The Brute Part 22

"Donald--I couldn't help it--I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid to refuse it, for fear you would not understand--for fear you would suspect--and think terrible things about me."

"For fear I might find out the truth," he flung at her angrily. "For fear you would not be able to hoodwink me, as you had in the past. For fear I might know how disloyal and unfaithful and untrue you had been to me."

His words, and the way he spoke them, roused in her a sudden anger.

"Yes, if you wish to put it that way," she cried defiantly. "For fear you would no longer love me, when I had come to know that your love was the only thing I wanted in all the world."

"And to keep my love," he exclaimed bitterly, "you were willing to stoop to that--to accept this man's money."

"Oh--my dear--my dear! I didn't want his money--I didn't want it! Won't you believe me?"

"You took it."

"I had to take it. There wasn't anything else I could do."

"You could have given it away--you could have come to me, and told me the truth--anything but this."

"Could I have done any more good with it by giving it away than I have by keeping it? Think of what I have been able to do for my mother--my sister--our boy. Don't you see? It wasn't for myself I wanted the money.

You will believe that, won't you?"

"No! You have always wanted money. You never lost an opportunity to tell me how much I failed to give you. Now you've got it"--he glanced bitterly about him--"at the expense of your honor. You've lied to me, and tricked me, and made a fool of me, and now you've got it; and, to crown it all, you were even willing to let me share in it. You gave me that check, knowing all this." He raised his hands in helpless fury. "My G.o.d! What a humiliation!"

Edith looked at her husband in a frightened way. "If he were alive to-day he would be glad to know that he had helped you," she said pathetically, seeking some adequate answer to his accusations. Her choice was an unfortunate one--it only increased his rage.

"Stop!" he fairly shouted. "Don't dare to say that to me! Do you think I would accept anything from him?--this man I loved and trusted and honored as a friend--this man that crept into my home and tried to ruin me--to take from me everything I held dear in the world--this liar--this hypocrite--this crook--to help _me_! G.o.d! You must have fallen pretty low to think that I would accept help from your _lover_!"

Edith cowered before his biting scorn. "Oh! How can you--how can you?"

she sobbed. "I did not love him."

"I would respect you more if you had. You might have been honest with him, at least, if you couldn't be with me. No--you did not love him. You turned from me, and gave yourself to him because he had money! _Money_!

_Money_! You--you--G.o.d, I can't say the word! Don't you know what they call women who sell themselves for money?"

She flushed darkly at his words. "Don't dare to say that to me!" she cried. "I may have been disloyal--I may have intended to leave you--but I never wanted his money--never--not for myself. It was for the others."

"Look at yourself," he interrupted. "Your clothes--your jewels--this place! Has all this been for others? Haven't you enjoyed it? Isn't it the very breath of existence to you? What sort of a woman are you, anyway?"

"You are cruel, brutal!" she cried, das.h.i.+ng the tears from her eyes.

"You have no right to say such things to me. I took this money because I couldn't refuse it. If I had given it away, you would have suspected. I had begun to see what a terrible mistake I had made--I wanted to keep this thing from you--because I loved you."

"Why didn't you tell me the truth--then--then--not leave me to find it out now? You knew if you told me about this money, you would have to give it up, and you thought you could deceive me."

"No--no, it isn't true!"

"It is true. You thought you could buy your fine clothes, your luxury, your happiness at the expense of my honor--and you have done it. What do you suppose Hall will think of all this when he knows the truth?"

"Why need he know anything about it?"

"Good G.o.d! Haven't you any sense of decency--of right? Do you suppose for a moment I am going to let things go on like this?"

"Donald! What are you going to do?" she asked. "Remember what all this means to others. Forgive me, and let us forget."

"Don't say that again!" He took a step toward her threateningly. "I don't want to hear it. Give up every cent of this money, now--at once!

Put on your cheap clothes, your home-made hat, your pride--if you have any left. They will look better on you than what you are wearing now. Go back to your cooking--your housework. It will be time enough then to talk about forgiveness."

She shrank from him, her hands clutching nervously at her bosom. After all, even she herself had not realized how horrible the thought of her old life had become to her, now that she had tasted of the new. She shuddered before the sordid vision. "You can't mean it--you can't!"

"You dare say that?" he demanded; then became suddenly silent, and looked toward the door.

Edith followed his glance, and saw Bobbie standing on the threshold, his nurse behind him.

"Papa!" cried the little fellow, rus.h.i.+ng up to his father with outstretched hands. "Have you seen my new pony?"

Donald put out his arms, and took the child to his heart. "Bobbie--my dear little boy!" he cried, as he kissed him.

"Mamma got him for me yesterday," the child prattled on. "He's brown, and has a s.h.a.ggy mane, and I like him ever so much better than the old one. I've named him Billikins, because he has such a funny face. Won't you come and see him?" He caught his father by the hand, pulling him toward the door.

"I can't come now," said Donald, resisting him. "He's asleep by this time. We'll see him to-morrow."

"And we'll go in swimming, papa. I've learned a lot since you were here last week. I can keep up dog-fas.h.i.+on." He capered about, ill.u.s.trating with his arms. "Mamma's going to get me a pair of white wings. Aren't you, mamma?" He turned to his mother for confirmation.

"Yes, dear," she said, with tears in her eyes.

"And, papa, I've got a sailboat. Patrick is showing me how to sail it.

Will you come to-morrow?"

"Yes, Bobbie," his father answered mechanically.

"I wish you would stay here every day. I don't want to ever go back to the nasty old city. Why don't you, papa?" He took his father's hand again. "I want to show you where Patrick and me found a lot of clams yesterday."

"Yes, dear." Donald's voice was scarcely audible. There were tears in his heart, if not in his eyes.

Edith came over to the child, and put her hand upon his curly head.

"Kiss papa good-night, dear. It's time you were in bed."

"I don't want to go to bed." The boy looked at his father appealingly.

"Papa, mayn't I stay up a little longer?"

"Why, Bobbie, you always go to bed at seven o'clock."

"Not nights when papa comes, mamma."

The nurse took a step forward. "Come, Bobbie, that's a good boy," she coaxed, and held out her hand.

The tumult in Donald Rogers' brain ceased. His face took on a look of determination; it was evident that he had arrived at a decision. He put his arm about the child's shoulder. "Fannie, wait in the dining-room,"

he said. "I will call you when I want you." The nurse turned and went into the house.