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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Official Chaperon," Natalie Sumner Lincoln deftly weaves a compelling narrative that explores the intricacies of societal expectations and personal identity in early 20th-century America. The novel's elegant prose and sharp dialogue illuminate the tension between ambition and propriety faced by its characters, particularly within the realm of a young woman's quest for agency. Set against the backdrop of an era marked by shifting gender roles, Lincoln skillfully contextualizes her story within the broader feminist movements emerging at the time, making it a poignant examination of societal constraints. Natalie Sumner Lincoln, an influential figure in American literature, was known for her keen observations of society and the dynamics of human relationships. As a pioneering woman writer, her own experiences navigating the challenges of her time undoubtedly informed her portrayal of women's roles and aspirations in "The Official Chaperon." Her background as a journalist and novelist reflects a deep understanding of the societal pressures that her characters confront, enriching the narrative with authenticity and depth. This novel is highly recommended for readers interested in historical fiction that delves into themes of autonomy, societal norms, and the evolution of women's rights. Lincoln's insightful commentary on the chaperone system highlights not only the personal struggles of her characters but also the cultural context that shaped them, making it an essential read for those seeking to understand the interplay of individual desires and collective expectations. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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The official chaperon
Table of Contents
The official chaperon
CHAPTER IAN ILL WIND
“Washington, Washington; all off for Washington!” The porter’s stentorian call echoed through the Pullman sleeper. “This way out.”
A second more and the aisle was filled with sleepy passengers who strove to push past each other with the impatient rudeness which characterizes the average American traveler. The last to leave the car was a tall man, whose leisurely movements left him a prey to a hovering porter, and he surrendered his suit-case to the obsequious darky, after first inquiring the way to the baggage room.
“Go ahead and engage a taxi for me,” he directed, following his guide across the imposing concourse and into the waiting-room.
“Yessir.” The porter touched his cap respectfully; at one glance he had appraised the traveler’s well-groomed appearance, and his palm itched for the anticipated tip. “But you’d better hurry, suh; I kain’t hol’ a cab long, suh, an’ dey’s mighty scarce at dis time ob de mawnin,’ suh.”
“All right.” The traveler quickened his steps, corralled a half awake baggage clerk, gave his instructions, and sought the southern entrance of the station without further waste of time.
“Heah’s yo’ cab, suh,” called the porter. The information was somewhat superfluous, for only one taxi stood at the curb, the rest having been requisitioned by other passengers. “Thank yo’, suh,” added the porter, as his lingers closed over a half dollar; his intuition had not been wrong. “Where to, suh?”
His question remained unanswered, for the traveler shouldered him aside, and gave his directions to the chauffeur in so low a tone that they were not overheard, then entered the cab and settled himself comfortably on the roomy seat. Half dozing he took no notice of the taxi’s progress up Massachusetts Avenue to Sheridan Circle, and was only aroused from his nap by the abrupt stopping of the vehicle before a white marble residence of imposing size. He started to leave the taxi, then drew back.
“Lord!” he grumbled, inspecting the drawn blinds and closed vestibule door. “I forgot I’m still south of Mason and Dixon’s line[1]; everybody’s asleep.”
“Want to be driven around a bit, sir?” questioned the chauffeur.
“I do not,” dryly, glancing askance at the register. He pulled out his watch and scanned the dial. “Six-fifteen. Any Turkish Baths near here?”
“The Riggs’ Bath is the best, sir; get you there in a few minutes.”
“Very well,” and with a resigned sigh, the traveler leaned back and studied his surroundings with interest as the taxi passed down the quiet thoroughfares. On approaching the business section of the city there were more signs of life, and in crossing a street the taxi was held up by a number of heavy drays.
In the pause that followed the traveler casually inspected the side of a red brick basement house whose entrance fronted on the other street. The windows of what appeared to be a library on the second floor were open, letting in the balmy air which accompanies Indian Summer in the Capital City, and the traveler saw a colored servant dusting the room. His feather duster, wielded with unusual vigor, struck against some papers lying on a desk by the window, and the topmost sheet sailed out. The wind carried it to the gutter where a small stream of water from the recently flushed street swept it along to the sewer opening, where it poised for a moment on the brink, then disappeared into the dark depths beneath. The servant, leaning half out of the window, breathlessly watched the paper’s progress with eyes and mouth wide open, and his ludicrously agonized expression drew a faint chuckle from the traveler as his taxi started down the street.
