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!