[Illustration: Elinor (Norma Shearer) attends a Bohemian party at the
  apartment of Templeton Druid (Ward Crane).
(_“The Valley of Content” screened as “Pleasure Mad.”_)]




                                  THE
                           Valley of Content


                           BY BLANCHE UPRIGHT



                             [Illustration]



                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                      Publishers          New York

           Published by arrangement with W. J. Watt & Company




                          COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
                          W. J. WATT & COMPANY


               _Printed in the United States of America_




                         WITH LOVE AND DEVOTION
                         I DEDICATE THESE PAGES
                                   TO

                            Marjorie Rambeau

                          MY BELOVED INSPIRER




                         THE VALLEY OF CONTENT




                               CHAPTER I


Over the immaculate, freshly ironed white cotton cloth on the little
table set near the window in the kitchen-dining room of the Bentons’
tiny bungalow, a paper-shaded lamp glowed rosily. From its tempered
rays, the plated knives and forks and spoons, polished to a shine that
forgave the nickel spots of usage, caught a pinkish tinge, and the bowl
of wild roses from its place of state in the center of the table
returned blush for blush.

But neither the rosy light, nor the roses themselves had anything to do
with the bright flush that adorned Marjorie Benton’s face as she arose
from in front of the oven of her brightly shining kitchen stove. She
felt of her burning cheek with the back of her hand. The twittering
remonstrance of her canary in its cheap little brass cage, disturbed by
the metallic clang of the closing oven door, turned her gaze in his
direction. She shook her head ruefully.

“More cooking for women and there’d be less rouge, eh, Andy?” she asked,
and an understanding “tweet-tweet” was her reply. Her glance wandered to
the small alarm clock tick-ticking merrily from the shelf above her
head.

“Another ten minutes,” she murmured. The slowly moving hands of the time
piece marked off seven minutes after six. “Hugh should be here then, and
he does so like his roast just out of the oven. Hmm! So do I—” she went
on, but a cross little look of dawning discontent crept into her eyes as
she glanced at the stove distastefully,—“except that I surely would
like to have someone else take it out for me, for a change. Wonder if
we’re ever going to have a maid, or if I’m just naturally to dry up and
brown to a crisp bending over a stove all my life!”

Again she felt of her burning cheeks, as she turned toward the neatly
set table. A mended spot in the table cloth caught her eye. She smoothed
it over.

“Cotton!” she said, plaintively. “Just plain cotton! I can pretend it’s
linen all I want to, but it don’t change the threads, nor—,” and she
lifted a knife with its silver worn undisguisedly off the end and tried
the effect of turning it over. She frowned at the poor pretense.

She turned back to the stove and picked up the dish cloth she had been
using as a holder. Her hand went toward the kettle that simmered
contentedly, a contrast to the simmering thoughts of the pretty woman
who glanced at it.

“I wonder—” she began, half aloud.

She stopped, listening, the dish cloth dangling in her hand. With a
hurried gesture she dropped it, and was across the room to the door that
led into her hallway. Just a moment more she listened, her head with its
fair curls pressed against the door. Then she opened it and tiptoed
quietly through, closing it noiselessly behind her.

Before the closed nursery door she stopped once more. Unmistakable
sounds from within proved that wee ones behind that portal were not
spending their time in earned repose. Marjorie’s half frown was chased
away by an indulgent smile of mother love. Then she opened the door and
entered the room.

“Children!” she cried, as sternly as she had ever brought herself to
command. “Dear little people, what does this mean? Mother can’t have
this, you know. It’s sleepy time.”

From one of the two white cribs surrounded by their halo of the last
rays of the September sun came a little wail. Two-year old Elinor Benton
distinctly disapproved of something—perhaps of going to bed at all
while the sun still shone.

From the other crib another brown tousled head bobbed up. Its owner sat
erect. Master Howard Benton was reasoning that if his little sister who
was only two should be receiving attention, what then was his due at the
mature age of four.

Marjorie Benton’s thoughts flew to the kitchen she had just quitted, the
flush from her oven still on her face. Everything was all right there
for a few minutes, she knew. She did not approve of taking babies from
their beds once they were tucked in for the night, but surely this once
she could not refuse. Her glance rested softly on Elinor’s curly head
and her pleading eyes. Then she lifted her gently and sat down with her
in the low rocker. Baby Elinor snuggled in the protecting arms and
though she felt that she may not have been doing the prescribed thing,
Marjorie Benton’s eyes were soft and her voice caressing as her hold
tightened on her baby and she began softly to sing.

As she sang, the girl-mother’s eyes wandered about the room, resting on
the dado of Mother Goose pictures where more than one darkened spot
proclaimed an interest and love for a particular story-book personage.
What babies Howard and Elinor were! And they were hers! Hers! And
Hugh’s! Her hold tightened the least bit on the baby in her arms, who
was drifting off to dreamland.

The reverberation of the front door closed cautiously brought the mother
back from drifting. Hugh! She must hurry.

This time the child made no protest as she was placed in her little crib
and tucked in. But she stopped long enough to place a kiss on the hair
of each baby before she lowered the shade and tiptoed out.

Her hands gave a quick pat to her own curls as she flew up the hallway
to greet Hugh Benton. He had shuffled out of his light coat and turned
from hanging it on the hall rack with his arms extended to his wife.

“H’lo sweetheart!” was his tender greeting, but there was all the fervor
in the bear-like squeeze he gave her as she ran into his arms that there
ever had been in the earlier days of their honeymoon. The Bentons were
fond of remarking that their honeymoon was only extended.

Hugh Benton raised his head and looked over his wife’s shoulder.

“Um! Dinner!” he exclaimed with a boyish grin. “Pie! Your dinners are
always wonderful, dearest.” And Hugh gave his shiny-haired wife another
hug.

“Hugh! Please!” Marjorie struggled out of his arms. “You don’t know how
strong you are. You almost hurt me—and do please be quiet—the kiddies
are asleep.”

“Already?” Hugh Benton’s tone and eyes were full of disappointment. “No
romp to-night? Seems like I never do get much of a chance for a frolic
any more.”

So genuine was the young father’s disappointment, that Marjorie tempered
the laugh she gave.

“Big baby!” she chided, lovingly. “It’s not hard to see who wants the
romp most. But dinner will do you more good, just as sleep will do them.
I can’t be having my family spoiled, you know.”

“Right, dear,—just as you always are. Be with you in a minute—some of
the grime of an honest working man has to come off first.”

Marjorie Benton hurried to her dinner serving, and as she placed the
roast on the white cloth, her eyes were tender as she heard the
masculine splashing from the bath room and the soft-pedaled whistling
that accompanied it.

She whispered again softly. “Who could help loving him. It’s enough to
make me the happiest woman in the world to know——”

Her husband’s entry broke in on her reverie, and it filled her with all
the pride of accomplishment to see the glance of delight with which he
took in the simple tempting dinner. He leaned over to kiss her as he
placed her in her chair—a small attention he had not discarded since
the first days of their marriage.

“Wonderful little woman!” he complimented softly. “More wonderful every
day.”

She gave his hand a gentle pat, but tried to put a depth of dignified
remonstrance in her chiding.

“Don’t forget you’re a married man of five years’ standing, Mr. Hugh
Benton,” she urged, but the laughter in her eyes belied the dignity of
her words.

“So long!” Hugh took up the carving knife and glanced along its
sharpened edge. “You’ve a fine idea of time, Mrs. Marjorie Benton. Now
I’d say five days—” His eyes twinkled suddenly as though at some sudden
thought, and he nodded toward the bedroom. “Er—pardon me, my dear,—I
forgot,—you have the proof on me——”

“Flatterer!” Marjorie beamed on her husband as she took the service he
offered her.

“Anything new to-day?” Hugh was busy with his dinner.

“Plenty!” was Marjorie’s enthusiastic answer as she let her fork drop
and leaned across the table. “Isn’t there always,—with such children as
ours? Oh, Hugh, dear, there never were such babies,—now don’t you laugh
at me!” as a little quirk in the corner of Hugh’s mouth betrayed he was
not becomingly solemn. “You know I’m not like other mothers,—brag about
my children just because they’re mine—and yours—but you also know
they’re extraordinarily bright.”

Hugh nodded, but there was that in his satisfied expression before his
wife had completed her résumé of the day’s doings of her wonderful
infants that quite persuaded her that he was of her opinion. As he laid
aside his fork after his last bite of pie, his was the beatific
expression of the inwardly satisfied male.

“Want help with the dishes?” he asked. Marjorie smiled at him.

“If I didn’t already know you were the best man in the world,” she
complimented, “that would prove it. Don’t I know how you hate dish
wiping? No, dear, there are only a few,—I’ll do them.”

“Thereby proving your own wonder,” was Hugh’s praise. “Not another woman
in this town would refuse such an offer.”

Marjorie laughed and gave him a playful shove toward a chair as she
handed him his paper.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Take that,—and read it. Maybe you’ll find
something in it to make you appreciate your own wife and babies. I’ll be
through in a minute, and there are lots of things we can do—interesting
things—like sitting on the porch and looking at the moon or something.
It’s been splendid for the last few nights. Have you noticed?”

Hugh yawned contentedly. “Hasn’t it always been whenever we’ve seen it
together?”

It had been. Marjorie Benton was sure of that,—surer now than during
any of those five years she had been married. Everything had been
splendid. She could not help considering how much more they had of the
worth while things in the world than any of the friends they had as her
bright head bent over her dish-washing and her glance darted through the
steam of the hot water occasionally to where Hugh sat absorbed in his
paper.

Perhaps the Benton romance had not been as spectacular as some, but
Marjorie inwardly thanked the Providence that guided her that it was
more _real_. Hugh was right, too. It did seem such a short time that
they had been married. Then, anomalously came the thought that she could
not seem to remember distinctly any time when she and Hugh had not been
one. She had vague memories of the time she had been teaching school in
this very town—that seemed so long ago. She had been used to hearing
people say she was wasting her youth, her beauty and her brains in such
an occupation, but it had in a way satisfied her. Then had come Hugh. He
had come to Atwood to be cashier of the bank, and, though she did not
know it then, he was as much alone in the world as she herself. All
those nearest to them were gone. From the time of their first meeting at
a dance, Marjorie remembered that life had taken on a different meaning
to her. Her thoughts flew back to those beautiful days that followed.
Her lips were tender in their smile of reminiscence as she thought of
that time. There had been only Hugh and Marjorie. That was how it was
to-day,—except that there were two young and tender Hughs and Marjories
to bind them still closer together. Marjorie’s smile grew more wistful
as she thought, her mind far from the bright glasses she was burnishing
as they came hot from their pan of scalding suds. Hugh’s mention of the
moon to-night—He remembered it, then—She, too, remembered how they so
often sat under that big elm in the moonlight, and Hugh softly, huskily
singing,—Poor Hugh! Wasn’t it too bad he never could keep to the same
key for two consecutive bars. But he never noticed, and she knew she
never cared. What was that he was always humming?

“_What’s the matter with the moon to-night?_”

Again he was right. There never _had_ been anything the matter with it
where they were concerned. It had helped them tell their love, and
so——

“Seems like the end of a story, instead of the beginning,” whispered
Marjorie Benton to her flowered salad bowl, “but——”

And so, in three months, they had been married. There hadn’t been much
money; there wasn’t yet, but what did it matter? They had their
bungalow; it was their own. What happiness they had had in planning all
the details just as Marjorie had always planned them for herself when
she put herself to sleep nights planning for that “sometime in the
future.”

“Money!” Marjorie Benton sniffed as she swirled her dish cloth about the
pan, and with one damp hand flung back a recalcitrant bright curl that
tickled her small nose. “Humph! I’m the richest woman in the world! What
else——”

“Something to tell you, sweetheart, when you’re through.” Hugh looked up
from his paper and broke in on his wife’s reverie. “Something you’ll
like, maybe.”

“Oh, Hugh, dear! Are they going to raise your salary again?” she asked
eagerly.

Hugh laughed, but there was a rueful shrug to his shoulders.

“Nothing so exciting,” he declared. “Have you an idea that’s the Atwood
Bank’s chief occupation? No, dear, but it’s just as long a chance. I got
my patent from Washington to-day, and I believe I have some real people
in New York interested in it.”

Casually as he spoke, there was in Hugh Benton’s manner that which would
imply that he fully believed he was offering to his wife the equivalent
of fur coats and jewels and estates so large that extra sized depot
wagons would be required to transport the servants.

“Clever boy!” Marjorie flew to him excitedly. “Oh, I am so proud of
you!”

“A bit early to be too proud yet, little one,” Hugh replied in the
choppy way he bit off so many of his sentences. “Got to wait for
results. But I’ll tell you this,” and his arm slipped around her waist
as he bent for the kiss she offered, “if this thing does go through,
it’ll go through big, and——”

“And I’ll be the wife of the great inventor!” Marjorie could not
restrain her enthusiasm. Hugh smiled indulgently. But it was good to be
appreciated,—to be so completely believed in by someone. It was the
instinct of the woman who loves, though, that led her to add: “But if it
doesn’t go through, dear, what of it? Won’t we still be the happiest
people in the whole world? It couldn’t be any other way. Come on out on
the porch and let the moon tell us so.” And she drew him by a coat
sleeve out through the open door onto the small porch that the moon was
beginning to silver with its pale vivid light.

Through the trees, themselves silvered and softened from their flaunting
autumnal coloring of the day, came wafted to them the fragrance of
new-mown hay. On the top step, they sat down, their faces upturned to
the same old moon that is for lovers the world over. Softly Hugh
Benton’s arm slipped about the slender waist of his lithe young wife. As
of its own accord, her cheek nestled into the curve of his coat sleeve.
Out of the silvered darkness, a phonograph from one of the nearby unseen
homes began to play. Through the stillness came to them the voice of
John McCormack:

“_For this is the end of a perfect day._”

“A perfect day,—yes!” sighed Marjorie Benton as the singer’s voice died
out. “But isn’t that the way with all our days? They end and
_start_—perfectly.”

Hugh Benton’s dark head bent over his wife’s bright one. His lips placed
there his kiss of reverence and thanksgiving.




                               CHAPTER II


There have been rumors that when the serpent in the Garden showed the
apple to Eve, that it wasn’t exactly an apple she saw. Some even say the
forbidden fruit, as she gazed at it, did what our best movie writers
call “dissolved” and slowly faded into a yellow backed bill. And so the
damage was done.

At any rate, money or the wishing for it has done a lot to women of all
times ever since Eve first had her vision. Marjorie Benton may have
fully believed in her own heart that it meant nothing to her, but from
the time that Hugh first gave her an idea that his invention with which
she had long been familiar might really mean that she could have
whatever she wished, and was not a nebulous dream, there subtly grew
within her a spirit of discontent which she would have denied—even to
herself—but which was nonetheless real.

The bungalow. Somehow it didn’t seem the most desirable of all
habitations as she had once thought it. She could so easily use another
bathroom; perhaps two. With money, even these things were possible. And
a dining room. She seemed quite to forget how wonderful had seemed that
kitchen with its small alcove when she and Hugh had planned it from one
of those perfect home magazines, she sitting with her head buried on
Hugh’s shoulder, he holding her tightly with one hand as he marked out
diagrams with the other. The babies! There was so much she wanted for
them now, when she came to think of it, and as for what she wanted for
them in the future—there seemed no end to the wishes or the castle
building.

To do her justice, Marjorie really hadn’t thought much of what sudden
fortune might mean to her personally. She wasn’t naturally vain. That
is, she had not given herself the first thought. Discontent with her own
lot came upon her gradually, and, as might reasonably be expected, she
had been brought to realize it through other women. Her first
realization was on a day when Mrs. Birmingham and Mrs. Wallace called.
Usually Marjorie had accepted these two small town butterflies with a
smile of tolerance. This time it was different.

Their talk had been of clothes,—a fairly general topic of conversation
with average women. Mrs. Birmingham grew positively eloquent as she
described her new fall costume with its garnishings of beaver; of the
smart little hat to match; the gloves, shoes; all the little accessories
necessary to an outfit to be envied. But then Mrs. Birmingham was
telling of her possessions with just this purpose in view. Not to be
outdone, Mrs. Wallace drawled:

“Oh, yes, my dear, but you know it is so much easier to be outfitted if
one does it near home. Now I’ve had to send to New York for my moleskin
stole. Harvey wouldn’t hear of anything else. Seal and the ordinary furs
one sees are so common, don’t you think?”

In her usual contented frame of mind, Marjorie would have chuckled at
the attempted arrogance. Now she sighed inwardly. Moleskin! And Mrs.
Wallace, poor little mouse-haired nonentity, was actually going to have
it while she, Marjorie— She showed nothing of her thoughts, though, as
she listened, attentive and sweet as usual.

Not till they had gone and she sat curled up with one foot under her on
a big floor cushion (a favorite attitude when she wanted to think) did
she realize that they had given her food for thought, and that she
wanted things! _Wanted_ them!

“I’m frazzled and frayed—almost disreputable!” was her half bitter
inward comment. “Why I haven’t had any kind of a new suit in two years,
and as for a hat! Well,—” She laughed ruefully as she clambered to her
feet and mechanically shook out the cushions that still bore the imprint
of Mrs. Birmingham’s none too svelte figure, “I shouldn’t complain, I
suppose. I had a new hat once,—some time before Elinor was born.”

Aggrieved as she felt for the moment, Marjorie Benton realized that her
lack of finery was not her husband’s fault. He had always wished her to
have it, and had urged that she set aside something for herself. But
always something had happened to it. Once she had been on the verge of
spending it, when Howard had to have his tonsils out; then had come
their contribution toward building the new church.

Marjorie groaned. “Just one thing after another—all the time,” she
complained, and complaining was something so new Marjorie Benton would
not have recognized it in herself. “Oh, if Hugh should do something with
that invention! Surely he must!”

And once again with the thought, came in a flood all the day-dreams she
had been indulging since he had spoken to her a week and a half ago of
his hopes. What would she not do? As she stood between the parted
curtains gazing out into the street swept with a scurrying vista of
whirling autumn leaves, it was not the brown and gold of fallen leaves
she saw, but visions of shop windows in gorgeous colors, gowns of purple
and gold and sapphire, and tissues fine as spun cobwebs. All for her.
For Marjorie Benton was at least realizing how well her beauty would
accord with the vanities of femininity and she knew she wanted them—not
as she had thought she had when she had so generously given of her small
store, but in the light of the possibility which Hugh’s hopes had opened
up to her. All these women in Atwood who had somehow seemed to patronize
her, even when they told her how they envied her her happiness. She
wanted to show them!

Hardly realizing it, Marjorie Benton found herself a victim of an uneasy
restlessness; a rapidly growing discontent. For antidote she plunged
deeper than ever into her household duties, busied herself with the
babies, did everything, anything, to keep her thoughts from straying.
Each night as she heard Hugh’s step on the walk, her heart beat in mad
suspense—“Would there be any news to-night?” was the question
involuntarily on her lips.

The only answer so far had been Hugh’s sad little negative nod, but
there came a night, after he kissed her, when he handed her a letter
before he vanished into the bedroom where the children were playing.

Marjorie’s hands were so unsteady she could hardly open it, although
Hugh’s demeanor had been such she almost knew what to expect in advance,
and therefore the courteous refusal that met her eyes did not surprise
her in the least. She brushed away unbidden tears and hastened after
him.

“Never mind, dear,” she soothed gently, pulling his head down to kiss
him, “you have other firms to hear from yet—we mustn’t let one answer
discourage us.”

“Brave little girl,” he answered. “Thinking of me as usual, when I know
what that letter meant to you—now wait,” as she started to protest,
“let me finish, dear. Don’t you think, sweetheart, that I haven’t
noticed a change in you this past week? You haven’t been yourself at
all, although you have tried to make believe—and I know it’s been
anxiety over my old invention. Why, dear one,” and Hugh Benton gently
smoothed his wife’s hair as he soothed her as he would one of the
youngsters who were pulling at his coat tails, “if I had known you were
going to take it this way—that it would have caused you a moment’s
worry, I wouldn’t have told you a thing about it until everything was
all settled, and we were millionaires.”

Marjorie caught a sob in her throat as she gazed at Hugh with wide open
eyes. So he had noticed that something was wrong. How selfish she had
been. A tear trembled on her long lashes as she glanced up at him
contritely.

“Oh, Hugh, dear, dearest,” she quavered. “I didn’t think you—I didn’t
know—you see—” she clutched his coat sleeve and hid her face in it as
little Elinor and Howard danced about shouting with glee, each with the
idea of some new game. But mother was only searching for words. They
came in a gush, and the little sob that accompanied them made grave for
a moment the face of the man she held to so tightly,—a graveness
replaced in a moment by an indulgent smile of understanding as she
spoke. “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about the money so much, d-d-ear, but Mrs.
Wallace has a new moleskin stole and Mrs. Birmingham has a be-e-aver
co-co-at!”

So it was out. Man fashion Hugh hadn’t thought that Marjorie might want
the things so dear to the hearts of other women. She had seemed so
different. But he remembered that she was a woman, after all, and it was
with a little pang that he realized how little she had really had during
the past few years. His lips set in a grim line of determination to
change all this as he patted her hair, but his words were as cheery and
hearty as always as he whispered:

“There, there, honey, don’t fret! You shall have ’em, too! But right
now, don’t you think it would be a good idea to get on the old blue
bonnet and let’s take a whirl at the movies? Cheer up all around?
Charlie Chaplin and Nazimova—weeps and laughs. What say? Can’t you get
Mrs. Clancy to watch the babies?”

And as though the matter were settled, which Marjorie knew it was, Hugh
Benton, in his usual abrupt way, resumed his interrupted romp with his
son and heir and the little princess of the house of Benton.

Cypress Avenue was the rather imposing name that the dwellers on that
thoroughfare in Atwood chose to use in referring to their place of
residence. Why Cypress, though, was a question that was bound to present
itself to the casual visitor. There were maple trees in plenty, a few
dogwoods and scattered shrubs of nondescript nomenclature that grew
without regard to any scheme of city gardening either inside or outside
the flagged sidewalks at their own sweet will. But cypresses—stay! Yes,
there was a cypress if one chose to go that far to look for it,—away
out at the end of the street at the entrance to the Forest Home
Cemetery, beyond the more pretentious homes of brick and concrete that
housed such aristocracy as the Birminghams and the Wallaces. Mr.
Birmingham was president of the Atwood Bank, and Edgar Wallace made
sufficient as the town’s chief merchant to clothe his wife in moleskin.
On Cypress Avenue, too, lived the Moultons, the Carvers, the Hopewells,
coal and wood, hardware and grain barons and baronesses of their own
small world. It was something to live on Cypress Avenue, and the
Bentons, in building their shingle bungalow had felt a glow of pride in
taking their place with the elect of their chosen place of residence.
They were farther downtown, though, within such a short distance of
Depot Avenue, the main street and business district, that they could
easily see the lights of the Princess, the movie theater, flash on each
night, and could tell to a nicety the time of night by seeing when Oscar
Merriman, the depot agent and telegrapher, turned out the electrics
preparatory to closing up and going to his own home far across the
railroad tracks in Sandy Hill.

That the farmers coming and going from the outlying districts chose to
speak of Depot Avenue as the main road, and of Cypress Avenue as the
short cut, in no wise disturbed the residents of that avenue. They were
quite assured that their chief residential street compared most
favorably with that of any street in any town the size of Atwood.

Shaded as it was, and lighted with the new lights in their opalescent
globes recently installed by the city fathers—and brothers and sisters
and cousins and aunts, too,—it was a foregone conclusion that Cypress
Avenue should be the favorite strolling place for Atwoodites on such
nights as strolling was possible. So when Hugh and Marjorie Benton
closed their front gate and started toward Depot Avenue and the movie
lights, they did not particularly remark the numbers of people who
passed and stopped them to pass laughing comments of the events of the
day. With the thoughts of money she had been harboring, and the newly
arisen desire for a change, Marjorie Benton realized with something of a
pang that such a change as her day dreams had led her to desire would
mean a forfeiting of all this jolly camaraderie. She was not altogether
sure that she really wanted it, after all. But as they turned into the
principal street and the few lights in front of the main stores greeted
her, her mind flew hastily to the vision of New York and its Great White
Way as she remembered it on one of her few visits to the city. Yes, that
was what she wanted—_must have!_

So interested was she in her own thoughts, that she did not notice the
unusual quietness of the husband who walked beside her, his brows drawn
into a furrow, his lips compressed with determination as he glanced once
or twice at his pretty young wife, apparently noticing for the first
time that Marjorie’s hat _wasn’t_ in the least like that of Mrs. Rolfe
who had just passed them with a cheery good evening; that Marjorie’s
gloves were undeniably mended; that in spite of the jauntiness with
which she wore it, her little blue velvet coat was badly worn about the
seams.

It was with a start that Marjorie Benton brought herself back to Atwood
to recognize that a small car had stopped at the curb beside them.
Someone was calling to her.

“You must be thinking of something very pleasant—and far away,” came
the staccato voice of Mrs. Birmingham, as she leaned out of the car and
shook her hand admonishingly at Marjorie. “I’ve called you three times.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Marjorie was earnestly apologetic. “I was thinking——”

Little Mr. Birmingham’s snappy laugh broke in to cover her confusion.
“Don’t do it, my dear,” he advised. “Bad for your pretty head. Now
Matilda, here, she never thinks—and look at her——”

“James William!” Mrs. Birmingham brought all the hauteur she could
command in reprimand of her spouse. Then, ignoring him, she turned to
the Bentons and there was a purr in her voice as she went on:

“I only stopped you, Marjorie, dear, to see if you would not promise
me—positively _promise_—to be one of the hostesses at the Dilemma
Club’s reception next Friday. We’ve seen so little of you
recently—everyone is asking why you are keeping so to yourself,
and—oh, I know what you’re going to say,” raising her gray gloved hand
protestingly as Marjorie started to speak, “—the babies, and all that,
but you should not neglect your social duties so—other women have
babies, too, and we need you, you know. You’re our prize ‘cultured
lady,’ remember, and besides you’re much better off than so many women
who _never_ neglect the club. You have your incomparable Mrs. Clancy who
will always come when you call her, but how you’re able to manage it
when it is _so_ hard for anyone to get servants,—now my second girl who
has only been with me a week was telling me only to-day that she
couldn’t stay, and——”

Mr. Birmingham’s sniff was loudly audible.

“Second chief cook and bottle washer,” he commented, “and twenty-fourth
you’ve tried to have stay and wear a confounded white cap. Hmmph! What a
woman needs of two girls to wait on her beats me, eh, Benton?”

Though she flushed angrily, Mrs. Birmingham’s control was admirable as
she added, before Marjorie could voice a reply: “Then that’s settled.
You’ll come—I can depend on you——”

Marjorie’s thoughts were aghast as she thought of her one all-too-worn
best gown, the impossibility of wearing it,—and the still greater
impossibility of getting another.

“Why, really, I—I can’t say right now—” Marjorie stammered, and she
was conscious of the hot flood that crimsoned her face.

“Certainly she will go!” Hugh Benton broke in in his decided way. His
single glance into the knowing depths of Mrs. Birmingham’s small gray
eyes had decided him. He felt the slight twinge as his wife nipped his
arm in remonstrance, but his lips were still set in that firm line of
determination that had first come to him when he had learned that
Marjorie wanted more than he had been able to give her. He _would_ make
good for Marjorie, and this should be a beginning.

“But dear, I——”

He cut her remonstrance short.

“If it’s a new gown that’s bothering you,” he said bluntly, “then you
can order one to-morrow,—from New York. You know,” and he looked
squarely at Mrs. Birmingham as she lifted politely inquiring eyebrows,
“my wife has been going out so little, that she has not paid the
attention to frills that are usual with women, I believe.”

“Splendid!” enthused the banker’s wife, but there was a queer half smile
on Birmingham’s thin lips that told of his glee that his Matilda had
received one quietus to her patronizing. “Then we won’t keep you any
longer. Sorry we haven’t the big car with us,” she drawled. “But it’s a
beautiful night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

“We’re going to the movies,” remarked Marjorie, in the tone she might
have employed at announcing an opera opening. “They’re having two
splendid pictures to-night—why don’t you come with us?”

Mrs. Birmingham stifled a well-assumed yawn. “Oh, the movies,” she said
languidly. “They bore me to extinction. I’m dreadfully spoiled, I’m
afraid. In New York when I’m with my sister (you know I spent three
months there the last time) we went to the theater almost every night.
Theaters make the movies seem so—er—banal, don’t you think?”

“Hmmph!” once more remarked the snappy little banker, in a tone that led
one to believe it was his favorite expression, or, rather, explosion.
“Theatres every night—brother-in-law with a pull that got free tickets
for everything where they couldn’t sell seats—made you forget you once
wanted to dress your hair and roll your eyes like Theda Bara, didn’t
they, eh, Matilda? Well, _I_ like the movies—wish I could be going with
you, folks, but we got to be getting along. Good luck!” His hand went
toward the starter, but the hand of Mrs. Birmingham stayed him for a
last word.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Marjorie, my dear,” she called, as Hugh and
Marjorie turned toward the lights of Depot Avenue, “my sister sent me a
lot of things yesterday—some new books and so on—and I know you’re
just crazy about reading, so I’m going to send some of them over to you
for you to read and tell me about. I always get _so_ much more benefit
out of a book when someone who is _interested_ tells me about it. You
will, there’s a dear?”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Birmingham,” Marjorie began, and she was almost
startled by the abrupt way in which Hugh hurried her along, her thanks
half expressed.

“Patronizing old frump!” he fumed. “Well, that’s the last of it—no
more!”

Marjorie laughed at his intensity.

“Oh, what harm, Hugh, dear?” she defended, and the humorous light that
he knew and loved so well chased away the half wistfulness of the last
few hours. “She likes it and it doesn’t do me any harm. But,” and she
dimpled as she looked up at her tall husband and gleefully squeezed his
arm, “did you notice she didn’t have on the beaver coat?”

“Plenty of cat, though,” and Hugh’s frown did not lighten as his hand
slipped into his trousers pocket and he laid his money down on the
cashier’s window in front of the gay little movie theater.

In shaded Cypress Avenue the Birminghams’ small car whirled along. Its
occupants were silent—for a few moments. Mrs. Birmingham broke that
silence.

“James William Birmingham,” she declared (he was always “James William”
instead of “Jimmie” when Mrs. Birmingham had anything of great
importance to say), “you have hurt my feelings!”

The banker snorted. “Then you know how it feels.”

“And in front of the Bentons, of all people!” She was on the verge of
tears, but Mr. Birmingham believed in letting a lesson sink in.

“Well, what’s wrong with them?”

“N-nothing, nothing at all,” was the impatient reply. “But, oh, you know
how it is as well as I do. Marjorie Benton is just perfect in most
people’s eyes, and if anything is wanted, don’t they go and ask her
instead of coming to me, the banker’s wife? All I have is clothes and
theaters and things, and if you think I’m not going to make her feel
that I’m superior in some ways, then you’re all wrong. Marjorie Benton
hasn’t had a new thing in years. I’ve got to get even with her someway,
or she’d be thinking she was better than I am, or than anyone. All of us
pity her, though, because she’s so shabby.”

Louder than at any time previously James William Birmingham exploded his
“Hmmph!”

“Hmmph! Pity all you like, but it’ll be wasted, I can tell you. Unless I
miss my guess, the Bentons ’ll soon be richer than anyone in this little
old town, just as she’s already the brightest and prettiest little woman
here, and he’s the finest man I know. Wish I had money enough to back
him myself.”

“Wonderful invention, indeed!” Matilda Birmingham was disdainful. “That
old rubber stamp thing! Why, we’ve been hearing about it for ages, and I
for one, don’t believe it will ever amount to anything.”

“All you know about it.” The banker had the closing word. “Well, you
just chew over this—if it wasn’t for a lot of little old inventions
like that women like you would be finding a lot more to do keeping house
and making a home instead of gadding and talking about their new clothes
to someone who hasn’t got ’em!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mrs. Clancy, the dependable, was dozing in the kitchen when Hugh and
Marjorie returned from their outing. But she had not forgotten to put
out on the little table the bit of supper that she knew Hugh and
Marjorie liked on such occasions. Marjorie’s smile was different from
her usual one, though, as she recalled how often she and Hugh had sat
down at their own little table thus, and over and over had reminded each
other how much better it was than any restaurant, how much luckier they
were than most people. To-night, somehow—well, she wasn’t so sure.

“Not a whimper out of the blessed lambs,” the old serving woman assured
Marjorie’s eagerness about her babies. “Oi’ve caught forty winks, too,
and—” She stopped in the careful tying of her bonnet strings, to dig
deep into a pocket, bringing out a crumpled telegram. “Now, and if Oi
didn’t almost forget the bit letter Tim Smith’s bye Jerry brought.”

Marjorie’s heart lost a beat.

“A telegram!” she cried. “Why, who can it be——”

Already Hugh had torn it open, and it was with a light of gladness in
his eyes and a flourish as of laying at her feet the wealth of the
world, that he handed it to his wife.

“We’ve won, dearest,—I’m sure of it. See it is from the biggest of all
the firms I’ve wanted to interest.”

In a daze Marjorie gazed at the few typed words as though they held
magic. She was but dimly aware of her mechanical good-night to the
good-hearted Irishwoman who made it possible for such little pleasures
as she and Hugh had to-night enjoyed. There was entrancement; the words
danced in letters of gold before her eyes.

    HUGH BENTON

      ATWOOD, N. Y.

    Meeting with Directors Arranged for Ten Thirty, Sept. 23.
    Everything Favorable to Date.

                                            TEMPLETON, BAIRD & CO.

“Dearest!” At last she found voice. “How perfectly wonderful! Oh, I
_knew_ you would make me proud of you!” She flew to him and her arms
reached up to cling about his neck. The man’s eyes, too, were dim, but
there was in them that which showed he knew now he must not fail,—that
he must do all this woman he loved and who loved him believed him
capable of. His arms folded about her tenderly. With a sudden thought,
though, she drew away a bit to glance once more at the crumpled yellow
sheet that meant so much. “Why dear!” she gasped wonderingly, “it’s
right away, too! Did you notice? This meeting is for _to-morrow_!”

Hugh Benton nodded.

“Yes, sweetheart. And I’ve been thinking while you’ve been dreaming and
waking up to realities. I’ll take the morning train—I’ll telephone Mr.
Birmingham—and I can be back at mid-night. You can get Mrs. Clancy to
come over and stay with you.”

Marjorie drew back reproachfully.

“Mrs. Clancy! Oh, Hugh, dear! How can you think I could have anybody
about when I’ll have so much to think of—so much to plan——”

Hugh smiled a bit ruefully.

“Seemed to me lately you’d already been planning a lot—got new ones to
make?” he asked, half teasingly.

“Hundreds, thousands, millions of them,” declared Marjorie, sweeping her
hands in a gesture to include the world. “Oh, I won’t be lonely—you can
be sure of that. But,” and her eyes roved toward the table with its
untouched food and the coffee pot simmering on the stove, “here we are
forgetting to eat. It must be serious. Sit down dear, and let’s plan it
all out. I’m going to get the chocolate cake. This isn’t to be an
ordinary feast, you know!”

Hugh Benton’s eyes were somber as he watched his wife, her face flushed
to a deep wild rose, her eyes shining like stars, as she flew to arrange
their belated supper. His thoughts were far off.

“I wonder,” he murmured, as he closely followed her movements, his chin
cupped in one hand, his elbow resting on the table with its embroidered
doilies, Marjorie’s own handiwork, “I wonder if it is really what she
wants. But I’ve got to do it—I _must_ make good—I will!”




                              CHAPTER III


Hugh Benton reached out and took a large piece of the chocolate cake
which his wife held toward him. He bit into it hugely with satisfaction.

“Well, little one,” he said, his mouth full of the toothsome morsel,
“let’s hear what’s on your mind. Shoot!”

“Hugh, dear!” Marjorie shook a remonstrative finger at him. “You know
how I dislike slang! And what if the babies should see you with your
mouth crammed like that!”

Her husband grinned boyishly.

“Pardon me,” he said, with exaggerated dignity. “What I meant to say,
Mrs. Benton, was, what have you been planning to do when your husband is
no longer a wage slave, a poor minion whose chief duty is to watch other
people’s money, and shall himself become a personage of wealth and
position?”

Marjorie’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed rosy with excitement as
she answered enthusiastically. “Oh, such heaps and heaps of wonderful
plans, dear. I scarcely know how to begin to tell them all. First of
all, of course, we’ll leave here and go to New York. We will purchase a
lovely home—somewhere on the Drive, I think. Then we will spend days
and days going about in all sorts of quaint little shops searching for
rare antiques and selecting beautiful furniture and draperies. When our
home is ready, we will have a nurse for the kiddies, and after a couple
of years, a governess, and when they grow up, Elinor can go to a select
finishing school for young ladies, and Howard can attend college
and—oh, I could go on forever and ever planning, but it seems absurd,
so many years ahead, and—” She stopped suddenly. “Why dear, you’re not
enthusing at all, and you don’t seem to be interested in anything I am
saying. Don’t my castles in the air meet with your approval?”

Hugh shook his head sadly. “Well not exactly, dear—the first time since
we’ve been married, too, but our ideas are mighty far apart.”

“Well then, what do your ideas happen to be?” Marjorie was a little
hurt.

Hugh contemplated his wife for a moment, as though loath to say anything
that might dim the enthusiasm that glowed in her blue eyes.

“My thoughts are a long way from New York,” he began, “probably you
wouldn’t be interested at all. But all my life I’ve had just one dream.”

“Of course, I’m interested in what you want, Hugh dear,” quietly
answered Marjorie, but something in her tone belied the ardor of the
words. “Tell me.”

“It’s just this.” For a moment Hugh stopped, and the vision he conjured
brought an eagerness to his words when he spoke.

“I want to be a farmer—a gentleman farmer. I want to buy an estate or
small farm not far from New York but near this place where we have
always been so happy. I’ll hire men to do the rough part of the work,
but I want to keep myself busy and occupied overseeing things. I never
did like to be idle. You know that. Then we can have that nurse for the
children so that we can run up to New York occasionally for a few days
and have all the theaters and opera we want. Then when the youngsters
are old enough to attend school, I should like to send them to a public
school. Some of our greatest men and women have been educated in them,
you must recall. I don’t believe in finishing schools—never did—they’d
make Elinor a snob. As for colleges, unless a boy is absolutely sincere
in wanting to be a professional man, what good would they do him? Howard
would just get in with the idle rich, which in the end would surely
spell disaster for him morally and financially. You see, my dear, I want
my daughter to be a _real_ woman like her mother; and my son, all I ask
is that he be a man!” He stopped, musing.

Had Hugh Benton not been so interested in his own dream, he would have
seen on the face of his wife more varying emotions than he had ever seen
since he had known her. They would have been new to him. Disappointment
she showed, disapproval, injury, then, swiftly following, a real
indignation in the narrowing to pin points of the pupils of her wide
eyes. But when she spoke, it was in a meek, cool voice.

“And what about your wife?”

Hugh laughed. “Why, everything for my wife,” he said. “You’ll be
chatelaine of it all.” He glanced up at her and stopped, fork suspended
in midair at the strange expression he saw. “Why, Marjorie, little
girl,” he queried, earnestly, “what’s wrong? What is it, dear?”

Marjorie’s foot tapped impatiently on the bare floor of the
kitchen-dining room. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Nothing,” she declared, without apparent interest. “Nothing at
all—except that after all these five years of privation and hard work,
now when you have prospects of actually becoming wealthy, you sit there
and calmly propose _to bury me on a farm_!” The scorn in the utterance
of the last words brought a look of surprise, quickly followed by pain
to the eyes of Hugh Benton. He spoke, slowly, contritely.

“I suppose I’m selfish, like all men,” he said sadly, “but, someway,
because I’ve been so happy myself, I’ve never known before that the
years we’ve been married had been a burden to you.”

Then the real Marjorie Benton came to the surface. She reached over to
grab his hand convulsively.

“I’m the one to be forgiven, dear,” she begged contritely. “Oh, I never
meant that—indeed I didn’t—you know I’ve been happy. Oh, I didn’t
realize what I was saying!” She forced back the tears.

“Of course, it hasn’t been hard—I’ve had you, haven’t I, and my babies,
but somehow, I can’t make you understand how I feel—I’m all unstrung. I
do want to try life in a different sphere among an entirely different
class of people. I can’t help having aspirations for my children, can I,
and I can’t see anything ahead of them if they are narrowed down to a
life like ours has been. And what could I do if we go to live on a farm?
Just routine—monotony—forever!”

“You could do a great deal of good, dear,” Hugh answered gently. “Think
of all the poor and needy that you could aid. You could be a ministering
angel right here in our own little town, for you know as well as I do
how many there are who would be grateful to have a helping hand.”

“So you think being a ‘ministering angel’ could fill my life?”

“Combined with the love of your husband and children, it most assuredly
should. Why, dear, there isn’t anything in the world that can bring you
such happiness as helping someone in distress.”

“Well, couldn’t I do that in New York?” Marjorie brightened a little.
“There’s lots of room for charity there—I could go in for settlement
work or something. Think how much larger a field I would have to
‘minister’ in!”

So earnest was his gravity, that he passed his wife’s bit of levity
unheeded.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “The field’s too large—and there are
already too many in it—workers of all kinds,—sincere and insincere. I
guess you could find enough to do, if you want to, a lot nearer home.”

With his usual manner of having settled a matter, Hugh Benton rose from
the little table and yawned broadly. He never even thought as he saw his
wife fingering a doily, nervously folding and unfolding it in creased
patterns, that this was a symptom of nervous tumult.

“Oh, well, I guess we’re a couple of kids,” he told her with a laugh.
“Day dreaming,—fussing over make believes. We haven’t any
money—yet—Time enough to argue when the papers are signed. And if I
don’t get to bed pretty quick I won’t be in much shape to talk to those
people, either. Coming along?”

Marjorie shook her head.

“Not for a few minutes. I must put the cake away. Butter and eggs still
mean something, as you’ve reminded me. So run along.”

Deeply in love with his wife as he was, Hugh Benton would not have
dropped off to sleep so quickly had he known how long his wife was to
sit where he had left her, brooding over their talk, telling herself of
his unfairness, wearing herself into a mood so entirely unlike herself.
There was indeed, something radically wrong with Marjorie Benton,—and
money was at the bottom of it. Already it had made her almost quarrel
with her husband. Now the prospect of it had roused in her a bitterness
and resentment of which she would not have believed herself capable a
few short weeks before.

When at last she crept softly in beside her sleeping husband, it was
with the determination that she would not be put aside in the way Hugh
had put her—that she was going to have one great big say as to how that
not-yet-earned money was going to be spent. And none of her plans
included any farms or ministering angels. Restlessly she turned from
side to side, unable to sleep. She was filled with smoldering
indignation. Surely she was right about Hugh treating her unfairly.
Wasn’t it his duty to live where she would be happiest, if he could
afford it? Was it right for him to want to please himself only? And
besides—all that talk about the children. Surely she, their mother,
should know what was best for them. With her last troubled waking
thought a determination to let Hugh understand exactly how she stood in
the matter before he left for New York, she dropped into an uneasy
slumber.

A dream came. She was walking through a narrow path in a beautiful
garden. On each side of her were rows of magnificent roses. She gathered
them as she walked along. Repeatedly a voice whispered to her to turn
back, but she ignored the warning, and went on her way blithely. As she
reached a bend in the path and was about to turn into it Hugh suddenly
appeared before her. He, too, implored her to relinquish her roses and
return from whence she came. She eyed him haughtily from head to foot,
and disdainfully brushing aside his detaining hand, went forward. Then
it was that the ground gave way under her, and she found herself
slipping downward—downward, with startling rapidity. The weight of the
roses in her arms became unbearable. It was impossible to free herself
from their overwhelming odor of sickening sweetness; she was submerged
beneath them. In desperation she commanded her last ounce of strength
and screamed aloud for Hugh to save her.

She awoke to find him bending solicitously over her.

“What is it, honey?” he asked gently. “That nightmare must have been
dreadful—you screamed so you awakened us all.” Marjorie sat up in bed
dazedly, rubbing her eyes. Through the open door she saw Elinor and
Howard peeking at her through the bars of their cribs. “Did I scream?”
she asked wonderingly. “How silly—I did have a dreadful dream, but,”
she sat up wide awake, “what time is it?”

“Half past six.”

“Already?” She yawned a bit, but strangely was not sleepy. Sudden memory
of her determination came to her. “Well, then, I’m going to get up and
dress the babies as long as I scared them out of their sleep. I’ll start
them with their breakfast, then I want to have a talk with you, Hugh.”

Hugh groaned with mock seriousness.