Some time later the traveler, refreshed by his bath, lay back in the luxuriously furnished dormitory of the Riggs’ Turkish Bath and puffed contentedly at his cigar. He paid no attention to three be-sheeted men who were talking together as they lounged at one end of the room.
“Who was the pretty girl you were dancing with yesterday afternoon at the Shoreham, Jimmie?” questioned the eldest of the three men.
“Janet Fordyce.” Jimmie Painter’s voice was of the carrying kind, and as the name reached his ears the traveler sat bolt upright, but the men, engrossed in their conversation, failed to observe his attention. “A winner, isn’t she, Logan?” continued Jimmie complacently.
“Yes, trust you to pick ’em,” grumbled Logan, “and to cultivate them afterwards, too. Who is she?”
“Daughter of Calderon Fordyce, the Western importer of——”
“Opium—tainted money,” jeered his companion.
“What difference? Its buying qualities make it refined gold.”
“You weren’t the only one bowled over by the Fordyce girl,” remarked the youngest member of the group. “She made quite an impression on Chichester Barnard.”
“Nothing doing there, Cooper!” exclaimed Jimmie Painter skeptically. “Chichester’s not the kind to be attracted by a débutante; besides, he’s too gone on Marjorie Langdon.”
“Not so gone he doesn’t keep his weather eye out,” retorted Joe Calhoun-Cooper. “As far as Miss Langdon’s concerned it’s attention without intention. She’s as poor as Job’s turkey.”
“I hear she’s crazy about Chichester,” volunteered Logan. “By Jove! if I was first favorite, I’d marry Miss Langdon and risk poverty.”
“Too Utopian,” commented Joe. “Better choose a golden ‘Bud’—they are the only kind worth plucking in Washington.”
“I agree with you,” put in Jimmie Painter. “Do you suppose old Calderon Fordyce will come across with the money bags when his daughter marries?”
“I’m told he’s rolling in wealth,” acknowledged Joe. “But for all that, you’d better go slow, Jimmie; there’s some kink in the family.”
“What do you mean?”
“An intimate friend said——” Joe never finished the sentence, for an iron hand jerked him to his feet and swung him about face.
“I have been an unwilling listener to your conversation,” said the traveler slowly, addressing the astounded men, and not loosening his hold on Joe. “You can congratulate yourselves that you live in Washington; such discussion of women would not be tolerated elsewhere. I give you fair warning, each and all of you, if you mention Miss Fordyce’s name in future conversations I will break every bone in your bodies.”
It was no idle threat; the sheet had slipped from the traveler’s broad shoulders, disclosing the brawn and build of an athlete.
“You understand me,” he added, his level glance seeking Joe’s, and his vice-like grip tightened until the bones cracked.
“Yes, d-mn you!” muttered Joe, through clenched teeth. “Let go.”
“Who the —— are you?” gasped Jimmie, hastily retreating beyond the traveler’s reach.
“Miss Fordyce’s brother—Duncan Fordyce,” was the calm reply, and Joe, released suddenly, collapsed on his couch.
CHAPTER IIMISSING
“You are, then, absolutely positive that Miss Langdon called up Mr. Barnard the last thing before leaving this room yesterday afternoon?” questioned Rear Admiral Lawrence, with such quiet persistence that pretty Nurse Allen opened her eyes in wonder.
“I cannot swear that it was the last thing Miss Langdon did before leaving here,” she answered, somewhat dryly. “I only know I found her at the telephone when I came in to ring up Dr. McLane, and I overheard her address the person she was speaking to over the wire as ‘Chichester,’ and tell him it was important that she see him.”
“Did Miss Langdon appear agitated?”
Nurse Allen shook her head. “Her manner seemed to be the same as usual; but she looked pale and tired.”
“Was Miss Langdon holding this photograph in her hand?” As he spoke the Admiral fumbled among the papers on his desk and knocked to the floor the picture he was seeking. Muttering an ejaculation, he stooped to get it, but Nurse Allen was before him and, her color heightened by her hasty exertion, picked up the photograph. She barely glanced at the kodak likeness of Chichester Barnard[2], but she read the message scrawled across the bottom: “Love’s young dream—à la bonne heure! C. B.,” before replacing the photograph on the desk.
