GREAT 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.
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, Dimintry Barnard. 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 small house 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 always such 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
National Capital, 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 of no 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. “_What_ a relief!”