THE STORM CENTER
MADAME YVONETT, knitting industriously as she sat in the bow window of
her small parlor, watched a smart victoria drive up to the curb and
stop before her door. There was no one in the carriage, and thinking
the coachman had made a mistake in the number of the house, she was
about to ring for Minerva when that dusky maid-of-all-work appeared in
the doorway, dressed in hat and coat.
“’Scuse me, madam,” she said respectfully. “Hab Miss Rebekah come in?”
“Not yet,” Minerva’s face fell; she had received strict orders from
Marjorie never to leave Madame Yvonett alone in the house. “I am
expecting her to return at any moment. Does thee wish to go out?”
“Yass’m; Miss Rebekah done tole me she’d be back by three, so’s I could
go to George Henry’s funeral at fo’ o’clock.”
Madame Yvonett glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to twenty
minutes past three. “Don’t wait any longer,” she directed kindly. “I
will watch for Miss Rebekah and let her in when she comes.”
Minerva wavered between desire and her sense of responsibility.
“I done locked de kitchen do’, an’ all de winders in de basement,” she
volunteered hopefully. “Miss Rebekah kain’t be much longer.”
“Thee must not wait,” and Madame Yvonett’s tone of decision removed
Minerva’s doubts. “I have the telephone if I require aid. On thy way
out, Minerva, tell the coachman he is stopping at the wrong house.”
“No, madam, he ain’t,” protested Minerva hastily. “George Henry
b’longed ter my burial sassiety, an’ dey sent a kerrage ter take me ter
de funeral.”
“A victoria, Minerva?” Madame Yvonett’s astonishment keyed her voice to
a higher pitch.
“Yass’m.” Minerva’s smile of satisfaction showed every tooth in her
head. “De burial committee axed me what I done want, an’ I tole dem
I wished one ob dem ‘lay backs.’ I’se allus hoped ter ride in one
like white folks; ye see, poverty ain’t no disgrace, but it’s mighty
onconvenient. I’ll be hyar in time ter get supper, madam.” And she
departed hastily, fearing Madame Yvonett might change her mind and
insist on her staying until Miss Rebekah Graves returned.
Madame Yvonett chuckled softly to herself as she watched Minerva enter
the victoria and drive off in state. The victoria, with its triumphant
occupant, had hardly turned into K Street, before Madame Yvonett
descried Miss Rebekah Graves trudging across Franklin Park, intent on
taking the shortest cut home. The Quakeress was at the front door to
meet her when she reached the steps.
“Do not trouble to go to thy room to remove thy wraps, Becky,” she
said. “Take them off here, and come into the parlor, it is the warmest
room in the house. Thee must be cold,” eyeing the pinched lips and red
nose of the spinster with much sympathy.
Miss Rebekah sniffed as she inspected the narrow confines of the small
hall, and compromised the matter by walking into the dining-room and
leaving her hat and coat there. On entering the parlor she found Madame
Yvonett had resumed her knitting, and she paused a moment to smooth
back several gray locks in the severe style which she affected to dress
her hair.
“Did thee find affairs satisfactory at the Home?” questioned Madame
Yvonett.
“I did not,” seating herself near Madame Yvonett. “Two girls whom the
matron rescued, have returned to their wicked ways.”
“If thee made virtue less detestable, Becky, thee would have more true
converts.”
“You are entirely too lax in your views,” retorted Miss Rebekah,
nettled by her cousin’s criticism. “I warned you years ago that evil
would come if you indulged Marjorie too much.”
“Thee did thy best to warn me, Becky,” admitted the Quakeress, taking
no pains to conceal her amusement. “I give thee credit for plain
speaking.”
“I fear your reward will be less.” Miss Rebekah’s temper had been
sorely tried by the long ride in the cold wind, and like many another
she ached to vent her ill-humor on some one. “Marjorie has fallen from
the path of rectitude and honor.”
“Rebekah!” Madame’s steel knitting needles were not as bright as the
flash in her eyes as she regarded the irate spinster. “Take heed to
what thee says; my patience is small this afternoon.”
“I mean exactly what I say. Did Marjorie tell you she was discharged by
Admiral Lawrence?”
The Quakeress laid down her needles. “No.”
“Ah, I thought she would not dare.”
“Explain thyself, Rebekah.”
