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.”
“No,” murmured her sister; “he isn’t. I never heard him speak so before. It was terrible.”
Alice drew her mouth into a mirthless smile and regarded Edith critically. “I don’t believe you know Donald as well as I do,” she remarked at length. “You’ve always thought him quiet, and mild, and easy-going. You’ve even complained to me that he had no backbone—that he didn’t master you. You once said you’d have cared for him more, if he had. You’re like lots of women, Edith. You think because a man loves you, and treats you tenderly, he’s weak. You’d rather be beaten than petted, I guess. Well, Sis—you’ve made a big mistake. Donald has always been like clay with you, because he loved you, but I guess the fire that you’ve started in him has burnt him hard. Don’t imagine you can pull any wool over his eyes now. He’s likely to give you the surprise of your life.” She went over to the dressing-table and began to arrange her hair. “Emerson is going to take mother and me to dinner as soon as we get in town, and then we’re going up to the apartment—about eight, I think. We won’t be back until to-morrow.”
“Oh—if you could only bring Bobbie back with you!”
“Not likely, Edith. Donald loves that child with the love of a strong, silent man, and he’ll never give him up.”
“But he’s mine—mine.”
“Not a bit more than he is Donald’s. In fact, I rather think he has the law on his side, if you come to that.”