CHAPTER XXIII He turned his head and his eyes followed Mary's pointing finger. "Mother!" He walked amazedly up before Mrs. De Peyster's palsied figure. "Mother!" In the same instant Judge Harvey was beside her. "Caroline!" he breathed, like one seeing a ghost. "Ye-yes," she mumbled. "Then you're not dead?" "N-no," she mumbled. The Judge and Jack and Mary gazed down at her in uttermost astoundment. To them was added Mr. Pyecroft. His bewilderment, for the moment, was the greatest of the group; for the likeness between the black-garbed, fled Angelica, and this real Mrs. De Peyster in lavender dressing-gown, was more remarkable than he had ever dreamed. "Thank God!" quavered Judge Harvey. And then, voicing the general amazement: "But—but—I don't understand! What has happened? How do you come here?" Mrs. De Peyster, with a shivering glance at them all, and one of particular terror at her recent confederate, Mr. Pyecroft, made a last rally to save herself. "My explanation—that is, all I know about this affair—is really very simple. I—you see—I very unexpectedly returned home—and—and discovered this—this situation. That is all." She gathered a little more courage. "I do not need to inform you that I have been away." "Of course, we know you've been away!" said Jack. "But that Mrs. De Peyster at the pier—who is she?" "She's nothing—but a base—impostor!" cried Olivetta indignantly, lifting her face for a moment from her woe-soaked handkerchief. "Don't you believe a word she says!" "But we're all ready for the ceremony!" exclaimed Jack. "There are a dozen reporters downstairs, and no end of friends are coming from out of town to be present. And that person, whoever she is, will be here—" "I tell you she's an impostor!" cried Olivetta frantically. "Don't you let her in!" "Caroline, I can't tell you how—" Judge Harvey's voice, tremulous with relief at this unbelievably averted tragedy, broke off. "But what are we going to do?" he cried. "Yes, what are we going to do?" echoed Mary. Concern over this new, swiftly approaching crisis for a moment took precedence of all other emotions. Judge Harvey and Mary and Jack gazed at each other, bewildered, helpless. Something had to be done, quick—but what? "I tell you, don't let that impostor in!" repeated the frantic Olivetta. The three continued their interchange of helpless gaze. "Pardon me if I seem to intrude," spoke up the even voice of Mr. Pyecroft. Swiftly, but without appearing to hurry, he stepped to Mrs. De Peyster's writing-desk, and began running through the pages of the telephone book. With terrified apprehension, Mrs. De Peyster watched him: what—what was that terrible man going to do? The telephone was now in his hand, the receiver at his ear. "Central, give me Broad 4900.... Is this the French Line? Then connect me with the manager.... This the manager of the French Line?... I am speaking for Mr. Jack De Peyster, son of Mrs. De Peyster,—you know. Please give orders to the proper authorities to have Mrs. De Peyster held at the dock. Or if she has left, stop her at all cost. There must be no mistake! Further orders will follow. Understand?... Thank you very much. Good-bye." He turned about. "It will be all right," he said quietly. With a wild stare at him, Mrs. De Peyster sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. "She's fainted!" cried Mary. "Her smelling-salts!" "A glass of water!" exclaimed Jack. "No, no," breathed Mrs. De Peyster. But the pair had darted away, Mary into the bedroom, Jack into the bathroom. From the bathroom came a sudden, jangling din like the sheet-iron thunder of the stage. Mary reappeared, fresh amazement on her face. "Somebody's been using the bedroom! The bed's not made, and your clothes are all about!" The next moment Jack rushed in behind her. "What a stack of empty tin cans I kicked into in the bathroom! What the deuce has been going on here?" Mrs. De Peyster looked weakly, hopelessly, at Olivetta. "There's no use trying to keep it up any longer. We—we might as well confess. You tell them, Olivetta." But Olivetta protested into her dripping handkerchief that she never, never could. So it fell to Mrs. De Peyster herself to be the historian of her plans and misadventures—and she was so far reduced that even the presence of Mr. Pyecroft made no difference to her; and as for Mr. Pyecroft, when the truth of the affair flashed upon him, that wide, flexible mouth twisted upward into its whimsicalest smile—but the next instant his face was gravity itself. With every word she grew less and less like the Mrs. De Peyster of M. Dubois's masterpiece. At the close of the long narrative, made longer by frequent outbursts of misery, she could have posed for a masterpiece of humiliation. "It's all been bad enough," she moaned at the end; "what's happened is all bad enough, but think what's yet to come! It's all coming out! Everybody will be laughing at me—oh!