“Can’t a fellow even go to the big town to make a million dollars
without having to carry a lot of samples to match or have to bring home
an aluminum pan or something?”

But there was no answering light of humor from his wife. How little Hugh
knew how serious had been their talk of the night before, she thought as
she deftly swung little Elinor around to fasten her tiny rompers. Well,
he would know before he left that she was not going to let him have his
own way without a word from her.

As a usual thing Hugh’s not over-melodious whistling as he shaved and
dressed was a pleasure to her. She thought of him as a big boy, a
grown-up edition of her own small Howard, and it was with an indulgent
smile that she would listen to him as she hurried the children with
their breakfasts while his coffee was being prepared and the little
table set for their own breakfast. This morning, however, it had a
strangely disturbing effect. Somehow she wished he wouldn’t do it. He
sounded so—well, so overconfident. Of course, she was glad if he felt
confident of the success of his mission in New York, but he shouldn’t be
planning, as she knew he was, to spend their money as he had proposed
the night before.

But Hugh was so full of his plans for selling his invention, so eager in
his hurried talk, that he never noticed her attitude, her unusual
silence as she opened his eggs, spilling them a little as her hand
trembled with the indignation that she had nursed through the night. He
hurried through the last mouthful, rose and started to put on his
overcoat.

“Got to hurry a little in spite of our early start, honey,” he observed,
glancing at his watch. “Hurry up with your orders for the head of the
house.”

Still Marjorie Benton was silent until she had followed her husband from
the kitchen out onto the little porch and closed the door behind her.

“Hugh,” she began, and there was firmness and determination in her tone
and in the set of her daintily-molded young chin. “I’m sorry to have to
say this, but I can’t let you go off to New York until we come to a
decision about the matter of which we spoke last night.”

“What matter?” For the minute, his mind far away on what he intended to
do, the master of the house of Benton had forgotten the talk which had
come to mean so much to his wife. Then a light dawned on him, and he
grinned. “Oh, yes, I remember,” and his light laugh only further annoyed
Marjorie, “we spent several million dollars in several different ways,
didn’t we?”

“It’s no laughing matter, Hugh.” At last Hugh turned his wondering gaze
on his wife’s set face to see that she was really in earnest. “Why,
honey——”

“Oh, it’s all right to put me off with sweet words,” Marjorie burst out
with a sudden impatience, “but we must have an understanding before you
go. It’s just as well for you to know I won’t be shut up in anybody’s
farm house.”

The man glanced again at his watch, and all the smile had died from his
eyes as he spoke quietly.

“Don’t you think it just a little unfair to bring up unpleasant things
to-day, of all days—when I ought not to think of anything but business.
Trivial annoyances of this kind are anything but pleasant at any time,
but——”

“Trivial possibly to you,” Marjorie retorted, and her face flushed
darkly as she bit her lips to keep back the tears that were imminent,
“but it’s a serious matter to me, and I want you to know exactly how I
feel. I think it is but right that you should, before even another step
is taken. It is just this. Not only do I positively refuse to live on a
farm, but I will not have my children given a public-school education if
I can afford to give them any other!”

“Said it all?” Hugh bit off his words, and there was a graveness and
injury in his manner that was new to Marjorie, and which she did not
fail to catch. “If you have, I think I’d better be getting along, or we
may not have any money to quarrel over!”

Chameleon that she was, Marjorie Benton was changed in a minute. One
soft arm reached up to cling around her husband’s neck, while she pulled
him toward her by one overcoat lapel.

“Oh, Hugh dear, we weren’t quarreling, were we? Please say we weren’t!
Why, we’ve never had a quarrel in our lives, and—oh, I just wanted you
to know how I feel, and try to think as I do. You will, won’t you?”

Hugh Benton bent and kissed both eyes that looked at him so
beseechingly.

“I’ll try, dear,” was his grave promise. “You know that your happiness
is all that concerns me, just as you know it is for you that I want to
put this thing across at all.”

Marjorie Benton sighed with happiness as she bade her husband good-by.
What a good place the world was after all!

                 *        *        *        *        *

Busy as she was through the day, Mrs. Hugh Benton often thought
afterward that it was the longest day of her life. It seemed that night
and the train that would bring Hugh back—back to her with the good news
that she was sure he would bring—would never come.

In the afternoon there was one slight diversion. Mrs. Birmingham’s big
car stopped outside her gate, and the great lady herself came into
Marjorie’s humble little home bearing the books she had promised the day
before. But for once in her life, Marjorie was not in the least
interested in the chatter of the banker’s wife. She did not even take
the trouble to offer any prideful reason for Hugh’s absence in New York.
She only wanted to be alone to think what he was doing, and to plan what
they would all do with the wealth he would lavish on them.

Four o’clock, five—six at last. Time for Howard’s and Elinor’s supper.
At last they were in bed. The last question was answered, little
Elinor’s eyes shutting tightly in spite of herself as she crooned the
last lines of her “Wock-a baby” she had had in mother’s lap.

Alone, Marjorie was distinctly restless. She even began to be sorry she
had not sent for Mrs. Clancy, and once even started for the telephone to
send for the garrulous old lady. It was such a long time between
six-thirty and mid-night. But no, she would find something to do. It was
not with a great deal of success that she tried to busy herself,
however. She straightened out the sideboard drawers. Another half hour
gone. There was a lot of mending piled in her sewing basket, but somehow
she did not feel like that now. She contented herself with rearranging
its contents. Scattered about were a lot of magazines she and Hugh had
finished reading. Now was a good time to tie them up to be sent to the
infirmary. She straightened up from this task to glance at the clock
which had never ticked so slowly before. Why, it was only a little after
seven now! Her eyes wandered to the table where she had placed the gayly
bound books Mrs. Birmingham had brought. She idly turned the pages of
one. It did not look uninteresting. Once more her hand reached out for a
moment through habit for the mending basket. Then she laughed as she
withdrew it. What was the use? They wouldn’t have to be wearing mended
things much longer, any of them. She might as well read until Hugh’s
train reached Atwood.

“I’ll find out just how Mrs. Birmingham’s sister’s taste in literature
runs,” she mused, “though I doubt if Mrs. B. will ever profit very much
this time by having her books read for her.”

Another shovelful of coal for the fire, and with the big wicker chair
drawn up in front of it, Marjorie Benton gave herself a little shake to
settle down comfortably as she opened her book and slipped her fingers
between its pages to find if there were any uncut leaves. For the first
time that day, she forgot the passage of time. Page after page she
turned as the clock ticked on, striking its hours and half hours
unheeded. It was a fascinating story, at that.

The soft closing of the kitchen door caused her to look up with a start.
She jumped to her feet as though she could not believe her eyes. There
was Hugh standing before her, a wide bland smile on his handsome face as
he drew off a brand new glove.

“Hugh, dear!” she exclaimed, “how you startled me! I didn’t hear you
come up the walk—why, I didn’t even hear the train! Did you get an
earlier one? What time is it?”

“Ten after twelve, honey,” he answered. “You must have been reading
something mighty good, and here I came in so quietly. Thought you’d be
asleep!”

“Asleep! Oh, how could you! Don’t you know I’m just perishing to know
what happened! Tell me—quick, quick!”

Hugh Benton’s ready grin broadened. He was teasingly slow in answering
as his hand went into his pocket and he drew out a wallet, and with
maddening slowness drew from it a certified check.

“Just a scrap of paper,” he commented off-handedly, “but this will tell
you what you want to know, and then I’ll tell you the rest.”

Marjorie’s eyes widened with amazement at the startling figures on the
face of the small piece of paper he dangled before her. She was too
choked with emotion for a moment to speak. Her husband’s arms closed
gently around her and he drew her to him.

“We did it, dear—you and I,” he whispered. “And it’s all for you. This
is only a starter, too, for if you think this is big, you ought to see
the contracts I’ve made for royalties.”

“Hugh! Hugh!” Marjorie’s voice was a sob as she kissed him again and
again. “Oh, I’m too happy to tell you! Oh, please don’t wake me out of
this wonderful dream!”

“Well, I, for one,” Hugh laughed as he slipped the check between his
fingers, “am too used to handling these things belonging to other people
to think this is a dream. There is only one thing I’m thinking of, and
that is your happiness.” Marjorie drew back from him a step and looked
levelly into his eyes.

“Are you quite, quite sure, Hugh dear?” she begged earnestly.

“Quite.” In that one word Hugh Benton put a world of meaning. “I’ve had
plenty of time to think, too—and I’ve decided. You shall do with this
money just exactly as you please. Whatever your plans are, they must be
for the best, so I have given up all thoughts of the farm. And now
that’s settled,” he said, in the old way, giving himself a little shake
of renunciation.

“Oh, Hugh, you _are_ a darling! And you’ll never regret it—never regret
letting me have my way in this one big thing. I promise you!”

For a moment the big man’s eyes were solemn. Into them came just a hint
of that far-away look of wonder. But his voice was tender, if a bit
grave as he spoke:

“Let’s hope not, sweetheart—let’s hope not!”




                               CHAPTER IV


Christmas Eve in the new home!

A Christmas tree that glittered and dazzled with its festoons of
twinkling little bulbs of sapphire and gold, ruby, and orange, and
violet, and pale lemon from its wide-spreading base in the center of the
Bentons’ upstairs living room of their fourteen-room house on that most
wonderful of driveways, Riverside, in New York—to the top-most branch
that swept the high creamy ceiling jostling the fine bisque cherub that
adorned that branch— And a house warming.

As Marjorie Benton with a long-drawn sigh of contentment looked for the
hundredth time about this one new big room with its sweeping spaces, its
gay cretonnes and deep, cushion-piled wicker chairs and out through the
row of French windows across the dusky blue of the Hudson to the
Palisades with their twinkling starlights, she felt that life at last
was worth living. All this—all—and her arms moved in a comprehensive
gesture impelled by her thoughts—was hers! Her home! What more fitting
than that they should have their house warming on Christmas Eve.
Marjorie’s tired nerves and body that ached a bit, too, in sympathy,
reminded her that she had not been able to have all this ready for
Christmas Eve without effort. But how glad she was that she had done it!
Glad!

True, Hugh was glooming a little—sentimental glooming for a time he
should be glad to have put behind him, but he would get over that she
was sure. He would come to see that her judgment was best, and that this
was the way to live. Once more she sighed with utter contentment as she
rearranged a heavy strand of silver tinsel that dangled inartistically.
It was all ready for the children now and she could take time to
breathe. In a deep chair in front of the sputtering open fire on its
quaintly tiled hearth she dropped down for a moment’s rest and
retrospection.

How busy and interesting had been the few short months that had passed
since the night Hugh had come home to her in Atwood with his wonderful
news!

They had been most fortunate in securing the services of a capable and
competent nurse for the children, so they could catch the early train to
New York every day on their house-hunting expeditions. Their reward had
been this beautiful little house on the Drive, with its view of the
Hudson. To Marjorie it seemed a mansion with its fourteen rooms, its
servants’ quarters in the attic, their garage with space for three cars,
and oh, so many more things she had not at first thought of herself.

Then had begun the real work and pleasure of furnishing it. What a
never-changing miracle it was to Marjorie to be able to select
whatsoever she wished without having to hesitate and consider the price
and durability of each article as she had always been obliged to do.

Every detail had been completed a few days before Christmas, when they
bade farewell to their friends and the little village with its memories
of five happy years, and moved into the new home.

Stretched lazily on Marjorie’s wicker _chaise longue_, smoking his
after-dinner cigar, careless of his tumbling of his wife’s carefully
selected new pillows, Hugh Benton let his gaze rove over the vivid
scene. It paused as his eyes reached his wife sitting before the cheery
fire, her slight smile telling of what she saw in the blazing logs.
Because they were so close, so much to each other, Marjorie Benton felt
this and as she turned in Hugh’s direction, her smile broadened as her
features lighted up with expressed happiness. In a moment she was by his
side, kneeling on a cushion in the old familiar child manner her husband
knew and loved, and her fingers were running caressingly through his
shock of dark hair.

“What do you think of it all, dear?” she asked exultingly. “Isn’t the
tree wonderful? I think those decorators were marvelous, but I guess I’m
not quite used to money yet, for I almost dread to think of the bill
they’ll present.”

Slowly Hugh sat up, and reached for her hand. He patted it gently as he
spoke.

“It has all been wonderful, dear,” he answered, “and you mustn’t forget
you’re to forget the bills—but honey-girl,” and there was a little
droop to the corners of his mouth and unmistakable yearning in his
earnest eyes as he voiced his plaint, “somehow I can’t help missing the
little old Christmas Eves we always had at Atwood. Remember how you and
I would sit up nights ahead stringing popcorn, gilding walnuts,
tinseling cotton to represent snow, and doing everything we could to
have a pretty, effective tree for the kiddies, without hardly investing
anything?”

Marjorie laughed as she gave his hand a playful squeeze. To her it was
incomprehensible, with all this grandeur before him, that Hugh should
regret the Atwood days.

“How funny, those other little trees were compared with this one,
weren’t they?” she wanted to know.

But there was no gleam of answering mirth from Hugh.

“Umm, funny, maybe,” he agreed with an air of reservation. But there was
a fuller meaning than Marjorie caught, as he added: “You’re right—one
couldn’t possibly compare those other trees with this. Still,” and he
was so plaintively appealing that his wife’s clear laughter rang out
more bubblingly than ever, “still, we got a lot of happiness out of
those funny little trees, didn’t we, dear?”

Marjorie was not going to commit herself too far.

“Yes—I suppose we did,” was her reluctant admission.

“And say, do you remember,” Hugh rambled on, his eyes aglow with
animation, “the night we cut out the movies to buy two whole ornaments
the next day—I’ll tell you——”

Marjorie stopped him a little impatiently. She playfully placed her hand
over his mouth.

“Now, Hugh darling, don’t lecture—there’s a good boy! I’m not going to
let you on Christmas Eve. You’re just not used to things yet. When you
are, you’ll just be bound to admit you have the wisest little wife in
the world—” She stopped his protest with a quick caress as she got to
her feet, and went over to the tree to place a life-like big doll and a
“really, truly” railroad train in more conspicuous positions.

“It is beautiful, though, isn’t it, dear?” she repeated, and without
waiting for his reply, hurried on: “There are two people I know who’ll
think so if you don’t. Just wait till you see their eyes in the
morning!”

She stifled an unwelcome yawn with the pat of fingers.

“More tired than I thought, dear,” she admitted. “I really must get some
sleep. There’s so much to enjoy to-morrow. Coming along, or are you
going to smoke for awhile?”

“Believe I’ll finish my cigar. Don’t stay awake waiting for me
now—good-night, dearest, pleasant dreams, and a world of happy
Christmases before you,” and he kissed her as he opened the door for
her, in the old-world manner he never neglected.

Alone, Hugh Benton extinguished all the lights in the room, even those
on the tree, and seated himself in the rocker before the fire. For a
long time he sat smoking his cigar, gazing into the dying embers. His
thoughts were of many things—of his years of unalloyed happiness—of
his great love for his wife and babies, and then of this newly-acquired
fortune. Marjorie’s theory of living he at last concluded appeared to be
more sensible than his own, after all, and when he finally arose, it was
with the full determination to use every power within his grasp to meet
all the requirements due this new position of his. He would mold his
life anew; become a man of affairs. With all that was in him he would
strive diligently to reach the pinnacle of success that his ambitious
wife had planned for him.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Boredom has long been the common complaint of the idle rich. Many things
are excused because of it; many useless and reckless occupations
condoned for and by that favored class on the ground that the time
passes so slowly that they must have something to do. Whether or no this
is exactly the case, however, is a moot question. To come right down to
it, time generally passes a great deal more quickly for those who have
more store of worldly goods than they would wish. To the woman of
fashion and wealth months and days seem actually to have flown by from
the time she made her more or less blushing début until she suddenly
wakes one day to realize that there is gray in her hair, and that it
will take arduous hours at the beauty parlors to smooth over the ravages
of time in a once-unwrinkled countenance. Men, too—more often than not
the man of unlimited means comes to know that middle life is upon him
and that he has not accomplished any of the great things that he had
once planned, always having known that with wealth to back him he could
accomplish them. It is all the fault of time. It flies rapidly—too
rapidly for those who have the means for gratifying every wish and whim.

The Bentons were no exception to the rule. Time flew by on such light
wings for them that it was hard to realize that so much had been
accomplished, so much changed in the three years that might have been so
many months since they had left Atwood for New York. Of them all,
though, the children had most readily accustomed themselves to the
change and long since had become seasoned little New Yorkers with little
noses turned up at less lucky youngsters who had no nice warm closed car
to command whenever they wished a ride.

Hugh, too, at the end of the three years (though his change had been
more gradual), might always have lived on Riverside Drive and known club
life since his salad days. Unlike his wife, who in the first flush of
her good fortune had elected play as her life work, Hugh had turned his
attention to work. Ambitious as he was, and before his first success
with his invention with no outlet for it, he had not let grass grow
under his feet since he had changed his cottage in Atwood for a house on
Riverside Drive. Personal attention to the details of the manufacture of
his invention had brought him in contact with business men of wealth and
solidity and deep down Hugh Benton was not the sort of man to neglect
what opportunity threw in his way. From manufacturing to Wall Street had
been but a step. Had Hugh Benton’s lucky fairy been with him day by day
to wave her magic wand, he could not have had more fortune in his
ventures. His was not the story of the ordinary novice. It was the
thousandth one that daily draws more and more grist to the mills of the
“big men” who rule so autocratically in that small street called
Wall;—the story that draws adventurers with all the fascination that
fishermen who daily cast their lines off the bathing beaches know
because of tales of a solitary tide runner that some time has been known
to become unwary.

So it was, that at the end of three years, Hugh Benton was a rich man.
He was becoming richer. He might have been a blood relation of Midas,
said those who had come eagerly to watch for a tip that might fall from
his lips unguardedly, for in so short a time his had become the
platitudinous but nonetheless expressive sobriquet of “Lucky Benton.”

With success, came all that it usually implies. His, too, had become the
pleasures of the rich. Almost without knowing it, so subtle had come the
transformation, home no longer held the joys it once did for the former
bank employee. Roadsters of high speed, cards at any of the many clubs
where he had been eagerly welcomed, fishing and hunting expeditions from
the base of a hundred-thousand-dollar “shack” in the Adirondacks had
taken the place of more homely pleasures. It had all come about so
easily too. Looking back in one of his few retrospective moods Hugh
Benton smiled as he recalled the thought he would never accustom himself
to New York. He smiled a bit disdainfully at his own small viewpoint
when he remembered how once he had believed he would be content as a
gentleman farmer.

Only Marjorie Benton was dissatisfied, though she was queerly conscious
that she ought not to be—that she had everything that she had once so
sincerely believed necessary to her happiness. The artificiality of all
about her had come to her with a shock, an eye opening all the more
distressing because of its suddenness. Marjorie Benton had found out she
did not know how to play. More, she had discovered she did not want to.
At least she did not want to play as did those with whom she came in
contact and who had, from the horizon of Atwood, seemed all that was
most desirable in the world. For instance, one of her most eager plans
when she once put herself to sleep planning was to play bridge and spend
wonderful afternoons in the company of cultured and delightful women
such as those of whom she had read and whom she hoped to emulate. One of
her first steps had been to get an instructress, so that she would be
prepared to enter “society.”

It had not been hard for the Bentons to enter the charmed circle. It had
been surprisingly easy, in fact, for Hugh’s financial success opened
many doors that might otherwise have been barred, and present-day
“society” may well be trusted not to overlook the tales the journals
have to tell of sudden wealth (and Hugh had proven good copy) however
much they may profess to scorn it.

So she had met a great many people, as the wives of Hugh’s friends had
called and invited her to one affair after the other. At first she had
been fairly beside herself with joy. But it was of short duration. Try
as she would, she simply could not “take” to any of these new friends.
They were all so frivolous and petty. Life held nothing for them
obviously but bridge, dress, theater and gossip.

Then had come the day of her own first bridge party and her first real
shock and mute protest. Somehow the thought of playing for money had
never entered her mind. She had imagined that they played for a prize,
the same as they had done at home at their little whist socials; or
perhaps society matrons simply played for amusement.

“You must be particularly nice to Mrs. Gregory,” Hugh told her when she
was starting off for the bridge party at the exclusive Mrs. Arnold’s
Fifth Avenue home. “She’s one of ‘the’ Gregorys, you know, and it will
mean a great deal socially to have her good will.”

Marjorie promised. This would not be hard, for was it not her way to be
particularly nice to all her own and her husband’s friends and
acquaintances? It was Mrs. Gregory who gave Mrs. Hugh Benton her
surprise and shock, however. At the table where she sat with three other
players, including Hugh’s Mrs. Gregory, Mrs. Allen cut the cards
languidly and remarked:

“Well, what shall it be? May I suggest a quarter of a cent?”

Mrs. Gregory suppressed a polite yawn.

“Oh, my dear!” was her reproof. “How can you suggest wasting our time
so! You know I never play for anything less than two cents—it’s boring
enough even then.”

So Marjorie Benton played for money. She had not in the least intended
to, but she was too embarrassed to utter a protest. She played, and with
a mind perturbed, of course, played badly. At the end of the afternoon
she had lost sixty dollars. Her cheeks burned as she made out her check
and laid it on the table.

All the way home as she sat comfortably in her limousine she thought of
it. It wasn’t the money—sixty dollars meant nothing to Marjorie
Benton—she would have felt precisely the same had she won. It was the
principle of the thing that worried her—she felt utterly debased to
think that she had spent an afternoon _gambling_. She couldn’t imagine
just why it should affect her that way, unless it was her puritanical
upbringing that arose to the surface, despite all her efforts to force
it back.

When she told Hugh about it, he laughed, and called her a “little
old-fashioned country girl.”

“Have you forgotten about ‘living in Rome,’ honey?” he said lightly.
“Don’t let it upset you. You’ll get used to it!”

But Marjorie knew better. There was only one thing to do. So never again
did she play bridge. Bridge bored her, she insisted, and she didn’t
enjoy it.

With everything else it was the same. She couldn’t accustom herself to
seeing the women drink cocktails at a luncheon, and the first time they
passed their cigarette cases she almost gasped. But the thing that
disgusted her above all else was the deceit that she discovered all
about her.

Her eyes were opened to this. One afternoon she called on Mrs. James,
society matron, and the wife of one of Hugh’s friends. When she entered
the room, three women she had met previously were seated at the
tea-table. Their conversation ceased as abruptly as if a curtain had
been rung down in the middle of an act. She paid little attention to the
matter at the time, as they were all so charming in their manner toward
her, and greeted her so effusively.

For a while they discussed inconsequential topics, and then their
conversation drifted to another woman, a member of their own set. At
first there wasn’t anything really offensive in their remarks. It merely
brought to the surface a feline quality unsuspected. But the
conversation changed suddenly. To Marjorie it seemed these women surely
couldn’t realize what they were saying. Like a pack of hungry wolves,
they tore the woman they discussed into shreds.

Dumfounded, Marjorie sat and listened. She couldn’t believe it possible
that four women could say such scandalous things of another they called
friend. She was sure their assertions were untrue, as they insinuated
things impossible for anyone to know. They surmised merely, and it was
upon such scant evidence that they set about to wreck a woman’s
reputation. She felt that she could tolerate it no longer, and was about
to protest, when the woman who had been under the hammer entered the
room.

To Marjorie’s consternation and amazement the four eager talkers
welcomed the newcomer with open arms. Their terms of affectionate
endearment seemed revolting, but it was when one effusively gushed:
“Your ears must be burning, dear, we were just discussing you and
remarking how unkind you were to deprive us of your charming society for
so long a time,” that Marjorie felt that she had reached the limit of
her endurance, and pleading an important engagement, hurried away.

Before she reached home, she remembered how strangely they had all acted
when she entered the room. Like a clear light it dawned on her that they
must have been discussing her just as they had this other woman.

Instances of this sort taught her shallowness and insincerity of the
people with whom she had chosen to mingle, so she managed to see less
and less of them all. Instead, she tried to interest herself in charity,
and again she failed. Whenever she decided to do a kindness, a reporter
would rush in, demand her picture for the front page of the society
section, and make a sensation out of nothing at all.

Many women would have craved that very thing, and derived great pleasure
from it. But not Marjorie Benton. With true gentility she shrank from
publicity. If she wanted to help those in distress, she wanted to do it
alone, in her own way, without having the whole world know of it.

She spent as much time as she could with the children while they were
small, but as they grew older and tutors and governesses took the place
of nurses, she found herself more and more lonely.

Once when Hugh asked her if she were happy, for a moment the inclination
was strong to open up her heart and tell him exactly how she felt—but
the thought of the children forced her to conquer it. For their sakes
she would utter no word of complaint; her own feelings must be
sacrificed for them and for her plans for their education and futures.

At the expiration of the five years’ lease on their home, Hugh purchased
a magnificent home, within easy motoring distance of New York. A small
army of servants were engaged to take charge of it.

Then for a time, Marjorie Benton was again happy. Always she had wanted
just such gardens as Hugh’s increased fortune made possible on their new
estate. Exquisite rare flowers diffused their perfume; shaded walks
wound serpentinely through long vistas of greensward and shrubbery;
miniature lakes, crystal clear with water lilies on their shining
bosoms; fountains that spouted and sparkled in the sun that seemed never
to shine so fair as on this wonder garden. At last she had one place of
dreams-come-true. Only the fine stone benches that Hugh had imported
were not part of the picture to her. They were so cold and hard—so
reminiscent of the people for whom they were made. So, old-fashioned as
she had come to admit herself to be, Marjorie Benton had her little
rocker placed out in her garden and it was here that her happiest hours
were spent, among her cherished flowers, wandering about, or sitting
idly, reading or sewing. It disturbed her not one whit that Hugh found
cause for mirth in her sewing.

“You can have a dozen women to do that for you, my dear,” he reminded
her. “I thought you wanted to get away from all that sort of thing.”

But Marjorie only smiled her slow smile and made no attempt to make Hugh
understand that she wanted to do something—that she must feel that her
time was not all being wasted.

It was at this period that Hugh Benton branched out as a host. His
dinners were becoming famous; his week-end invitations favors to be
eagerly bid for. The big new house became the scene of many a social
event, and the Bentons’ hospitality a thing to conjure with. When her
husband’s friends were invited for the week-end, a dinner party, or any
other sort of entertainment, Mrs. Benton was a charming and considerate
hostess. Somehow, though, she was always in the background—she was with
them, but never of them. She had given up even trying to enter into the
spirit of their pleasures and amusements.

Her clothes, always of the finest materials and expensive, lacked style.
Her evening gowns all had lace or net yokes, with sleeves reaching to
the elbow. She wouldn’t wear a decollete gown, and to her innermost self
she was forced to acknowledge that she could not overcome her
old-fashioned notions of propriety.

Marjorie couldn’t realize that Hugh, now the ultra-modern host, was the
same man who once had protested with bitterness against their present
manner of life. While Marjorie stood still, his steps dashed madly
ahead. He fairly reveled in it all. As a prince of good fellows he was
hailed among his friends. Money he lavished at home and abroad; every
whim of the children was indulged with a recklessness that was ruinous.

He couldn’t comprehend Marjorie’s attitude. Surely this was what she had
insisted she wanted. What was the matter with women, anyway? He pleaded
with her to take her place in society and mingle more among people, but
uselessly; he became angry and impatient, and called her attention to
the fact that it was she who had planned their new life and not he, and
at last had come the settling down, the acceptance of things as they
were, Marjorie going on in her strait-laced conventional way, not as
unhappy as she might have been had there not come that subtle rift
between her and her husband which in five years had reached undreamed-of
width; Hugh resigned and indifferent, always kind and courteous, but
seeking his own pleasure, and living his life in his own way.

To Marjorie Benton had come one final pang when Hugh had decided it
would be more agreeable and comfortable all around if he had his own
suite of rooms. She had dropped a few tears of regret as she arranged
those rooms for him, and in the general upheaval she had come upon his
old ebony military brushes that had so long reposed on their joint
bureau in their bedroom in the Atwood cottage. Marjorie remembered how
she had got them for his birthday, and hers was a twisted little smile
as she laid the little brushes down to compare them with Hugh’s new ones
of ivory. How insignificant they looked! And how dear! She turned and
her wide eyes roved through the big room in search of familiar objects.
Yes, there was his smelly old pipe, the slippers she had embroidered
herself, a little shabby now from much wear and with their gay flowers
faded, but— And the little beaten metal humidor. It was with a start
that she looked up to find Hugh in the room, giving instructions to his
impeccable English valet. He saw the little pile on a big wicker table.
His hand shot out to sweep them all from their resting places and
Marjorie Benton heard the little metal clang of protest as they piled
into a waste paper basket.

“Here, take all this old junk out and burn it,” he coolly advised.
“Enough stuff around here without all this old junk——”

His wife’s smile was wan. “Old junk—” How far Hugh had gone from the
dear sentimental old days! It seemed like so much of the days of Atwood
were in the same category. Was everything to go the same way—everything
of that old time, only five years as men counted time, but still so
infinitely of a long, long ago to go the same way, become “old junk.” It
was with a little gesture of benediction that Marjorie laid the little
ebony brushes in the basket with the rest.

Hugh turned to her a little querulously.

“My dear,” he observed, “don’t you think it would be just as well to let
the servants attend to this? They probably think it strange that you so
often show such inclination to do their work.”

And meekly the woman left what was to her a labor of love. She would
have liked Hugh to remember when he was in his suite that it was her
care that made him so comfortable. She could have thought of him in his
deep arm-chair before his blazing logs glancing at the wide mantel where
she had placed photographs of herself and the children; of his smile
when he saw how carefully she had arranged his smoking materials as he
had once liked her to arrange them. But Hugh preferred differently. He
preferred the cold, stolid, mechanical efficiency of his expressionless
English serving man. Long Marjorie Benton sat before her own little fire
in her gold and ivory boudoir and thought it all out. What had happened
to them in these five years?

After Hugh’s removal to his own quarters there came times that his wife
often did not see him for two or three days at a time. Late returning
from his club, he said he did not care to disturb her; mornings he would
leave too early or else so late that he would not take the time to see
her. And so, these two who had once been soulmates, were slowly drifting
apart.

Marjorie had not even the consolation of her children now partly to
assuage the loneliness that she had come to admit was the one thing in
her life amid all the gaud that was real. But there was some consolation
in their very absence. She was accomplishing for them all that she had
long ago planned.

Elinor was attending a select school for young ladies, and Howard had
been sent to prepare for college. She counted the days until Elinor
should grow up and once more be at home. Then she would have a real
companion. What wonderful times she and her daughter would have
together. Of course, Elinor had been willful and stubborn as a little
girl, but she was confident that she would leave all that behind her
when she finished school.

And then some day Howard would return from college, ready to take his
place in the world, and perhaps after that he would bring a dear, sweet
girl to her, and she would have another daughter to love.

Dreaming of days to come, putting from her mind all she could the days
that were gone, Marjorie Benton sat gazing into her fire until the clang
of the dressing chimes reminded her that she must dress. That was
something Hugh always insisted on. And she got languidly to her feet
with a sense of being far from happy over the prospective dinner as she
recalled the two effusive, pompous business friends Hugh was having to
dinner.

She smiled as she saw her children’s pictures looking up at her with
answering smiles from their gold frames in their places on her
gold-strewn dressing table, the toilet things Hugh had given her the
past Christmas with far less interest than he had her celluloid set long
ago, the little set she kept tucked away in a bureau drawer so that she
might use them when she chose.

How sweet Elinor was!

How manly Howard!

She smiled in her old mother way as she lifted each picture and kissed
it in turn. And some day— It could not be long now—time flew so——

“Things are not so bad after all, dear ones,” she whispered as she set
them down. “They could not be with any woman who has such lovely
children as mine—so much happiness to look forward to.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

And so were bridged the years between.




                               CHAPTER V


The Benton mansion fairly blazed with lights. Everywhere there was
suppressed excitement. Even from under the dignity of speckless uniforms
and brightly shining buttons, there was evidence that something unusual
was in the air. Hurrying back and forth servants inspected minor
details. Liveried attendants stationed at the door beside his majesty,
the butler, were in readiness to announce the army of guests expected to
celebrate the début of the young daughter of the house—Miss Elinor
Benton.

Sixteen years had passed since Marjorie and Hugh had come to New York to
live—years that had brought vaster changes to them both than either
would have believed possible.

Awaiting the arrival of his guests, Hugh, proud father and man of the
world, stood in the center of his elaborately-decorated ballroom and
gazed about with satisfaction. The years had dealt more than kindly with
Hugh Benton. His appearance told nothing of his forty-four years. There
was no trace of gray in his thick dark hair. His love of athletics, and
the splendid ministrations of his valet had kept his figure in excellent
condition. Now his handsome face wore an expression of
self-satisfaction. He might have been taken for his own son’s brother as
he stood there waiting.

He did not at first see the movement of the trailing vines and flowers
that formed curtains to one of the room’s great entrances. Nor, until
she spoke and came whirling into the room to drop a deep curtsey before
him did he see the girl who had parted those curtains—a girl of such
flower-like beauty that she might have been sister to one of the
blossoms through which she made her way. She looked at him with eyes
that sparkled above delicately flushed cheeks. And Hugh Benton gazed on
his débutante daughter with a joy that was greater by far than he had
ever contemplated any of his wealth of possessions.

“Well, dad!” Elinor Benton exclaimed breathlessly. “How do I look for my
first formal introduction into society?”

For a moment the father did not speak as he looked at her. He was trying
to realize that this gloriously beautiful girl of eighteen, bubbling
over with the exuberance and enthusiasm of youth was his daughter. Her
hair was the same that Marjorie’s had been when he had married her. It
was a mass of spun gold with the sun glittering upon it. Features,
complexion, figure—all were flawless, and Hugh’s eyes beamed with pride
as he answered tenderly, truly; “You’re as beautiful as an angel, dear.”

“Oh, how dear of you to think so, dad!” was her answer, then her manner
changed to an impishness as she added: “It’s certainly fine to have such
a verdict to fall back on first, because there’s going to be a cataclysm
hereabouts in a few minutes about my angelic appearance. Mother’s going
to have a spasm or two when she sees my dress.” Her eyes were full of
mischief as she placed her hand on her father’s arm wheedlingly. “But
you’ll stand by me, won’t you—there’s a good dad?”

Hugh was surprised.

“Why, what’s wrong, little one?” he asked. “Looks to me like a very
wonderful little gown,” and his eyes, trained to admire feminine
adornment, took in with admiration the details of his daughter’s dainty
creation of cream lace with its garlands of pink rosebuds.

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with the dress, but _look_ at my neck
and arms,” Elinor hastened to explain as she held out the discussed
members for inspection. “Don’t you see they’re actually _bare_. Oh, what
a crime!” She shook her finger admonishingly at her roundly-molded young
arm. Then her mocking turned to more of seriousness as she went on: “I
can tell you things, dad, and you’ll understand, so you might just as
well be told before the explosion how naughty-naughty your little girl
is. The facts are these: When we went to Madame Felice’s for my last
fitting, the dress was just as you see it now, but mother wouldn’t have
it at all. She said it was positively indecent for a girl of eighteen to
expose her neck and arms, and she ordered Madame to fill in the neck
with lace and add sleeves to reach the elbows. Madame declared that it
would ruin the entire charm of the gown, but mother was as firm as a
rock and she couldn’t sway her an inch. Well, when we reached home, I
decided to take the matter into my own hands, so I called up Felice and
told her mother had changed her mind and she was to leave the gown as it
was—well—and here it is!”

Hugh’s half humorous expression was still entirely admiring as he looked
over the troublesome garment. He laughed as his shoulders shrugged in
dismissal of something not understood. “Well, child,” he added, as he
took her hand and patted it, “as far as I’m concerned, I am still of the
same opinion—both you and you gown are beautiful. Your neck and arms
are perfect, and I don’t see why you should have to hide them—I do
wish,” and there was a hint of impatience in his voice, “that your
mother would get over some of her old-fashioned ideas.”

“Not any more than I do, dad. Why for years mother has been writing me
that after I graduated she and I would be real chums, and now that I am
home we do nothing but argue all day long. I can’t tell you how many
times I’ve been on the verge of quarreling with her. We haven’t a single
taste in common, and we positively clash on every subject. Why, I’ve
found out mother is simply years behind the times and I—well, you know,
dad, that none of the girls I’ve been to school with are that, to say
the least. I don’t think mother has any conception of modern girls—and
I can’t help it if I’m one, can I?”

Hugh shook his head. “You suit me, dear,” he answered consolingly. “I
wouldn’t be a bit surprised, either, if there isn’t a good deal in your
argument. But I expect you’ll have to do what I have for a long time,
and make the best of it. Your mother is too set in her opinions to
attempt to change her now—so you’ll have to be content with me and your
girl friends for chums.”

Neither of them saw Marjorie Benton as she came slowly down the wide
flower-banked stairway and drooped across the hall to the door leading
to her ballroom. With one hand holding aside the blossom curtain, she
stopped and gazed wide-eyed at what she saw, as though she could hardly
believe what the glittering chandelier lights revealed. It was a picture
that some might have called appealing and beautiful—that fairy-like
girl of eighteen with her neck and arms of marble whiteness and
smoothness nestling in her handsome father’s arms. To Marjorie Benton,
however, the beauty of the picture was lost. It was something else she
saw that brought a stern light into eyes faded by years of unrequited
yearning, and hardened the features with which time had not dealt so
lightly as it had with her husband. As she stood there for the moment
unseen, ready for her daughter’s debut, Marjorie Benton could not by any
stretch of the imagination have been placed in the picture class
herself. Sixteen years of loneliness and weary waiting had wrought havoc
with her delicate beauty, and where now, at forty, she should have been
at the full blush of womanly beauty, she might have been a woman of
sixty-five. Golden her hair was still—but it had lost its sheen and
taken on instead the dull luster of carelessly-kept gold and silver.
There was as much silver as gold at forty, too. The corners of her mouth
drooped pathetically—all the starlight had long since departed from her
eyes that bore an expression merely of weariness. Now, too, her gown of
amethyst velvet with lace of the same shade, cut in severely plain
lines, would have been most appropriate for a woman of sixty-five.

Hugh and Elinor turned with a start, the girl to take on an expression
of defiance as the mother’s voice came low, tense, compelling, from the
doorway: “Elinor! Your dress!”

“Well,” was the pert retort. “Don’t you like it? Dad does. Don’t you,
dad?”

But Marjorie was not to be placated.

“I suppose I’m not to believe this is your fault, my daughter,” added
the mother as though unaware of the interruption. “I take it that Madame
Felice has ignored my orders. To-morrow I shall ’phone her and withdraw
my patronage from her establishment.”

Hugh had made no move or word as he calmly looked his wife over. But
there was now distaste in the closing of his eyes as though to shut out
the vision in the doorway, and veil the disappointment he feared he
could not hide.

Gaining confidence in her father’s presence, Elinor Benton answered her
mother calmly, but with little show of due respect.

“Now, mother,” she implored, “don’t get so excited—this isn’t a
tragedy, and don’t you go and ’phone Felice—because it wasn’t her
fault. I called her up and told her to leave the dress as it was.”

“Of course, you’re aware she had no right to take orders from you
contrary to mine,” Marjorie persisted, with lifted eyebrows.

“Oh, I just told her the orders came from you—that you had changed your
mind.”

“You dared!” Marjorie fairly gasped. “You are admitting you lied about
it. I wouldn’t have believed my daughter capable of such a thing.”

Hugh believed the time had come for his promised interference.

“Now, now,” he soothed, “I fail to see what all this fuss is about. If
the child wants to display her pretty neck and arms, I can’t see where
the harm is—and as for her telephoning to Madame Felice, I can readily
understand her doing that in order to evade an unnecessary argument.”

Marjorie Benton looked her husband over as though he were an interfering
stranger.

“There have been many things which does not surprise me at your
attitude,” she said icily. “However, that is aside from the point. Come,
Elinor, we will go upstairs and see what Marie can do in arranging some
sort of scarf about you.”

“We will do nothing of the kind. I won’t! I won’t!” Elinor stamped her
foot angrily. “Once and for all, mother, you’ll have to understand that
I’m not a baby, and I refuse to be ordered about in that manner. I’ll
wear this dress as it is to-night, or I’ll lock myself in my room and
you’ll be obliged to give my debut party without me.”

Hugh walked over to his wife and placed his hand appealingly on her
lace-covered arm. “She means it, I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Hadn’t you
better permit her to have her way this time? Remember, we have two
hundred guests coming.”

Just for a moment Marjorie was silent, fighting what she knew was a
losing battle. How bitter it was that she should have to battle with
these two she loved so dearly. She turned away her face that they might
not witness her struggle. When she spoke it was in her usual cool,
expressionless voice—not the voice of the Marjorie Benton of Atwood,
but one which the years between had evolved.

“Very well,” was her surrender, but neither Elinor who was daintily
whirling about the polished floor in exuberance over her triumph over
the mother she was coming to think an oppressor, nor Hugh Benton who was
looking at his watch with a slight show of impatience, saw the tears in
the mother’s eyes which she was heroically forcing back.

Elinor stopped suddenly in the middle of a pirouette to cock her head
daintily to one side listening.

“There they come, Dad,” she cried eagerly, “Miss Elinor Benton is about
to be introduced to society. I wish Howard would hurry. He promised not
to be late for anything.”

Hugh Benton’s face wore an annoyed frown.

“I can’t understand what’s keeping him,” he complained. “He should have
been here at five o’clock.”

“Professor Anderson positively promised to grant him a leave of absence
for to-night, didn’t he?” Elinor asked. “I know he said Howard was not
deserving of any favor, but I will certainly be happy when my big
brother finishes sowing his wild oats.”

“Reckon we all will be, little girl,” her father laughed. “But we must
have a little patience. ’Spose he’s just got to sew a little crop or
two.”

Marjorie’s level eyes looked deeply into her husband’s as she asked him
calmly, meaningly: “You mean to say you believe it absolutely necessary
for a boy to sow ‘wild oats’ as you call them? I don’t remember ever
having heard of your doing so.”

Hugh shrugged.

“Different with me,” he answered. “I didn’t go to college— I didn’t
mingle with a set of boys such as Howard is thrown in contact with, and
I hadn’t a father who could afford my indulging in any escapades.”

“I’m afraid there will be an escapade too many one of these days.”

“You’re such a confirmed pessimist, my dear! The boy’s all right—leave
him alone.” And Hugh turned aside indicating he had said his last word.
“He’ll turn up any minute, so don’t think any more about it.”

The arrival of the first guests ended further discussion, and shortly
the reception hall, drawing room and ballroom were thronged with the
merry assemblage.

Promptly at 9:30, the first strains of music floated out from a balcony
screened with ferns and roses. The dance was on.

To say that Elinor was having a glorious time would be putting it
mildly. She fairly reveled in it all. She felt that she had attained the
heights as the center of attraction, with a bevy of young men
surrounding her, politely fighting for the privilege of a dance.

She exulted in the thought that this was only the beginning of wonderful
days and nights that lay before her. Surely she possessed everything to
make her happy—Youth, beauty and riches. Life was so wonderful seen
through the rosiest of glasses.

Eleven o’clock! Still no Howard. Elinor took a few moments to cast some
resentful thoughts Howard-ward, but the fun was too fast and absorbing
for her to worry more than that few moments over her brother’s
dereliction.

In spite of her husband’s admonishing, Marjorie was acquiring a worry
that momentarily gave evidence of becoming panic-stricken as she watched
the doors with eager eyes for the boy who did not come. She felt she
could not stand it any longer. She must know—must do something. With a
hesitancy that would have been most strange in the Atwood days, she
approached Hugh where he stood talking and laughing in a care-free
manner with a group of his guests. He excused himself to speak to her as
she laid her hand on his arm to ask for a word.

“Hugh, dear,” she begged, “don’t you think we had better call up
Professor Anderson and find out about Howard—when he left, and——”

“And get him in bad, I suppose,” Hugh blustered, but there was worry in
his own handsome face as he once more glanced at his watch and then at
the entrances. “No—he’s probably loitering, and——”

Griggs, his valet, touched him on the arm. He turned to hear the few
hurried whispered words.

“Important ’phone call, my dear,” he explained. “Make my excuses. Back
in a minute——”

But Marjorie’s sharp ears had caught the word “sick.” Griggs must have
been talking about Howard. Oh, where was he—her boy! She could not
stand it! She had to find out.

Careless of guests, of hospitality, of everything, she hurried after her
husband, but already he was out of sight. He must be at one of the
private telephones, she thought, as she stumbled blindly along the
passage.

But her way would have been still more blind had she seen her husband
with her son at that moment.

