"Donald--what are you going to do?" Edith looked at his set face, and a great fear entered her heart.

"Go over to that desk, and write what I tell you," he demanded sternly, pointing to the writing-table in the hall.

"What--what do you mean?" Her voice trembled with fear, but she made no move to obey.

"Do what I tell you," he said harshly.

"No! First I must know what I am to write."

"You refuse?"

"Donald," she cried piteously, "you can't mean to ask me to give up everything--not now. Wait, dear--for Bobbie's sake. No one has any claim on this money. I'll give it all to you, to do with as you like, but I want Bobbie to have this summer. Don't you see how well he looks--how brown and well and strong? I can't let him go back to the city in all this heat--I can't!" She was pleading now--desperately--for the sake of her boy.

"Will you do as I say?" he asked ominously.

The thought of the thing nerved her to sudden resistance. "No!" she declared angrily. "Not that way. You are asking more than you have any right to ask. I have been foolish, weak, disloyal, and I regret it most bitterly. You can do what you please, to me, but you shall not revenge yourself upon my boy. This money is mine. It was left to me by a man who loved me dearly. I am not dishonoring either him or you by using it to make others happy. You want me to sacrifice my mother's happiness, my sister's, my child's--all to satisfy your sense of pride. Now that someone else is able to do something for me you resent it because you cannot do it. You have no right to ask me to throw aside this wonderful opportunity for doing good. What would you have me do with this money?

Give it away? To whom, then, should I give it, if not to those who are closest and dearest to me? What you ask is selfish. You only want to satisfy your man's pride, your so-called sense of honor. What is your sense of honor to me, when the welfare of my child is at stake? Do what you like, think what you like, but don't ask me to give up this money, for I won't do it--I won't--I won't!" She stood facing him, her hands clenched, her face flushed with pa.s.sionate determination.

Donald looked at her in amazement. He had thought, after the discovery of her disloyalty, that she would accept his forgiveness at any price.

"What you have just said," he exclaimed slowly, "shows me that henceforth your path and mine lie far apart. I did not think that you could have said such things, that you could have so far forgotten your sense of honesty and right. Even after all that has happened, I thought that you still loved me."

"I do--I do--and you know it."

"No," he said bitterly, "you do not love me. A woman who loves her husband would live on crusts, and go in rags, and beg from door to door before she would sell herself for a few miserable dollars. What if you did have to give up your expensive dresses, your fine house, your automobiles? Is that anything, compared with giving up your husband's love? Do you think I want my child to owe his health, his happiness, the bed he sleeps on, the nurse who cares for him, the food he eats, the very clothes on his back, to the scoundrel who tried to ruin me, who tried to deal me a deadlier blow than if he had stabbed me in the back with a knife? What if your home was poor, and simple, and plain? What if it had no luxuries, no purple and fine linen? At least, it was honest; at least, I could hold up my head in it, and feel that it was all mine, that I was a man. Do you think I can do that here? Do you expect me to look about at all this luxury, and say to myself: G.o.d bless the man who stole my wife's love from me, and gave me this in return? There may be men in the world who would take what you offer, and be glad of it, but I thank G.o.d I am not one of them. As long as you are my wife, what you have comes from me--do you understand, from me--and, whether it be much or little, for better or worse, you shall accept what I have, and make the best of it!"

Edith looked at him for a long time. She found no words with which to answer him. "Very well," she said, at last, slowly. "At least I have my child." She put out her arms. "Come, Bobbie," she said.

Her husband swept the boy to him. "Get out of my way!" he cried roughly, as she attempted to intercept him; then started down the steps of the veranda.

"Donald!" she shrieked. "My G.o.d--what are you going to do?"

He paused on the steps. "I'm going to New York," he cried. "You can live on the price of your shame, if you want to. I and my boy shall not!" He dashed down the steps, and out toward the entrance to the grounds, the child held closely to his breast.

"Donald! Donald!" she screamed after him. "Come back! Come back!"

He went on, not heeding her cries, and, as the bells on the yachts in the harbor marked the hour of seven, she crumpled up upon the veranda floor, clutching at the arm of a chair as she fell; and lay there, a pathetic, sobbing figure, until her mother and sister found her, some ten minutes later.

CHAPTER XVII

When Alice Pope and the others returned from their walk in the garden they did not at first see the crumpled-up figure on the veranda floor as they came up the steps. Suddenly Hall started back with an exclamation, then ran over to the prostrate woman and lifted her in his arms.

"It's Mrs. Rogers," he cried. "Quick, some whiskey. She's fainted."

Alice poured out some of the spirits from the decanter on the table and gave it to him. "What can have happened?" she gasped, looking about.

"Where is Donald?"

"He must be inside. He was here only a moment ago." Mrs. Pope took one frightened look at her daughter's white face, then rushed into the hall, calling loudly for her son-in-law.

They carried the unconscious woman into the house and placed her upon a big lounge in the hallway. Mrs. Pope was still waking the echoes of the place with her cries.

In a few moments Edith opened her eyes and looked about. "Donald," she gasped, "come back--come back."

"Where has he gone, Edith?" her mother demanded sharply. "I left you together."

Mrs. Rogers continued to gaze, frightened, at the others as they crowded about her. She dared not speak--dared not tell them the truth of what had happened. "We--we had a quarrel," she moaned. "Let me go to my room." She struggled to her feet.