“It may have been in Miss Langdon’s hand,” she said indifferently. “I was only here for a second, as Sam brought me word that Dr. McLane had come and I hurried back to Mrs. Lawrence. I really can give you no information about the photograph.”
“Oh, no matter; I found it lying by the telephone. I suppose——” the Admiral broke off abstractedly and drummed with nervous fingers on the back of the chair against which he was leaning. In the pause Nurse Allen permitted her eyes to wander downward to the photograph lying face upward near her, and a ghost of a smile touched her mobile lips. Clever as she was in her chosen profession, she was not, in this instance, a discriminating observer, and utterly failed to connect the scrawled message on the photograph with the faint mockery traceable in Chichester Barnard’s expressive eyes. The snap-shot was a good likeness, and Barnard’s fine physique and handsome features were reproduced without flattery.
“Can you tell me how long Miss Langdon remained alone in this room?” asked Admiral Lawrence suddenly arousing himself.
“No, sir, I have no idea. I did not come here again, until you sent for me this morning.”
The Admiral stepped over to the window and raised the Holland shade until the room was flooded with sunlight.
“I won’t detain you longer,” he announced, turning back to the young nurse. “You will oblige me greatly by making no mention of our conversation.”
“Certainly, sir.” Nurse Allen turned a mystified gaze on her employer as she walked toward the door. “I’ll be in my room if you want me. The day nurse is with Mrs. Lawrence now.”
The Admiral heaved an impatient sigh as the door closed behind her, and seating himself at his desk turned his attention to several sheets of manuscript, but they failed to hold his interest. A soft knock at the library door interrupted him, and he looked up with an air of relief.
“Come in,” he called. “Oh, good morning, Marjorie,” as a girl appeared in the doorway. “Aren’t you late this morning?”
“I was detained,” explained Marjorie Langdon, glancing in some embarrassment at the Admiral; she had not expected to find him at his desk. “How is Mrs. Lawrence?”
“About the same,” a deep sigh accompanied the words. “Dr. McLane holds out little hope of her recovery. She may live a month, or——” his gesture of despair completed the sentence.
“I am grieved to hear it,” Marjorie looked at the Admiral much distressed. “Is there anything I can do for Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Thank you, I am afraid not,” he replied, carefully turning his back to the light. He did not wish even his confidential secretary to read the anxiety and sorrow written so plainly on his haggard face. His vigils in the sick-room were breaking down his usually rigid self-control. “Is there any mail for me?”
“Yes, sir; I found it on the hall table. There are a number of notes inquiring about your wife, and a letter from your publisher.” Marjorie left her typewriter desk and approached the Admiral, letters in hand. “Do you wish to dictate the answers?”
“Not just now.” The Admiral took the neatly assorted letters from her and without examining their contents, tossed them down on his flat-top desk. “There is a matter of importance”—he stopped and cleared his throat—“you recall typewriting a codicil to my wife’s will?”
“Perfectly,” put in Marjorie, as the Admiral paused again.
“You made a carbon copy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because your lawyer, Mr. Alvord, thought that Mrs. Lawrence, through weakness, might spoil her signature on the first sheet, and he wished to have a second copy at hand if it should be needed.”
“Do you recall what transpired after the signing of the codicil?”
“Very distinctly,” replied Marjorie, her surprise at the continued questioning showing in her manner. “After the witnesses signed the document, Mr. Alvord returned here to collect his papers. Just as he was leaving you came in and asked him to leave the signed codicil.”
“Quite right,” broke in the Admiral. “Mrs. Lawrence wished it left here, in order to read it again when she felt stronger. Before returning to my wife, I requested you to put the codicil in my safe....”
“I carried out your instructions,” declared Marjorie, her heart beating faster with a nameless dread.
“By placing the unsigned carbon copy of the codicil in the safe—” an ironical smile twisted the Admiral’s lips. “You improved on my instructions.”
Marjorie’s lovely hazel-gray eyes widened in horror as the meaning of his words dawned upon her.
“You are entirely mistaken,” she protested vehemently. “I put the codicil Mr. Alvord gave me in the safe—upon my word of honor!”
“I found the unsigned copy there an hour ago,” replied the Admiral steadily.
“The other must be there, too,” Marjorie moved impetuously toward the small safe which was partly hidden from sight by a revolving bookcase. “Let me look——”
“It is not necessary.” Marjorie wheeled about and her face crimsoned at the curtness of his tone. “I have just searched the entire contents of the safe—the signed codicil is not there.”
