QUESTIONS 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,” 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.’”
“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.”