As though at the prearranged signal of the same imp that had been taking
such a hand in Marjorie Benton’s affairs, it was at this dramatic moment
that Hugh Benton entered the room. He was mystified, worried, at what he
saw; uneasy, too, at seeing the woman he believed he had come to love in
an obvious altercation with his wife.
Two angry women, almost too intent on their own belligerency to notice
his appearance, faced each other. His own wife, those two angry red
spots on her white withered cheeks, stood like some accusing goddess
with hand pointing to the door, her eyes never leaving those dark
flaming ones of Geraldine DeLacy. What could it mean? Had Hugh’s
conscience been a clear one, he could not have been more dumfounded at
the scene that greeted him.
It was Geraldine DeLacy who saw him first. She turned to him
appealingly, her eyes asking for sympathy and understanding. She laughed
nervously as she answered the question he had not found voice to form.
“Your wife has just requested me to leave, Mr. Benton,” she told him.
“Requested you to leave? Why Marjorie,” Hugh turned to his wife
perturbed, “what does this mean?”
“I prefer not to discuss it now, Hugh.” Marjorie replied as calmly as
she could. “I will explain to you—when we are alone.”
Geraldine flared angrily. “Well, I will explain it to him now,” she
cried. “Your wife sent for me, Mr. Benton, to accuse me of luring you
away from her. She happened to see us driving together yesterday, and
immediately reached her own conclusion. I have never been so grossly
insulted in my life.”
More confused than ever, Hugh searched for words.
“I can’t believe it,” was his inconsequential reply. “Marjorie, you must
be insane to do a thing like this. I demand that you apologize to Mrs.
DeLacy at once.”
Trembling from head to foot, white as death, Marjorie Benton drew
herself up to her fullest height. One long, searching look she turned on
each and it was still with the dignity of the avenger that she turned
and swept from the room.
Hugh stared after her in utter astonishment. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. DeLacy,
I’m sure you know that,” he said, in pained confusion. “I can’t
understand it. The only thing I can do is to apologize to you for Mrs.
Benton.”
“Please don’t say a word, Mr. Benton.” The change in Geraldine DeLacy
was an instantaneous one. A light of mirth danced in the eyes that had
been so wrathful, the hard voice purred. “It is you of whom I am
thinking. You don’t know how I feel for you. I don’t believe Mrs. Benton
realized what she was doing. She was just beside herself—I can only
pity her.”
“You are indeed generous,” he murmured.
“It must be a dreadful thing,” she said so softly that she might have
been thinking aloud, “for a woman to feel that the man she cares for, is
slipping away from her, even though she is to blame.”
“Understanding as usual,” was Hugh’s admiring comment, “but,” and the
words tumbled over themselves in their eagerness to be voiced, “why is
it, I wonder, that life always holds just one thing from us to make our
happiness complete? I’ve had more than my share of good fortune in all
things except the love and companionship—and——”
“You’re just in the prime of life,” answered the woman dreamily. “Who
knows what may be waiting for you—just around the corner?”
She turned toward the door, but stopped to smile, as she observed: “I’m
staying at home to-morrow evening—alone. The family are going to a
concert which would bore me to death.”
“You may look for me about eight-thirty,” was the man’s quick answer. “I
am anxious to have you expound more of your marvelous philosophy.”
She held out her hand. “I think you will find that we have many thoughts
in common. Good-by.”
In her car, homeward bound, Geraldine DeLacy reflected exultingly. Fate
had brought about the very situation she longed for but would have found
difficult to arrange. How fortunate for her that she had held herself
discriminatingly aloof at the luncheon yesterday. Hugh could only judge
her to be a greatly wronged and unjustly accused woman. She
congratulated herself again and again upon her cleverness in assuming
the attitude of magnanimous generosity. His admiration and respect she
knew she had attained, and she would determine upon her next move
to-morrow night.
With Mrs. DeLacy gone, Hugh Benton lost no time in searching out his
wife. He went directly to her room. He opened the door unceremoniously
and walked in. Marjorie was seated in a rocker by the window, her eyes
inflamed and swollen with weeping. She glanced up surprisedly as Hugh
entered—quite an unusual thing for him to do without knocking.
“I suppose you have come to apologize,” she faltered, “for the dreadful
way in which you humiliated me.”