“You must be wrong,” gasped Marjorie. “Mr. Alvord had the carbon copy; how could I put it in the safe?”
“I have just telephoned Alvord,” said the Admiral quickly. “He declares he left the carbon copy on my desk.”
There was a ghastly pause. The Admiral glanced keenly at his silent companion, and his eyes lighted in reluctant admiration of her beauty. Unconscious of his scrutiny, Marjorie studied the pattern of the rug with unseeing eyes, striving to collect her confused thoughts.
“Are you engaged to Chichester Barnard?” inquired the Admiral, abruptly.
The point blank question drove every vestige of color from Marjorie’s cheeks. Slowly she turned and regarded the Admiral from head to foot.
“You have no right to ask that question,” she said icily.
“That is a matter of opinion,” retorted the Admiral heatedly. “I think circumstances have given me that right. My wife, in this codicil, revoked her bequest to her nephew, Chichester Barnard”—he stopped impressively. “Alvord took down my wife’s instructions, then came here and, without my knowledge, had you typewrite the codicil. The night nurse, Miss Allen, tells me that after Alvord’s departure she came in here to use the telephone, and you were talking to Chichester. Is that true?”
“Yes, I rang him up,” defiantly. “I have done the same in the past.”
The Admiral sighed. “Miss Allen informed me that she overheard you tell Chichester that you must see him at once on a matter of importance.” He paused, waiting for some comment, but Marjorie stood as if turned to stone, and he continued more gently, “Come, Marjorie, own up that a mistaken, loyal impulse to aid and protect a—lover”—Marjorie shivered and her cold fingers plucked nervously at her gown—“prompted you to hold back the signed codicil. I will forget the matter if you will return the document to me.”
“But I haven’t the codicil,” she protested.
“You have destroyed it?” leaning intently toward her.
“No. I have already told you I placed the paper in the safe.”
The Admiral’s face hardened. “You still stick to——”
“The truth,” proudly. “I have been your amanuensis for nearly two years; in that time have I ever lied to you?”
“No.”
“Then you must believe my word now.”
Without replying the Admiral wheeled about in his swivel chair and looked through the window at the street below. Marjorie could read nothing from the side view of his face, and her heart sank. Suddenly he swung back and confronted her again.
“I think it would be as well if you resigned,” he said, coldly.
The room swam before Marjorie; she felt half suffocated, then hot anger came to her rescue, and she pulled herself together.
“You are treating me with shameful injustice[1q],” she began, her eyes glowing with indignation.
“On the contrary, I am most lenient,” retorted the Admiral. “You have been guilty of a criminal act——”
“I deny it absolutely,” exclaimed Marjorie passionately. “You have no grounds for such an accusation.”
“You had both incentive and opportunity to steal that signed codicil,” declared the Admiral, paying scant attention to her denial. “Chichester Barnard stands to lose a hundred thousand dollars by that codicil; lack of funds prevents him from marrying a poor girl”—Marjorie winced visibly and bit her lips to hide their trembling. “You were the last person to leave this room yesterday afternoon; I never came in here again until this morning. You had the signed codicil in your possession, you knew the combination of the safe; the carbon copy was lying on this desk—the substitution was easy!”
“Supposing your preposterous charge is true,” said Marjorie slowly. “What good could I hope to accomplish by such a substitution?”
“After the excitement of signing the codicil, my wife suffered a relapse, and was not expected to live through the night. If she dies”—the Admiral shaded his eyes, which had grown moist, with his hand—“only the unsigned codicil is here; therefore Chichester Barnard, by the terms of her will, will inherit her bequest. However, my wife still lives, and when she regains consciousness I shall have her sign this carbon copy,” opening his desk drawer and removing a folded paper. “After all, you were only partially successful.”
“To succeed, one must first undertake,” retorted Marjorie. “Tell me, please, if you thought I would betray your trust, why did you give me the codicil to place in the safe?”
“First, because I was not aware you knew the contents of the paper; secondly, I never knew there was a carbon copy; thirdly, my wife’s precarious condition effectually put out of my mind your infatuation for Chichester Barnard.”
“My infatuation?” echoed Marjorie, a slow, painful blush creeping up her white cheeks. “You are hardly complimentary, Admiral.”
