TREASURE TROVE
MINERVA glared at her image in the glass she was polishing with unusual
diligence. “A cleanin’ an’ a cleanin’,” she exclaimed rebelliously.
“Miss Rebekah don’t hardly ’low me time ter eat. Miss Marjorie didn’t
never turn me inter a--a--flyin’ squadron”--Minerva hadn’t the faintest
idea of the meaning of “flying squadron,” but she had picked up the
words while waiting at table, and they sounded big enough to express
her state of mind. “An’ I ain’t gwine ter church termorro’, nohow; las’
time I went, I come home an’ foun’ Miss Rebekah had done took all my
china an’ glass off de pantry shelves, an’ I had ter put it back. What
kind ob a Christian am she, anyhow? An’ when I’m down on my marrow
bones a scrubbin’ de flo’, she flops down an’ keeps me a prayin’ fo’
five minutes. Lan’ sakes! dar’s de bell.” Hastily washing her hands and
putting a white apron over her gingham one, she took her leisurely way
to the front door.
“Howdy, Marse Tom?” she exclaimed, showing all her ivories in an
expansive smile on seeing the young officer standing in the vestibule.
“De Madam will be mighty glad ter see yo’; step right inter de pawlor,
I’ll go tell her yo’ am hyar.”
Madame Yvonett found Tom walking restlessly up and down the small room
when she entered a few minutes later.
“I am pleased to see thee, Thomas,” she said, kissing him warmly. “Thee
finds us rather topsy-turvey; this is cleaning day, but make thyself
comfortable, I will sit here,” selecting her customary high back
arm-chair, and producing her knitting.
Tom established himself in one end of the rosewood sofa.
“You must miss Marjorie awfully,” he said, inspecting the disarranged
room with some wonder.
“I do;” an involuntary sigh escaped Madame Yvonett. “Marjorie is young,
but she understands the foibles of the old; she is a good child.”
“I’m afraid Cousin Rebekah Graves is a bit too strenuous for you.”
“Becky’s a trifle breezy, but anything’s better than a dead calm,”
responded the Quakeress. “I am pleased that Marjorie is with the
Fordyces; from what she says they must be charming people.”
“They are,” declared Tom with such positiveness that a faint gleam of
amusement lit his companion’s eyes. “Has Marjorie been in to see you
today?”
“No. She usually comes about this time on her return from market. Thee
knows Mrs. Fordyce has turned the housekeeping over to her.”
“It strikes me they put a great deal on Marjorie....”
“Tut! Marjorie’s shoulders are young and broad. It would be better if
the younger generation carried more responsibilities; too much is done
for them by their elders. In my day”--dropping her knitting in her
lap as she warmed to her subject--“the development of character went
hand-in-hand with education; now, education is founded on indulgence.
The modern child must be amused, spoiled, its fits of temper
condoned....”
“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” quoted Tom, in open amusement.
“A sound doctrine,” affirmed Madame Yvonett with spirit. “And if
the American nation is to endure, character in the child must be
cultivated.”
“There’s a lot in what you say,” agreed Tom. “I came in this morning
hoping to see you alone;” he rose and sat down close by her. “I am
anxious to consult you about an incident that occurred yesterday
afternoon in my quarters,” and in a few words he described the
disappearance of the coin.
Madame Yvonett listened with absorbed attention to the story, and at
its conclusion, sat back and gazed unbelievingly at Tom, her busy
needles idly suspended in air.
“Does thee mean to say thee can find no trace of the coin?” she asked
incredulously.
“It has disappeared absolutely.”
“Is thee certain that thy servant was not in the house at the time the
lamp exploded?”
“Positive. Mrs. Sims, wife of the Commandant, told me he was
assisting the other servants in the Administration Building from the
commencement of the tea-dance until its close.”
“Then thee infers that one of thy guests stole the coin?”
“What other conclusion can I reach?” hopelessly. “And yet it’s a
devilish thought.”
“Has thee suspicions against anyone in particular?” Madame Yvonett
paled as she put the question, but she sat with her back to the light
and Tom did not perceive her agitation.
“Yes, I have,” reluctantly. “Joe Calhoun-Cooper.”
“Cooper? Ah, yes, I recollect; thee means John C. Cooper’s grandson.
What leads thee to suspect him?”
“I know he’s hard up; he’s been trying to borrow money, his father
having shut down on his allowance;” Tom paused thoughtfully, then
continued. “Joe was with me when I learned the coin’s value. He first
spoke of it yesterday--I never should have mentioned the matter--and
suggested I show the coin to my guests, evidently depending on chance
to give him an opportunity to steal it.”
