In classifying Howard Benton as a ne’er-do-well his father had not been
altogether right. So much of the young man’s training was responsible
for the recklessness which was making his name a by-word even among his
own sort, accustomed as they were themselves to _outré_ performances.
Nor was his unwillingness to work congenital, but only that he had been
led to believe that the son of his father—the son of Hugh Benton, Wall
Street magnate—was expected to lead an idle life. What was the good of
so much money if it was not to be spent?
But in spite of Howard’s wild life, there was something underlying it
all that would, if he had admitted it, proclaimed him the son of his
mother also, and there was not a little of Marjorie’s Puritanism lying
dormant in the subconsciousness of her son. Howard’s reaction now to
what his sister had told him of where she was going and her admission of
the deception she had practiced in order to do as she pleased rather
amazed him, as much as the facts themselves disturbed him. Who was he,
he thought, to censor anyone? But with Druid it was different. Elinor
was his sister. It was his duty to see that she was not led into
anything or any place where harm could reach her. He had been right in
telling her he knew all about Templeton Druid and the manner of man the
actor was. His fine eyebrows knit in perplexity as he considered the
matter. It would not do to let Elinor go on. Quite fully he realized
that. But equally well he realized that no word of his would in the
least turn her from the path she had chosen. It was obviously a case
where he would have to play tale bearer, no matter how angry his sister
might be.
He crunched out the lighted end of his cigarette with a force that
showed his mind made up, rose and crossed the room.
“Griggs!” he called down the hallway. “Is dad upstairs?”
“No, Mr. Howard,” was the reply. “Mr. Benton didn’t come home for
dinner—I believe he said he would remain at the club.”
Howard turned in the direction of his mother’s room. But before he had
gone many steps thought better of it and turned about, muttering to
himself.
“No, she wouldn’t understand—I’ll see dad to-morrow.”
Nell Thurston’s jolly and interesting companionship drove all thoughts
of Elinor from his mind, and it was not until they were seated in The
Claridge, having dinner, that he was unexpectedly reminded of her again.
“I feel so wonderfully independent to-night,” Nell laughed. “Just
imagine, this is the first time I have ever been out with a gentleman
unchaperoned; but mother and dad, having known you ever since you were a
youngster, feel toward you as if you were my brother.”
“Well, I sure do feel complimented to think they have confidence enough
in me to trust me with their precious child,” he rejoined laughingly. “I
didn’t know your folks went in so much for all this propriety stuff.”
“Mother’s not nearly as strict as dad. I could reason with her easily,”
she sighed, “but dad is so set in his ideas.”
“Isn’t that funny? It’s just the reverse in our family. Dad’s dead
easy—it’s mother who is the difficult one.”
“Oh—I know—Elinor’s talked enough about it,” Nell replied. “Your
mother may have her peculiarities, but just the same, I admire her,
because she has the courage to stand by her convictions. By the way, how
does she feel about Elinor and Templeton Druid—or doesn’t she know
about him yet?”
“Why, what is there to know about Elinor and Druid?” Howard turned to
face her, as surprised as he was anxious.
“Heavens! I hope I haven’t put my foot into it!” Nell pursed up her
lips, and gave her attention to her _hors d’œuvre_. “I thought you
surely knew! Isn’t he a particular friend of yours?”
“Know _what_?” he demanded. There was a grimness in the boy’s tone that
worried the girl.
“What’s the excitement?” she answered crossly. “Gracious, you don’t have
to shout at me like that. There isn’t anything dreadful to know, only
that Elinor and Templeton are going about together a great deal, and
that she’s simply mad about him.”
“I hadn’t even an idea that they were seeing each other until this
evening,” he replied, and then he told her about the argument he had had
with Elinor just before she went out.
“What’s the matter with the little fool?” Nell demanded angrily.
“Wouldn’t you think if she were going to use me as an excuse to get out,
she’d at least have the decency to tell me about it. Supposing your
mother should take a notion to call up my house—she’d be bound to find
out.”
“Mother will never think of calling your house,” he assured her. “She’ll
be in bed by nine o’clock. There isn’t any reason why she should suspect
Elinor of not dining with you, is there?”