“Apologize!” he fairly exploded. “I should say not—I have come to ask
you how you dared to insult Mrs. DeLacy in that manner?”
“So that’s it!” Marjorie bounded to her feet. “You should be ashamed to
mention her name in my presence—your——”
Something in his eyes forbade her finishing the sentence as it had been
intended, but she went on, instead: “A woman who comes into my life for
the sole purpose of wrecking it—I wasn’t afraid to face her with the
truth.”
“But that’s just it,” thundered the husband, “it wasn’t the truth.”
Marjorie Benton laughed her hard laugh. She dropped into the chair from
which she had risen, but her hand trembled as she searched for a
magazine. Her thin shoulders shrugged, her eyebrows lifted. “So?” she
inquired coolly. “Then perhaps I spoke just in time to prevent it from
ever becoming—the truth.”
Hugh stared at her in blank amazement. “Marjorie, I believe you are
going insane—it is so utterly ridiculous for me to attempt even to
argue with you.”
With no further word, he rushed from the room, colliding with Howard at
the door, and almost knocking him over.
“Good evening, Dad—you’re just the one I want to see. I’ve got my car.
Come down to the garage and——”
Hugh brushed by his son without deigning to reply. Howard pursed his
lips in a long whistle.
“Gee whiz, mother—what’s eating Dad?” he asked, as he gently pushed
open his mother’s door. “Have you been telling him tales about me?”
“No, dear, I haven’t mentioned you.” The mother’s reply was listless.
“Well, what’s wrong with him—he didn’t even answer me, and almost threw
me off my feet! I was going to ask him—” He stopped short at a sudden
idea. “I say, mother,” he urged, “what’s the matter with you doing it?
Come on downstairs with me for a few moments—I want to show you
something.”
“I am very tired and nervous, dear,” Marjorie replied wearily. “Can’t
you explain what it is without my having to go downstairs?”
But the boy was insistent. “Oh, come on, mother,” he coaxed, taking hold
of her arm. “I’ve just got to show it to someone, and you’re the only
one home.”
Something pulled violently at Marjorie’s heart-strings, as a flood of
tender recollections surged through her. She could see Howard again as a
tiny boy tugging at her apron and coaxing for a lollypop. After all, he
was only an overgrown, handsome boy—and her own. Obeying a sudden
impulse, she placed her arms tenderly about him.
“Do you love me very much, Howard?” she asked.
Having spent so much time away from home, attending boarding school and
college, Howard had experienced little real affection. For his father he
possessed a great admiration. He enjoyed being designated as the son of
Hugh Benton, the Wall Street magnate, and he also knew that he owed his
ability to indulge in many extravagances to his father’s generosity. His
mother, in his eyes, had always been a nice old lady, rather impossible
and aggravating at times. He had often wondered, he was forced to admit,
why a handsome, distinguished man like his father had ever married such
an old-fashioned, plain woman.
He was perceptibly embarrassed at his mother’s unexpected query, but an
innate kindness and generosity of which he knew little himself, bade him
return her caress with a gentle pressure as he told her with careless
tenderness:
“Why, of course, I love you, mother—why shouldn’t I? But come on
down—be a real sport.” Gently he took her arm, hurried her down the
stairs and out to the yard.
“Look,” he said proudly, “isn’t she a beauty!”
Standing in the garage was an expensive, high-class bright red roadster.
“My new present from Dad,” he explained.
“How did you get it so quickly?” Marjorie asked. “It was only yesterday
morning that I heard you say you were going to order it.” Then she
added, dubiously, as she walked nearer and eyed it critically: “This
must have been very expensive,” she said, noticing the make.
“Well, Dad didn’t limit me; he simply told me I could have a car, so I
thought I might as well get one of the best.” Howard took it as a matter
of course.
“Your father always indulges both Elinor and you to a ridiculous
extent,” his mother demurred.
“Dad’s all right!” Howard bristled up. “And if you’d take a tip from me,
mother, you’d try to spruce up a bit and be a little more companionable
to him, or some ‘chicken’ will be stealing him away from you one of
these days.”
Marjorie turned ghastly as she clutched at the car for support. Could it
be possible that Howard knew something, and was trying to warn her? No,
she decided, as she glanced up and saw that he was busily engaged
examining the engine, and not paying the slightest attention to what he
had said. It was only a chance remark, but oh, how the thrust had gone
home!