“Put it any way you wish,” he replied wearily. “I must ask you to hurry and gather your belongings, Miss Langdon, for I must return to my wife.”
“I shan’t be a minute.” Stung by his tone, Marjorie hurried to her desk and rapidly put the drawers in order. As she covered the typewriter she paused and gazed about the pleasant, sunlit room through tear-dimmed eyes. She had spent many happy hours there, for both Admiral and Mrs. Lawrence had done much to make her comfortable, and the work had been interesting and comparatively easy. What had induced the Admiral to credit so monstrous a charge against her? She stiffened with indignation, and picking up the key of her desk, walked over to him. He looked up at her approach, and the full light from the window betrayed the increasing lines and wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. His hair had whitened, and his usually ruddy cheeks were pale.
“Here is the key of my desk,” she said, laying it down before him. “The carbon copy of your book is in the right-hand drawer, and your official and business correspondence fills the other drawers. Will you please examine them before I leave.”
He rose in silence and went swiftly through the contents of the typewriter desk. “Everything is correct,” he acknowledged, noting with inward approval the neat and orderly arrangement of his correspondence.
“Then I will leave; my hat and coat are downstairs,” and with a formal bow Marjorie turned toward the door.
“One moment;” the Admiral stepped back to his own desk. “You forget your check; I have made it out for one month in advance, in lieu of notice.”
Mechanically Marjorie’s fingers closed over the slip of paper extended to her; then she drew her slender, graceful figure erect.
“I am a girl, alone in the world,” she said clearly. “I have had to take your insults today, but thank God, I can refuse to take your money.”
The torn check fell in a tiny shower at the Admiral’s feet as the hall door banged to behind her vanishing figure.
The seconds had slipped into minutes before the Admiral moved; then he dropped into his desk chair.
“What does she see in Chichester?” he muttered. “What is there about that scoundrel which attracts women? Where’s that photograph?”
But his search was unavailing; the photograph had disappeared.
CHAPTER IIIQUESTIONS AND QUERIES
Marjorie Langdon contemplated her small wardrobe as it lay spread out before her on the bed, and then gazed at the passbook open in her hand. She saw the slender balance remaining to her credit at the bank through diminishing glasses, and despair tugged at her heart-strings.
“The way of the bread-winner is hard[2q],” she paraphrased bitterly. “I don’t wonder there are so many transgressors in the world. Bless my soul, Minerva, what do you want?”
The colored woman, who had entered the bedroom unnoticed a second before, actually jumped at the sharpness of Marjorie’s usually tranquil voice.
“’Scuse me, miss; but I knocked an’ knocked at de do’ ’till I was plum’ tired. My, ain’t dem pretty?” catching a glimpse of the dresses on the bed. “Is ye fixin’ ter go ter a party?”
“Not exactly,” wearily. “I am sorry I kept you waiting, but I was—thinking.”
“Yes, miss; I heard yo’ a talkin’ ter yo’self, an’ calculated yo’ didn’t hyar me.” Minerva backed toward the door. “Lunch am ready.”
“Is it time?” exclaimed Marjorie, glancing in surprise at her wrist-watch, whose hands pointed to three minutes past one. “I’ll be right down; tell Madame Yvonett not to wait for me.”
“Marse Tom’s hyar,” volunteered Minerva, as she disappeared over the threshold, closing the door behind her.
Left to herself, Marjorie bathed her face, the cool water bringing some relief to her throbbing temples, then after rearranging her hair, she paused a moment and anxiously regarded her reflection in the mirror. Except for an increased pallor, her expression gave no indication of the shock the stormy interview with Admiral Lawrence had given her. Feverishly pinching her cheeks in hopes of restoring her customary color, and without stopping to replace her gowns in the closet, she left the room and ran downstairs.
Six years previous Marjorie’s father, John Langdon, had died a bankrupt, and his worldly possessions had gone under the hammer to meet the demands of his creditors. His widow, never very strong, had soon succumbed to the unequal struggle for existence that confronted her, and after the death of her mother, Marjorie had made her home with her great-aunt, Madame Yvonett, who owned a small house on Thirteenth Street, opposite Franklin Square. She insisted on contributing her share to the household expenses, for Madame Yvonett had trusted her business affairs to her nephew’s management, and when John Langdon failed, most of her property had gone in the general smash, and she eked out her curtailed income by taking paying guests.
