GAY DECEIVERS
MRS. CALHOUN-COOPER contemplated her daughter with distinct admiration,
albeit mixed with some alarm.
“My dear Pauline,” she said, lowering her lorgnette. “I have seldom
seen you look so well, but--eh--don’t you think your gown is a trifle
too--too pronounced?”
“Of course it isn’t.” Pauline revolved slowly, the better to show the
expensive Paquin model which she was wearing. “Nothing is extreme these
days; I mean everything is extreme.”
“Hello, why the beauty show?” demanded Joe from the doorway of the
library.
“Joseph! You are not in evening clothes!” wailed his mother. “And
Pauline is waiting for you to take her to the Walbridge dance.”
“I forgot the beastly thing,” grumbled Joe, sauntering over to a chair.
“I’ve been so busy today.”
“Same old business, Joe?” questioned Pauline significantly, scanning
his rumpled appearance with no kindly eye. “Really, father will be
deeply interested to hear you are so engrossed in the pursuit of
pleasure.”
“Cut it out,” admonished her brother roughly. “I’ve stood all I’m going
to from you.”
“Stop this bickering, instantly,” commanded Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper.
“And you, Joseph, go upstairs at once and change your clothes. If
you don’t,” meeting the mutinous glare with which he favored her, “I
shall telephone at once to the Capitol and report your conduct to your
father. You know what _that_ means,” with marked emphasis.
Joe knew only too well. Spoiled and indulged by a silly mother, bullied
by Pauline, the only person he held in wholesome awe was his father.
Some of his indiscretions had been exploited in the newspapers, and
before coming to Washington, his father had lain down a cast-iron rule
for him to follow in the future. Joe moved uneasily in his chair.
“There’s no occasion for you and Pauline to get excited,” he protested.
“It won’t take me ten minutes to shift into my dress suit.”
“Take time enough to make yourself presentable,” cautioned Pauline.
“I’m particular as to the appearance of my escorts.”
“One wouldn’t guess it, judging from the men you have hanging around,”
sneered Joe, wrath overcoming discretion.
“That will do,” Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper stamped her foot. “Joseph, go at
once to your room; the car is already waiting for you and Pauline.”
Muttering uncomplimentary remarks under his breath, Joe started for the
door. Passing his father’s desk his eyes fell on a pile of apparently
unopened letters awaiting Representative Calhoun-Cooper’s return
from the Capitol where he had been detained since noon. Recognizing
the handwriting on the topmost envelope, Joe’s flushed face paled,
and a slight shiver ran down his back. Pauline, intent on arranging
a corsage bouquet, paid no further attention to her brother, and
Mrs. Calhoun-Cooper was equally absorbed in watching her. Joe paused
a moment in indecision; then leaned over and palmed the letter with
neatness and dispatch.
Judge and Mrs. Erastus Walbridge’s handsome residence was _en fête_
when Pauline and Joe finally put in an appearance. The spacious rooms
and hallways, festooned with Southern smilax in which were twined
tiny iridescent electric lights, and hung with holly, mistletoe, and
poinsettia, resembled fairyland. Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dances
had become a time-honored institution, and invitations to them were
eagerly sought. She insisted that her guests should arrive at half-past
nine and depart at two o’clock; such early dancing hours being kept at
no other house in the National Capital. As she always provided the best
of music and the most delicious of suppers, society invariably abided
by her rulings, although sometimes enjoying a hearty laugh behind her
back.
Pauline did not linger in the dressing-room. Taking her cloak check,
she hastened into the ballroom followed by Joe, who presented a
remarkably immaculate appearance considering the short time consumed
in changing his clothes. Mrs. Walbridge, conscious that the hour was
getting late, received them with some stiffness, but Pauline’s profuse
apologies for their tardy arrival caused her to unbend.
“I think you already know Baron von Valkenberg,” she said, as the
diplomat joined them, and in a second more Pauline was dancing with him.
Joe, left to himself, for Mrs. Walbridge’s attention was instantly
claimed by an older guest, saw Marjorie Langdon standing talking to
several friends and crossed the room to speak to her. He did not share
his family’s antipathy for Marjorie. It took him several moments to
dodge the dancers as he progressed across the floor, and just as he
reached Marjorie’s side Chichester Barnard came up.
“No you don’t, Barnard,” he exclaimed. “First come, first served. My
dance, Miss Langdon?”
“I beg your pardon, I have a prior claim,” protested Barnard.
“Quite wrong,” smiled Marjorie. “I am promised to nobody for this
dance.”
“Then I’m Johnny on the spot,” chimed in Joe, triumphantly. “Come,” and
placing his arm about Marjorie’s waist, the two danced down the room.