Marjorie Benton looked at this handsome boy who was her own son, her
flesh and blood. A surge of deep feeling came over her. Why, he was no
longer a boy! He was a man—her son, one to comfort and cherish her. A
thought which brought the quick blood to her face, so foreign was it to
her usual restraint and the way she had come to bear her burdens
silently overwhelmed her. Why not tell Howard? Why not ask his aid?
She walked slowly over to the youth who was whistling as he patted the
smooth shining hood of his new toy as though it were a living feeling
thing, and placed her hand on his arm. Howard looked up quickly, but
something he saw in his mother’s eyes brought a remonstrance to his
lips.
“Why, mother—dear—what is it?” he asked. “You look so queer!”
The mother’s smile was wan.
“I feel queer, dear,” she admitted. “The whole world looks queer.
Howard, my son, I must tell you something. Your father and I have
quarreled and I’m afraid _seriously_.”
“So that is what was wrong with him,” Howard whistled again, but there
was relief in his voice as he added, carelessly: “Well, why should he
take it out on me—I can’t help it if you two can’t hit it off
together—can I?”
“Oh, Howard!” Marjorie shuddered. “How can you——”
“Now, don’t you go and misunderstand me, mater—but what’s the use of
being so serious? You’ve quarreled many times before, and it always
blows over.”
“But this is different. Whenever we’ve quarreled before, it has always
been over you or Elinor—or places to go, or people to entertain—but
this time it is a—woman!” Shame brought the last word out barely above
a whisper.
“A woman!—Not Dad?” Howard laughed. “Who would have believed it? How
did you catch him?”
“Howard,” Marjorie struggled with her choking sobs, “_please_ try to
understand—can’t you see—my heart is breaking. I haven’t anyone in the
world to turn to but you. You’re a man, dear, I—I thought perhaps you
can help me or advise me?”
Howard’s face became grave. “I’m sorry, mother,” he begged, “forgive me.
Of course, I’ll help you all I can. Who is this woman?”
“I’d rather not tell you her name.”
“Is she young and pretty?”
“She’s only four years younger than I,” was the sad answer, “but you
would take her for a girl—and she is very pretty.”
Howard seemed to be considering the matter seriously. When he spoke it
was with carefully chosen words.
“Mater, do you mind if I hand it to you straight from the shoulder?” he
asked bluntly.
“Say whatever you wish,” she replied.
“Well then,” he said, and he could not help but see his mother’s wince
of pain as her own son went on, “this is all your own fault. You’ve
never been willing to go anywhere with Dad; you won’t keep yourself
young for him. Why, he’s just like a boy! Whenever we go out together,
everyone thinks he’s my brother. If he can’t find the companionship he
needs in his own home, he is bound to seek it on the outside.”
“But Howard,” demurred Marjorie weakly, “I don’t believe in cabarets,
and musical comedies, and it seems silly to fix up like a girl of
twenty. I don’t believe in trying to make myself young.”
“But mother, you are young,” Howard persisted. “Why don’t you say—‘to
hell with my beliefs! My husband’s love is the only thing that counts.’”
“Why—Howard—” Marjorie was shocked, but pleased nevertheless.
“Beat this other woman to it,” Howard was speaking in the sage manner of
a man of the world. “Get the right kind of clothes—fix yourself up, and
then do a little vamping on your own account and just see what happens.”
“Oh—I wonder—if I could,” she murmured.
“Of course, you could—take it from me, mother! You can hold your own
with any woman, if you just buckle up a bit. Well, I’m going to take a
spin around the block and then go downtown.” Howard Benton had been
serious long enough for one day. He hesitated, then, “I wonder,
mater—could you spare fifty—I’m awfully low in funds?” he wheedled.
“Yes, dear,” she answered dreamily, “come with me to my room.”
Upstairs she extracted a number of bills from her purse. “There’s a
hundred for you,” she said, handing them to him.
“Thanks awfully!” The boy kissed her, and walked to the door. Something
urged him to turn. His mother was looking at him with eyes filled with
longing. He grinned at her cheerily. “And I say, mother,” he offered,
“ask me anything you wish to know—I’m the best little advisor you ever
met. Good-night.”
Marjorie Benton locked her door, walked straight to her dressing table,
and sitting down before the mirror, gazed at herself long and intently.
It was time for an inventory. But even she was shocked at what she saw.