“It dove-tails nicely,” acknowledged Madame Yvonett. “In fact, too
nicely; beware, Thomas, be not hasty in thy judgment.”
“I’m not,” doggedly. “Joe’s always been tricky, even as a schoolboy.”
“Then how does it happen that thee associates with him now?”
“Well--eh--his family have been very decent to me, and I’ve gone there
a good bit.” Madame Yvonett’s shrewd eyes twinkled. “While accepting
their hospitality I couldn’t refuse to know Joe. Although I’ve never
liked him, I knew no real ground for dropping him, until now,” and
Tom’s pleasant face hardened.
“Does thee intend to prosecute him for the theft of the coin?”
“I haven’t quite decided,” admitted Tom. “The loss of such a sum of
money means a good deal to me; still, I have only the dealer’s word
that the coin was worth between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars. I
could have Joe arrested,” doubtfully. “It’s a dirty business. Perhaps
it would be better to keep silent, but tell Joe to leave Washington or
I’ll expose his rascality.”
“Thee’ll have to secure more proof against him to make that threat
effective,” put in Madame Yvonett, sagely.
“I’ve already written to the coin collector in New York, describing my
coin, and asking him to notify me if such a coin is offered to him, and
by whom. Joe was with me when the dealer here gave me the New Yorker’s
address.”
“That is a good move,” Madame Yvonett nodded approvingly.
“I’ve also notified the Washington dealer, and he has agreed to send a
letter to other well-known numismatists telling them of the coin, and
asking for the name of the person who offers it for sale. Fortunately
the coin is very rare, and its appearance will arouse interest----”
“And cupidity,” chimed in Madame Yvonett. “Collectors are said to be
not too scrupulous; if they can buy it cheaply from the thief they will
not be likely to notify thee, the real owner.”
“Of course, there’s that danger,” admitted Tom, rising. “I’m afraid I
must be going, Cousin Yvonett; you’ve been awfully good to listen to
me.”
“I am always interested in anything that concerns thee, Thomas, and thy
news today is startling. Shall I mention the matter to Marjorie?”
Tom pondered for a moment before answering. “I don’t believe I would;
she is thrown a good deal with the Calhoun-Coopers, and knowledge of
Joe’s dishonesty might embarrass her in her relations with them.”
“Had thee not better question her about the disappearance of the coin?
She may be able to throw some light on the mystery.”
Again Tom shook his head. “If any of the others had seen Joe steal the
coin, they would have denounced him then and there, or dropped me a
hint later, and Marjorie particularly would have been sure to have done
so.”
“That is true, Marjorie has thy interests very much to heart; she has
not forgotten how good thee has been to me financially.”
“Don’t you ever speak of that again,” protested Tom warmly. “I’d do
everything for you if I could.”
“Thee is like thy father in generosity,” Madame Yvonett patted his
shoulder lovingly. “Be cautious in thy actions, Thomas; better lose a
coin than wrongfully accuse another. I advise thee to go carefully over
the floor of the dining-room and parlor, the coin may have rolled and
slipped into a tiny crevice, or down the register.”
Tom frowned in disbelief. “There are no registers, the house is heated
by steam; however, I’ll look again over the furniture and floors. I’m
not going to the dinner the Calhoun-Coopers are giving next week. I
can’t eat their food, believing Joe a thief. Good-bye, I’ll be in again
soon.”
After his departure Madame Yvonett remained seated in the little
parlor, her knitting in her lap and her usually industrious fingers at
rest, while her thoughts centered themselves on Tom’s account of the
disappearance of his coin.
“I wish Marjorie had not been present,” she said aloud.
“Did you call me?” inquired Miss Rebekah, as she divested herself of
her coat and gloves in the hall. “All alone, Cousin Yvonett? Why,
Marjorie told me she was surely coming in to be with you.”
* * * * *
Marjorie had fully intended stopping in to see her aunt that morning,
but she had been delayed in reaching Center Market, and afterwards,
having an errand to do on F Street, she had decided to walk instead of
taking a street car. Turning the corner at Ninth and F Streets she
came face to face with Chichester Barnard.
“What good luck to meet you!” His tone of pleasure was convincing in
its heartiness, and Marjorie’s eyes danced. “Which way are you going?”
“To Brentano’s.”
“I have an errand there, too,” falling into step beside her. “I had
a telephone a short time ago from Miss Janet asking me to lunch with
them.”