At a side entrance two men were trying to persuade Howard to leave a
taxi. In a maudlin state of intoxication, he refused to budge an inch,
muttering to himself something about “a date with a lil’ blonde.”

Ordering the passageway clear, Hugh and Griggs managed between them to
convey the indignantly-protesting Howard upstairs to his room.

From the telephone, the boy’s mother hastened to his room. They must
have brought him home and told her nothing about it. Inside she heard
voices. She knocked softly, and was about to enter, when it was opened
and Hugh stood before her, quickly closing the door behind him.

“My boy?” she asked breathlessly. “What has happened? Is he here? Is he
ill?”

Hugh was uncomfortable—flustered. “Ill?—No—yes—that is, he is
ill—but he will soon be all right.”

“I will go to him at once,” and Marjorie started to brush by Hugh.

“You will do nothing of the kind,” he answered sternly. “You will return
to your guests, and act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
I will join you as soon as possible—we can’t both remain away.”

“What do I care about my guests, or anyone, if my boy is ill. My place
is at his side, and I’m going——”

From behind the guarded door, came a volley of oaths, flung at the
faithful Griggs, followed by the incoherent singing of a popular song.

“Oh—Oh!” Marjorie shuddered, and covered her burning cheeks with her
hands. “So that is what his illness—I can’t believe it—My son
intoxicated— What shall we do? I can’t bear it.”

“There, there, Marjorie,” Hugh patted her shoulder consolingly. “You
must control yourself, and not create a scene. I’m sorry if any of this
has leaked out among our guests, but I’m afraid it has. Now we must save
the situation by making as light of it as possible. It really isn’t
anything so terrible. He will be himself in the morning, and then I’ll
lecture him good. It seems he met a crowd of the boys when he came in
from college and they persuaded him to go to dinner with them. This is
the result. He is only a boy after all, you must remember, and is easily
led.”

“That’s just it,” Marjorie answered tragically. “He is only a boy, and
can be easily led—God only knows where to.”

“Come, now, it isn’t as bad as that. You’re making a mountain out of a
mole hill as usual, but I must go back to him,” as disturbing sounds
again issued forth. “Go downstairs and brave it out. You _must_—if not
for your own sake—for the sake of the boy himself.”

“For his sake I’ll do the best I can.” She dried her eyes and turned
toward the stairs. “But, oh, Hugh, how can you view this so lightly? How
you’ve changed!”

Marjorie never remembered how she managed to get through the rest of the
evening, going about among her guests with a smiling face and an aching
heart. When Hugh joined her, he whispered to her that Howard was
sleeping soundly, and would probably not awaken until late the next
afternoon.

Eventually everything, pleasant or unpleasant, has its ending, and at 3
A.M. the last guest had departed, and the servants were extinguishing
the lights.

“Wasn’t it splendid?” Elinor enthused. “I had a wonderful time—I didn’t
have nearly enough dances to go around. All the boys were wild about me
and I know the girls all envied me. Wasn’t I a great success?”

“You certainly were, you little egotist,” Hugh laughed.

“What ever in the world happened to Howard? I heard a couple of the boys
talking, and from what I gathered, he came home soused.”

“Elinor!” Marjorie was shocked. “Where did you ever acquire such slang?
Surely you didn’t learn it at Miss Grayson’s? I can’t understand half of
the things you say, but I do know that they sound shockingly vulgar.”

“No, mother of mine,” Elinor laughed lightly. Nothing—not even her
mother’s disapproval could worry her after her evening’s triumph. “I
didn’t learn any slang from Miss Grayson, but you must remember that I
knew lots of girls there. Most of them thought it modern and up to date
to use slang. Oh, but I can’t explain it to you, you’re so
old-fashioned.”

As Hugh closed his eyes, his thoughts were of his beautiful daughter and
the brilliant match she was sure to make. But Marjorie—poor little
mother—all night she lay alone, in her darkened room, her hands pressed
to her throbbing temples, the hot tears scorching her cheeks. Two
thoughts ran riot through her mind—one was that her son, her boy, was
lying a few rooms down the corridor in a drunken stupor. The other was,
that Elinor, her baby, had gone to bed without even attempting to kiss
her good-night.




                               CHAPTER VI


Elinor Benton’s social success was all that she had seen envisioned on
the night of her début. In the months that followed whirls of teas,
luncheons, dinners, dances all but dizzied her sophisticated little head
as she dashed madly from one to the other. Vague hints in the society
columns linked her name with eligibles who were the despair of the
mothers of other girls in her set. But blonde young Elinor took it as
her meed and due, and laughed to her dimpled face in the mirror when she
told herself how far wrong they were. She had no intention of entering
the ranks of young matrons yet. Life was too full; too sweet. Homage was
too dear to her, and the sway she held in one man’s heart, her father’s,
too complete to think of exchanging him for any other man; her own
wonderful home for that of another.

True to his word, Hugh Benton had made himself a real chum to her. It
was to him she took her petty worries; her secrets. Though not often
referred to, they had one thing in common not usual between father and
daughter—their disapproval of the mother and wife, their intolerance of
what they chose to call her old-fashioned ways, of her Puritanism, her
love of the good and upstanding orthodoxy.

Busy at his desk one morning, Hugh frowned at the soft opening and
closing of his door. He did not like even his confidential employees to
disturb him when he was answering personal letters. But he knew it was
no employee when he felt two soft arms about his neck, felt the softness
only less so of rich furs against his cheeks and caught the subtle
perfume he had come to associate with his daughter.

“Guess who!” whispered Elinor’s voice. Then she answered her own
question with a kiss. Aloud she added with a pretended pout: “Aren’t you
glad to see me—and surprised——”

Hugh laughed as he pulled her to his knees.

“Yes, a little—to that last part,” he said, hastening to add gallantly:
“But delighted, nevertheless. What brings you into town at this time?
You must have had an early start.”

“Oh, a lot. First, there’s a luncheon engagement at the Biltmore with
some of the girls, and then we’re going to the matinée. But those are
small matters. The principal thing was to see you all alone—I have a
lot to talk to you about that I decided would be much better to say here
at your office instead of at home, so I came in an hour ahead of time.”
And Elinor, settling herself in a comfortable easy chair, sat facing her
father with an air of being ready to spend the hour.

Hugh Benton, his keen eyes taking in every detail of her appearance,
thought he had never seen his daughter more beautiful. Her taffeta gown
of navy blue, her drooping picture hat with its one touch of color, her
graceful squirrel scarf, all went so naturally into the making of the
picture. As had become usual with him when in the presence of this
daughter the man before whom kings of finance bowed, glowed inwardly
with the pride of possession.

“Well, baby girl, how much?” He smiled as his hand went towards his
check-book.

“No, Dad dear, it isn’t money this time.” Elinor’s face dimpled
deliciously as she shook her head, “strange as it may seem to you,” she
added. Then seriousness chased the dimples away. “No, dear, it’s
something uncomfortably serious. It’s—it’s about mother!”

“Your mother!” Hugh’s face, too, became serious. “Not ill, I hope.”

“No, she is perfectly well,” the girl answered, as a dull red crept into
her cheeks. “Oh, dad, I’m so ashamed of myself to sneak to you in this
way, but dear, you might as well know the truth. It is utterly
impossible for me to get along with mother. There! It’s out! Do you
think I’m so dreadful?” anxiously.

Hugh was solemn as he listened. Then he nodded.

“I believe I do know your difficulty, dear,” he answered, as if
uncertain just what to say in this moment he had been in a way prepared
for. “And,” he added, “of course, I don’t think you’re dreadful——”

Without waiting for him to conclude, Elinor burst out passionately:

“Oh, Dad, surely you can see I simply cannot be the old-fashioned,
namby-pamby bread-and-butter school-girl that mother wishes me to be.
Why, everything I do meets with her disapproval—we can’t agree in a
single instance. Really, Dad, it is unbearable, and I’m just sick about
it!”

Tears which had been valiantly withheld began to trickle down her
cheeks. From his pocket Hugh took his handkerchief and wiped them
tenderly away. “There, dear, you mustn’t cry and spoil your pretty
eyes,” he soothed. “Remember your luncheon and matinée—I’m sure your
misunderstanding with your mother can easily be straightened out. Calm
down and tell me about it. What do you do that she objects to?”

“Oh, just everything.” Elinor’s sigh was one of resignation as she
completed restoring, with a small dab of lace and linen, the ravages to
her complexion her father had begun. “For instance,” she went on,
“mother looks upon my playing bridge for money as a dreadful calamity.
My drinking a cocktail is an utter degradation, and if I attempt to
light a cigarette in her presence, she nearly collapses.”

“Do all the other girls in your set do these things?” Hugh asked. His
brows met in a slight frown.

“Why, of course, Dad. All modern girls believe in having a good time. We
never go to extremes in anything; but if you want to be thoroughly up to
date you simply can’t be a prude.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted slowly, “but just the same, when I
was a young man——”

“When you _were_ a young man!” Elinor interrupted indignantly. “You’re
as young as a boy now, and you’re the handsomest man in New York, Dad.”

Her father, flushed, pleased as he always was, at this compliment.
“Little flatterer,” he joked, pinching her cheeks. “You can’t lead me
astray by paying me compliments. The things that you now call modern and
up to date, in my day, would have been considered—fast.”

“No doubt they would have been too—just that,” was the girl’s composed
retort, “but you know that we’re living in a progressive world, and no
one needs to tell you how rapidly things have changed since your days.”

“Guess you’re right, baby,” Hugh replied. “I must admit that my own
ideas of life have greatly changed since we came to New York sixteen
years ago. I know one thing—all your friends come from the best of
families, so if you do as they do, I can’t see where objection should
arise.”

“Bravo, Dad!” Elinor clapped her hands in glee. “I knew you would see
things in the right light. You’re so broad-minded about everything—and
you’ll speak to mother?”

“Yes, dear, I’ll speak to your mother to-night, and try to reason with
her a little——”

“Just a minute, Dad. I almost forgot the most important thing that I
want you to try to make mother be reasonable about, and that
is—Geraldine.”

“Geraldine?”

“Yes, Geraldine DeLacy. She’s a distant relative of the Thurstons, and
she is visiting them at present. We girls are all crazy about her—she’s
an adorable young widow, just twenty-six, and she makes the most
wonderful chaperone imaginable. That’s the very thing mother so
strenuously objects to.”

“I can’t see why,” Hugh seemed surprised. “The Thurstons are most
desirable and surely, any relative of theirs must be an aristocrat.”

Elinor threw out her hands in a gesture of despair.

“Haven’t I wasted hours and hours trying to make mother realize that
very thing,” she exclaimed, “and with no success whatever! For some
unaccountable reason, she has taken an aversion to Geraldine. She
objects to her age—says she’s too young to be a chaperone—she calls
her frivolous for permitting the girls to address her by her Christian
name and all in all there isn’t a thing the poor woman does that meets
with mother’s approval.”

Hugh considered deeply. “I fail to see anything objectionable in what
you have told me,” he said finally. “The only thing I can do is to judge
for myself when I have the pleasure of meeting your perfect chaperone.
In the meantime, precious, don’t you worry—your old Dad will always
stand by you. Run along now, and have a good time.”

He extracted a bill from his wallet, and reaching for Elinor’s mesh bag
tucked it in.

“Thank you so much, Dad dear, you’re so wonderful to me.” Elinor looked
at him with grateful affectionate eyes. “The Thurstons are giving a
dance for Nell on the 17th—mother received the invitation for it this
morning—she says she is going to decline, but you must arrange to take
me, and then you’ll meet Geraldine. I know you’ll agree with me and
admit that she is adorable.”

“Splendid—you may count upon me to act as your gallant escort to the
Thurston dance,” and Hugh kissed his daughter affectionately, as they
walked to the door.

Late as usual, Elinor reached the Biltmore to find Nell Thurston,
Rosebud Greely, and Josephine Wyeth, three of the season’s débutantes,
patiently awaiting her. They were in especially fine humor and willing
even to forgive Elinor since their beloved Mrs. DeLacy was chaperone.
Pretty, happy, light-hearted girls were these friends of Elinor
Benton’s, with but three aims in life—a good time, endeavoring to spend
some of their parents’ too great wealth and to make at last “a brilliant
batch.”

Mrs. DeLacy, the youthful widow, was remarkable principally because of
her knack of mentioning her late dear husband at the right times, deftly
to manage to secure sympathy and admiration. It had been remarked, too,
that this was most generously forthcoming from men.

She was prepossessing—there was no denying that—and with a strange
fascination that made her singularly attractive.

The luncheon was a jolly little affair, the girls were permitted to
indulge in as many cigarettes as they wished, and relate stories worthy
of a demi-monde.

It was no wonder her charges considered Mrs. DeLacy a wonderful
chaperone. She placed no restraint whatsoever upon any of their actions,
coincided with all their plans and arrangements, and managed to make
herself thoroughly agreeable at all times. The mere fact that she was
_Mrs._ DeLacy sufficed to make her a perfectly proper and legitimate
chaperone in the eyes of the world.

The curtain was rising as they were ushered to a stage-box. The play, a
modern society drama, in its eighth week, playing to capacity at every
performance, was featuring the popular matinée idol, Templeton Druid, in
the stellar rôle.

During the intermission, between the first and second acts, as the girls
discussed the play and the star with animated enthusiasm, Mrs. DeLacy
exploded a bombshell in their midst when she calmly remarked:

“You children seem so fascinated by Mr. Druid—would you like to meet
him?”

“Do you know him, Geraldine?” The question was chorused eagerly.

“I have known him all my life,” was the reply. “We were neighbors in
Richmond, raised together as children, attended the same high-school,
and graduated from the same class.”

“Well, why in the world didn’t you say so before?” Rosebud Greely pouted
as though she had been personally injured, as she pulled her skirts
higher for more comfort for her crossed legs with their bare knees
visible above her rolled-down silk stockings. “Pigging it, I’d call
it—wanted him all to yourself, I suppose. And you knew what play we
were coming to see, and who was starring in it?”

Geraldine DeLacy smiled tolerantly.

“Don’t fly off so quickly, dear,” she advised. “I didn’t know myself
till just now, for how could I imagine that Thomas Temple, a boy from my
home town, whom I haven’t seen in years, was this Templeton Druid,
popular Broadway star. I knew he always had a soaring ambition to become
an actor, but I could never dream of his going this far in so short a
time.”

“Isn’t it wonderfully interesting and romantic?” Nell Thurston, her eyes
aglow with excitement, wanted to know more.

“You asked about our caring to meet him. Can you manage it, Geraldine?”
Elinor Benton was all eagerness.

“Easily enough,” Geraldine shrugged her handsome shoulders as she
replied. “I’ll send back a note asking him to join us at the Waldorf for
tea after the matinée. He’ll be there—” There was a worldly meaning in
her last words that even her sophisticated charges failed to get.

“How positively thrilling!” Rosebud giggled. “Do you know I’ve never
talked to a real actor in my life?”

With the prospect of meeting the star, interest in the play increased
ten-fold. Romantic revelries ran riot through four foolish little heads.
Geraldine sat back and smiled cynically. “Young idiots,” she thought
contemptuously, as her roving glance settled upon Elinor Benton. With
tightly compressed lips and eyes aflame with envy, she stared at the
girl. Only for a fleeting instance, however, did she permit her
expression to betray her chaotic emotion. She leaned forward in her
chair apparently absorbed in the people on the stage.

As she had expected, Templeton Druid’s reply to her invitation was a
delightfully affable little billet expressing his pleasure at the hope
of seeing Mrs. DeLacy and meeting her friends. He promised to arrive at
the Waldorf as expeditiously as possible after the matinée.

After their drive to the Waldorf in the Thurston limousine, it was
Geraldine who maneuvered to walk behind with Elinor, as they strolled
leisurely through the hotel lobby. Young as she was, Elinor Benton could
not help but notice that something was disturbing her chaperone as Mrs.
DeLacy glanced nervously from side to side.

“What is it, Geraldine?” she asked in concern. “Is anything wrong?”

Mrs. DeLacy shook her head half-heartedly, then her fine eyes came to
rest appealingly on Elinor’s.

“No—no,” she began, then hurried on with nervous suddenness.
“No—er—well, yes, there is, Elinor dearest. I hate so to tell you,
but—but—well,” she lowered her voice to a whisper: “I’m afraid, dear,
you’ll have to come to my rescue. Here I have invited you all to tea and
asked Mr. Druid to join us, and I have just discovered that I lack the
necessary funds——”

“Not another word, please, Geraldine,” Elinor interrupted hastily. “It’s
a pleasure to be of any service to you, dear.” And opening her bag, she
extracted the fifty-dollar bill her father had placed there, and pressed
it into Geraldine’s hands.

“Thank you so much,” beamed the chaperone, glancing hurriedly at the
bill before she thrust it into her purse. “I’ll return it at the
earliest opportunity.”

If anyone had dared assert that Geraldine DeLacy was a social parasite,
Elinor would have defended her with emphatic loyalty.

Nevertheless, that was an appellation Mrs. DeLacy justly deserved. It
was no great secret how she subsisted luxuriously upon the generosity of
friends and acquaintances. Habitual borrowing had become her source of
income, and she was well known to mention her inadequate memory as
extenuation for failing to repay her obligations.

At their table for six in one of the tea rooms, it was again Geraldine
who adroitly managed to leave the vacant seat for the actor between
Elinor and herself. They had barely fluttered into place before
Templeton Druid entered pompously as was his wont. His appearance caused
the mild sensation he always hoped for. Heads turned in his direction;
there were whispered comments. To the unbiased onlooker, it was clear as
light the actor was not displeased.

“This is indeed an unexpected pleasure,” he told Geraldine as he reached
her table and bowed low over her hand. “I would have known you anywhere.
If there is a change it is that you are more beautiful than ever, if
that is possible.”

“And you, I find, still retain your aptitude for pretty speeches,”
Geraldine answered laughingly but not ill pleased herself. “Let me
present you to my friends.”

He acknowledged each introduction with studied gallantry, retaining
possession of each little hand a fraction of a second longer than
necessary.

With the tea, toasted muffins, and marmalade Mr. Druid talked, but
regardless of what angle his conversation started from, it invariably
reverted to the one subject uppermost in his consciousness—Templeton
Druid! He spoke of his managers, his contracts, his popularity, of the
requests he received daily for autographed photos, of success, fame,
showered upon him.

To his young auditors, so sophisticated in many ways, so little in
others, all this was something to be eagerly devoured, to be remembered.
To them he was a figure of fame, of romanticism. But as she listened,
Geraldine DeLacy turned her head that they might not see the smile of
cynicism she could not suppress. For to her, as he would so obviously
have been to any worldly person, Templeton Druid bore no romantic
glamour. He stood out through his own words for what he was—a figure of
unvarnished petty egotism. It was during a lull in his lecture on the
subject of Templeton Druid that the owner of the name bent over Elinor
Benton as he replenished her plate with marmalade.

“Haven’t I met you before, Miss Benton?” he asked, his deep romantic
eyes apparently filled with perplexity. “Your name is so familiar——”

Before Elinor could voice a regretful negative, Geraldine DeLacy
interposed hurriedly.

“Aren’t you thinking of her father, possibly?” she inquired. “Miss
Benton is the daughter of Hugh Benton, the Wall Street magnate, you
know, whose successes have earned him many a column in your favorite
literature—the newspapers.”

“Indeed!” Templeton’s tone assumed a note of deference. “Of course, I
know of your father, Miss Benton. He is a recognized celebrity in the
financial world.”

Across the room, three women seated at a table, were bowing and
endeavoring to attract the attention of Geraldine’s party. Nell Thurston
was the first to see them.

“Do any of you know any of them?” she asked. “They seem to know someone
at this table.”

“Why yes, I do,” Josephine Wyeth answered quickly. “They are friends of
mine from Baltimore. I know you will pardon me if I go over to their
table for a few moments. Come with me, Rosebud, won’t you? Don’t you
remember meeting Mrs. Powell, the time you motored to Baltimore with
us?”

“I’ll say I do,” was Rosebud’s slangy reply. Slang for this one
débutante was a favorite medium. “I’m keen for saying ‘hello’ to her.
She sure is a bully little sport.”

Geraldine moved over next to Nell Thurston.

“You two keep on talking and forbear with us for a few moments,” she
advised Elinor and Templeton. “I am anxious to discuss my idea for a new
evening frock with Nell.”

As though the change had been prearranged between them, Templeton Druid
threw a grateful glance at his old-time friend. She must have her own
reasons for giving him this opportunity with the wealthy débutante, and
he would make the most of it. He threw all the magnetism he possessed
into his voice as he said:

“This is more than I had hoped for, Miss Benton—one little word with
you. The gods must have heard my prayer. From the minute I first saw
you, there was something I knew I must ask you. May I not hope to see
you again?”

Elinor flushed, as she looked shyly up from the diagrams she was drawing
on the table cloth with her fork. It was not the girl the others knew
who only stammered, for once at a loss: “Why, I—I—oh I should so like
to have you call, Mr. Druid, but I am just out, and my mother
is—is—rather——”

“Please—” Templeton Druid looked just properly pained, and oh, such an
unjustly misunderstood man,—“I understand perfectly. Your mother
naturally would be particular with so charming a daughter, and a man in
my profession——”

“No, no, it isn’t that,” Elinor hastened to interrupt. She felt
apologetic, too. “My mother’s ideas are rather peculiar. She’s a dear,
but she is old-fashioned and——”

“I wonder,” he said slowly, placing his hand over hers as if quite by
accident and allowing it to remain there, “if we couldn’t manage to meet
in spite of—mother’s precaution. I have a perfect little speed marvel
of a roadster. Can’t I take you for a drive?—Say Tuesday afternoon?”

Elinor’s heart thumped madly, and struggle as she would, she could not
control the trembling of her hands beneath his. But she replied with
seeming carelessness, after what might have been due deliberation.
“Well—er—possibly. I know I should enjoy it immensely—still——”

Templeton Druid half suppressed a sigh as of deep joy and delight.

“Then that’s settled,” he breathed, “and I’ll be at the 57th Street
entrance to the park at two o’clock—Ah, kind—so kind!”

And his eyes, as Geraldine DeLacy caught a quick glimpse of them from
across the table and smiled, said unutterable things as he gazed into
the misty blue orbs of Elinor Benton.




                              CHAPTER VII


Elinor Benton’s worldly intuition that a crisis was imminent in her
home, an inevitable clash with her mother in which one or the other
would have to admit herself vanquished was not without foundation.
Neither the girl nor her father were able to comprehend the mother’s
attitude nor why she should herself be, or wish them to be so different
from all those with whom they were in these days thrown in contact.
Sixteen years of suppressing her emotions, of unsatisfied longings had
made her incapable of showing her inner feelings, the tenderness that so
passionately wished only for the good of those dear to her. From some
remote ancestor she must have inherited the coldness and intolerance she
showed outwardly, and which was to her husband and children their only
criterion. Cold and hard outwardly, intolerant to the extreme of
anything that did not agree with her puritanical convictions which the
years of self-communing had made all but fanatical, Marjorie Benton did
not, could not open her heart and plead with those she loved to
understand her, to meet her half-way in her efforts to make them see all
she wished was to stand for what was good, pure and true. A faulty
reasoning, aided by that inherited stubbornness, had persuaded her her
best source was to assert indomitable authority as wife and mother—to
force her own to bend to her will, with no idea of the give and take
that makes worlds go around smoothly. She had forgot to reason, too,
that her children were her own, and had without doubt inherited some of
that very stubbornness which so momentarily threatened the Benton ship
with going on the rocks.

Elinor had felt—seen—the clash coming. But she had not expected it
quite so soon after her confidential chat with her father.

The lateness of the hour—(it was past seven) when she arrived home from
her afternoon at the matinée was the signal—the beginning of it all.
Her father and mother had finished their dinner and were in the library,
the father absorbed in his evening paper, but the mother sat with her
hands idly clasped in her lap, her eyes never wandering from the clock
in the corner until her daughter rushed in apologetically.

“Sorry to be so late,” she deplored. “I hope you haven’t waited dinner
for me.”

“Your father and I have had our dinner.” Her mother seemed not to notice
the breathless apology. “I have ordered yours kept warm for you.”

“Thanks, mother, you are very kind, but I can’t eat a mouthful. We had a
rather sumptuous luncheon, and it was 6:30 when we finished having tea
at the Waldorf.”

Marjorie walked across the room and pressed the bell. When the butler
entered she ordered him to inform the cook that “Miss Elinor had already
dined.” Then she turned and faced her daughter.

“It strikes me, Elinor,” she said slowly, “that for a young girl so
recently introduced into society, you are assuming unwarranted
privileges.”

Though he at first attempted to assume a neutral attitude and kept his
eyes on his paper, Hugh Benton stirred uneasily, his very attitude
showing that the scene he felt sure would ensue was most distasteful to
him. He set his jaws at a belligerent angle. Well, if it must come——

Elinor Benton flushed dully at her mother’s words. Her glance sought her
father, and what she saw there apparently gave her courage. With a
calmness and coldness matching Marjorie’s own, and with her dainty chin
tipped at a dangerously belligerent angle that showed her as much like
one parent as the other, she faced her mother, and, as though addressing
an insolent stranger, her answer came icily.

“I fail to understand you, mother,” was what she said. “As usual you are
speaking enigmatically.”

“In that case I shall lose no time in making myself clear,” the mother
began, but her words were cut short.

“I say,” Hugh interrupted hurriedly as he dropped his paper, and glanced
up with a smile as though some remarkable idea had come to him. “How
about you two dressing as quickly as you can and driving into town with
me. We can make one of the Roof shows! Eh, what?”

Elinor clapped her hands delightedly.

“Fine, Dad!” was her enthusiastic acceptance. “It won’t take me five
minutes to dress. I’m dying to attend a Roof revue—I hope you can get
tickets.”

“In case I can’t, we will go over to ‘The Palais Royal,’” Hugh answered,
with a man’s natural eagerness to avert the inevitable argument between
Marjorie and Elinor.

“One moment, please,” Marjorie cold, wide-eyed, forbidding, addressed
her husband. “Your attempt to silence me, Hugh, is obvious. Besides, you
know perfectly well I never attend a Roof show, and I surely will not
permit my daughter to do so.”

With a pertness she had not before considered when addressing her
mother, the daughter exclaimed with a toss of her head:

“Well I can’t see why _you_ should object if Dad proposes taking us!”
Angry tears rushed to her eyes.

“I consider it unnecessary to state my reasons. It should be sufficient
that I do object—most strenuously. There are a great many things that I
wish to say to you, Elinor. This is probably an opportune time. Perhaps
it would be better for you to come with me to my room.” Marjorie rose
and started toward the door.

All signs of neutrality vanishing and with a sternness and a fire in his
eyes his wife did not recognize, Hugh Benton threw down his paper and
rose, too. He made his way to his daughter’s side.

“Elinor!” he said gently as he placed his arm about her. “Please go to
your own room for awhile. I wish to speak with your mother, alone.”

“You just heard me request Elinor to come to my room?” Marjorie was
astounded. “Surely you——”

“Elinor, do as I say,” Hugh repeated. His wife he ignored.

Marjorie’s glance at his white face and tightly compressed lips showed
her a new Hugh. With an indifferent shrug of her shoulders she sat down
to wait.

Frightened by what was occurring, Elinor’s arms went up to close about
her father’s neck. Marjorie winced unconsciously as she saw the gesture.
It proclaimed so plainly who her daughter believed to be her best
friend—which one she loved.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” the girl stammered with a sob as she slowly left them.

Marjorie Benton’s eyebrows went up in disdain as the door closed behind
Elinor and her husband came over to stand before her wordless, hands in
pockets.

“I suppose,” she commented, bitterly, “you are greatly elated at having
humiliated me before Elinor.”

“You know that is not true!” Hugh’s voice was tense as he gave his wife
the lie for the first time in his life. He was thoroughly exasperated,
out of patience with her and what he believed were her ideals. “I am
only sure of one thing. You have got into the way of making a tragedy
out of every little thing that does not suit you, and this is just
another example. But if you are looking for tragedy, something real to
dramatize over,” and his lips tightened into a grim line as he
accentuated every word, “I just want to tell you that this time you may
succeed beyond your wildest expectations!”

“Why, Hugh—what do you mean—I—” Marjorie’s voice was tremulous as she
sought to understand what had brought this storm of her husband’s about
her ears.

“I think this time you’ll have no cause to complain about not
understanding what I mean. And for once, I expect you to listen to every
word I say!”

There was no doubting the earnestness of Hugh Benton’s tone, or that he
was wrought up to a pitch rarely known to his easy-going nature. For
once, the cloak of her authority dropped from his wife’s shoulders and
she shrank in her chair as her meek reply came.

“Very well—I’m listening. I suppose,” and there was a flicker of her
sternness and sarcasm, “I may as well try to comprehend you and your
very peculiar attitude——”

Hugh Benton flicked his cigarette into the wide fireplace, staring after
it a moment before he turned to face his wife. With arms folded, he
towered over her, his whole manner that of a stern, unyielding judge.

“Marjorie,” he began, “I realize that you are my wife, and as such,
entitled to many privileges. But there is such a thing as carrying your
prejudices too far. The way matters have been going on in this house for
some time now simply cannot continue. Not only the children, but I,
myself, have reached the limit of my endurance. We came to New York
sixteen years ago at your suggestion, not mine. I always wish you to
remember that. When I realized that your one ambition was for me to
become a success in this great metropolis, I determined to use all my
energies and capabilities to satisfy your desires. Financially and
socially I believe I have reached your expectations. In everything else
my life is a complete failure.”

“Failure?” Marjorie’s voice trembled as her face showed her genuine
surprise.

Hugh nodded emphatically. “Yes, failure,” he emphasized. “My children
love me, not for myself, but because I am able to gratify all of their
whims and desires, and strange to say, I am perfectly willing to pay for
their show of affection, because it is the only tie that binds me to my
home.”

Tears of distress which in spite of her pride forced themselves to
unwelcome eyes, trembled on Marjorie Benton’s eyelids and splashed down
on the hands folded so quietly over her somber gray gown.

“Hugh!” she cried, distressed. “Surely you don’t know what you say! What
about your wife?”

“You asked the same thing years ago, Marjorie,” Hugh answered bitterly,
“when we discussed the advisability of coming to New York. You were all
the world to me then, and——”

“And _now_ I am nothing.” Marjorie’s quivering lips completed the
sentence. “I—I understand, Hugh.”

“You are still the mother of my children, despite the fact that they are
both disappointments to me.”

Hugh was calm in the face of his wife’s tragedy, but his very calmness
gave back to his wife some of her fighting spirit.

“If they are disappointments to you, it is your own fault,” she flared.
“You humor them beyond all reason. I try to enforce strict discipline,
and you invariably interfere. This very evening when I attempted to
reprimand Elinor, you resorted to almost childish subterfuge to prevent
an argument.”

“I’ll tell you why I interfere.” Hugh was getting to the gist of his
lecture. “It is for the simple reason that I consider you the real
culprit. The children are not to blame because they are selfish,
worldly, way beyond their age, and lacking in love and respect for their
parents. You raised them both in schools and colleges where they were
thrown in contact with the wrong companions. Had you kept your children
with you and reared them in the environment of home and love, everything
would have been different.”

“How like you to put the blame on me.” Marjorie’s lip curled in scorn,
and her foot in its common sense high shoe tapped impatiently on the
soft-toned rug. But Hugh Benton was in too deadly earnest to be switched
from his main topic by a side remark. He went on, as though his wife had
not spoken.

“And now, you expect a girl and boy, grown up, to obey you implicitly,
and change in a few days the training they have received for years. I
tell you, Marjorie, you are employing the wrong method. You must realize
it is too late for you to command, and if you persist in continually
arguing with Elinor, and criticising her every act, you will drive her
to desperation, that’s all. She is a self-willed and headstrong girl,
and it is necessary to handle her with caution and the utmost
diplomacy.”

Marjorie could not forbear one bitter reminder. “As long as you find so
much fault with your family, why don’t you devote less time to your club
and try to remodel them?”

“If you were the kind of a wife I once believed you to be I shouldn’t
have to find diversion at my club,” Hugh answered sadly. “But what do I
ever find at home now, save criticism.”

“You really are a badly abused man, Hugh. First it is your children, and
now your wife—I don’t see how you manage to bear up under your heavy
burden.”

The tinge of sarcasm in Marjorie’s voice stung Hugh to the quick. His
fist banged down on the table with rage.

“What _is_ the use?” he exclaimed violently. “I may as well try to
reason with an infant. We have been drifting further and further apart
until we haven’t a single idea in common. Our lives together under this
roof is a mockery, but up to now I have always remembered that you are
my wife and have never as much as permitted myself to indulge in the
thought of another woman; but from this moment I am _through_ with
conventionality. I am going to drift wherever the tide takes me. If you
don’t care to be a wife to me, to interest yourself in at least some of
my interests—I can’t find happiness in my own home, I shall seek it
elsewhere!”

In his old manner of having said the last word on a subject, Hugh Benton
jammed his hands in his pockets and stalked to the door. Marjorie heard
him call out an order to have the limousine at the door in fifteen
minutes. Then she looked up to see him standing with his hand on the
door knob as he looked back into the room for one last word.

[Illustration: Elinor Benton realizes that Geraldine (Winifred Bryson) has
  stolen her father’s affection.
(_“The Valley of Content” screened as “Pleasure Mad.”_)]

“And another thing!” He fairly bit off his words. “I understand you’ve
decided to decline our invitation to the Thurston’s ball on the
seventeenth through some foolish notion of not approving of some of
their relations or guests. You are to accept at once—understand? I
intend going and taking Elinor!”

Marjorie nodded dully—and with no other word he was gone.

For long minutes after the door had banged after her husband, Marjorie
Benton sat quietly in her chair, almost too stunned to think. Surely she
must have been dreaming. Hugh had never before displayed such a temper.
The things he had said were positively indecent. She was aroused from
her reverie by the slamming of the front door and the sound of the
machine going down the driveway. She sighed as she got slowly to her
feet. She remembered she must talk to Elinor. She must not let what Hugh
had said interfere with her duty. At the locked door she rapped softly.

“Who is it?” called the girl.

“It’s mother, dear! I have come to have a talk with you.”

“Sorry, mother, but I have a dreadful headache,” was the languid
response. “You will have to wait until another time.”

“I am not going to scold—I just want to have a heart-to-heart chat with
you, dear.” Marjorie was surprised at her own pleading voice as a lump
rose in her throat.

“I’d rather not talk to-night, mother—please excuse me.”

“Very well,” Marjorie faltered, but as she turned toward her own rooms,
the hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On Tuesday afternoon, at precisely two o’clock, Templeton Druid parked
his classy little roadster near the 57th Street entrance of the park,
and paced slowly up and down. He was waiting for Elinor Benton. Time
after time he glanced impatiently at his watch. He had never before
waited for anyone—this was a new experience.

It was twenty minutes past two when he saw her alight from a taxi in
front of the Plaza. He hastened forward to meet her. All his anger at
her tardiness melted away immediately at sight of the beautiful girl in
her stunning sport suit and hat of Chinese blue.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” was her breathless greeting.
“I—I—was unavoidably detained.”

She felt she just could not confess to this man her difficulties in
endeavoring to get away from her mother.

Marjorie always attended a settlement meeting on Tuesday, so usually
Elinor was free to do as she pleased; but to-day, the president had been
reported ill and the meeting was postponed.

So it had been only through soliciting the aid of Mrs. DeLacy over the
telephone that Elinor finally managed to keep her appointment. Mrs.
DeLacy called for her in the Thurston car, begging that she accompany
her to the dentist. Before her mother had a chance to utter a protest,
Elinor had consented, so there was nothing for Marjorie to do. As soon
as they were a safe distance from home, Elinor summoned a taxi and
hastened to her rendezvous. But had she been able to read her dear
Geraldine’s thoughts as that fair chaperone lounged comfortably on her
way to the shopping district, the Benton heiress might not have felt so
grateful as she went light-hearted to meet her matinée idol. For
Geraldine DeLacy, widow, social parasite, chaperone de luxe, was racking
her clever brains for a plan whereby she might most advantageously use
the confidence Elinor had been obliged to place in her.

“Nothing matters, now that you are here,” was Templeton’s gallant reply
to the girl’s apology. “I was only beginning to fear you would not
come—but now——”

Elinor’s eyes were on the actor’s car as he led her to it. She glowed.

“What a stunning little car!” she cried, in delight.

To praise any of Templeton Druid’s possessions was the next best thing
to praising him. But it was with a blasé air that he consented to agree
with his guest, as he turned the wheel to head toward Long Island.

“Yes, she is a good little car,” he admitted, a bit boredly, as though
condescending to praise the machine. “When we get out on the road, I’ll
let her out a bit and show you what she can do.”

Elinor’s eyes gained a new sparkle as the air colored her cheeks.

“It seems wonderful to be riding like this,” she enthused. “I’m so tired
of always riding behind a chauffeur. Dad wanted to buy me a car of my
own, but mother wouldn’t consider it. He is going to buy one for my
brother when he graduates, and then I’ll coax Howard into teaching me
how to run it.” And Elinor’s eyes brightened with anticipation.

“You don’t have to wait for that,” Templeton answered magnanimously.
“I’m going to teach you how to run mine this very day. Just as soon as
we strike a nice stretch of road, I’ll put you at the wheel.”

“How perfectly splendid! But I’m afraid you will find me an awkward
pupil.”

“I promise not to become impatient,” Templeton laughed, “but I warn you
I may exact a tiny payment.”

Elinor caught her breath a little as she recognized the eager boldness
with which the actor looked into her eyes, as they paused at a crossing
at the command of the uplifted white hand of a traffic officer. But
already she had determined that her companion should not put her in the
class of the unsophisticated. For this one day she would put behind her
all thoughts of prudishness, all the reminders of her mother’s teachings
she had come so to despise, but had not quite forgotten. So her blush
was belied by the boldness of her words as she pertly retorted:

“I’ve never yet heard a complaint that I don’t pay my debts!”

Templeton Druid smiled complacently as he turned in at the ferry
entrance. This was going to be easier than he thought. But—oh, well,
wasn’t that always the way. There was certainly something in being
Templeton Druid.

It was a glorious day. The sun shone radiantly, and the balmy breath of
spring with bewildering fragrance flooded the atmosphere.

Gradually her companion persuaded Elinor Benton to talk of herself and
family. Before long she was telling him her life’s history without once
suspecting that he had purposely encouraged her to do so.

“By the way,” he suddenly seemed to remember. “I forgot to tell you
something. Through Mrs. DeLacy’s kindness I have received an invitation
to a dance at the Thurstons’ on the 17th.”

“Splendid!” Elinor exclaimed, her eyes dancing her pleasure. “Of course,
you’ll accept?”

The man shook his head slowly. “I have thought of declining because I
can’t get there until after the theater,” he demurred, “and that will be
so late, but of course, if you wish me to come——”

“Why, of course, I do—ever so much!”

“You’ll promise to save a dance for me?”

“Two,” promised the girl, her mind busily engaged with the thought of a
wonderful new frock for the occasion.

True to his word, he put her at the wheel, and she thoroughly enjoyed
her first lesson in driving. The rose color flamed in her cheeks, and
her eyes sparkled like twin stars. Templeton Druid, glancing at her from
the corner of his eye, caught his breath in admiration. “She is only a
slip of a girl,” he thought. “But what a magnificent woman she will be!”

As they stood up to leave the little inn where they had their sandwiches
and tea, the actor, in his most courtly manner bent over, and reaching
for her hand, pressed his lips gently to the tips of her fingers.

His was a vast experience with women. It had taught him much, enough to
realize that, impetuous and pampered as this girl was, he must use the
utmost discrimination in endeavoring to arouse her admiration.

Elinor’s heart pounded bewilderingly as she withdrew her hand and turned
toward the car. It had not resumed its rhythmic beating even when they
reached the Plaza where they were met by Mrs. DeLacy, who was true to
her promise to see Elinor through her escapade. Templeton Druid found
time for one confidential whisper.

“Now don’t forget your promise,” he reminded, his tone languishing as
though nothing else in the world meant so much. “Be sure to ’phone me
to-morrow morning and let me know when I can see you again.”

Elinor nodded but her eyes betrayed much to that wise little lady when
she took her seat by Geraldine DeLacy’s side in the Thurston limousine.




                              CHAPTER VIII


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.




                               CHAPTER IX


That all Hugh Benton’s problems were not concerned with his own
troublesome heart where the fair Geraldine DeLacy was concerned, or with
his daughter whose willfulness he feared might lead her into a marriage
less desirable than the one he hoped for with Paul Bronlee, came home to
him in a cataclysmic rush a few days later when Howard, his son,
appeared on the immediate horizon. Howard had been so long at college
that Hugh had got into the habit of thinking of him as merely a
financial annoyance, the personal equation of which was luckily distant.
There was not much affection between the two. There could not have been,
since Hugh Benton had seen his son so rarely during those portions of
his vacation the young man chose to spend in his home. But Hugh Benton
never forgot his fatherly duties. He remembered that Howard was his son.
And how, indeed, was he to forget it after that blithe and dashing young
man had been home from college for a few weeks.

It was shortly after the Thurston dance that Howard had been graduated.
It had been rather as much of a surprise to Howard that this had been
accomplished as it had to anyone else—nevertheless, it had been done.
He had flunked in everything the beginning of the term, but mysteriously
he had managed to get through by an amazingly close margin.

Marjorie was very proud of her son. Mother-like, she overlooked all of
his faults—saw him only through eyes of love, and did not attempt to
look beneath the surface. To his father, though, Howard was not a young
god. He saw him as he was: egotistical, reckless, a selfish young
spendthrift.

Hugh called him into the library one evening after he had had time to
consider the young man’s case.

“I want to have a little talk with you, Howard,” he told his son with a
firmness that presaged no casual talk.

“All right, Dad, see that it is a _little_ talk, as I have a date in
town.” Howard dropped lazily on the davenport, extracted a cigarette
from his new platinum case and blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling.

The parent eyed his offspring critically. He was considering him from
all angles. Handsome enough, he thought, and there was self-satisfaction
in his recognition of his own features in those of his sprawling son.
But another thought came to drive away pleasure in any personal
appearance.

“And insolent, too,” was the further thought, and an ominous frown
accompanied the mental comment. But when he spoke aloud, it was slowly
and with the dignity he always used when addressing Howard. He indicated
the sprawling attitude.

“I prefer to have you sit up while I talk,” he said with unmistakable
reproof, “and as for your—er—date—it will have to wait.”

“I say—” Howard began, but as he caught sight of his father’s stern
countenance, he slowly straightened out of his reclining position, and
sat waiting.

“Howard,” Hugh went directly to the point, “I haven’t been at all
satisfied with your conduct during your three years at college——”

“Why, what’s the matter?” Howard’s tone conveyed genuine surprise.
“Didn’t I graduate?”

“You did. God only knows how. Neither Professor Anderson nor I have been
able to fathom it.”

Howard flushed angrily: “Maybe you think I cheated?”

“I am so glad that you’re through I don’t believe I care how you managed
it. You know without my having to tell you how you wasted your time; but
I didn’t call you in here to discuss past performances or lecture you. I
merely want to know what you intend doing now that you are a college
graduate and have fully satisfied your mother’s ambitions?” Hugh himself
did not realize the tinge of bitterness in his voice.

“Doing? Just what do you mean by that, Dad?”

“Do you care to come into the office with me,” Hugh answered, “or would
you rather go to work for one of my friends?”

“Work!” Howard sat up like a shot. Amazement rang in his voice. “Surely,
Dad, you don’t expect me to work!”

“Well, what do you expect to do, now that you can’t go to school any
longer?” Hugh remembered his cherished dignity and sought to control
himself, but with ill success.

“Why, you have so much money, Dad, I thought I’d just be a—a
gentleman.”

Hugh turned fiercely. His anger had leapt bounds. “A gentleman?” he
sneered. “You mean, you want to be a good-for-nothing idler. Well, I
won’t stand for it—do you hear—I won’t stand for it!”

Howard languidly lighted a fresh smoke. “Any need to get so excited?”

All semblance of dignity gone by this goading of his nonchalant,
indifferent heir, Hugh Benton towered over him, an apoplectic flush on
his usually calm face.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Yes! To hear you talk of being a ‘gentleman’—would
you infer that I am not one? Have I been too good to work? To hand out
money to you hand over fist to gratify your mother’s desire for you to
be college-bred? And now what do I get! You sit there calmly and
announce your intention of being a ‘gentleman!’ You, who have cost a
small fortune to put through college, to say nothing of the escapades
I’ve had to get you out of——”

Hugh’s explosion ended in a splutter. Howard coolly blew another exact
smoke ring into the air. He almost yawned in his intense boredom as he
answered:

“Haven’t I heard you say, Dad, that there is no use in going over past
performances?”

