CHAPTER XIGREAT EXPECTATIONS
Lawrence.On Monday, December 24, Margaret A., beloved wife of Stephen Lawrence, Rear Admiral, U. S. N., aged sixty-two years. Funeral from her late residence on Wednesday at two o’clock. Interment at Arlington. Kindly omit flowers.
Lawrence.On Monday, December 24, Margaret A., beloved wife of Stephen Lawrence, Rear Admiral, U. S. N., aged sixty-two years. Funeral from her late residence on Wednesday at two o’clock. Interment at Arlington. Kindly omit flowers.
Chichester Barnard stared at the printed notice in the death column, then let the newspaper slip from his fingers to the floor. On looking up he caught the direct gaze of Duncan Fordyce, who had entered the smoking-room some time before, and was observing his changing countenance with some secret astonishment.
“Hello, Fordyce,” Barnard pulled himself together. “Sorry I didn’t see you before, but this confounded paper gave me a shock.”
“No bad news I hope?” inquired Duncan, placing a stamp on the letter he took from his pocket.
“Just read the notice of my aunt’s death,” and as Duncan murmured some conventional condolences, he added, “Aunt Margaret was very decent to me, but since her second marriage, I’ve seen very little of her. She was really only my aunt by courtesy; her first husband having been my uncle, DimintryBarnard. Admiral Lawrence wasn’t adverse to picking up a rich widow; I reckon he’ll inherit a pot of money now. How is your sister today?”
“Rather tired after the Walbridge dance,” Duncan yawned, then laughed. “Washington hours are too much for me. I don’t see how the men here go out to entertainments and do their work.”
“They try it for a couple of years, and then give up society, at least the dancing end of it. Has Miss Langdon recovered from her indisposition of last night?”
“She was down bright and early this morning,” replied Duncan indifferently. “She appeared to be all right and in good spirits.”
“That’s fine. By the way, she will be sorry to hear of Mrs. Lawrence’s death; she was the Admiral’s secretary for several years.”
“Indeed,” Duncan yawned again. “Is Admiral Lawrence still on the active list?”
“Oh, no, he retired five or six years ago. Where are you going?” as Duncan rose.
“Haven’t decided; think I’ll stroll around the Speedway.”
“Wait a moment and I’ll go with you,” volunteered Barnard, and Duncan halted uncertainly. “I must write a line to Admiral Lawrence and ask if there’s anything I can do; it won’t take me long.” He was as good as his word, and after dispatching the hastily scrawled note by a messenger, he and Duncan left the Metropolitan Club and turned down Seventeenth Street.
It was the first time that Duncan had had more than five minutes conversation alone with Barnard since their meeting, and he found him a far more agreeable companion than he had anticipated. Barnard, when he chose, was a brilliant talker, and his comments on the world in general and Washington in particular elicited amused chuckles from Duncan as they strolled along the picturesque driveway which skirts the Potomac River. But strive as he would, he could not drag Duncan out of his shell; every time he skillfully led the conversation to the Fordyces and their plans for the future, Duncan retired into his habitual reserve. Returning up Eleventh Street, Barnard paused at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You know Madame Yvonett, Miss Langdon’s aunt, do you not?” he asked.
“No, I was not at home when she called on my mother.”
“Then you have missed meeting one of the most charming characters in this city,” exclaimed Barnard vigorously. “Come with me now and we’ll stop in and wish the dear old lady merry Christmas.”
But Duncan held back. “I am afraid I....”
“Oh, come along; we need only stay a moment. Your calling will gratify Madame Yvonett. I overheard her asking Miss Langdon to bring you to see her.”
Duncan’s indecision vanished. “Very well,” he said, and the two men continued their walk up the Avenue to Thirteenth Street. They found the smallhouse gay with Christmas wreaths, and a stiff and starched Minerva ushered them into Madame Yvonett’s presence. Duncan’s eyes brightened in keen appreciation as he bowed low before the stately Quakeress. In fichu and cap, tied with a dainty bow under her chin, and her soft gray silk, she looked the embodiment of beautiful old age.
“I am pleased to meet thee, Friend Fordyce,” she said, giving him her hand. “Thy sister, Janet, has spoken of thee most often.”
“I wanted to come before,” Duncan drew up a chair near her, “but a great deal of my time has been taken up with business.”
