THE HAPPY FAMILY
He nodded at the two with an air of deep fraternal affection. And
again he gazed with satisfaction about the spacious apartment,
indicative of numberless other rooms of corresponding comfort.
His eyes came back to them.
"And now, Matilda, my dear," he resumed, with his pleasant smile, "in
the event we spoke of,--neighbors or police dropping in, you know,--in
such a case I suppose I ought to be prepared with a correct history of
myself. To begin with, might I inquire what our name is?--our family
name, I mean."
"Simpson."
"Simpson. Ah, yes; very good. Matilda Simpson--Angelica Simpson--and,
let us say, Archibald Simpson. And where was I born, Matilda?"
"You weren't ever born," protested Matilda with frightened
indignation.
"Now don't be facetious or superfluous, sister dear," he said
soothingly. "Granted for the sake of argument I wasn't ever born. But
where might I have been born?"
"I was born near Albany."
"Near Albany is perfectly agreeable to me," said Mr. Pyecroft. "And
how many are there in our family?"
"Just Angelica and me."
"Then there really is an authentical Angelica?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. And our parents?"
"They died when I was a child."
"I'm grieved, indeed, to learn of it," said Mr. Pyecroft. "But I'll
admit it simplifies matters; there's less to remember. Angelica,
our sister here, who is also visiting you, lives near Syracuse I
understood some one to say. Married or single?"
"Married," Matilda choked out.
"Her married name?"
"Jones."
"Angelica Simpson Jones. Good. Very euphonious. And how many little
nieces and nephews am I the happy uncle of?"
"She--she has no children."
"That's too bad, for I have a particular fondness for children,"
sorrowed Mr. Pyecroft. "Still, that also simplifies matters, lessening
considerably the percentage of chances for regrettable lapses of
memory."
He pursued his genealogical inquiries into all possibly useful
details. And then he sat meditative for a while, gazing amiably about
his family circle. And it was while they were all thus sitting silent,
in what in the dim light of the one shaded electric bulb might have
seemed to an observer the silence of intimacy, that Jack, who had
slipped cautiously downstairs, walked in, behind him Mary.
"Matilda, what's this mean?" he demanded, with a bewildered look.
"We've been wondering why you didn't come upstairs."
Mrs. De Peyster turned in her chair, and held her breath, like one
beneath the guillotine. Matilda arose, shaking.
"Who's this man, Matilda?" Jack continued.
"He--ah--er--he's--"
"And, pray, Matilda, who is this?" politely inquired the arisen Mr.
Pyecroft, blandly assuming command of the situation.
"Who am I? Well, you certainly have nerve--" the astounded Jack was
beginning.
"He's Mr. Jack," Matilda put in. "Jack De Peyster."
"Ah, young Mr. De Peyster!" Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up slightly
and a shrewd light flashed into his rounded eyes and was at once gone,
and again his face was blandly clerical. "It is, indeed, a pleasure
to meet you, Mr. De Peyster. And, pray, who is this?" with a suave
gesture toward Mary.
"That, sir, is my wife!" Jack announced, stiff with anger.
Again Mr. Pyecroft's eyes flashed shrewdly, and again were clerically
rounded.
"My dear sir, that is, indeed, surprising. I have seen no public
notice of your marriage. And I watch the marriage announcements
quite closely--which is rather natural, for, if I may be permitted
to mention it, I myself am frequently called upon to perform the holy
rites." His face clouded with what seemed a painful suspicion. "I
trust, sir, that you are really married?"
"Why, damn you--"
"Sir, you must not thus address the cloth!" sternly interposed Mr.
Pyecroft. "It is our duty to speak frankly, and to make due inquiry
into the propriety of such relations. However, since you say so, I am
sure the affair is strictly correct." His voice softened, became nobly
apologetic. "No harm has been meant, and if any offense has been felt,
I assure you of my deepest regrets."
"See here, who the devil are you?" demanded Jack.
Mr. Pyecroft turned to Matilda.
"Matilda, my dear, will you kindly tell young Mr. De Peyster who I
am."
Matilda seemed about to choke. "He's--he's my--my brother."
"Your brother!" exclaimed Jack, "I didn't know you had a brother. You
never spoke of one."