“I met Admiral Lawrence this morning; he asked me to acquaint you with
the fact that he discharged Marjorie for stealing”--Madame Yvonett’s
hand sought her heart as if to still its sudden throb, and her face
went gray--“for stealing a codicil to his wife’s will in which Mrs.
Lawrence disinherited Chichester Barnard,” finished Miss Rebekah, her
small triumph blinding her to the agony she had inflicted on her aged
kinswoman. Had not Marjorie’s “going wrong” fulfilled her prophecy?
She had always been jealous of Madame Yvonett’s affection for her
greatniece, and had treasured each careless action and thoughtless
word Marjorie had been guilty of to her, the better to nurse her spite
against the young girl. But Admiral Lawrence, in asking her to break
the news of the codicil’s loss, his suspicions, and proposed legal
action to Madame Yvonett, had placed a double-edged sword in her hand.
Ever ready to believe evil of her fellowmen and women, the spinster
never doubted that Madame Yvonett would instantly credit Admiral
Lawrence’s charge against Marjorie.
“Thee is mad; quite mad!” gasped the Quakeress, as soon as she
recovered her breath. “I am surprised thee dares to come to me with
such lies!”
“Lies? Do you doubt Admiral Lawrence’s word?” Miss Rebekah’s eyes were
round with wonder.
“Of course I doubt it. Does thee think for one moment I would
believe ill of my Marjorie?” Her fine voice trembled with passionate
intentness. “Thee is madder than I first supposed, Rebekah.” The
spinster quailed before her scorn. “Answer the front door, the bell has
been ringing for some moments; then thee can go to thy room and pack
thy trunk.”
Confused by the way her news had been received, the spinster backed
hastily out of the room, tears streaming down her face. But Madame
Yvonett did not weep; the wound her cousin had inflicted was too deep
to be healed so easily. With tightly compressed lips and flashing
eyes she sat straight in her high back chair, listening to a spirited
argument that was taking place in the hall. Suddenly the portières
parted and a handsome young woman, dressed in the extreme of fashion,
stepped into the room, followed by the protesting spinster.
“Are you Madame Yvonett?” she inquired of the Quakeress. “I am Miss
Calhoun-Cooper. I called to see your niece, Marjorie Langdon. This
person”--indicating Miss Rebekah with a rude tilt of her head,
“informs me she is not here.” The spinster’s face was a study as she
glared at Pauline.
“Thee has been told the truth,” answered the Quakeress, inspecting her
visitor with interest. “My niece is not here.”
“Ah, it’s as I suspected; she’s made a quick get-away!” exclaimed
Pauline.
“Thy manners leave much to be desired, and thy speech more so,” replied
Madame Yvonett with gentle dignity. “If thee will express thyself
in correct English, I may be able to understand thee and answer thy
remark.”
“Indeed?” sneered Pauline, her desire to hurt stirred by the merited
rebuke. “Then, in plain English--your niece is a thief, and she has run
away with my mother’s pearl necklace.”
Madame Yvonett sat immovable under the blow; not by the flicker of an
eyelash did she show the agony she was enduring. Miss Rebekah, quite
unaware that she had left the front door wide open, stood enthralled,
watching the scene.
“Thee has made a statement which I can both understand and refute,”
said Madame Yvonett slowly. “My niece would never stoop to such
dishonorable actions as thee accuses her of----”
“She will have a chance to clear herself of the charge in a criminal
court, _if_ she can,” broke in Pauline with brutal frankness. “My
mother and I are quite determined to push the matter to the end.”
“Thy determination is as nothing compared to mine,” retorted Madame
Yvonett. “Marjorie’s innocence will be proved, and those who have
traduced her shall suffer.”
“Threats don’t bother me,” Pauline shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
“Janet Fordyce saw Marjorie Langdon steal the necklace from
mother”--Madame Yvonett swayed backward; then by a supreme effort,
recovered from the deadly faintness which threatened to overcome her.
“The Fordyces acknowledge her guilt, and have turned her out of their
house.”
“The more shame to them.” The Quakeress rose abruptly to her feet, her
eyes blazing with pent-up wrath. “I care not who accuses my niece--she
is innocent of all wrong-doing; and so I will contend with my feeble
strength and wit before the world”--in spite of every effort, she
was trembling from head to foot. “My feet are already turned toward
Eternity, but God will spare me to right so monstrous an injustice
against an upright, honorable girl, whose only crime is poverty.”
Pauline’s unpleasant laugh was checked by the sudden entrance of a tall
man who brushed her unceremoniously to one side.
