“TOUJOURS SANS TACHE”
ON leaving Duncan sitting in his roadster before the apartment house,
Marjorie had every intention of slipping into the Portland through the
drug store. Once safely inside the building she would take refuge in a
friend’s apartment and there fight out her problems alone. The desire
to confide in Duncan, to beg his assistance was overmastering. She
dared not trust herself longer in his presence. In her doubt and agony,
and longing for his sympathy, she might betray her passionate love for
him. A touch of his hand ... one look from his dear eyes.... Marjorie
resolutely kept her face turned toward her goal. Duncan’s affection
for his sister was deep and abiding ... he would never believe evil of
Janet.
Marjorie strangled a sob as she stumbled into the drug store, and for a
second she struggled gamely for composure, but the close atmosphere of
the room combined with her overstrung state, upset her completely. She
stepped appealingly toward the clerk to ask him for a glass of water,
but he was busy with some drugs and did not observe her half-fainting
condition. Swinging dizzily about, she made blindly for the door,
her one instinct to get away from Duncan. With her last remaining
strength she pulled open the heavy door and stepped outside. The cold
fresh air revived her somewhat, but her confusion of mind was added
to by discovering she was standing in busy Fourteenth Street instead
of the quiet lobby of the apartment-hotel. She had walked out of the
wrong door. Before she could retrace her footsteps, Chichester Barnard
stepped to her side.
“What good fairy sent you here?” he exclaimed gaily. “I was just going
back to my office.” His smile was very winning, but Marjorie was too
spent to attempt reply. Her silence claimed his attention, and his
startled eyes swept her livid face in consternation. “Good Heavens!
Marjorie, what are you doing in the street in this condition?” he
turned and hailed a livery carriage from which a passenger had just
alighted. “Engaged?” he inquired of the negro driver.
“No, suh.”
“Jump in, Marjorie,” but she hung back, striving to articulate, then
the world turned black, and she hung limp upon his arm.
Some hours later Marjorie stirred, sat more erect, and rubbed her
eyes and forehead vigorously. The shadows of the late afternoon were
lengthening, and she had some difficulty in focusing the objects about
her, and eyed her unfamiliar surroundings in complete mystification.
“Feeling better, Marjorie?” asked Barnard’s voice from the depths of an
easy chair across the room from her, and he rose and switched on the
electric lamp.
“Where--where--am I?” she demanded. Not pausing for an answer she
picked up a tumbler of cold water standing on a table at her elbow, and
drank thirstily. Her throat felt parched and dry.
“In my rooms,” replied Barnard easily. The tumbler slipped and broke on
the polished floor, as Marjorie faced him.
“How dare you bring me here? Have you no regard for my reputation?”
He changed color at her tone and words, but curbed his own temper
admirably.
“In bringing you here I forgot everyone but the person for whom _you_
show the greatest consideration--Madame Yvonett,” he replied gently,
and a low cry escaped her. “How could I take you to your home looking
more dead than alive? The shock might have killed your aunt.”
“I had not thought of that,” she conceded. “I have a dim recollection
of driving on and on.”
“So we did. I put you in the cab intending to go at once to your
home; then a glimpse of your face convinced me that while you looked
frightfully ill, you were really only suffering from collapse. I told
the coachman to drive up and down the back streets, forced you to drink
a little whiskey which I had in my flask, and that, and the cold wind,
gradually brought you around. These rooms of mine are on the ground
floor, and I slipped you in here unnoticed.”
Marjorie studied him covertly as the events of the morning slowly
recurred to her. Had he been in the Fordyce house when Janet testified
before the Calhoun-Coopers and Mr. Fordyce that she had seen her steal
the pearl necklace?
“Why did you not take me back to the Fordyces?” she asked.
“That occurred to me,” admitted Barnard, “but to be quite frank I
thought that your arriving there with me in the condition you were in
would cause adverse criticism. The same consideration deterred me from
taking you to a hospital.”
“I see,” slowly. “Perhaps you acted for the best, but----”
“I may not have been wise,” he broke in, “but I was greatly alarmed. I
at first feared that you were dead as you lay there in the carriage. At
the thought my whole world crumbled to dust,” his voice vibrated with
emotion. “I never realized how much you were to me until I thought I
had lost you....” he faltered and broke down, moved beyond himself by
his passion. He dropped on his knee beside her--“Best beloved!”
She shrank back under his touch. “Don’t, don’t Chichester,” she
implored. “I am not strong enough for more scenes,” and hysterical
sobs wracked her from head to foot. Barnard stood up and watched her
in growing concern until she regained some semblance of self-control.
“It’s a relief to cry,” she stammered.
“My own sweetheart,” he murmured fondly. “Would to heaven I could bear
your sorrows for you. Won’t you tell me what is troubling you?”
Marjorie paused; would Barnard take her word against Janet’s? Her loyal
trust in him had made her at first slow to believe he was seriously
courting Janet, but once convinced of his double dealing, indignation
and contempt had supplanted all warmer feeling for him. Barnard still
kept up the pretense of his affection for her, but was it likely he
would take her part against Janet? She rose and moved unsteadily
across the room that she might get a better look at him, and study his
expression.
“Sit, here, Marjorie,” Barnard patted the sofa invitingly, but she
declined, and he stepped to her side. “How often have I pictured you
here,” he said softly, glancing about the comfortable room. “Little
girl, I long for you always.”
“Don’t Chichester,” she threw out her hand beseechingly. “Drop this
sham--be honest with me....”
“You doubt me?” in hurt surprise. “You, my darling, for whom I would
sacrifice so much to win!”
“All that is past....”