Madame Yvonett, a Philadelphian by birth, belonged to a distinguished Quaker family, and at the age of sixteen had been, as the quaint term runs, “read out of meeting for marrying one of the world’s people.” Henri Yvonett had wooed and won the beautiful Quakeress when attached to the French Legation, as it was then, and afterwards he was promoted to other diplomatic posts. On his death some eighteen years before, Madame Yvonett had made Washington her home, and her house became one of the centers of fashionable life.
Her financial difficulties came when she was approaching three-score years and ten, but only Marjorie divined the pang that her changed fortunes cost the beautiful Quaker dame, for she never discussed her troubles in public. She faced adversity with quiet fortitude; gave up her handsome residence on Scott Circle, dismissed her staff of servants, and moved into the Thirteenth Street house, which had been one of her investments in happier days.
Marjorie hastened into the dining-room and found her great-aunt in animated conversation with her cousin, Captain Thomas Nichols, of the —th Field Artillery, who rose at her entrance.
“How are you, Madge?” he exclaimed, extending both hands in greeting.
“Very well, and very glad to see you,” she replied cordially. “Aunt Yvonett, I am sorry to be late, do excuse me.”
“Thee is only a few minutes behind time, and Thomas has kept me very agreeably entertained,” answered the Quakeress. She had always retained her “plain speech,” and in her dress, the soft grays and browns of the Friends. Silvery curls framed a face of the eighteenth-century type, and, with arms, still rounded and white, showing below her elbow sleeves, with the folds of a white fichu across her breast, she made a novel and lovely picture as she sat at the head of the table. “Will thee have some tea?” she asked.
“If you please.” Marjorie slipped into a seat opposite her aunt. “What brings you over from Fort Myer, Tom?”
“Had to go to the War Department. Try some of these beaten biscuit, Madge, Minerva has excelled herself,” smiling gaily at the colored woman. “I thought Cousin Yvonett would take pity on me and give me a bite.”
“I am always pleased to see thee, Thomas,” answered Madame Yvonett. “But if thee only wants a bite, thee should join the ‘Hunger Club.’[3]”
“The ‘Hunger Club’?” echoed Tom. “It doesn’t sound encouraging; is it anything like the ‘starvation parties’ in Richmond before that city surrendered to Grant?”
“Only alike in that they both leave much to be desired,” smiled Madame Yvonett. “The club was organized two weeks ago by eleven wealthy women; the twelfth place being left for an invited guest. A prize will be awarded at the end of the season to the hostess who has given the most appetizing luncheon for the least money.”
“How are they going to know how much each luncheon costs?”
“The hostess is required to write the price of every course on the back of the place cards. The object of the club is to encourage simplified living in fashionable circles,” she went on to explain. “I was the invited guest at the luncheon yesterday.”
“Did you get anything to eat?” inquired Tom.
“She ate something before she went,” supplemented Marjorie mischievously.
“Only some biscuits and a glass of sherry,” protested Madame Yvonett. “Thee sees, Thomas, I do not like to have my digestion upset, and I took precautions; a cold water luncheon never agrees with me.”
“Didn’t they give you anything solid to eat?”
“Yes; the luncheon, such as there was of it, was very nice. But the discussion of the food and its price quite destroyed my appetite.”
“You prefer a soupçon of gossip to season a delicacy,” teased Tom. “I bet you christened it the ‘Hunger Club.’”
“Your invitation read ‘to meet the Economy Luncheon Club,’” Marjorie reminded her aunt.
Madame Yvonett smiled as she helped herself to some butter. “Did thee not return earlier than usual from the Lawrences’, Marjorie?” she asked.
Involuntarily Marjorie stiffened; she had dreaded the question. She dared not tell her aunt of Admiral Lawrence’s accusation. Their physician had warned her that Madame Yvonett must not be excited, or she would bring on one of her heart attacks. The last seizure two months before had been most severe, Marjorie having found her aunt lying unconscious on the floor of her bedroom. Knowing Madame Yvonett’s indomitable spirit she realized that nothing, save perhaps physical weakness, would prevent her from seeing Admiral Lawrence and demanding an instant retraction of his charge against her niece. Such scenes would undoubtedly bring on a return of her heart trouble, perhaps with fatal results. Marjorie turned cold at the thought; Madame Yvonett was very dear to her. But what excuse could she give for her dismissal except the truth?