“Madame Yvonett,” said Duncan clearly. “I share your faith in
Marjorie----” A low cry burst from the Quakeress, and tears, which no
jeer of Pauline’s had been able to call forth, rushed to her eyes.
Blindly she caught Duncan’s strong hand and held it close in her
trembling fingers. “Marjorie was not turned out of my father’s house,
but left of her own accord,” continued Duncan. “Why this young lady
should maliciously distort facts”--Pauline changed color as she met his
contemptuous gaze--“she alone can explain.”
“You are very unjust,” protested Pauline. “I was but quoting Janet; I
did not realize your sister’s word was--unreliable.”
But the gibe passed unnoticed except by Paul Potter, who had entered
a few minutes before with Duncan, and remained standing in the hall.
On their arrival they had found the front door wide open, and had been
unintentional listeners to Pauline’s charges against Marjorie; the
girl’s penetrating voice having carried each word to them with absolute
distinctness.
“I hoped, Madame Yvonett, that this misunderstanding in which your
niece is involved, would not reach your ears,” said Duncan. “I am sure
if Miss Calhoun-Cooper pauses to reflect, she will say nothing further
on the subject to anyone.”
Pauline had indeed been thinking rapidly. It was one thing to brow-beat
Madame Yvonett, quite another to antagonize so influential a family as
the Fordyces. Her social ambitions might easily be nipped in the bud if
Duncan pursued his quixotic course and persuaded his parents to drop
the Calhoun-Coopers from their acquaintance. Quickly she decided to
modify her tone.
“Of course I will not mention the matter to outsiders,” she said. “But
mother and I will listen to no compromise unless the pearl necklace is
given back.”
“Thee must go elsewhere for thy pearls,” declared Madame Yvonett
undauntedly. Tom’s account of the loss of his coin flashed into her
mind. “Why does thee not question thy brother about the pearls?”
“What need?” but Pauline’s fingers clenched in her muff as she
put the contemptuous question. “Miss Fordyce’s testimony is most
convincing--she saw Miss Langdon steal the necklace.”
“One moment,” interrupted Duncan. “My mother, Miss Calhoun-Cooper, will
make good your loss, if necessary; but first,” his voice deepened--“I
shall take steps to clear Miss Langdon of this preposterous charge, and
bring the real thief to book.”
Madame Yvonett’s expressive look thanked him; then she faced Pauline.
“Thee came uninvited to my house; thee has shown me more discourtesy
than I have ever met with before--considering the source I am hardly
surprised.” Pauline shrank back as she met the beautiful, scornful
eyes. “Thee has dared to besmirk my niece’s character; for that I will
never forgive thee. Thee may go.”
“Oh, very well,” and tossing her head, Pauline left the room and house,
banging the front door shut with a violence that shook windowpanes and
pictures.
There was a moment’s silence; then Madame Yvonett turned back to
Duncan. “How can I ever thank thee?” she murmured brokenly.
“By letting me see Miss Langdon,” taking her out-stretched hand.
“But Marjorie is not here--I have not seen her since yesterday.”
Duncan gazed incredulously at her, then a worried expression crossed
his face. “Do you mean she has not been here at all today?”
“Yes.”
“But she told me when I met her she was coming straight here,” he
protested. “She left me, for some unknown reason, at the Portland Drug
Store and, I supposed, returned here.”
“At what hour was that?” demanded Madame Yvonett, growing a shade paler.
“About twenty minutes past one.”
“Did she have any clothes with her?”
“No, she only carried a hand-bag. Janet told me before I left the house
that her things were still in her room.”
“Did Marjorie seem distraught?” Madame Yvonett moistened her dry lips,
a new terror tugging at her heart-strings.
“No, only nervous.” The answer was reassuring, but Duncan’s manner was
not, and with a low moan of anguish Madame Yvonett sank unconscious to
the ground.
Paul Potter sprang to Duncan’s assistance, and the two men, under Miss
Rebekah’s frightened guidance, carried Madame Yvonett to her room. Once
there the skilled physician took entire charge, and to Duncan’s immense
relief, the Quakeress soon revived under his treatment. Potter followed
Duncan as he tiptoed out into the upper hall.
“Don’t wait around any longer,” he whispered. “I’ll stay here with
Madame Yvonett until her regular physician arrives and the trained
nurse you sent for. Do you still wish me to dine with you tonight?”