“Business!” echoed Barnard, genuinely surprised. “I took you for a gentleman of elegant leisure, didn’t you, Marjorie?”
“Didn’t I what?” inquired Marjorie, entering from the dining-room where she had been putting the finishing touches to the tea-table.
“Did you know our friend here,” waving his hand toward Duncan, “is a hardy son of toil?”
Marjorie laughed. “Janet told me, Mr. Fordyce, that you have explored....”
“I have ambled about a bit,” admitted Duncan hastily. “But I am not an explorer, only a lawyer.”
“Indeed? I had no idea of it!” answered Marjorie. “Aunt Yvonett, the eggnog is ready.”
“Will thee come, friend, and drink a kindly glass with me?” asked the Quakeress, laying her hand on Duncan’s arm.
“Gladly,” and he led her into the dining-room,and to her high-back chair. Barnard detained Marjorie as she was about to follow her aunt.
“Have you no word of greeting for me?” he pleaded, lowering his voice.
“Hush!” she cautioned. “Why did you bring Mr. Fordyce here?”
Barnard glanced at her flushed cheeks in some surprise. “We were walking together, and I suddenly hungered for a sight of you. I then recollected having heard you say that you were coming here to be with your aunt this afternoon, so I suggested dropping in.”
“Tell me, Chichester, is that chattel mortgage all arranged?” she asked in an urgent whisper.
He nodded affirmatively, and her heart bounded with relief. “I’ll bring you the papers; stay, on second thought you had better come to the office.” He saw the shadow that crossed her face, and added reproachfully, “Am I so hateful to you?”
“That’s a debatable question,” she parried, avoiding his glance. By an effort he checked a bitter retort as she pulled back the portière, and, his face resuming its customary smiling mask, he followed her into the dining-room.
They found Madame Yvonett deep in conversation with Duncan.
“Thee sees we have friends in common,” she announced, filling two glasses with the frothy beverage before her. “Help thyself to the sandwiches, Friend Barnard.” In spite of Chichester Barnard’s many attempts to ingratiate himself with the Quakeress,she had never dropped the formal address with him, although she had known his relatives for many years. “Where is thy Cousin Rebekah, Marjorie?”
“I ’specs dat’s Miss Becky at de do’ now,” volunteered Minerva, emerging from the pantry as the bell sounded. “She done said she’d be back drickly.”
“Ask her to come right in here,” called Madame Yvonett. “Ah, Becky,” seeing the spinster appear in the doorway. “Thee must be cold, come and have a glass of eggnog.”
But Miss Rebekah declined the offer with some asperity; she considered eggnog the “devil’s brew,” and, but that a certain fear of Madame Yvonett’s displeasure restrained her, would then and there have delivered a forceful homily on strong drink. She had met Chichester Barnard on previous visits, and was a staunch admirer of the handsome lawyer, whose resemblance to her hero, Byron, made a strong appeal to her latent sentimentality. He greeted her warmly, and after Duncan was introduced, placed a chair for her next his own.
“Where has thee been, Becky?” asked Madame Yvonett, turning back from giving directions to Minerva to bring the spinster a cup of weak tea.
“I ran over to ask Admiral Lawrence if there was anything I could do for him,” explained Miss Rebekah. “Margaret Lawrence was my cousin, and being her only relative in Washington I thought it was the least I could do.”
“Was she not related to thee, Friend Barnard?” inquired Madame Yvonett, turning to him.
“I was only her nephew by marriage, but she was a good friend to me.” The regret in his voice and manner rang true, even to Marjorie’s watchful ears. “Mrs. Lawrence was a noble woman, and will be missed by many.”
“She was very, very good to me,” a lump rose in Marjorie’s throat, and she hastily cleared her voice. “Did you learn any particulars of her death, Cousin Becky?”
“Yes, I saw the nurse.” Miss Rebekah was in her element. She enjoyed nothing so much as the sound of her own voice, and particularly reveled in funereal topics; she attended her relatives’ obsequies both near and far, and the more harrowing the circumstances surrounding their deaths, the more her soul thrilled in morbid enjoyment. “The nurse—what’s her name, Marjorie?”
“Do you mean Kathryn Allen?”
