Judged from a standpoint of society notables present, the Thurston dance
was the success of the season. True, there was a notable lack of the old
conservative element, the Knickerbocker strain, but no one noticed the
absence of these kill-joys, as some of the younger set were wont to
refer to them, and their absence was more than atoned for by the bevy of
débutantes, second-season belles and attractive matrons whose doings
filled so many columns in the society gossip. To say nothing of a
scattering of celebrities. And to anyone who knew him, it was plain that
Templeton Druid considered himself not the least of these.
The Broadway star made a late, a very late appearance—the affair had
progressed to the stage where the younger set had long since abandoned
their more proper dancing for the jazziest of modern Terpsichorean
feats, utterly careless, in most cases, oblivious of the few frowns that
met them from the few older matrons who had not accustomed themselves to
seeing the sons and daughters of their own sort resort to the gyrations
of public dance halls.
The Bentons, father and daughter, (it had been the greatest joy to
Elinor when her mother had made a final declination of her own and her
father’s invitation to accompany them) were among the earlier arrivals.
Elinor Benton had not yet become so blasé that she was willing to forego
any moment of triumph which was inevitably hers at such an affair. Her
very happiness at the thought of meeting Templeton Druid again (though
that one ride had only been the precursor of others which had followed
and which had led in this short time to an intimacy she had never known
with any of the men in her own set), of being held in his arms in the
dance, and with the added zest of being from under her mother’s eyes,
for she had dreaded the thought of introducing the matinée hero to her
mother and being questioned as to her friendship, had further enhanced
the beauty that made her the center of attraction wherever she went.
Much thought had been spent on the gown she wore—a marvelous creation
of georgette crêpe, its _couleur de rose_ shading from the deepest tint
to a delicate shell pink. And strangely enough for her, it had not been
the thought that it would bring the usual crowds of callow youth about
her that had been responsible for the careful toilette. What Templeton
Druid would think of her—could she further bring him to her feet—had
been the all-absorbing hope as she had stood before her long mirror
while her maid put the finishing touches to the dream she saw before
her.
Elinor Benton had no worry about her father as far as her actor was
concerned. She knew her father—knew his careless acceptance of anything
she might tell him; knew, too, the only half hidden snobbery that would
accept without question any guest of the Thurstons. Hugh Benton had
reached the point where his society gods and goddesses could do no
wrong.
A one-step was starting as the Bentons entered the big ball room. Hugh
looked about him with as happy eyes as did his daughter. This was the
kind of thing he loved; this what he had always been denied. His wife
cared so little for the enjoyments of the society into which his hard
work and diplomacy had landed them. But had he been a bit more
observant, he would have seen that his little girl’s eyes were not as
care-free as usual, that she was restless; there was still something
that must occur to make her happiness complete. There was the thought
that three hours must elapse before Templeton Druid should make his
appearance. She saw several youths making their way in her direction. Of
a sudden they seemed unspeakably inane. She did not want to dance with
them. She placed her hand on her father’s arm.
“Come on, Dad, let’s dance,” she urged. “This is a one-step; I know you
can dance that——”
Hugh Benton looked down and laughed as he placed his arm about his
daughter.
“What’s in the baby that makes her want to dance with her old Dad,
instead of these youngsters who are breaking their necks to reach her?”
he asked humorously. But as they swung off, Elinor looked up at him,
wrinkled her pretty nose and sniffed as she murmured: “My _old_ Dad!
Hmmph! Handsomest, youngest man in the room, I’ll tell the world. The
girls’ll all be dying with jealousy——”
A light-gloved hand brushed her bare arm. A warm perfume unlike any he
had ever smelt made Hugh Benton glance up quickly. A soft musical voice
drawled:
“Hello, child! Do I have to interrupt your dance to make you notice
me—to say good-evening. I’ve been trying to catch your eye ever since
you came in.”
Elinor Benton swung out of her father’s arms to face Geraldine DeLacy—a
marvelous Geraldine in her soft clinging iridescent gown, her deep dark
eyes sparkling with pleasurable enjoyment, as though seeing and speaking
with Elinor Benton was the event of the evening most to be desired.
