CHAPTER IXGAY DECEIVERS
Mrs. Calhoun-Coopercontemplated her daughter with distinct admiration, albeit mixed with some alarm.
“My dear Pauline,” she said, lowering her lorgnette. “I have seldom seen you look so well, but—eh—don’t you think your gown is a trifle too—too pronounced?”
“Of course it isn’t.” Pauline revolved slowly, the better to show the expensive Paquin model which she was wearing. “Nothing is extreme these days; I mean everything is extreme.”
“Hello, why the beauty show?” demanded Joe from the doorway of the library.
“Joseph! You are not in evening clothes!” wailed his mother. “And Pauline is waiting for you to take her to the Walbridge dance.”
“I forgot the beastly thing,” grumbled Joe, sauntering over to a chair. “I’ve been so busy today.”
“Same old business, Joe?” questioned Pauline significantly, scanning his rumpled appearance with no kindly eye. “Really, father will be deeply interested to hear you are so engrossed in the pursuit of pleasure.”
“Cut it out,” admonished her brother roughly. “I’ve stood all I’m going to from you.”
“Stop this bickering, instantly,” commanded Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper. “And you, Joseph, go upstairs at once and change your clothes. If you don’t,” meeting the mutinous glare with which he favored her, “I shall telephone at once to the Capitol and report your conduct to your father. You know whatthatmeans,” with marked emphasis.
Joe knew only too well. Spoiled and indulged by a silly mother, bullied by Pauline, the only person he held in wholesome awe was his father. Some of his indiscretions had been exploited in the newspapers, and before coming to Washington, his father had lain down a cast-iron rule for him to follow in the future. Joe moved uneasily in his chair.
“There’s no occasion for you and Pauline to get excited,” he protested. “It won’t take me ten minutes to shift into my dress suit.”
“Take time enough to make yourself presentable,” cautioned Pauline. “I’m particular as to the appearance of my escorts.”
“One wouldn’t guess it, judging from the men you have hanging around,” sneered Joe, wrath overcoming discretion.
“That will do,” Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper stamped her foot. “Joseph, go at once to your room; the car is already waiting for you and Pauline.”
Muttering uncomplimentary remarks under his breath, Joe started for the door. Passing his father’s desk his eyes fell on a pile of apparentlyunopened letters awaiting Representative Calhoun-Cooper’s return from the Capitol where he had been detained since noon. Recognizing the handwriting on the topmost envelope, Joe’s flushed face paled, and a slight shiver ran down his back. Pauline, intent on arranging a corsage bouquet, paid no further attention to her brother, and Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper was equally absorbed in watching her. Joe paused a moment in indecision; then leaned over and palmed the letter with neatness and dispatch.
Judge and Mrs. Erastus Walbridge’s handsome residence wasen fêtewhen Pauline and Joe finally put in an appearance. The spacious rooms and hallways, festooned with Southern smilax in which were twined tiny iridescent electric lights, and hung with holly, mistletoe, and poinsettia, resembled fairyland. Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dances had become a time-honored institution, and invitations to them were eagerly sought. She insisted that her guests should arrive at half-past nine and depart at two o’clock; such early dancing hours being kept at no other house in the National Capital. As she always provided the best of music and the most delicious of suppers, society invariably abided by her rulings, although sometimes enjoying a hearty laugh behind her back.
Pauline did not linger in the dressing-room. Taking her cloak check, she hastened into the ballroom followed by Joe, who presented a remarkably immaculate appearance considering the short time consumed in changing his clothes. Mrs. Walbridge,conscious that the hour was getting late, received them with some stiffness, but Pauline’s profuse apologies for their tardy arrival caused her to unbend.
“I think you already know Baron von Valkenberg,” she said, as the diplomat joined them, and in a second more Pauline was dancing with him.
Joe, left to himself, for Mrs. Walbridge’s attention was instantly claimed by an older guest, saw Marjorie Langdon standing talking to several friends and crossed the room to speak to her. He did not share his family’s antipathy for Marjorie. It took him several moments to dodge the dancers as he progressed across the floor, and just as he reached Marjorie’s side Chichester Barnard came up.
“No you don’t, Barnard,” he exclaimed. “First come, first served. My dance, Miss Langdon?”
“I beg your pardon, I have a prior claim,” protested Barnard.
“Quite wrong,” smiled Marjorie. “I am promised to nobody for this dance.”
“Then I’m Johnny on the spot,” chimed in Joe, triumphantly. “Come,” and placing his arm about Marjorie’s waist, the two danced down the room.