“What else is there to do when you propose going on the same way?” Hugh
calmed himself to better his argument. “I can’t help saying, too, that
your lack of respect and air of impertinence surprise me,” he added
coldly.

“I didn’t mean to be impertinent, Dad, honestly I didn’t—only this rôle
of the stern parent is so foreign and unbecoming to you, that it strikes
me as a sort of joke. You’ve always been such a good fellow, and regular
pal. However, I’ll come into the office with you, if you wish,” he added
condescendingly.

“Very well, report at nine o’clock Monday morning—I’ll have Bryson
assign some work to you.” And it was Hugh who turned away abruptly,
ending the argument.

“I’ll be there,” Howard assured, magnanimously. At the door, he turned
suddenly: “Say, Dad, how about the roadster you promised me when I was
through college. Can I have it?”

“Yes,” Hugh answered listlessly. “Order it whenever you please.”

“Thanks, Dad, you’re great!” And Howard ran upstairs, whistling the air
of a popular song.

For a few moments Hugh paced about the room; then, coming to a sudden
standstill, he threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “What is the
_use_?” he murmured. “If I attempt to reason with my children, they
become insufferably insolent, or else they endeavor to win me over with
subtle flattery.”

The jangle of the telephone bell on his desk startled him.

“Is this Mr. Benton?” a sweetly low voice came over the wire.

“Yes.”

“This is Geraldine DeLacy, Mr. Benton.”

“How do you do, Mrs. DeLacy,” he replied, but he was not unconscious of
the quickening of his heart.

“I fear you have forgotten me. Don’t you remember promising to arrange
for me to call at your office?”

“Forgotten you, Mrs. DeLacy! You suggest an impossibility. On the
contrary I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Do you happen to be at
leisure to-morrow?”

“Why yes—I—” she began, but in his masterful way Hugh Benton took
matters in his own hands.

“Well, then, suppose we say eleven-thirty, at my office, and after our
little business conference, perhaps you will do me the honor to lunch
with me?”

“I shall be delighted.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, as he hung up the receiver, Geraldine’s
musical “good-by” singing in his ears.

When Hugh entered the breakfast room the next morning, he found all the
members of his family at the table. This was an occurrence so unusual as
to cause surprise. Of late years while the children were away at school,
Marjorie and Hugh breakfasted together on an average of about once a
month. Since Elinor’s return, she had ordered her tray sent up at least
five mornings out of seven, and Howard had not shown himself one morning
in the few days that he had been home. Therefore, Hugh’s inquiring
glance was to be expected.

“Good morning,” he said, as he pulled out his watch. It was just 9:30.
“What a lot of early birds!”

Marjorie laid aside the letter she was reading as she answered: “Good
morning, Hugh. I don’t believe I am any earlier than usual. I breakfast
every morning regularly at 9:15.”

“I wasn’t referring to you, Marjorie,” Hugh laughed good-naturedly. “I
know your life is one long martyrdom of punctuality.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t especially appreciated, Hugh.” Marjorie flushed
deeply, as she resumed the reading of her mail.

“I hadn’t the slightest intention of being sarcastic, my dear Marjorie,”
he replied, seating himself at the table and reaching for his folded
paper, “but as usual, you prefer to misconstrue my meaning.”

“Good morning, Dad,” Elinor interrupted, anxious to prevent a needless
argument. “You’re looking fine, and you’re all dressed up. Is that a new
suit?”

“Practically new. I’ve had it about a month, but this is the first time
I’ve worn it.”

“Well, it is vastly becoming, and your shirt and tie harmonize
beautifully.”

“Maybe Dad has a date,” Howard interposed mischievously.

“Howard, flippancy is distasteful to me,” Marjorie again looked up from
her letter to reprove coldly.

“Why all this discussion?” Hugh demanded. “I happen to wear a new suit,
a thing I have done innumerable times without causing the slightest
comment, and for some unknown reason the family proceed to hold a
conference terminating in a general wrangle.”

“I’m sure I meant it all right, Dad. I don’t see why Howard had to
interfere—I wish he’d mind his own business,” Elinor remarked
peevishly.

“Oh, is that so?” Howard returned. “You think you’re mighty clever,
don’t you? I’ve as much right to speak as you have, and I’ll tell you
one——”

“Children—children!” Marjorie intervened.

“Well this a _pleasant_ little party,” Hugh exploded, throwing down his
paper in disgust. “If I had dreamt that things were going to be so
agreeable, I’d have had my breakfast in town. You must have all stepped
out on the wrong side of the bed. It evidently doesn’t agree with you to
rise so early. Anyway, what happens to be the occasion?”

“I’m anxious to get into town to order my roadster,” Howard replied.
“Will you give me a lift, as far as the Circle, Dad?”

Hugh nodded absent-mindedly. “And you, Elinor?” he asked.

“Oh, I have an early appointment—one of the girls I knew at Miss
Grayson’s is visiting some friends in New York, and I am going to spend
the day with her.”

“Who is she?” Marjorie inquired, coldly concerned. She had not yet
accustomed herself to Elinor’s doing as she pleased without consulting
her.

“You don’t know her, mother, so there wouldn’t be any use in my telling
you.” Elinor tossed her head defiantly.

“Just the same,” Marjorie began, “I want to know.”

Hugh arose hastily. “Come on, Howard, if you want to ride into town with
me,” he called. It was plain he was anxious to escape from listening to
one of Marjorie’s catechisms.

“Righto, Dad,” answered the boy. “Try to improve your disposition, Sis,”
he called back over his shoulder. “I’m going to get a swell roadster,
and you may want to ride with me.”

“Howard,” Hugh began, as soon as they were seated in the car, and headed
for town, “how is it that you and Elinor can’t be together half an hour
without quarreling?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Howard sulked. “She always starts things.”

“You should remember that she is a woman, and women are nearly always
difficult enigmas,” Hugh sighed rather deeply.

“You must be right, Dad,” Howard’s voice was full of sympathy. “I know
you’re speaking from experience.”

“What do you mean by that?”

To which Howard replied, innocently enough: “Why Elinor and I were
discussing you the other evening, and we agreed that you must have a
pretty tough time of it, trying to hit it off with mother.”

Hugh fidgeted uneasily. “I don’t see what could have given you that
impression,” he said.

“Oh everything. You’re such a real sport, Dad, and mother is,” Howard
waxed confidential, “so very——”

“Stop!” Hugh commanded. “Your attempting to criticise your mother to me
is very bad taste, Howard. I must refuse to listen to you.”

“All right, Dad. Here’s where I get out!” He called to the chauffeur to
stop. “But,” and there was unmistakable meaning in the eyes of the son,
“I’m all for you, and you know it.”

Hugh leaned back and closed his eyes as his car whirled toward his
office.

“Even my children pity me,” he meditated resentfully. “What a mess
Marjorie and I have made of things!” But it was a commentary on the
changed Hugh Benton that only for one solitary moment did he blame
himself. Surely, he reflected morosely, Marjorie was anything but a
successful wife or mother.

At precisely 11:30 his clerk announced Mrs. DeLacy. She swept into the
room gracefully, and extended her hand. “Good morning,” she said
brightly. “I think you will find me exactly on time.”

Hugh glanced at the clock. “To the minute,” he answered, taking the
offered hand. “You are one of earth’s rarities—a punctual woman.”

“You would consider me very unappreciative if I kept you waiting,” she
smiled, as she sank languidly into the easy chair which Hugh had drawn
up for her.

Sitting opposite her, his arms folded across his chest, Hugh stared at
her approvingly. She seemed neither to notice nor resent the scrutiny as
she chattered on for a few moments about commonplaces. She was
bewitchingly charming to-day, he thought. Her dress, a symphony in brown
from head to foot, was flattering in the extreme.

With reluctance, the man forced himself to recall that Mrs. DeLacy’s
visit was on business. There was so much more he would rather talk to
her about. But then he remembered that it would be to her
advantage—that it was in his power to aid her. He pulled a pad of paper
toward him and dipped his pen into the wrought bronze ink-well on his
shining desk.

“Let us get down to business,” he said abruptly. “Tell me just how much
money you have, how it is invested, and all the particulars.”

“I have so little, I’m almost ashamed to mention it. It’s so good of you
to bother with me at all,” she replied. She reached into her bag,
extracted a number of papers and placed them upon his desk.

In short order he had made a note of everything. Placing the memorandum
in his desk’s drawer, he said bluntly: “Leave it all to me, my dear Mrs.
DeLacy. It won’t take long to double or triple your money for you.”

“How powerful you are,” she murmured admiringly, “and how wonderful to
have found such a friend!”

“Thank you.” He found himself blushing. “And now, where shall we go for
luncheon?”

“I don’t know,” Geraldine stammered confusedly. “We must be
discreet—people are so unkind—especially to a widow. Can’t you suggest
some place where we wouldn’t be apt to meet anyone who knows us?”

“If you don’t object to a little ride, I think I know the very place,”
was the prompt reply. “It is an inn on the road to Jamaica. I have
stopped there on my way to the races.”

“Splendid,” she enthused. “The ride will give us an appetite, and I
adore inns.”

“You had better go down ahead of me,” he said. “I will join you in a few
moments after I give my clerk some instructions for the afternoon. We
will go out in a taxi—my chauffeur—you know——”

“I understand,” she saved him from further embarrassment. “You are more
than considerate, and I appreciate your kind protection. I’ll wait
below.”

But Hugh Benton could not see the exultation in her eyes, nor know her
no less exultant thoughts as she rode down in the elevator.

At Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, they were halted by congested
traffic.

Fate, or the imp that has so much joy in arranging just such contretemps
must have laughed with glee that day when Marjorie Benton had felt the
urge to go into town shopping. And it was that same imp who must have
led her out onto the sidewalk to her waiting limousine just at the
moment that a taxi halted in front of her,—and in that taxi were
Geraldine DeLacy and Hugh Benton—a different Hugh than she had known in
a long time herself, a Hugh so raptly attentive to his handsome
companion, so joyously laughing at her witty sallies, so light-hearted
that his attention did not swerve for one single moment to the pathetic
figure on the sidewalk, an unattractive figure at best in her gray gown
of severe cut.

Marjorie Benton’s knees almost gave way under her at the sight. It was
only her indomitable will power that helped her survive the shock.
Realizing at once that they had not seen her, a thing for which she was
truly grateful, she slipped back into the entrance of the store and from
that concealed position, gazed with uncontrollable fascination at the
two before her. Her eyes were blinded with tears she could not force
back, but her cheeks burned with indignation.

The traffic officer flashed the signal and the taxi vanished from sight.
Still Marjorie remained rooted to the spot. Strange as it may seem,
through all the years of estrangement, she had never once associated
Hugh with deception of any kind. Somehow, she had always believed he
would remain the gentleman she had married.

Struggling to regain her composure, she summoned her car to be driven
home. Lowering the shades, she sat wearily down upon the luxuriously
upholstered seat. The mere rocking of the car caused her to place her
hands to her wildly throbbing temples. A hot uprush of jealousy not
unmingled with scorn overwhelmed her. How was she to bear it, was the
one thought that run frantically through her head. An overburdening
sense of inexpressible bitterness against the woman began to manifest
itself within her. Could the sensation of dislike and mistrust with
which she always encountered Geraldine DeLacy have been a presentiment?
The all-important question was: What should she do? If she went to him
and told him what she had seen, he would probably face her calmly and
say: “I warned you, Marjorie, that I should seek my happiness wherever
it presented itself.” She could not leave him. That would leave an
indelible stain upon Elinor and Howard just as they were being launched
forth into the sea of aristocracy. There was under the circumstances
only one thing left for her to do, and that was willfully to close her
eyes and stoically endure this, and presumably more insults to follow.
It would not be so very difficult for her to disguise her feelings. She
and Hugh had arrived at the point in their lives where they merely
exchanged conventional civilities.

By the time the car reached home, she had her emotions under control.
Going directly to her own room, she removed her wraps and methodically
put everything where it belonged in her usual manner, hoping thereby to
regain composure sufficient to enable her calmly to review the situation
and reach a more logical decision.

It was late in the afternoon when she calmly walked to the telephone,
called the Thurston home and asked to speak with Mrs. DeLacy.

“Yes, this is Mrs. DeLacy,” Geraldine drawled. “Who is this, please?”

“Mrs. DeLacy,” Marjorie answered, her voice distinct and serene, while
her heart throbbed, “this is Mrs. Benton. I have a request to make of
you.”

“Why—Mrs. Benton,” Geraldine with difficulty disguised her surprise. It
was the first time Mrs. Benton had deigned to telephone her. “What can I
do for you?”

“Will you call to see me to-morrow, and give me a few minutes of your
time. There is something I wish to discuss with you. I would come to you
only the matter is quite confidential, and I think we shall be freer
from interruption here.”

“You fill me with curiosity, Mrs. Benton. I shall be glad to come, only
to-morrow happens to be a very busy day for me. As long as it is to be a
short interview, will it be convenient for you to see me at six o’clock,
on my way home from a five o’clock tea at the Woodsons?”

“That will be all right. I shall expect you at six to-morrow.
Good-by—and—thank you,” Marjorie added reluctantly.

Geraldine hung up the receiver in a marked state of disconcertion. What
in the world could Marjorie Benton wish to see her about? She had never
telephoned to her before. In fact, she had barely treated her with
formal civility when they happened to meet. She couldn’t understand why
she should be at all perturbed unless perhaps it was a twinge of
conscience. At all events she would put it from her until to-morrow. No
doubt it was something concerning Elinor—she knew that Marjorie
strongly disapproved of their intimacy. Well, she——

The dinner gong interrupted any further soliloquy. She hurried down to
the dining room. The Thurstons were having guests for dinner, one of
whom she was most desirous of knowing, a wealthy, distinguished
bachelor. True, she had had a remarkably interesting start with Hugh
Benton, but after all, he was married, so it could do no harm to exert
her affability in Mr. Tilmar’s direction. One could never tell just what
might happen. She could not afford to allow a single opportunity to
escape her.

Marjorie Benton was satisfied. She had carefully debated all afternoon,
and had finally concluded that her only course lay in facing Geraldine
DeLacy. She would be different from other women and come out into the
open. Perhaps she could reach the DeLacy woman’s sense of honor. At all
events, she would not permit her to imagine that she was a poor,
deceived wife, the victim of a cheap and tawdry triangle. Those things
were all very well on the stage—but in real life—Well, she would
handle the situation differently.

All the next day, she rehearsed in her mind just what she would say, and
at a few minutes past six, when Griggs announced Mrs. DeLacy she was
calmly waiting for her.

Geraldine entered apologetically: “Am I a few minutes late, Mrs. Benton?
My dressmaker detained me this afternoon, and consequently I was tardy
with all my engagements.”

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. DeLacy.” Marjorie motioned to her to be
seated. “I should have come to you, but as I told you, when I
telephoned, I thought it would be easier to arrange a private interview
here.”

“How interesting. Sounds as if it were to be quite confidential.”
Geraldine sank languidly into a comfortable chair and extracted a
cigarette from her case. “Have one? Oh—I forgot—you never indulge. No
objections to my having a puff or two, I hope? It rests my nerves
so—after I’ve been rushing about.”

Marjorie merely nodded. The insolence of the woman was almost
unbearable.

“Well, now, Mrs. Benton, what is this secret? I am fairly consumed with
curiosity. Is it about Elinor? I hope the dear child has not
been,—well—let us say—indiscreet?”

“I am perfectly capable of managing my daughter myself, Mrs. DeLacy—and
I would hardly send for you to advise me concerning her,” Marjorie
answered freezingly.

“Why is it, Mrs. Benton, that you dislike me so?” Geraldine faced her
squarely. “From the moment of our first meeting, you have shown me
plainly just how you feel toward me.”

“You’re right,” Marjorie realized that without undue maneuvering, the
cards were on the table, “I never liked you—you will pardon me for
having to say this in my own house—indeed, I mistrusted and disliked
you, but I never feared you, until yesterday—because I have always had
faith in my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“I was shopping on the avenue yesterday, and I saw you and my husband in
a cab. I immediately hailed another and—followed you!” Marjorie felt
the blood mounting to her cheeks, and she turned her head in order to
conceal her embarrassment as she brought this bit of strategy into play.
“So you see there isn’t any use for you to deny it.”

“So that’s it.” Geraldine DeLacy threw away her cigarette and faced her
accuser defiantly. “Well, there isn’t anything for me to deny. I called
at Mr. Benton’s office on business. He is a broker and attending to some
of my affairs—surely I have a right to employ his services. It happened
to be lunch time and he invited me to go with him. I must confess that I
am surprised to think that the honorable Mrs. Benton has stooped to
spying.”

Marjorie was struggling for calmness.

“I’d do more than that, Mrs. DeLacy,” she said, with feverish meaning.
“I’d fight to the bitter end for the man I love.”

“You love?” Geraldine’s laugh ended in a sneer. “Why, you don’t know
what love means—_you_, with your haughty air of superiority—your
repellent coldness. What can you mean to any man—particularly a man
like Hugh Benton?”

Marjorie faced her proudly: “Something that no other woman in the world
means—I am the mother of his children.”

Geraldine coolly lighted another cigarette. She seemed to be
considering. “When two people reach the climax in their lives, when they
mean as little to one another as you two,” she commented insultingly,
“then even children do not count.”

“What do you know concerning our lives?”

Geraldine’s shrug was expressive, and she half yawned in a bored manner.

“What everybody else knows,” she enlightened, “that you are
mismated—that you haven’t an idea in common—that your husband believes
in living while you have stayed at home—and—well,—” She eyed her
rival insolently from head to foot,—“have you ever looked at yourself
in the mirror? When Hugh Benton told me he was four years your senior I
wouldn’t believe it. You’re more like his mother. Why, you’re forty
years old, Marjorie Benton, and I’m thirty-six—yes—I know I tell
everybody I’m twenty-six (I’ve been taken for twenty-three) _that’s_ the
difference between us. I’m being brutally frank with you because I want
to show you how impossible it is for you to hold your husband.”

Marjorie gulped as the stinging words flayed her.

“Perhaps all you say is true, Mrs. DeLacy,” she admitted slowly. “I may
be as you say—decidedly unattractive,—but I do know that until you
came into my husband’s life, I was the only woman in it.”

“How ridiculous,” Geraldine laughed. “You mean I am the only one you
happen to think you know about.”

“It is useless for me to waste words with you.” Marjorie Benton, usually
so calm, so cool, so complete mistress of herself, lost all control in
this crisis. She spoke bitterly. “I can never bring you to see things
from my viewpoint, and I could never stoop to your level to discuss
them.”

“Stop!” Geraldine commanded angrily as she hurriedly rose. “You may go a
bit too far—even with me, Mrs. Benton. I came here at your request, and
have submitted calmly to your insults because, in my heart, I pity you!
But I refuse to allow you to presume any further. Up to now your husband
has simply been my friend and counselor. But he cares for me—I know he
does—and I shall act accordingly!”

Marjorie eyed her disdainfully. “So it’s threats, now!”

“Merely fair warning.” Gaining confidence in herself each moment,
Geraldine DeLacy was twisting the iron.

“Then you will deliberately step in between husband and wife?”

For her, Marjorie Benton was almost pleading, but her plea was made to a
woman soulless, caring only for what might best further her own
interests.

“I cannot come into Hugh Benton’s life,” answered that woman, weighing
each word with cruel deliberation, “unless he is willing for me to do
so—therefore, I think the matter rests entirely with him, and neither
you nor I have a right to discuss it.”

Mrs. Hugh Benton, her self-control all miraculously returned, an
unaccustomed red spot on either pale cheek, rose in all her dignity.

“Your impertinence, Mrs. DeLacy,” she commented dryly, “is beyond
comprehension. I regret exceedingly having requested you to call, but
having done so, I now request you to leave!”




                               CHAPTER X


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.




                               CHAPTER XI


Locked securely in the sanctuary of her own rooms, the wife and mother
undressed feverishly, without once permitting her eyes to wander toward
a mirror. She knew that she would see there only a skeleton beneath the
artifices she had permitted the French maid to gloss her with. She was
feeling all about her the ghosts—of what once had been, what might have
been.

So this was the end! She had tried—tried after Hugh’s own suggestions
imposed on her so often—and had failed! This time, too, it had further
been the suggestion of her son. She dropped wearily into a chair, her
eyes closely examining her slender foot, but her thoughts far from it.
Howard had told her—He had meant so well, too, poor boy!

What was that he had said—Oh, yes——

“To hell with your beliefs—your husband’s love means more than
beliefs.”

And now it was too late! Now she had nothing left but her beliefs. She
must cling to them—must live her wrecked life as worthily as her
conscience bade her. Slowly she prepared for bed. She would try to rest,
to forget, if she could, that Hugh might be, probably was with Geraldine
DeLacy while she, Marjorie, grieved over their dead love.

The feeling of the make-up on her face annoyed her. She went into her
bathroom and carefully washed it all off.

She censured herself severely for being ridiculous enough to imagine for
a moment that she could rekindle the fire in her husband’s heart by
artifice. Never again would she stoop to employ tricks worthy only of a
class of women depicted on the motion picture screen, vampires, she
believed they were called. But for the children’s sake she would remain
with Hugh and deliberately close her eyes to his unfaithfulness.

She did not even realize her own unfairness. For without attempting to
investigate the situation, or obtain evidence other than the scene she
had witnessed in the taxi, Marjorie had jumped to the conclusion of
there being but one solution to her husband’s transgression. She had
forced her husband into another woman’s willing arms.

When Hugh Benton left home in so ungraciously hurried a manner, he found
it was a little early for his appointment with Mrs. DeLacy, so he
ordered his chauffeur to drive slowly through the park. It would at
least be restful in the car and he was desperately tired of these
continual scenes and arguments at home. By the time he reached the
Thurston home, he had put his unpleasant talk with Marjorie from his
mind.

Mrs. DeLacy was waiting for him in the living room. She wore a clinging
gown of orchid canton crêpe, effectively trimmed with crystal beads. The
stage had been set perfectly. All the large lights were out, and only
the soft glow of rose-shaded lamps illuminated the room. It was just
chilly enough to permit of a small fire in the grate, thereby lending an
atmosphere of homelike comfort to the room.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she greeted cordially, seating him in a
comfortable easy chair, and placing a smoking stand beside him.

“This is good of you,” Hugh Benton sighed pleasurably.

“On the contrary,” she smiled, arranging her chair opposite him just
where one of the lamps would shine softly upon her, “it is good of you
to come here and keep me company.”

“Mrs. DeLacy,” he began earnestly, “I want to apologize to you again for
Mrs. Benton’s conduct yesterday afternoon. I thought perhaps I could
succeed in persuading her to write you a note or——”

“Please, Mr. Benton, don’t refer to it again—I assure you I——”

“Surely, it must have hurt you deeply.”

“Yes,” she answered, her lips quivering. “I was dreadfully hurt. You
know how absolutely innocent I was and how undeserved the unkind things
she said to me. I wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone for the world.”

“You have no need to tell me that,” he assured her. “Your gentle
forbearance has been magnificent—please believe me when I say—I am
deeply grateful.”

“Don’t you think that forgiveness is best?” she asked him, ruminatively.
“To me there are always extenuating circumstances. I have been thinking
it over and perhaps Mrs. Benton——”

“There was no excuse in the world for Mrs. Benton’s conduct,” the man
exclaimed decisively. He shook his head sadly. “This is not the first
time I have feared my wife is losing her mind.”

“I forbid you to mention this affair again,” she scolded gently. “We
will consider it a closed chapter.”

“Very well, it shall be as you desire,” he agreed, “and now I shall sit
here and listen while you tell me a great many things I am anxious to
know.”

“Insignificant me—to tell you things,” she laughed, “how absurd.
However, I’ll do my best. Just what is it you are so anxious to know?”

Hugh had his queries ready.

“First of all,” he asked, “what would you consider the most important
thing in a man’s life. Take your time in answering—that’s important,
too.”

The woman appeared to ponder deeply.

“I have it!” she announced spiritedly. “The most important thing in a
man’s life is—his loyalty.”

“His loyalty?—To whom?” He was a bit perplexed.

“To himself, of course!” Then she went on eagerly as she leaned toward
her guest. “So that he may meet the eternal problem of life squarely—to
realize once and for all that his life is his own—to do with as he
pleases.”

“But what about others? Shouldn’t we consider them?”

“No,” she answered resolutely. “There was a time in my life when duty
figured above all else, but with the passing years, I have been forced
to acknowledge the futility of it all. We sacrifice our youth, our
ambitions, our desires—everything on the altar of duty, and in the end
try to console ourselves with the memories of what might have been. It
doesn’t pay, I tell you. Life at its best holds so little for us—the
heartaches outweigh the joys—ten to one. And do you know,” she hurried
on, as she saw how deeply her words were sinking in as seed in a soil
all too well prepared for them, “do you know how the ones we sacrifice
everything for really feel toward us?”

“Why, yes—some appreciate us, and others take things as a matter of
fact. They——”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted. “You’re wrong—I’ll tell you how they feel.
In their heart of hearts they hate the very ones who are continually
giving up everything for them.”

“Hate?—But why?——”

“Because,” she continued gravely, “people who are willing to accept day
after day the life’s happiness of another—cannot be anything but
selfish, narrow-minded and little souled, and it is that very littleness
that fills their hearts with envy for the big and generous. As envy is
never the stepping stone to love, it must lead to its opposite, and that
is—hatred. Now do you understand?” Geraldine DeLacy leaned back in her
chair and waited for the verdict on the strange cause she had pleaded.
It came unhesitatingly.

“I understand,” admired Hugh Benton, “that you are a most remarkable and
logical little woman. But,” and the lines of thought deepened between
his brows, “would you advise a man to grasp his happiness should he see
it before him, regardless of anything or anyone else?”

“Yes,” she replied slowly, “I should advise just that.”

Hugh Benton got to his feet and went over to his hostess. Eagerly he
grasped both her hands as he bent over her, and his voice was choked
with emotion as he said:

“Then I should grasp—_you_.”

“Me?” The woman sprang to her feet, her feigned astonishment complete.

“You mean happiness to me. Can’t you see that I love you!”

“Why—why—Mr. Benton,” she floundered piteously. “I hadn’t the least
idea that you were referring to yourself when you asked for my advice—I
thought you were speaking of men in general. You must believe me when I
assure you that I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“Am I displeasing to you?” he inquired anxiously.

“No—no—I don’t mean that—only I hadn’t the least suspicion that I
meant anything to you.”

“You mean _everything_ to me—I love you, dear—I can’t tell you how
deeply.” His arms went out to her to draw her to him, but she turned
away, her bare white shoulders quivering.

“You haven’t the right to speak to me of love,” she protested chokingly.
“I’m sorry if I have given you the impression that I was the sort of
woman you could say such things to——”

“Why, my dear,” stupidly he tried to explain, to protest, as he sought
for the hand she withheld. “I have only the most profound respect and
admiration for you.”

“You—you have a wife,” she accused. As an actress Geraldine DeLacy
would have made a profound success, for her simulation now was perfect.
She choked back her sobs. “And yet you speak to me of love. What am I to
think?”

“When I came into this room to-night, I hadn’t the slightest intention
of revealing my sentiments toward you. It was you yourself, with your
logical reasoning, who gave me the courage to speak. If I were free, do
you think—oh my dear, answer me truthfully—do you think you could
learn to care for me?” He pleaded wistfully.

“Just what do you mean?” she breathed.

“If I can persuade Marjorie to divorce me—have I a chance to win your
love?”

She dropped her eyes to veil the exultation in their dark depths.
“Whenever you are free I shall be waiting for you,” she answered simply.

“You care?” he whispered.

“Yes, dear.” And of her own accord, she crept into his open arms. “I
care—a great deal.”

The dismal failure of Marjorie’s attempted reconciliation served to
forge a new link in the chain of discord already predominant in the
Benton home. More and more Hugh absented himself from the family
fireside. Sometimes he remarked carelessly that he was “remaining at the
club for dinner,” but more frequently he remained away without even
deigning to offer an explanation.

Howard’s time was completely taken up with his car and “the boys,” a
wild set of society’s idle rich, each one striving to outdo the other in
some sort of asinine absurdity.

More than ever before Marjorie withdrew into her shell. She had become
acquainted with the painful problems of life and brooded in silence,
determining to bear her cross until the children married and launched
forth on their own resources. In regard to Elinor, her aspirations were
of the loftiest, and in order to assure the success of her most sanguine
hopes she endeavored to demand an accounting for every minute of her
daughter’s time. Elinor, in consequence, was not long in becoming a
genius in the art of deception.

She saw Templeton Druid nearly every day; and each day she became more
infatuated with him. When he professed to cherish an undying love and
everlasting devotion for her, she trusted him implicitly. After all,
Elinor was only a spoiled headstrong girl possessing a bit of
imagination and an exaggerated opinion of herself. She believed she
understood the ways of the world and men—particularly men—perfectly.

If anyone had ventured to tell her that a man who really loved a girl
would never for a moment dream of compromising her—she would have
replied defiantly that she was broad-minded enough to wave petty
conventionalities—and most capable of managing her own affairs. And she
did manage them—to her own satisfaction—obtaining all the pleasure she
could out of life and finding after awhile a sort of fiendish joy in
this continued resorting to subterfuge.

Elinor Benton may indeed have become adept at fooling her mother. At her
worst, Marjorie Benton was never the dragon her daughter believed her,
and it never occurred to her that her daughter might tell her untruths
concerning her comings and goings. Her duty, she believed, was done when
she insisted on her strict accounting. In the Benton household, however,
there was one not so easily fooled. For a long time Howard Benton,
though engaged himself in pursuits far from wholesome, had believed he
had cause to wonder where his sister was headed. He had never caught her
deliberately, however, until one night when he happened to be lounging
at home, and Elinor came in upon him. She was exquisitely attired in
evening dress and a beautiful ermine wrap was on her arm.

“’Lo, sis,” called Howard, looking up from his paper. “Where’re you
bound?”

“I’m going over to Nell’s,” she told him. “She’s giving a little
dinner.”

Howard flung down his paper and scowled.

“What’s your idea?” he demanded.

“My idea?”

“In lying to me?”

“Why—why Howard—what do you mean?”

“I know you’re not going to Nell’s,” he sneered, “because I have an
engagement to take her to dinner and a show.”

For a moment Elinor paled. “Heavens, what an escape,” she laughed,
“suppose mother had been here. You won’t give me away, will you,
Howard?”

“Why should I bother to say anything.” He shrugged. “Only I would like
to know where you’re going that you have to be so secret about it.”

“As long as you’re such a good sport about it, I’ll tell you,” Elinor
confided in a low and confidential tone, her glance flung hurriedly
toward the door. “It’s Templeton Druid’s birthday, and he’s giving a
little dinner in his apartment after the show. It’s going to be a jolly
little affair and I so wanted to go. I knew I could never get out that
late, so I’m going to spend the evening with Rosebud Greely and leave
there in time to go to Templeton’s. I told mother I was going to Nell’s,
because she likes her the best of all my girl friends.”

“And how will you explain getting in so late from a dinner,” Howard
inquired.

“Mother won’t have any idea as to the time I get in,” she answered
quickly. “She’ll be in bed—and if by any chance she should be up—leave
it to me to think of something to say.”

“Well, just the same, Sis, I don’t like it.” Howard fairly growled.

“_You_ don’t like it,” she laughed heartily. “Well of all things—since
when do I have to cater to your likes and dislikes?”

“I know Templeton Druid pretty well,” he answered. “He’s a good bit of a
rotter, and I don’t like to see my sister get mixed up with him.”

“Why, Howard! When I told you I knew him, you said he was a good friend
of yours, and one of the finest fellows you knew—didn’t you?” she asked
spiritedly.

“Yes; but I didn’t think you would fall for him like this. He chases
after every girl he meets.”

“That isn’t true,” Elinor flared. “It’s the girls who run after him.
Why, you’d be surprised if you only knew how many women in our own set
write to him.”

“Yes,” Howard sneered, “and I suppose he tells you about them, or
probably shows you their letters. That ought to show you just what kind
of a fellow he is.”

“At any rate,” she assured him, “I’d be willing to wager you one thing.
He’d prove a better friend than you are. He wouldn’t knock you—behind
your back.”

“I didn’t mean to knock him.” Her brother hastened to vindicate himself,
“and I wouldn’t to anyone else; but you’re my sister, and it’s my duty
to warn you.”

Elinor smiled as she replied with sarcasm: “This sudden splurge of
brotherly devotion is really touching, Howard. It’s a pity you developed
it so late in life.”

“It’s true we’ve never been very close to one another since we were
kids, but just the same,” he frowned, “I’ll not stand for any fellow
making a fool of you.”

“Don’t worry about me, old dear! I’m quite capable of taking care of
myself any old time!”

“All right, have it your own way!” was the brother’s retort, settling
down behind his paper with an apparent indifference as though he had
lost all interest and was dismissing the subject. “But,” and he peered
over the sheet he turned to favor her with a brotherly frown as he shot
out his advice. “But when something happens to you, remember I warned
you, and—Watch Your Step!”

“Oh, mind your own business!” snapped Elinor, as she threw her wrap
about her and hurried away.

She was furiously angry, as she thought about Howard’s nerve, as she
termed it, for daring to attempt to interfere with her. Now, she
supposed, he was going to try to enact the rôle of the protecting
brother and make things more difficult for her than ever. She just
wouldn’t have it!

The hot tears gushed to her eyes. Things in her home were disagreeable
enough without having this new discordant element to contend with.
Templeton must marry her soon and take her away from it all. She would
speak to him this very night!




                              CHAPTER XII


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.




                              CHAPTER XIII


Howard Benton’s wait for his father had been as futile as it was long.
At first he had sat slumped in a chair grumpily, watching the door
impatiently for each new arrival, his whole attention given to this new
emotion of his, this wakening to duty and his new sense of
responsibility toward his sister. Where in the world could his dad be?
He ought to be there right then listening to what he, Howard, had to
divulge. No telling what Elinor was doing by now! She was such a
silly—such a headstrong——

The clap of Woods Thorndyke’s hand on his shoulder in no light fashion
awakened him from his reverie.

“Come out of it, old top!” exclaimed the newcomer cheerily. “What’s on
the youngster’s mind? Come on up to the card room. One of the chaps has
some of his dad’s best private stock and you’ll just fit in for a
rubber!”

Howard shook his head.

“No, thanks, Thorn, old boy,” he declared, “no time for cards
to-night—got an engagement—with my own dad!”

“Oh, come on,” urged the other, “you can get your call down any old
time, and a nice little game—one rubber——”

But the Benton heir was firm about one thing. His head shake was more
decided than ever.

“No—nary a rub—” he declared with positiveness, “but,” and he wavered
a little as he eyed his companion. Really, he began to feel sorry for
himself. What right did Elinor have to get him all wrought up like this.
He felt that by now he needed, most likely deserved, a drink. “But,” he
went on brightening a little, “I believe I could use a little shot or
so!”

And one or two in that congenial company of his boon companions led to
more and more, until by two o’clock he had quite forgotten all about
Elinor, forgotten many things, in fact, save his determination not to
enter a card game which might last interminable hours. Somewhere in his
hazy consciousness it was borne in on him that he had an important
engagement with his father, but he could not just think what it was
about.

He made a trip to the smoking room and learned that his father had
neither been seen nor heard from. Oh, well, whatever it was he was going
to talk to dad about would have to wait. He was tired; he was going
home.

He started for the hat room. Just outside the door two chaps were
talking. Both of them he knew well, but the “Hello” he had almost hurled
at them was frozen on his lips at a name he heard. In a twinkling the
haziness disappeared. He knew why he had been waiting. He stepped back
into the shadow of a potted palm and listened without compunction.

“Elinor Benton!” was the exclamation he heard. “You can’t be serious.
She’d never fall for that fourflusher, Druid.”

“But I tell you they’re everywhere together,” the other replied. “I meet
them driving in the park nearly every day, she at the wheel, and often
his arm about her. I’ve seen them coming out of inns and roadhouses,
rather questionable ones too—if you’ll take it from me. I’m surprised
her people stand for it.”

“Perhaps they don’t know anything about it, and if they do, they may
look upon it as a harmless flirtation.”

“Harmless flirtation!” The man laughed. “Knowing Druid as well as you
do, I can’t see how you could ever imagine a flirtation with him
harmless.”

“Oh—well then,” came the answer, “maybe he intends to marry her. He
could do a lot worse, you know, than to fall in for some of the Benton
money.”

“I agree with you, and no doubt he does too, but I know it will take
some time before he is free. His wife is suing him for divorce now.”

“What!” the other exclaimed. “I never knew he had a wife.”

“It isn’t generally known for business reasons. Those theater chappies
consider him a more profitable investment unmarried. I happen to know,
though, that he married a little chorus girl about six years ago
somewhere in the Middle West.”

“Where is she now?”

“They couldn’t get along together, so,”—and outspread hands finished
the sentence. “She’s out on the Coast now, working in pictures, and is
interested in someone else—hence, the divorce proceedings.”

Howard stepped forth from his place of concealment. His eyes blazed like
coals of fire in his gray face.

“Benton!” came the disturbed exclamation.

“’Sall right, boys.” He smiled feebly. “You didn’t know I was there.”

“Oh—I’m sorry, Benton,” Frank Crimmins assured him earnestly as he
stepped forward. “I feel like a silly gossiping woman. Please don’t pay
any attention to what I’ve said.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve done me a service. You see, I hadn’t
any idea that Druid was a married man.”

“Didn’t you know that he has been rather friendly with your sister?”

“The news of his friendship for my sister has come to me only to-night
through three different sources. Now, I am going to get it directly from
his own lips,” he announced ominously.

Crimmins endeavored to restrain him: “Wait a minute, Benton, don’t make
a fool of yourself! You’re not in a condition to see anyone right
now—wait until to-morrow.”

“I’m going now.” He brushed aside the friendly detaining hand and
demanded his things from the coat-boy. “I’ll show him that he can’t
juggle with my sister’s reputation and get away with it.”

“The hot-headed young idiot,” Crimmins said, as Howard rushed from the
club. “I suppose he’ll go up to Druid’s and attempt to mop up the place
with him.”

“Feel sorry for him if he does,” the other replied with a meaning grin.
“He’ll get the worst of it—Druid’s some athlete.”

Crimmins was still conscience-stricken. “Perhaps we should have gone
with him?” he suggested.

“Nonsense! Take my advice and always keep out of other people’s
quarrels. Come on, have another ball, and then I’m going to turn in.”

It was mid-night when Elinor Benton arrived at Templeton Druid’s studio
apartment—a delightful hour, she thought, shivering deliciously, to be
arriving anywhere, and unaccompanied. Since she had made her début, it
was not at all unusual for her to be dancing in the small hours and
twelve o’clock usually saw the top of the excitement. But always she had
conventionally arrived at dance or reception or whatever gayety along
with those of all her set at much more seasonable hours. Templeton and
all his friends were so excitingly different. But still when she had
thrown aside her ermine wrap with the solicitous aid of her hero
himself, who did not neglect to give her arm an affectionate squeeze,
she found herself, among the bizarre appointments of the actor’s
home—and his astonishingly elated and at ease guests, a bit diffident
and shy. But not for long. For an ingénue, Elinor Benton found she was
able with great ease to adapt herself to the unfamiliar atmosphere.
Perhaps it may have been something in the weird lighting effects;
perhaps the subtle perfume of the Orient that rose in hazy fumes from
swinging censers, the dim reflection of the lighted sconces on mirrors
that made the restless guests seem figures in a pageant and far off,
with eerie faces that so effectually drowned her diffidence and made her
senses whirl with abandon like the fumes of a heady wine. Or maybe it
was the possessive, lover-like attitude of Templeton Druid himself that
bade her throw aside stilted convention and become one of those with
whom her hero surrounded himself. However, it may have been, Elinor
Benton, débutante, at the end of ten minutes of her first visit to
Templeton Druid’s apartments might have been long a woman of the world,
the stage world, which, until the time of his opportune recognition by
Geraldine DeLacy had been the man’s only world.

Introductions, had she but known it, were of no account in that
assemblage, but Templeton Druid remembering her social training, did not
dispense with them with his favored guest. To each, as he made the
circle of the long studio room, he introduced her as “his dearest little
friend”—not forgetting to add that she was the daughter of Hugh Benton,
the financier.

Another round of cocktails was served. The somewhat blasé guests took
heart. Dinner was announced, and the fun began to wage fast and furious.
Elinor was enjoying every minute of it. Here was a party worth while,
she thought. What a wonderful crowd of whole-hearted, happy-go-lucky
people. And she would soon be one of them—after she and Templeton were
married! She would give all sorts of dinners and parties, and invite
this same crowd of charming, congenial people.

As befitted the most honored guest, she was seated next to her host at
the table. At first he was discreetness personified in all his actions
toward her. But as the dinner progressed and he imbibed more and more
freely of the various wines the possession of which only he could have
explained, he threw all caution to the winds. Openly he avowed his
passion for her.

“I’m mad about you, darling,” he whispered, bending his head close to
her ear. “Each time I see you, I want you more and more for my very
own.”

Elinor listened with shining eyes.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, dear,” she nodded, “because there’s
something I want to talk to you about. The most disagreeable thing has
happened at home and——”

“Won’t have you telling me disagreeable things on—my birthday.” He
hiccoughed slightly. “Going to stop that pretty little mouth with
kisses.” And disregarding guests, appearances, he grabbed her to him to
carry out his threat.

“Please—please, Templeton.” She struggled to free herself, her face
suffused with blushes. “Let me go! You embarrass me dreadfully! Don’t
you see everyone is looking at you.”

“Let ’em look. What do I care? You’re my little girl—I love you, and
I’m proud of it! So there—and there!” He caught the struggling girl
with one arm, swung her from her chair, as he emphasized his words with
fervent caresses.

With face suffused with scarlet, Elinor Benton drew herself from the
arms of the man who had so publicly declared himself her lover. But as
she glanced at Druid’s other guests, in full expectation of an
embarrassing few moments, she was as much bewildered as surprised to see
that the episode had passed unnoticed. Each was too intent on his or her
own affairs. A small stream of wine flowed redly across the white cloth
from its shattered goblet that had been overturned as Marie Shaw, a
Follies girl, had over-reached herself in her attempt to bombard Giles
Fellowes, her own pet press agent, who sat across the table with the
centerpiece of orchids which now trailed, a bedraggled mess half down to
the floor. Teddy Martin, a composer, who himself admitted he was a
popular one, wanted to show off his latest hit. He tipped over his chair
in his eagerness to reach the piano.

Harold Westley, handsome as a screen actor should be, danced over to
Elinor and pulled her away from Templeton Druid.

“Come on,” he urged. “Teddy’s giving us a fox trot,” then, as Druid put
out an unsteady protesting hand, he laughed at him: “Needn’t think, just
because you’re one of those ‘appears, personally, himself’s’ that you
can monopolize Miss Benton the whole evening!”

Before she realized it, Elinor felt herself whirled away in the movie
actor’s arms.

“Some party—I’ll say,” he drawled. “Having a good time?”

“Wonderful,” she answered. “I’ve never been to anything like this
before—it’s so different.”

“How do you mean—different?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s so free from restraint of any kind. Everyone
does just as he pleases, and no one seems to think anything about it.”

He laughed heartily. “If you think this is free from restraint, you
should have been here at the party Templeton gave a week ago! We had
some night of it.”

“I—I know—” she stammered, trying to conceal her confusion, her heart
thumping madly. “I couldn’t come that night on account of a previous
engagement.”

“You missed one great time—but never mind,” he reassured her, “the
night’s young yet, and you can’t tell how this will wind up—although
there doesn’t begin to be the number of pretty babies that were here the
other night. Why you’re by far the one best bet in the room to-night,”
and he attempted to hold her closer. But at this all the girl’s training
rebelled. It was one thing for Templeton to—she was engaged to him—but
for this unknown actor——

“I can’t dance any more—I’m tired, and I believe the wine has gone to
my head,” she said weakly. She was angry, too, at what he had told her
about Templeton.

“Sit here,” Westley said, leading her to a large chair in the corner,
“and I’ll bring you some black coffee—that’ll fix you up all right.”

As soon as he was out of sight, she looked around for Druid. As she
caught his eye, she beckoned for him to come to her.

“Well, sweetness—did you have a nice dance?” he inquired, sitting on
the arm of her chair. But she pushed him away from her, and faced him.

“You had a party here last week,” she accused him furiously, “and there
were a lot of girls present.”

“Well—well—well! Who’s been telling you the news?”

[Illustration: Marjorie Benton (Mary Alden) refuses to allow her daughter
  (Norma Shearer) to attend a roof-garden review.
(_“The Valley of Content” screened as “Pleasure Mad.”_)]

“Never mind who’s been telling me! I know it—that’s enough! I—I
thought you were absolutely true to me, and now—you’ve broken my
heart.” Her wail ended in a sob.