“Of course; don’t fail me,” in some alarm. “I must have a long talk
with you. Janet refuses to call off her dinner tonight, and father
backs her up. Mother’s not strong enough today to be dragged into the
discussion, or I would soon put an end to the affair. Look here, Paul,”
drawing out a well-filled wallet and thrusting a handful of bills into
his friend’s hand. “See that Madame Yvonett wants for nothing.”
“I will,” promised Potter, and disappeared inside the sick-room.
Miss Rebekah was sitting disconsolately in the lower hall as Duncan
made his way to the front door.
“How is Madame Yvonett?” she asked eagerly.
“She has regained consciousness and is resting quietly”--the spinster’s
face lighted with relief. “You can trust absolutely to Dr. Potter,”
added Duncan. “He will remain until Madame Yvonett’s family physician
arrives.”
“Thank you, thank you both,” stammered Miss Rebekah incoherently. “What
should I have done without you!”
“That’s all right,” replied Duncan soothingly. “Will you do me a very
great kindness, Miss Graves?”
“Surely.”
“Then telephone me the instant Miss Langdon returns. My number
is”--drawing out his visiting-card and writing the figures upon it.
“You won’t forget?”
“No, indeed,” and Miss Rebekah sped upstairs as Duncan opened the front
door.
Barely glancing at the children and nurses in the park, he strode
through Franklin Square and along K Street absorbed in dismal
reflections. After discovering Marjorie’s disappearance from the
drug store that morning, he had returned at once to his home deeply
puzzled by her behavior. On his arrival his father had called him into
the library and recounted the charge made against Marjorie by the
Calhoun-Coopers, Janet’s damning testimony, and Marjorie’s flight. He
had listened in stony silence, refusing to make any comment, and after
luncheon had retired to his room. Harassed by conflicting theories, he
finally rebelled against submitting longer to discouraging idleness,
and seizing the telephone, had sent an urgent message to Paul Potter to
meet him at the Metropolitan Club and go with him to Madame Yvonett’s.
He felt an overwhelming desire to see Marjorie, to make her face the
issue squarely and refute, if she could, the damning evidence against
her. Anything was better than the uncertainty he was undergoing.
Duncan stopped dead in his tracks. Should he go to the police and
report Marjorie’s disappearance? Pshaw! he was a fool; the girl could
have come to no harm in broad daylight in peaceful Washington. She
was probably sitting in some hotel, or walking the streets trying to
make up her mind to go home and tell Madame Yvonett that she had been
accused of being a thief. Surely any girl might be excused for putting
off breaking such a piece of news to a delicate old lady? And yet,
would it not be natural for her to rush to a near and dearly-loved
relative for consolation and advice? Duncan shook his head in deep
bewilderment. Flight was usually tacit admission of guilt. He was so
deep in thought that he never observed an older man approaching down
the street who, on seeing him, quickened his footsteps.
“Well, Duncan,” and Admiral Lawrence paused in front of him. “So you
received my note.”
“Note?” Duncan shook his head. “No, sir, I’ve had no note from you.”
“Oh, I thought you were on your way to see me in answer to it,” replied
the Admiral thoughtfully. “I have filed suit to break the will.”
“You are very unwise, sir,” Duncan’s eyes expressed his indignation.
“That remains to be seen. Do you still propose to defend Miss Langdon?”
“I do,” with quiet finality. “Who is residuary legatee?”
“I am.”
“Then you benefit by the signing of that codicil?”
“Certainly; what then?”
“Chichester Barnard can easily retaliate by charging you with using
undue influence in persuading his aunt to revoke her bequest to him.”
The Admiral choked with wrath. “One hundred thousand dollars--um!--men
have done much to gain that sum. How do I know you haven’t trumped up
this codicil charge against Marjorie Langdon as a means to break the
will?”
“D--mn my soul!” stormed the Admiral, getting back his breath. “D’ye
think I’m a dirty blackguard? My lawyer, Alvord, who drew up the
codicil on October 31, is waiting to see me; come on in and interview
him now.”
“Where do you live?”
“In that house on the corner.” As Duncan’s gaze swept over the
unpretentious red-brick, stone-trimmed residence, his eyes encountered
those of a darky butler who was anxiously regarding them from the open
doorway. The chords of memory were touched, and a mental picture rose
before Duncan’s eyes. Abruptly he swung back to the Admiral.
“You say the codicil was drawn and signed on October 31; when did you
first discover its loss?”