—oh!—oh!—" Mrs. De Peyster was drifting away into inarticulate lamentations, when there came a tramping sound upon the stairway. She drew herself up. "What's that?" There was a loud rap upon the door. "I say, Judge Harvey, Mr. De Peyster," called out a voice. "What's all this delay about?" "Who is it?" breathed Mrs. De Peyster. "That infernal Mayfair, and the whole gang of reporters!" exclaimed Jack. "Oh, Jack,—Judge Harvey! Save me! Save me!" "The hour set for the funeral is passed," Mayfair continued to call, "the drawing-room is packed with people, and the body hasn't arrived yet. We don't want to make ourselves obnoxious, but it's almost press-time for the next edition, and we've got to know what's doing. You know what a big story this is. Understand—we've simply got to know!" "Judge—what the devil are we going to do?" breathed Jack. "My God, Caroline, Jack,—this is awful!" Judge Harvey whispered desperately. "We simply can't keep this out of the papers, and when it does get out—" "Oh! Oh!" moaned Mrs. De Peyster. "Judge Harvey," called the impatient Mr. Mayfair, "you really must tell us what's up!" Judge Harvey and Jack and Mary regarded each other in blank desperation; Mrs. De Peyster and Olivetta and Matilda were merely different varieties of jellied helplessness. "Judge Harvey," Mr. Mayfair called again, "we simply must insist!" "Caroline," falteringly whispered Judge Harvey, "I don't see what we—" "Pardon me," whispered Mr. Pyecroft, gently stepping forward among them. Then he raised his voice: "Wait just one minute, gentlemen! You shall know everything!" "Oh, Mr. Pyecroft, don't, don't!" moaned Mrs. De Peyster. "Judge Harvey—Jack—don't let him! Send them away! Put it off! I can't stand it!" But Mr. Pyecroft, without heeding her protest, and unhampered by the others, stepped to Olivetta's side. "Miss Harmon," he whispered rapidly, "did you obey Mrs. De Peyster's instructions on your voyage home? About keeping to your stateroom—about keeping yourself veiled, and all the rest?" "Yes," said Olivetta. "And Mrs. De Peyster's trunks, where are they?" "At the Cunard pier," "What name did you sail under?" "Miss Harriman." In the same instant Mr. Pyecroft had lifted Olivetta to her feet, had drawn from her boneless figure the long traveling-coat of pongee silk, and had drawn the pins from her traveling-hat. Released from his support, Olivetta re-collapsed. In the next instant Mr. Pyecroft had Mrs. De Peyster upon her feet, with firm, deft, resistless hands had slipped the long coat upon her, had put the hat upon her head and pushed in the pins, had drawn the thick veil down over her face—and had thrust her again down into her chair. "Matilda, not a word!" he ordered, in a quick, authoritative whisper. "Miss Harmon, not a word! Mrs. De Peyster, call up your nerve; you'll need it, for you know that Mayfair is the cleverest reporter in Park Row. And now, Mrs. Jack De Peyster,"—for Mary stood nearest the door,—"let them in." Mrs. De Peyster half-rose in ultimate consternation. "Oh, please—please—you're not going to let them in!" "We don't dare keep them out!" Mr. Pyecroft pressed Mrs. De Peyster firmly back into her chair. "Keep your nerve!" he repeated sharply. "Open the door, please,—quick!" Mary cast a questioning glance at Jack, who, bewildered, nodded his consent. She unlocked the door. CHAPTER XXIII MR. PYECROFT TAKES CHARGE The next moment a dozen reporters crowded into the room, the redoubtable Mr. Mayfair at their head; and behind them could be seen the pale, curious faces of William, Miss Gardner, and M. Dubois. Mrs. De Peyster, Olivetta, and Matilda sat in limp despair. Judge Harvey, Jack, and Mary gazed in breathless suspense and wonderment at Mr. Pyecroft. As for Mr. Pyecroft, he stood before Mrs. De Peyster, obscuring her, looking like one who has suffered a severe shock, yet withal grave and composed. "What's up?" demanded the keen-faced Mayfair. "Before I answer that," said Mr. Pyecroft, "permit me to preface what I have to say by touching upon two necessary personal details. First, I believe, at least, you, Mr. Mayfair, have