"Which was entirely natural," said Mr. Pyecroft, with an air of pious
remorse. "Matilda has been ashamed to speak of me. To be utterly
frank--and it is meet that one who has been what I have been should be
humble and ready to confess--for many years I was the black sheep of
the family, my name unmentioned. But sometime since I was snatched a
brand from the burning; I have remained silent about myself until I
could give to my family, which had properly disowned me, a long record
to prove my reformation. I am now striving by my devotion to make some
amends for my previous shortcomings."
Jack stared incomprehensibly at this unexpected clerical brother of
Matilda's, with his unquenchable volubility. Mr. Pyecroft gazed back
with appropriate humility, yet with a lofty self-respect.
Jack turned away with a shrug, and pointed at the dark figure of Mrs.
De Peyster.
"And who is that, Matilda?"
"That, sir," put in Mr. Pyecroft quickly, easily, to forestall any
blunder by the hapless Matilda--and deftly interposing himself between
Jack and Mrs. De Peyster, "that is our sister."
"The one who lives in Syracuse?"
"Yes; and she is indisposed," said Mr. Pyecroft. "Our sister Angelica
Simpson Jones," he elaborated. "Matilda is the eldest, I am the
youngest; there are just us three children."
"And might I ask, Matilda, without intending discourtesy," said Jack,
eyeing Mr. Pyecroft with disfavor, "how long your brother and sister
intend to remain?"
"Matilda invited us for the summer," said Mr. Pyecroft apologetically.
"For the summer!" repeated Jack in dismay. Then he spoke to Matilda,
caustically: "I suppose it's all right, Matilda, but has it been your
fixed custom, when we've been away for the summer, to fill the house
with your family?"
"Please, Mr. Jack, please," imploringly began Matilda, and could utter
nothing further.
"Great God!" Jack burst out in exasperation. "Not that I'd object
ordinarily to your relatives being here, Matilda. But running this
place just now as a hotel, who knows but it may let out the fact that
we're here!"
Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up--ever so little.
"Ah, I understand. You wish your presence in the house to be a
secret."
"Of course! Hasn't Matilda told you?"
"I only just arrived. She hasn't had time. But of course she would
have done so. You are--ah"--his tone was delicate--"evading the
police?"
"The police! We don't care a hang about the police, though, of course,
we don't want them to know. It's the infernal reporters we care
about."
"The reporters?" softly pursued Mr. Pyecroft.
"Yes, but one reporter in particular--a beast by the name of Mayfair,
I've had a tip that he suspects something; already he's tried to get
into the house as a gas-meter inspector."
At the mention of that indomitable, remorseless, undeceivable
newsgatherer, Mayfair, and the possibility of his gaining entrance
into the house, Mrs. De Peyster experienced a new shudder.
"What would be the harm if Mr. Mayfair did get in?" Imperceptibly
prodded Mr. Pyecroft. "He would merely write a piece about you for his
paper."
"And his confounded piece, or the main facts in it, would be cabled to
Europe!"
"Ah, I think I see," said Mr. Pyecroft. "Mrs. De Peyster would read
about your marriage in the Paris 'Herald' or some other European
paper. You do not wish your mother to know of your marriage--yet."
"I supposed Matilda had already told you that," said Jack.
"Ah, so that is why you are here in hiding," said Mr. Pyecroft, very
softly, chiefly to himself; and his eyes had another momentary flash,
only brighter than any heretofore, and his mouth twitched upward, and
he pleasantly rubbed his hands.
At that moment, from the stairway, came the sound of descending steps.
Jack and Mary appeared undisturbed. Mr. Pyecroft became taut, though
no one could have observed a change, Mrs. De Peyster quivered with yet
deeper apprehension. Would the trials and tribulations and Pharaonic
plagues never cease descending on her!
Matilda gazed wildly at Jack. "Who's that?" she quavered.
"Only Uncle Bob," Jack answered carelessly.
Only Uncle Bob! Mrs. De Peyster, in her dim corner, tried to shrivel
up into yet darker obscurity. Breathlessly she felt herself upon the
precipitous edge of ultimate horror. For Judge Harvey--Judge Harvey
of all persons--to be the one to discover her amid her humiliating
circumstances!
Dimly she heard Jack talk on, explaining in casual tone: "You know,
Matilda, Uncle Bob has always had the general oversight of the house
when it's been closed during summers; and he's always made it his
business to drop in occasionally to see that everything's all right.