Refusing to meet the eyes of several wallflowers who were looking
hopefully in his direction, Barnard idly watched the gay throng, as the
waxed floor swayed under the tread of flying feet.
“The popular Mr. Barnard not dancing!” exclaimed a voice over his
shoulder, and turning he found Pauline standing at his elbow.
“I was looking for you,” he answered readily, “but I thought I saw you
with von Valkenberg....”
“He was sent for to go to the telephone,” she pouted prettily, “and had
to excuse himself.”
“Let me take his place,” and clasping her hand they joined the dancers.
When the music stopped Barnard secured a glass of punch for his partner
and himself, and they strolled about, at last going into what Mrs.
Walbridge called her “tea-room.”
“Isn’t that Joe and Miss Langdon sitting over there?” questioned
Pauline, indicating a deep window recess partly screened from the
general view by tall palms.
“Yes.”
“Suppose we join them,” paying no attention to the shortness of his
tone. “Joe is so susceptible to pretty women, and Miss Langdon is more
than pretty. How does she get on with Mrs. Fordyce?”
“Very well, I believe.”
“Then she must have a remarkable disposition, for I am told that Mrs.
Fordyce’s peculiarities make her difficult to live with,” responded
Pauline. “A friend of mother’s acted as her companion in San Francisco
while Janet was at boarding-school, and she said Mrs. Fordyce’s
curious....” she broke off abruptly. “Good evening, Miss Langdon,”
sweetly. “I am afraid I shall have to carry off my brother,” slipping
her arm inside his as he rose at her approach. Joe’s face darkened, and
he raged inwardly. It was like Pauline to spoil his fun and make him
appear ridiculous.
“Be satisfied with Mr. Barnard, sister mine,” he said coolly. “I am
having a very good time where I am.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Pauline’s voice was venomous under its honey
sweetness. “But do think of poor Miss Langdon! There are two débutantes
anxious to meet you, dear, so come; Miss Langdon will excuse us.”
“Oh, certainly,” Marjorie allowed a faint hint of her secret amusement
to creep into her charmingly modulated voice. “I quite understand.
Shall I keep a dance for you later, Mr. Cooper?” purposely omitting the
“Calhoun.”
“Well, rather; two at the very least,” pleaded Joe. “Do, Miss Langdon,
I’ll be right back.”
“Coming, Mr. Barnard?” inquired Pauline, then bit her lip as he shook
his head.
“I have the next dance with Miss Langdon, so of course----” a courteous
bow completed his sentence, and Pauline turned abruptly on her heel and
left them.
“A curious pair,” commented Barnard. “Cooper appears completely under
his sister’s thumb.”
“She has the stronger personality.”
“You put it politely,” laughed Barnard. “Miss Calhoun-Cooper is a
handsome vixen.”
“A type you do not admire.”
“I admire no type,” smoothly. “Only one girl.”
“Janet will be complimented.”
“I was not referring to Miss Janet....”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
“Not when the wrong construction is put on them.”
“Must we go over that again?” asked Marjorie wearily.
“Yes,” vehemently. “On my word of honor I never gave that ring to
Janet.”
“What a liar you are, Chichester.”
Barnard’s hand closed over her wrist in a grip that made her wince. “By
heaven! you must take that back.”
For reply she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. Her open scorn stung
him. Freeing her wrist, he fumbled in his vest pocket, then drew out
his signet ring and held it before her.
“Are you convinced, O Doubter?” he asked.
Marjorie shot a swift look at him, and then at the gold circlet in his
hand. “How did you get it back?”
“By asking for it.”
“On what grounds?”
“That I lost the ring the night of their first dinner-dance.”
Marjorie’s scornful regard swept him from head to foot.
“Too flimsy,” she commented. “I have been fooled by you once too often.”
Between rage and passion Barnard’s habitual self-control forsook him.
Catching her hand he forcibly closed her fingers over the ring.
“It’s yours, yours--do you hear!”
“No, no,” she retreated several steps from him, and he followed her,
his face alight with passion.
“My own darling!”
But she struck down his encircling arm, and fled back into the
drawing-room.
Pausing to regain her usual tranquil bearing, she discovered she had
stopped beside Duncan Fordyce, and she drew back. During the past
week an indefinable something in Duncan’s manner, an aloofness, and
a lack of the gentle deference he had first accorded her, had been
noticeable. From seeing him frequently, she hardly saw him at all.
She partly turned and studied him attentively. The dimple, almost a
deft, relieved his stubborn chin of some of its aggressiveness, and
while he could never be called handsome, he carried the “hall mark,”
and his fine figure never showed to better advantage than in a dress
suit, the crucial test offered to mankind by modern customs tailors.