“I hear Mrs. Lawrence is not expected to live,” said Tom, breaking the slight pause.
“Who told you that?” demanded Marjorie.
“Chichester Barnard; I met him on my way here. By the way, he wished me to tell you he would not be able to go to Mrs. Marsh’s tea with you this afternoon on account of a business engagement,” he glanced curiously at her, but Marjorie was occupied in making bread pellets and it was several seconds before she spoke.
“Mrs. Lawrence is critically ill. The Admiral is constantly at her bedside, and he cannot attend to his book, so Aunt Yvonett,” looking gravely at her, “my services are not required.”
“I am glad that thee is to have a vacation,” replied the Quakeress; “but I am distressed to hear that Mrs. Lawrence is worse; she is a lovely woman, her husband can ill spare her.”
“You must come over and spend the day at my quarters, Cousin Yvonett, now that Madge has time at her disposal,” broke in Tom. “The drills are being held every Friday afternoon, and I know you enjoy them.”
“Thee is most kind, and if the weather permits we will come. Who was thy friend who came to the door with thee this morning, Thomas?”
“Joe Cooper. I didn’t bring him in, Cousin Yvonett, because, to be frank, I don’t fancy the fellow.”
“I thought he was quite nice,” announced Marjorie, arousing from her abstraction. “He is certainly most obliging.”
“Boot-licking,” with scornful emphasis.
“That’s hardly fair,” exclaimed Marjorie. “He had nothing to gain by being nice to me, and secondly, his father, J. Calhoun-Cooper, is a representative in Congress, and I am told, is very wealthy.”
“He has money,” acknowledged Tom grudgingly, “and that’s about all. Joe’s grandfather started his fortune digging ditches in Philadelphia.”
“I know now of whom thee speaks,” interposed Madame Yvonett. “But thee is mistaken; he didn’t dig ditches, he paved streets. Brother Hugh helped John Cooper to get his start in life; at one time he slept in our barn chamber.”
“I’d like Joe to hear that,” chuckled Tom. “He and I were at Lawrenceville together, and I had enough of his purse-pride there. The Calhoun-Coopers—don’t forget the hyphen, Cousin Yvonett—have leased your old house on Scott Circle.”
Marjorie, her observation quickened by the deep love and veneration in which she held her aunt, detected the shadow which crossed the benign old face and the dimming of the bright eyes as memories of other days crowded upon the Quakeress, and she swiftly changed the subject.
“Cousin Rebekah Graves is coming this afternoon to spend the winter with us,” she volunteered. “What day can we bring her to Fort Myer, Tom?”
“Come this Friday——” he stopped speaking as Minerva appeared from the hall and approached Marjorie.
“Hyar’s a note done come fo’ yo’, Miss Marjorie, and de chuffer’s waitin’ fo’ an answer.”
Marjorie scanned the fine, precise writing; it was not a hand she recognized, and handwriting to her was like a photograph. Excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and perused the note.
“Listen to this, Aunt Yvonett,” she began and read aloud:
Sheridan Circle.
“Dear Miss Langdon:
I had expected to make your acquaintance before this date, but moving into my new home has occupied all my time. Can you come and take tea with me this afternoon at five o’clock? I am an old school friend of your mother’s, and as such I hope you will overlook the informality of my invitation. Trusting that I shall see you later, believe me,
Sincerely yours,
Wednesday.
Flora Fordyce.”
“It must be Janet Fordyce’s mother,” added Marjorie. “They have bought the Martin house. Who was Mrs. Calderon Fordyce before her marriage, Aunt Yvonett?”
Madame Yvonett shook her head. “I cannot tell thee. I was abroad when thy mother was a schoolgirl, and knew none of her classmates. Will thee accept Mrs. Fordyce’s invitation?”
“Of course. Cousin Rebekah’s train arrives at three-thirty; I will have plenty of time to meet her and bring her here first. I must answer Mrs. Fordyce’s note,” and pushing back her chair she hastened into the parlor which was fitted up as a living-room. She was sealing her note when Tom Nichols joined her.
“Let me give it to the chauffeur,” he exclaimed, taking the envelope from her. “I’ll come right back.”
Marjorie was still sitting before the mahogany desk when Tom returned. “May I smoke?” he inquired, pulling out his cigarette-case.