I got him word we were here, and he dropped in this evening to call
on us--and along came this awful rain and we coaxed him to stay the
night. Uncle Bob and you are lucky, Matilda, you can both come and go
without arousing any suspicion."
Only the Judge!... Yet, for all her horror, a new phase of the general
predicament filtered into such consciousness as she now possessed.
Judge Harvey, irate purchaser of autograph letters, and Mr. Pyecroft,
_alias_ Thomas Preston, profuse producer of the same, were under the
same roof and were about to meet. What would happen when they came
face to face?--for she remembered now that a bad likeness of Thomas
Preston had several times appeared in the papers. She turned her head
toward the doorway and peered through her veil, waiting.
When Judge Harvey entered, Mr. Pyecroft started. Upon the instant
he had recognized Judge Harvey. But the next moment Mr. Pyecroft was
himself. Jack gave the necessary introductions, the one to Angelica
Simpson Jones at long distance, and gave a brief explanation of the
presence of the two guests. During this while Judge Harvey repeatedly
glanced at Mr. Pyecroft, a puzzled look on his countenance.
"Excuse me, Mr. Simpson," he remarked presently, "but your face seems
elusively familiar to me. I seem to know it, yet I cannot place it.
Haven't I met you somewhere?"
"Perhaps you were a lay delegate to the recent Episcopal Convention in
New York?" politely suggested Mr. Pyecroft.
"No. I did not even attend any of the sessions."
"Then, of course, it could not have been there that you saw me," said
Mr. Pyecroft.
"Perhaps it will come to me," said Judge Harvey.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Pyecroft.
Mrs. De Peyster, for all her personal apprehension, could but marvel
at this young man of the sea who had fastened himself upon her back.
Most amazing of all, he seemed to like the taste of his danger.
"Judge Harvey, Mr. De Peyster was remarking when you came in," Mr.
Pyecroft continued without permitting a lull, "that he wished his
presence in this house to remain unknown. Also I had just told him
and his young wife that my earlier years were given over to a life
for which I have been trying to atone by good works. Now I have a very
humiliating further confession to make to you all. Recently there has
been--may I call it a recrudescence?--an uncontrollable recrudescence
of my former regrettable self. For a disastrous moment the Mr. Hyde
element in me, which I thought I had stifled and cast out, arose
and possessed me. In brief, I have been guilty of an error which the
police consider serious; in fact, the police are this moment searching
for me. So you see, I am in the same situation as Mr. De Peyster: I
prefer my whereabouts to remain unknown. Since we are in each other's
hands, and it is in our power each to betray the other, shall we not
all, as a _quid pro quo_, agree to preserve Mr. De Peyster's and my
presence in this house a secret? For my part, I promise."
"I'm willing," said Jack.
"And I," said Mary. "Anyhow, I never get a chance to tell, for I
haven't been out of this house once."
"And you, Judge Harvey? You will--ah--protect me?"
Judge Harvey bit the end of his mustache. "I don't like this
bargaining over a matter of justice. But--for Jack's sake, yes."
"Thank you, Judge Harvey," Mr. Pyecroft said in a soft, grateful
voice, and with a slight, dignified bow.
Mrs. De Peyster drew a deep breath. He certainly was a cool one.
"There's something that's just been occurring to me," spoke up Jack.
"It's along of that infernal reporter Mayfair who's snooping around
here. He's likely to get in here any time. If he were to find me here
alone, there'd be nothing for him to write about. It's finding me
here, married, that will give him one of his yellow stories, and
that will put mother next. Matilda, since you already have so large
a family visiting you, I suppose you wouldn't mind taking on one
more and saying that Mary here was something or other of yours--say a
niece?"
"Oh, that would be delicious" laughed Mary.
"Why, Mr. Jack,--I! I--" The flustered Matilda could get out no more.
"Mr. Simpson, couldn't you say she was your daughter?" queried Jack.
"I would be only too delighted to own her as such," said Mr. Pyecroft.
"But I am not married and I am obviously too young. However,"--moving
closer to Mrs. De Peyster,--"our sister Angelica is married, and I am
sure it will be a great pleasure to her to claim Mrs. De Peyster as
her daughter. Angelica, my dear, of course you'll do it?"
Mrs. De Peyster sat rigid, voiceless.
"What's the matter?" asked Mary, in deep concern.