“Oh, Geraldine,” cried the girl. “Isn’t it fine to see you! And right
now when I’m with Dad. Goodness knows,” and she flashed an impish smile
at her parent, “when the other girls get a chance at him, I’m going to
see precious little of him this evening—and I do so want you two to
know each other. This is Mrs. DeLacy, Dad—you know, Geraldine, of whom
I’ve told you so much.”
“She has indeed, Mrs. DeLacy,” Hugh Benton added cordially. “I feel
almost as if we were old friends——”
The woman shot him an arch glance.
“Which we may be, I hope?” she queried, and there was something in that
glance and appealing voice which sent a quiver through the financier’s
nerve centers such as he had not known in many a day. “As I hope,” she
added, playfully pinching Elinor’s cheek, “that it has been nice things
this child has been saying about me.”
Elinor interrupted breathlessly.
“Why, Dad, I told you, didn’t I, that she was beautiful and fascinating
and——”
“Quite the most wonderful creature alive—I admit it myself,”
Geraldine’s laugh was whole-hearted, but the look she gave Hugh was one
of mutual understanding. “It’s quite wonderful to be a chaperone to
children who can find no fault in you because you love to see them enjoy
themselves. And besides, a widow must have some admiration, and from
what better source than the girls she loves?”
Hugh Benton had appreciated the glance of understanding, but now he
could not restrain his gallant: “She wasn’t half eloquent enough, Mrs.
DeLacy.”
Geraldine smiled and lowered her lashes over her wonderful dark eyes.
“It’s so fine to hear such things—even if one is not a débutante, and
of course, has to take a back seat at such affairs as this.”
The music was beginning for a new dance. Elinor saw Frank Joyce, whose
name was on her card, approaching.
“Oh, Dad,” she said, regretfully, “we’ve missed our dance, but we’ll
have another later. Take good care of my family, Geraldine,” she called
laughingly as she whirled away in young Joyce’s arms, her mind still on
the slow moving time that separated her from Templeton Druid.
“Would you care to dance, Mrs. DeLacy, or would you prefer sitting it
out?” asked Hugh.
“Oh, let’s talk,” Geraldine replied eagerly. “I can _always_ dance,
but—” Her eyes were full of meaning. Hugh linked her arm within his and
led her out to one of the verandahs.
“Will you have a wrap?” he inquired solicitously.
“Thank you, no,—the night is glorious.”
“This seems cozy,” Hugh said, as he drew up two wicker easy chairs
beside a row of potted palms.
They were at the farthest end of the verandah. Music floated out from
the ballroom, the soft rays of the moon slanted toward them, and the
fragrance of the sweet peas and roses was wafted up from the sunken
gardens.
Geraldine heaved a little sigh of contentment and settled back in her
chair: “I’m sorry to have made you miss your dance with Elinor.”
“The pleasure of meeting you has entirely recompensed me,” Hugh replied
gallantly.
“How lovely of you to say that.” Geraldine stared at Hugh so openly for
a few moments, that he found himself blushing like a school-girl.
“I—I—beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to stare so
rudely, only I just _can’t_ realize it.”
“What is it that you can’t realize?”
“Why, that you are Elinor’s father—you are so—so young!”
“I’m forty-four years old,” Hugh answered smilingly.
“Really, Mr. Benton! Surely you have discovered an elixir of youth. I’ve
met Mrs. Benton, and I can’t understand how you—oh please—forgive
me—I have an abominable habit of thinking aloud.” Geraldine lowered her
eyes while she waited anxiously to see what effect her thrust had taken.
“My wife is four years younger than I,” Hugh replied gravely. “You must
remember that time deals more lightly with a man than it does with a
woman.”
“You won’t think I’m presuming if I say that anyone would take Mrs.
Benton to be many years your senior. Has she been ill?”
