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!”