“No—none that I know of—but just the same you never can tell what
might happen. I’ll warn Elinor to-morrow never to use my name again
unless she is willing to take me into her confidence in advance so that
I can at least be prepared to meet an emergency, should it arrive.”
“That won’t be necessary, Nell,” Howard said quickly. “I’ll see that
Elinor doesn’t meet him after to-night!” The tight line of his lips as
he made his affirmation showed that Howard Benton meant what he said.
At the theater later, his mind was miles away. Somehow, he couldn’t rid
his thoughts of Elinor. As soon as he had taken Nell home, he ordered
the taxi to return to town and take him to the club. He would probably
find his father there, and he would tell him without delay about these
clandestine meetings.
But Howard Benton did not find his father at his club. He found friends,
though, and while he was enjoying his drinks with them could he have
seen and heard his father at that hour, he would have had more to
disturb him over cataclysms imminent in his own family than he was
disturbed by his sister’s friendship for the Broadway prodigal Druid.
For him, Hugh Benton had returned home early.
“Griggs,” he ordered, as the man took his hat and stick, “will you go to
Mrs. Benton’s room and ask her please to come to me in the library?”
As he waited for her, he fidgeted uneasily. This night, he believed was
to be a great climax in his life. He wondered how Marjorie would act,
how she would feel (he could not, even in his selfishness engendered and
nurtured by Geraldine DeLacy through the past weeks keep from one
thought of this kind)—what she would say. Oh, well, he might as well
make up his mind that whatever she would say it would be unpleasant. But
it would be for the last time. So thoroughly had his selfish desires
gained a hold on the man who had once been so stanch and upright that
the time had come when he could wait no longer. But just how much of his
impatience was due to the subtle urging of Geraldine DeLacy even he did
not know. So he waited nervously, picking up a book here, an ornament
there, examining the intricacies of the carved woodwork during what
seemed the unconscionable time it took Marjorie to appear.
But his wife had not kept him waiting. Instead, so unusual had been the
request that Griggs purveyed to her that she rose at once, placed the
book she had been reading on the table, and hurried down.
Hugh lost no time. He did not mean to mince matters in this interview.
“Marjorie,” he began at once when she stood before him inquiringly.
“I’ll not keep you long. What I have to say may be said quickly, but the
time has come to say it and I hope you’ll be reasonable.”
Marjorie sat down quietly. “Yes, Hugh,” she replied, outwardly calm
enough, but seized with a nervous inward trembling.
Hugh dropped the cigar he had been picking to pieces, crossed over and
stood facing her, his arms folded across his chest.
“Marjorie, you know just as well as I do,” he went directly to the
point, “that you and I haven’t been congenial for a very long time.”
“I tried to remedy it, though, Hugh,” she answered quickly, “only a
short time ago, but you refused to meet me even half way.”
Her husband’s brows contracted in annoyance.
“I told you at that time that it was entirely too late,” was his
impatient comment. “Your years of indifference have killed something
inside of me that nothing can ever bring to life again.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she ventured feebly, and the sobs she had
sought to hold back shook her slender frame. The sight but annoyed the
man the more.
“Please refrain from creating a scene,” he admonished coldly. “It will
not in the least facilitate matters.”
Hopeless as she felt it in her innermost being to be, Marjorie Benton
felt that she must struggle with all her might through one other battle
in an effort to keep her husband—he who was all in the world to her,
though he so little realized it.
She looked up at him, her hands clasped tightly for self-control (Hugh
always did so dislike tears, she remembered), her eyes pleading.
“Surely, Hugh dear,” she begged, “you cannot mean what you are saying!
You cannot mean that your love for me is so wholly dead—why, think of
all the years—” Hugh turned his face indifferently away—“no small
thing like different tastes and beliefs could make them count for
nothing, I know—Oh, Hugh!” and a wail crept into the pleading voice,
“can it be—was I right after all? Is it—is it—that—woman?”
Hugh Benton kicked at the rug under his feet. He could not bring himself
at first to look into the face of his suffering wife. Then his shoulders
straightened and his level glance came to meet her defiantly. His words
were cold, calm.