Refusing to meet the eyes of several wallflowers who were looking hopefully in his direction, Barnard idly watched the gay throng, as the waxed floor swayed under the tread of flying feet.
“The popular Mr. Barnard not dancing!” exclaimeda voice over his shoulder, and turning he found Pauline standing at his elbow.
“I was looking for you,” he answered readily, “but I thought I saw you with von Valkenberg....”
“He was sent for to go to the telephone,” she pouted prettily, “and had to excuse himself.”
“Let me take his place,” and clasping her hand they joined the dancers. When the music stopped Barnard secured a glass of punch for his partner and himself, and they strolled about, at last going into what Mrs. Walbridge called her “tea-room.”
“Isn’t that Joe and Miss Langdon sitting over there?” questioned Pauline, indicating a deep window recess partly screened from the general view by tall palms.
“Yes.”
“Suppose we join them,” paying no attention to the shortness of his tone. “Joe is so susceptible to pretty women, and Miss Langdon is more than pretty. How does she get on with Mrs. Fordyce?”
“Very well, I believe.”
“Then she must have a remarkable disposition, for I am told that Mrs. Fordyce’s peculiarities make her difficult to live with,” responded Pauline. “A friend of mother’s acted as her companion in San Francisco while Janet was at boarding-school, and she said Mrs. Fordyce’s curious....” she broke off abruptly. “Good evening, Miss Langdon,” sweetly. “I am afraid I shall have to carry off my brother,” slipping her arm inside his as he rose at her approach. Joe’s face darkened, and he ragedinwardly. It was like Pauline to spoil his fun and make him appear ridiculous.
“Be satisfied with Mr. Barnard, sister mine,” he said coolly. “I am having a very good time where I am.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Pauline’s voice was venomous under its honey sweetness. “But do think of poor Miss Langdon! There are two débutantes anxious to meet you, dear, so come; Miss Langdon will excuse us.”
“Oh, certainly,” Marjorie allowed a faint hint of her secret amusement to creep into her charmingly modulated voice. “I quite understand. Shall I keep a dance for you later, Mr. Cooper?” purposely omitting the “Calhoun.”
“Well, rather; two at the very least,” pleaded Joe. “Do, Miss Langdon, I’ll be right back.”
“Coming, Mr. Barnard?” inquired Pauline, then bit her lip as he shook his head.
“I have the next dance with Miss Langdon, so of course——” a courteous bow completed his sentence, and Pauline turned abruptly on her heel and left them.
“A curious pair,” commented Barnard. “Cooper appears completely under his sister’s thumb.”
“She has the stronger personality.”
“You put it politely,” laughed Barnard. “Miss Calhoun-Cooper is a handsome vixen.”
“A type you do not admire.”
“I admire no type,” smoothly. “Only one girl.”
“Janet will be complimented.”
“I was not referring to Miss Janet....”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
“Not when the wrong construction is put on them.”
“Must we go over that again?” asked Marjorie wearily.
“Yes,” vehemently. “On my word of honor I never gave that ring to Janet.”
“What a liar you are, Chichester.”
Barnard’s hand closed over her wrist in a grip that made her wince. “By heaven! you must take that back.”
For reply she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. Her open scorn stung him. Freeing her wrist, he fumbled in his vest pocket, then drew out his signet ring and held it before her.
“Are you convinced, O Doubter?” he asked.
Marjorie shot a swift look at him, and then at the gold circlet in his hand. “How did you get it back?”
“By asking for it.”
“On what grounds?”
“That I lost the ring the night of their first dinner-dance.”
Marjorie’s scornful regard swept him from head to foot.
“Too flimsy,” she commented. “I have been fooled by you once too often.”
Between rage and passion Barnard’s habitual self-control forsook him. Catching her hand he forcibly closed her fingers over the ring.
“It’s yours, yours—do you hear!”
“No, no,” she retreated several steps from him, and he followed her, his face alight with passion.
“My own darling!”
But she struck down his encircling arm, and fled back into the drawing-room.
Pausing to regain her usual tranquil bearing, she discovered she had stopped beside Duncan Fordyce, and she drew back. During the past week an indefinable something in Duncan’s manner, an aloofness, and a lack of the gentle deference he had first accorded her, had been noticeable. From seeing him frequently, she hardly saw him at all. She partly turned and studied him attentively. The dimple, almost a deft, relieved his stubborn chin of some of its aggressiveness, and while he could never be called handsome, he carried the “hall mark,” and his fine figure never showed to better advantage than in a dress suit, the crucial test offered to mankind by modern customs tailors. Involuntarily she contrasted him with Barnard, and admitted in her own mind, that the latter, as ingratiating and handsome as he was, suffered by the comparison. Her woman’s intuition warned her that Duncan was a man to be trusted, while Barnard....