Surely, she thought, that pale, drawn face with its drooping mouth,
lusterless eyes and severely arranged hair didn’t belong to her! She had
been pretty and attractive once, she knew.
“Buckle up a bit.”
The words seemed to stand out before her in letters of fire. Perhaps
Howard had been the instrument by which her problem would be solved. She
would try it at any rate. Probably when Hugh saw her looking as other
women, he would lose all desire for anyone else and she would regain her
place in his heart.
It was a new Marjorie, one rejuvenated and enthused who hastened down
the corridor to Elinor’s room, where she found Marie, her daughter’s
maid, mending a party frock.
“Marie, will you help me a little?” she stammered in evident
embarrassment.
Marjorie had never possessed a maid of her own. She could not be
bothered with someone fumbling about her, and besides, her style was so
simple she had always declared. It was different with Elinor. She had
written to her father asking that a maid be installed for her before she
returned from school. Marie arose and put aside her work.
“_Oui, Madame, avec plaisir_,” she answered, smiling encouragingly.
Because of Marjorie’s kind and courteous manner with all of the
servants, they were genuinely fond of her.
“Do you think you could dress my hair, massage my face and—oh—sort of
fix me up in general?” Marjorie blushed. “I’ve taken a notion
to—to——”
“I understand, Madame,” Marie beamed. “And oh, I am so glad—you are ze
very pretty woman, and when Marie feenish you—oh—la—la— You will be
lovely!”
“Thank you, Marie, but I haven’t a thing except a little powder—I want
to be dressed when Mr. Benton comes home for dinner—just to—just
to—surprise him. My dresses are all so—well, so——”
“Nevair mind—you leave everything to me. Go to your room—I bring all
ze things you need—and your dress—well—a needle, ze thread, a
scissair—and zere you are, Madame!”
“All right, I shall remember you for this, Marie,” and Marjorie returned
to her room, her heart beating like a trip hammer.
“Here we are,” Marie announced, entering a few minutes later, carrying a
small box filled with an array of bottles and jars which she plumped
down rattling on Marjorie’s dresser. Then, with her small head cocked
birdlike on one side, she surveyed her prospect.
“First of all, Madame,” she declared with authority, “you must have ze
nice warm bath.”
“Everything is in your hands, Marie.” And Marjorie, smiling so brightly
that it transformed her expression, started for the bathroom.
“No, no, Madame,” Marie gently forced her back to the chaise longue. “I
do everything—draw ze watair—put in ze perfume—just like I do for
Mees Elinor. You rest here, and be comfortable—so.” She proceeded to
remove Marjorie’s gown and shoes, and arrange the cushions at her head.
Marjorie closed her eyes and nestled down contentedly. She really
believed she was enjoying this new experiment of being waited upon. Only
yesterday she had been quite disgusted with Elinor, when upon entering
her room, she had discovered her stretched lazily in an easy chair, with
Marie on her knees lacing her boots. Surely, she had thought, a healthy
young girl like Elinor should be able to do such things for herself. It
was all right to have a maid, if you desired one to dress your hair, or
fasten an intricately arranged frock, but to lace your boots—that was a
different matter. And here she was, the following day, permitting Marie
to fill her bath and actually remove her shoes.
Marjorie, emerging from her bath, tingling and greatly refreshed, placed
herself completely in the maid’s willing hands. After a delightful
massage, the array of jars and bottles came into play. Then a tiny
tweezer came into view. At the first pluck of an eyebrow, Marjorie
almost jumped out of her chair: “Oh—that hurts! What are you doing?”
she demanded.
“I pull out ze ugly thick eyebrow and shape heem magnifique,” she
replied calmly, as she yanked out another.
“No, no,” Marjorie remonstrated. “I can’t allow it—it is
too—well—silly.”
“Seely?—Why you say seely?—Eet is stylish, and what all ze well
groomed women she have. You say you leave everysing to Marie. Why not
now you do as you say—_pourquoi_?”
“Very well, I’ll go through with this thing, now that I’ve started—have
it your own way.” Marjorie settled down resignedly, clenching her fists
as if preparing for a serious operation.
When the brows were carefully arched, Marie started in with the bottles.
First, the grayish complexion was transformed into a pearly whiteness,
to which was added a slight tinge of blush rose, from a tiny jar, at the
sight of which Marjorie shuddered inwardly and closed her eyes. Then
came a touch of carmine to the lips, and a carefully studied tracing of
mascara to the eyes.