"But--my child--what is the matter? What has Donald said or done to you?

Why has he left you like this? He never did have any consideration for you, but this is unpardonable. Where is he?" She glared about, eager to pour out the vials of her wrath upon her son-in-law's head.

Edith staggered up, and made for the stairway. "He's--he's gone to New York. He took Bobbie with him--We had a frightful quarrel--Oh--I can't tell you any more." Sobbing loudly, she ran up the stairs.

The others looked at one another in amazement. Only Alice understood, and she but vaguely. How had Donald found out? What had been said? She bethought herself of his talk with Hall, and turned on that young man, a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"What did you say to Donald?" she demanded.

A look of astonishment overspread Mr. Hall's usually placid countenance.

The whole affair seemed absurd and meaningless to him, nor could he see wherein he had been at fault. "We were talking about--about our college days. I--I mentioned some story about Billy West--I don't understand--"

Alice cut him short. "Never mind, Emerson. It isn't your fault. They probably quarreled about something else. You and mother go in and have your dinner. I'll go up and have a talk with Edith."

Alice's talk with her sister was short and to the point. Edith, between sobs, told her what Mr. Hall had said, and what, as a consequence, Donald had demanded--that she give up West's money.

"Are you going to do it?" Alice asked.

"Oh--I don't know--I don't know." Her sister tossed about on the bed where she had thrown herself, moaning as though her heart would break.

Alice regarded her thoughtfully. "I told you what he would do," she remarked at length. "I don't blame him. But, after all, he might be a little less unreasonable--just now, too, when Emerson and I are about to be engaged. It's a shame! Why didn't you humor him--say you would give the money to mother, or something like that? He has no right to make such a tragedy of the matter. Why not wait a while and see what he does?

He may reconsider, and come back."

"He never will--he never will."

"Well, then--it's up to you to decide which you want more--him, or the money. It doesn't look as though you could have both. Take my advice and go to sleep. Your mind will be clearer in the morning. I'll have Richards bring you up some toast and tea. Now I'm going to see what I can do to set this thing right with Emerson."

All the next day Edith lay in bed, tortured by the most agonizing thoughts. At one moment she would decide to go to Donald and beg his forgiveness, with all thoughts of the money cast to the four winds. At the next, she would recoil before the hideous prospect of giving up all that her life now held, and going back to the drudgery of her former existence. It was a difficult position for any woman to be in, she wailed to her mother, who sat beside her, alternately blaming Donald, and reproaching Edith for not having at once denied the whole affair.

"Why didn't you laugh at Mr. Hall's story?" she demanded. "Some hysterical tale of a nurse. Bah! I told you he was a fool. What right has Donald to object, I should like to know, if you did encourage Mr.

West a little? I can't see anything so terribly wrong in that. You didn't do anything wrong, did you?" She became furious when Edith mumbled her denials. "The man is mad. He thinks he owns you, body and soul. Mr. West was worth a dozen like him. He could appreciate a woman's wants and needs. The idea of demanding that you give up what rightfully belongs to you--just to please his whims. I'd let him understand that he couldn't treat me as though I were a piece of property. What has he ever done for you, that you should be so grateful and obedient? Made you live like a servant. Don't think of going to him. I forbid it. You are my child, and I have some rights. Let me talk to him. I'll go up to town to-night, and tell him what I think of him. I've been waiting to do so for some time. As Alice suggests, if he objects to your keeping this money, promise to give it to me. I'll see that none of it is spent on him, since it seems to hurt his pride so. His honor dragged in the mud!

Absurd! This honor he talks so much about isn't going to pay your bills, and make your life worth living, is it? Selfish, my dear! That's the way with all men. They want everything, and are willing to give nothing.

Even my poor, dear J. B., kind as he was, never understood me thoroughly. He seemed to think that I should humor him, and wait on him, just as though I hadn't any wifely rights at all. I tell you, Edith, husbands nowadays are getting to expect entirely too much. If they give you something to eat, and a place to sleep, they seem to think that they have done all that is required of them. I wouldn't stand it, for one. I told your father he would have to give me what I was accustomed to, or I'd leave him. That's the way to treat a man, my child. Don't let Donald think you are a doormat."

Edith scarcely heard her mother's words as they rumbled on. Only one suggestion seemed good to her, and that was the latter's plan to go to New York and see Donald. She felt too ill, too greatly unnerved, to do so herself, and she was not yet ready to sacrifice all the material joys of her existence to bring about a reconciliation. Perhaps some compromise might be effected. At least her mother's visit would show Donald that she was ready to meet him on some common ground, whereas to ignore him altogether would but widen the breach between them. She consented, therefore, to her mother's going, and wrote a little note to Donald, begging him to forgive her, and to return to New London at once.

Meanwhile her mother hastened away to prepare herself for the fray.

Alice came in early in the afternoon, and told her that Mr. Hall had proposed and that she had accepted him. "I don't know just what Emerson thinks," she said. "He hasn't mentioned the matter since, but I believe he half-suspects the truth. I've told him nothing, of course, except that you and Donald have had a quarrel, but that everything will be all right. He's acted so nicely about it all, though, that I think I'll tell him the truth. He's going up to town with us this afternoon. Oh, yes, I am going, too. Mother is likely to make a mess of everything. You know how she goes on, when she once gets started. I'm sure I'd better be on hand to steady her a bit. Donald is in no humor to be trifled with."