“If you are referring to Mrs. DeLacy,” he observed, “then let me tell
you, that you yourself were the indirect cause of forcing me into the
realization of all that she meant to me.”
“You expect me to believe that, Hugh?” There was a suggestion of a sneer
on her drawn lips.
“Believe it, or not, as you please,” he answered nonchalantly, “but up
to the afternoon when you took it upon yourself so unjustly to insult
her, I had merely liked and admired Mrs. DeLacy.”
“Indeed! I am consumed with curiosity to know just how _I_ happened to
play the rôle of Cupid in your love affair?” Marjorie Benton’s dignity
was coming to her aid.
“Sarcasm won’t succeed in getting us anywhere, Marjorie,” was Hugh’s
stern comment. “Yours has lost the power to sting me in the least. But
if you wish to know, after you had treated Mrs. DeLacy so shamefully, I
called upon her the following evening, determined to offer some excuse
for you,” he went on serenely. “It was then that we discovered for the
first time our exact sentiments toward one another.”
“How delightfully romantic!” The wife laughed hysterically. “You—you
really are foolish enough to think she cares for you? You are a rich
man, Hugh.”
His impatience increased. “Please permit me to be the judge,” he
advised, in a satisfied manner. “I want to be perfectly frank and honest
with you, Marjorie—that is why I have stated the absolute truth to
you.”
She shook her head as she replied bitterly: “You are indeed kind to me.”
“I don’t want to be cruel, but I see that you refuse to permit me to be
anything else,” he snapped impatiently. “The problem is this: I love
her! What are you going to do about it?”
“What do you expect me to do?” She shuddered and closed her eyes.
“Well, I thought—perhaps—” He found it a difficult thing to say in
spite of himself, “couldn’t we—er—come to some agreement, say, whereby
you would consent to a—a divorce?”
“A—a divorce—Oh—no—no—I don’t believe in divorce!” Marjorie
Benton’s voice rose hysterically. But her husband was not to be swayed
from his purpose.
“But surely, Marjorie,” he reasoned, “you wouldn’t care to continue
living under the same roof with me—knowing that I love—another woman?”
“Have you thought of the children, at all?” She grasped at the
suggestion of the dreadful scandal this thing would be bound to create,
knowing as she did, Hugh’s horror of anything of the sort.
Parrot-like, Hugh Benton repeated the exact words of Geraldine DeLacy as
she had expounded her philosophy of life to him, but had anyone told him
that he was so swayed into unconscious repetition, he would have denied
it with indignation. Hugh Benton was fond of declaring he was a man with
a mind of his own. So, at the reference to his children, he turned and
told her with calm dignity:
“For once in my life I am thinking only of myself and my _own_
happiness, Marjorie. Up to now I have always considered others, but I
can’t see that it has brought me very much.”
“And yet I can remember you telling me,” she hastened to remind him,
“that the only real happiness in life could be derived through helping
others.”
“If I said that, it must have been a great many years ago—before I
became disillusioned.” The retort was bitter.
Marjorie Benton rose and herself stooped to pick up the shredded
handkerchief she had dropped. There was a hauteur in her manner that
conveyed her belief that humiliation had gone far enough. She must put
an end to the scene before her tautened nerves snapped and she became a
driveling suppliant at the feet of the husband who was so cruelly
telling her he had done with her—that he loved another.
“Don’t you think we’ve said enough for one evening, Hugh?” she queried.
“We don’t appear to be getting anywhere, as you put it, and—and I might
as well tell you,” and the emphasis of her utterance left no room for
doubt, “I will never consent to a divorce! Treat me as you please—do
anything you please—I shall always remain Mrs. Hugh Benton!”
She started to brush by him, but he caught roughly at her arm as she
swept by. She stopped, startled at the fury in his face.
“But that is so thoroughly unreasonable,” he urged querulously. “You
haven’t cared for me in years. You want to hold me now, just because
someone else has come into my life.”
“Suppose I were to tell you that I _do_ care for you. What then?” she
asked slowly, contemplatively.
“I shouldn’t believe you! Oh, Marjorie, please listen to me. Doesn’t it
seem foolish to wreck both of our lives? I intend being more than fair
with you. I will settle three-quarters of my fortune upon you.”