“Come now, Elinor, don’t be foolish and create a scene.” He looked
around uneasily. The laugh would be on him if the bunch— “You know I
love you, darling,” he added quickly, insinuatingly. “There isn’t
another woman in the world who means anything to me.”

“Oh—if I could only believe you!” But the sobs still came. “I love you
so! I’m insanely jealous of your every thought. When I think of you day
after day—thrown in contact with so many beautiful and clever women, I
am filled with the fear of someone coming between us—I couldn’t bear it
now—I couldn’t, dear!”

“Listen to me, darling,” he whispered, gently drying her eyes with his
daintly-perfumed handkerchief. “I love you and only you! Please remember
that, and when you are my little wife——”

“When will that be, dear?” She looked up through her tears to ask
anxiously.

“Soon—very soon—my own,” he murmured. Forgetting the hilarious,
laughing merry-makers around her, conscious only of one thing—that she
loved this man and wanted his comfort and assurance, Elinor Benton let
him draw her into his arms, hold her close.

She clung to him passionately; his kisses she returned with wild
abandon. Unnoticed, the pins slipped from her hair and it hung about her
like a shower of gold, as she nestled in his arms.

There was a commotion at the door as someone swept by the valet and
pulled aside the portieres. Elinor and Templeton looked up
simultaneously.

Standing in the doorway, wild-eyed and white as death was Howard Benton!

By the time Howard had reached Druid’s apartments, he was seeing red. He
refused to allow the hallboy to announce him. He was expected, he said.
When Druid’s valet opened the door, he thrust him aside and made
straight for the living room. It was the valet’s attempt to restrain
him, and Howard’s persistency that caused the commotion that brought
Elinor and Templeton Druid from their trance, caused them at glance
upward to see him standing in the doorway.

“Howard!” Elinor could only gasp weakly.

“Hello, Howard,” Druid put Elinor out of his arms, and came forward,
struggling to gain his self-control. “This is a surprise. Did you drop
in to wish me a happy birthday?” He held out his hand.

“No—damn you!” gritted the boy, as he brushed aside Druid’s hand. His
lips drew back from his teeth in animal-like passion. “No! I came here
to demand an explanation of you! And I’m—going—to—have—it!”




                              CHAPTER XIV


In the sudden hush that spread through the room, only the stertorous
breathing of the angry young man who faced Templeton Druid could be
heard. For just a moment after Howard spoke, Teddy Martin, at the piano,
jangled out a bit of jazz, but it had the hollow sound that a popular
song might have at a funeral. He whirled about on the piano bench as
much astonished at the peculiar quiet as a man in different environment
might have been had a bomb exploded at his feet. Marie Shaw stopped
stock still, stunned into actual quietude for once, with skirt still
uplifted in her unfinished pirouette.

Gradually, unconsciously, Druid’s guests closed in about the two
belligerent men to form a half circle. In the tenseness, each waited
with bated breath for what next might happen. Howard Benton’s attitude
was unmistakable. He meant trouble.

Elinor was the first to gain control of herself. She ran to her brother
and grabbed him by the arm.

“Howard!” she shrieked, vixenishly. “How dare you come in here like
this! You’re drunk! Go home at once! You wait until Dad hears of
this——”

“You shut up!” He pushed her roughly aside. “You’re a fine one to tell
me I’m drunk! Look at you, with your hair hanging around you, and your
clothes almost falling off—God!” He buried his face in his hands. “I
never thought I should find my sister like this!”

Teddy Martin came forward quickly. “See here, Benton, you don’t know
what you’re talking about. This is Druid’s birthday, and we’re having a
little party. There isn’t a thing wrong——”

“You can’t make a fool of me!” he answered hotly. “Didn’t I see her in
his arms when I came in?”

“Well, supposing you did,” Druid interrupted. “At an informal party like
this, we don’t stand on ceremony. This doesn’t happen to be one of
your—society functions,” with deep sarcasm.

“Put on your things at once.” Howard turned commandingly to Elinor.
“I’ll send you home in a taxi and then I’ll come back and settle with
him.”

“But what if I don’t feel like going home?” Elinor faced him furiously.
“You’ve got your nerve to think you can humiliate me like this in front
of my friends.”

“Friends?” Howard sneered. “And I suppose this man,” pointing to
Templeton and trembling as a man with ague, so eager was he to fasten
his hands on the actor’s throat, “is your friend too?”

Elinor Benton drew herself up with all the dignity inherited from a
haughty parentage. She looked at her brother, squarely, then defiantly
about the half circle of watching silent people.

“He’s _more_ than my friend,” Elinor announced haughtily, but with a
touch of pride. “He is—my affianced husband!”

Living on sensation as most of her hearers did, proof against surprises
in usual matters, still the simply-worded announcement of Elinor Benton
was sufficient to cause jaws to drop, to cause glances to dart from one
to the other at a statement that, to say the least, to most of them was
startling. Then those glances came back to settle on the face of
Templeton Druid—the glances of these people who knew him. What they saw
was that his suave countenance had turned scarlet, and that his eyes
wavered unsteadily as he, too, glanced stealthily around the room.

“How wonderfully interesting!” Howard’s sarcastic laugh rang out, “but
don’t you think it would have been proper and more gentlemanly for him
to have waited until he had disposed of his present wife before honoring
you with his proposal?”

“His wife!” Elinor turned ghastly. “It isn’t true! Tell him it isn’t
true—Templeton?”

“Just look at him!” Howard blazed. “You can read his answer in his
face.”

“Well, I told you there was a matter of great importance I had to
settle—before I could marry you—didn’t I?” Druid turned to Elinor
almost fiercely.

“Yes—but a—wife—a wife!” Once more her wail turned to sobs, as her
slender body was shaken in a gale of emotion, of chagrin.

Howard took a menacing step nearer Druid.

“You’ve played fast and loose with my sister’s affections in order to
feed your disgusting vanity,” he began, chokingly. “You will——”

“Now you get out of here—you and your sister!” All of Druid’s polish
dropped from him like a cloak. “I’ve taken about all I care to stand
from you. If you think, for a moment, that you can come into my home and
insult me in front of my guests, you’re mistaken! Your sister isn’t a
baby—she’s capable of taking care of herself. In fact, I think she
knows considerably more than you think.” He was sneeringly insinuating.

“You—you cad!” Unable further to hold himself in check, Howard sprang
forward. “I’m going to give you the beating you so justly deserve.”

Westley took a step forward and turned aside the angry boy’s arm.

“Steady there, Benton,” Druid’s eyes flashed fire. “If you start
anything with me, you’ll find more than you bargained for! You’re not my
match in strength, and I don’t like to take advantage of a boy!”

With only the memory of Druid’s words to “get out,—you and your sister”
ringing in her ears, and hurt unbelievably that they should have come
from the man who but a moment before was softly voicing undying devotion
to her, Elinor Benton attempted to interfere, to put an end to the
sordid scene. She put her hand on Howard’s arm which he was still waving
threateningly.

“Come on, Howard. Mr.—Mr. Druid is right. We have created enough
disturbance here. I—I’m ready to go home with you,” she said with
dignity.

“You—keep out of this!” Howard shook off her hand. His eyes blazed fire
as he advanced on his enemy. “So I’m a boy, am I?” he sneered. “Well at
least, I’m not a _coward_ and I don’t make play-things of women.”

“Get out!” Druid thundered.

Howard’s answer was to pull off his coat, fling it on the floor and
lunge forward with closed fists. Elinor screamed hysterically and fled
to the corner of the room, covering her eyes with both trembling hands.

But Druid was not caught off his defense. He caught Howard’s fists in
his hands and there was a triumphant light in his eyes as he hissed
between closed teeth: “Very well, you damned fool! If you’re bound on
fighting, I’ll give you a thrashing you’ll not forget in a hurry.”

Men guests, less befuddled, sprang forward protestingly, but he waved
them back dramatically, as he pulled off his coat.

“All of you keep out of this. My patience has been tried beyond all
endurance, and this child,” he paused just the right length of time for
his dramatic taunt, “must be taught a lesson!” The sneer accompanying
the words curled back his lips over the perfect teeth.

It only took Druid a few seconds to discover that he was up against
anything but a novice. Howard had taken a special course of pugilistic
training besides being a born athlete. In college he had carried off
first honors in every contest. Druid was no mean athlete himself and not
loth to exploit his prowess, but he depended too much on brute strength,
a strength his evening’s debauch had much weakened. He found himself no
match for Howard’s cleverness—taught him by one of the most scientific
men in the ring.

Templeton Druid was getting the worst of it. That was plain. He had been
down twice and was terribly groggy. Both men were bleeding profusely and
indiscriminately over the room which looked as if a cyclone had struck
it.

A half stifled, hysterical shriek at some telling bloody blow from one
of the women, a groan, or muffled mumble of admiration from the men
guests who were watching as eagerly as at any mill in the padded ring
was all that could be heard above the labored breathing of the battlers,
save the steady hysterical sobbing of Elinor Benton from her corner.
Rugs were torn up, furniture overturned, priceless bric-a-brac fell with
a crash that added to the general ensemble; the grinning Buddha toppled
from his pedestal and crashed into a thousand pieces, his grin alone
looking up from the floor in the midst of his shattered features.

Templeton Druid dropped to the floor with finality. Men sprang forward,
thinking it was the end, when slowly he began to pull himself up again.
His hand went to his hip-pocket, and he pulled forth a small revolver.
Howard saw it at the moment its shine appeared and leapt for it.

A struggle—more furious than ever for a moment. A shot rang out.

Templeton Druid staggered, threw his hands in the air, and fell, face
downward on the torn, blood-stained Persian rug.

Howard Benton stood over the crumpled figure on the rug with the shining
revolver in his hand. He looked at it half understandingly, as though it
were a strange thing he had never seen before—that he could not
recognize. Then it dropped from his nerveless fingers with a clatter
among the pieces of the broken Buddha. His eyes shifted aimlessly about,
to fix themselves once more on the huddled figure at his feet.

“My God!” he gasped. “I’ve killed him!”

In the speechless pause, Elinor Benton’s shrieks rent the air wildly.
She staggered from her corner, throwing aside hands that with kindly
intent sought to restrain her, to fall prone on the still form on the
floor, her gown drinking in the crimson that flowed out darkly across
the polished floor.

“Oh, my darling! Speak to me!” she moaned and pleaded. “I don’t care for
anyone in the world! I love you! Oh—speak to me! Speak to me!”

The quiet that had reigned during the encounter became turmoil.
Trembling, wild-eyed, Druid’s valet’s white face appeared at the door.
Westley rushed to him.

“Is there a doctor in the building?” he howled.

The man’s teeth chattered as his shuddering glance took in the scene.

“Yes, sir,” he stuttered. “On the ground floor.”

“Get him!” commanded the movie actor.

Women rushed to get wraps, looking about with anxious eyes for the
opportunity of making cautious exits. Only Elinor Benton seemed not to
think of escape as she wept over the still figure of the man on the
floor. But that escape was out of the question was obvious in but a
moment when the apartment began to fill with excited, curious tenants
who had heard the shot and crowded forward morbidly to see what was
going on.

Orders, suggestions, flew backward and forward. Apparently the only calm
person in the apartment was Howard Benton. He had walked unseeingly to a
bench at one side of the room and dropped on it. He was too stunned to
speak. Attempts to speak to him were met with a dazed incomprehension.

Teddy Martin touched him on the shoulder and offered: “I’m sorry,
Benton. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The not unkindly touch helped to bring him out of himself.

“Is he—is he—dead—or only wounded?” he asked quietly.

“We don’t know yet,” Martin answered. “The doctor will be here in a
minute, and then we will find out. Here he is now.”

Doctor Adams looked on in surprise while one of the girls pulled Elinor
away from Druid, trying to make the hysterical girl understand that the
doctor had arrived.

“What’s happened here?” the medical man inquired brusquely.

Harold Westley stepped forward. “Two men had a quarrel,” he informed,
“and one of them was shot—accidentally.”

“Humph! Looks more like a free-for-all fight,” the doctor answered,
glancing around the room. He bent over the still form; turned him over.
His examination lasted but a few seconds.

“Dead,” he announced solemnly. “A clean shot through the heart—died
instantaneously.”

“No! No!” Elinor moaned, attempting to rush forward again.

“Are you his wife?” the doctor inquired more gently.

Elinor shook her head, but sobs wracked her.

“Oh—well—it is my duty to inform the authorities. Of course, you know
no one must leave before their arrival?” He rose from beside the body.

Howard reached for the only friendly hand outheld to him and gripped it.

“Martin,” he asked, “will you try to locate my father? Call the club,
and if he isn’t there, try our home. If you get him, give him an idea of
what had happened, and ask him to come to me.”

“I’ll do all that I can,” Teddy assured him, and hurried out to the
telephone.

He was fortunate in locating Hugh Benton at the Club, catching him just
as he was leaving for home. In a very few moments, he gave him a brief
outline of the tragic affair.

“I—I’ll be over at once,” said the father in a choked voice. The
catastrophe stunned him. He could barely make himself understood, but he
added, as assurance for Howard: “I’m going to try to reach my attorney
and have him go with me.”

But it was an old and broken man who hung up the telephone and clung to
the table for support as he swayed, fighting for courage to carry him
through the ordeal he was called on to face—fighting for immediate
strength to telephone the man on whom he must rely for present aid.

Howard was pacing nervously up and down, when his father and John
Hammond, the celebrated attorney, arrived at the scene of the tragedy.
He went to his father manfully.

“I’m terribly sorry, Dad, to have caused this trouble,” he apologized,
“but I—I couldn’t help it. The revolver was discharged accidentally.
He—he was a coward to the end—he couldn’t even—fight fair.”

“Tell me the entire thing, Howard; just what brought you here, and how
it happened.” Mr. Hammond said quietly.

Howard told it all as clearly as he could remember. Once or twice the
lawyer interrupted him to ask a question, or to have him make some point
a little more definite. At the conclusion, he turned to Hugh.

“This looks like a simple case of self-defense, Benton,” he said, and
his tone and off-hand manner gave rising hope to father and son. “The
boy came here to protect his sister’s good name—a fight ensued, Druid
pulled his revolver—there are witnesses enough here to attest that,”
looking about at the sadly morose lot who so short a time before had
been merry-makers. “The boy secured possession of it—it was discharged
accidentally, or at the worst, discharged in self-defense.”

“Yes—but think of the scandal—” Hugh was not altogether appeased.

“That is something we cannot help,” the lawyer replied as his jaws
snapped shut. “Be grateful to think you can save the boy! There are a
certain amount of preliminaries necessary to go through, and then he can
go home with you. Just a moment, before we go—I want to speak to these
men,” indicating a couple of officers and detectives who had entered the
room.

“I must arrange to send Elinor home.” Hugh mentioned his daughter for
the first time, although the sight of her, when he had come into the
room had almost taken the breath from his body.

It was a brilliant commentary on Hugh Benton’s attitude of mind that, as
he sat before the telephone at this crisis in his life, maneuvering to
save both son and daughter as well as to drown out as much as possible
of the scandal that must ensue, that not even for one moment did he
think of calling his wife to his aid. As he sat there nervously jangling
the hook up and down, it was Geraldine DeLacy who was going through his
mind. Geraldine! She loved him! She would come to him—would help him
through. Only for a moment did the vision of Marjorie cross his mind,
and then he dismissed her with a queer wry smile. In this, his time of
trouble, he wanted Geraldine. To the woman he loved, and to her only,
would he entrust his foolish daughter.

The sleeping butler at the Thurston home was not easily roused to answer
the telephone. Even then, Benton had a difficult time in persuading him
his business was of the most vital importance, and that he must awaken
Mrs. DeLacy.

It seemed ages before a sleepy voice answered him. “Why—Hugh! What on
earth do you mean at this hour in the morning. Why——”

“Geraldine, a _terrible_ thing has happened!” The man’s voice trembled
with earnestness. “I cannot tell you over the ’phone,” he went on, “but
I want you to dress as quickly as you can, jump in a taxi and come here
at once.” He gave her the address of the apartment.

“What place is that—and what do you want me for—what has happened?”
she inquired in one breath.

“I can’t go into details now—all I can tell you is that Howard has
killed—Templeton Druid. Don’t ask any questions—just come to me,
dear—I need you.” His voice quivered more unmistakably.

“Great heavens!” For once Geraldine was all but speechless as she
gasped. “I—I’ll come to you at once, dear.”

She never remembered how she dressed, ordered the taxi, or hurried to
the apartment. She knew she accomplished it all in a remarkably short
space of time, because Hugh met her at the door and said gratefully:

“You certainly came quickly, dear—thank you so much.” He told her as
rapidly as possible just what had transpired. “And now,” he urged, “I
want you to take Elinor home. There wasn’t anyone here I felt I could
entrust her to. She is in a frightfully hysterical condition and should
be put to bed at once.”

“I shall be glad to take her, dear, and oh—you don’t know how I am
suffering with you. Shall I take Elinor home with me—or——”

“No, no—take her to her own home. My lawyer will have to talk with her
to-morrow, and besides,” he continued, “she may want her—mother.”

“Don’t you think Marjorie will resent my entering her home?”

“Marjorie has doubtless been in bed for hours—there is no need to
awaken her. She will have to be told everything in the morning, but that
is time enough.”

“I will do just as you wish, my dear. My only desire is to serve you, as
you know. Nothing else matters,” and she patted his arm lovingly.

She went to Elinor and put her arms protectingly about her.

“Oh—oh—Geraldine!” Elinor began sobbing anew. “What are you doing
here? Do you know what has happened? Oh—I just want to die—I want to
die!”

“There, there, darling,” Geraldine soothed, helping her on with her wrap
she had brought. “I am going to take you home. You can tell me
everything in the taxi. You must pull yourself together, dear, and be
brave.”

“How can I be—brave—when—when—my heart is breaking! Just—just
think! A little while ago, I—I was in his arms—and—and—now—I
shall-nev-er—see him again!”

“Come, dear, we will go now. Your father is anxious for you to go home.”
And Geraldine led her to the door, where Hugh joined them.

Elinor fell into his arms. “Daddy! Daddy!” she cried, heart-brokeningly.
“What shall I do? I—I can’t stand this.”

Hugh held her closely in his arms as he tenderly murmured: “Never mind,
darling, your Daddy will always stand by you—no—no matter what
happens. Mrs. DeLacy will take you home. Howard and I will have to wait
awhile, but we’ll follow you.”

“Howard!” Elinor turned like a tigress. “He is to blame for all this—I
hate him! Do you understand? I hate him! And I hope he is made to suffer
for his crime!”

Geraldine DeLacy put her arm protectingly about the girl whose whole
body shook with the fury and fervor of the hate with which she denounced
the brother who had killed the man she believed she loved. Hugh Benton’s
surprised shocked countenance gave proof of his little understanding of
the side of his daughter’s character she was showing. But Geraldine only
drew her more closely into protecting arms.

“Come with me, darling,” she soothed. “You’re all unnerved.” She shook
her head protestingly at Hugh Benton as his mouth opened to speak.
Without a word, he helped the woman and girl into the waiting cab and
turned back toward the apartment entrance. But his head hung low as he
walked, and there was a sense of unrealness, a sense of bewilderment,
wonder, annoyance at the complexity of life as he went slowly back to
the son who had sought only to do as his conscience bade.




                               CHAPTER XV


Until the muffled bells of the cathedral clock in the hall slowly and
sweetly chimed out the mid-night hour, Marjorie Benton had sat in front
of the fire in the library where Griggs had left her—waiting. She had
no idea when Howard would come in, but she expected Elinor almost any
minute, as she had only gone to the Thurstons for dinner and could not
remain away much longer.

To Marjorie, whose every nerve was keyed to a snapping tension, the
evening had seemed endless. Her eyes were riveted upon the hands of the
clock. At twelve-thirty, she bounded from her seat, and fairly flew to
the telephone, unable to curb her patience a second longer.

Central was obliged to ring a number of times before the Thurston number
answered.

“What seems to be the trouble?” Marjorie demanded irritably. “That
number should answer at once.”

“I am ringing them, Madam,” Central replied mechanically.

“Such service. You never can get a number when you want one,” Marjorie
muttered irritably as she shook the hook.

“They do not answer,” the operator drawled.

“But I tell you they do answer! They must answer,” Marjorie insisted.
“Why, they’re having——”

“There’s your party,” Central interrupted. “Go ahead.”

“Oh—hello—I’d like to speak to Miss Benton, please.”

“There’s no one here by that name,” came the answer curtly. “You must
have the wrong number.”

“Is this Mrs. Horace Thurston’s residence?”

“Yes, Madame—but there isn’t anyone here by the name of Benton. If it’s
Hugh Benton’s home you wish, I can give you the number. It——”

“No—this is the number I wish. Kindly call Mrs. Thurston to the
’phone.”

“Mrs. and Mr. Thurston are both in Atlantic City—until to-morrow.”

Marjorie felt the ground giving way beneath her feet. She clutched at
the desk for support as she inquired:

“Where is Miss Thurston?”

“In bed, Madame. At least, I suppose she is. She returned home about
twelve o’clock and went straight to her room. Do you wish me to call
her?”

“No—no—it will not be necessary. I—I made a mistake—that is all.
Somehow I was under the impression that Miss Thurston was entertaining
at dinner this evening, but I realize now that it was—someone else.”

“Yes, Madame. That must be it,” the butler agreed. “Because Miss
Thurston went out to dinner and the theater with a gentleman this
evening.”

“Thank you—I—I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”

“That’s all right, Madame. Do you care to leave your name for Mrs.
Thurston?”

“Oh, no—I—I’ll call Mrs. Thurston myself—to-morrow. Good-night,” she
faltered as she hung up the receiver and stood as one petrified, staring
into space.

What new horror was about to confront her? Elinor had deliberately
deceived her, and perhaps this had not been the first time. Where could
she have gone? What did it all mean?

Again she began to pace the floor. Her own trouble was almost blotted
from her mind as this new fear clutched at her heart. Where was Elinor?
Where was she? Over and over again she asked herself the question as she
traveled back and forth between the window and the farthest book-lined
wall.

Twice the faithful Griggs attempted to speak to her, but she waved him
back frantically, refusing to listen. As long as she lived, this night
would leave its mark upon her. She had passed hours of unspeakable
suffering and torture.

At four o’clock, with the faint coming of dawn, Griggs placed another
log on the fire which he had kept burning all night, and then confronted
Marjorie determinedly with the assurance of an old and trusted servant.

“Mrs. Benton, won’t you please go to bed! It’s four o’clock, and you
must be worn out! Pardon the liberty of an old servant, but——”

“Four o’clock—four o’clock—” Marjorie kept wringing her hands
despairingly, “and not one of them home yet! God! What can have
happened!”

“Nothing has happened, ma’am! Miss Elinor and Mr. Howard are most likely
with Mr. Benton at some party or dance,” Griggs endeavored to console
her.

“Four o’clock,” she kept repeating. “Why, they couldn’t remain anywhere
as late as that.”

“Indeed, they’ve come in late many times, Mrs. Benton; only you have
been asleep in your own room and didn’t know it.”

“As late as this?”

“Well—no—not quite as late—but I’m sure there’s no reason for you to
worry. Come to your room—please—and let me bring you some coffee.”

“Thanks, Griggs,” Marjorie replied gratefully. “You’re very kind, and I
appreciate your remaining up with me like this more than I can tell you,
but I couldn’t leave here—I must wait.”

“Mrs. Benton, I’ll call you the minute anyone comes. It won’t do any
good for you to wear yourself——”

The sound of a machine coming up the driveway cut short further
arguments. Griggs rushed to the window.

“Here’s a cab now, Ma’am,” he said, hastening to open the door.

“At last! At last!” Marjorie held her hand over her heart. “Thank
God—they’ve come!”

She stood with bated breath, facing the door, expecting she knew
not—what. But whatever else it might have been that unfolded itself
before Marjorie Benton’s hot worried eyes, it could not have stabbed her
as what she did see. An icy hand clutched her heart. The room swam about
her. She tried to move forward with a cry, but stood rooted to the spot.
For there, standing on the threshold was her own daughter, her baby,
Elinor—hair hanging in wild disarray, white-faced, trembling, clothing
disarranged, while moans and sobs issued from her distorted pale lips.
Holding her up, guiding her tottering footsteps, her arms possessively,
protectingly around Marjorie Benton’s daughter was the one woman in the
world whom she hated with a deadly hatred, the woman who had taken from
her the love of her own husband—Geraldine DeLacy.

The mother’s breath came with a quick intake as her arms went
quiveringly out toward the girl.

“Elinor!” the cry came in a pitiful wail.

“Oh, mother! Mother!” Elinor sobbed brokenly, as she wrenched herself
from Geraldine’s arms and tottered toward her mother. Marjorie caught
her as she fell. She held her closely as she had held her as a baby.

“What is it, dear?” she murmured tenderly. Mother instinct told her it
was no time for reproaches, but a time for soothing. “What has happened?
Try to control yourself and tell me.”

“Oh—I—I can’t! I can’t!” Elinor moaned. “It’s so terrible!”

Trembling from head to foot Marjorie, holding Elinor closely to her,
turned to Geraldine. “Perhaps, Mrs. DeLacy, you will kindly tell
me—what this all means?” she asked.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Benton,” Geraldine replied gravely, “but a
terrible thing has happened. I—I scarcely know how to tell you.”

Marjorie’s eyes flashed fire. “Nothing can be more terrible than this
dreadful suspense! You must tell me at once!” she commanded.

“Very well, but I want you to believe me, Mrs. Benton, when I tell you
that it grieves me greatly to be the bearer of this news.” Geraldine’s
attempt at friendly conciliation passed by the distracted mother.

“Go on—please!” she ordered, with set lips.

“This evening,” Geraldine began, “Templeton Druid had a dinner party in
his rooms after the show——”

“Who is Templeton Druid?” Marjorie interrupted.

“Templeton Druid was,” she laid stress upon the word, a stress unnoticed
by Marjorie, although Elinor shivered in her mother’s clasp, “an
actor—the most popular leading man on Broadway, and a friend of
Elinor’s and Howard’s. Elinor knew you would never consent to her going
to the party, so she told you she was going to the Thurstons’.”

“I—I know,” Marjorie murmured. “I telephoned the Thurstons at
twelve-thirty.” She closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the
shock she had received.

“She spent the early part of the evening,” Geraldine continued, “with
Rosebud Greeley, and then went to Mr. Druid’s apartment.”

“Oh, my dear! My dear!” Marjorie wailed. “Go on, please, Mrs. DeLacy.”

“Howard happened to know where Elinor was going, and disapproved of it.
He had spent the evening with Nell Thurston, and after seeing her home,
went downtown to the club, where he imbibed rather freely with some of
the boys. He happened to overhear a conversation concerning Elinor and
Druid, which enraged him past endurance. He jumped in a taxi and went
directly to Druid’s apartment——”

“Oh—mother—mother—” Elinor clutched her wildly. “I can’t bear it.
Why—why——”

“Hush, darling,” Marjorie patted her head, “I must hear the rest.”

“When Howard arrived,” went on Mrs. DeLacy as though repeating a
carefully rehearsed lesson, “a wild party was on, which only went toward
confirming the things he had heard. A furious scene followed—and a—a
fist battle. In the midst of which Druid pulled a revolver out of his
pocket—Howard managed to secure it. There was a shot and Druid fell to
the floor!” Geraldine dramatically turned her eyes as she reached her
climax as though too tender-hearted to witness the mother’s despair. But
underneath the lids that veiled her eyes, there was gloating.

“Oh—No! No!” Marjorie felt the iron hand closing tighter around her
heart. It was crushing it. “He didn’t—_kill—him_?”

“Instantly!”

The monosyllabic reply was like the closing of life’s chapter to the
mother who heard it. The world seemed far away. She could not
think—could not breathe to recognize the familiar action. That iron
hand was closing and unclosing, squeezing from her heart but icy drops.
Vaguely she could feel her arms about her daughter while her mind
wandered to the son—could feel Elinor clutching her hands, her
arms,—could hear her wailing.

“Oh, mother! Mother! I loved him so! I loved him! Oh, what shall I do!”

The iron hand held a dagger. It was draining her life blood. She felt it
leaving her face, her limbs. She felt the gray pallor of her cheeks.
Limply she sank down into the deep chair beside her (and even in her
despair there came a queer flash of memory over her that it was Hugh’s
chair) as she stared at the bearer of the news. Her comprehension was
unable to cope with its suddenness.

Elinor, clinging helplessly to her mother, fell on her knees, burying
her head in her lap.

“I—I can’t realize it!” Marjorie felt her lips framing the words, but
to her own ears they were inaudible. “It is all—so horrible.”

“I know, Mrs. Benton.” Outwardly, Geraldine was all sympathy. “But you
must face this thing as bravely as you can, for Mr. Benton’s sake——”

Marjorie bit her lips so hard she drew the blood in two places.
“Where—where is Howard now?” she demanded.

“They ’phoned the club and managed to locate Mr. Benton. He called his
attorney. There are certain arrangements to be made and then he will
bring Howard home.”

In her dazed consciousness it had already occurred to Marjorie to wonder
where Hugh was, and she had had an added pang when she had realized what
all this would mean to him. She would so have tried to spare him.

So he already knew! And he had not even let her know, come to her, or
sent to her in his trouble. No—instead it had been this—this other
woman he had— Bitterness welled to take the place of pity. And that
bitterness swelled her heart till she felt it had reached the bursting
point.

To think that her husband had dared to select that woman to bring Elinor
home! She should have been sent for! Wasn’t she still his wife, and
Elinor’s mother? Had Hugh thrown her into the dust and trampled upon
her, he could not have humiliated her more than by sending this, to her,
abominable creature as the conveyer of this appalling news. The
strangeness of it all began to dawn upon her. How had Mrs. DeLacy been
available at such an hour? Was Hugh in her company at the time? Her lips
curled slightly as she asked: “Were you at that party, Mrs. DeLacy?”

Geraldine drew herself haughtily erect. “I? Certainly not!” she cried
indignantly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I fail to understand your connection in the affair,” replied
the wife coldly. “What are you doing here? How do you come to bring
Elinor home?”

“Mr. Benton telephoned to me,” Geraldine flushed angrily as she faced
Marjorie Benton’s cold, accusing eyes. “He knew that he could place
every confidence in me—and asked me as a special favor to him, to bring
Elinor home——”

“I _understand_.” Marjorie spoke simply, but with finality. “Thank
you—and good-night.”

“I should like to remain if you don’t mind,” Geraldine strolled
impertinently toward the davenport, adding, “until Mr. Benton and Howard
come.”

“Don’t you think it indelicate for you to attempt to intrude, Mrs.
DeLacy? This is a time when the family desire to be alone.”

“I realize that,” Geraldine smiled serenely. “But don’t you see, when
one is such a trusted friend, I really feel as if I were one of the
family.”

Marjorie Benton had felt before that she had stood all that could be
imposed on human nature. But now she found that it had been only a
beginning. The cold, unadulterated nerve of the woman who assumed such
prerogatives so casually, and at such a time, was beyond anything she
could have dreamed. No longer was she physically weak. A great power was
given to her. Gently she put aside her daughter’s clinging hands and
rose to her feet with a firmness born of indignation too great for
words.

“Your assumption is a bit previous,” she remarked icily. “You have
wrought destruction enough in this home for the present. I am sorry, but
I must deny you the pleasure of remaining longer.”

“Oh, very well!” Geraldine shrugged her shoulders meaningly, as she
turned toward the door. “I regret exceedingly that you will not accept
my well-meant offer of friendship. If you should need me any time,
Elinor,” she called back, “you know where to find me—good-night.”

Marjorie stood still as a statue, waiting until she heard the door close
after Mrs. DeLacy. Then she resumed her chair, pulled a low stool up
beside her and tenderly seated Elinor upon it.

“Darling little girl,” she murmured soothingly, gently caressing the
disordered hair which futile hands sought to arrange. “Come, tell mother
everything. I—I’m not angry, dear—my heart is over-flowing with love
and sympathy for you, and I want to help you!”

One upward glance the girl gave her mother. She shook her head sadly.

“Your love and your desire to help me, mother, have come too late.”

Marjorie caught her breath sharply.

“Oh, please! Please, dear, don’t say that!”

“You’ve kept me away from you so long,” Elinor continued apathetically,
plaintively. “I have never been able to confide in you. The wonderful
comradeship I’ve seen between other girls and their mothers—never
existed between us. Your continual fault finding with everything I did
forced me to be untruthful, and to deceive you.”

“I meant it all for your good, dear!” Marjorie’s voice vibrated with
emotion. “You _will_ believe me—you must!—when I tell you my only
desire was for your happiness!”

“And _Howard_!” Elinor’s voice was bitter in its hysterical
condemnation. “What right had he to judge anyone? Templeton would have
married me, and now—my life is wrecked.”

“You are not in the condition to realize anything now. Perhaps later you
will be able to view all this in a different light. Your brother must
love you very——”

“Love me!” Elinor screamed wildly. “He has a great way of showing it,
when he robs me of all the happiness life held for me! Oh—I hate him!
Even if he is my brother, I——”

“Oh—hush, dear, hush,” Marjorie placed her hand across Elinor’s mouth,
“you mustn’t talk that way.”

“I—I don’t know what I’m going to do, mother! I’m almost crazy! I’m so
frightened, and I don’t know where to turn!” The girl’s passion subsided
into a wail of self-pity. She sobbed and buried her head in Marjorie’s
lap again.

A light of dawning hope slowly welled up in the woman’s anguished eyes.

“Turn to your mother, darling,” she pleaded, lovingly, tenderly, “the
one who will never fail you! Come—I’m going to take you upstairs and
put you to bed, just as I did when you were my little baby—and I shall
sit beside you and hold your hand, dear, until you fall asleep.”

Elinor arose wearily and stood coldly unresponsive to her mother’s
declarations of love and devotion. She submitted passively to the tender
embrace as she was led toward the hall.

The slamming of the front door caused them both to start violently.
Howard, wanly pale and trembling, came toward them. Marjorie’s arms went
out to him.

“Oh—Howard—my boy, I—I——”

“Please, mother!” Howard twisted his fingers and pulled at his collar.
“Don’t you start in on me—I’m a wreck, and my nerves are all shot to
pieces now! Dad hasn’t stopped talking for a moment all the way home—I
just _can’t_ stand much more!” He walked unsteadily to the mantle and
stood, leaning his head upon it.

Elinor dropped back to the large chair her mother had recently occupied,
and curled up in it, her feet under her, her head buried in her arms.

In a few quick steps, the mother crossed the room to her son’s side. Her
arm went protectingly about his bowed, weary shoulders.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” and there was a world of sympathy and love in
the vibrating voice, “I’m not going to upbraid you! I just want to tell
you that——”

A slight sound at the door made her turn to glance over her shoulder.
Hugh Benton stood there, stern and relentless. His eyes roved from the
stricken girl huddled in her chair to rest on the bowed head of his son
and the mother who stood beside him, her attitude one of soothing.

Like a cold accusing judge he stood towering there. Slowly his hand came
up into a sweeping gesture to include the scene. Then the hand was
pointed relentlessly, unforgivingly, at the suffering mother. When he
spoke his voice was harsh, repelling.

“Well, Marjorie!” he bit off his words, “I trust you’re satisfied!”




                              CHAPTER XVI


“Hugh!” It was a cry of pain torn from the mother heart. But even in her
anguish for her children there came a pang for the man she loved as she
gazed at him wide-eyed, distressed. He seemed to have aged ten years
since his interview with her only a few hours before. His face was drawn
and haggard. Large, dark circles were about the eyes. The wife forced
herself to speak calmly. “What do you mean?” she queried.

“I mean,” he answered, coming slowly into the room with lagging
footsteps, “that this is all your work!” His gesture took in Elinor and
Howard. “And I hope it pleases you,” he repeated bitterly.

“Hugh, at a time like this, when we need all your strength and sympathy
to sustain us—you speak to me like this?” Marjorie’s voice was full of
reproach. “Why do you use such tones to me?”

“Because,” he replied and there was no suspicion of a softening heart in
his hard voice, “I hold you responsible for everything! If I had
listened to the dictates of my own heart, we would never have come to
New York—but I was weak enough to yield to your persuasions.”

“Surely, Hugh,—” Marjorie’s lips quivered pitifully as she started to
protest, but he authoritatively motioned her to silence.

“I tried to argue with you at the time and impress upon you just what an
environment such as this would mean to our children, but you wouldn’t
listen to me!” he raged. “You told me that you, their mother, should
know what was best for them. Well, there they are! Look at your
daughter, the pitiful creature of a dissolute man’s fancy, and your son,
a——”

“Stop, Hugh!” Marjorie commanded. “You seem to forget one thing, and
that is, that they are your children as well as mine.”

“On the contrary,—I have not forgotten it. I am simply trying to
impress upon them that I am not to blame for their misfortunes.”

“Then you believe that I alone am entirely responsible for this awful
calamity?”

“Entirely and absolutely,” he answered.

“And you call yourself a man!” Marjorie turned upon him, her eyes ablaze
with anger. “You inspire me only with contempt! Last night I thought
because of the children I could never leave you! But now, for the very
same reason, I refuse to remain or to allow them to remain with you
another day!”

This was rather more than the angry man had bargained for. In his way he
loved Howard and Elinor, and his pride, too, was at stake.

“Do you mean,” Hugh endeavored to conceal his anxiety but it was
nevertheless poignant, “that you will take Elinor and Howard away from
me?”

“That is precisely what I mean to do!”

“We shall see about _that_.” He strode forward angrily. “I think the
children themselves are the ones to choose between us.”

“Do you imagine for a moment,” Marjorie replied haughtily, “you could
persuade them to leave their mother?”

“Elinor and Howard,” Hugh began suddenly, “I want you both to listen to
me for a moment.”

Elinor sat up in her chair, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief,
while Howard turned and stood with his back to the fireplace, staring
sullenly in front of him.

“Children, your mother and I have come to the parting of the ways. As
you heard her remark a few minutes ago—you are _mine_ as well as hers.
I love you both, and—I want you—but you are old enough to decide for
yourselves.”

Silence, distressing in its intensity, followed the father’s brutal
ultimatum.

“Oh—I—I don’t know what to say?” Elinor was filled with confusion. Her
wail was faltering. “This is all so sudden—so strange!”

“You know, dear,” Hugh strode to her chair, and stood looking down upon
her, “I am willing to do anything for you—I will take you abroad until
this nasty scandal has a chance to blow over, and when we return, should
you have any enemies you will find that the best weapon with which to
fight them is your father’s money.”

“Elinor, darling,” Marjorie pleaded, “all that I can do is to offer you
my love and devotion—and when it comes to protection, you will find
that there isn’t a weapon in the world to compare with your mother’s
love.”

“Oh, mother—I—I don’t know what to say!” Once more the girl’s frail
body was racked with sobs as she sought to see the light—what best to
do. “Dad has always been wonderful to me! Ever since I can remember, he
has granted my every wish! I don’t know how to answer! Oh, what shall I
say?”

“This is a question that your heart must answer for you, dear.”
Marjorie’s reply was faint but her voice told of the heart yearning
behind the simple reply. “I—I didn’t believe,” she caught her breath
sobbingly, “you would hesitate an instant.”

“Well, you see, mother,” Elinor’s mood changed to querulousness and she
pouted, “I’ve always been selfish and headstrong—you’ve told me so
yourself many times! So I—I think—if you don’t mind,” she dropped her
eyes and stared at the floor, “I—I shall stick to Dad! I guess he’ll
understand me better!”

“My little girl!” Hugh exclaimed tenderly, as he leaned over and
gathered her in his arms.

“Oh—my baby—my baby!” Marjorie moaned, her arms outstretched before
her, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Well, Howard! We’re waiting!” Hugh turned expectantly to his son.

Howard looked his father squarely in the eye as he demanded, with slow
deliberation: “Well—what are you waiting for?”

“This is an awful mess—that you have gotten yourself into,” Hugh
hastened to explain, but his eyes wavered before the steady gaze of his
son. “My attorney says there isn’t a doubt concerning your vindication.
All of the witnesses swear that it was either an accident or
self-defense—and your motive for quarreling was thoroughly
justifiable—but just the same, the law has peculiar twists and
angles—and it is going to take a fortune to save you.”

“Well?”

“I want to keep you with me, Howard—and my money——”

“Stop!” It was a son he had never known who took a menacing step toward
him, rage flaming in the eyes of scorn with which he searched out his
father’s soul. “You and your money!” He flung out. “You think that with
it you can conquer the world! You hold my mother responsible for all
this trouble—don’t you? Do you want to know the real cause of all the
suffering in this room to-night? I’ll tell you—it’s your money! The
thing that made me the good-for-nothing idler that I am—that made my
sister the frivolous callous-hearted woman you see before you! Your
money! You may buy another woman with it and break my mother’s heart!
You may make Elinor forget that some day she may have children of her
own—but if you think, for a moment, that you can make me forget my
manhood to the extent of deserting my mother, then even prison is far
too good for me!”

Marjorie stared at him in amazement! Slowly she awakened from her
apathy. In a dawning glory that transformed her, her face was aglow with
mother love. Her eyes, dim from grief and weeping, fairly beamed with
pride and joy. Hugh walked the length of the room twice without
speaking. He strove to master himself, but the selfish anger had not
been conquered when he came to a stop before his son.

“So that is the way you look at it. Isn’t this display of chivalry
rather sudden?” The sneer was in his voice and words.

“I know that I’ve never amounted to very much,” Howard was ready to
acknowledge his short-comings, “but I think, Dad, now that it has come
to a showdown—I’m more of a man than you are!”

Tiger and cub, they faced each other, glaring.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Hugh’s voice was thunder when he was first to
break under the strain. “Go with your mother! Play the hero as much as
you damned please! I’m through with you! You’ll find it pretty hard to
get out of this trouble without a penny of the money you scorn to help
you!”

“I’ll take my chances with hundreds of others—that’s all.” Howard’s
serene reply held the indulgence of the conqueror.

Marjorie Benton, too heartfull to speak, to stand between father and
son, could hardly realize that this wonderful boy, standing there,
superbly defending her, was her son! Never for a moment had she doubted
Elinor’s loyalty, and the blow she had received from her had been as
unexpected as crushing.

Now, as her husband stalked toward the door with the finality she knew
so well, she hurried across the space to place herself in the doorway,
obstructing his passage. There was no hint of pleading now, though. All
that had gone from Marjorie Benton forever. But there was in the
determination with which she barred Hugh Benton’s way something
greater—the greatest thing in all the world—the determination of the
mother to fight for the child she loves. Her voice was menacingly soft
as she spoke, ignoring his annoyed gesture to be allowed to past.

“Just a moment, Hugh,” she said, “we have not quite finished yet. Last
night,” she went on, “you made me an offer. You have not forgotten it?”

“An offer?” Hugh lifted eyebrows in puzzled surprise.

“You said if I would consent to a divorce, you would arrange everything
and settle three-quarters of your fortune upon me.”

“Yes—I believe I did say that.”

“Are you still willing to go through with it?”

“Most assuredly I am.”

“Then,” Marjorie’s voice rang clear as a bell, “I accept your
proposition! Get your divorce any way that you please! I don’t care what
the grounds are—only see that I am given every dollar that you promised
me!”

“I understand,” Hugh sneered. “You intend using that money for Howard.”

“What difference can it make to you—how I intend using it?” she
inquired coldly.

His voice was cold as her own as he rejoined:

“Nothing matters to me—except my freedom. Come, baby!” He looked
pityingly at Elinor. “You’re completely worn out—I’m going to take you
upstairs.”

Alone with his mother, Howard’s diffidence returned. In spite of all his
newly-found chivalry he did not feel at ease.

“Mother,” he began, “I can’t let you do this for me. You don’t believe
in divorce.”

“I believe in a _great many_ things,” Marjorie answered, her eyes filled
with unshed tears, “that I never believed before. I believe that it
takes a great sorrow to bring forth the real character of a true man or
woman.”

“You never would have given father his freedom if this hadn’t happened
with me.”

Marjorie placed both hands tenderly upon Howard’s shoulders and looked
up at him with eyes brimming with love.

“I’m so proud of you—my son!” she murmured.

“Gee whiz, mater,” Howard was the boy once more,—the boy who shied at
too much display of emotion! “I only did what any fellow would do.”

“Your father has always been such a pal to you, while I have never
been—very close—and yet you turn to me. I—I can’t understand why!”
she murmured on softly.

“Oh—well—you know, father’s all right—but there’s something about a
boy’s mother—Gee!—that gets him, from the time he’s born till he’s an
old man.”