known me as Mr. Simpson, brother of Mrs. De Peyster's housekeeper. I am not her brother. This harmless deception was undertaken, for reasons not necessary to give, at the request of Judge Harvey; he wished me to remain in the house to arrange, and make abstracts of, certain private papers. The second detail is, that I am speaking at the request of Judge Harvey, as his associate and as the representative of the De Peyster family." Judge Harvey felt his collar; Jack stared. But fortunately the room was dim, and the reporters' eyes were all on the grave, candid face of Mr. Pyecroft. "Yes—yes," said the impatient Mayfair. "But out with the story! What's doing?" "Something that I think will surprise you," said Mr. Pyecroft. "Something that has completely astounded all of us—particularly this lady who is Mrs. De Peyster's housekeeper, and Miss Harmon, here, who has just returned from a quiet summer in Maine to attend her cousin's funeral. The fact is, gentlemen, to come right to the point, there is to be no funeral." "No funeral!" cried Mr. Mayfair. "No funeral!" ran through the crowd. "No funeral," repeated Mr. Pyecroft. "The reason, gentlemen, is that a great mistake has been made. Mrs. De Peyster is not dead." "Not dead!" exclaimed the reporters. "If you desire proof, here it is." Mr. Pyecroft, stepping aside, revealed the figure of Mrs. De Peyster. He put his right hand upon her shoulder, gripping it tightly and holding her in her chair, and with his left he lifted the thick veil above her face. "I believe that most of you know Mrs. De Peyster, at least from her pictures." "Mrs. De Peyster!" cried the staggered crowd. "Mrs. De Peyster herself!" "Mrs. De Peyster herself," repeated Mr. Pyecroft in his grave voice. "You are surprised, but not more so than the rest of us." "But that other Mrs. De Peyster—the one the funeral is for?" asked Mr. Mayfair. "Who is she?" "That, gentlemen, is as great a mystery to us as to any of you," said Mr. Pyecroft. "But how the—but how did it all happen?" ejaculated Mr. Mayfair. "That is what I am going to tell you," Mr. Pyecroft answered. Mrs. De Peyster struggled up. "Don't—don't!" she besought him wildly. Mr. Pyecroft pressed her back into her chair, and held her there with an arm that was like a brace of steel. "You see, gentlemen," he remarked sympathetically, "how this business has upset her." "Yes! But the explanation?" "Immediately—word for word, as Mrs. De Peyster has just now told us," said he. "Oh!" moaned Mrs. De Peyster. Olivetta and Matilda gazed at Mr. Pyecroft with ghastly, loose-lipped faces; Judge Harvey and Jack and Mary stared at him with an amazed suspense which they could hardly mask; and Miss Gardner, with whom he had not yet made his peace, breathlessly awaited the next move of this incomprehensible husband of hers. Mr. Pyecroft kept his eyes, for the most part, upon the shrewd, fraud-penetrating features of the unfoilable Mr. Mayfair—his own countenance the most truthful that son of Adam ever wore. "What Mrs. De Peyster has said is really very simple. As you know, she left Paris two or three weeks ago on a long motor trip. During her brief stay in Paris, one of her trunks was either lost or stolen, she is not certain which. As she pays no personal attention to her baggage, she was not aware of her loss for several days. So much is fact. Now we come to mere conjecture. A plausible conjecture seems to be that the gowns in the trunk were sold to a second-hand dealer, and these gowns, being attractive, the dealer must have immediately resold to various purchasers, and one of these purchasers must have—" "Yes, yes! Plain as day!" exclaimed Mr. Mayfair. "The face was unrecognizable," continued Mr. Pyecroft, "but since the gown had sewn into it Mrs. De Peyster's name, of course—" "Of course! The most natural mistake in the world!" cried Mr. Mayfair excitedly. "Go on! Go on!" Mrs. De Peyster had slowly turned a dazed countenance upward and was gazing at the sober, plausible face of her young man of the sea. "Mrs. De Peyster did not learn of what had happened till the day the supposed Mrs. De Peyster was started homeward. The most sensible thing for her to have done would have been to declare the mistake, and saved her family and friends a great deal of grief. But the shock completely unbalanced her. I will not attempt to describe her psychological processes or explain her actions. You may call her course illogical, hysterical, what you like; I do not seek to defend it; I