“No, Mrs. Benton has not been ill,” he sighed. “She is quite reserved,
and a bit old-fashioned. Don’t you think it rather difficult to keep
one’s youth without indulging in a few modern pleasures?”
“Indeed, I do,” Geraldine answered, and her sigh asked for understanding
as she added, as though reluctantly, “and I can sympathize with you—my
husband and I were—er——”
All the world—all his own world of finance and business, at least, gave
Hugh Benton credit for being a clever man. It was a common expression
among his club and business associates that anyone would have to get up
early to put anything over on Hugh Benton. But there would have been
smiles, contemptuous, tolerant, amused, could those men have seen Hugh
Benton in the hands of a woman as clever as himself, cleverer by far, in
her own sphere. For Hugh Benton had never lived by his wits. Geraldine
DeLacy’s daily bread depended on hers. She molded him like wax. In her
hands he was pliable as a child. It would have astonished even him could
he have stood off in an astral body and heard himself discussing his
most intimate domestic affairs with a total stranger. He did not know
that Mrs. DeLacy was but satisfying her curiosity concerning the rumors
she had heard of incompatibility in the Benton family, but Geraldine
knew that it took her but one-half hour to discover all she wished to
know.
But as he talked, becoming each minute more confidential, it seemed less
and less that this beautiful woman was a stranger. It was so much to
have her sitting next to him, looking at him tenderly, with eyes
expressing sympathy and warmth. Her complete understanding of everything
he said seemed so thorough. Her capability to grasp intuitively his
innermost thoughts amazed him.
Geraldine adroitly turned the conversation to herself. She spoke of
marriage to a man uncongenial to her every way—a marriage described as
a sacrifice to save a home for her people—one of the old families of
Virginia,—and then of her widowhood; how Mr. DeLacy had passed away six
years ago, after losing his entire fortune, and leaving her a mere
pittance of an income, barely enabling her to keep up a respectable
appearance.
Hugh unconsciously cast a look of surprised inquiry at her magnificent
gown.
Geraldine shrugged and laughed a little bitterly.
“You are looking at my gown,” she interposed quickly. “I’ll tell you a
secret, one that I have never confided in another soul—I make all my
own gowns. But what is one to do?” She spread her hands in a gesture of
mute helplessness.
“Remarkable!” Hugh was genuinely admiring. “But it must keep you very
busy.”
“It does—sometimes I sit up until four in the morning sewing—I can’t
let it interfere with any of my social engagements, and still I must do
it—it is the only way I can manage at all. Why the price of the gown
your daughter is wearing this evening would provide six for me.”
“Wonderful little woman!” Hugh reached out daringly to pat her hand. “So
few women would be content under such circumstances.”
“Oh, but I’m not always content. Sometimes I become very much
discouraged, and heartsick—I’m so terribly alone in the world. The
Thurstons are good, kind people, but somehow I just can’t unburden
myself to them. We Lees, of Virginia, are so terribly proud, you know.
If I only had someone to take a little interest in my affairs—the small
amount of money that I have invested properly would mean so much to me.”
Had this bald bid come from any man he knew, Hugh Benton would have
smiled his understanding smile and put it from his mind. But now so
thoroughly had Geraldine DeLacy hypnotized the man who for years had
been without sympathy or the flattery that is man’s meed that he did not
even see that it was a blatant asking for aid. All he could see was that
here was a beautiful, a sympathetic, an understanding woman in financial
straits, that she, proud as she was, had confided in him, had given him
confidence for confidence in the short time it had taken them to be such
good friends, and that he knew he could aid her. Why, he could make it
possible for her to be independent of any of these friends or relatives.
It would not be necessary for her to sit up late at night, dimming her
wonderful eyes, pricking those dainty fingers making gowns in which she
looked so amazingly well dressed. He could imagine how hard it was for
her to have to depend on even such relations as the Thurstons. Here was
his opportunity to show himself a real friend—not the casual
acquaintance of a few idle hours at a dance, talking while the music
purred and the moon made it an hour for confidences.