“Do you know, dear, that at this moment, when I should be heart-broken,
I am the happiest woman in the world!”

“But mother, you’re crying,” he protested.

“Tears of joy, dear—because—I am _your_ mother!”

“I’ve never done a thing in my life to make you proud of me, mother, and
now I’ve brought this new disgrace upon you. It seems almost too bad
that Druid didn’t get me first.”

“Hush, dear!” Marjorie shivered. “You are all that I have, now, and we
will face this thing bravely—together.”

There was little sleep for any members of the Benton family that night,
or rather morning, as it was close to five o’clock before they retired.
When Mr. Hammond called at ten o’clock, he found Hugh waiting in the
library for him.

“Good morning, Benton,” he began in his abrupt manner. “Hope you managed
to get some rest? I’ve been busy since before eight, and I’m afraid
things are not going to be quite as simple as they seemed a few hours
ago.”

“Why—what do you mean?” Hugh asked anxiously.

“Well it seems that Howard did a lot of talking at the club before he
went to Druid’s apartment. He spoke to two of the members, and the
entire conversation was overheard by the coat-boy.”

“What could he have said?”

“Oh, many things—all leading up to the statement ‘that he intended to
get Druid and settle with him for ruining his sister’s reputation.’
Mind—I don’t say this will make any difference in the outcome of it
all—it will just complicate matters. If it hadn’t been for the
influence we brought forward last night, I don’t believe we should have
been able to bail him out until after the coroner’s inquest.”

“When does that take place?”

“This afternoon.”

“Just what do you think their verdict will be, Hammond?”

“I expect it to be ‘death by accident,’” the lawyer answered
confidently. “Then this thing will never have to be tried. Now I’d like
to have a talk with both Elinor and Howard. Are they up yet?”

“I believe so,” Hugh answered. “Would it be possible for you to give me
about half an hour of your time before seeing them?”

“Why, yes!” Hammond pulled out his watch. “We don’t have to be downtown
until two o’clock.”

Hugh opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a box of
choice Havanas. He offered them to the lawyer, then lighted one himself.
But he was apparently ill at ease as Hammond waited inquiringly.

“You and I have been friends a great many years, haven’t we, Hammond?”
was his beginning.

“Indeed, we have,” Hammond replied warmly. “I am happy to have you look
upon me as your friend instead of merely your attorney.”

“I need your friendship now, Hammond, more than I ever needed anything
in my life.”

Hammond grasped his hand firmly: “You can depend upon me, Hugh. Had
Howard been anyone’s son but yours, I should never have bothered with
this case. You know it is entirely out of my line of work.”

“It is not about Howard at all that I wish to speak,” Hugh announced
calmly.

“No? Of whom then?”

“Myself——”

“Yourself?” Hammond inquired, surprisedly.

“Myself and my wife. Hammond, you will no doubt be very much surprised
to hear that Mrs. Benton and I have agreed—to separate.”

“Separate! Why I can’t believe it!” The lawyer seemed dumfounded at the
news. “You have a grown son and daughter, and you have been married a
great many years. Why I thought that you and Mrs. Benton——”

“You thought the same thing as everyone else who knows us,” Hugh
interrupted with undisguised bitterness, “that we are an absolutely
mismated couple endeavoring to drag out an unhappy existence together.”

“You’re wrong, Benton. I never thought that. I knew that Mrs. Benton was
different from the majority of the women of to-day, and candidly
speaking, I admired her for that very reason.”

“But don’t you think Mrs. Benton carries her ideas of propriety rather
to the extreme?” Hugh asked irritably.

“That depends entirely upon the way you look at it. I must confess that
I am somewhat of the old school myself, and therefore I don’t
particularly approve of your modern ‘feminists,’ as I believe they
choose to call themselves.”

“Just what is your definition of ‘feminist,’” asked Hugh. “And why the
disapproval?”

“Because,” and there was a dreaminess in Hammond’s eyes that would have
astonished many a judge and lawyer in New York city, could they but have
seen it, “they have tried to replace the most wonderful women of all
times—the women of bygone years—the women our mothers were. Instead of
glorying in wifehood and motherhood—the true mission of every womanly
woman—they launch forth into politics or business or professions with
ambitions and determinations worthy of men, or else they fritter their
lives away, becoming more and more useless every day.”

“Why, Hammond, you speak as though you have been the victim of a bitter
experience.”

“No,” was the answer, with a shake of the head, “I’m not speaking from
experience at all—I’m speaking from observation. In my career, I can
view the drama of Life from a front-seat.”

“Strange,” Hugh meditated. “In all the years that I have known you, John
Hammond, I never once suspected that you, with your abrupt manner and
stern demeanor could be an idealist.”

“Well,” he laughed, “I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say I am an
idealist, but I do admire and hold in the highest esteem a true woman.”

“But you won’t permit your ideas to influence you—you’ll be perfectly
fair with me?” Hugh demanded.

“I always try to be fair, Benton—but in this case I’ll be more than
fair, inasmuch as we will not consider this an interview between client
and attorney, but a talk—between friends.”

“Fine, Hammond—I couldn’t ask for more. Now, then, as I told you
before, Mrs. Benton and myself have agreed to separate.”

“Yes? May I ask why?”

“Incompatibility, for one thing,” answered Benton, his eyes roving about
the room. Those searching orbs of the lawyer made him nervous, he
fretted to himself.

Hammond was silent a moment: then abruptly he asked: “Just how many
years have you been married?”

“Almost twenty-two.”

“And it has taken you two people twenty-two years to discover that you
are incompatible? You asked me to be fair, Benton—I in return must ask
you to be honest with me?”

“But—I don’t——”

“You’re asking for my advice,” Hammond continued sharply. “Why don’t you
come out at once and tell me plainly that you have lost your head over
another woman?”

“Why—I—” Hugh blushed and stammered uneasily, “I thought to give you
the facts as delicately as possible. Your method seems—er—pardon
me—almost crude.”

“Come, come, Benton,” Hammond replied impatiently. “I don’t believe in
beating about the bush! You can’t change a deed or a statement by
attempting to glaze it over with a polish. The fundamental fact remains
the same no matter what you do. Just a minute, please,” as Hugh
endeavored to interrupt him, “let me tell you that I’ll have a great
deal more respect for you if you stop this quibbling and come out with
the plain truth!”

“Very well, then. I have fallen in love with another woman, and I want
to marry her.”

“Of course, you know you could never obtain a divorce from Mrs. Benton?”

“Mrs. Benton has agreed to obtain the divorce from me. I will arrange
all of the details, and I want you to help me.”

“Does Mrs. Benton know on what grounds she will have to bring suit?”
Hammond inquired in surprise.

“Certainly she knows!” Benton was becoming irascible. He was unused to
being talked to like a naughty child, and Hammond’s tone, to say the
least, was not the kind the financier usually heard. “We have discussed
the New York State laws,” he replied.

Hammond pondered seriously and there was a chilling change from the
friendliness of a moment before when he asked:

“Just when did you reach this decision? I can readily understand your
not mentioning it to me last night in all the excitement, but you were
in my office two days ago and never said a word. If I remember rightly,
I inquired after Mrs. Benton, which would have given you an opening
should you have desired to speak?”

“We only reached an understanding early this morning,” Hugh answered
hurriedly, “after I came home with Howard. I had talked it over with
Marjorie—before—but she refused to listen. Something happened this
morning—and she changed her mind.”

“If it is not too personal, would you mind telling me just what that
‘something’ was?”

Hugh Benton threw all subterfuge to the winds. This man was too good a
cross-examiner. He would make a clean breast of it and have done with it
once and for all. It was an abominable mess, however it was taken.

“Oh, well, if you must know,” and his wide shoulders lifted, “I may as
well tell you now as any time, for you will have to know it in order to
help me arrange my affairs. You see, Hammond, when we first came to New
York to live, it was entirely against my wishes. We had been married
five years at the time, and the heated discussion and argument
concerning this move caused our first quarrel. Being young and very much
in love, I couldn’t hold out long against my wife’s desires. She was
filled with ambitions for us all, and to her New York spelled one word
in capital letters, and that was ‘Success.’”

“Well, from all that I happen to know about your affairs,” the lawyer
glanced about the sumptuously furnished room, “you seem to have given
her her desire.”

“Yes,” Hugh answered bitterly, “from a financial viewpoint, I suppose I
am a success—but—outside of that——” He compressed his lips tightly
for a moment. “Oh, I’m not going to play upon your sympathy, Hammond,
and go into every little detail regarding the misery of many years! All
I’ll say is that it has been—hell.”

The lawyer looked his surprise.

“Apparently you’ve always been the happiest of men—why everyone——”

Hugh Benton broke in irritably. “Surely you don’t expect me to go about
like a woman carrying my heart on my sleeve! I’ll tell you one thing,
Hammond,” and he jumped up excitedly, “when two people cease to care for
one another—when they reach a state of absolute indifference and still
continue to live together under the same roof—it’s a crime! They go
on—either because they think they owe a duty to children—God,
children!” He covered his face with his hands, and there was weariness
in all his features as he looked up to continue: “Or else, they fear the
censorship of the world! And for one of these two damnable creeds, they
condemn themselves to years of torture!”

“I’m sorry, old man, to think that things have been as bad as that,”
Hammond was not unsympathetic, but he was beginning to wonder if
sympathy would not be wasted here.

“I didn’t mean to drift into all this,” Hugh sighed, impatient at his
own garrulity as he went on: “But the remark you passed about my success
started me off! Let’s get back to where we were and finish this thing.”

“Exactly—where were we? Oh, yes, I remember. You are to furnish the
grounds, and Mrs. Benton is to divorce you.”

“I’ll tell you just what I propose doing.” Hugh drew his chair closer
and proceeded to lay out his plan. It was a lengthy recital, during
which he kept his gaze focused on his desk. He wouldn’t have admitted
even to himself that he was doing something of which he should feel
ashamed, and yet there was that within him which prevented him from once
lifting his eyes and looking the lawyer in the face.

“I understand.” It was with difficulty Hammond managed to subdue the
ring of contempt in his voice. “You have thought it all out admirably;
it should do you credit.”

Benton looked up quickly, but Hammond’s expression was blank. He must be
mistaken in thinking that last remark revealed a tinge of veiled
sarcasm.

“Have you any suggestions to offer?” he asked, lighting a fresh cigar.

“I may have several to offer—but first it will be necessary for me to
ask you a few questions.” Hammond’s reply was calmly non-committal.

“Very well—go ahead.”

“I asked you this question before, but you happened to drift away from
the subject. What I want to know is—just what was it that caused Mrs.
Benton to change her mind?”

“Early last evening, I went to my wife honestly,” Hugh was angry to feel
himself blushing at the word, “told her exactly what had happened and
pleaded with her to grant me my freedom. She refused, absolutely, and I
left the house indignant and determined to find some way or means by
which I could compel her to listen to me. When I came home with Howard
this morning, I lost complete control of myself and accused her openly
of being responsible for all the misfortune which had come to us.”

“Did that seem fair—to you?” Hammond demanded sternly.

“Yes—it did.” Stubbornly Hugh held to his fatuous belief and condoning
of himself. “She was entirely to blame for our coming here, and——”

“For Heaven’s sake, Benton.” Irritably the lawyer jumped from his chair
to pace the floor. “You can’t mean to sit there—a man of your
intelligence—and tell me, with all sincerity, that you hold your coming
to New York responsible for the existing conditions?”

“Absolutely! If we had remained in——”

“What about Fate or Destiny, or whatever you choose to call it, playing
a part in your life, and all the other lives about you? New York!
Ridiculous, I tell you! Had you been in Paris, France, or Trenton, New
Jersey, you would have stood just exactly where you stand to-day. Don’t
you believe at all in predestination?”

“I do, in every instance—but this.”

“How interesting! But go on—we’ll come back to this later—After you
upbraided Mrs. Benton, _et cetera_—what happened?”

“One word led to another,” Hugh answered, pretending to ignore Hammond’s
sarcasm, “and finally she declared that ‘she would leave me and take the
children with her!’”

“Mm, I see! And then?”

“I told her the children were no longer babies—that they were old
enough to decide for themselves, and then I endeavored to make the
situation clear to them. Elinor came to the conclusion that she would
prefer to remain with me——”

Hammond merely smiled, but Hugh did not see the movement of the lips
under the grizzled mustache that formed: “Selfish little beast.”

“Howard handed me the surprise of my life,” Hugh continued in a tone of
self-pity. “When I explained to him that this mess he had gotten himself
into would cost me a fortune, but that I was willing to spend it if he
would remain with me, why, he turned on me like a maniac and denounced
me shamefully! Acted like the hero in a dime novel—played heroics to a
fare-thee-well—ending up by telling me plainly just what he thought of
me and my money!”

Hammond’s eyes shone bright as he urged: “Yes! Yes! Go on—I’m greatly
interested.”

“He had tried my patience a bit too far, so I ordered him to go and see
just where he would find himself without my money. Then Mrs. Benton made
her entrance dramatically, as I daresay she believed. She declared she
would accept my offer of the early evening, and grant me my freedom
providing I gave her the money I had promised her.”

“It is like her, to do a thing like that,” Hammond murmured, almost
inaudibly, “and you consented—I suppose?” He turned inquiringly to
Benton.

“Certainly—I wanted my freedom, and if Fate chose to bring——”

“Ah!” the lawyer interrupted him. “There you are! Now you believe in
Fate! This is evidently one of the instances when you choose to believe
in it.” In a twinkling the lawyer’s attitude changed. All semblance of
friendship dropped from him like a cloak. He turned on the financier
with accusingly uplifted hand while the voice that so often had brought
terror to the heart of a culprit, had swayed juries and filled
courtrooms, thundered. “You’re a coward, Hugh Benton! You want to leave
this woman, who has been your wife for twenty-two years, and the mother
of your children, for another woman and you’re afraid to acknowledge
that you yourself are to blame and——”

“But I’m _not_ to blame,” Hugh insisted. “I told you that we have been
uncongenial for years——”

“You managed to stand the uncongeniality in your home for twenty-two
years, and you would have stood it to the very end—if some other woman
hadn’t aroused your passion.”

“See here, Hammond,” Hugh turned white. Hammond was going too far
entirely. “I don’t like your tone. You’re my attorney, and you said you
were my friend. That is why I am telling you all this. I didn’t ask you
for your opinion of me, and it’s immaterial whether my conduct meets
with your approval or not! If you don’t wish to handle my affairs, say
so—I shall be able to find another attorney in the city.”

“Precisely!” Hammond roared. “You haven’t an inducement you could offer
with which to retain my services! I’ve curbed my impatience with
difficulty in order to let you reach the end of your narrative. Now I
want to tell you that after twenty-five years of practice, I find myself
unable to read a man’s character correctly. I was never so deceived in
all my life as I have been in you, Hugh Benton, and I blush to think I
called you—friend!”




                              CHAPTER XVII


“Very well, Hammond,” Hugh arose wearily from his chair, “I’m not going
to quarrel with you,” he informed. “I’m sorry to lose your friendship,
but as long as you feel the way you do—perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Benton, I’m going to be candid with you, and tell you that I intend
offering my services to Howard and Mrs. Benton. The boy will need help
and I’m going to stand by him,” Hammond announced as he stood up to
leave.

“Griggs,” he said to the waiting butler when he reached the hall, “will
you kindly ask Mrs. Benton to see me for a few moments? Tell her I wish
to speak to her on a matter of great importance.”

“Mrs. Benton will be with you directly, sir.” Griggs returned with the
message almost immediately. “Will you wait here?” he asked, indicating
Marjorie’s morning room as he opened the door.

Hammond stood gazing out of the window when the mother of Howard
entered.

She held out her hand. “You wish to see me, Mr. Hammond?” she murmured
politely, though the paleness of her face, the distraught manner showed
plainly how pain had been with her through the hours. She added,
hesitatingly: “I think I know why. But after the events of last night,
and this morning, don’t you think Hugh could have been a little more
considerate, and at least had waited a day before sending his attorney
to me?”

“Mr. Benton didn’t send me at all, Mrs. Benton—I’ve come of my own
accord.”

“But I don’t understand. You’ve always been Hugh’s attorney, so
naturally I thought he had consulted you, and Howard told me you were
with him—last night.” Her lips quivered pitifully over the last two
words.

Hammond nodded. “Yes—I was with him last night, and I have been
closeted with him in the library for the past half hour or so, just long
enough for me to refuse to act as his attorney in the future.”

Marjorie’s astonishment was great as she heard him and saw the
tightening of the lips under the grizzled mustache.

“Why, Mr. Hammond, you’ve been friends for years! Have
you—have—you—quarreled?” she queried.

“We haven’t exactly quarreled, Mrs. Benton, but we can’t agree on
certain points, so——”

But to the mother, with thought now only for the son she loved, such a
contingency could only take on the proportions of a catastrophe. She
knew the reputation held by John Hammond. For years, since he had been
her husband’s attorney she had been told of his legal prowess, and had
come to believe that anything he undertook of that nature could mean
only triumph for his client. All the hours since the painful scene in
the library she had hugged to her breast the thought that Howard would
be defended by this cleverest of lawyers, and the outcome was to her a
foregone conclusion. She caught her breath painfully as she realized now
that Howard might, through some nonsensical quarrel of his father’s, be
denied the lawyer’s protection. She caught at his sleeve with an
appealing gesture.

“Oh—Mr. Hammond,” she cried, her lips trembling, “you can’t desert us
now! What will Howard do? Your cleverness, your knowledge means so much
to my boy!”

“There, there, Mrs. Benton! Sit down and calm yourself!” He pulled a
chair forward and forced her into it. Then, still standing, he went on:
“When I came here this morning to see your husband, I hadn’t an idea of
this estrangement between you—my business concerned Howard. I only
learned of the other affair a short while ago. It was over that Mr.
Benton and I could not agree.”

“I must confess that you have aroused my curiosity, Mr. Hammond. I’ve
always been under the impression that a lawyer obeyed his clients’
instructions in a case like this,” she smiled wanly, “without
questioning.”

“Some lawyers,” he amended, as he, too, smiled. “No, Mrs. Benton, I
disapprove of the step your husband is about to take. His dismissal and
my resignation were delivered at the same time. So now, I have sent for
you to offer my services in Howard’s behalf as well as your own.”

“Then Hugh has evidently told you about Howard’s defense of me?”
Marjorie was eager and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Oh, he was so
wonderful, Mr. Hammond, and I’m so grateful to you for standing by him!
That is all you—anyone—can do for me. You know I have consented to
give Hugh his freedom?”

“You don’t have to do it, Mrs. Benton,” he answered sternly.

“I am to receive a great deal of money from Hugh in payment of my kind
consideration of him,” she informed bitterly.

Hammond went over to Marjorie and bowed low before her. “You’re a big
woman, Mrs. Benton,” he paid homage, “and there are very few like you in
these days. I understand your motive thoroughly, but—” and he looked at
her sharply. “Mrs. Benton—you don’t believe in divorce——”

She waved away the matter with resignation as her nervous hands pulled
to pieces the rose she had taken from a floor vase near.

“Nothing matters about _me_, Mr. Hammond,” was her firm reply. “It’s
only my boy of whom I’m thinking! I must save him!”

Hammond’s jovial countenance turned apoplectic in his sudden burst of
rage as he looked at the shrinking, suffering mother and thought of the
man he had just left who was responsible for so much of her sorrow, so
proudly borne.

“What a beastly advantage to take of mother love!” he fumed. “Your own
husband, the father of your children, forcing you to relinquish the
doctrine in which you have always believed! In a fit of rage he turned
Howard adrift, as it were, little dreaming at the time that you would
come forward and accept his bribe. I’m sorry to hurt you, Mrs. Benton,”
he apologized gently, as Marjorie buried her face in her arm and
shuddered at the word, “but that is exactly what it is—his bribe! When
you, in your beautiful loyalty and love for your son, offered him his
freedom in return for the money, he considered it ‘an act of Providence’
providing him with the means to gratifying his desire.” Each word was
cutting sarcasm that should have buoyed Marjorie Benton. But she was
passed caring for most things. She scattered the petals in a shower at
her feet, watching them fall idly.

“After all,” she sighed and shook her head sadly, “it doesn’t make any
difference. I can’t hold him if he doesn’t care for me.”

“You may not be able to hold his love,” he replied, “but you can prevent
him from remarrying if you wish to, as you need never divorce him. That
is what I am here to tell you. I will take Howard’s case, I’ll save him,
too, and it will never cost you a dollar!”

“Oh—Mr. Hammond.” The tears sprang to her eyes. “You are indeed a
friend, and I’m at a loss for words in which to express my gratitude!
But I’ve quite made up my mind to let Hugh have his freedom.”

“That is entirely up to you. Candidly speaking, I don’t think he’s worth
holding, but I hate to see you hurt so deeply,” he asserted.

“Don’t you think there can come a time, when one is past being hurt?”
Her lips formed a smile, but her eyes were heavy with tears. “There have
been so many shocks the last few weeks, I just can’t seem to feel at
all—any more.”

“It doesn’t surprise me—it seems remarkable to me, that you have been
able to hold up at all. Ah—” he turned as Howard entered, “Good
morning—I was just about to send for you.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hammond,” Howard’s heavy eyes betrayed the lack of
sleep and the tension. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“No, I was just going over a little business with your mother. We’ll
have to be going downtown soon though. We’re due at the coroner’s
inquest at two o’clock.”

“Shall I come with you?” Marjorie asked quickly.

“No, indeed, Mrs. Benton—not at all necessary,” Hammond assured her.
“Nothing will go wrong. You must try to trust me implicitly, Mrs.
Benton. Rest all you can. We may have a case before us, and then you
will require your strength, but I assure there is nothing to fear. We
will have to hurry a bit, my boy,” Hammond went on, in his curt,
businesslike manner that he had discarded with Marjorie. “We can talk in
my car on the way to town. I’ll leave a message with Griggs for your
father. I want him to bring Elinor down ahead of time, so that I can
have a few words with her. Good-by, Mrs. Benton,” and he held both her
hands in a warm, firm grip, “keep up your courage, little woman!
Everything’s going to be all right!”

“I feel assured of that, Mr. Hammond.” She smiled as brightly as
possible. “How could it be otherwise—in your capable hands. When will I
know anything?”

“We’ll ’phone you just as soon as it’s over. I’m going to see Griggs a
moment—I’ll meet you in the car, Howard.”

“Good-by, mother.” Howard held his mother tightly in his arms for a
moment. Strange what comfort he got from those arms—how new that
comfort was—that he had never known these years. He kissed her mouth
and the eyes which bravely forced back the tears. “Don’t you worry,
dear!”

Hugh Benton and his daughter arrived at John Hammond’s office but a
short time after his arrival there with the financier’s accused son. He
had had time for only a short talk with Howard, who only repeated his
story of the night before, when Hugh and Elinor were announced.

“They might just as well come in now,” he told Howard. “There are some
questions I would like to ask you and your sister together.”

Elinor Benton, pale, and dramatically conscious of the part she played
in her own mind of being all but widowed, entered the inner office of
the lawyer leaning heavily on the arm of her father. John Hammond
frowned annoyedly when he saw she had chosen to costume herself in
black; that she gave all outward evidences of being grief stricken, and
he thought it ill became her at such a time. But he was not altogether
surprised. He had known the girl since she was a tiny child, and her
character was an open book to him.

“Sit down,” he said, brusquely, motioning to them to be seated. “This
will not take very long.”

Neither Elinor nor Hugh deigned to notice Howard, who sat looking at
them through partly closed eyes. Notwithstanding the fact that he was
under the strain he was, he could scarcely suppress a smile as he looked
at Elinor.

“Just like her,” he muttered, “to dress the part.”

Hammond drew a pad in front of him and dipped his pen in the ink. “Now
then, Elinor!” He looked up.

The pale, small figure in black met his eye again. It was too much for
him. He fairly exploded:

“What in—well—what in thunderation do you mean by dressing like that?
Do you want to play upon the sympathy of a jury and ruin your brother?”

“Why, Mr. Hammond!” Elinor’s handkerchief went straight to her eyes.
“How can you talk—to me—like that? Can’t you see—I’m heart-broken?”

Hugh had her in his arms instantly.

“There, darling, don’t cry,” he said soothingly. He turned savagely to
Hammond. “I won’t have you talking to her like that! She’s suffering
enough—hasn’t she just told you she’s heart-broken?”

“Well, then, let her be sensibly heart-broken!” Hammond brought his fist
down upon the desk. “Can you imagine the light it is going to throw upon
the case when this slip of a girl appears upon the scene in the garb of
an inconsolable widow?”

Elinor removed the handkerchief from her eyes—eyes that were hard
behind the glistening of newly shed tears. Her voice was steely as she
spoke, the toss of her head defiant.

“I care nothing whatever about Howard!” she said. “You may as well
understand that right now! I shall tell the truth, and nothing will
induce me to alter my testimony. If things go against him, he will have
to suffer the consequences—that’s all!”

“But that is all I require of you—simply to tell the truth. There can’t
be anything damaging in your testimony?” The lawyer was evidently a bit
worried over Elinor’s peculiar attitude.

“That depends entirely upon how you look at it,” she replied frigidly.
“All I know is that Howard quarreled with me at home early in the
evening, when I told him I was going to Templeton’s——”

“I didn’t quarrel with you, Elinor,” Howard interrupted. “I merely told
you what I thought of Druid, and tried to persuade you——”

“I choose to call it quarreling,” she replied loftily, without
permitting him to finish.

“Well, what if he did quarrel with you when he discovered that you were
associating with the wrong kind of a man?” Hammond spoke up. “That only
goes to prove his brotherly love——”

“Brotherly love! Brotherly devotion!” Elinor’s voice rose to a shriek.
“I’m sick of the very words! Everyone knows how we have always
disagreed! Why we were never in each other’s society for ten minutes
without quarreling—even mother and dad can tell you that! And now
everyone expects me to shout from the housetops and proclaim him my
valiant defender!” She sneered and her most ardent admirer would not
have called Elinor Benton beautiful at that moment of denouncing her
brother. “Well, I refuse to do it!” she hastened on, and the
stubbornness that had been her birthright was clearly in the ascendant
as she spoke. “He killed the man I loved! You can never make me see
anything heroic in that!”

“Very well, then, if that’s your attitude, I see no use in my attempting
to question you at all.” Hammond laid down his pen. “I can only trust to
your sense of justice in answering the questions at the inquest. I have
but one request to make, and that is that you will not deliberately try
to place a false conception upon everything you say?”

“You need never fear, Mr. Hammond,” she answered. “I shall be perfectly
truthful.”

“Benton, I’d like to speak with you alone for a moment before we start.”
Hammond turned bluntly to Hugh. “Will you step in here?” He opened the
door of a smaller office.

Hugh followed him, Elinor and Howard remaining where they were, each one
busy with his and her own thoughts. They may as well have been total
strangers for all the notice they deigned to take of one another.

“Hugh,” Hammond began, as soon as they were alone, “I know that you and
I parted in anger a short while ago, and that I have since offered my
services to Mrs. Benton and Howard. But I can’t allow our personal
grievances to stand between right and wrong. It is my duty to warn you
that if you don’t use your influence with Elinor before the inquest, I
am afraid her testimony is going to do Howard a great deal of damage.”

“I have very little influence over her, I’m sorry to say,” Hugh answered
unconcernedly. “She is terribly embittered.”

“But do you realize what this means to your son?”

“I haven’t any son.”

Hugh Benton’s sharp declaration showed plainly that all the embitterment
in the Benton family was not monopolized by his daughter.

“Why—why—” Hammond found it difficult to control himself. “You can’t
actually be mean enough to want to see the boy get the worst of it?” he
blurted.

“I’ll do the best I can with Elinor,” carelessly answered the financier.
“I can’t promise any more. Hadn’t we better go?”

“By all means, let’s go. If we remain here much longer, I’ll not be
responsible for myself!” Hammond banged the door shut as they returned
to the other room.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Elinor Benton was one of the last witnesses to be examined at the
inquest into the death of Templeton Druid. She took the stand,
trembling, nervous, and in an apparently dazed condition. She stumbled
and faltered over her answers. More than once she had to be reprimanded
sharply.

John Hammond was thoroughly exasperated. He knew so well the workings of
the girl’s mind. But he saw that the face of every juryman bore a look
of pity as he took in the pitiful little figure in black with the sad
eyes and the distress over the death of the man she loved so evident,
though as evidently torn between that love and the love she felt for her
own brother, who had been the cause of the tragedy.

True, Elinor Benton was being true to her promise. She was telling the
truth, but as each word came from her tight lips as though forced,
telling glances passed between the newspapermen seated at the long table
in the center of the room, scribbling for dear life. This was a story
something like, those glances said! Aside from Hammond and Howard
himself, not one in that packed court room (for the inquest had brought
out an eager crowd of morbid curiosity seekers to dip into this scandal
which touched the lives of those of high estate) could even guess at the
double meaning that was in each word that fell hesitatingly from the
society beauty’s lips.

Hammond realized that the best he could do for Howard was to cut short
Elinor’s testimony as quickly as possible. But he was not quicker than
she. In a moment she had grasped his intention. She wavered for a
second, then both hands went to her face and her head bowed forward as
she wept silently for a moment. Then she looked up, and it was with
stricken eyes and the bewildering despair of a child who did not
understand that she hurled the bomb that she knew would bring both
brother and mother into the dust. For a moment there was an awed
silence. The furious scribbling of the newspaper men could be heard. One
of them half stood up as he beckoned to a messenger boy in back of him.

“Here!” he whispered in a rasping voice that cut the stillness. “Shoot
this along for the extra. Tell the boss it’s the head!”

From where he stood facing the witness chair, John Hammond caught a
glance at the letters that sprawled across the one sheet of copy paper.

    SOCIETY GIRL’S TESTIMONY CONVICTS BROTHER

Without another question, John Hammond sat down. The girl had beaten
him. For, in that moment of dueling, when the fate of her brother had
trembled in the balance, Elinor Benton had looked up with those stricken
eyes, those bewildered eyes of a child who did not understand, and her
arms had gone out toward her father pleadingly as she wailed; half
choked:

“Oh, Daddy! Daddy! I can’t say any more! Please, please, don’t let them
ask me any more! I—I—don’t want to incriminate Howard! You warned me
to be careful, but you see, they are forcing me to speak!”

At the harsh command of the coroner, Hugh Benton was compelled to
explain that his only warning to Elinor had been that she be absolutely
truthful.

But Elinor’s victory was complete. The jury returned the verdict of
manslaughter.

Elinor sat with her handkerchief to her eyes, her father’s arm
protectingly about her. Hammond jumped to his feet and rushed over to
her.

“I don’t blame you for weeping, Elinor. Let me congratulate you upon
your cleverness!”

“Why Mr. Hammond—I did the best I could! After you and Daddy spoke to
me, I thought it over,” Elinor looked up at him, as innocently as a
child, “and I decided that you were right. After all, he is my
brother—so you heard me tell them. I didn’t want to speak—they
forced——”

“Please don’t say another word.” Hammond made no effort to conceal his
contempt. “You may have succeeded in fooling a great many people,
Elinor, but you could never deceive me. You knew exactly what you were
doing, and said just the things you wanted to say, yet you made it
appear that every word you uttered was dragged from you. The only regret
I have is that Howard ever felt it his duty to defend you. You’re a
clever woman of the world, my dear, and you could cope with many a woman
of forty, despite your youth—and innocence!”

“Oh, Daddy!” Elinor sobbed as she hid her face in his coat sleeve. “Do
you hear what he is saying to me? I—I don’t deserve it!”

“Never mind, dear,” Hugh soothed her, then he turned to Hammond with
flashing eyes. “Be careful you don’t go too far, Hammond! I’ve had
enough—so has she!”

Howard sat as if stunned. He uttered no word, and he stared at the
floor, his eyes riveted upon some invisible object. Elinor and Hugh
passed him on their way out.

“I’m sorry about this, Howard,” Hugh said, trying to speak kindly. “But
don’t worry—Hammond will get you out of it all right.”

Elinor smiled as she added her mite: “I did the very best I could for
you, Howard.”

He didn’t attempt to answer either one of them, and was still staring at
nothing, when Hammond touched him on the arm.

“There, there, my boy—you mustn’t allow this to discourage you,” he
said cheerfully. “It only means that it will take longer, and put us to
a little more trouble, but such evidence can never convict you.”

“I’m not thinking about that, Mr. Hammond—I’m not afraid! I just can’t
realize that my sister has really done this terrible thing to me. Why,
she didn’t want to have them dismiss me! She was anxious for them to
bring in a charge against me! Just think of it—my own sister!”

“It does seem terrible, Howard, but she’ll suffer for it a great deal
more than you will. At present her mind is filled with but one thought,
and that is, revenge. But it won’t be long before remorse will step in.”

“I can’t understand her still loving that fellow after it has been
proven to her that he was a married man,” Howard said wonderingly. “His
intentions toward her were not honorable—and she knew it!”

“It’s a strange thing, my boy—but women always seem to love that sort
of a man—but it isn’t really love with Elinor. She was infatuated with
him true enough, and now she imagines herself the heroine of a tragic
love affair. This posing in the limelight isn’t quite as distasteful to
her as she would have you think.”

“How was it, Mr. Hammond,” Howard questioned, “that you and I saw
through her actions instantly when she was on the stand, and yet dad
believed her implicitly, and thought she was hysterical and not
accountable for what she was saying?”

Hammond smiled knowingly. “Your father believed her because he wanted to
believe her. But now, my boy, we must telephone your mother.”

“Poor mother! Can you imagine the shock this will be to her? She thought
it would all be over in a few hours, and now, there may be months of
anxiety ahead of her.”

“Oh no,” Hammond hastened to assure him, “it will never take that long.
We’ll have it rushed through as expeditiously as possible. Come, boy,”
and the hand he laid on the stricken youth’s shoulder held all the
gentleness and sympathy the father had denied.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Marjorie was pacing up and down the living room when the summons came.
She had passed the never-ending afternoon she knew not how. Half of the
time she had spent upon her knees within the sanctuary of her own room,
praying as she had not prayed in years. The remainder of the time she
had traveled throughout the house, covering an area of miles, it seemed.

She reached the telephone white and trembling. “Yes,” she faltered, her
hands shaking so violently she could scarcely hold the receiver to her
ear.

“Mrs. Benton,” Hammond’s voice sounded quite cheerful, “we were detained
a little longer than I expected. I know you have been waiting to hear
from us.”

“Yes—yes—” came the eager voice, “I’m almost wild with anxiety. Is—is
everything all right?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Benton. Everything’s all right, or rather, everything’s
going to be all right. The verdict was not exactly what we looked for,
but that doesn’t mean a thing outside of a little extra work and
inconvenience. There’s not the least necessity for you to worry at all.”
He was doing his best to make as light of it as possible.

“What—what was the verdict?” she barely breathed.

It was a second or two before the reply came; then his voice seemed
miles away, as he said slowly: “Manslaughter. Here, Mrs. Benton, Howard
has something to say to you.” There was no answer. “I say—Mrs. Benton,
are you there?” He shook the hook violently. All was silent at the other
end of the wire.

Marjorie Benton had slipped quietly to the floor, a little crushed heap
of unconsciousness.

Howard snatched the telephone away from Hammond. “Hello, mother, I’m all
right. Why don’t you speak? I——”

“What’s the trouble?” the operator cut in. “Didn’t you get your party?”

“Why, yes, I was talking to her—we must have been disconnected.”

“Wait a minute.”

“What is it, do you suppose?” Howard turned anxiously to Hammond.

“You haven’t been disconnected,” Central returned. “They’ve left the
receiver off the hook at the other end, and we can’t get a reply.”

“Something’s happened to my mother!” Howard dropped the ’phone to leap
for the door. “The shock may have killed her!”

“I’ll go with you, Howard.” Hammond hurried him below to the waiting
car. “I don’t believe it’s anything serious. She fainted most likely.
Poor little woman!”

All the way home, although the chauffeur exceeded the speed limit at
every opportunity, the car, to Howard, seemed actually to crawl.

Marjorie Benton had been picked up by Griggs and the housekeeper, and
carefully put to bed. She regained consciousness in time to prevent them
from sending for the doctor.

“It’s nothing at all,” she assured them. “I wouldn’t think of having
Doctor Morton.”

“But Mrs. Benton!” The housekeeper leaned over her solicitously. “You’re
so white, and it was some time before we could bring you around.”

“I’ve been under a terrific strain for some time, Mrs. Williams. This
little spell doesn’t mean a thing otherwise than a sort of let-down. All
I need is a couple of hours’ rest to set me right.”

“Very well, ma’am,” Mrs. Williams assented. “You’re the best judge, I
suppose—although I think you’re a lot sicker than you imagine.”

“Dear, kind Mrs. Williams!” Marjorie smiled gratefully. “Just lower the
shades and I’ll try to relax. Only the very moment Mr. Howard comes in,
send him to me.”

“Yes, ma’am—just ring if you should need me.” She did as her mistress
requested, and left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Left to herself, the stricken woman buried her head in the pillow and
gave free vent to her grief. Her frail body was shaken like a reed, as
she went from one paroxysm of convulsive sobbing into another. One word
rang in her ears like a death knell—Manslaughter! Manslaughter! She was
totally unaware of the opening of the door, until Howard knelt
impetuously beside her.

“How are you, mother?” he asked worriedly. “Mrs. Williams tells me you
had a severe fainting spell.”

“Oh, my dear! My dear!” She gathered him in her arms, and held him as
though she would never let him go again. “I’m—I’m perfectly well now!”
With all her might she tried to force a smile through her tears. “But
you, dear, are you nervous—or frightened?”

“Why _no_, mother dear.” (It sounded almost like bravado.) “As far as
I’m concerned, I’m as calm as can be! It’s only about you that I’m
nervous and worried.”

“Well, you won’t have to be.” She sat up and resolutely brushed the
tears from her eyes. “I’ll show you from now on, dear, that I can be
just as brave as you.”

“That’s the way to talk.” He kissed her again. “Just make up your mind
that there isn’t anything to worry about, and there won’t be! Mr.
Hammond says: ‘there are two kinds of people in the world—the negatives
and the positives—and the positives always come out on top!’”

“There’s a good deal of logic to that, just as there is to everything
Mr. Hammond says. What a splendid man he is!” She was fervent in her
encomium.

“Indeed he is, and that reminds me,” he said as he placed her gently
back among the pillows, “he’s downstairs now. He brought me home when we
couldn’t get a response from you at the telephone. I think he was as
badly frightened as I.”

“You’ll thank him for me, for his kindness, won’t you, dear? And ask him
to pardon me for not coming down? I do feel the need of a little
rest—unless it is important for him to see me.”

“Just you rest, dearest! There isn’t a thing for him to see you about
now. I’ll come back later and sit beside you, ready to tell you whatever
you wish to know.”

She closed her eyes obediently and heaved a little sigh of contentment,
as she heard him hurrying down the stairs. It had taken a dreadful
crisis to bring her boy to her arms; but the overwhelming joy the
knowledge of possessing his love gave her, made all the suffering of
years fade into insignificance.




                             CHAPTER XVIII


In the breaking up of the Benton home, there were no distressing
leave-takings. The father was the first to go. Indeed, it cannot be said
that he ever made The Castle his home again after the night he spent
there preceding the inquest into the death of Templeton Druid and his
son’s consequent indictment on the charge of manslaughter.

How much of this was due to Geraldine DeLacy’s influence it would be
hard to say. The man himself would have denied that she in any way held
sway over his movements, but the subtle suggestions she was able to
throw out, always with words of love and with the persuasiveness of her
own logic that Hugh must do things for his own sake, were balm to the
man whose selfishness had grown so great that he was unable to see that
there was anything paramount to his own desires.

So on the day following the tragic dénouement in the inquest room, Hugh
Benton installed himself in a suite of rooms in one of the city’s most
fashionable hotels. Elinor was enthusiastic when she learned where he
had gone. It had always been her desire to live in just such a fashion,
and she gleefully welcomed the opportunity of freedom it would give her.
She knew that her father’s chaperonage would at no time be irksome.

“How wonderful, Daddy!” she exclaimed as she flew from one wide window
of his sitting room to another to look out over the towering roofs of
the humming city. “When may I come? And where are you going to put me?”

When her father took her into the adjoining suite he had reserved for
her and led her into the blue silk-lined boudoir which was its crowning
glory, her happiness knew no bounds. She forgot the tragedy that hung
over her brother and mother, forgot everything save that she was to be a
woman of the world, and live her life to please herself in such
surroundings. Her father looked on with pleased eyes as he saw her
rapture.

“It’s ready for you, baby, whenever you like, but do you think you
should leave—just yet?” He was a little dubious about the proprieties.
The lessons of years are not unlearned in hours.

Elinor pouted.

“What’s the use of staying with those others any longer?” she asked.
“Why, Daddy, you have no idea how disagreeable it all is—how they look
at me (if they do at all), as though I were the criminal, instead
of——”

Hugh Benton turned on his heel. It grated to hear his son referred to as
a criminal, even from his own daughter.

Shut up in her own rooms, the rooms where she had planned so many hours
of happiness when son and daughter should be home, Marjorie Benton tried
to shut her ears to the bustle of preparations for departure. But each
thump of a trunk as she heard it carried from her daughter’s room made
an added bruise on her lacerated heart—gave her a sense of loss that
even all of Howard’s loving protection (he was the only one who came to
break her solitude) could not entirely heal. Her baby was going away
from her! It was her baby who had chosen to do this thing!

On the day that the girl’s father came for her to take her to her new
hotel home, she met him outside the door. She flew into his arms with
eagerness. But, with one foot on the running board of his car, her eyes
turned backward for a moment. She looked up at Hugh for guidance.

“Do you think—do you think, Daddy,” she faltered, confused, “that I
ought to say good-by?”

Hugh Benton’s thoughts were not on the daughter he was taking from home
and mother. He had no time to discuss matters, nor to wait while Elinor
made up her mind. He was to meet Geraldine DeLacy at their favorite
little café for lunch in an hour (their regular daily meeting) and he
was eager not to be late. He shrugged indifferently, as he held open the
door of the limousine.

“Suit yourself, my dear,” he said, “but I can’t see——”

“Nor I!” Elinor leaped lightly into the machine. “What’s the use of
good-bys? I’ve had enough of scenes—forever.”

And she turned her face resolutely toward the new life.

Geraldine DeLacy was kept waiting for a short time, but when she saw
Hugh Benton’s tall familiar figure coming toward her, her mood of
pettishness passed as though a hand had wiped out the lines from her
face, and it was a smiling eager countenance with which she greeted him
as he bent over her hand a moment before taking the chair opposite her
in their favorite little corner in the downtown café. Geraldine DeLacy
was a careful player. She knew there was yet much to lose by a false
move, and she prided herself that never yet had anyone called to her,
“Checkmate!” There was the Benton money, for instance. Something must be
devised—It would never do to have Marjorie Benton come out victor
there, and she knew quite well through her familiarity with the divorce
proceedings that were already under way in less than two weeks after
Hugh had gained Marjorie’s permission to start them, that Hugh intended
to live up to the letter of his promise to his wife, given that night he
had forced her hand.

So it was with no suggestion either of her discontent in this matter,
nor of the bad temper that had spent itself over having been kept
waiting that the young widow spoke softly to the man who apologized.

“Of course, it was long waiting, Hugh, dear,” she pouted prettily. “But
it’s always an age if I have to wait for you a moment! And to think
before I knew you I never thought I could miss anyone in the world!”

“I knew you would understand, little one,” he smiled tenderly, “you
always do! But I was kept unconscionably late to-day for several
reasons. First, Elinor—I told you I had installed her at the Alliston
with me, did I not?” Geraldine nodded, but as she bent over her plate of
oysters picking at them with the tiny fork, Hugh Benton could not see
the annoyance in the dropped eyes. “Then,” he went on, “just as I was
ready to leave the office, one of those new lawyers of mine dropped in.
I’ll say I’m going to have trouble making them understand that they must
make appointments like other people,—Hammond always understood such
things so well—and they had a lot of questions to ask about that
settlement of mine——”

Mrs. DeLacy showed signs of quickening interest, but her eyes were still
upon her plate as she thought best how to inject some of her own ideas
into the man’s reasoning.

“It’s all so maddening,” Hugh went on, “to be tied up in this manner
over money! Here all I want in the world is you,—and you want me, I’m
sure, little one,” Geraldine lifted her eyes to flash him a dazzling
smile of happiness and understanding, “and they keep us——”

Geraldine DeLacy laid down her fork and leaned across the table toward
her companion, gazing at him thoughtfully and consideringly, as though
there were something vital she wished to say, but wanted to be sure of
her ground. Hugh smiled tenderly.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” he laughed. “Come on—we’re not going to
let you be serious as that without an explanation.”

