CHAPTER VIIITHE ONLY WOMAN
“Almostthe amount,” mused Marjorie folding the letter and placing it carefully away in the top drawer of her bureau. “The company will have to take it and wait for the remainder. I can do no more,” and she turned dejectedly in her chair and surveyed her room, the dainty furnishings of which left nothing to be desired in point of taste and comfort. Mrs. Fordyce had given Marjorie the large double room on the second bedroom floor, and adjoining Janet’s, the two girls using the communicating dressing-room.
The past few days had sorely taxed Marjorie’s composure and endurance. Besides her worry over money matters, her awakening to Chichester Barnard’s duplicity had shocked her beyond measure. The disillusion had been complete. Barnard was but a common fortune hunter; Janet his quarry, and her paid chaperon only a plaything to amuse his idle hours. Marjorie burned with shame and indignation at his daring to hold her so cheaply. What had she done that he should have so poor an opinion of her intelligence and integrity as to believe she should tamely submit to being made acat’s-paw? The thought scorched her like a white-hot iron. She saw Barnard with new eyes; he was undeniably handsome, entirely selfish, plausible—ah, too plausible; it had been his charm of manner and fascinating personality which had held her captive for so long, and quieted her haunting doubts of his sincerity.
She felt it to be her duty to warn Mrs. Fordyce of Barnard’s true character, but hesitated, fearing her motive might be misconstrued. Janet would undoubtedly declare her interference sprang from jealousy. It was obvious that the young girl was flattered by Barnard’s attention, and Marjorie reasoned that opposition would but fan her liking into an impetuous espousing of his cause, and that might lead to the very thing Marjorie most heartily wished avoided. During wakeful nights she decided to temporize; to quietly undermine whatever influence Barnard had gained over Janet’s impressionable nature, and to see that his friendly footing in the household was discontinued. But it was uphill work, for Barnard had ingratiated himself with every member of the family, except Duncan, and Marjorie had sought her room after luncheon thoroughly discouraged. A tap at the door disturbed her, and on opening it, she found Mrs. Fordyce’s maid standing in the hall.
“Mrs. Fordyce would like to have you stop in her boudoir, Miss Marjorie, before you go out,” she said respectfully.
“Tell Mrs. Fordyce I will come at once, Blanche,”and pausing long enough to get her coat and furs, she ran down to the first bedroom floor and entered the boudoir. With a word of apology, she passed Calderon Fordyce, and sat down on the lounge by his wife.
“Father’s on the rampage,” announced Janet, uncurling herself in the depths of a large chair. “He pretends to be awfully shocked at the Calhoun-Cooper dinner last night.”
“There’s no pretense about it,” fumed Fordyce. “Why I was invited is beyond me....”
“I suppose they thought they couldn’t ask me without you,” broke in Janet. “Duncan hasn’t been decently civil to Joe, and Marjorie wasn’t invited either.”
“If you had followed Marjorie’s advice you would not have accepted the invitation, Calderon,” said Mrs. Fordyce mildly. “Were the Coopers so veryoutré?”
“Oh, the Coopers themselves weren’t bad,” admitted Fordyce.
“You seemed to get on beautifully with Pauline during dinner,” protested Janet.
“How was she dressed?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, whose busy mind was taken up with replenishing Janet’s wardrobe.
“I don’t know, I didn’t glance under the table,” growled Fordyce.
“I hear Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper and Pauline are called ‘High-Lo,’” added Janet, winking mischievously at Marjorie.
“And who is ‘Jack in the game’?” demanded Fordyce.
“Her latest admirer,” retorted his daughter, flippantly.
“What roused your ire at the dinner?” demanded Mrs. Fordyce, bestowing a frown on Janet.
“Janet’s contemporaries made up the guests, Judge and Mrs. Walbridge and I being thrown in for good measure,” smiled Fordyce. “Left more or less to myself I watched the arrival of the young people, and I give you my word, Flora, the main endeavor of each guest appeared to be how to enter the drawing-room without greeting their host and hostess—and most of them succeeded in their purpose. I have seen better manners in a lumber camp.”
“What would the older generation do if they didn’t have us to criticize?” asked Janet, raising her hands in mock horror.
“Let me tell you, young lady, if I catch you forgetting the manners your mother taught you, I’ll pack you off to a convent,” warned Fordyce.
“You needn’t get so awfully excited,” objected his daughter, looking a trifle subdued. “I’m sure some of the married people are just as rude.”
“The more shame to them; they are old enough to know better,” declared Fordyce. “Life is too short to bother with ill-bred and stupid people. I came to Washington to avoid them.”
“Pray, who sent you here?” inquired Marjorie.
“I thought a friend,” Fordyce’s eyes twinkled.“Now I’ve mingled in Capital society, I’m beginning to believe that my friend had a perverted sense of humor.”