“She said she intended to invite you;” some of the sparkle had
disappeared from Marjorie’s eyes. “Can you come?”
“Yes, fortunately this is not a very busy day with me,” he raised his
hat to Mrs. Walbridge who passed them in her automobile. “Are you and
Miss Janet going to Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dance?”
“I think so; here we are,” and she led the way inside the book-store.
It did not take her long to complete her errand, and she found Barnard
waiting for her at the entrance, a magazine tucked under his arm.
“All ready?” he inquired, holding open the door for her. “Are you going
to do any more shopping?”
“No.”
“Then take a walk with me?” eagerly. “We don’t have to be at the
Fordyce’s until one o’clock.”
“I told Aunt Yvonett I would run in for a few minutes on my way
uptown....”
“You can go there after lunch,” broke in Barnard. “Besides, there’s a
business matter I must talk over with you.”
A premonition of bad news sent a faint shiver down Marjorie’s spine,
and she glanced almost pleadingly at her companion.
“What----?” she began, then stopped. “Where shall we go?”
“Suppose we walk around the White Lot,” he suggested, after a moment’s
thought. “We’re not likely to be interrupted there,” turning to bow to
some friends.
“Very well,” agreed Marjorie briefly, quickening her pace, and talking
of indifferent subjects they made their way up busy F Street, across
Fifteenth, back of the Treasury, and round to the Ellipse. Barnard
pointed to one of the empty benches which stood on the outer edge of
the huge circle of well-kept turf, and Marjorie followed him to it.
“Well, what is your news?” she demanded, after waiting for him to speak.
“You are so literal, Madge,” he said, with a half sigh. “Give a poor
beggar a chance to look at you; I’m reveling in having you to myself
again.”
But Marjorie drew away from him. “Your news, please; I know it’s bad,
or you would not hesitate to tell me.”
“Have it your own way,” Barnard thumped the turf nervously with his
cane. “Do you know your aunt, Madame Yvonett, has a chattel mortgage
with the Wellington Loan Company?”
“Yes; she took it out during mother’s last illness. How did you come to
hear of it, Chichester?”
“The Wellington Company has turned the mortgage over to me to collect
for them. I do their legal work, you know.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of it.” Marjorie drew in her breath sharply. “The
interest is not due until next week.”
“But, my dearest girl, they want more than their interest--they require
the principal.”
“The company agreed to permit Aunt Yvonett to pay that off gradually.”
“Has your aunt a written agreement to that effect?”
“I don’t know positively, but Mr. Saunders always attends to that for
her.”
“Unfortunately Saunders is no longer president of the company, and the
new head is a very different type of man. He insists on calling in all
loans which have run for a considerable period.”
“It’s hateful of him!” Marjorie stamped with sudden fury. “Aunt Yvonett
is trying so hard to pay off her debts, and she took this mortgage so
that mother could have some comforts and proper care before she died.
Oh, I can’t let him foreclose!”
Unconscious of Barnard’s intent gaze, she stared at the distant White
House, picturesque in its setting; then with tired, restless eyes
turned to look at the still more distant Washington Monument, whose
tapering shaft seemed lost in fleecy clouds. She knew that hundreds of
migrating birds nightly beat themselves to death against the towering
marble shaft, a shaft as immovable as that Fate which was shaping her
destiny.
“How much money does Aunt Yvonett owe the company?” she asked abruptly.
Barnard consulted his note book. “The total sum is eleven hundred and
forty-three dollars and seventeen cents.”
Marjorie swallowed hard; the amount loomed even larger than the
Washington Monument. Her first month’s salary at the Fordyces’ had gone
to meet current expenses, and to buy Madame Yvonett a much needed gown.
Where could she turn?
“I took over this business,” continued Barnard, “because I feared
another lawyer might give you trouble. Why not let me advance you the
money, Madge?”
“No, never!” Barnard winced at the abrupt refusal, and observing his
hurt expression, she added hastily, “Your offer was kindly meant,
Chichester, and I thank you; but accepting your assistance is quite out
of the question.”
“I don’t see why,” quickly. “I worship the ground you walk on--Madge,
darling, why must I give all, and you give nothing?”
“Nothing?” asked the girl drearily, and she closed her eyes to keep
back the blinding tears. “Worship is not all a woman requires; there is
honor and faith....”
“You doubt my sincerity?” he demanded hotly.
“Can you blame me?” She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Have I
not daily evidence of your attentions to Janet Fordyce?”