“I was just thinking——”

“With any other woman, I’d say, ‘Be careful!’” he assured her, with a
benignant grin. Hugh Benton still believed in the vast superiority of
the masculine. But Geraldine did not answer his smile. It must be
something serious she was considering.

“If I were to be very frank with you, Hugh,” she began hesitatingly, and
her eyes held only a look of adoration, and something that seemed to
tell his vanity that she feared to displease him by anything she might
say, “would you consider me presuming or guilty of an unpardonable
interference in your affairs?”

“My dear, how little you know me! You know I am always glad to listen to
anything you may have to say.”

“Well, then,” she was most cautious, still hesitating, “does Marjorie
know exactly how much you are worth? Have you always taken her into your
confidence regarding your financial standing? Please do not think my
asking these questions strange—you will soon see, dear, that I have
only your interest at heart.”

“Why, no,” he answered, but puzzled at this new interest of the woman
who had always so carefully refrained from the mention of money,
“Marjorie doesn’t know anything about my affairs.”

The semi-lighting effects of the café and her large, drooping hat,
prevented him from seeing the triumphant gleam in the woman’s eyes.

“When we first came to New York,” he explained, “we used to discuss all
the transactions of the office, but that was only for a very short time.
For years she has not shown the slightest interest in me or my doings. I
have paid all the bills and given her a liberal allowance, nearly all of
which she invested in charity.”

“How about Mr. Hammond? Does he happen to know just what you are worth?”

“My dear, I see that you know very little about business,” he replied
laughingly, “or else you would understand that when one speculates as I
do, no one knows—not even myself—just what I am worth.”

“You’re right—I know nothing whatever about business,” she pouted
childishly. “I’m only trying, in my poor little way, to prevent you from
doing yourself a great injustice.”

“An injustice?”

“Yes! Oh my dear! You’re so wonderful—so generous—that you never even
stop to consider yourself for a moment! No, you mustn’t interrupt me,”
as she leaned across the table, and gave him a gentle pat on the hand.
“You’ve been an ideal husband and father all these years. It isn’t your
fault if you have been misunderstood by your wife, and unappreciated by
your son. Then why should you, at your time of life, beggar yourself so
that your money may be recklessly squandered by an irresponsible boy?”

“But I’m not making a settlement upon Howard. It’s Marjorie I’m——”

“Hugh! You’re as gullible as a child!” she smiled. “Don’t you know she
will give every dollar she possesses to Howard, especially after you
disinherited him because he sided with her.”

“I never thought of that,” he acknowledged comprehendingly. “You’re
absolutely right. It is precisely what she would do.”

“Just how much did you promise to—give her?” she asked eagerly.

“I told her I would give her three-quarters of my possessions if she
would consent to grant me my freedom.”

“You—you—” She dug her finger-nails deep into her palm. Rage flamed
inwardly in spite of her efforts at self-control and her soft-spoken
words—“liberal, big-hearted darling! That is just what I would have
expected you to do—without once giving yourself a thought!”

“I would have given anything to be free—for you, darling—and I could
afford to be generous. I feel more capable than ever of making many a
fortune,” he replied, with great confidence.

“I haven’t the least doubt of your capabilities, dear. Only you happened
to remark but an hour ago that this was one of the most precarious years
frenzied finance has ever known. Therefore, I think,” she pleaded
wistfully, “you should exercise your better judgment.”

“What is it you would advise me doing? Have you a suggestion to offer?”

“Y-e-es, I think so,” she hesitated, as though not sure of herself. “Of
course, I know very little about business, as you know, but to me it
seems a good one.” She leaned forward animatedly. “As long as Marjorie
is entirely ignorant of just how much you are actually worth, why don’t
you give her a great deal less, and allow her to think, she is
getting—exactly what you promised her?”

“Why—why—” he stammered, “wouldn’t that be dishonest?”

“Not at all!” she replied emphatically. “Merely diplomatic.”

“Somehow, it doesn’t seem fair—my conscience,—why dear, what is the
trouble?” he inquired anxiously, as Geraldine without warning placed her
handkerchief to her eyes and began weeping silently.

“You—you don’t know how you hurt me, Hugh! Why—why—you as much as
imply that I was suggesting to you an act of dishonesty, when the only
thing that entered my mind was your welfare. As far as I am concerned, I
told you once before, dear—that I’d marry you if you were a pauper.”

“Forgive me, dearest, and dry your eyes, I implore you. How can you
imagine, for a moment, that I would intentionally offend you?”

“I’m such a baby,” she replied, drying her eyes obediently, “and my
great love for you would carry me beyond all sense of reasoning. Of
course, if you think there is anything wrong about my suggestion, why
then——”

“I’m not trying to say there is anything wrong about it—only—I have
always been open and above board in all my dealings,—” he toyed
nervously with his own fork,—“I should feel rather uncomfortable about
doing anything underhanded.”

But the plotter could see her victim was weakening. She hastened to make
the most of it.

“Why, my dear, you couldn’t even harbor a dishonest thought! I can’t
help wondering just a little how you, who are always so very considerate
of others, have apparently forgotten all about Elinor.”

“Elinor? What has she to do with it?”

“A great deal, I think,” she replied. “You know, Elinor volunteered of
her own free will to remain with you, therefore it does not seem fair to
give so much to Marjorie and Howard, while Elinor will be compelled to
depend solely upon your further success for her share. It is true that
you have always been most fortunate—but my dear, we can never tell just
when the tide may turn.”

“And what about you?” He looked at her admiringly. “You wonderful woman!
All of your pleadings have been for me and for Elinor—never once have
you mentioned yourself as deserving of a little consideration!”

“There isn’t a thing in the world that I need or want outside of your
love,” she answered sweetly.

“That you shall always have,” he said fervently as he reached across the
table and his big white hand crushed her small one tenderly. “And a
great many things besides. You have made me view matters in an entirely
different light. I shall act accordingly.”

So it was that when a few days later his lawyer handed Marjorie his
check after the signing of the necessary documents, the divorced wife
found it difficult to suppress her genuine surprise.

“Is there anything wrong, Mrs. Benton?” the lawyer inquired, noticing
her peculiar expression.

“Well—I—I am a little surprised—at the amount!” She glanced at the
paper in her hand again. “I have always been under the impression that
Mr. Benton was a very wealthy man.”

“There was never a certain sum stipulated, was there?”

“Why, no—Mr. Benton agreed to give me three-quarters of all he
possessed, but if _this_ amount is in accordance with that promise—then
he is worth a great deal less than I ever imagined.”

“You know that Mr. Benton speculates in vast sums daily; his fortune is
bound to fluctuate. Would you care to send a message to him?” he asked,
as he reached for his hat.

“No, thank you. This is perfectly—satisfactory,” she replied.

But with the memory of that check in mind, and of the need of vast sums
for the defense of her son in mind, Marjorie Benton, in making her own
departure from The Castle, did not follow her husband’s example and
install herself and her son in a fashionable, expensive hotel. Instead,
she chose a much smaller one further uptown—a hostelry where
exclusiveness superseded the pomp of the hotel home which housed her
former husband and her daughter.

Marjorie could see that Howard was somewhat questioning at the move she
made, though he said nothing. She was in a quandary. She would have
liked to explain to Howard that she was not being penurious, not
following the conservative bent which had so long been the cause of so
much trouble in the Benton family, but she could not. She could not
explain to him. He had lost all respect for his father as it was, and
she felt she could not be the one to plant the seed of hatred in his
heart.

Howard, on the other hand, had been deeply hurt when his mother had
neglected to mention to him just what was the sum of the settlement upon
her. The confidence she failed to place in him gave him the impression
of not being trusted. But his pride would not permit him to question
her; he feared she might misconstrue his motive, and consider his
interest a selfish one.

Through all her travail Marjorie Benton had had one other consolation
save her son. John Hammond had proven himself the friend he had offered
to be on the morning he had told her he was no longer her husband’s, but
her own and her son’s representative. Each day during the progress of
the suit, he had called her up or seen her, and his gentle courtesy had
done much to lighten her burden. Now he was busy with Howard’s affairs,
and because of the lawyer’s deep interest and enthusiasm, the mother had
laid aside much of her worry for Howard, believing that it was an
assured thing that John Hammond would acquit him.

In a way, she was beginning to be more cheerful, to look at the future
as not all dark, in spite of the fact that her resources were far from
what she had believed they would be. However, she argued, if she and
Howard lived as carefully as possible, they need never want until her
son should himself be in a position to add to their income,—a prospect
that was a surety with Marjorie since Howard had been speaking so
earnestly about it. He had only to place himself—to find himself—and
surely she and the boy themselves had enough influential friends to see
that he got a start.

Hammond had called her up one morning to assure her that her son’s
affairs were progressing rapidly, and to say that the case had been
given a place on the calendar which would be reached in a week or two.
She was so glad that it would soon be over.

All during her luncheon, which she ate alone—Howard had telephoned he
would be detained in the city—she thought of the approaching trial, and
her heart warmed as she pictured the great lawyer defending her son.
What a man he was! What a friend he had proven! And, what was as much to
Marjorie Benton in her straitened circumstances, how much it meant to
both Howard and herself that John Hammond persisted in his purpose to
handle the matter without fees.

She looked up from the book she had been idly scanning at her solitary
meal to see her son standing in the door. So white and strained he was,
so actually ill he seemed that the mother’s hand went to her throat to
ease the choking lump that rose. What could have happened now?

“Howard!” she cried chokingly. “What is it, dear? What is wrong?”

Without a word, he crossed to his mother’s chair and laid before her the
paper he held. The black type stared up at her, and for a moment, she
could not take it in.

                   PROMINENT LAWYER KILLED IN STREET
                            AS AUTOS COLLIDE
                      JOHN HAMMOND, FORMER SENATOR
                             DIES INSTANTLY

Tears that had not come for so long to the eyes of Marjorie Benton, who
had believed they had dried forever, gathered under the hot lids. She
could not read further. She looked up at her son, standing there with
his hopeless expression, and her arms went out to him as she hid her
face on his rough coat.

“Oh, my dear! My dear!” she cried heart-rendingly, “it can’t be true!
We’ve lost our best friend!”

Howard was tender as he stroked her head. But the stricken expression
went from his eyes. He straightened himself, then leaned over his mother
and lifted her head to look directly at her.

“No, mother,” he said gently. “We’ve lost a friend—a wonderful
friend—but not our best friend while you or I live!”

The papers were all loud in their praise of the prominent man. They
spoke of him in terms of profound respect and admiration. He had won a
great name and enviable reputation for himself, by his many acts of
benevolence and absolute integrity in all his dealings. There were many
he had befriended who mourned him sincerely.

But there were none who felt his loss as keenly as Marjorie and Howard
Benton. They knew they had lost a friend who could not be replaced.

With the tragedy occurring so near the beginning of Howard’s trial, the
days were busy ones that followed. New counsel had to be procured, and
when, through friends, Monroe Garden, a celebrated trial lawyer, had
been called into the case, they found that the work of weeks had to be
gone over. With a sinking heart, too, Marjorie Benton found that it
would strain her resources if the matter should be long delayed.

And delayed it was. Mr. Garden’s ideas were different from Hammond’s.
The latter had been all for rushing the matter through. He fought for
delay upon delay, explaining to his impatient clients that it was the
best thing to do.

Perhaps he was right. For after several months of anxiety and
nerve-racking suspense, Howard was acquitted!

The strain upon Marjorie had been frightful—both upon her mentality and
her bank account. There had been one expense after the other, and as she
already knew, the lawyer’s fee was exorbitant. She was so overjoyed at
the verdict, though, that she paid him gladly, and it was not until it
was all over, that she realized to the full extent how terribly her
funds had been depleted.

But it was with a heart full of thankfulness, a deep sigh of relief that
she had her son—that he stood free and cleared of intent of crime
before the world—that Marjorie Benton turned to take up the slackened
thread of her life. There was so much to hope for. And surely all that
could possibly happen had happened, and there must now be some peace and
happiness awaiting her.

It was with a ruder shock than any that had preceded that the mother was
awakened from her new dream. Ever since his acquittal Howard had seemed
listless, not entirely himself. She had put this down to the strain,
however, knowing well how it had affected her, too. Howard would soon be
himself, and they would have a wonderful life together.

She was preparing to leave her room for the dining room in the hotel one
morning—(she always breakfasted early with him these days) when word
was brought her that her son was ill. She rushed into his room to find
that the boy had collapsed as he tried to leave his bed. The physician
who was hastily summoned advised an immediate removal, and before an
hour had passed, Howard Benton was in a small room in a sanitarium,
tossing in the feverish delirium of typhoid. The weeks he laid there
passed into months; one complication on another set in, for his
constitution was in a badly run-down condition, owing to the months of
anxiety he had been obliged to endure during his trial.

There was something martyrlike in the way Marjorie managed to bear up
under her heavy cross. She grew haggard and pale as she hovered near the
bedside of her boy day and night. It was only when the doctor threatened
to bar her from the room entirely, that she consented to go home for a
few hours’ rest at night. But even then she didn’t rest. She either
paced the floor in her anguish and despair, or she knelt beside her bed
praying to God not to take her beloved boy from her now—now that she
had just found him.

And God in His great mercy, heard her prayers, for Howard began slowly
to fight his way back again to health and strength. It was then, in
these days of convalescence that the wonderful devotion between mother
and son became noticeable to everyone connected with the sanitarium.

Outside of going to her room for a few hours at night, she never left
him for a minute. She read to him by the hour, played all sorts of games
with him, such as a small boy might have enjoyed, and when he was able
to be taken out a bit, she wheeled him up and down the corridor, or out
into the garden without ever tiring.

On his part, he was never happy unless she was beside him. He wouldn’t
go to sleep at night without holding her hands, and in the morning, if
she was delayed ten minutes in arriving, he would insist upon the nurse
telephoning to find out whether anything had happened.

It was beautiful—this great love—to all who witnessed it. Especially
was it so to Marjorie herself. She fairly reveled in it. Her soul,
love-starved for so many years, reached out passionately for this
new-found joy.

In Howard’s presence she was always smiling and cheerful. Never for a
moment did she permit him to think that there was anything wrong. No
matter how hard she would be obliged to struggle, she would never reveal
to him the true state of their affairs until he had completely
recovered.

It was amazing to her the way her money seemed to diminish as if by
magic. There wasn’t anyone she could appeal to. Hugh and Elinor had left
for Paris a few days after the trial ended, and even if Hugh had not
gone, she would have died before appealing to him. He had treated her
shamefully all through the trial, coming into court day after day,
without once speaking to her, or even noticing her. Of course, she never
guessed that he was really ashamed to look at her. Conscience is a
difficult tormentor at times.

The day before they sailed, Elinor called her on the ’phone.

“We’re leaving for Europe to-morrow, mother,” she announced. “May I come
out to see you before we go?”

“I really can’t see why you should wish to see me, Elinor,” she answered
as coolly as her daughter had spoken, but her heart was beating madly.

“Well, I’m going a long ways from here, and somehow—I should like
you—to wish me luck.” There was a little sob in her voice.

“I do wish you the best luck in the world—_always_,” Marjorie replied
heartily; “only I don’t feel as if I could stand seeing you just yet.”

“I’m sorry, mother. Good-by.”

Marjorie heard the receiver click at the other end of the line.

Elinor and Hugh had passed out of her life.

When she discovered her funds dwindling away to almost nothing, she
endeavored to economize in every possible way. She gave up their rooms
in the hotel where Howard had fallen ill, and moved into a back-room in
a private dwelling close to the sanitarium, explaining to Howard that
she had made the change in order to be nearer him.

One morning, she entered Howard’s room, expecting to find him sitting up
in bed finishing his breakfast as usual. To her great surprise, he
rushed toward her and grabbed her in his arms. He was dressed for the
street, while his suitcase stood in the corner, packed and strapped.

“Hello, dearest!” he cried, kissing her fondly, “what do you think of
your boy now?”

“Why, darling—what does this mean?” She struggled out of his embrace
and looked about her in surprise.

“It means that I’m perfectly well, mother—and able to go home with you
now.” He kissed her again. “I knew all about it yesterday, but I begged
Doctor Simpson and Miss Sanders not to tell you. I wanted the pleasure
of surprising you myself. Are you happy, dear?”

“Happy to see you well and able to leave here? Why, darling, you know
how happy I am, only—only—” she stammered helplessly, “I—I wish you
had told me yesterday.”

“But why, mother? I can’t see why it was necessary to tell you in
advance? All you have to do is to call a taxi and take me home.”

“Well—you see, dear—” she hesitated slightly, “I wanted to know a day
or two in advance so that I could look for a small apartment, or else
engage another room—in the house—where I am now living.”

“Another room? Why, dearest, do you mean to say that you have only one
room?”

“Why yes—you see——”

“I can’t understand it! Surely you knew I wasn’t going to remain here
forever! You should have remained in your comfortable room at the hotel.
You could have easily taken a taxi back and forth from here.”

“Well I—I—” The tears she had held back in his presence for those long
months suddenly gushed forth. She had reached the end of her strength.
Sobs shook her.

“Dearest, _what_ is it? Sit here and tell me all about it.” Howard
placed her tenderly in the rocker, and drew a chair for himself close
beside her.

“No—no—it’s nothing at all.” She tried hard to check her tears as she
protested, but unavailingly. “I’ll tell you as soon as you’re well and
strong, but now——”

“I’m well and strong now! Why Doctor Simpson says I’m in a better
physical condition than I’ve ever been since I was a boy. I insist upon
your telling me just exactly what it is that is troubling you, mother,”
he said firmly.

“Very well, dear.” She realized it was useless to refuse.

So she told him everything,—just what amount of money Hugh had given
her and exactly how much of it had been spent.

“Oh, mother, dear, if you had only mentioned it to me at the time,” he
reproached her gently. “You can’t imagine how hurt I was because you
failed to tell me. I thought it was because you didn’t trust me enough.”

“No, no, it wasn’t that,” she hastened to assure him. “I didn’t wish you
to feel more embittered toward your father.”

“I’d have gone to him at the time and told him plainly just what I
thought of him!” he exclaimed indignantly. “He cheated you,
mother—that’s what he did—and all because of that miserable creature!”

“Hush, dear, you’re only exciting yourself needlessly,” she cautioned
him, “and it won’t do a bit of good. The thing is this—just what are we
going to do?”

“_We_ are not going to do anything, dearest.” He put his arms tenderly
about her. “_I’m_ going to do it all. I’m going to work, and take care
of you the rest of your life!”




                              CHAPTER XIX


Hugh Benton had lost no time (nor had the widow allowed him, for that
matter) after obtaining his divorce decree, in marrying Geraldine
DeLacy. Some of their intimates, many of the more conservative element
or the society in which they moved, believed that the marriage had
occurred indecently soon after Marjorie had been put aside. But in
general society let them alone to go their own way. Shoulders were
raised eloquently in a few quarters, in others the names of Hugh Benton
and the former Mrs. DeLacy were quietly erased from invitation lists,
but the scandal was (as is so often the case among the busy four or five
thousand who were once four hundred) not long in giving place to
something more recent. Society was beginning to yawn when the name of
Benton was mentioned.

The financier, happy in the possession of the woman with whom he was so
deeply infatuated; his new wife, elated at the good fortune she had so
triumphantly maneuvered, apparently cared not a whit for what society
might say. Knowing most of them as she did, Geraldine DeLacy Benton
smiled knowingly into her dressing table mirror, as she told herself
that all would come in good time. With Hugh Benton’s money at her
command, she was more than willing to wait her time to take the social
leadership she felt so confidently would be hers before long.

Only Elinor was dissatisfied. The freedom she had been so happy over
having had not brought her the joy she had expected it to. Even before
leaving for Europe with her father and newly acquired step-mother, she
had felt the sting of disapproval, and it had only made her more
misanthropic than she was already speedily becoming. She could not help
noticing that many of her own friends were avoiding her. Invitations
were noticeably scarce. But it was some time before she took notice of
this, since, in her new freedom, she had taken to visiting the more
public tea and dance rooms in company with her various admirers, all of
whom seemed to flock around her more than ever, in contradistinction to
the cooling ardor for her friendship of their sisters and mothers. It
was not until she met Rosebud Greely in the Plaza one afternoon that the
truth of the matter was brought home to her, though. Elinor touched the
girl on the arm as Rosebud passed through the aisle on her way to a
table on the other side of the room, where her mother and some friends
were sitting.

“Hello, Rosebud!” she greeted. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to
come and see my new quarters. Come down to the hotel and have tea with
me to-morrow, won’t you?”

Rosebud Greeley, usually so open, so ready for anything, was noticeably
uncomfortable. She cast a furtive glance across the room toward her
mother.

“’Fraid I can’t, Elinor,” she said nervously. “The mater—you know——”

Elinor lifted surprised eyebrows.

“Why, what can she have against me?” was her hurt query.

Rosebud shook her head and turned to hurry along. But the hurt look in
Elinor’s eyes touched the girl’s tender heart, and she gently brushed
Elinor Benton’s arm. “Don’t you worry, old dear,” she advised. “It’ll
all blow over—it’s so silly anyhow—but you must know what everyone is
saying because you’re flying around unchaperoned, and you know my mater.
Just the same, I wish I could do what you’re doing for a while!” She
took Elinor in enviously and nodded her head toward the table the Benton
heiress had left where a blasé youth was sitting waiting for her. “Try
to see you some more, some time. Bye!”

Elinor could hardly realize it. So they were saying things about her,
were they? Well, she’d show them! Her father——

She could hardly get out of the place quickly enough to tell him. With
head held haughtily high, she left the tea room, looking neither to
right nor left at the many she knew who were seeing her. But her cheeks
flamed hotly as instinct told her she was the subject of conversation at
more than one table that she swept by.

Hugh Benton was sympathetic and gentle as he had been since Elinor had
chosen to go with him. But he did not take the matter as seriously as
she had thought he should. There were matters on his own mind clamoring
for attention. One of these was that he had not told his daughter of his
intended marriage to Geraldine DeLacy—for the incident of the Plaza tea
had occurred before Elinor had any idea her father contemplated
re-marriage. Elinor had known, of course, of his infatuation for the
widow, and that she had been the cause of the differences between her
father and mother. Equally, of course, she had heard much of the gossip
concerning the two. But, loving her father as she did, knowing him as
she believed she did, it had not entered her head that Hugh Benton would
really marry Mrs. DeLacy. And this Hugh Benton knew.

He seized on his daughter’s humiliating experience for an entering wedge
for his confession.

“Poor little girl,” he sympathized. “So she’s seeing that her old dad
isn’t accepted as a proper chaperon, is she? I was afraid of as
much—but never mind, dear,” and he pulled her to him and seated her on
his knee. “We’ll fix all that! There really ought to be an older woman
to look after you——”

Elinor squirmed about to face him.

“Why, Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Whatever do you mean—” Then as her eyes
searched his face, and she saw the half shamed, half triumphant look
there, the truth slowly dawned on her. She drew back as if stung. She
was surprised, angry by turns. She caught his two arms and shook him
furiously.

“Oh, Daddy! Daddy!” she cried. “Surely, you don’t mean to say that you
really intend to marry Geraldine DeLacy?”

“Surely, I speak plainly enough, Elinor,” he answered irritably.

“But Daddy—she doesn’t love you! She’ll never make you happy!”

“Please permit me to be the judge of that.” He was very stern as he
lifted her from his knees and set her on her feet. “What right have you
to say anything about it?”

“The right of one who really loves you, dear.” She threw her arms around
his neck in spite of his move to turn away. “One who wants you to be
happy. Besides, you’re all I have in the world. I—I can’t bear to lose
you.”

“You’ll not lose me, baby!” Once more he was all gentleness. “I’ll be
just as close to you as ever. Only you do need a woman’s hand, you know,
and Geraldine loves you so devotedly. She’ll be just like a sister to
you.”

“I’m glad, Daddy,” Elinor smiled almost sadly, “that you didn’t say
she’d be like—a mother—to me. Oh, well, I suppose you’ve quite made up
your mind, so nothing I could say would influence you?”

“As you say, I’ve quite made up my mind. I’m not a child; and I never
allow anyone to influence me.”

But if Elinor Benton liked the idea of her father’s marriage so little
at the time he told her of it, she liked it still less as the days grew
into weeks. On the day of the wedding, she knew that the emotion that
she held toward Geraldine was hatred; and it increased day by day with
the closer relationship. At first, it was prompted by self-pity. She
could not overlook the fact that Geraldine had appropriated her place in
her father’s heart; but, before long, she began to realize just how
little her father really meant to this vain, selfish creature, who had
forced herself—yes, she had always been certain of that—into her
mother’s place. Her mother! The woman she had held in contempt and
ridicule because of her old-fashioned ideas. Why, it seemed almost like
sacrilege to even think of her in the presence of this woman!

She was positively astounded at her father’s actions. He was an
enigmatical problem, impossible of solution. He permitted himself to be
dragged about like a toy poodle. If he passed his opinion about anything
or anyone, and it failed to coincide with Geraldine’s—well, he changed
it, that was all! And in an apologetical and almost cringing manner that
fairly nauseated Elinor.

What had happened to this big, powerful, handsome man, of whom she had
once been so proud? There were times when she pitied him. There was
something pathetic in his anxiety to please this parasite, who with a
smile, or a few words of endearment, could send him to the seventh
heaven of delight, or with a frown cast him into the very depths of
despair.

But if Elinor Benton was astonished at the change that came over her
father in less than a year, she would have been more astonished could
she have realized the change that had occurred in herself. She would not
have known herself—nor would any of her former friends have known
her—for the gay, careless, laughter-loving, joyous creature who had
played the butterfly for those few months after her début.

She was at outs with the world. It seemed that everyone plotted against
her. Constant brooding over her “wrongs” soon changed the butterfly into
a cynical woman of the world. Her brother had “wronged” her terribly by
killing the man she loved, or rather, thought she loved, for now as she
looked back upon it all, she realized that what she had felt for
Templeton Druid had not been love at all, but merely a schoolgirl’s
infatuation. Her mother had “wronged” her by refusing ever to see her,
and simply shutting her out of her heart and life; and now her
father—her Daddy, whom she had idolized had “wronged” her by marrying
this clever, designing woman. Geraldine DeLacy had been a most desirable
chaperon for her—while she remained Mrs. DeLacy, but as her father’s
wife—That was an entirely different matter.

So she consoled herself as best she could with violent flirtations with
the foreign gallants with which Paris swarmed. Neither her father nor
Geraldine appeared either to know or care what she was doing. But
somehow, the sweetness of her freedom had palled, and there came times
that she wished for a restraining hand. There were more times when she
more bitterly wished herself away from her father and his new wife than
she had ever, back there in the security of her own boudoir in her
sheltered home in “The Castle,” wished herself away from it.

One thing she made up her mind to, though, and that was that never would
she return with them to her former home. This was the bitterest pill of
all. They were going back, her father told her. It was Geraldine’s wish.
Their year in Paris was almost over when he told them at breakfast one
morning that he had cabled Griggs to re-open the place.

He would have preferred disposing of it and purchasing a new place; but
Geraldine had firmly made up her mind—a long time ago—that one day she
should be mistress of “The Castle”; therefore she insisted upon
re-opening it, declaring that she would redecorate it anew, just as soon
as they were settled.

But though things had gradually been shaping themselves for a general
cataclysm for months, it was not until just before their preparations
for sailing were completed that a crisis came. Only Hugh Benton had been
placidly unaware of anything wrong. He believed he held the world. He
did not know, could not seem to realize, that he was like a child, or a
weakling in the hands of his wife. She ruled his every act, his every
thought. Like an avalanche, she swept everything before her in the one
mad desire to satisfy her unappeasable greed. But her native subtlety
had aided her to hide this from Hugh Benton, if not from his daughter.
He went about like a man in a dream. He imagined himself to be the
happiest of men. He had a young and beautiful wife, who loved him
devotedly. What more could he ask? He put the past from him like a bad
dream, and lived only in the present. And then suddenly—the awakening!

He had been for a long walk with Geraldine in the afternoon. He had
fairly reveled in her gayety, her bubbling wit, the fact that she was
his own, and that every man they passed paused to give the dazzling
dark-eyed beauty an admiring glance. He had made a note of her
admiration of a string of pearls they saw at a famous jeweler’s where
they had stopped to get a ring she had left for resetting. Then she had
gone home before him, as even in Paris, the calls of his vast business
across the water took more of his time than he would like to have taken
from his wife’s side.

When he hurried into the luxurious sitting room of the suite they were
occupying, he found Elinor there alone. She was already dressed, and
stood looking out of the window in a bored fashion. She did not even
turn as she greeted her father, hastening to add:

“Hello, dad. You’ll have to hustle and dress for dinner. You know we’re
going to the opera to-night.” She couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm
had she announced that it was time to retire.

“It will only take me a few minutes,” he said. “Where’s Geraldine?”

Elinor shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “I’m sure I don’t know.
Dressing, I suppose.”

Geraldine swept into the room, magnificently gowned in a striking
costume of cloth of silver.

“You’re very late, Hugh,” she said peevishly. “Where have you been all
afternoon?”

“Now, darling. You mustn’t be cross—I had something to do. My! How
beautiful you are!” He attempted to caress her.

“Please, Hugh,” she held him off, “I wish you wouldn’t paw all over me!
Nanette simply couldn’t arrange my hair to suit me to-night! I had to do
it myself and it was exasperatingly stubborn!”

“It looks wonderful, darling.”

“No, it doesn’t!” She walked to the mantel and stared into the mirror.
“It looks a fright, but I can’t help it, and I did want to look
particularly nice to-night.”

“Why to-night?” Hugh asked curiously. “To me you always look
particularly nice,” he added gallantly.

“There are some people here from New York,” Geraldine answered his
question without paying the slightest heed to his compliment—“people
who had the impertinence deliberately to cut me—before we were married.
I am looking forward to the pleasure of retaliating. I think the women
will feel it a great deal more, if I am looking my best.”

“What a disgusting parvenu!” was Elinor’s thought as she still stared
into the lighted streets.

“What a child you are,” Hugh laughed indulgently. “Well, I have
something here,” and he pulled a long box from his pocket, “that may
help you a little. This is what delayed me.”

He held the long string of perfectly matched, lustrous pearls before
her.

“Oh, you darling!” she exclaimed, as she threw her arms about him, hair
forgotten. “You are too good to me! Here, put them on me!”

She stood still while he clasped the pearls and kissed her neck.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” She fingered them caressingly, and then rushed
to the mirror again. “Elinor!” she turned suddenly. “What do you think
of them?”

“I think they are very beautiful,” the girl answered simply, as she
turned slowly to take in the scene.

Hugh walked over and placed his arm lovingly about his daughter. “I’ve
ordered a string as near like them as possible for you, baby. They
promised to have them for me in a few days.”

“Oh—no, Daddy—you shouldn’t have done that. I really don’t care for
them, for myself.”

“Nonsense! Of course you do! Besides, I want my two treasures to always
share alike,” he beamed joyously, glancing across at Geraldine.

She stood in the center of the room, two bright red spots burning in
each cheek, as she tugged frantically at the clasp at the back of her
neck.

“Why, darling, what is the matter?” He hastened to her.

“Take these things off!” Geraldine screamed. “I won’t have them! If you
can’t buy me a thing without immediately ordering a duplicate of it for
her,” she pointed her finger dramatically at Elinor, “then I don’t want
you to give me anything!”

“Why, Geraldine—” Elinor stepped forward anxiously. She could scarcely
control her voice. “You just heard me tell Daddy I didn’t want them.
Please keep yours on and don’t make a scene. I assure you, even if Daddy
gets them for me, I’ll not accept them.”

“Stop playing the self-sacrificing little angel with me!” She turned on
Elinor fiercely. “I know perfectly well how you hate me, and you know
how I feel about you. I’m sick and tired of keeping up this pretense any
longer!”

“But—my dear.” Hugh was even whiter than Elinor. “I—I thought that you
loved Elinor devotedly, and that you two would be just like sisters.
You’re—you’re nervous and upset to-night. You don’t know what you’re
saying——”

“Please! Don’t make excuses for me, Hugh,” Geraldine interrupted
savagely. “I don’t love her! I never have loved her, and I never _will_
love her! And you might as well know it right now!”

“You gave me to understand one night in New York that you had only
Elinor’s interest at heart—when you persuaded me to do—something—I
didn’t think was quite fair. Do you remember it, Geraldine?” Hugh set
his lips in their old grim line, as memory flashed back the picture.

Geraldine tossed aside her necklace. A look of pure contempt, all but
hatred, distorted her features as she looked at her husband slowly. Then
her lip curled and she laughed.

“For a clever and brilliant business man, you’re the biggest fool I’ve
ever met in all my life!” she flung at him. She rushed into her own room
and banged the door after her.

For a moment Hugh stood and stared at the closed door, too astonished to
move. When the realization of the miserable scene he had just passed
through, finally dawned upon his numbed consciousness, he sank heavily
down upon the nearest chair and groaned aloud.

Elinor was on her knees beside him instantly. “Oh, Daddy,” she murmured
soothingly, “Daddy—dear.”

He buried his head in his hands. “Oh—my God!” His body shook
convulsively. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!”

The sound of his daughter’s heart-broken sobs roused him from his own
misery. Her head was buried on his knee, her whole figure a picture of
abject misery. He bent over and touched her tumbled hair, idly tried to
arrange the torn lace of her bodice.

“There! There, dear!” he begged, but his tone was one of hopelessness as
he tried to give the sympathy he was himself so much in need of. “Don’t
cry, sweetheart—it’ll all be all right!”

Elinor lifted a tear-stained face to her father’s. She shook her head.
Then the sobbing burst out afresh.

“Oh, Daddy! Daddy!” she wailed, “I—want—my—mother!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Hugh Benton was wrong in believing that matters would right themselves
when Geraldine’s nerves should be soothed. He was to learn that she had
but dropped the mask that had irked her through all the year that she
had been making for herself the place that she was determined to
have—bringing Hugh Benton to an abject posture beneath her feet. For
the scene she had made about the string of pearls had been but the
woman’s opening gun in her new campaign. It was the first of her
quarrels with her husband, but others followed in such rapid succession
that the first was not long in being lost sight of.

Elinor left them the week following her denunciation by her step-mother.
She met some friends who invited her to spend the winter in Italy. She
was delighted at the chance to escape from her unhappy surroundings, and
Hugh was glad to let her go. He had come to know the impossibility of
keeping her under the same roof with Geraldine.

Alone with his new wife, there began a life so terrible for Hugh Benton,
that at times he was almost certain it could not be true. He was merely
having a dreadful nightmare from which he would suddenly awaken.

Geraldine seemed fairly to thrive upon quarrels and violent scenes. At
first, Hugh attempted to plead or remonstrate, or argue with her; but he
soon found that that was the thing she craved, so he simply lapsed into
silence until the tirade was over. But oh! how it told on him! How it
crushed the manhood within him and made of him a thing he himself
despised!

[Illustration: Hugh Benton (Huntly Gordon) comes to his daughter’s
  assistance.
(_“The Valley of Content” screened as “Pleasure Mad.”_)]

On their return to New York Geraldine had redecorated “The Castle,” but
he never entered it without seeing before him a vision of Marjorie, as
she stood in the library that never-to-be-forgotten night, completely
rejuvenated and beautiful, trying to rekindle his love and pleading with
him to give up his engagement and take her to the theater.

Surely that was the night on which God had forsaken him, or he would
have listened to her pleadings, and have been spared all this torture.

Hugh Benton knew he was nearing the end of the road. His associates
recognized the change in the man, but there was little sympathy such as
might have been expected for a man, old and broken before his time, from
any other cause than the one which had aged and grayed the financier.
For the first time in his life, he bowed his head, content to take the
lashings of Fate because of sheer inability longer to fight. He had been
vanquished by a woman—a woman for whose sake he had driven wife and
children from him, had outlawed his friends, cut short his life.

As he drooped into his office one morning, he felt that the end could
not be far off. And he welcomed it. One more blow from the hand of
Fate——

He started to look over the opened letters his secretary had left in
front of him. There was one, a personal letter, unopened. He recognized
Elinor’s handwriting. What would he give for one sight of her! A thought
came to him. Why not cut it—go back to Europe with Elinor, let
Geraldine do as she pleased. The very thought cheered him. It was worthy
of more than passing consideration. Eagerly he opened the letter. But
the eagerness turned to pain as he read; the white face turned ashen.
The letter dropped with the hand to his knee, and he sat staring at it
as though the writing stared out at him in letters of fire.

“Dear Daddy:” Elinor had written:

    I know that you are expecting me home soon, but this is to tell
    you that I am not coming back—ever. What I have to tell you
    will certainly surprise you, perhaps shock you (or are you past
    the time of shocks and surprises?) I have been married a month
    to Signor Guglielmo Bellini, a young baritone in the opera here,
    of whom you have perhaps never heard, but who is well known and
    thought of here. Do I love him? I am not sure—any more than I
    am sure there is any such thing as love. But he is kind and——
    He is not exactly what you might call of our kind, but I am
    through with our kind—forever—and he can give me all that I
    now crave; constant change and forgetfulness.

    So it’s good-by, Daddy, and don’t forget your baby. I shall
    never forget you. You have always been so kind to me and have
    given me everything, except—my mother.

    So, if in the future you don’t hear from me often, just remember
    that I am fluttering about the world, for that is how I shall
    find peace.

                                             Your loving daughter,
                                                             ELINOR.

The letter fluttered from the man’s nerveless fingers to the floor. His
head drooped forward until it rested on the edge of his great mahogany
desk, the sharp edge of the glass pressing into his forehead unheeded.
His whole body shook with sobs.

“‘That is how I shall find peace!’” he quoted. “Oh, Marjorie! Marjorie!”
he groaned aloud, “if you could see me now, you could find it in your
great heart to forgive me!”

Wearily he lifted his head and his hand searched out a desk button. The
clerk who answered was told to send Bryson, the manager. When the man
stood deferentially before the financier, Benton asked him hurriedly:

“Bryson, I wonder if you will be able to take complete charge here,
while I go to California?”

“To California? Shall you be gone long, Mr. Benton?”

“I can’t tell exactly—probably all summer.”

“It would be quite a responsibility for me,” Bryson answered uneasily.
“You know what a peculiar state the market is in, Mr. Benton.”

“But you’ve been with me so many years, Bryson,” Hugh argued. “You know
my methods. I have every confidence in your judgment.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate your faith in me,” Bryson acknowledged
gratefully. “When do you intend starting?”

“The day after to-morrow.”

“Why, Mr. Benton! That’s impossible! You have that gigantic deal on hand
with Randall, Small & Company! It might be disastrous for you to leave
before it is completed.”

Hugh shook his head stubbornly. “Come back in an hour, and we’ll talk
this thing over again,” he ordered.

But on the man’s return at the end of the hour, he found Hugh Benton’s
private office empty. A note on the desk informed him that Mr. Benton
had gone. He was leaving for Chicago at once, and from there to San
Francisco. He left everything in Bryson’s hands, and he would write him
particulars as soon as he arrived.

“Strangest thing I ever heard of,” Bryson muttered, reading the note
again. “Chances are, he’ll think better of it and hurry right back.”

In her boudoir in “The Castle,” Geraldine DeLacy Benton stopped in her
preparations for a gay party to scan the telegram her maid handed her.

“Hmmph!” was her comment, as she dipped deeply into her gold powder box.
“California, eh? Rather sudden—wonder how long he’ll stay? Well,” and
she held out her slender foot for the velvet slipper the long-suffering
maid held, “he needn’t hurry back on my account!”

The only one who knew he never intended to come back at all was—Hugh
Benton!




                               CHAPTER XX


It is one thing to announce a heroic determination to become the family
bread winner. It is quite another to put that determination to practical
account, as Howard Benton was to learn in the days that followed his
sojourn at the sanitarium and since learning that his mother’s resources
were almost gone.

Particularly when one’s talents run only to running a sporty little
racer and a thorough knowledge of all the most recent dance steps and a
canny way of learning just where to find the best bootleggers—a talent
which the young man put into the limbo of forgotten things as his first
step in his new life.

Both he and his mother felt he could put his knowledge of automobiles to
practical account. But when he applied for one position after another
with automobile firms, he was laughed at for his pains. Not even he had
realized exactly how little he did know about machines. Too long had he
left the disagreeable part to mechanics.

His belief in friends (at first) had led him into the offices of those
he had known in palmier days. But it was with stung pride that he
abandoned this after a few efforts. They had all seemed kind
enough—patronizing even—but always it was the same thing he had heard
in Thurston’s bond office: “Nothing now, my boy—but if you don’t get
settled, you might call again some time.”

But Howard Benton never called again. Instead, he took to spending his
evenings with his mother, going over advertisements, writing answers to
which, because of his lack of experience, there were few replies. How
terribly had he wasted the years at college—years that could not now
help him earn a living!

It was when it actually became a question of food that he determined to
take whatever might be offered. Months had passed, and he had kept his
promise to his mother, but they had gone through hardships together, and
there were times when the price of a meal had been difficult to earn.

In the end, his earnestness won him a position in the office of a large
manufacturing concern. The salary was not large, but to Marjorie, and to
her son, the youth who had once squandered double the amount in a single
evening, but who had come to know what it meant to walk about for days
trying to earn enough to keep a shelter above their heads, it seemed a
small fortune.

And so two years had passed. As soon as possible they had moved into a
new home, a little four-room flat in Harlem. It was cozy and
comfortable, a sitting and dining room combined, two bedrooms and a tiny
kitchen. Marjorie did all of the work, even to their washing. At first,
Howard objected to this. She seemed so frail, he was sure that she could
never stand it; but when she assured him that she never felt better in
all her life, that the work was like play, and gave her something with
which to occupy herself while he was at work, he agreed to let her do as
she pleased.

He left at seven-thirty every morning to go to his work, and at six he
returned, always to find a hot, tempting dinner waiting for him. At
noon, when he opened his lunch-box, some new delicacy or dainty
invariably met his eye. How could he possibly know that Marjorie went
without her own lunch many a day in order to provide these little
luxuries for him?

How was he to know that when evening after evening she greeted him at
the door with a smile, she had dragged herself about all day doing her
work, cooking his dinner, mending his clothes, without uttering a word
of complaint, while she suffered the most excruciating pain? It had
begun about a year ago, while they were enduring so many hardships, a
sharp, stinging sensation, somewhere in the region of her heart, that at
times almost drove her insane.

Apparently they were both quite happy. They never referred to the past.
Their lives seemed to date from the day when they left Hugh Benton’s
house together. Howard could not know that at times Marjorie lay awake
all night wondering about Elinor and Hugh. She had never heard a word
from Elinor since the day she said good-by to her over the telephone,
and of Hugh, she had heard but twice, and that was through the society
columns of the paper.

The first time it had been quite by accident. Howard had been lying on
the couch one Sunday afternoon reading “The Times.” He had fallen
asleep, and the paper slipped to the floor. She picked it up, and the
name “Benton” caught her eye. It was a small item saying that Mr. and
Mrs. Hugh Benton had returned from Paris, and had reopened “The Castle,”
where they expected to entertain extensively during the coming season.
After that, she searched the paper every day, but she never saw another
article until one day, she read of the departure of Hugh Benton for
California for an indefinite stay.

On the other hand, how was she to know that at times Howard was lonely
and unhappy? He was just a boy—not quite twenty-three. All day long he
worked hard, and then came home to spend his evenings with her. It was
true that he loved her devotedly, and that he rejoiced in the thought of
being able to take care of her, but just the same, he was young, and at
times he craved young society. The monotony began to get on his nerves.
The worst of it all was that he couldn’t see where it would ever change;
but he wouldn’t worry his mother, so he smiled and laughed always, and
made her believe he was contented and happy—just as she never permitted
him to know of her days of suffering, of her heartaches and longing, her
hours of loneliness. In front of the boy she worshiped, she was always
bright and smiling.

They were sitting down to dinner one evening when Howard, shyly and half
shame-facedly told his mother of a dance he would like to attend.

“I wonder if you would mind, dearest, if I went?” he asked.

“Why, no dear,” she answered heartily. “I’d be glad to have you go
anywhere for a little pleasure. You work so hard you need more
recreation.”

“But you know, I don’t like to leave you alone evenings, mother,” the
boy demurred. “Even when I go to the first show at the movies, and you
won’t go with me, I’m uneasy until I get back to you.”

“That’s foolish, dear. You shouldn’t feel like that.” She smiled at him
lovingly. “I’m rather tired at night, and I usually have some mending or
darning to do. But about this dance, shall I get your dress-suit out of
the trunk? You haven’t worn it in two years and I’m afraid you’ve
outgrown it.”