“Why not let me help you?” he asked eagerly. “You know, investing money
is my business, and when I hear of something good, let me double or
triple that little sum for you?”
“Why, Mr. Benton!” Geraldine exclaimed, concealing her delight with
well-feigned emotion. “You surely wouldn’t bother with me! I couldn’t
let a busy man like you.”
“It would be the greatest pleasure, Mrs. DeLacy.”
“But it—it seems like such an imposition! Oh, it—it actually looks as
though I—I was hinting—Oh, Mr. Benton, I wouldn’t have you think that
for the world!”
“Nonsense! I don’t think anything of the kind. You happened to mention
your affairs and I happened to be in a position to render you a little
assistance—that’s all there is about it.”
“All?—Why—I—I—” Geraldine covered her eyes with her handkerchief and
began to sob softly.
“Oh, please,” Hugh drew her hands from her eyes and patted her shoulder
consolingly. “I can’t bear to see a woman cry.”
“You’re like all men in that respect,” Geraldine dried her eyes
obediently and smiled up at him. “But in every other way you’re so
different—I never met anyone like you—my friend. I won’t attempt to
thank you now; I should only cry again. Hadn’t we better join the
others?” Geraldine rose from her chair.
“Yes, I suppose we must.” Hugh reached for her hand and kissed the tips
of her fingers. “But,” he added, meaningly, “remember this—you have
called me your friend and—we shall meet again.” He finished abruptly as
he led her toward the brightly-lighted windows, and there was
determination in his tone.
Nell Thurston was just taking Templeton Druid, who had but made his
belated pompous appearance, over to meet her father and mother when Mrs.
DeLacy re-entered the ballroom on the arm of Hugh Benton. They made
their way toward Elinor who stood alone for the moment, her eyes
fastened with all the fascination of a bird on its natural enemy on the
tall, lithe figure of the Thespian. So interested was she that she did
not even see her father and friend, though she had taken occasion two or
three times to wonder a little at their prolonged absence. “He’s here
just to see me—me!” was her exultant thought. “Oh, what would they all
think if they knew,” pridefully.
Like nearly everyone else the big room, so effectually had Templeton
Druid learned to make his entrances, Hugh Benton saw the man, and his
brows twisted in perplexity as he looked.
“Who is he?” he asked his companion. “It seems as if I know him, but I
can’t quite place——”
“Templeton Druid,” informed Mrs. DeLacy.
Hugh’s “Oh,” was somewhat illuminative. “Oh,” he said, “Templeton Druid,
the actor? Is he—is he a friend of the Thurstons?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” was Geraldine’s information, in a tone that
removed from Hugh Benton’s mind any doubt of the matinée idol’s
eligibility anywhere. “We went to the same school in Richmond. He’s from
an excellent family.” They had reached Elinor’s side just in time for
the girl to hear the last remark of Mrs. DeLacy, and it was a look of
gratitude she shot at her friend and chaperone as she quickly took in of
whom they were speaking. “Ah, Elinor,” purred Geraldine, as she placed
her arm about the waist of the other, “I see a friend of ours. You
know,” and she turned informatively to the father, “I introduced several
girls to Mr. Druid at the Waldorf one afternoon while we were having
tea. You were one of them, weren’t you, dear?” Elinor nodded, but
Geraldine chattered on. “He’s really charming and cultured, but—ah, you
shall judge for yourself, Mr. Benton.” Templeton Druid, his
introductions to his hosts completed had straightened his tall figure in
its immaculate evening garb and was looking about the room as though in
search of someone. His glance caught Geraldine’s and she beckoned. He
approached with an eagerness that brought a frown of something akin to
jealousy to the financier’s face as he bent a keen look on his new-found
friend. Geraldine held out her hand cordially.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she enthused. “You’ve met Miss Benton,
haven’t you?” turning to Elinor, who felt as if the pounding of her
heart must be heard above the buzz of conversation.
“I have had the pleasure,” Templeton replied, bending over Elinor’s
hand.