Involuntarily she contrasted him with Barnard, and admitted in her own
mind, that the latter, as ingratiating and handsome as he was, suffered
by the comparison. Her woman’s intuition warned her that Duncan was a
man to be trusted, while Barnard....
Tired of watching the dancers, Duncan swung around to leave the
ballroom and almost collided with her.
“You here!” he exclaimed. “And I didn’t know it.” He pulled himself up,
and his manner changed. “You must think me very rude, Miss Marjorie.”
“Oh, no, only absorbed,” lightly, scanning the scene before her.
“There’s Janet dancing with Tom Nichols.”
“As per usual,” Duncan laughed outright. “Where are your eyes, Miss
Chaperon?”
Marjorie reddened. “Upon my word, I look on Tom as a brother--I never
thought....” her voice trailed off, and Duncan waited in vain for her
to finish her sentence.
“Nichols is a good fellow,” he said finally. “I like him. Shall we
dance?”
The invitation was given in so perfunctory a tone that Marjorie’s
ears tingled. She checked the curt refusal on her lips, and instead
accepted with a nonchalance which matched his own. He should pay for
his indifference, pay dearly, she vowed to herself, and her alluring
smile stirred his pulses. Like many big men he was extremely light on
his feet, and Marjorie circled the room with him in complete enjoyment
of the dance. Suddenly her strength deserted her, and she stumbled and
leaned heavily on his arm.
“The heat,” she murmured, as alarmed he bent toward her. “I will be
better in the hall.”
Shielding her from the other dancers, he helped her from the room. The
cooler atmosphere outside revived her somewhat, and she was mumbling
some words of apology into Duncan’s anxious ear when Mrs. Walbridge
hove in sight. Seeing the pair sitting on the stairs, she moved toward
them as rapidly as her avoirdupois permitted. Quickly Duncan explained
the situation to her.
“You poor child,” she said. “Go right upstairs to my bedroom and lie
down. You will find a pitcher of ice water up there, or do you prefer
a glass of champagne?” Marjorie replied in the negative. “Then go
right up, my dear; I’ll be along presently,” and she moved toward the
ballroom.
“Would you like me to go with you?” inquired Duncan anxiously. “Or
shall I ring for a servant?”
“Neither, please. I know the house well, and I’ll be all right after a
short rest. You’ve been very kind,” holding out her hand impulsively.
He held it tightly in both his own for a second, then silently left
her. She watched his tall form out of sight, and sighing started slowly
upstairs.
“Well, Duncan, where have you been hiding?” asked Janet, meeting him on
his return to the ballroom.
“Smoking,” laconically. “Do you want to dance?”
“Of course I do,” with uncompromising honesty. “You haven’t been near
me this evening.”
“I saw you were plentifully supplied with partners,” Duncan suited his
step to Janet’s. “Having a good time?”
“Oh, lovely,” and Janet’s animated face attested the fact. “Where’s
Marjorie?” They had reached the end of the room, and as they made the
turn, a man left the group of stags and placed a detaining hand on
Duncan’s shoulder.
“Brother and sister dancing together,” laughed Barnard. “This will
never do. Split this number with me, Miss Janet?”
“Perhaps I will,” Janet hesitated. “It will serve you right, Duncan;
you’ve neglected me shamefully....” waving a gay farewell she and
Barnard disappeared in the crowd of dancers. Duncan, making his way to
the smoking-room, encountered Pauline, and paused to talk with her.
Barnard, conversing as he danced, finally observed Pauline and Duncan
sitting together. “Your brother had better resign himself to the
inevitable; Miss Calhoun-Cooper has her talons on him,” he laughed.
“You don’t know Duncan,” retorted Janet. “He has a will of his
own.....” An awkward couple cannonaded heavily against her.... “Ouch!”
“Are you hurt?” questioned Barnard in alarm, as Janet came to an abrupt
stop.
“I think that man has lamed me for life,” she groaned. “His heel came
down on my instep.”
“The cow; he needs a ten-acre lot to dance in!” Barnard scowled at the
receding couple. “Hadn’t you better sit down, Janet?”
“Where?” and she glanced despairingly about.
“Come this way,” pointing to the tea-room, and Janet limped after him
to the window recess behind the palms, and settled herself comfortably
on the wide cushioned window-seat. “You must be very tired, my
dearest,” glancing solicitously at her. “The penalty for being the
belle of the ball.”
“You shouldn’t thrust honors upon me,” she laughed.
“There’s nothing too good for you,” he whispered. “No wonder men adore
you; you little darling”--she moved uneasily as his arm slipped around
her waist. “Why won’t you let me speak to your father?”
“Not yet,” she stammered. “A little more time, Chichester----”
Barnard did not conceal his chagrin and disappointment. “So that
you may receive attentions from other men?” he asked, his jealousy
instantly aflame.
