The further conversation between them was short. Mr. Brennan informed her that he would be happy to advance her any money she might need, pending the legal formalities attendant upon the administration of the estate. She thanked him with downcast eyes, but a.s.sured him that she would not require any. The thought of touching any of West's money horrified her. Her one concern had been to keep the knowledge of their mutual love from Donald--this, she felt, was now accomplished. To the money she did not at this time give so much as a single thought. On her way up-town she made a sincere effort to a.n.a.lyze her feelings. Why had West's death not affected her more deeply? Why had the most important feature of the whole affair been her desire to keep the truth from Donald? The answer came, clear and vivid. It was Bobbie. She feared the destruction of her home on his account. It was love for him that had caused her to repent of her promise to West to go away with him, even before the latter had much more than started on his way to Denver.

The thought pursued her all the way home. When she arrived, Bobbie had finished his luncheon and was just going out with Nellie. She went up to the boy and clasped him in her arms. "Dear little man!" she said as she kissed him, then noticed, in her sudden thought of him, how pale and thin he looked. "Run along now, dear. The more fresh air you get, the better."

After the child had gone, and she was alone, she took the letters Mr. Brennan had given her, drew from her bureau drawer those she had received from West, and, without looking at any of them, proceeded to make a bonfire of them all in a tin basin in the kitchen. It seemed hard to destroy his letters. They had meant so much to her when she had received them. For a moment she was tempted to read them all through for the last time, but the fear that, should she do so, she might weaken in her intention to destroy them stopped her. Donald must never know--Donald must never know. These letters were the only proof in the whole world of her wrong-doing. She applied a match to the ma.s.s of paper with trembling fingers, and, with tears in her eyes, watched the flames mount and crackle, the sheets blacken and fall to soft gray dust.

In a short time the little funeral pyre--it seemed to her the funeral pyre of the past--with all her hopes and fears, her guilt and her love, had crumbled to a tiny pile of ashes. She threw them out of the window and watched them blow hither and thither in the eddying currents of wind. When she had closed the window, it seemed to her that she had also closed the door upon the past. Before her the future lay bright and smiling. She did not admit for a moment to herself that its brightness might be a reflection from Billy West's gold. The very thought would have made her shudder. Nevertheless, the knowledge that one has half a million dollars in the bank is apt to lend a brightness to the future, no matter how clouded the immediate present may be.

CHAPTER XIII

It took Edith Rogers many weeks to make up her mind to spend any of William West's money, and then she did it on account of Bobbie. Her mother had used every effort to convince her that she was acting like a fool in not launching out at once upon a career of wild extravagance, but the thought of her love for West, the folly she had contemplated, the latter's sudden and tragic death, all filled her with horror. The money lay idly in the bank, and she could not bring herself to touch it.

With the coming of the hot weather, however, she began to listen to her mother's arguments with a more willing ear. Bobbie was clearly not well.

His cough, product of a March cold, still hung on in spite of all her efforts. His appet.i.te was failing, his cheeks pale and wan. She felt the desirability of getting him away from the oven-like city at once, and one evening broached the subject to Donald.

"Don't you think, dear," she said, "that I ought to take Bobbie to the seash.o.r.e?"

Donald looked up quickly. "I do, indeed," he said. "I've thought so for some time."

"Then why haven't you said anything about it?"

"I was waiting for you, dear. I know how you have felt about using this money that West left you, and I hesitated to suggest it on that account."

"Do you think I ought to use it?"

"I can see no reason why you should not. His wish was that you should have it. He wanted you to enjoy it, otherwise he would not have left it to you. I regretted the poor old chap's death quite as keenly as you did, but for all that I cannot see why you should feel so strongly about this money."

Edith knew very well that he could not see why she felt as she did, nor had she any intention of allowing him to do so. "Very well," she replied quietly. "I think I'll look for a cottage somewhere along the Sound to-morrow. That would be much nicer than staying at a hotel, and you could come down every week end. In fact, Donald, I don't see why you couldn't just as well give up business altogether, and spend the summer with us. In the fall we might go abroad."

He frowned at this. "I couldn't think of it, dear," he replied. "I've got my practise to keep up and the business in West Virginia to look after. I shouldn't care to live on you, you know." He smiled, and, coming over to her, patted her head affectionately. "It's very good of you, Edith, to want me with you, and I should enjoy it more than I can tell you, but I couldn't give up my work, my independence. You wouldn't respect me if I did."