“You are too harsh in your judgment, Calderon,” put in Mrs. Fordyce. “Rudeness we have with us everywhere, whereas in Washington, while there are numerousnouveaux richesseeking social recognition, who think lack of manners showssavoir faire, there are also many distinguished men and women spending the winter here. In addition the resident circle is certainly most charming and cultivated. The people who strive for vulgar ostentatious display are grafted from other cities.”
“I have no desire to be put in that class,” remarked Fordyce. “So, Janet, mind your p’s and q’s.”
Janet rose abruptly. “’Nuff said, Daddy. Are you going downtown, Marjorie?”
“Yes. Did you wish to see me, Mrs. Fordyce?”
“I will be greatly obliged if you will stop at Galt’s, Marjorie, and order the articles I had put aside yesterday, sent to me; then please stop at Small’s....”
“I think I’ll go with you,” volunteered Janet.
“Hurry then,” Fordyce darted an impatient look at the mantel clock. “Two thirty-five. I’ll send you both down in the motor, and you can stop at the bank, Janet, and draw a check for me. I’ll go and make it out; come to the library before you go,” and he left the room, followed by Janet.
“Are you happy here, Marjorie?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, turning directly to the girl.
“What a question, dear Mrs. Fordyce! You have done everything for my comfort,” and Marjorie looked gratefully at the older woman. “I have seldom met with such consideration and kindness. You—you are not dissatisfied with me?” in quick alarm.
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Fordyce’s tone was flattering in its sincerity, and Marjorie’s fears were allayed. “I can’t get on without you; in fact, I am afraid I’m putting too much upon you. You are so dependable I forget your youth.”
Marjorie’s laugh was followed by an unconscious sigh. “Youth with me is a thing of the past; I rival Methuselah,” she said lightly. “Don’t worry about me, dear Mrs. Fordyce; I can never do enough to repay your kindness. My work here is most congenial.”
“Come along, Marjorie,” called Janet from the hall.
“Go, my dear,” Mrs. Fordyce impulsively kissed Marjorie. “Don’t keep my husband waiting; he’ll never forgive you.”
Mrs. Fordyce had been by herself but a scant ten minutes when the hall door again opened and Duncan walked in.
“Where’s everybody?” he demanded, seating himself by her.
“Your father had an engagement at the Riding and Hunt Club.” She inspected the clock. “He should be there now.”
“And what are the others doing?”
“Janet and Marjorie? Oh, they are out shopping for Christmas.”
“I wish I’d known it, I’d have gone with them,” and he beat an impatient tattoo on the back of the lounge.
“I am afraid you find Washington very dull,” said Mrs. Fordyce regretfully. “But I am selfish enough to wish to keep you here. Stay as long as you can, dear.”
“Of course I’m going to stay,” heartily, catching the wistful appeal in her eyes. “I’ve given up returning to the West until February and you’ll have me on your hands until then.”
“That’s dear of you, Duncan,” she leaned over and stroked his hand. “My bonnie big boy,” and there was infinite pride in her tone. “You have no idea of my joy in having your father, Janet, and you under one roof again. This will be a blessed Christmas to me.”
She sat silent as memories of lonely years in their San Francisco home rose before her. Originally from Boston, she had married Calderon Fordyce in New York, and had accompanied him to the Pacific coast where he had eventually built up an immense importing trade. His business had taken him frequently to the Orient, and Mrs. Fordyce after her railroad accident had perforce remained in San Francisco. She had not minded her husband’s absences so much while her children were young, but when Duncan departed to college, and later Janet to boardingschool, her loneliness and physical condition had preyed so much on her mind that her husband had become alarmed. On consulting their physician, Calderon Fordyce had been advised to see that his wife had more distractions, and placing his business affairs in competent hands, he and Mrs. Fordyce had spent the past few years traveling in Europe, and while there she had formed the plan to introduce Janet to Washington society on her reaching her eighteenth year.
“I am particularly glad for Janet’s sake that you are here, Duncan,” she said presently. “It is nice for her to have a big elder brother at dances and dinners.”
“Miss Langdon takes such excellent care of Janet that my services as cavalier are not required,” replied Duncan lazily. “Janet is pretty enough to have plenty of partners, and Miss Langdon sees that she meets men.”
“I think I was very lucky to secure Marjorie,” and Mrs. Fordyce nodded her head complacently.
“I think you were,” agreed Duncan, idly turning the leaves of a magazine. “I’m afraid Janet is tiring her out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Too many late parties,” tersely. “Miss Langdon is fagged out.”
“She doesn’t look strong,” admitted Mrs. Fordyce thoughtfully. “But I think her pale cheeks and distrait manner are induced by a love affair.”
“Eh!” Duncan turned toward his mother withunusual sharpness. “Who’s the man?” The question seemed almost forced from him.
“Chichester Barnard.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense,” replied Mrs. Fordyce, somewhat nettled by his manner. “I have watched them very closely when they are together, and I am sure I am right.” Duncan rose abruptly and walked over to the window. “Mr. Barnard and Marjorie are both so good looking that they would make an ideal couple.”