am only trying to give you the facts. She was so completely unnerved—But a mere look at Mrs. De Peyster will show you how the shock unnerved her." The group gazed at Mrs. De Peyster's face. A murmur of sympathy and understanding ran among them. "In her hysterical condition," continued Mr. Pyecroft, "she had but one thought, and that was to get home as quickly as she could. She crossed to England, sailed on the Mauretania, kept to her stateroom, and arrived here at the house heavily veiled about an hour ago. I may add the details that she sailed under the name of Miss Harriman and that her trunks are now at the Cunard pier. There you have the entire story, gentlemen." He looked down at Mrs. De Peyster. "I believe I have stated the matter just as you outlined it to us?" "Ye—yes," breathed Mrs. De Peyster. "There is no detail you would like to add?" "N—none," breathed Mrs. De Peyster. "Then, gentlemen," said Mr. Pyecroft, turning to the reporters, "since you have all the facts, and since Mrs. De Peyster is in a state bordering on collapse, we would take it as a favor if—" "No need to dismiss us," put in Mr. Mayfair. "We're in a bigger hurry to leave than you are to have us go. God, boys," he ejaculated to his fellows, "what a peach of a story!" In a twinkling Mr. Mayfair and his fellows of the press had vanished, each in the direction of a telephone over which he could hurry this super-sensation into his office. Within the room, all were staring at Mr. Pyecroft, as though in each a whirling chaos were striving to shape itself into speech. But before they could become articulate, that sober young gentleman had stepped from out of their midst and, his back to them, was discreetly engrossing himself in the examination of the first object that came to his hands: which chanced to be something lying on top of the exquisite safe—a slender platinum chain with a pendant pearl. With him gone, all eyes fixed themselves upon Mrs. De Peyster, and there was a profound and motionless silence in the room, save at first for some very sincere and vigorous snuffling into the handkerchiefs of Olivetta and Matilda. As for Mrs. De Peyster, she sat below the awesome, imperturbable Mrs. De Peyster of the portrait, and oh, what a change was there in the one beneath!—huddled, shaking, not a duchess-like line to her person, her face dropped forward in her hands. "Mother—" Jack breathed at length. "Caroline!" breathed Judge Harvey. Then added: "I'm sure it—it'll never become known." "Oh, to think it's all over—and we're out of it!" Olivetta cried hysterically. "Oh! Oh!" And she limply pitched sidewise in her chair. "Mees Harmon—Olivetta!" exclaimed M. Dubois. He sprang forward, knelt at her side and supported her wilted figure against his bosom. Upon this poultice to her troubles Olivetta relaxed and sobbed unrestrainedly. And no one, particularly Mrs. De Peyster, paid the least heed to this little episode. William, the coachman, the irreproachable, irreplaceable, unbendable William, his clean-shaven mask of a face now somewhat pale—William took a few respectful paces toward his resurrected mistress. "If you will not regard it as a liberty," said he, with his cadence of a prime minister, "I should like to express my relief and happiness at your restoration among us." "Thank you—William," whispered Mrs. De Peyster. William, having delivered his felicitations, bowed slightly, and started to turn away. But Matilda had stepped forward behind him, an imploring look upon her face. "Please, ma'am,—please, ma'am!" said she, in a tone that left no doubt as to her meaning. "Wait, William," weakly commanded Mrs. De Peyster. William paused. Mrs. De Peyster did not yet know what she was doing; her words spoke themselves. "William, Matilda has—has just confessed your engagement. She has also confessed how, during my—my absence—one night, after driving with you, she—she lost control of herself and seriously offended you. She asks me to apologize to you and tell you how very, very sorry she is." "Indeed, I am, William!" put in Matilda fervently. "It is my wish, William," continued Mrs. De Peyster, "that you should forgive her—and make up things between you—and never speak of that incident again—and be happy and stay with me forever." Matilda timidly slipped an arm through William's. "Forgive me, William!" said she appealingly. William's graven face exhibited a strange phenomenon—it twitched slightly. "Thank you, Mrs. De Peyster," said he. And bowing respectfully, with