out, some way, how he is?"