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.