“_S’il vous plait_, Madame. Do not look in ze mirror until aftair I have
you feenish. I want zat it be—surprise.”
Marie began a vigorous brushing of the heavy strands of hair, the
lifelessness of which she remedied considerably with a little
brilliantine. After arranging a most becoming and modish coiffeur, she
entered the clothes closet and carefully surveyed the dresses.
“_Mon Dieu_,” Marie groaned inwardly, as her eyes wandered over the rows
of unattractive garments. Finally, after much deliberation, she selected
a gown of black lace. The skirt with its double flounce swept the ground
evenly, and the V-shaped neck was filled in with silk net, which formed
a high collar, boned to run up behind the ears. The same material was
gathered from the elbow sleeve of lace to the wrist.
“Now, Madame will please to slip on ze dress while I make ze
alteration.”
Marjorie stood patiently, while Marie measured and pinned up the
flounces so that they hung gracefully just above the ankles.
“So zat is bettair. Madame will sit here and relax.” Marie wrapped a
dressing-gown about her mistress and seated her in a comfortable
lounging chair.
“It will take me about half an hour for ze work. In Mees Elinor’s room I
have all ze things necessaire, so I feex heem in zere,” the maid
explained.
When Marie had departed with the dress, Marjorie tilted her head
comfortably against the headrest of the chair and gazed intently at the
ceiling. “How surprised the family will be when I go down to dinner,”
she reflected anticipatingly. Hugh would be pleased, she felt sure. He
had urged her so often to try to modernize her ideas. Of course, her
awakening as to his short-comings had been somewhat rude and sudden, but
she would try to think it had been for the best. Perhaps they would
drift back again into their old days of love and devotion. She smiled
wryly as she thought how Howard’s tactless little speech had done more
for her than all of Hugh’s pleadings and Elinor’s criticisms.
Further reflection was cut short by Marie’s enthusiastic entrance.
“Oh, Madame,” she exclaimed in her enthusiastic way, “ze dress is
magnifique! I hafe feex heem so good—no, no,” holding it behind her as
Marjorie attempted to examine it. “First I will put heem on you and zen
you shall—see!”
“All right, I’ll close my eyes.” Marjorie laughed, as Marie slipped the
gown over her head.
“Now—Madame will please to look.”
Marjorie walked to the long cheval mirror and started in genuine
astonishment at the apparition before her.
“Marie, what have you done to me!” she exclaimed in hushed wonderment.
“I hardly recognize myself!”
“Madame ees vairy beautiful.” The little maid beamed delightedly. “Eet
ees just zat all ze beauty be brought out.”
Wonders indeed had Marie’s clever fingers worked with the simple black
gown. She had removed the net from the neck and sleeves, had shortened
the skirt so that it revealed Marjorie’s slim ankles and graceful feet
encased in dainty black satin slippers, and then around the waist she
had folded a wide girdle of black maline interwoven with a double-faced
satin ribbon of orchid and turquoise blue, lending an irresistible charm
and certain individuality to the entire dress.
“I would not have thought it possible that you could improve me like
this, Marie,” said the mistress gratefully. “I shall not forget your
kindness.”
“Eet ees ze great _plasair_ to do for Madame—eef only Madame would buy
some chic gowns,” Marie ventured hesitatingly.
“To-morrow I shall shop, Marie, and you shall come with me,” Marjorie
announced, with unusual enthusiasm, as the dinner chimes sounded below.
Glowing with optimistic anticipation, she nodded brightly to the maid,
and walked buoyantly down the stairs. Entering the dining room she found
Elinor and Howard there before her. Neither had taken the trouble to
dress. Elinor was absorbed in her book while Howard sat almost buried in
the evening paper, so that the first intimation they had of Marjorie’s
presence in the room was her low: “Good evening, children.”
Howard arose to his feet with nonchalant courtesy, and Elinor languidly
lifted her eyes from her book. Then came the simultaneous exclamation:
“Mother!”
Both stared at Marjorie with unfeigned astonishment. Howard was the
first to reach her side.
“Why mater, you’re marvelous,” he assured her with profound admiration.
“You’ve been holding out on us all these years, and you sure have all
the Broadway chickens I know skinned a mile.”
