Instead of regarding this as a token of goodwill, Blanche had reviled him. It was obvious, she cried, he had no love for her, and merely made her his wife for the sake of the better salary she earned; and—now he seized the chance of a divorce in the hope of wringing heavy damages from Harrington.
“I want no damages,” he replied. “Maybe I shall find my reward without.”
Eliphalet did not have a speaking part in the scene that followed. His first line was “Thank God,” and that was after the door had slammed.
So Harrington May assumed responsibilities for Eliphalet Cardomay’s matrimonial obligations, and when the decree nisi was made absolute, he took “Miss Blanche Cannon” to be his lawful wedded wife.
How the union had turned out Eliphalet never knew, since from the hour she left his house he had met neither the one nor the other. Indirectly he heard that as fruit of their love a daughter had been born—and that was the only thing for which he envied Harrington May. He might have saved himself the trouble, for poor Harrington, possibly from ecstasy at the sight of this miniature edition of her faultless mother, shortly afterwards gave up the ghost. Blanche, whose appreciation for a change of diet had not waned with his decease, took unto herself a lover, and fades from view in a mist of misguided emotions.
“Dear me! Surely I am not mistaken—it is Mr. Cardomay?”
At the sound of his own name Eliphalet’s mind came back to the present with a jolt.
Standing before him, leaning on an ebony cane, stood a middle-aged gentleman, faultlessly dressed and of aristocratic bearing.
Eliphalet rose. “I am,” he said, “but for the moment——”
“No—no—no,” hastily interposed the other, “you could hardly be expected to remember me. Both you and I, Mr. Cardomay, in our separate spheres, are engaged in catering for these.” He made a slight gesture toward the passers-by. “We met but once, and that on the occasion of your very admirable performance of Cellini.”