Marjorie’s lips curved in a slow smile. “And what does Mrs. DeLacy say
to that?” was her query.
“Why we haven’t even discussed such a thing.”
“Well, then, go to her,” she commanded, “tell her exactly just what you
propose doing, and see if the fervor of her devotion remains the same.”
“And if it does—what then?”
“I will be reasonable enough to acknowledge that I have misjudged
that—er—Mrs. DeLacy.”
“And what will you do?” he asked eagerly.
She faced him proudly: “I will still remain—Mrs. Hugh Benton.”
Hugh fairly glared as his wife swept triumphantly toward the door. “So
that is your attitude, is it?” he frothed, and he had reached the open
portal before her. From outside, he hurled back his ultimatum. “Well,
then, I shall be forced to use other methods. I am determined to gain my
freedom, and you can rest assured I will manage it in spite of you!”
Still fighting for the dignity and self-control that had deserted her,
Marjorie Benton stood still where he had left her for moments, her hand
pressed to her heart. The tension broke. She swayed back and forth,
staggering to the davenport. In its comforting depths she sank down,
sobbing hysterically.
“Oh, I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it,” she moaned over and over again.
Fully, completely, now that she was about to lose her husband, Marjorie
Benton realized how much she loved him. What a fool she had been to
allow her pride and her silly ambitions to come between them. Her
thoughts traveled back over the years to the time she was a happy wife
and mother in her humble little cottage. She buried her head in the
pillows, endeavoring to crush out the memories—memories that burned and
scarred. She thought her brain on fire. With futile fists she beat the
air, her one moan that this thing could not be true.
In a frenzy she sprang to her feet and began to pace the floor. Up and
down—up and down—she walked like an animal at bay, trying to peer into
the darkness that seemed stretched before her. There might be
years—God!—think of it!—Years of loneliness and heartaches waiting
for her!
Thoroughly exhausted, physically and mentally, she sat down heavily. Her
brain refused to think any longer. Hot, bitter tears rained down her
cheeks, and then, without the slightest warning, she began to laugh, at
first almost inaudibly, then loud and wildly. What a huge joke life had
seen fit to play upon her. She had passed years of unhappiness without
uttering a single protest, sacrificing everything for her children, and
it had brought her—this!
In the hallway outside, Griggs heard the strange cachinnations. He came
running in.
“What is it, Mrs. Benton?” he inquired anxiously.
“Why—why—” she began, looking at him in bewilderment.
“You’re here all alone, and laughing so. Are you ill?”
“Ill? Why no—I’m all right. Only something struck me as being very
funny. We don’t have to read the comic sections of the papers, Griggs.
All we have to do is look for the comedy in our own lives.”
“Yes—Madame—I suppose so. But don’t you think you had better let me
send for Marie? She will help you to your room. You are——”
“No, Griggs, I’ll pull myself together in a moment, and I’m not going to
my room. I shall wait here until Miss Elinor or Mr. Howard come in.”
“But it is only ten-thirty,” Griggs protested, “and they may not come
for hours.”
“Miss Elinor is bound to come in early. She is at the Thurstons’. Just
put another log on the fire, and I’ll wait.”
“Very well, Madame,” Griggs attended to the fire, and left the room,
turning as he reached the door. “I shall be just outside should you wish
me.”
“Thank you, Griggs,” she murmured, gazing intently into the flames.
With only a dulled pain she was able to visualize what Hugh was doing,
where he had gone since he left her. Her instinct told her he had gone
straight to Geraldine DeLacy. And, right as is so often the case with a
woman who loves, Marjorie Benton’s instinct had been right.
Straight as a homing pigeon, the infatuated man had rushed from the room
where he had had his aggravating and unsatisfactory interview with his
wife, and, waiting long enough only to telephone to be sure that she was
in, he had hurried to the woman who had taken his wife’s place in his
affections. No thought of the pain of the woman he had left behind. Only
an eagerness to be with the new love—to hear her soft voice whisper
words of love and compassion, to tell him there was nought else in the
world beside their love, to reassure him he had been right.
