Kitabı oku: «The Brute», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XII
At twelve o’clock the following day, Edith Rogers entered the offices of Messrs. Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, at Number 11 Wall Street, and asked to see Mr. Brennan. She was at once ushered into the latter’s private office, and found him awaiting her.
This visit to Mr. Brennan’s office was to Edith an ordeal that she greatly dreaded, and one that it had required all of her courage to face. All the night before she had lain awake, thinking about it, and even with the coming of the day her fears had not to any great extent left her.
For one thing, however, she felt thankful. Donald had, at the last moment, decided not to accompany her. At first he had insisted upon doing so, partly because of her unfamiliarity with business affairs, more because of her nervous and unstrung condition, the result of the terrible shock which the news of West’s death had given her. She had done her best to conceal her sufferings, or at least so to modify them that Donald might have no suspicion of their real cause, and in this she had been more successful than she had supposed possible. After the first shock which Mr. Brennan’s words had given her, she was conscious of a reaction, resulting in a sort of numbness, in which her mind was filled less with thoughts of the man she had supposed she loved than with a ghastly fear lest the fact of this love might become known to her husband.
Had she been able to analyze, during all the eternities of that horrible night, the cause of this fear, she might have realized that her love for West had been no love at all, but only a sudden infatuation, born of her overweening vanity and love for the good things of life on the one hand, and her utter failure to appreciate her husband’s rugged honesty of purpose on the other. The very fact that her horror at the thought that Donald might learn of her affair with West overshadowed all else in her mind, might have told her that she still valued her husband’s love and that of her child, far above that of the man who had so suddenly been taken away from her.
Donald, who sat beside her most of the night, was too generous, too unsuspicious a nature, to attribute her tears to anything but a very natural grief at the loss of a dear friend. He felt the matter keenly himself, but, man-like, strove to hide his own sufferings in order that he might the more readily comfort her.
Mrs. Pope and Alice had remained until midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Edith would not permit it. “I’m all right, mother,” she said, choking back her tears. “Go home and get your rest. I’ll see you to-morrow.”
So the mother departed, accompanied by Alice. Her whole attitude toward Edith seemed to have undergone a sudden transformation. The latter was now rich – the possessor of half a million dollars, and hence no longer to be criticised or blamed for having married a poor man. Even toward Donald her manner had changed. She addressed him as “my dearest boy,” and threw out vague hints concerning Edith’s and Bobbie’s health and the sea air which they so greatly needed. Donald paid little attention to her. He recognized her shallow-souled adoration of money and secretly despised it.
It was after they had gone, and Edith had lain sobbing upon the bed for a long time, that Donald brought up the subject of her visit to Mr. Brennan’s office. “Perhaps I had better call him up in the morning and postpone it,” he said. “Any other day will do. There is no hurry, and I’m afraid, dear, that you are hardly in a condition to discuss business matters.”
“Oh – no – no. I’d better go and get it over with.” She dried her eyes and sat up, looking at him, half-frightened. “I’ll be all right in the morning. I’d better go.”
“Very well, if you think best. Of course I shall go with you, and, really, the whole affair need not take long.”
The thought that Donald was to be with her was terrifying. For a time she was afraid to speak. She did not know what Mr. Brennan might have learned about herself and West – what information might have come to him along with the dead man’s papers and effects. Suppose Donald were to find out. She glanced at his careworn face, upon which the lines of suffering were set deep, and her heart smote her. He must never find out. After a time she spoke.
“I think, Donald, that perhaps I had better go alone.”
“Why?” He seemed surprised.
“Oh – I can hardly say. Mr. Brennan might prefer it so. Don’t you think it would look just a little – bad – for both of us to go – as though we were so anxious for poor – Billy’s – money?” Her tears broke out afresh.
He regarded the idea as a foolish whim, born of her hysterical condition, but good-naturedly humored her. “I’m not at all anxious to go,” he said. “Poor Billy – I don’t want his money. I only suggested going with you because I thought you would rather not go alone. We can decide in the morning, however. You’d better lie down now, and try to get some sleep.”
Edith began slowly to undress. As she did so, the letter from West, which she had been carrying about in her bosom all day, fell to the floor. Donald picked it up with a queer little smile and returned it to her. “Poor old Billy!” he murmured. “How strange, to think that we shall never see his handwriting again!”
The incident increased Edith’s fears; the letter was filled with expressions of love, and Donald, unsuspecting, trusting her always, had not even asked to see it. She went into the kitchen on the plea of making a cup of tea, and burned the letter at the gas range, fearful every moment that he would come in and see what she was doing. There were many other similar letters, locked in a drawer of her bureau. She determined to destroy these as well, in the morning.
Later on, Donald slept, supposing that she was doing likewise, but she only made pretense, designed to hide her feelings. She sobbed softly to herself throughout the long hours till daybreak, but morning found her dry-eyed, ready to face whatever disaster the day might bring.
Mr. Brennan was standing behind his broad mahogany table-desk, his eyeglasses in one hand, the other grasping a package. Edith, in her agitation, did not observe the latter. She sank into a big leather-covered chair and looked at the lawyer expectantly.
He pushed some papers across the desk to her and requested her to sign them. She did so, without reading them, or knowing what they were. These formalities completed, he drew the package, which appeared to contain a large number of letters, toward him and began to tap it in gently emphatic fashion with his eyeglasses.
“There is a certain matter, Mrs. Rogers, about which I must speak to you,” he began, after a long contemplation of the letters.
“Yes?” she answered, with a rising inflection. Something in his manner warned her that what he was about to say would concern her very deeply.
“When Mr. West died, his papers and other effects were forwarded to me, as executor of the estate. Among them I find these letters.” He indicated the package on the desk before him.
“Yes!” she repeated, her heart sinking. A cold perspiration broke out all over her. She wiped her lips with the ineffective bit of lace which she held crushed in her hand.
Brennan reached over, took up the bundle of letters, and handed it to her. He knew from the handwriting, from the initials with which they were signed, from all the attendant circumstances, that she had written them. “As executor of the estate, Mrs. Rogers,” he said slowly, “I feel that the best use I can make of these letters is to turn them over to you.”
For a moment she hardly grasped his meaning. His grave manner of speaking had made her believe that some terrible fate overhung her – some mysterious requirement of the law which she did not realize, or understand. Now, since it appeared that the only disposition of the letters that Brennan intended to make was to hand them over to her, she could scarcely believe that she had understood him aright. “You – you mean that I am to – to take them?” she said haltingly.
“Yes. Take them, and, madam, if you will permit me to advise you, I strongly recommend that you lose no time in destroying them.”
The color flew to her cheeks at his tone, implying as it did the guilty nature of the correspondence. It terrified her to think that this man had it in his power to destroy her utterly, merely by saying a few words to her husband. Yet he could not have any such intention, else why should he advise her to destroy the evidence of her folly, her guilt? She took the letters with trembling fingers and thrust them into her handbag. “I will destroy them at once,” she said faintly, but very eagerly, hardly daring to look at him.
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 assured 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 analyze 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 mass 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 appetite 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 seashore?”
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’ 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 Saturdays 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 noble 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 assurance 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.