“And this is Mr. Benton, Elinor’s father,” Geraldine continued.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Druid,” Hugh said as they shook hands. “I’ve
always admired your work——”
Druid’s laugh was frank and hearty.
“And I yours, Mr. Benton,” he countered. “It’s a far more popular art.”
Hugh Benton grinned understandingly.
“We artists,” he began, but the bang of jazz for the next dance drowned
his unfinished epigram.
“Will you dance, Miss Benton?” Templeton turned to Elinor.
He held the girl closely to him as they circled about the room. “You’re
ravishingly beautiful to-night,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with
passionate tenderness. “Can’t we manage to slip away for a few moments
so that I can have you to myself?”
“I don’t see how we can possibly get away,” she pouted prettily. “After
this dance Nell will be waiting to introduce you to half a dozen girls,
and they will monopolize you for the rest of the evening.”
“There isn’t a soul I want to meet—I only accepted this invitation in
order to be near you,” he replied quickly. “Surely you can think of some
way to rescue me from a lot of uninteresting girls. I can’t see anyone
in this room but you—dear.”
Elinor thrilled delightedly at the “dear”—it was the first term of
endearment he had used in addressing her.
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” she planned quickly. “After this dance,
I’ll run upstairs for a wrap, while you manage to disappear through that
French window at the end of the room—it leads into the garden and at
the end of the path, you’ll find an adorable little summer-house. Wait
there until I join you. But we can only remain away a few moments,” she
continued as he started to voice his gratitude. “The lion of the hour
will be missed, you know, and a search instituted for him.”
“Five minutes alone with the most bewitching girl in the world,” he
assured her, “will compensate me for the balance of the evening.”
It was less hard than Elinor’s biased imagination had supposed for the
man to slip away unobserved to the “adorable little summer-house” at the
end of the path.
“My, but I’ve had a lot of dodging to do,” Elinor exclaimed breathlessly
as she entered a few minutes later. “Whenever you’re anxious to avoid
people, one seems to spring up like a jack-out-of-the-box at every
turn!”
“Elinor,” Templeton murmured, reaching for her hand, and holding it
close within his own. “Do you know why I begged you to grant me a few
moments alone?”
“I can’t imagine,” she replied coyly, “unless it was for the purpose of
admiring this wonderful moon.”
Elinor Benton’s eyes turned upward toward the silvery shining circle
that beamed down upon them through the tangled vines of the summer
house. She was tantalizingly close to the man who still held her warm
little fingers. The perfume that clung about her soft young body stung
all the man’s unbridled senses like a whiplash. His eyes and brain saw
red as he threw out his arms and clasped her roughly to him, raining
kisses on her upturned face.
“You tantalizing, wonderful little beauty!” he breathed. “Is there some
vampire in you? You know very well that I’m mad about you! I adore you!
The moon, stars and sun, all are eclipsed in your presence!”
Passively she remained in his arms while he kissed her again and again.
He held her off at arms length and looked longingly at her.
“Do you care for me? A little?” he asked eagerly. “Tell me?”
Elinor’s head fell forward on his breast.
“I—I _love_ you,” she whispered, but there was a passion in the
whispered words that even Templeton Druid, past master of heart affairs,
had never before heard.
“My darling!”
His voice was softly caressing. But by the light of the moon the girl in
his arms could not see the triumphant gleam in his eyes.
Content for the moment only to stand heart to heart with the man she
loved, feeling his caressing touch, hearing his tender words of
devotion, Elinor Benton let the world go by unheeded. Then came an
unwelcome thought to obtrude. She drew back from him, and stared off
into space.
“Oh, what will mother say?” she wailed dismally. “I’m not a bit worried
about Dad—I can easily win him over—but _mother_?”
“Why?—Why?” he stammered confusedly. “Need we tell them anything about
it?”
“You foolish boy! You’re so confused,” she laughed. “Isn’t it customary
for a man to ask a girl’s parents for her hand in marriage?”