Barnard threw back his head and laughed long and heartily. “Madge,
are you quite blind?” he asked. “I am attentive to Janet, yes,
because then I can be near you. Do you really suppose I care for that
bread-and-butter miss?”
“Bread and butter’s very good for a steady diet,” Marjorie passed a
nervous hand over her forehead. “Particularly when it’s spread with
gold dust.”
“Steady, Madge, steady; there are some insults a man can’t take from
even a woman.” Barnard’s eyes were flashing ominously, and every bit
of color had deserted his face. “Have you no spark of feeling about
you? Are you all adamantine? Have you no recollection of the night we
plighted our troth?” his voice quivered with pent-up passion, and she
moved uneasily.
“I am not the one who forgot, Chichester,” she said, refusing to meet
his eyes. “When I found--changed conditions, I gave you back your
freedom.”
“Because I had not been to see you for a couple of days. What a
reason!” he laughed mirthlessly. “You accuse me of lack of faith; come,
where was _your_ faith?”
“It’s the pot calling the kettle black;” Marjorie, intent on
controlling her impulse to cry, failed to observe Barnard’s altered
demeanor. He had been intently studying the varying emotions which
flitted across her face, and, keen student of human nature that he
was, instantly put his knowledge of her character to the test.
“Come,” he sprang to his feet. “We will go to Madame Yvonett....”
“What for?” in alarm, the recollection of the chattel mortgage
returning to her.
“To ask her consent to our marriage.”
Marjorie sat back in her seat. “Would you wed me, the beggar maid?”
“Within the hour, if you wish.” He leaned nearer her, and his hot
passionate words soothed her troubled heart, and finally dispelled
her last lingering doubt. She gazed at him half shyly, never had he
appeared to greater advantage, her chevalier “_sans peur et sans
reproche_.” A piercing automobile siren brought her back from her
day-dream.
“What time is it?” she asked in some alarm.
Barnard looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes of one.”
“Then we can just do it,” and snatching up her chain bag, she led the
way to Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Are we going to Madame Yvonett’s?” he asked tenderly.
“Not now.” Her eyes smiled wistfully back into his.
“Madge, won’t you marry me?” stopping directly in front of her.
“Not just yet.” Marjorie only saw the bitter disappointment in the fine
eyes regarding her so wistfully; she never caught the significance of
his long-drawn sigh of relief. “I have some pride, Chichester. Let me
first get clear of my debts, and then we’ll talk of marriage.”
“Won’t you let me help you with that chattel mortgage?” pleaded Barnard.
“No,” gently. “I shall write to some friends in New York--here comes
our car, Chichester, do hurry.”
So intent were they on catching the car that neither noticed a
well-dressed young woman watching them from a bench in Lafayette
Square. Nurse Allen grew white to the lips and her pretty eyes
glittered with a more powerful emotion than tears as she observed
Barnard’s tender solicitude for Marjorie as he escorted her across the
street.
“Still playing the old game,” she muttered, tossing a handful of
peanuts to three park squirrels, and gathering up her bag and muff she
turned her footsteps toward Admiral Lawrence’s house.
On their arrival at the Fordyce residence Barnard was ushered into the
sunny library by the footman, while Marjorie hastily sought her room.
Barnard found Janet and her brother waiting for him.
“I hope I’m not late,” he said, selecting a seat near Janet, who
resumed work on the necktie she was crocheting.
“You are just on time,” remarked Duncan. “Mother is the tardy member of
the household--and Miss Langdon.”
“Marjorie is usually prompt,” Janet gave a tug at her spool of
silk; the work-basket overturned, and its contents scattered in all
directions. “Oh, don’t trouble,” as the two men stooped to gather up
the different articles.
“What’s this, Janet?” asked Duncan, picking up a heavy gold object
which had rolled toward him. Barnard’s eyes dilated, and he shot a
swift look at Janet.
“A ring,” she replied. “A gold signet ring.”
“So it seems.” Duncan examined it with care. “A man’s ring?” raising
gravely questioning eyes to his sister’s.
“And made to fit a girl’s finger.” Janet took it from him, and slipped
it on, “but too large for me.”
“Take it off,” commanded Barnard in her ear as the library door opened,
but she shook her head violently and turned to the newcomer.
“Look, Marjorie,” she called audaciously, displaying the ring on her
finger. “Treasure trove.”
Recognizing the familiar ring, Marjorie’s heart lost a beat, then raced
onward, as she said clearly:
“To have and to hold, Janet,” and Barnard’s eyes shifted before the
scorn in hers.