The Brute

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

CHAPTER XX

Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left her the Saturday before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths that Donald evidently suspected—she did not stop to consider that in all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald’s place, and understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved and trusted—his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.

Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might wait for him to do so.

There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his attitude. Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration; even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to be like this before—he had always humored her, always been apologetic, regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and determined to use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past—her tears, her reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.

Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this intention. “I shouldn’t go near him, my dear,” she said, her eyes snapping. “Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to look after. That will bring him to his senses.” Edith, however, would not listen to her. “I shall go, mother,” she said. “After all, Donald has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I’m not going to give up this money. He ought not to ask it.”

Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her plans had been upset. “What’s the use of deluding yourself, Edith,” she remarked pointedly. “Donald will make you give up that money as sure as fate. I never saw him so angry.”

“Alice, you talk like a fool,” said her mother. “How can he make her give it up? He’s hardly likely to use a club.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Alice flung at them, as she left the room. “Edith has needed one, for some time.” Mrs. Pope was aghast. “Sometimes, Edith,” she confided to the latter, “I think Alice is losing her mind.” Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister’s judgment, and the latter’s remark worried her.