TEMPTING FATE
MARJORIE, on her way out to keep her appointment with Mrs. Calderon
Fordyce, paused in the hall to examine the mail which Minerva, deeply
engrossed in the arrival of Miss Rebekah Graves, had deposited on the
hat-stand and forgotten. Two of the envelopes contained circulars, and
she tossed them back on the marble stand, but the third was a note from
their family lawyer curtly informing Marjorie that the savings bank
in which Madame Yvonett kept a small reserve account, had failed, and
asking her to break the news to her aunt.
Marjorie stumbled back and leaned weakly against the newel post, her
strength stricken from her. All that Madame Yvonett had been able to
save--gone! Oh, it was too cruel to be believed! From upstairs came the
sound of voices, and her aunt’s merry laugh rang out cheerily. “The
lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning”--the words recurred
to Marjorie as she started blindly up the stairs, the lawyer’s letter
still clutched in her hand.
She found her aunt in her bedroom talking to Miss Rebekah Graves, a
spinster whose brusque and didactic manner often gave offense. She
had also a most annoying habit of dragging in her religious beliefs
in ordinary conversation, and her intimate knowledge of the divine
intentions of Providence was a constant source of wonder to her
friends. Opposite as they were in character and beliefs, she and Madame
Yvonett were warmly attached to each other, and Marjorie was thankful
for the spinster’s presence, fearing as she did that her bad news might
give Madame Yvonett another heart attack. As gently as she could she
told her aunt of her financial loss.
“Thee means, child, that my money is gone?” asked Madame Yvonett dully,
as Marjorie came to a breathless pause.
“Yes. The bank has failed....”
“The Lord’s will be done!” ejaculated Miss Rebekah in devout
resignation.
“Thee is wrong, Rebekah; thy God and mine had no hand in the bank’s
failure,” retorted Madame Yvonett, her keen sense of humor dominating
her impulse to cry as the realization of her loss dawned upon her. “The
devil who tempts men to wickedness has wrought _his_ will in this. What
is thee giving me, Marjorie?”
“Some cognac; you must take it, Aunt Yvonett,” noting the pallor
stealing upward and the trembling of the bravely smiling lips. “You
must not worry, dearie,” handing her the wineglass. “I have a feeling
luck is going to change....”
“Misfortunes never come singly,” prophesied Miss Rebekah, her
pessimistic spirit surrendering at once to dismal forebodings.
“Rot!” exclaimed Marjorie, darting an indignant glance at the spinster,
who bridled at the disrespectful intonation of her voice. “You are not
to worry, Aunt Yvonett; I’ll recover that money by hook or by crook.
Cousin Becky will look after you until I return from seeing Mrs.
Fordyce. I won’t be any longer than I can help,” and gathering up her
belongings, she departed.
The clocks were just chiming the hour of five when Marjorie reached her
destination, and a footman in imposing livery showed her at once into
the drawing-room.
“Miss Langdon,” he announced, and disappeared behind the silken
portières.
At first Marjorie thought she was alone as she advanced into the room,
then her eyes, grown accustomed to the softly shaded lights, detected a
small, white-haired woman sitting in a large easy chair who rose as she
drew nearer, and Marjorie saw that she was a hunchback.
“I am glad you have come,” she said, taking the hand Marjorie held
out in both her own, and leading her gently forward. “But, my dear,
I thought you were much older,” her eyes traveling over the girl’s
beautifully molded features and small, well-set head. The November
wind had restored the roses in Marjorie’s cheeks, and she made a
charming picture in her well-cut calling costume and becoming hat,
both presents from a wealthy friend who had gone into mourning. “It was
years ago that your mother wrote me of your birth....”
“Perhaps she told you of my sister who died,” suggested Marjorie. “She
was eight years my senior.”
“That must have been it; pull up that chair,” Mrs. Fordyce added,
resuming her seat. “My husband and I went to the Orient shortly after
her letter, and gradually my correspondence with your mother ceased;
but I have many happy memories of our school days. Perhaps you have
heard her speak of me--Flora McPherson?”
“Of course, how stupid of me!” exclaimed Marjorie, suddenly
enlightened. “Mother often told me of your pranks at boarding-school.”
“I was well and strong in those days.” A slight sigh escaped Mrs.
Fordyce. “This curvature of the spine developed from injuries received
in a railroad wreck. Your mother would never recognize her old
play-fellow now;” a suspicious moisture dimmed her eyes, and she added
hastily, “Throw off your wraps, my dear, and make yourself comfortable.
I want to have a long talk with you.”
Obediently Marjorie threw back her furs and loosened her coat, as a
velvet-footed servant entered with the tea-tray and placed it on the
table by Mrs. Fordyce, and deftly arranged the cups and saucers. He
left the room to return in a moment carrying a “Curate’s delight”
filled with plates of delicious sandwiches and cake.
“How will you have your tea?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, removing the cover
from the Dutch silver caddy and placing some of the leaves in the
teapot while she waited for the water to boil in the kettle.
“Moderately strong, one lump of sugar, and lemon,” replied Marjorie.
“Our tastes are similar; I hope it’s a good omen,” smiled Mrs. Fordyce.
“Try some of these sandwiches.”
“How did you discover that I am the daughter of your old friend?”
inquired Marjorie.
“Mrs. Nicholas McIntyre, who was at Emma Willard’s school at the same
time your mother and I were boarders there, told me of you. She admires
you greatly.”
“Bless her heart!” ejaculated Marjorie warmly. “She has been lovely to
me since mother’s death. I didn’t know she had returned to Washington.”