“Oh, Howard,” Marjorie blushed, but she did not chide him for his slangy
compliment, instead answered laughingly: “You have such a funny little
way of expressing yourself, dear.”
“Funny little way!” Elinor could scarcely believe her ears. Why
yesterday at the same remark, her mother would have glanced coldly at
Howard and spoken of respect for her presence.
“Do I please you, Elinor?” Marjorie turned timidly to her daughter.
“I’m just trying to regain my equilibrium, mother. You’ve fairly taken
my breath away. Like you? I’m delighted with you. You’re positively
adorable!” Elinor enthused, throwing her arms affectionately about her
mother. “Just think what it means to me, to have a mother like other
girls. What in the world has brought about the change?”
“Here’s Dad,” Howard interrupted, as his father’s step neared. “Can you
imagine his surprise!”
Marjorie’s heart pounded as she flushed agitatedly.
“Evening, everybody,” Hugh Benton spoke brusquely as he breezed into the
room. His evening clothes indicated his intention of going out, as his
wife’s indifference had long since caused him to discontinue dressing
for dinner unless there were guests present.
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he apologized. “I’m due at a—a
little stag affair this evening, so I thought I would save time by
dressing before dinner.” He crossed to the table and stood behind
Marjorie’s chair, holding it for her, according to his mechanical custom
of years.
With a murmured “Thank you” she accepted the seat, and allowed him to
move it forward. Elinor and Howard taking their accustomed places, held
their breaths in suspense and eagerly waited for their father’s gaze to
rest upon their mother.
“Well, how’s everything?” Hugh asked cheerfully, as he unfolded his
napkin. He seemed to be in remarkably fine spirits for some reason. “I
noticed the car as I came in, Howard. It seems to be fine. You surprised
me by obtaining one so quickly—trust you’ll make as rapid headway in
business deals.” He picked up his spoon to attack the soup the butler
placed before him. His mind seemed anywhere save on the things
immediately before him, though his cheerfulness was exuberant. “Had a
funny experience this morning, that I must tell you about,” he declared.
He launched forth into a long, uninteresting business transaction
lasting through the first three courses.
By the time the roast reached the table, Elinor and Howard were
fidgeting uncomfortably. Marjorie had begun to wilt like a faded flower;
she had scarcely touched a morsel of food.
Elinor, unable to stand the strain another moment, burst forth
breathlessly: “Daddy, haven’t you noticed anything?”
Marjorie’s protesting shake of her head was too late.
“Noticed what?” asked her father curiously. His glance wandered about
the room.
“You’ve been talking so incessantly,” Elinor blurted forth like a
spoiled child, “you haven’t noticed mother.”
Hugh glanced across at Marjorie. “Why, you have your hair fixed
differently, haven’t you, Marjorie?” he inquired, with careless
indifference. “It is quite becoming.” He returned to his carving.
A solemn and awful hush pervaded the atmosphere. Howard, with diplomacy
worthy of an older man, came to the rescue, and broke the tension by
beginning to discuss the political affairs of the day.
Hugh Benton pushed his _mousse_ away from him impatiently.
“No fripperies for me to-night, thank you,” he said. “I’m going to
finish off with a cigar. No, son,” he added with uplifted hand to stay
him as Howard started to rise to accompany him. “Stay and finish your
dinner.”
Howard subsided into his seat, as his father stalked out.
In Marjorie Benton’s eyes two tears glittered that she tried to force
back, but it was a tremulous laugh she gave as she remarked wryly:
“Old hens don’t wear chicken plumage very successfully, do they, my
dears?”
She tried to go on with her own dessert, but it seemed that each
mouthful would choke her. She must have one word with Hugh before he
left the house. She must make one final effort! She laid down her spoon
listlessly as she looked up at Howard and Elinor.
“I think I will leave you, too, children, if you don’t mind?” she
queried, with her usual careful courtesy. But they were not the light
steps with which she had entered the room but a short time before that
Marjorie Benton followed her husband.
Elinor and Howard stared at each other without uttering a word.
It was Howard who first found voice.
“Well, what do you know about that!” he exclaimed pityingly. “Poor
mater—she didn’t even phase him, and it was at my advice she pulled
herself together the way she did.”
“It’s a shame, that’s what it is!” his sister replied angrily. “I’m
surprised at Dad, and deeply disappointed. I thought he’d bubble over
with joy and we should be a happy and congenial family at last.”