She did not attempt to argue the question with him. Perhaps in her heart she felt that he was right. "Mother is coming up to-morrow morning," she said. "I think I'll try New London. I was there one summer for a month when father was alive, and I have never forgotten how lovely it was.

Mother knows all about it. We'll run up there to-morrow and see what we can find."

Led by Mrs. Pope, the expedition in search of a cottage by the sea was an unqualified success. Edith had had in mind a small bungalow--a tiny house with a view of the water, but Mrs. Pope was burdened with no such plebeian ideas. To her money-loving mind a cottage such as befitted her daughter's newly acquired wealth consisted of a picturesque mansion of some eighteen or twenty rooms, with a private bathing beach, extensive grounds, garage, stables, and a retinue of servants.

She had some little difficulty in finding what she wanted. Edith remonstrated with her continually but she was not to be balked. She told the real-estate agent to whom they had gone on their arrival that her daughter was prepared to pay as high as five hundred dollars a month, for the proper accommodations, furnished, and she refused quite definitely to consider anything that did not front on the water.

There were but three places answering her description that were available. The first Edith thought perfect, but her mother dismissed it at once. "Quite too small, my dear," she remarked, with up-turned nose.

"And I never could endure a house with no conservatory."

The second place had a conservatory, it seemed, but Mrs. Pope found the plumbing antiquated, the number of bathrooms insufficient, and the furnishings not at all to her taste.

"We shall entertain a great deal," she informed the overpowered real-estate man, who was mentally trying to adapt Mrs. Pope's extravagant ideas to her anything but extravagant clothes. Edith wondered whom they were going to entertain, but forebore asking her mother at this time.

The third place withstood even Mrs. Pope's attempts at criticism, and Edith fell in love with it at once. It was not quite so large as they had wanted, her mother remarked, but it might do. Edith was very sure that it would do. The house, a long, low, shingled affair, with many timbered gables, was partly overgrown with ivy. Climbing roses, in full bloom, embowered the wide verandas. The gardens were filled with handsome shrubbery and well-kept flower beds. There was a stable, a greenhouse, and a little boathouse and wharf. The lawns were immaculate, the furnishings within artistic and costly. The agent explained that Mr.

Sheridan, the banker, who owned the house, had left unexpectedly for Europe the week before, and the place had just been placed on the market. Mr. Sheridan had intended to occupy it himself until the last moment, but his wife had been taken ill, and was obliged to go to one of the Continental baths to be cured. The price was two thousand dollars for the season, and would have been a great deal more had the place been put on the market a month earlier. Two parties had looked at it already, and it was not likely to remain unoccupied very long.

"We'll take it," said Mrs. Pope promptly. "We'll move in on Monday." She began to plan aloud the disposition of the various bedrooms.

Mr. Hull, the agent, on the way to town, suggested the necessity of executing a lease and making a deposit to bind the bargain. "My daughter will give you a check for the first month's rent in advance," said Mrs.

Pope loftily. "You have your check-book with you, my dear, I hope?"

Edith had. Her mother had insisted upon her taking it when they left the house. The first check she made against the income which William West's half-million of capital was piling up to her credit at the bank was one for five hundred dollars to the order of Thomas Hull, agent. She signed it with trembling fingers.

Once the plunge was taken, however, the rest seemed easy. On the journey home Mrs. Pope mapped out a campaign of shopping that made her daughter's head whirl, but she had ceased to object. One thing she insisted upon, in addition to her mother's never-ending list of clothes, and that was a pony and cart for Bobbie. It had been the constant desire of his childish heart, ever since he had ridden in one the summer before at Brighton. Mrs. Pope approved the cart. She also suggested an automobile.

When Edith told Donald of the result of their trip that night his face became grave, but he said little. "It is your money, dear," he contented himself with observing, "but if I were you I would not allow my mother to influence me too much. She has foolishly extravagant ideas. There is no use in burdening yourself with a mansion and a house full of servants just because you can afford it. The air isn't any sweeter, the sun any brighter, because of them. I should have preferred a more modest establishment myself, but I suppose it's too late to change matters now.

I hope you have a wonderful summer, and that Bobbie and yourself get as well and strong as I should like to see you. I can't be with you except on Sat.u.r.days and Sundays, but no doubt your mother and Alice will keep you company."

"Yes. They will be with me, of course. Mother says she is looking forward to the happiest summer of her life. She hopes, too, she says, to entertain a great deal."

"Entertain? Whom?"

"Why, all her old friends. And I'm going to have some of mine down, too, and Alice has already invited Mr. Hall to spend a week or two with us.

He is coming east for his vacation."