She nodded absently; then turned and studied him covertly as he stood by the fireplace intent on lighting his cigarette, his well-knit, soldierly figure silhouetted against the flickering light from the wood fire blazing on the hearth. They were second cousins, and since his detail with his battery at Fort Myer, Virginia, she had grown to know and admire the fine qualities and kindly heart carefully hidden under his off-hand manner. She debated whether she should take him into her confidence. He was her nearest male relative; he would surely advise her how best to refute Admiral Lawrence’s charge, and help her to prove her innocence of the theft of the codicil.
“Where is Aunt Yvonett?” she asked suddenly.
“She went upstairs to lie down.” Tom threw a half-burnt match into the fire, crossed the room, and sat down facing Marjorie. “What’s up, Madge?” he questioned gravely. “You are not a bit like yourself. Won’t you tell me the cause?”
“I had just decided to ask your advice; thank you for making it easier for me,” a pitiful little smile accompanied the words, and Tom impulsively clasped her hand in his.
“Little Cousin,” he began earnestly. “I don’t like to see you so constantly with Chichester Barnard. I am sure he is making you unhappy.”
Marjorie whitened to her lips. “I, unhappy?” she exclaimed. “No, you overestimate his abilities.”
“No I don’t; Chichester is more than merely handsome, he is fascinating; and his influence is the greater.”
Marjorie rose slowly to her feet and a long sigh escaped her.
“After all, Tom, I don’t believe I’ll confide in you—you would not understand.”
CHAPTER IVTEMPTING FATE
Marjorie, on her way out to keep her appointment with Mrs. Calderon Fordyce, paused in the hall to examine the mail which Minerva, deeply engrossed in the arrival of Miss Rebekah Graves, had deposited on the hat-stand and forgotten. Two of the envelopes contained circulars, and she tossed them back on the marble stand, but the third was a note from their family lawyer curtly informing Marjorie that the savings bank in which Madame Yvonett[4] kept a small reserve account, had failed, and asking her to break the news to her aunt.
Marjorie stumbled back and leaned weakly against the newel post, her strength stricken from her. All that Madame Yvonett had been able to save—gone! Oh, it was too cruel to be believed! From upstairs came the sound of voices, and her aunt’s merry laugh rang out cheerily. “The lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning”—the words recurred to Marjorie as she started blindly up the stairs, the lawyer’s letter still clutched in her hand.
She found her aunt in her bedroom talking to Miss Rebekah Graves, a spinster whose brusque and didactic manner often gave offense. She had also a most annoying habit of dragging in her religious beliefs in ordinary conversation, and her intimate knowledge of the divine intentions of Providence was a constant source of wonder to her friends. Opposite as they were in character and beliefs, she and Madame Yvonett were warmly attached to each other, and Marjorie was thankful for the spinster’s presence, fearing as she did that her bad news might give Madame Yvonett another heart attack. As gently as she could she told her aunt of her financial loss.
“Thee means, child, that my money is gone?” asked Madame Yvonett dully, as Marjorie came to a breathless pause.
“Yes. The bank has failed....”
“The Lord’s will be done!” ejaculated Miss Rebekah in devout resignation.
“Thee is wrong, Rebekah; thy God and mine had no hand in the bank’s failure,” retorted Madame Yvonett, her keen sense of humor dominating her impulse to cry as the realization of her loss dawned upon her. “The devil who tempts men to wickedness has wrought his will in this. What is thee giving me, Marjorie?”
“Some cognac; you must take it, Aunt Yvonett,” noting the pallor stealing upward and the trembling of the bravely smiling lips. “You must not worry, dearie,” handing her the wineglass. “I have a feeling luck is going to change....”
“Misfortunes never come singly,” prophesied Miss Rebekah, her pessimistic spirit surrendering at once to dismal forebodings.
“Rot!” exclaimed Marjorie, darting an indignant glance at the spinster, who bridled at the disrespectful intonation of her voice. “You are not to worry, Aunt Yvonett; I’ll recover that money by hook or by crook. Cousin Becky will look after you until I return from seeing Mrs. Fordyce. I won’t be any longer than I can help,” and gathering up her belongings, she departed.
The clocks were just chiming the hour of five when Marjorie reached her destination, and a footman in imposing livery showed her at once into the drawing-room.
“Miss Langdon,” he announced, and disappeared behind the silken portières.