“No, indeed, mother!” He laughed heartily. “First of all, you’ll never
find it! I sold it long ago, when we were so hard up, and if I went to
this dance in a dress-suit, they’d mob me.”

“Why, Howard!” She was becoming alarmed. “What sort of a dance is it?”

“Oh, it’s a nice enough dance all right, but it isn’t a society affair.”
He laughed again. “It’s just a lot of plain working girls and boys like
myself. One of the boys in the office asked me to go.”

“That’s fine, dear. It will do you a lot of good. I’ll sponge and press
your blue suit and have it all ready for you.”

If a bride were being dressed, there couldn’t have been more excitement
in a home than there was in the little flat on Saturday night, when
Howard prepared to go to the dance. Marjorie had laid all his things out
on his bed during the afternoon. His suit nicely cleaned and pressed, a
beautifully laundered shirt, his tie, collar, handkerchief—everything
was ready.

“Why, mother,” he laughed, as she bustled about, handing him his things.
“I feel like a girl getting ready for my first party! I really believe
you’re enjoying all this.”

“I am, dear,” she answered, her cheeks bright with excitement.

“Well, I’m ready.” He stepped back from the mirror. “Do I look all
right?”

“I never saw anyone like you!” She clasped her hands and looked at him
adoringly. “All the girls will be fighting over you! You’re so handsome,
dear.”

“Mother, you’re a little flatterer.” He caught her up in his strong arms
to dance about the room with her.

“Oh, please, dear—please don’t!” she screamed. Her face paled, and she
held her hand to her side.

“Why, mother—you’re ill! What’s wrong with you?” He placed her gently
on the bed and knelt beside her.

“It’s—it’s—nothing, dear.” She forced a smile to her lips.

“But you screamed with pain—and you’re so white. I’m going to call a
doctor.”

“No—no—I won’t allow you to be so foolish. I—I’m perfectly all right,
dear. You picked me up so suddenly and you’re so big and strong. It was
just a stitch in my side. See, it’s entirely gone now.” She sat up on
the edge of the bed.

“Just the same,” he said resolutely, “I’m not going! I wouldn’t think of
leaving you alone.”

“But you are going, dear—I insist upon it. There’s not a thing in the
world the matter with me, but if you stayed at home, you’d make me think
I was really ill.”

For ten minutes she argued until he was finally persuaded to go. At the
door she kissed him affectionately. “Good-night, darling! Have a
wonderful time and don’t worry for a minute—I’m perfectly well.”

She never knew how she managed to reach her bed. For half an hour she
suffered the agony of death until the spasm passed.

But Howard Benton went to his first dance in two years with a heavy
heart. In spite of his mother’s repeated assurances that she was
perfectly well, he could not get her white, drawn face out of his mind.
Once or twice he was inclined to turn back, but the fear of aggravating
her prevented him. At all events, he would insist upon her seeing a
doctor to-morrow.

When he arrived at the Hall about nine-thirty, the dance was well under
way. He felt strange and ill at ease. The crowd was so entirely
different from the crowd in which he had mingled in the old days.
Outside of a few of the boys from the office, he didn’t know a soul. But
it didn’t take him very long to become acquainted. He was a good dancer,
handsome, and a gentleman—three things always bound to attract young
women in whatever station of life.

About eleven o’clock, Frank O’Connor, one of the Floor Committee came up
to him: “Say, Benton,” he offered, “I want to introduce you to a peach
of a girl. She’s a dandy dancer, and as pretty as a picture.”

“All right, you can’t hurt my feelings,” Howard laughed. “Lead the way!”

He followed him across the room to a corner, where a girl stood talking
to two other girls. O’Connor touched her on the shoulder: “Just a
minute, Kate—I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

She turned, and Howard was looking at one of the prettiest girls he had
ever seen. Her beauty was neither statuesque nor dainty and refined; it
was something quite different. Just a saucy, Irish face, with dark blue
roguish eyes, white and pink skin, a little turned-up nose, and bobbed,
black curls.

“Miss Walsh, meet Mr. Benton.” O’Connor performed the introductions.

“Happy to know you, Mr. Benton!” She smiled at him, revealing two rows
of dazzling white teeth.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Walsh!” Howard bowed. “How about this
dance?” as the “specially engaged jazz-band” began to play “Mammy.”

“Sorry,” she answered. “Just promised it to a guy. But will you meet me
here for the next, if you ain’t got it taken?”

He met her for the next, and the next, and the next. By the time the
dance was over, he had been her partner eight times, and had gained her
consent to see her home.

She lived just three blocks from his own home, and a distance of twenty
blocks from the hall. But they walked slowly home in the moonlight, she
clinging to his arm and looking up into his face as she talked. They
hadn’t gone ten blocks before she had told him her life’s history—how
her mother had been married three times, and of all the children in the
family, real brothers and sisters, half brothers and sisters, and
step-brothers and sisters. She possessed real Irish wit, and her way of
telling these things was most amusing. Howard found himself laughing
heartily. Through it all, she told him she was perfectly independent, as
she had been self-supporting since she was ten years old.

“I ain’t never had much chance to go to school,” she said. “Just picked
up what learnin’ I could now and then. I never seen my real father—he
died when I was just a little thing, and step-fathers ain’t much for
lookin’ after other people’s kids. So I just had to work and take care
of myself.”

“You deserve a lot of credit for it, Miss Walsh,” Howard said
admiringly. “It’s pretty hard for a man to battle with the world, but it
must be mighty tough on a woman, especially a slip of a girl—like you.”

“I ain’t never noticed it much. Guess it’s cause I ain’t never knowed
the difference.”

“You live at home with your mother, don’t you?” he asked.

“Sure I do! Ma and me always gets along fine. She lets me do just as I
want, ’cause she knows I’m independent, and besides, she’s got her hands
full with the other kids.”

When they reached her door, she held out her hand. “I’m awful glad to
have met you, Mr. Benton. Hope I’ll see you again?”

“May I call?” he asked eagerly.

“Why sure you can. I’ll be glad to have you any time you say.”

“How about—to-morrow evening?”

“Gee! You believe in rushin’ things, don’t you?” She giggled. “All
right—to-morrow evenin’ ’ll be fine.”

She hurried upstairs and crawled into bed with three little sisters.
Soon she was dreaming about a boy with wonderful dark eyes and curly
hair.

As Howard walked the remaining three blocks to his home, he wondered
what had happened to him. He felt so happy and light-hearted. The
sensation of loneliness that had made him so miserable only yesterday,
seemed suddenly to have disappeared. As he inserted his key in the lock,
he felt like whistling or humming a tune, and it was only the
remembrance of the lateness of the hour that kept him from yielding to
his inclination.

“Howard!” Marjorie called from her room as she heard him come in.

He started suddenly as he opened her door and peered into the darkness:
“What are you doing awake as late as this, dearest? Are you feeling
better?”

“Of course, dear. I told you I was all right before you left. Did you
have a good time?”

“Yes, mother, I had a dandy time.”

“I’m so glad. To-morrow you shall tell me all about it. You must be
tired after so much dancing. Good-night, darling.”

“Good-night, dearest.” He bent over and kissed her tenderly.

Instead of undressing and hurrying into bed, he walked to the window in
his room and opened it wide, staring out upon the fire-escapes filled
with lines of washing.

He still couldn’t imagine what had happened to him that night; and he
was trying to fathom it. He wasn’t thinking of the dance or the girl he
had met. He was thinking that he had left his home heavy-hearted and
terribly worried over his beloved mother, and yet he had come back a few
hours later in such a state of exultation, that he had forgotten all
about her until she startled him by calling his name. It almost
frightened him—this thing that had taken possession of him—and that he
couldn’t explain, even to himself!

The next morning he slept until almost noon for Marjorie always let him
rest as long as he pleased on Sunday. He opened his eyes greatly
refreshed in mind and body. The feeling of light-heartedness still
remained with him. He could have started singing joyously—for some
unaccountable reason. But the anxious and worried feeling about his
mother he had the night before had disappeared. Somehow things appear so
different in the daylight than they do in the darkness.

He sat down to the tempting breakfast Marjorie placed before him.

“Umm—mother—waffles and maple-syrup? Just what I feel like eating.
Aren’t you going to have some?”

“No, indeed!” she laughed. “I’ve had my breakfast hours ago. It’s noon,
dear, but I knew you were tired after last night, so I just let you
sleep it out.”

“I’m glad you did; I feel thoroughly rested.”

She sat opposite him while he ate, enjoying the way he seemed to relish
each mouthful.

“Now tell me all about the dance,” she said. “Did they have a nice
crowd?”

“Yes—a very nice crowd.”

“Did you dance every dance?”

“Every blessed one! The music was fine, and as I told you, last night, I
had a dandy time. Would you like to go to Central Park this afternoon?”
he asked suddenly, anxious to change the subject.

Somehow he didn’t want to talk about last night, but couldn’t have given
a reason for the reluctancy he felt in mentioning it.

“No, dear,” Marjorie answered. “I prefer resting this afternoon, if you
don’t mind. But you go somewhere yourself—to a movie, or a vaudeville.”

“No, I’ll stay home with you. I—I may take a little run out—this
evening.”

“Certainly, dear. That’s right.” She began clearing away the dishes.

Kate Walsh received Howard Benton in the “front-room” of the Walsh
flat—a shabbily furnished little square of room that was used mainly
for three purposes—receiving company, exhibiting a new baby, or holding
a wake.

The family had been banished to the kitchen at the end of the hall for
the evening, with the exception of her mother, whom Kate brought into
introduce to Howard. Mrs. Walsh was a good-natured, stout little woman,
rather tired and faded looking. She had been in this country since she
was sixteen, but she still clung to her native brogue.

“Shure, Mister Benton, ’tis glad to meet ye Oi am. Kitty here’s been
tellin’ me what a foine young gintleman ye are.”

“Oh, Ma, you do say such things!” Kate giggled. “You ain’t got no
delicacy at all.”

Mrs. Walsh looked wise, but kept silent. She didn’t know exactly what
Kitty meant by delicacy. After a minute, she held out her hand to
Howard.

“If ye’ll be afther excusin’ me, Mister Benton,” she apologized, “Oi’ll
be sayin’ good-night to ye, and goin’ back to the babies. It’s about
toime they wuz in bed.”

And feeling that she had nobly done her duty by her daughter by coming
in to be introduced to the gentleman—the same as all the society
matrons did in the novels Kitty read and told her about—Mrs. Walsh
bowed herself out, and hastened to the more urgent duties awaiting her
in the kitchen.

Howard remained until ten-thirty. He enjoyed the evening immensely; Kate
was such good company.

“Of course,” he began making excuses to himself on his way home, “she is
illiterate, and she did say some of the most ridiculous things, trying
to use expressions she had picked up in novels. But altogether, she is a
sort of rough diamond, and after all, education doesn’t amount to very
much—I’ll tell the world mine hasn’t! And she’s so very young! A few
months’ instruction from a private teacher would do wonders for her,
or—um—um—maybe I could take her on myself.” The idea was far from
disagreeable to the youth who had never believed pedagogy to be anywhere
in his line.

At the end of the week, after he had seen Kate five more times, he knew
what was the matter with him. For the first time in his young life he
was madly in love!

He didn’t know whether his love was reciprocated or not. Kate seemed to
like him pretty well; she was glad to stay at home and have him call
when she might have gone out with some other chap. He had never even
attempted to kiss her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who invited that sort
of thing. He went with her steadily for another month, taking her to
movies, or dances, on the evenings he didn’t spend at her home.

“What did his mother think about his going out every night?” he
wondered. She never questioned him when evening after evening he kissed
her good-night and said: “I won’t be out very late, mother, just going
for a walk”; or, “Going to a show”; or, “Going to a dance to-night.”
Finally he felt that he must say something to her—sort of pave the way
as it were. She must know that he was going about with a girl, or else
some day it might prove too much of a shock.

“Dearest,” he said one evening, after he had kissed her good-by, “don’t
you think my going out like this every evening sort of—well—sort of
funny?”

“Why, no, dear,” she answered bravely, struggling hard to look
unconcerned lest he read the contradiction to her words in her face.
“I’m glad to see you go—you were getting into a rut, staying in so
much. You’re too young to do that.”

“It’s a joy to have a mother who looks at things as sensibly as you do,”
he answered, patting her hand affectionately. “You see, dear, I—I’ve
met a very nice little girl—and I enjoy going about with her.”

“Yes—dear——” Although she smiled, the mother’s heart held a leaden
weight. “That’s nice,” was her comment.

“I’m going to bring her to meet you some day,” he told her, but he was
careful not to say too much.

A month later Howard proposed to Kate. One Sunday afternoon and they had
gone for a long walk. Everything seemed to be in his favor. The day
could not have been more perfect—one of those glorious, crisp, sunshiny
days every New Yorker knows and loves. They came to a bench in one of
the smaller parks, and sat down to rest. The sky had never seemed so
blue nor the grass so green. The birds sang more sweetly than he had
ever known they could, and the flowers about them had wafted a fragrance
that was heady. What a wonderful place this old world was after all, he
thought, as he reached for her hand. Just made for love and joy and
youth!

“Katie, dear,” he said simply as his grip tightened on the capable
little fingers, “I—I want to tell you that I love you very, very
dearly.”

“Oh—Howard—” She hung her head.

“Do you—like me—a little?” He lifted her chin, and looked into her
eyes.

“Of course—I like you!” She was blushing rosy red. “But not a little!
I—I like you a whole lot.”

“You darling!” His arms went out to draw her to him. They were in a
secluded spot, but it would have made no difference to Howard Benton had
they been in the open. “You darling—little girl—I—I’m just crazy
about you!”

“Howard—someone might see you,” the girl demurred, but her sigh of
happiness contradicted her speech as she snuggled closer to him. “Gee,
but I’m happy you love me!”

“I’ve loved you since the first moment I met you, Katie—but I was
afraid you might not care about me.”

“Ain’t that funny now! I loved you too, from the start. It must abeen
love at first sight,” she giggled. “Only I was afraid a swell educated
fellow like you wouldn’t notice an ignorant girl like me.”

“You’re sweet and good—and I love you, dear.” He kissed her. “And after
we’re married, I’ll spend a lot of time teaching you, and in a short
time you won’t know yourself.”

“Gee, that’ll be great! Ain’t it a shame I never went to school much? I
had to work ever since I was a kid.”

“I’m sure you’re not to blame because you’ve never had the opportunity
to obtain an education. But that will come in time.”

“Well, I’ll try hard enough,” she replied earnestly.

“And you’ll succeed too,” he assured her. “Now, darling, I must tell you
something that I think you ought to know. It may make a difference in
your love for me.”

He told her all about the affair of two years ago—of Elinor, of his
father, of Mrs. DeLacy, of his wonderful mother. Everything just as it
had happened. He was a long time in telling it, as he dwelt on each
point, to make it all perfectly clear to her.

When he had finished, it was with a sad little smile he asked: “So now,
dear, you see, I’ve had quite a past. Will it make a difference?”

“Just this much of a difference.” The tears were streaming down her
cheeks as she clutched him. “That I love you more than ever. Why you’re
grand, dear! You’re a hero—I—I’m proud of you!”

“Oh, Katie, dear, you wonderful girl!”

“I knew all along you wuz a swell, though, and didn’t belong with the
gang around here!” She nodded her head vigorously at the recognition of
her own sagacity.

“When can we get married, Katie? I hope we won’t have to wait too long?”
Now that he had spoken, Howard was all eagerness.

“I can be ready most any time. Of course,” she added with a twinkle in
her eye and her little nose wrinkled up in that maddening way she had,
“it may take a few months to get my troussee ready. I’ll see if Lady
Duff Gordon or Lucille can spare the time.”

“Funniest little kid!” he laughed heartily. “But let’s talk it over now
and try to settle upon a day.” He told her about his position and just
what he was earning.

“Gee, that’s a wonderful job, Howard, and you’re earning more than Ma’s
old man, and he’s been in one place for years.”

“Then you think we can manage on it all right?”

“Manage? Why, we’ll live like millionaires,” she enthused.

“Of course, we won’t have to get a house—that will help some. Our
flat’s furnished very nicely and we have four rooms.”

“I know—I ain’t never seen yours, but I’ve been in the buildin’ to see
Mrs. Lambert, and they’re beautiful flats. Say, do you think your
mother’s goin’ to like me?”

“How could _anyone_ help liking you? You’re so pretty, so sweet, Katie.”

“Maybe—but that don’t mean very much to most women,” she answered
dubiously.

“My mother’s different,” he defended. “She’ll be wonderful to you and
help you a lot. I know you two are going to get along wonderfully
together.”

“Why, Howard!” she sat back suddenly and looked at him. “You ain’t
figurin’ on your mother livin’ with us, are you?”

“Certainly, dear.” His astonishment was equal to her own. “Surely, you
didn’t think I intended to leave my mother?”

“Well, don’t every boy and every girl leave their mothers when they get
married? You ain’t no different!”

“No—but my mother’s different,” he answered tenderly. “Why, she’s a
brick, I tell you. She stood by me through thick and thin! She had a lot
of money two years ago, but she spent every dollar of it for me!”

“Well, it’s a mother’s duty to stand by her children, ain’t it?”

“I don’t know about that! I hadn’t been such a wonderful son to her, and
it’s only in the last two years we’ve grown so close to each other. I
wouldn’t hurt her for the world!” he declared.

“Oh, all right, kid!” Katie moved away from him. “If that’s the way you
feel about it—let’s just call our engagement off!”

“Katie! You wouldn’t do that! I love you too much!”

“And I love you, Howard. But there ain’t goin’ to be no mother-in-law
business in my life. My ma says to me: ‘Take it from me, Kitty, there
ain’t no home big enough for two families.’ And she ought to know. She’s
been married three times.”

“But there wouldn’t be anything like that with my mother—you’re bound
to love her.”

“Sure! That’s all right,” she answered heartily. “I want to love her,
and I want her to love me! But I don’t want to live with her.”

“It’s the terrible loneliness of it all that keeps me thinking,” Howard
went on ruminatively, as though he were thinking aloud. “You see, mother
never goes anywhere. Why she never leaves the flat unless it is to go on
an errand, or do her marketing. She hasn’t a friend or companion. She
just lives for me alone.”

“Well, we can see her every day, can’t we? She’ll get used to it all
right. Every mother’s got to see her kids grow up and get married, and
leave her. She didn’t think you was goin’ to be a—a—you know what I
mean—an old-maid man—did she?”

Howard smiled in spite of himself. “No, I suppose not. But come up now,
and meet my mother. You may feel differently after that.”

“I’ll go and meet your mother willingly—but I won’t change my mind,”
was his fiancée’s stubborn reply. “There ain’t goin’ to be no
mother-in-laws——”

He stopped her with a kiss as they started down the path.

Marjorie had just stepped out to go to the delicatessen store on the
corner for a few things. It was just a little after five, her table was
set, and everything ready for supper, although she didn’t expect Howard
for another hour. Very often on Sunday night, she arranged a cold meal.
Howard opened the door and drew the bashful Katie in after him.

“Come in, dear—I’ll call mother.” He went to the door leading to the
kitchen. “Oh, mother, dear.”

He looked in and then went to the bedroom. “She’s not here—” he turned
to Kate, “but she won’t be long. I suppose she has gone on an errand.
See the table is set for supper. Come take off your things,” attempting
to remove her hat.

“No, I won’t take off my hat.” She fidgeted about. “I’m so nervous—I’ll
just wait and meet your mother, and then I’ll run downstairs and visit
Mrs. Lambert.”

“You don’t have to be nervous, dear—everything’s bound to be all
right.” He pulled down the shade and switched on the light.

Kate looked about admiringly.

“My, this is a gorgeous flat. Ain’t the furniture handsome!” she
enthused.

“I’m so glad you like it. We’re going to be very happy. You do love me,
don’t you?” Howard caught her in his arms.

“Of course, I do—you big boob.” She kissed him. “You know, I’m just
crazy about you.”

“No more than I am about you.” He returned her kiss. “Still,” he added,
“I’d give anything dear, if I could only persuade you to let my mother
live with us.”

Kate turned irritably. “Do we have to start all over that thing again?”
she asked, with eyes flashing. “I thought it was all settled.”

Further discussion was interrupted by Marjorie’s entrance. She was
carrying a market basket and she looked pale and tired in her shabby
little dress.

“Good evening, dear,” she said, as Howard rushed to her, and relieved
her of the basket. “I didn’t expect you home so early. I have a cold
supper, just the things you like. I had a little time to spare so I ran
down to the corner to get a few things for to-morrow. Oh—I beg your
pardon.” She noticed Kate for the first time. “I didn’t know you had
company.”

“Mother,” he said, putting his arm about her, and leading her forward,
“I want you to meet Katie—Katie Walsh—the girl I told you—I—I cared
for. Well, she has promised—to—become my wife!”

“Your—your wife, dear? Why—why I am surprised.” She leaned against him
heavily.

“I’ve cared for Katie ever since the first night I met her—but I wasn’t
sure she loved me—until this afternoon. We came right up to tell you.”

“I—I see.” Marjorie was endeavoring, with all her might, to come out of
her state of bewilderment. Steadying herself with an effort she went
over to Kate and held out her hand.

“I’m glad to know you, dear,” she said in her sweet, simple tones, “and
I hope you will make my boy—very happy.”

“I’m goin’ to try to, Mrs. Benton,” Katie replied warmly. “I’m for him
as much as he is for me,—so I can’t see how we can help bein’ happy.”

Marjorie winced, but she spoke cheerfully. “Love is the foundation of
all real happiness, my dear. I’m glad you have the right idea. You must
stay and have supper with us—it won’t take a second to set another
place. I’m anxious to have you tell me all about yourself.”

“I—I don’t think I can stay.” Katie was evidently uncomfortable. “I was
just goin’ to run down to see Mrs. Lambert—before goin’ home. Howard
can come over after his supper.”

“But you mustn’t run away like this,” Marjorie urged. “I’ve only just
met you! We’ve so much to talk about, you know. Come, Howard, you coax
her to stay.”

“Of course, she’ll stay, mother.” Howard removed Katie’s hat without
asking her, whispering in her ear: “Stay if she wants you to, dear.”

“That’s fine!” Marjorie started for the kitchen. “I know you’ll excuse
me for a few minutes.”

Howard opened the door and carried her basket into the kitchen for her,
then he hurried back to Katie and squeezed her joyously.

“Now, wasn’t she fine? What did I tell you?”

“Whew!” Katie made a stab at whistling. “She’s so grand she makes the
chills run up and down my back! Do you know, Howard, all the time she
was talkin’ to me, I felt as if she was lookin’ right inside of
me—through my clothes and all.”

“Mother’s true blue all right!” Howard declared proudly. “The way she
took it is a great relief to me. I confess I was terribly nervous for a
minute. I hope we won’t have any trouble with your mother, dear?”

“Humph! My Ma’s goin’ to be tickled to death! Besides, she ain’t got
nothin’ to say about me—I told you I’ve always been self-supportin’.”

In the kitchen Marjorie was gathering up the dishes and cutlery for the
extra place at the table. Her tears were falling so fast they almost
blinded her. She kept brushing them away as she whispered over and over
to herself:

“Dear God, help me to-night. Give me the strength to make my
boy—happy!”




                              CHAPTER XXI


Howard’s mother arranged a place at the table next to him for Katie,
then brought in a platter of cold meats, some potato salad, and a pot of
coffee. Howard, as was his custom, held the chairs for his mother and
their guest, then seated himself.

“I hope you like cold meat and potato salad, Katie?” Marjorie asked, as
she began to serve. “Howard prefers it to anything else on Sunday
evening, especially during the warm weather.”

“I think it’s fine,” Katie answered, playing nervously with her napkin,
“and it saves a lot of work—cooking.”

“Don’t you care about housework?”

“Well, I ain’t crazy about it, but it’s got to be done. Ma says:
‘’tain’t no use killin’ yourself over cleanin’ a house—it only gets
dirty all over again.’ And Ma’s nearly always right.”

Marjorie sat almost dumfoundedly looking back and forth between Katie
and Howard. Surely she must be dreaming all this. Her wonderful
boy—intending to marry this girl who couldn’t even speak grammatically.

“Please pour my coffee, mother.” Howard was anxious to say something.

“Yes, dear.” She began pouring the coffee, her mind miles away from what
she was doing.

“You’re spilling it, mother.” He stopped her, impatiently.

“I—I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured as she handed a cup to Katie. “I
don’t know what made me so careless.”

She never remembered how she finished the meal. With a sort of
fascinated horror she kept her eyes upon the girl whom her son had
chosen. It was really pitiful to watch the child struggling to handle
her knife and fork correctly. Once or twice Marjorie tried to draw her
into a conversation, but when she realized how uncomfortable she was
making her, she gave it up. So it was Howard who kept up a meaningless
chatter until the supper was over.

“I—I think I’ll be goin’ now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Benton,” Kate
Walsh announced as soon as they rose. “Ma will wonder what’s keepin’ me.
Thank you for my elegant supper. I enjoyed it very much.”

She lost no time getting her hat and bag.

Marjorie held out her hand. “I—I suppose you’ll come soon again?” she
asked, politely.

“Oh, yes!” The girl placed her hand in Marjorie’s rather timidly. “I
will. Now that you and me’ve met, I won’t be no stranger.”

Howard’s nerves were fairly on edge as he helped his fiancée into her
jacket. Everything she said seemed to magnify ten-fold in front of his
mother. He hadn’t noticed it nearly as much when they were alone.

“Good-by,” Marjorie said. “Come in—whenever you wish.”

“All right—I’ll run in from work to-morrow. Oughten’ I to kiss you,
Mrs. Benton—now that I’ll be callin’ you—Ma?”

Marjorie hesitated an instant, but one look at Howard’s flushed cheeks
and pleading eyes, made her answer: “Why, certainly—Katie.” She kissed
her, then turned to Howard. “Shall you remain out late, dear?”

“No, mother, I’ll be home early. Will you wait for me?”

“Yes—I’ll wait.”

As soon as the door closed after them, she sank to her knees and buried
her head in her hands.

“Oh, God,” she prayed fervently, “don’t let me live to see this! He
can’t marry a girl like that—it will ruin his life! He has suffered so
much, and so have I. We have gone through a great deal and borne up, but
in mercy, spare us this awful thing. Please, God—Oh, please,” she
moaned, as she rocked to and fro.

On the way to Katie’s house, Howard made a last effort. “Do you think
you’re going to love my mother, Katie?” he asked her.

“You just bet I am, Howard—she’s so sweet and kind.”

“Well, then—won’t you reconsider about living with her, dear?” he asked
anxiously.

“No—I—I just can’t! I don’t know nothin’.” She blushed furiously as
she made the admission. “I seen it to-night plainer than ever. I just
got to learn a lot, before I could be around a woman like your mother!”

“But she’ll help you, dear—she’ll help you all the time,” he pleaded.

“No—I couldn’t stand that, Howard. I—I want to learn, and I will
learn, but I just couldn’t have no woman tellin’ me what to do every
minute. I wish I could make you understand—what I mean,” she said
wistfully.

“I think I do understand,” he said gently, “and I love you so much I
guess you’ll have to have it your way.”

“Gee, you are good, Howard—and some day when I learn everything, you’re
goin’ to be proud of me!”

“Well, then,” he tried to throw off his disappointment, “I suppose you
know I’ll have to take care of my mother.”

“Of course,” she answered emphatically. “It’s only right for you to do
that.”

“Well, you know, I don’t make a million a month. It will mean a lot of
scrimping.”

“That will be all right with me,” she assured him, “I’m used to
scrimpin’. I ain’t never done nothin’ else since I can remember.”

“We’ll have to look about for a flat. I’d like to stay in this
neighborhood in order to be near mother.”

“I don’t see why we don’t keep your flat,” she suggested, as a vision of
the “handsome” furniture appeared before her. “It would be easier to get
a couple of rooms for your mother.”

“Turn mother out of her home!” For a moment he was angry with Kate
Walsh. What could she mean? “Impossible!” He shut his teeth with a
click.

“Don’t get sore at me, Howard.” There were tears in her voice, and a
tremble that soothed the anger. After all, this little girl didn’t
understand, he remembered. It was her training. “I didn’t mean nothin’
by that,” she went on as she timidly touched his arm. “I was just tryin’
to figure out the most savin’ way.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to get cross with you—but I can’t bear
to think about hurting my mother.”

Child as she was, though, Kate Walsh was a true daughter of Eve. She
knew what she wanted. And she knew how to get it. From the moment of her
first view of the dainty little apartment Marjorie had worked so hard to
make homelike and pleasing, this little child of the people whose beauty
had bound Howard Benton to her in bonds unbreakable, had made up her
mind that it should be her own.

She slipped her arm through Howard’s and reached downward with her hand
till the warm fingers found their way into his own. Her whole warm,
round little body snuggled up to him.

“I don’t know much, as I told you, dear, but I think you’re kind of
silly, Howard,” she began coaxing. “I just bet your mother would say the
same thing herself. First of all, she’d never be wantin’ no four-room
flat all by herself. Besides, ain’t it easier for one person to move
into a couple of rooms than for us to have to hustle around and buy
furniture and things?”

“Maybe—you’re right,” he admitted. “But it seems so cruel, I’m afraid
she wouldn’t see it as we do——”

“I just bet she would!” the girl interrupted. “She’s got lots of good
sense. Why don’t you ask her and see?”

“Yes—I suppose that would be the proper thing to do.” But he sighed at
the prospect of such a proposed interview with the mother who had done
so much for him; been so much to him.

When he returned home, he found his mother seated by the table in the
dining room. She hadn’t even attempted to clear the supper things away
and he could not help but notice that her eyes were red and swollen with
weeping.

“Well, mother?” He tenderly touched her shoulder.

“Yes, dear—yes.” She reached up and patted his hand.

“I—I know you’re dreadfully disappointed. I—I’m _sorry_, mother.”

Marjorie shook her head sadly. She must control herself before speaking.
Howard moved a chair over opposite her and sat down.

“You must give me a little time, Howard,” she said slowly. “This has all
happened so suddenly—it is difficult for me to grasp.”

“Well you expected me to marry—some day. Didn’t you, mother?” he asked
gently.

“Oh, yes, dear—yes!” she assured him. “I’ve always wanted you to marry
and have a home—and babies—and—” Her sobs choked her, and she could
not finish.

“Perhaps. But you don’t like Katie! It’s true she hasn’t an education,
but——”

“It isn’t _that_,” she interrupted him. “I can’t hold the girl
responsible for circumstances preventing her from obtaining one.
It’s—it’s the difference!”

“The difference?”

“Yes,” she hurried on. “The great chasm—between you. You’re blinded by
love now, dear, so you think that the only thing lacking in this girl
you love is education, something one can always remedy to a certain
extent. But it isn’t that. It’s the natural refinement, the inborn
breeding, which go to constitute the lady. Those are the things she
lacks. They are the things bound to raise a wall between you such as you
will never be able to scale.”

“But mother,” Howard attempted to argue, “real love should be able to
overcome every obstacle, haven’t you always held that?”

“Love could do a great deal, my son—if the break were only half or less
than half way even. But you haven’t a thing in common with this girl.
She is so entirely out of your class.”

“And—just what do you call my class?” Howard asked, with the impatience
of the youth suddenly become a man, to whom the stings of pain of two
years past were still fresh. “A girl like Nell Thurston, I suppose,” he
suggested bitterly, “a fair weather friend who at the first hint of
trouble packs her trunks, leaves for California, and marries the first
man she meets.”

“You can’t judge every girl by that one.”

“Well, nearly all of the society butterflies I ever met were of the same
sort,” he answered scornfully. “Besides, I’m away from all that now. You
know, we’re living an entirely different life from that of two years
ago.”

Marjorie Benton was at a loss for words. She felt that here was a
situation that required the utmost diplomacy. She prayed for strength,
but it came not.

“Howard,” she asked slowly and thoughtfully, her eyes on her son’s face
to lose no shade of expression. “Have you absolutely made up your mind
to marry this—Katie Walsh?”

“Yes, mother, I have,” he answered firmly, but gently. And watching him,
Marjorie Benton knew that no matter what else she and Hugh might have
endowed him with, that Howard had inherited the stubbornness that had
been so big a part of both their natures, that had wrought so much ruin
to them both. She knew that it was inevitable that the illiterate little
Irish girl would become the wife of her son. “I love her. I can’t tell
you how dearly! I was very lonely when I met her, and she crept into my
heart. She’s a good, true girl, and after we’re married, you and I can
teach her together.”

Marjorie Benton bowed her head to Fate’s decree. She had done what she
could. She had tried before—and failed. But it was left for her this
night to see the new monument to Hope she had raised up lie crumbling in
ruins at her feet.

“I can’t say anything more to you, Howard,” she said falteringly,
“because I love you too much, dear, to stand in the way of your
happiness. I’ll just ask God to bless you—and I’ll pray that it is all
for the best.”

“Mother, dear.” He leapt from his chair to kiss her. “You’re such a
_brick_! You’ve made me so happy!”

“I’m glad of that.” She smiled up into his eager face, but he could not
see the smile was soulless. He had turned to pace up and down, fidgeting
about uneasily. Suddenly he stopped in front of his mother who had not
moved. “I have something else to tell you, mother,” he gulped, “and I—I
don’t know just how—to say it.”

Marjorie reached for his hand and stroked it gently. “You mustn’t
hesitate to tell me anything,” she assured him. “We’ve been very close
to each other since—since we came here. There must never again be a
lack of confidence between us.”

“I’ll have to tell you, mother.” He clasped his hands behind him, and
cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t misunderstand—you’ve got out of
the way of misunderstanding me since—since—” he stammered.

His mother nodded encouragingly. “You know I love you,” he hurried on,
“but I love Katie, too. We want to be married very soon, and
she—we—want to start—living alone.”

“You—you mean—you want to move?” She closed her eyes for a moment,
“into a place of your own? You want to live—by yourselves? I—I can’t
blame you for that—only—only—it is going to be very lonely
here—without you.”

“I—I’ll see you every day, mother—and so will Katie.” He was eager as
the words tumbled over each other in his hurry to have done with the
disagreeable task his promised wife had set him. “We—we don’t want to
move! Katie likes this place very much—and it is just the right
size—for us. We—we thought—if we could find you—a couple of
rooms—in the neighborhood—you know—near to us—it would be fine—and
it would be much easier—for you to move than it would be—for
us—to—to—find a place.”

He was scarlet when he finished, and he could not lift his eyes from the
floor. The mother sat as if carved in stone. But the only emotion she
betrayed was a slight quivering of the lips, and a sudden twitching of
her eyelids.

“I—I’ll always take care of you, dear,” Howard hastened to assure her.
“Every week you shall have a certain amount of my pay.”

“You—you couldn’t do it, dear.” Marjorie found her voice at last,
although it was faint and trembled pitifully. “You couldn’t afford to
keep up two homes.”

“Oh, yes, I can!” he eagerly plead. “Kate says she doesn’t mind
scrimping at all—she doesn’t care how hard we have to struggle. Only
she’s taken it into her head that she doesn’t want to live
with—her—mother-in-law.” His voice was a husky whisper as the word he
knew would flay his mother, came.

A sob that she could not choke broke on the stillness. In a moment
Howard was on his knees beside her, his arms holding her close.

“Please, mother!” he begged. “Don’t feel that way! I love you just the
same—but I’m a man now, and I’ve met the woman I want to marry. This
comes into everyone’s life.”

Her arm closed about his neck and she held him close.

“Oh, my dear—my dear!” and now the sobs came unchecked. “You’re so
precious to me—all that is left to me in the world! Husband! Daughter!
All gone! Only you, dear,—only you!”

“But I’m not going, mother. Don’t you understand? I’ll see you as much
as ever.”

“Why—why can’t I stay here?” In her despair, she pleaded frantically.
“I’ll keep to myself—I—I won’t interfere with a thing. I won’t be in
anyone’s way—I just want to be where I can see you—where I can be near
you—should you need me! See, I’m throwing away all my pride, dear,” as
she slipped to her knees, “and begging you to let me stay—because—I
love you so—I love you so!”

“Hush, mother.” He lifted her from her knees, and wiped his eyes.
“You’re making this very hard for me. You know I wouldn’t intentionally
hurt you for the world. I’ve talked this over again and again with
Kate—but she won’t have it any other way. I—I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s—all right, dear,” she whispered, but the tone was barely audible
and broken. “It’s all right! I—I’ll go.”

“I know just as soon as you’re calm, mother, you will see things in a
different light.”

“Yes, dear—I understand, dear!” she said quietly, but the voice was one
of despair that the son did not recognize nor heed. “I’ll be calm and
_sensible_! You want me to be——”

“Yes, dear. Please try—I’ll be back in a minute.” He went into his room
and closed the door.

With a calmness that was appalling she sat where he had left her,
staring in front of her with glassy eyes. How long it had been with her
she did not know, but she slowly became conscious of the physical pain
gnawing at her heart. Oh, how she welcomed it! She wanted it to hurt and
hurt until it would carry her off, where she would be free from pain
forever. In a moment’s time, there flashed before her a panoramic view
of her life. Oh, God, how useless—how in vain—it had all been! And now
(she stretched her arms out before her) she stood ready to go out into
the future—alone! Alone! Alone!




                              CHAPTER XXII


“Out into the future—alone! Alone! Alone!” Marjorie Benton read the
words aloud.

For a moment she sat very still, looking about her in bewilderment.

“Oh—oh!” she exclaimed, and again: “O-o-h!”

She jumped up from her comfortable wicker chair and ran to the bedroom
door. She opened it softly. There in their little cribs, sound asleep,
were Elinor and Howard. She looked about the room once more and sighed
contentedly. Yes, here she was in her own wonderful little kitchen. She
picked up the book she had been reading and which had dropped to the
floor and placed it on the table. She looked at it, and turned with a
shudder.

The door opened quietly, and Hugh tiptoed in.

“Why darling!” he whispered, mindful of the babies. “Up yet? It’s after
twelve o’clock.”

With a little scream of delight, Marjorie ran to him and threw herself
into his arms.

“Hugh! Oh Hugh, darling!” she exclaimed breathlessly. Again and again
she kissed him. “Dearest—sweetheart! Is it you?”

“Why, honey girl!” Hugh laughed as he held her in his arms. “If this is
the reception I receive after being away a few hours, I think I’ll have
to go somewhere and stay a week.”

“You are my own sweetheart, aren’t you, Hugh?” She pinched his arms, and
felt of his shoulders and chest.

“Of course, I am! What’s the matter with you, dear?” He shook her
gently. “I’ve never seen you act this way before?”

“Nothing—only I’m so _happy_, dear.” She laughed hysterically as she
clung to him. “Because you’re you—and I’m me—and our babies are
ours—and this——”

“Whatever in the wide world—” Hugh was emphatically nonplused.

His wife giggled at his perplexity.

“Goose!” she chided playfully. “Can’t I have a few dramatics for myself,
and ease up some of my emotions.” But as she saw his concerned
expression as he looked at her so closely, she added: “Well, if you must
know, here’s the answer. You know how I love to read a book and always
put you in the hero’s place and make myself the heroine——”

“Yes, I know all about that, you little romancer,” he laughed, and he
pinched her flushed cheek. “According to the different people you’ve
been, you must be hundreds of years old!”

“You can make fun of me—I don’t care,” she pouted. “Well, after you
left, Mrs. Birmingham sent me some books to read for her. And I’ve been
reading this one!” She picked it up, only to drop it as though it burned
her. “It’s all about a young couple like us,” she informed, “and they
had two babies, a boy and a girl, and so I put Howard and Elinor in
their places. I had just finished the story when you came in.”

“Well, it certainly must have been exciting, judging from the way I
found you when I came in.”

“It was—terrible—dear!” She shuddered. “The man became very wealthy
through an inheritance, but I pretended it was through an
invention—Darling, what about you—I forgot to ask you?”

“Finish telling me your story first, and then I’ll tell you,” he
answered quietly.

“There isn’t anything more to tell. Only the most dreadful things
happened to them all. You can’t imagine how happy I was when I realized
I had only been reading a book,” she sighed, “and now, dear, how about
you? Were you successful?”

“Why—why,” he hesitated for a moment, “yes, dear—I——”

“Oh—no—no dear—don’t tell me that!” There was a catch in her voice as
her hand went out to him pleadingly.

“Why, darling, I don’t understand you.” He tried to look into her eyes.
“I thought you wanted to be rich—to live in New York and do all the
things you had planned?”

“Oh, no—no.” She threw her arms about him. “I just want to stay
here—with my babies, and my husband, and—my happiness!”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, sweetheart, then I’ll tell
you the truth,” Hugh answered. “I fibbed to you just now—I didn’t
succeed.”

“You _didn’t_ succeed?” Her eyes sparkled as she asked the question.

“No, dear.” He shook his head. “I’m an utter failure. My invention isn’t
worth anything just yet. I’m afraid we’ll just have to remain poor—for
awhile.”

“Oh, I’m so happy!” Marjorie exclaimed joyously. “But we can never be
poor, dear, while we possess love, the greatest fortune in the world!”

“Sweetheart!” He kissed her again. “Tell me what it was that made you
change your ideas?”

“It was just the book I read to-night, dear—that’s all,” she answered
solemnly. “The book God must have sent me in time—just to open my
eyes.”

“This little thing?” He picked up the volume from where Marjorie had
dropped it on the table. He read the title aloud. “Hmmph! ‘Building
Castles!’ Why that should have pleased you, dear,” he remarked, with a
grin. “Isn’t that what you’re always doing?”

“No more! No more!” Marjorie shook her head till the blonde curls
threatened to loosen their holding pins. “I have all the castle I want
right here. Why, just look around this room! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Hugh glanced carelessly about.

“It’s a comfortable enough kitchen,” he remarked casually, “but I don’t
see any particular wonders about it.”

“Oh, don’t you?” Marjorie’s nose went up in the air and she sniffed.
“Why, just look at this chair!” And she whirled the wicker rocker she
had sat in during the evening before him. “It’s a genuine Louis the
Fifteenth,” she informed him solemnly. “That mirror,”—her hand swept in
a gesture to include it, “yes, I mean the one you use to shave by in the
cold weather,—but it’s from the salon of the Empress Josephine,
nevertheless. And this table,—” the hand came to rest on the small
table on which rested her books and the basket of neglected mending,
“—why famous men and women have gathered——”

Hugh swept her to him, ending her explanations with the bear hug his
wife always welcomed.

“Little witch!” he teased. “Seeing everything just the way you want it.
But tell me, seriously, sweetheart,” and he lifted her face to look
closely into her eyes. “I know you’ve been living on the heights for
some time through your belief in me. Tell me, have you really decided
you don’t want to live in New York?”

His wife snuggled closer to him.

“‘The heights!’” she repeated. “No, Hugh dear,—I’m willing to let who
will live on the hilltops of life. For me, the valley. The only place I
wish to live the rest of my life is in the Valley of Content.”

For a long moment—a moment when all misunderstanding was wiped out
forever—Hugh Benton held his wife close to him. Then he leaned over and
placed a kiss on her bright hair that swept his bosom.

“You’ve chosen the only place where you can always be happy, dear,” he
said softly.

His head came up with a start. Marjorie drew away from him, to listen
sharply.

“Did you hear something?” he asked her, his eyes on the bedroom door.

With finger uplifted for caution, Marjorie Benton tiptoed to the door
from behind which had come the disturbing sound, and softly turned the
knob. Hugh watched her with eyes of love as she disappeared. But in a
moment she was back with him, the door as softly closed behind her.

“It was Elinor,” she told him. “She was sleeping on her back. Something
made her cry in her sleep.”

“Dreaming, I suppose—just like her mother!” In his light-hearted
relief, Hugh could not refrain from teasing, but Marjorie only laughed.

“Dreaming that Howard had broken her dolly, probably,” she agreed.
“Precious baby! I turned her on her side and tucked her in. She’ll sleep
till morning. Ready for tea, dear?”

Hugh nodded and slumped with a contented sigh into his seat beside the
little table where Marjorie had placed her best chocolate plates and the
cups for their tea. Before the stove, Marjorie squinted a moment at her
fire. Then she lifted the stove lid and carefully placed a shovelful of
coal on the half dying embers. The tea pot was ready with its aromatic
herbs. She had seen to that, too. She lifted the kettle of boiling water
from where it sang its contented tune on the back of the polished stove.

Then a sudden memory came to her. She turned, uplifted kettle in her
hand to the husband who watched her with prideful eyes.

“Oh, Hugh, dear,” she remembered, “on your way to work in the morning,
will you stop in at Thompson’s and send me out twelve yards of tennis
flannel? I must make some new nighties for the babies. And be sure to
send pink; it always washes so much better than blue——”


                                THE END.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
without note.

[End of _The Valley of Content_ by Blanche Upright]