Donald raised his eyebrows. "I don't mind the opinions of other people as a rule," he remarked, "but how do you propose to explain our sudden wealth?"

Edith had not thought of that aspect of the matter. "I shall tell them the truth," she answered, but the suggestion bothered her for many days thereafter. She by no means intended to tell her friends the truth. Such of them as had already heard the news had congratulated her upon her good fortune, with a secret wonder that West had left the money to her instead of to Donald, but Mrs. Pope, with characteristic bluntness, had set this right. "Poor, dear Mr. West had always been in love with my Edith," she said. "He'd have married her, if it had not been for Donald.

He hadn't anyone else to leave his money to, and, of course, he left it to Edith. He was a n.o.ble young man. We owe him a great deal."

Edith shuddered as she listened, but could say nothing. Once she ventured the remark that Mr. West had been Donald's lifelong friend, but her mother would have none of it. "Pooh!" she said. "It was you he cared for, my dear. Anyone with half an eye could see that. Didn't he spend all his time with you, right up to the time he died?" After that Edith ceased to remonstrate. She felt that in this direction she was treading on dangerous ground.

Once launched upon a career of spending, Edith soon came to acquire the habit, as any other habit may be acquired, if dutifully persisted in. A few weeks before she would have stood aghast at the mere thought of paying fifty dollars for a hat. Now she bought costly hand-made lingerie dresses with the calm a.s.surance of one whose bank-account is increasing at the rate of a thousand dollars a week, and signed checks in an off-hand manner that seemed as natural to her as though she had never haggled over a bargain counter, or searched the columns of the daily papers for opportunities at marked-down sales.

She failed to satisfy her mother, however. That estimable lady seemed to think that Edith's wealth was measured only by the number of checks in her check-book, and criticised her daughter loudly for her petty economies. "Don't buy those cheap shoes, Edith," she would remark. "It's quite impossible to get anything fit to wear for less than ten dollars a pair." Or, "Ready-made corsets, my dear, are an abomination. I insist that you go at once and be measured for half a dozen pair that will really fit." Edith drew the line at such extravagances, and very nearly precipitated a row. "Let me alone, mother," she said. "I know what I want, and, after all, it is my money we are spending, not yours." My money! The irony of the thing did not occur to her. She bought Donald a new gold watch-chain, with match-box, cigar-cutter, knife, pencil and seals, all of gold, attached. When she presented it to him, she felt disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm, and wondered why he did not wear it. The reason was simple--as simple and homely as Donald himself. He detested jewelry, and contented himself with the leather fob initialed in gold which Edith had given him, years before, upon a birthday. He had loved this, because she had saved and denied herself to get it for him.

The other, somehow, meant nothing to him.

CHAPTER XIV

Emerson Hall was a young civil engineer, who had pushed his way to the front in his chosen profession because he had both energy and ability.

He had been graduated from Columbia some year or two later than Donald, and had at once left New York for Chicago, where he had entered the employ of a large contracting company. Sheer hard work had forced him to the front, and he was now one of the concern's most trusted men.

Alice Rogers he had met, some time before, at a commencement hop, and he had straightway fallen in love with her. Being in New York but seldom, he had seen very little of her, but the impression she had made upon him persisted, and their courtship, carried on largely by means of an extensive correspondence, had progressed so favorably that Mrs. Pope felt obliged to place him under the ban of her displeasure. Alice, however, paid little attention to her mother's objections. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted in the world, and what she wanted she determined to get. Emerson Hall was one of the things she wanted, and she bent all her energies to the task of making that young man conclude that life without her to share it would be but a barren waste.

Pursuant to her intentions, Alice had written to Mr. Hall, inviting him to spend his vacation with them at New London. She had asked Edith's permission, and the latter had granted it gladly. The latter had never met Mr. Hall, but she felt as though she almost knew him, both because he had been an acquaintance of Donald's and because Alice talked about him so much. Then, too, she felt that she owed him some recompense for his services at the time of West's death. He had gone to the hospital, in answer to Alice's wire, only to find that West had died some three days before. This information he had wired to Alice the following day.

The two girls looked forward to his coming with delight. The extensive entertaining which Mrs. Pope had planned had failed to materialize. She found that, after dropping from her visiting-list the friends of her poverty, there remained but few among the elect whose acquaintance she might claim, and these, it seemed, were mostly away for the summer.

Hence the two girls were somewhat lonely in the big and stately house, and Edith found that the time between Monday morning, when Donald departed for the city, and Sat.u.r.day afternoon, when he returned, hung heavily upon her hands.