Tired of watching the dancers, Duncan swung around to leave the ballroom and almost collided with her.
“You here!” he exclaimed. “And I didn’t know it.” He pulled himself up, and his manner changed. “You must think me very rude, Miss Marjorie.”
“Oh, no, only absorbed,” lightly, scanning the scene before her. “There’s Janet dancing with Tom Nichols.”
“As per usual,” Duncan laughed outright. “Where are your eyes, Miss Chaperon?”
Marjorie reddened. “Upon my word, I look on Tom as a brother—I never thought....” her voice trailed off, and Duncan waited in vain for her to finish her sentence.
“Nichols is a good fellow,” he said finally. “I like him. Shall we dance?”
The invitation was given in so perfunctory a tone that Marjorie’s ears tingled. She checked the curt refusal on her lips, and instead accepted with a nonchalance which matched his own. He should pay for his indifference, pay dearly, she vowed to herself, and her alluring smile stirred his pulses. Like many big men he was extremely light on his feet, and Marjorie circled the room with him in complete enjoyment of the dance. Suddenly her strength deserted her, and she stumbled and leaned heavily on his arm.
“The heat,” she murmured, as alarmed he bent toward her. “I will be better in the hall.”
Shielding her from the other dancers, he helped her from the room. The cooler atmosphere outside revived her somewhat, and she was mumbling some words of apology into Duncan’s anxious ear when Mrs. Walbridge hove in sight. Seeing the pair sitting on the stairs, she moved toward them as rapidly as her avoirdupois permitted. Quickly Duncan explained the situation to her.
“You poor child,” she said. “Go right upstairs to my bedroom and lie down. You will find a pitcher of ice water up there, or do you prefer a glass of champagne?” Marjorie replied in the negative. “Then go right up, my dear; I’ll be along presently,” and she moved toward the ballroom.
“Would you like me to go with you?” inquired Duncan anxiously. “Or shall I ring for a servant?”
“Neither, please. I know the house well, and I’ll be all right after a short rest. You’ve been very kind,” holding out her hand impulsively. He held it tightly in both his own for a second, then silently left her. She watched his tall form out of sight, and sighing started slowly upstairs.
“Well, Duncan, where have you been hiding?” asked Janet, meeting him on his return to the ballroom.
“Smoking,” laconically. “Do you want to dance?”
“Of course I do,” with uncompromising honesty. “You haven’t been near me this evening.”
“I saw you were plentifully supplied with partners,” Duncan suited his step to Janet’s. “Having a good time?”
“Oh, lovely,” and Janet’s animated face attested the fact. “Where’s Marjorie?” They had reached the end of the room, and as they made the turn, a man left the group of stags and placed a detaining hand on Duncan’s shoulder.
“Brother and sister dancing together,” laughed Barnard. “This will never do. Split this number with me, Miss Janet?”
“Perhaps I will,” Janet hesitated. “It will serve you right, Duncan; you’ve neglected me shamefully....” waving a gay farewell she and Barnard disappeared in the crowd of dancers. Duncan, making his way to the smoking-room, encountered Pauline, and paused to talk with her.
Barnard, conversing as he danced, finally observed Pauline and Duncan sitting together. “Your brother had better resign himself to the inevitable; Miss Calhoun-Cooper has her talons on him,” he laughed.
“You don’t know Duncan,” retorted Janet. “He has a will of his own.....” An awkward couple cannonaded heavily against her.... “Ouch!”
“Are you hurt?” questioned Barnard in alarm, as Janet came to an abrupt stop.
“I think that man has lamed me for life,” she groaned. “His heel came down on my instep.”
“The cow; he needs a ten-acre lot to dance in!” Barnard scowled at the receding couple. “Hadn’t you better sit down, Janet?”
“Where?” and she glanced despairingly about.
“Come this way,” pointing to the tea-room, and Janet limped after him to the window recess behind the palms, and settled herself comfortably on the wide cushioned window-seat. “You must be very tired, my dearest,” glancing solicitously at her. “The penalty for being the belle of the ball.”
“You shouldn’t thrust honors upon me,” she laughed.
“There’s nothing too good for you,” he whispered.“No wonder men adore you; you little darling”—she moved uneasily as his arm slipped around her waist. “Why won’t you let me speak to your father?”