Matilda upon his arm, he went out. "Well, Mary, I guess we'd better be going, too," said Jack, taking his wife's hand. "Mother,"—respectfully, yet a little defiantly,—"I'm sorry that Mary and I have by our trespassing caused you so much inconvenience. But Mary and I and our things will be out of the house within an hour. Good-bye." "Wait, Jack!" Mrs. De Peyster reached up a trembling hand and caught his sleeve. "Olivetta," said she, "perhaps you and your—your fiancé could find—another place for your confidences." "Oh!" exclaimed Olivetta, starting up with a flush. "Cousin Caroline, do you mean—" Mrs. De Peyster lifted an interrupting hand. "Do as you like, but tell me about it later." As the pair went out, Mrs. De Peyster slowly raised herself up and stood gazing for a moment at her son. And that strange new force which had menaced her with eruption during all the days of her hiding, and which these last few minutes had been pulsing upward toward orgasm, was now become resistless. It was as though a crust, a shell, were being burst and being violently shed. She thrilled with an amazing, undreamed-of, expanding warmth. "Do you really—want to—leave me, Jack?" she whispered. "I have been invited to leave," said he, "but I have never been invited to come back." With a timidity, shot through with tingling daring, she slipped an arm about his shoulders. "Then I invite you," she said tremulously. "Won't you stay, Jack?" "And Mary?" said he. She looked about at her dark-eyed daughter-in-law. "If Mary will stay, too, I'll—I'll try not to act like my petrified family tree." "What! Was that you that day?" gasped the horrified Mary. Mrs. De Peyster slipped her other arm about Mary, and daringly she kissed Mary's fresh young cheek, and she drew the two tightly, almost convulsively, to her. "Mother!" cried Jack; and the next instant the two pairs of arms were about her. And thus they stood for several moments; until— "Caroline," broke in the unsteady but determined voice of Judge Harvey, "I told you I was going to propose to you again. And I'm going to do it right now. Please consider yourself proposed to." She looked up—shamefaced, flushing. "What, after the foolish woman I've—" "If you were ever foolish, you were never less a fool than now!" "I don't know about that," she quavered, "but anyhow I want you to straighten out my affairs—and—and Allistair, for all I care, can have—can have—for I'm all through—" "Caroline!" The next moment Judge Harvey's arms had usurped complete possession of her. And she wilted away upon his shoulder, and sobbed there. And thus for several moments.... They were aroused by a polite cough. Both looked up. Halfway to the door stood Mr. Pyecroft; and beside him was Miss Gardner, gazing at him, tremulously bewildered. "Pardon me," said he, in his grave manner; nothing was ever seen less suggestive of having ever smiled than his face—"pardon me, Judge Harvey, but I believe you failed to mention at what time your office opens." "What time my office opens?" Judge Harvey repeated blankly. "Why?" "Naturally," said Mr. Pyecroft, "I wish to know at what hour I am supposed to report for work." "Well—Well—" But for a moment Judge Harvey could get out no more. He just stared. Then in a voice of dryest sarcasm: "Would you consider it impudent on my part—I wouldn't be impudent for the world, you know—to inquire what might be your real name? I have heard you variously called Mr. Simpson, Mr. Preston, Mr. Pyecroft. Perhaps you have a few other aliases ." "I have had—yes. My real name is Eliot Endicott Bradford. That name has the advantage of never having appeared in any complaint or police report. For that matter, I may add that under none of my names have I ever been arrested. Eliot Bradford is a man against whom no legal fault can be found." "A testimonial from you," exclaimed the Judge—"what could possibly be better!" "But the hour?" gently insisted the other. Judge Harvey stared; his eyes narrowed. Then, suddenly— "Nine-thirty," said he. "Thank you, sir," said Mr. Bradford; and slipped a hand through Miss Gardner's arm. But before he could turn to go, Mrs. De Peyster, from over the shoulder against which she leaned—Mrs. De Peyster, she couldn't help it ... smiled at him. And, suddenly, Judge Harvey—he couldn't help it, either ... was smiling, too. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NO. 13 WASHINGTON SQUARE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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