“I don’t believe she has. I met her in New York just before coming
here, and she advised me----” she broke off abruptly. “How old are you?”
“I have just passed my twenty-fourth birthday.”
“You don’t look a day over eighteen.” Mrs. Fordyce frowned perplexedly
at the singing teakettle. “Mrs. McIntyre said you were private
secretary to Admiral Lawrence....”
“I have been,” interrupted Marjorie, “but I am with him no longer.”
“Then you could come to me--but”--checking herself. “You are so
young----”
“Why should my age, or lack of it, be a bar to my doing secretary
work?” questioned Marjorie, looking in puzzled surprise at her
hostess. “I write a fair hand, I am a moderately good stenographer and
typewriter, and if you need a social secretary....”
“But I don’t require a secretary,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “I want an
official chaperon for my daughter, Janet.”
“Oh!” The ejaculation escaped Marjorie unwittingly, and she flushed
slightly, fearing the older woman might be displeased by her open
astonishment. But Mrs. Fordyce, teacup poised in air, sat gazing
intently at her, oblivious of her confusion. Apparently what she saw
pleased her, for she came to a sudden resolution.
“I am going to make you a proposition,” she began, and Marjorie’s hopes
rose. “My infirmity prevents my accepting formal invitations, so I
cannot accompany my daughter to entertainments. I do not want Janet to
go alone, nor do I wish her to be dependent on the kindness of friends
to see that she has a good time. I expected to find you older; however,
on second’s thought, that doesn’t matter so much. Janet would far
rather have a companion than a stately dowager as chaperon. Will you
accept the position?”
“What will be my--my duties?” stammered Marjorie, somewhat overwhelmed
at the task offered her.
“To accompany Janet to dances, the theater, and call with her, and
preside at any entertainments we may give for her. See that she meets
the right people, and wears the proper clothes,” wound up Mrs.
Fordyce. “Your salary will be a hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fordyce, that’s entirely too much,” protested Marjorie,
aghast.
“You will earn it,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “The demands on your time
will be very great. Come to think of it, I believe you had better spend
the winter here with us.”
“Here? In this house?” Marjorie’s eyes grew big with wonder. “I--I
don’t believe I could leave Aunt Yvonett----” she stopped abruptly.
After all her aunt would not be alone; Cousin Rebekah Graves would
take most watchful care of her; she would not be greatly missed at the
little house in Thirteenth Street, in fact, it would mean one mouth
less to feed. With such a salary, she could turn over fully a hundred
and twenty-five dollars a month to her aunt; the money would be sorely
needed now that the bank’s failure had carried away Madame Yvonett’s
small hoard.
If she accepted Mrs. Fordyce’s offer, her lines would fall in pleasant
places. Marjorie glanced with increasing satisfaction about the large,
well-proportioned room with its costly hangings, handsome furniture,
and rare bric-a-brac. She was a bit of a Sybarite, and the beautiful
things, the outward and visible signs of wealth about her, satisfied
that craving. To go to dances, theaters, and dinners--what more could a
girl want?
Her eyes wandered back to Mrs. Fordyce, who sat patiently awaiting her
decision. Except for the ugly, curved back, the older woman, in her
dainty teagown, might have been a piece of Dresden china, so pink and
white were her unwrinkled cheeks, and her features finely chiseled.
Her dark, delicately arched eyebrows were in sharp contrast to her
snow-white hair. Mrs. Fordyce had a simplicity and charm of manner
which endeared her to high and low. As Marjorie encountered the full
gaze of her handsome eyes, she almost cried out, so much pathos and
hidden tragedy was in their dark depths. She rose impulsively to her
feet.
“Mrs. Fordyce,” she said, “I will gladly accept, but----wait,” she
stumbled in her speech. “Admiral Lawrence dismissed me this morning
because--because a valuable paper was missing.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Did you steal the paper?” asked Mrs. Fordyce quietly. Marjorie winced,
but her eyes never wavered before the other’s calm regard.
“No.” The monosyllable was clear and unfaltering. “But Admiral Lawrence
believes I did.”
Marjorie found the lengthening silence intolerable. Her hands crept
up to her coat and she buttoned it, then she commenced putting on her
gloves.
“When can you come to me?” inquired Mrs. Fordyce finally.
“You--you want me?” Marjorie advanced a step, half-incredulous. “After
what I’ve just told you?”
“I do.”
“Oh, you good woman!” With a swift, graceful movement Marjorie stooped
and laid her lips to the blue-veined hand resting on the chair arm.
“I flatter myself I’m a woman of some perception,” replied Mrs.
Fordyce, coloring warmly. “And truth doesn’t always lie at the bottom
of a well.”
Half an hour later all details of her engagement as chaperon were
satisfactorily settled, and bidding Mrs. Fordyce a warm good-night,
Marjorie, lighter hearted than she had been in many a day, tripped
down the hall and through the front door held open by a deferential
footman. As she gained the sidewalk a limousine turned in under the
porte-cochère and stopped before the door she had just left. Pausing to
readjust her furs, she saw a familiar figure spring out of the motor,
and a well-known voice said clearly:
“Look out for that step, Miss Fordyce,” and Chichester Barnard caught
his companion’s arm in time to save her from a fall as she descended
from the motor.
Marjorie watched them enter the lighted vestibule, her thoughts in
riot. Chichester Barnard’s “business engagement” had not prevented his
dancing attendance upon another girl--and she, Marjorie Langdon, was to
be that girl’s official chaperon.