"Our sister probably did not hear, she is slightly deaf," Mr. Pyecroft
explained. He bent over Mrs. De Peyster, made a trumpet of one hand,
and raised his voice. "Angelica, if any other person comes into the
house, you are to say that young Mrs. De Peyster is your daughter. You
understand?"
Mrs. De Peyster nodded.
"And of course you'll say it?"
For a moment Mrs. De Peyster was again rigid. Then slowly she nodded.
The spirit of the masquerade seized upon Mary. "Oh, mother dear,--what
a comfort to have you!" she cried with mischievous glee; and arms wide
as if for a daughterly embrace she swept toward Mrs. De Peyster.
Mrs. De Peyster shriveled back. She stopped living. In another
moment--
But the Reverend Mr. Pyecroft, _alias_ Archibald Simpson, _alias_
Thomas Preston, _alias_ God knows what else, stepped quickly between
her and the on-coming Mary, and with an air of brotherly concern held
out an intercepting hand.
"No excitement, please. The doctor's orders."
"Is it anything serious?" Mary asked anxiously.
"We hope not," in a grave voice. "It is chiefly nervous exhaustion due
to a period of worry over a trying domestic situation."
"That's too bad!" Very genuine sympathy was in Mary's soft contralto.
"But if she's unwell, she ought to have more air. Why don't you draw
up that heavy veil?"
"S-s-h! Not so loud, I beg you. If she heard you speak of her veil, it
would pain her greatly. You see," Mr. Pyecroft unhesitatingly went
on in a low, compassionate tone, "our sister, while trying to light a
gasoline stove--It was a gasoline stove, was it not, Matilda?"
"Ah--er--ye-yes," corroborated Matilda.
"A gasoline stove, yes," continued the grave voice of Mr. Pyecroft.
"It was during the very first year after her marriage. The explosion
that followed disfigured her face frightfully. She is extremely
sensitive; so much so that she invariably wears a heavy veil when she
goes out of her own house."
"Why, how terrible!" cried Mary.
"Yes, isn't it! All of our family have felt for poor Angelica most
deeply. And furthermore, she is sensitive about her deafness--which, I
may add, was caused by the same accident. And her various misfortunes
have made her extremely shy, so the less attention that is paid to
her, the happier the poor creature is."
Mary withdrew among the others. Slowly Mrs. De Peyster returned once
more to life. She hardly knew how she had escaped, save that it had
been through some miracle of that awful Mr. Pyecroft's amazing tongue.
"By the way, Matilda," she heard Mary remark, "did you read in
to-night's papers about Mrs. De Peyster's voyage? You know she landed
to-day."
"No, ma'--Mary," said Matilda.
"The paper said she was so ill all the way across that she wasn't able
to leave her stateroom once." Mary's voice was very sympathetic. "Why,
she was so ill she couldn't leave the boat until after dark, hours
after all the other passengers had gone."
"I never knew mother to be seasick before," said Jack, in deep
concern.
Judge Harvey said nothing, but his fine, handsome face was disturbed.
Jack noted the look, and, suddenly catching the Judge's hand, said
with a burst of boyish frankness:--
"Uncle Bob, you're worried more than any of us! You know I've always
liked you like a father--and--and here's hoping some day mother'll
change her mind--and you'll be my father in reality!"
"Thank you, Jack!" the Judge said huskily, gripping Jack's hand.
Over in her corner, beneath her veil, Mrs. De Peyster flushed hotly.
They talked on about the distant Mrs. De Peyster, and she
listened with keenest ears. They were all so sympathetic about
her--sick--alone--in far-off Europe. So sympathetic--so very, very
sympathetic!
As for Mr. Pyecroft, standing on guard beside her, he looked
appropriately grave. But inside his gravity he was smiling. These
people had no guess that in a way he was connected with the great
Mrs. De Peyster of whom they talked--that "Miss Gardner" who was the
companion to the ailing social leader in France was something more
than just Miss Gardner. And he felt no reason for revealing his little
secret.... Clara, the dear little Puritan, would be scandalized by
this his wildest escapade--by his having used, after all and despite
her prohibition, Mrs. De Peyster's closed house as a retreat; but when
she came back from Europe, and he made her see in its proper light
this gorgeous and profitable lark, she would relent and forgive him.
Why, of course, she would forgive him.
He was very optimistic, was Mr. Pyecroft; and the founder of his
family must have been a certain pagan gentleman by the name of Pan.