“Not yet,” she stammered. “A little more time, Chichester——”
Barnard did not conceal his chagrin and disappointment. “So that you may receive attentions from other men?” he asked, his jealousy instantly aflame.
“You wrong me,” Janet drew herself away with gentle dignity. “You, least of all, have no cause for jealousy. Only, Chichester, I must know my own mind before our engagement is announced.”
“Have it your own way; I am wax in your hands,” he said fondly.
“Hark! there goes the music,” Janet studied her dance card. “It must be an extra.”
“Good, we’ll sit it out together,” and he took her hand.
“To think tomorrow is Christmas,” said Janet dreamily, a few minutes later. “Or is it midnight now?” Barnard pulled out his watch, and her attention was focused on the handsome seal that hung from the gold fob. “Let me see it, Chichester?”
He seemed not to hear her request. “Only eleven!” he exclaimed. “It must be later. I believe my watch has stopped. Can you hear any ticking?” raising it to her ear.
“She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly took up a diamond sunburst.”
“She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly took up a diamond sunburst.”
Upstairs in Mrs. Walbridge’s sumptuously furnished bedroom Marjorie rested on the lounge in analcove. Only one electric light over the dressing-table was turned on, and the semi-darkness of the large room proved a welcome refuge from the glare and heat downstairs, and the deadly faintness which had almost overcome Marjorie, gradually disappeared. An occasional shiver shook her, and she groped about and pulled up the eiderdown quilt which lay folded at the foot of the lounge. Through the half-shut door strains of music came faintly, preventing her from dozing off, and she turned restlessly on her pillow. Suddenly conscious that her left hand was tightly clenched, she loosened her cramped fingers, and discovered that she still held Barnard’s signet ring concealed in her rumpled handkerchief.
At that moment the hall door was pushed gently open, and a young girl came into the room. Without glancing into the shadows about her, she moved directly to the dressing-table and stood arranging her hair. As she halted under the full rays of the light, Marjorie recognized Janet. She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly took up a diamond sunburst from the jewel-box on the dressing-table, and deliberately pinned it under the folds of lace on her bodice, then glided from the room as noiselessly as she had entered.
Petrified with astonishment Marjorie, hardly able to believe the evidence of her senses, remained on the lounge for one long minute; then collecting her wits, she flung the eiderdown quilt to the floor, slipped Barnard’s ring inside her bodice, and stole from the room. She found Janet standing on the outskirts ofthe large circle of guests surrounding a Santa Claus, who was distributing gifts from his sack and a beautifully decorated tree which had been carried into the center of the ballroom.
“See, Marjorie,” exclaimed Janet, turning at her touch. “Doesn’t the little man make an adorable Santa?”
“Who is he?” Marjorie wedged herself a little closer to Janet’s side.
“I don’t know; some professional probably. What’s he giving to Captain Nichols?” peering intently down the room.
Quickly Marjorie seized her opportunity. Her fingers deftly felt among the laces on Janet’s gown, unfastened the sunburst, and, concealing the diamond pin in her handkerchief, she fled swiftly upstairs again. On turning the knob of Mrs. Walbridge’s bedroom door she found it locked, and startled, leaned trembling against the panels. How was she to replace the sunburst in the jewel-box if she could not gain admission to the room?
“My pin, please,” said a cold voice from behind her, and wheeling, she confronted Mrs. Walbridge. Mechanically Marjorie displayed the sunburst.
“How——?” her voice died in her throat.
“I came up to inquire how you were; found my jewel-box standing open, the sunburst missing, you gone——” Mrs. Walbridge shrugged her ponderous shoulders. “I locked my door to prevent a recurrence of——” she broke off on meeting Marjorie’s uncomprehending stare, and her harsh voice softened.“My affection for your aunt, Madame Yvonett, seals my lips, but I shall not receive you again—good-night.”
Taking the sunburst from Marjorie’s nerveless hand, she secured it in her gown and returned to her guests, while slowly her meaning thrust itself on the bewildered, frightened girl. Marjorie watched Mrs. Walbridge in dumb agony; then made a hasty step forward as the older woman reached the head of the staircase. But a thought stayed her: if she told the truth she would expose Janet.
Mrs. Walbridge had disappeared inside the ballroom when Marjorie, clinging tightly to the bannisters for support, made her slow way down the staircase. She paused an instant on the bottom landing. From the ballroom came a burst of laughter and round after round of applause, and Santa Claus, his empty sack slung across his shoulders, and his cheeks redder than ever, bounded into the square hall. Before dashing out of the front door, which a footman held open, he turned on his gay pursuers, and raising his voice above the clamor, called:
“‘A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!’”