“Marriage!” he ejaculated. “Oh—to be sure—only we will have to keep
all this secret for awhile—that is what I meant by suggesting our not
mentioning anything to your parents—just yet. You see, dearest, I must
play the rest of this season according to my contract, and one-half of
my popularity is centered in my being an _unmarried_ matinée hero.
Besides, there is another matter, it will be necessary for me to
adjust—one that I cannot explain at present.”
“I understand, dear. You are suggesting that we remain secretly engaged
for the present?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes—that’s it exactly. Do you mind, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I think it will be wonderful; so delightfully romantic, and my
meeting you clandestinely won’t seem at all wrong now that you are my
affianced husband,” she replied with suppressed excitement.
“You’re a genuine little sport,” he exclaimed, generously helping
himself to more of her kisses which she unhesitatingly returned.
“We will surely be missed,” Elinor struggled out of his embrace, and
began to readjust her hair. “I’ll hurry back, and you come in a few
minutes later.”
“Be sure to telephone to me to-morrow, dearest.”
“It is almost to-morrow now. I’ll ’phone you to-day—instead,” she
answered laughingly as she hurried away.
Elinor snuggled in the car beside her father on their way home from the
dance. She was supremely happy. Her heart sang in tune to the purring of
the motor.
“He loves me! He loves me!”
Templeton Druid, the idol of all the young women in New York—loved
_her_!
It seemed almost too wonderful to be true. There was but one flaw. What
would her mother say—when she finally told her? Her heart missed a beat
in mere anticipation. “Dad will surely understand,” she told herself.
She could always bring him about to her way of thinking.
She reached for his hand. “Are you tired, Daddy dear?”
“No, little one,” he replied. “I was just living over the evening—I
don’t remember when I have so thoroughly enjoyed myself.”
“I’m so glad. I was afraid you might be dreadfully bored. How do you
like Geraldine?”
“She is one of the most charming, interesting women I have ever met.”
His answer came decisively, then there was a note of peevishness in his
voice as he added: “Really, Elinor, I can’t see why your mother should
object to her.”
The girl tossed her head.
“Oh, mother objects to anyone who is—well, the least bit—modern,” she
replied impatiently. “Was she always so—so old-fashioned, Dad?”
Hugh closed his eyes. His thoughts traveled back over the years, until
he found himself sitting on the steps of a humble four-room cottage, a
beautiful girl beside him, his arm about her waist, and her head
pillowed on his shoulder, their hearts aflame with love, pure, warm and,
they believed, changeless.
“I don’t know,” he answered dreamily. “Your mother was very beautiful,
my dear, and there was a time she meant the world to me. Perhaps—I
can’t tell now—perhaps she was always—what you term—old-fashioned,
but our ideas coincided perfectly in those days—now everything appears
differently to me. I wonder sometimes, am I the one who is changed?”
Elinor Benton gave her father’s arm a little squeeze.
“Well, if you were ever like mother is to-day, all I can say is, thank
heaven you have changed,” she said, with fervor. “But Daddy, dear, you
never could have been like mother; you’re so wonderfully broad-minded
about everything.”
“Am I, baby girl?” Hugh smiled. “Perhaps I appear that way to you,
because as yet there has been nothing to warrant my acting otherwise.”
“That’s just it. The things that you consider perfectly all right, are
the very ones that meet with mother’s disapproval. I wonder how she will
act when the time arrives for me to choose a husband?” She seemed to
ponder aloud, but in reality feeling her way cautiously.
“Why wonder about anything as distant as that?”
“Surely, you don’t wish me to be an old maid?” Elinor demanded
indignantly.
“An old maid,” Hugh laughed heartily. “You are only a baby, and just
beginning to see the world.”
“I’m past eighteen—please remember that, and——”
Her father turned her face upward to look at her quizzically.
“Who is the man, Elinor?” Hugh asked playfully.
“What—what do you mean, Daddy?” She could not quite hide a feeling of
alarm, but her fears were calmed as her father queried: “Young Bronlee?”