“It is not,” he broke in vehemently. “I have learned my lesson this
afternoon; I shall never give you up, never.” He spoke as if making an
unalterable vow with himself, and she watched him uneasily. “Give me
a little encouragement, take back your harsh words,” he whispered and
with a movement so swift that she could not avoid it, he slipped his
arm about her waist. Swayed by his physical charm, she permitted him
to draw her closer, but before his lips touched hers, Duncan’s face
leaped out of the shadows of memory, and she pushed Barnard from her.
“Stop!” In her endeavor to render her voice steady, she made it hard.
“I am in no mood for love scenes, Chichester.”
A gleam of fury lighted Barnard’s eyes as he seized her arm.
“Has Duncan Fordyce come between us?” he demanded. “Answer!”
“Have you lost your senses?” Her cold fury matched his blazing wrath.
“I took you for a gentleman; no gentleman browbeats a woman!”
“Will you answer my question?” paying no attention to her gibe.
“What if I say yes?” Marjorie had seldom looked so beautiful; cheeks
pink and eyes bright with feverish excitement. Tall and slim and
graceful, she faced the jealous man with undaunted spirit.
“If I thought you meant it----?” Barnard’s husky whisper barely reached
her ears, but his look of agony smote her, angry as she was.
“Are you the only one who can--flirt?” she asked, half drawn by his
personal magnetism, and half repelled by his manner.
“Is that all?” eagerly. “Are you merely trying to tease me? Oh, it
_must_ be that”--answering his own impetuous question in his anxiety to
trample down his doubts. “A girl must love a man when she steals for
him.”
Marjorie stood frozen; every vestige of color stricken from her face.
“Explain your meaning.” The words were little more than a whisper.
“You destroyed the signed codicil in which Aunt Margaret Lawrence
revoked her bequest to me....”
“Chichester!” Her voice was poignant with outraged feeling. “You dare
to think me a thief!”
“No, no, my darling, only a loyal woman--a woman who has the courage of
her affections--how I love you, Marjorie!” His voice lingered on her
name.
“How you insult me, you mean!” With a violent wrench Marjorie tore
herself free from his grasp, and turning, gathered up her belongings.
“Let me pass,” as he planted himself in front of her.
“Where to?”
“That is no longer your business.”
“Suppose I won’t let you go?”
Marjorie flinched; it was a new Barnard confronting her. Gone was the
suave courtly lover, and in his place stood the primeval man, his baser
passions roused. And she had once believed she cared for him. The
thought stung.
“Drop this melodrama, Chichester,” she said cuttingly. “Your conduct
has effectually killed whatever affection or respect I had for you.”
“You are wrong; I have been too patient with your whims and fancies.
Hereafter I take what I want.” Barnard laughed recklessly. “Women do
not usually refuse me; they like masters.”
“Do not class me with your associates,” she answered with scornful
emphasis. “If you come any nearer me, Chichester, I shall scream for
help.”
“And your reputation will be ruined if you are found here with me,”
mockingly. “Think it over.” She remained silent. “Is it worth the risk?”
“Risk? I am not hesitating on that score,” proudly.
“I forgot your family motto, ‘_Toujours sans tache_’,” he taunted.
“And no bar sinister,” she said, glancing significantly at the
coat-of-arms hanging above the mantel. Barnard winced, she had touched
the vulnerable point in his family history; a history of which he was
inordinately proud except for that single blemish. He threw out his
hands imploringly.
“Think, my darling, before it is too late; can you afford to break with
me?”
“I fail to understand you,” she retorted hotly. “Our so-called
engagement was at an end days ago; I have repeatedly returned your
ring....”
“I decline to accept your refusal,” with forced calmness, and his
expression altered. “Marjorie, I have been mad! Forget all that I have
said; remember only that I love you and you alone. Take back my ring,
my darling.”
“No, never!” she shrank away as he offered it to her. “I _will_ go!”
Barnard stepped instantly aside. “I implore your forgiveness,” he
pleaded desperately. “I deserve all the harsh things you said of me,
dear; but you have never truly loved”--Marjorie’s face changed, ever
so slightly, and she avoided his gaze--“you have never loved,” he
repeated stubbornly, “never known what it is to be tempted. Give me a
chance to win back your good opinion; it is all that I ask--now.”
“It is useless;” Marjorie walked over to the door leading to the outer
hall, and from that safe haven, turned and faced him. “I never wish to
see you again,” she announced with passionate fervor, and opening the
door, dashed into the hall.
Barnard started to follow her, then thinking better of it, returned
to his seat on the sofa and gazed blankly about the room. It seemed
strangely empty without Marjorie, and cursing his lack of self-control
and temper which had frightened her away, he picked up a letter lying
on the table which had escaped his earlier notice. It proved to be
a curt note from Alvord and Alvord informing him that Rear Admiral
Lawrence had brought suit to break his wife’s will. For a long time
Barnard sat inarticulate with rage; two stumbling blocks were in his
way to winning Marjorie for his wife; one, of his own making, and the
other, a law contest. With settled determination to win both he picked
up the evening paper and began to read it.
Once in the street Marjorie set out in the direction of Washington but
she was so unutterably exhausted by all that she had gone through,
that her footsteps lagged and her progress was slow. She was not very
familiar with Georgetown, but had a general idea of the direction she
should take, and keeping an outlook for a passing cab, she staggered
rather than walked along, her heart filled with bitter and hopeless
anguish. She had kept the faith and had been loyal to her benefactress,
but when the guilt of others had been fastened upon her shoulders not
one friend had believed in her innocence. She had still to face Madame
Yvonett. She shivered involuntarily, paused, walked on, paused again,
then turned and staggered off in the direction of the Potomac River.