CHAPTER IIIQUESTIONS AND QUERIES
Marjorie Langdoncontemplated 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,” 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 surpriseat 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 sheeked 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.’”
“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 tothe 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 AdmiralLawrence’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 hearthat 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’tforget 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.”
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 hernearest 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.”