“Yes, that’s she; such a pretty girl,” she interpolated. “Well, Nurse Allen told me that Cousin Margaret did not suffer toward the last; in fact, that during the past six weeks she never regained consciousness.”
“Never regained consciousness,” repeated Barnard slowly. “What a blessed relief.”
“Yes, wasn’t it,” went on Miss Rebekah, addressing him directly. “I knew you would understand. Poor Cousin Margaret was in torment until she became delirious and later lapsed into a comatose condition. I saw Admiral Lawrence for a few minutes; he inquired particularly for you, Marjorie,and desired to know where you could be found quickly.”
“Oh!” A faint, very faint inflection of fear in the monosyllable caught Duncan’s quick ear, and he darted a keen look at Marjorie, but she was crumbling the end of her sandwich between her fingers, and he learned nothing from her blank expression.
“I suppose he wanted to get you to answer notes, and attend to things generally,” continued Miss Rebekah, pouring out a cup of tea from the pot Minerva set before her. “I told the Admiral where you were, Marjorie, and how kind Mrs. Fordyce has been to you. I went quite into details,” she smiled at Duncan. “I even mentioned some of the things Marjorie told me about you....”
“Cousin Becky,” Marjorie looked as angry as she felt. “You certainly are an——” catching her aunt’s warning look, she held back the words “unmitigated nuisance” with which she had intended finishing her sentence.
“Well, my dear, I went into particulars because it took the Admiral’s mind away from his sorrow,” continued Miss Rebekah, her air of self-congratulation upon her tact causing Duncan to smile covertly. “And he was very interested in hearing all about your good fortune, Marjorie, and said he was sorry Mrs. Fordyce hadn’t written him to ask about you——” Marjorie set down her eggnog glass with a thud, she had drunk the delicious concoction at a gulp, and was grateful for the warmth which stole through her chilled body.
“How is thy good mother?” asked Madame Yvonett, addressing Duncan. “I hoped that she would come in this afternoon and help me keep the Yuletide; thee sees, this is the only day I indulge in such dissipation,” touching the punch bowl.
“If mother went anywhere, I know she would come to you, Madame Yvonett; but she insists on being a recluse.” Barnard, conversing with Miss Rebekah, gave part of his attention to Duncan’s remarks. Joe Calhoun-Cooper’s confidences were fresh in his memory. “I wish you could induce mother to see more of her friends.”
“It is not good for any of us to live within ourselves,” acknowledged the gentle Quakeress. “A little natural diversion fits us for the ills of life. But thy mother lives so for others, she is never alone.”
“You are right,” answered Duncan heartily. “But of late years I have been so little with my family, I perhaps notice mother’s withdrawal more than my father and sister.”
“I wonder what has become of Janet,” chimed in Marjorie, looking with some uneasiness at Duncan. “She said she would join me here at five o’clock.”
“I left her reading in the library.” Duncan looked at his watch. “It is after six.”
“So late!” Barnard rose in some haste. “I am afraid I shall have to leave as I am dining with friends at Chevy Chase, and I have barely time to dress and get there. Madame Yvonett, it is alwayssuch a pleasure to see you; I hope you will let me come again soon.”
“Thee is very welcome,” responded Madame Yvonett kindly, and with a quick word of farewell to the others, Barnard took his departure.
As the front door banged shut, Marjorie lifted her furs and coat from the chair where she had thrown them. “I really must go,” she said, and kissing her aunt affectionately, she whispered low, “don’t let Cousin Becky torment the life out of you.”
“Tut, child, she is one of my diversions,” whispered back Madame Yvonett placidly. “Never take Becky seriously, nor any other troubles,” glancing anxiously at the dark circles under Marjorie’s eyes. “God guard thee in His Holy care,” she murmured, and held Marjorie close, then pushed her gently from her. “Thee must not tarry. Friend Fordyce,” as Duncan advanced to bid her good-night, “thy coming has given me much pleasure....”
“May I come again?”
“Thee may indeed,” with a cordiality that matched his eagerness. “Give this sprig of mistletoe,” breaking off a piece from the small branch suspended from the newel post, “to thy mother with the season’s greetings.”
“Thank you,” Duncan pocketed the tiny sprig with care, and shaking hands with Miss Rebekah, who hovered in the background, he returned to Marjorie’s side. “Shall we walk or ride?” he asked, as the door closed behind them.