“‘And they lived happy ever after’—that’s the way it always ends in the
story-book. _Story_-book is good—only I should say plain _lie_.”
With grim determination to make one final effort, Marjorie followed Hugh
into the library after dinner, where he had gone with his cigar.
“Hugh,” she ventured timidly, “must you go to this—stag affair
to-night?”
“Why?” he inquired, in a tone of surprise.
“Because I should like you to take me to a—a theater.”
“Oh, my dear Marjorie,” he laughed heartily, “you know well enough that
you and I could never enjoy the same play. You’d pick out some prosaic
sermon that would have me snoring inside of ten minutes, and I’d select
a rattling musical comedy, the mere mention of which would cause you to
turn up your nose disdainfully. No, just tell me the play you have in
mind, and I’ll get you tickets for a matinée. You can take some lady
friend.”
“I haven’t any play in mind, Hugh, and I’m perfectly willing to attend
any musical comedy you select,” answered his wife quietly.
“Hmm!” Hugh was almost too bewildered to speak. “That is very nice of
you, but I’m sorry I can’t break the engagement I have for this
evening.”
“How about to-morrow evening?” she asked intrepidly.
“To-morrow night is my club night,” he answered coldly, “and besides, it
is so long since we went anywhere together I have rather systemized my
evenings to suit myself.”
She flushed as she turned to go. But the thought of all that a
misunderstanding with Hugh on this evening of evenings would mean, she
determined on one more effort, cost what it might in pride. She came
over and stood before him. “Hugh,” she offered diffidently, as might a
child pleading for admiration, “I have changed my style of
dress—especially to please you. Do you like it?”
Her husband glanced at her casually. Then he picked up his gloves and
started to draw them on.
“Oh, it’s all right, I suppose,” was his comment, “but pray don’t
inconvenience yourself in an effort to please me. You gave that up long
ago.”
Marjorie took another step toward him and her gesture was pleading.
“Hugh,” she begged. “I’m humbling myself a great deal! Don’t you think
you might unbend a little?”
The man’s whole attitude was as forbidding as the wide shoulders he
turned from her, and over which he flung his parting words.
“It is unnecessary for you to humble yourself at all as far as I am
concerned, Marjorie,” was his cold rejoinder. “I might as well tell you
I’ve become indifferent to anything you might say or do. You must see
that it is impossible for you to rectify the mistakes of years.”
No word from Marjorie that both might have made mistakes. For once in
her life she was willing to take the blame—willing to admit anything if
only——
Her husband had almost reached the door. Marjorie Benton ran across the
room after him and clutched at his coat sleeve.
“Oh, Hugh, dear, my husband!” she faltered. “Couldn’t we—couldn’t we
begin all over again! Oh, say it isn’t too late! Please! I’m so willing
to try!”
He shook off her detaining hand impatiently.
“I’m afraid it is entirely too late,” he answered, in a voice that
chilled her to the marrow. “Good-night.”
Entering the library fifteen minutes later, Elinor found her mother, a
pathetically crushed little heap on her knees in front of the fireplace,
her face buried in her hands, her body convulsed with sobs.
In a moment she was beside her, her arms about her protectingly.
“What is it, mother dear?” she inquired anxiously. “Tell me what has
happened.”
Marjorie arose staggeringly, hastily dabbing her eyes with her
handkerchief. “Noth—ing,” she stammered, “nothing at all—I’m nervous
and overwrought—I——”
“You’re never nervous, mother,” Elinor interrupted. “You’re always calm
and composed—I’ve never known you to give way like this before.”
“I know,” Marjorie replied, trying to regain her self-control. “I’ve
never given way so foolishly before. I seemed to be under a tension, and
it snapped suddenly.”
“But mother,” Elinor persisted, “something must have caused it—won’t
you tell me—I’m so sorry.”
The mother only shook her head. Sympathetically as it was offered, she
strangely found Elinor’s interest unbearable. Unconsciously she harbored
the thought that her daughter had been responsible for Hugh’s
introduction to the cause of her sorrow and a feeling akin to bitter
resentment against even her own daughter rankled in her heart.
“I think I will retire, dear,” she sighed, slowly advancing toward the
door. “Rest and absolute quiet are what I most require.”
“Very well, mother,” Elinor answered indifferently. She was stung to the
quick by her mother’s cold repulsion.