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,