“How ridiculous!” she exclaimed impatiently. “Does the fact of my having
expressed an opinion, necessitate there being anyone in particular? And
why should you immediately suggest Paul Bronlee? No,” and she shook her
head sagely, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I shall never marry
Paul Bronlee even if he is one of ‘the’ Bronlees and so desirable in
your own and mother’s eyes. He bores me to death. In a year’s time, I
should be obliged to divorce him. But why discuss anything so silly?
Here we are home at last and I’m dead tired.”
Her father walked with her to the foot of the stairs and kissed her
gently.
“Hurry up into slumber-land; I’m going to have another cigar. We can
talk about your marriage another time. I don’t want to think of losing
my girl yet, nor must she think of leaving. Good-night, dear.”
“Good-night, Dad,” she replied as she returned his caress perfunctorily,
anxious to hurry away, to be alone.
Elinor Benton closed her door softly, though her impulse was to slam it.
She flung her opera coat at a couch across the room and kicked a silver
slipper into another. She stamped the still shod foot.
“Paul Bronlee, indeed!” she muttered.
She crossed over to her escritoire and from a locked drawer took out an
autographed photograph of Templeton Druid. Her heart leapt as she gazed
at it. Ah, there was a man! And he loved her! She held the pictured
likeness to her lips, then held it at arm’s length as she half
whispered:
“And they would talk to me about Paul Bronlee when I have you, dear
heart! But never fear—I’ll show them I have a mind of my own. Looks as
if I was going to have trouble with dad, too, but we’ll both show them.
Marry first and tell them after—that’s the idea.”
Tenderly as though the pictured likeness were a living entity, she
placed it back in its drawer which she carefully locked. Then she turned
to ring for her maid. When Marie’s soft knock came on the door, Elinor
Benton was lounging in a deep easy chair, her fair head nodding, but her
thoughts wide awake, her mind filled with the image of one man.
In his favorite nook in the library, Hugh Benton was doing some thinking
on his own account. What Elinor had said about an eventual marriage had
disturbed him a little, but he passed it over hurriedly as a thing of
the future. His great ambition was for his daughter to make a good
marriage,—in which respect he was still like his wife, but to-night any
future marriage of Elinor’s was of minor consideration. It was himself,
what he was to do with his own life that had suddenly risen to stare him
in the face. He felt that he was facing some sort of crisis, vague, it
was true, but nevertheless imminent. He had paced the floor for a long
time, till his subconscious mind had taken in every detail of the thick
rug before he realized he was tired. He sank into his deep leather chair
and sat facing the fire which, even in summer, was kept lighted here in
the evenings. He must face squarely the thing that was worrying him—be
honest with himself, at least. His lighted cigar fell into ash as he
moodily stared before him, recalling the past, dreaming of what the
future might be, if only——
He had been married to Marjorie for twenty-one years; now, the plain
fact of the matter was he had fallen in love with another woman at first
sight, precisely as a boy of twenty might have done. At first he
severely criticised his own weakness, and then, suddenly and furiously,
he blamed his wife for it all. She alone was responsible for the
indifference existing between them. Their lives together under the same
roof had been a mockery for the past few years. Had an atmosphere of
congeniality and warmth prevailed in his home, he would not have been so
susceptible to the charms of a beautiful and fascinating woman. Only a
few weeks before he had threatened Marjorie that should the opportunity
present itself, he would grasp elsewhere the happiness he could not
obtain in his own home, little dreaming at that time how soon he would
lose his head.
Dawn showed grayly through the half-drawn curtains. Completely worn out,
he rose and went slowly up the stairs to his room, his perplexing
problem still unsolved. It had left him utterly at sea. Well, matters
would have to readjust themselves as best they could. He was in the
hands of Fate, and would drift wherever the tide carried him. He
realized, with just one slight pang of a resisting conscience that he
did not feel the shame he should. The alluring prospects of an exciting
adventure only caused him to experience a sensation of keen rebellion
and joyous anticipation. So had actually changed the Hugh Benton of the
Atwood days of sixteen years before.