“You wrong me,” Janet drew herself away with gentle dignity. “You,
least of all, have no cause for jealousy. Only, Chichester, I must know
my own mind before our engagement is announced.”
“Have it your own way; I am wax in your hands,” he said fondly.
“Hark! there goes the music,” Janet studied her dance card. “It must be
an extra.”
“Good, we’ll sit it out together,” and he took her hand.
“To think tomorrow is Christmas,” said Janet dreamily, a few minutes
later. “Or is it midnight now?” Barnard pulled out his watch, and her
attention was focused on the handsome seal that hung from the gold fob.
“Let me see it, Chichester?”
He seemed not to hear her request. “Only eleven!” he exclaimed. “It
must be later. I believe my watch has stopped. Can you hear any
ticking?” raising it to her ear.
[Illustration: “She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly
took up a diamond sunburst.”]
Upstairs in Mrs. Walbridge’s sumptuously furnished bedroom Marjorie
rested on the lounge in an alcove. Only one electric light over
the dressing-table was turned on, and the semi-darkness of the large
room proved a welcome refuge from the glare and heat downstairs, and
the deadly faintness which had almost overcome Marjorie, gradually
disappeared. An occasional shiver shook her, and she groped about and
pulled up the eiderdown quilt which lay folded at the foot of the
lounge. Through the half-shut door strains of music came faintly,
preventing her from dozing off, and she turned restlessly on her
pillow. Suddenly conscious that her left hand was tightly clenched,
she loosened her cramped fingers, and discovered that she still held
Barnard’s signet ring concealed in her rumpled handkerchief.
At that moment the hall door was pushed gently open, and a young girl
came into the room. Without glancing into the shadows about her, she
moved directly to the dressing-table and stood arranging her hair. As
she halted under the full rays of the light, Marjorie recognized Janet.
She was about to call her by name, when Janet quietly took up a diamond
sunburst from the jewel-box on the dressing-table, and deliberately
pinned it under the folds of lace on her bodice, then glided from the
room as noiselessly as she had entered.
Petrified with astonishment Marjorie, hardly able to believe the
evidence of her senses, remained on the lounge for one long minute;
then collecting her wits, she flung the eiderdown quilt to the floor,
slipped Barnard’s ring inside her bodice, and stole from the room. She
found Janet standing on the outskirts of the large circle of guests
surrounding a Santa Claus, who was distributing gifts from his sack and
a beautifully decorated tree which had been carried into the center of
the ballroom.
“See, Marjorie,” exclaimed Janet, turning at her touch. “Doesn’t the
little man make an adorable Santa?”
“Who is he?” Marjorie wedged herself a little closer to Janet’s side.
“I don’t know; some professional probably. What’s he giving to Captain
Nichols?” peering intently down the room.
Quickly Marjorie seized her opportunity. Her fingers deftly felt among
the laces on Janet’s gown, unfastened the sunburst, and, concealing the
diamond pin in her handkerchief, she fled swiftly upstairs again. On
turning the knob of Mrs. Walbridge’s bedroom door she found it locked,
and startled, leaned trembling against the panels. How was she to
replace the sunburst in the jewel-box if she could not gain admission
to the room?
“My pin, please,” said a cold voice from behind her, and wheeling, she
confronted Mrs. Walbridge. Mechanically Marjorie displayed the sunburst.
“How----?” her voice died in her throat.
“I came up to inquire how you were; found my jewel-box standing open,
the sunburst missing, you gone----” Mrs. Walbridge shrugged her
ponderous shoulders. “I locked my door to prevent a recurrence of----”
she broke off on meeting Marjorie’s uncomprehending stare, and her
harsh voice softened. “My affection for your aunt, Madame Yvonett,
seals my lips, but I shall not receive you again--good-night.”
Taking the sunburst from Marjorie’s nerveless hand, she secured it in
her gown and returned to her guests, while slowly her meaning thrust
itself on the bewildered, frightened girl. Marjorie watched Mrs.
Walbridge in dumb agony; then made a hasty step forward as the older
woman reached the head of the staircase. But a thought stayed her: if
she told the truth she would expose Janet.
Mrs. Walbridge had disappeared inside the ballroom when Marjorie,
clinging tightly to the bannisters for support, made her slow way down
the staircase. She paused an instant on the bottom landing. From the
ballroom came a burst of laughter and round after round of applause,
and Santa Claus, his empty sack slung across his shoulders, and his
cheeks redder than ever, bounded into the square hall. Before dashing
out of the front door, which a footman held open, he turned on his gay
pursuers, and raising his voice above the clamor, called:
“‘A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!’”