Geraldine DeLacy, alone, as she told him, since the Thurstons were in
Atlantic City and Nell, the daughter of the house, was out with Hugh’s
own son, carefully hung up the receiver after her telephonic interview
and rushed to arrange her hair and to slip into a becoming negligee.
From Hugh’s tone, she knew that something was wrong. She did not need
his further assurance that he was “frightfully upset,” but she shrewdly
suspected the reason for his being so.
She had known right along that Marjorie would prove difficult, but Hugh
had been so sure of being able to reason with her. “Like all men,” she
thought impatiently, “he believes he can handle any situation. Hmph!
Men!” There was a deep sarcasm in the gesture with which she shook out a
clinging flounce. One thing she was assured of, however. She must be
cautious and most tactful in everything she said to him, as he would
probably be in a trying mood.
She met him with an encouraging smile: “What has happened, dear? I have
been terribly worried about you. You seem so unnerved!”
“Darling!” he replied. “My one comfort in a comfortless world!” He took
her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “I’ve been through a dreadful
scene—I just had to come to you to talk it over.”
“There, there,” she soothed him, “everything is bound to be all right.
Sit here beside me and tell me all about it.”
“Well—I went to Marjorie to-night, as we discussed doing,”—Geraldine
smiled inwardly when she remembered who it was who had suggested the
interview,—“and asked her to divorce me.”
“Yes—and—?” The young widow’s hand trembled beneath his.
Hugh threw out his hands impatiently. “She positively refuses to give me
my freedom, and you know that I, myself, haven’t a chance in the world
of obtaining it.”
“What did she say—what reasons did she give?” Geraldine purred softly
to hide her chagrin.
“Oh, she used every argument available,” was the despairing reply. “Said
she loved me and was anxious to start life anew. Then she brought up the
children—their futures, and what this scandal would mean to them.”
“Perhaps you went about it in the wrong way. You may have been harsh
when you should have been gentle,” she ventured.
“I tried hard to control myself and reason with her, and I didn’t
actually lose my temper until she intimated that you didn’t care about
me—it was only my money.”
“How dared she say that?” Geraldine sat up indignantly. “What have I
ever done that has given her the right to consider me mercenary?”
“It was in answer to a proposition of mine.”
“What was it?” She leaned toward him anxiously.
“I tried to—to bribe her,” he confessed, somewhat shamefully. “I
offered to settle a—a very large amount upon her, if she would consent
to free me. She jumped up excitedly and asked me what you had to say to
that.”
“Yes—yes—and——?”
“I told her I hadn’t even discussed it with you, and then she said I
should go to you and tell you what I proposed doing, and I should soon
see whether or not your devotion remained the same.”
“So that is her opinion of me?” Geraldine DeLacy’s eyes flashed
dangerously. “Well, you can tell her from me—that I’d marry you
to-morrow, Hugh Benton, if you hadn’t a dollar in the world!”
“My own darling!” he exclaimed, as his arms went out and he held her
close to him. “I knew it—I knew it.”
She lay in his arms passively submitting to his caresses, but inwardly
she boiled with rage. So Marjorie Benton thought she could spoil her
game, did she! Well—they should see—they should see! The cleverest one
in this case would have the last laugh.
“I am so grateful for your wonderful love, dear,” he whispered, “and had
Marjorie considered my proposition, I should still have plenty left with
which to surround you with all the luxury you so richly deserve.”
“Oh,” she breathed, “as if that mattered!” But the light in her eyes
shone radiantly as a weight of lead dropped from her heart.
“I shall have a talk with my attorney to-morrow, and see what he
advises,” Hugh assured her. “There must be some way to go about this
thing.”
“Perhaps when you tell your wife that it is not your money I care about,
as she seems to think, she may reconsider her decision.”
“My dear, I wouldn’t allow her to think for a moment that I had even
mentioned her miserable suspicions to you.” He pulled out his watch. “It
is growing late and I must hurry along before Nell and Howard return.
I’ll telephone you to-morrow. Good-night, dearest.”
She clung to him tenderly: “You are so strong and forceful,” was her
farewell, “your arms seem like a haven of refuge.”
He felt that he could not bear to return home, so he ordered his
chauffeur to drive to one of his clubs. Never again would he return home
until he and Marjorie had reached some sort of compromise.