“Ideal?” Duncan’s laugh was mirthless. “You are an idealist, mother.”
“Better that than an image breaker,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “Now, run along, dear, I must take my usual afternoon nap.”
“All right, mother, I’ll be down in the billiard-room if you should want me.”
Duncan spent an unsatisfactory hour knocking the balls around, then took refuge in the library. Selecting a novel he made himself comfortable before the open fire, and commenced reading. But his attention wandered from the printed page; before him constantly was Marjorie Langdon’s face. Surely he had not found his ideal but to lose her? He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the fireplace, and his mouth set grimly. What chance had his plain features and taciturn manner against Barnard’s handsome face and gay debonair personality? He had inherited his looks and his temperament from some dour Scotch ancestor. Itwould take a miracle to make him a parlor knight. His book fell with a thud to the floor, and as he stooped to pick it up, the door opened and Marjorie walked in.
“Can I see your father?” she asked.
“I am sorry, he is not in,” Duncan sprang up and pushed forward a chair. “Won’t I serve the purpose?”
“Oh, yes.” She stepped forward and removed a small roll of bank notes from her muff. “Janet cashed one hundred and fifty dollars for your father, and asked me to give it to him. Will you see that the money reaches him?” placing the bank notes on the library table. “I’m afraid I can’t sit down, Mr. Fordyce; your sister is waiting for me.”
“Let her wait,” calmly. “It’s beastly cold outside; I am sure the fire will be a comfort. Sit down for a moment.”
“I mustn’t,” Marjorie’s color, made brilliant by the wind outside, deepened to a warmer tint as she caught his eyes. “Janet and Baron von Valkenberg are waiting in the motor for me; we are going down to the Basin to skate. The river is frozen over, you know. Good-bye,” and she vanished through the doorway.
“D—mn! they might have asked me to go along!” Duncan threw a fresh log on the fire as a slight vent to his feelings, then strolled over to the window opening on Sheridan Circle. He was just in time to see Marjorie assisted into the waiting motor by Chichester Barnard.
Duncan drew back, stung to the quick, and making his way to the table, dropped into his father’s revolving chair. For a time he sat blindly scratching marks on a pad, then threw down his pencil in disgust.
“The only woman!” he muttered, and his clenched hands parted slowly. As he rose to leave the room his eyes fell on a small pile of bank notes lying on the floor where he had knocked them some minutes before. He gathered them up, and paused idly to count the bills.... “Nine tens, ten tens, one hundred; one ten——” his hand remained suspended in the air; surely Marjorie had mentioned one hundred and fifty dollars? Where was the odd forty? He went slowly over the bills again, with the same result—one hundred and ten dollars.
With infinite pains Duncan searched the table and then the floor. Leaving the library he went carefully down the hall and staircase, and from there to the front door and down to the street. Finding no trace of any bank notes, he retraced his steps to the house, but instead of mounting the stairs he went up in the lift, first carefully examining its interior. On reaching the drawing-room floor he returned to the library and sat for some time contemplating the fire. The tinkle of the telephone bell aroused him, and he hastened to remove the receiver.
“Yes, this is Duncan Fordyce,” he called. “Yes, Janet, what is it?”
“I can’t rent a pair of skates here that will fit me,” came Janet’s answer. “Please have Blanchehunt in my closet and find my own pair, and send them down to me by messenger at once, Duncan.”
“I’ll attend to it,” he promised. “Wait, Janet. Did you draw out some money for father?”
“Yes, a hundred and fifty dollars. Marjorie said she gave it to you. What did you say, Duncan?”
“Nothing. I’ll send the skates. Good-bye,” and he banged up the receiver. But it was some minutes before he moved, and when he rose there were lines about his mouth which had not been there before. He pushed the electric bell, and on Perkins’ entrance, gave him full instructions regarding the skates. As the butler left the room, Calderon Fordyce appeared.
“All alone, Duncan?” he asked. “Where’s Janet?”
“Down skating on the Potomac.”
“Deuce take the girl! What does she mean by gadding about? I told her to return here at once with my money. I promised to advance Perkins’ wages, and——”
“Janet left it with me,” Duncan stepped forward and handed his father the roll of bills. “Here it is.”
“Thanks, Duncan,” Fordyce took out his leather wallet and stuffed the bank notes inside it.
“Hold on,” cautioned Duncan. “Hadn’t you better count your money?”
Fordyce eyed his son in astonishment. “What are you driving at?” he demanded brusquely. “I’m not in the habit of questioning anything you and Janet give me.”
“Some of that money is missing,” stated Duncan.
“What?” Fordyce’s smile vanished, and his eyes darkened.
“I borrowed forty dollars,” added Duncan tranquilly. “Here’s my check for the amount,” taking it up from the table. “I needed the ready money, so”—smiling whimsically, “helped myself.”