“The morning of November first....”
“Let us go in and see Alvord,” interrupted Duncan, a strange light in
his eyes. Without further words the Admiral led the way to the English
basement house.
“Mr. Alvord’s been awaitin’ mos’ an hour, suh,” explained the butler,
assisting them off with their overcoats. “He axed me ter watch out an’
ax yo’ ter hurry, ’cause he’s awful busy.”
“Very well, Sam; where is Mr. Alvord?”
“In de lib’ry, suh.”
“This way, Duncan,” and the Admiral piloted his guest to the pleasant
room where Marjorie had spent so many hours. An elderly man rose on
their entrance. “Sorry to have kept you, Alvord,” apologized the
Admiral. “This is Mr. Duncan Fordyce. Kindly tell him in detail of the
signing of the codicil to my wife’s will.”
Alvord glanced in some astonishment at his client; then followed his
request, and Duncan listened with close attention as he described
having Marjorie typewrite the codicil, making two copies, and the
signing of the original copy by Mrs. Lawrence.
“Admiral Lawrence requested me to leave the signed codicil here, and
instructed Miss Langdon to place it in the safe,” he ended. “I gave her
the paper....”
“Could you take your solemn oath that you gave her the _signed_ copy?”
“I am willing to swear that to the best of my recollection I gave her
the signed codicil....”
“That’s an equivocation,” challenged Duncan promptly.
“Well, what difference does it make? Only the unsigned codicil turned
up next morning. I left a codicil, signed or unsigned, on this
desk--she could have stolen it a deal easier from the desk.”
“Exactly where did you place the paper?” questioned Duncan.
“On this side of the desk nearest the window,” Alvord indicated the
spot with his hand.
“You dare not swear that you handed Miss Langdon the signed codicil
because you _fear_ you gave her the unsigned one,” taunted Duncan.
“Wait,” as the harassed lawyer started to interrupt him. “You did
hand Miss Langdon the unsigned copy, however, which was found in the
safe--therefore her responsibility in the matter ends.”
“Hold hard,” broke in the Admiral heatedly. “As Alvord says, Marjorie
could have stolen the signed codicil off the desk; she was the last
person to leave this room that evening, and I the first to enter in the
morning--and the codicil was not on the desk.”
“You were not the _first_ person to enter this room that morning,”
contradicted Duncan. “Ask your butler to step here a moment.”
The Admiral hesitated, but Duncan’s earnest manner solved his doubt,
and he rang for his servant.
“Come in, Sam,” he directed as the butler rapped on the door.
“Sam,” began Duncan slowly. “Why have you never told Admiral Lawrence
that you knocked a valuable paper off his desk with your feather duster
and out of the open window?”
“Fo’ Gawd! boss, how’d yo’ know ’bout dat?” Sam turned ashy.
“I was passing the house and saw the paper sail through the window into
the gutter where the water carried it down the sewer. This was the
morning of my arrival in Washington, Admiral--November first.”
The Admiral stared speechlessly at Duncan, then wheeled on his
frightened servant. “Why did you never tell me of this?”
“’Cause yo’ never axed me ’bout de paper; ef yo’ had I’d a telled yer,”
protested Sam. “When yo’ didn’t say nuffin’ I thought de paper wasn’t
no ’count.”
“Go downstairs, you rascal!” thundered the Admiral, and Sam, glad to
escape, disappeared from the room. “Well, Alvord, what d’ye think?”
The lawyer tugged at his mustache. “What is your theory, Mr. Fordyce?”
he asked, passing on the Admiral’s question.
“That you gave the unsigned codicil to Miss Langdon who, following
instructions, placed it in the safe where the Admiral found it the next
morning. Sam knocked the signed paper into the gutter, and it went down
the sewer.”
“Could you make out any writing on the paper as it fell, Mr. Fordyce?”
“Unfortunately, no; the paper resembled an ordinary letter size
typewriting sheet, folded three times. It spread open and fell writing
down.”
“The codicil was written on ordinary typewriting paper such as you
describe,” admitted Alvord. “It was the only kind Miss Langdon had
here. Still, that’s slim proof to back your theory, Mr. Fordyce.”
“But it will hold,” Duncan’s elation could be read in his animated
expression and excited manner. “I’m willing to face any court, and I’ll
win my case....”
“And that scamp, Chichester Barnard, will win his hundred thousand
after all,” groaned the Admiral.