The Brute Part 29

He gazed at her for a few moments in moody silence. "Did you come here to tell me that?" he presently asked.

"No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness."

"You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter," he interrupted.

"Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up.

Don't you know that all I have done has been for him?" She glanced significantly toward the door of the bedroom.

Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she considered her rights.

"Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and run away with another man?" he asked bitterly.

She reproached him, pleading with her eyes, her voice.

"Oh--don't--don't!" she cried. "Can't you forgive me? Can't you?"

"Not until you show yourself worthy of forgiveness. You belong to him as long as you accept his money."

She came up to him, her hands outstretched. "Donald!" she cried. "That is what I want to talk to you about. I have been a very foolish woman.

I have done things that I can never forgive myself for as long as I live. I am bitterly--bitterly--sorry. If it were not for our boy, I would go away, and never trouble you again. I have been a miserable fool, and I cannot blame you if you hate and despise me. I threw away everything that was dear to me for nothing--nothing! Now I know that it is your love and my boy's that I want more than anything in the world.

But, Donald, what has this money to do with what I have done? Will it make it any the less wrong, to give it up? If you are really willing to give me another chance, can't you do it without bringing this question of money into the matter? Can't you do it because I am sincerely, honestly repentant; because I love you, and want your love, your forgiveness so much--so very much?" She put her hand upon his arm, and there were tears in her eyes. "Donald, listen to me, please--won't you?"

"If you had come here in the same poor things you wore before all this happened," he said, turning coldly from her, "it would be easier for me to forget. What do you mean by flaunting this man's money in my face, with your jewels--your finery?" He looked at her, and a feeling almost of disgust crept over him. "Can't you see that everything about you reeks of him?"

"Oh, Donald," she cried, "don't be angry with me--please don't. I didn't think about my clothes--indeed, I didn't." She seemed unable to understand that it was not her clothes he objected to, but what they represented.

"You mean you did not think about my feelings. You never do think about the things that count."

She turned away from him, sobbing. "Oh, don't! How can you say such things to me? Isn't it the repentance of my heart that counts?"

"If there were any real repentance in your heart," he said, "you would put those things from you as though they were polluted." He began to walk up and down the room, unable to contain his anger.

Edith saw that upon the one point--that of West's money--he was inflexible. She looked up with an air of resignation. "Very well," she said suddenly. "I will do as you ask. I will give up this money. I will never touch another penny of it as long as I live, but I want it put aside for Bobbie."

"Never!" he cried angrily.

He had thought, when she began to speak, that she had yielded; her concluding words told him that she was only quibbling.

"Donald, you can't mean what you say. Think of his future!"

"I don't want to argue the question," he exclaimed impatiently. "You know perfectly well I will never consent to what you ask. It's contemptible."

Again she began to sob. "How can you be so cruel? How can you?" she moaned.

"Isn't it true?" he replied indignantly.

"It doesn't make any difference how you hurt me--I know I deserve it--but you shall not take this chance away from my boy. It isn't right!

it isn't fair! Hurt me all you want to, revenge yourself upon me to the best of your ability, but don't take it out on him. I am fighting for his happiness, and I intend to give it to him."

"Then you are going about it in a very strange way. Let him grow up and go out into the world with clean hands and a clear conscience; let him know that truth, and right, and honor are more important than all the money in the world, and I'll answer for his happiness."

"He need never know," she began.

"You know, and I know. I refuse to degrade myself, even for his sake."

"There is nothing I would not do for his sake."

"Nothing! The very first thing is to give up this shameful inheritance, and you refuse to do it."

"It is for his sake that I refuse."

Donald turned away from her. There seemed no use in trying to appeal to her sense of right.

"Donald," she began again, "if you will not let Bobbie have the money, then give it to my mother."

"No, I won't do it, and I have told her so. Even your sister, it seems, has decency enough to see that I am right."

"If Alice had been married eight years, and had a child, she might feel differently."

"I hope not," he said, without looking at her.

Edith threw herself disconsolately into a chair. "You make everything so hard--so very hard," she cried. "Is there nothing I can say that will move you? Is your business in West Virginia nothing to you? Tell me, Donald, are you willing to see that fail?"

He turned on her, indignant. "I did not think you would come here and taunt me with that! Let it fail--a thousand times; let every cent I have in it go, rather than owe its success to him!"

"How can you be so bitter?"

"Haven't you done enough to make me so?"

"If this business does fail, what then?"

He swept his hand about the room. "This," he said. "Whatever I have--however little it may be--as long as it is honest."

She followed his gaze and s.h.i.+vered, as though the place chilled her.

"And you expect me to come back to such a life?" she asked bitterly.

"If you come back at all--yes."

"To cook, and scrub, and sc.r.a.pe, and save, and wear out my life like a servant! Ugh!" She shuddered.

"So it was yourself you were thinking of, after all," he cried scornfully. "After what you have done, you ought to thank G.o.d for the chance."

She got up and approached him, holding out her hands appealingly. "Oh, Donald--Donald!" she cried. "Please don't make me do this--please don't. I can't stand it--indeed, I can't."

"I do not make you do it," he answered her. "I do not even ask you to do it. You know the conditions under which you can return here. Do as you please."

"Can't you show a little generosity? I had hoped to come to you and talk over our affairs in a friendly spirit."

"There is nothing to talk over. You know your duty. There is only one question, and that question is, are you going to do it?"