“Have we time to walk?”
“Plenty,” and with a strange, shy reluctance Marjorie accompanied him across Franklin Square and up Fourteenth Street to Massachusetts Avenue. “Where did you get your seven-league boots?” he asked, breaking the prolonged silence.
“One has to have them to keep up with you,” she retorted.
“I beg your pardon,” slacking his pace. “I did not realize——” he again relapsed into silence, and Marjorie’s thoughts flew swiftly to Janet and the problems which confronted her.
After the discovery of the doilies she had spent the early hours of the morning trying to devise some plan to assist Janet; at all hazards the girl must be protected against her curious craze, but how—how? Madame Yvonett was the only one she could confide in, and she had gone there early that afternoon hoping to see her aunt alone, but old friends had called, and the time had passed without giving her an opportunity to ask her advice. A whisper of kleptomania, and Janet’s fair name would be bandied from door to door in scandal-loving Washington.
“Have you spent all your life in this city?” asked Duncan, with such abruptness that Marjorie started perceptibly.
“Yes—no,” she stammered, the question taking her by surprise. “I used to go every summer to our New England home, but Aunt Yvonett prefers returning to Philadelphia whenever I—I—have a vacation.” She did not add that lack of funds had made them all the year residents of the NationalCapital, but Duncan guessed the reason underlying her slight hesitancy. Was there no way to win her confidence?
“How long were you Admiral Lawrence’s secretary?”
“Over two years,” shortly; then a sudden thought struck her. “Do you know Admiral Lawrence?” and the darkness hid her loss of color.
“I met him when he was with the Pacific fleet, and before his promotion to rear-admiral. He has the reputation of being a fine type of an American naval officer.”
“Have you met him recently?”
“I? No. Take care of that curb.” She stumbled somewhat and he assisted her across the street. “My father entertained the officers of the fleet whenever they came to San Francisco, but I doubt if Admiral Lawrence will remember me. I only saw him when home on my college vacations.”
Marjorie heaved a sigh of relief; she dreaded his hearing of Admiral Lawrence’s charge against her, for she feared his condemnation. In their daily intercourse she had gradually realized that the silent, reserved man had high ideals and exacted a high standard in his friends. His altered manner of the past week had hurt as well as piqued her; until then she had taken his companionship and good opinion as a matter of course. Duncan was some eight years Janet’s senior, and his silent watchfulness had contributed to Marjorie’s success as a chaperon. He had insisted that his sister show her every consideration,and that her advice should be followed in all social matters. She could ill afford to lose such a friend.
“It was very kind of you to call on Aunt Yvonett,” she said, changing the subject abruptly.
“I had intended to go before this,” replied Duncan courteously. “Mother and Janet have spoken so frequently of Madame Yvonett that I have been very anxious to meet her.”
“Everyone loves Aunt Yvonett,” answered Marjorie warmly. “I wish my fairy godmother had bequeathed me her power of fascination.” Duncan made no reply, and Marjorie ran up the short flight of steps of the Fordyce home, and laid an impatient finger on the electric bell.
“I have my key,” remonstrated Duncan, pulling it out and opening the front door. “I hope our long walk hasn’t tired you,” as she stepped past him into the house.
“Not a bit,” pausing in the hall while he divested himself of his overcoat. “I feel as fresh as a daisy.”
Duncan inspected her carefully, from her well-shod feet to her imperiously carried head, and he was conscious of an accelerated pulse as he caught the full witchery of her lovely eyes. He stepped swiftly to her side, a longing to touch her, to hold her in his arms overmastered him.
“I wonder where Janet can be,” she said, the coquetry dropping from her, as her anxieties returned. “Do ask Perkins if she is in the house.”
Duncan drew back. “Janet? Do you think ofno one but Janet?” and without waiting for an answer he walked down the hall, but before he left her, Marjorie had seen in Duncan’s eyes the message which every daughter of Eve translates by instinct. With strangely fluttering heart she sought her room and in that safe haven paused for breath. Day-dreams were not for her; she was only his mother’s paid employee, and ... one man had not scrupled to lie to her....
Over in Georgetown, Barnard, in immaculate evening dress, opera hat and overcoat, paused to light another cigarette. “So Aunt Margaret never regained consciousness,” he said aloud. “Whata relief!”