CHAPTER XXI
THE VEILED LADY
As soon as that huddled mass of womanhood that was Mrs. De Peyster had become sufficiently reanimated to be able to think, its first thought came in the form of an unuttered wail.
She was dead! She was to be buried! She could never come home again!
Or if she did come home, what a scandal! A scandal out-scandalizing anything of which she had ever dreamed! A scandal worse ten times than the very grave itself!
With loose face and glazed eyes she stared at Matilda while the latter stammered out disjointed details of the past week's happenings. As for Mr. Jack's lark in dwelling surreptitiously with his wife in his mother's house, not a breath of that had reached the public. With Mr. Pyecroft's aid, and Judge Harvey's, he had managed this well. He had told the reporters that he had been quietly married over three weeks before, that he and his wife had been living in seclusion, and that on learning of his mother's demise they had come to the house to direct the obsequies.... Those Paris police were trying to solve the mystery of what had become of Mrs. De Peyster's trunks.... If Mrs. De Peyster could only see the beautiful floral tributes that were arriving, particularly the large wreath sent by Mrs. Allistair—
But Mrs. De Peyster heard none of this. She was dead! She was to be buried! She could never come home again!
At length her lips moved—slowly, stiffly, as might the lips of a dead person.
"What are we going to do?"
"I've been saying that same question to myself for days, ma'am," quavered Matilda. "And I—I don't see any answer."
No, there was nothing she could do. Mrs. De Peyster continued her glazed stare at her faithful serving-woman. In the first few minutes her mind had been able to take in the significance only to herself of this culminating disaster. But now its significance to another person shivered through that her being.
Poor—poor Olivetta!
For Olivetta, of course, it was. Mrs. De Peyster knew what was due the De Peyster corpuscles that moved in stately procession along the avenues of her blood, and was not neglectful to see that that due was properly observed; but the heart from which those corpuscles derived their impulse was, as Judge Harvey had once said, in its way the kindest sort of heart. And now, for a few minutes, all that her heart could feel was felt for Olivetta.
But for a few minutes only. Then Olivetta, and all concerns beyond the immediate moment, were suddenly forgotten. For in the hall without soft footsteps were heard, and the instant after, upon her door, there sounded an ominous scratching—a sound like a key in an agitated hand searching for its appointed hole.
Mrs. De Peyster rose up and clutched Matilda's arm, and stood in rigid terror.
"Tha—that key?" chattered Matilda. "Can—can it fit?"
"There were only two keys," breathed Mrs. De Peyster. "Mine here, and the one I gave to Olivetta."
"Then it can't fit, since Miss Olivetta's—"
But the key gave Matilda the lie direct by slipping into the lock. The two women clung to one another, knowing that the end had come, wondering who was to be their exposer. The bolt clicked back, the door swung open, and—
And into the dusky room there tottered a rather tall, heavily veiled, feminine figure. It did not gaze at the shrinking couple in astoundment. It did not launch into exclamation at its discovery. Instead, it sank weakly down into the nearest chair.
"Oh!" it moaned. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"
"Who—who are you?" huskily demanded Mrs. De Peyster.
"Oh! Oh!" moaned the figure. "Isn't it terrible! Isn't it terrible! But I didn't mean to do it—I didn't mean to do it, Caroline!"
"It's not—not Olivetta?" gasped Mrs. De Peyster.
"It was an accident!" the figure wailed on. "I couldn't help myself. And if you knew what I've gone through to get here, I know you'd forgive me."
Mrs. De Peyster had lifted the veil up over the hat.
"Olivetta! Then—after all—you're not dead!"
"No—if I only were!" sobbed Olivetta.
"Then who is that—that person who's coming here this morning?"
"I don't know!" Then Olivetta's quavering voice grew hard with indignation. "It's somebody who's trying to get a good funeral under false pretenses!"
"But the papers said the body had on my clothes."
"Yes—I suppose it must have had."
"But how—" Mrs. De Peyster recalled their precarious position. "Matilda, lock the door. But, Olivetta, how could it ever, ever have happened?"
"I followed your directions—and got to Paris all right—and everything was going splendid—and I was beginning to enjoy myself—when—when—Oh, Caroline, I—I—"
"You what?" demanded Mrs. De Peyster.
"I lost my purse!" sobbed Olivetta.
"Lost your purse?"
"I left it in a cab when I went to the Louvre. And in it was all my money—my letter of credit—everything!"
"Olivetta!"
"And I didn't dare cable you for more. For if I had sent a cable to you here, it might have betrayed you."
"And what did you do?"
"There was nothing for me to do but to—to—sell some of your gowns."
"Oh!" Mrs. De Peyster was beginning dimly to see the drift of things.
Olivetta's mind wandered to another phase of her tribulations.
"And the price I got for them was a swindle, Caroline. It was—it was a tragedy! For your black chiffon, and your silver satin, and your spangled net—"
"But this person they took for me?" interrupted Mrs. De Peyster.
"Oh, whoever she is, she must have bought one of them. She could have bought it for nothing—and that Frenchman who cheated me—would have doubled his money. And after she bought it—she—she"—Olivetta's voice rang out with hysterical resentment—"she got us all into this trouble by walking into the Seine. It's the most popular pastime in Paris, to walk into the Seine. But why," ended Olivetta with a spiteful burst,—"why couldn't she have amused herself in her own clothes? That's what I want to know!"
"And then? What did you do?" breathed Mrs. De Peyster.
"When it came out three days later that it was you, I was so—so frightened that I didn't know what to do. I didn't dare deny the report, for that would have been to expose you. And I didn't dare cable to you that it was all a mistake and that I was all right, for that would have been just as bad. Perhaps I might have acted differently, but I—well, I ran away. I crossed to London with your trunks. There I learned that—that they were sending your remains home. I realized I had to get you word somehow, and I realized the only way was for me to come and tell you. So I sold some more of your gowns, and just caught the Mauretania, and here I am."
So ending, Olivetta, as though her bones had melted, subsided into a gelatinous heap of dejection, dabbing her crimson eyes with a handkerchief already saturated with liquid woe.
"It's a relief to know it wasn't you," said Mrs. De Peyster.
"I'm sure—it's kind of you—to say so," snuffled Olivetta gratefully.
"But, aside from your being safe, our situation is unchanged," said Mrs. De Peyster in tremulous, awe-stricken tone. "For that—that person is coming here just the same!"
"I know. The horrid interloper!"
"She may be here any minute," said Mrs. De Peyster. "What are we going to do?"
"We must think of something quick," spoke up Matilda nervously. "For it's almost time for your funeral, ma'am, and after that—"
"I've been thinking all the voyage over," broke in Olivetta. "And I could think of only one plan."
"And that?" Mrs. De Peyster eagerly inquired.
There was an excited, desperate light in Olivetta's flooding eyes.
"Couldn't you manage, in some way, while nobody is looking, to slip into that Frenchwoman's place; and then, before the ceremony was over, you could sit up and say you'd been in a cataleptic fit. Such things have happened. I've read about them."
"Absurd, Olivetta! Quite absurd!" quavered Mrs. De Peyster.
"I dare say it is," agreed Olivetta, subsiding again into her limp misery. "Oh, why did I ever go to Paris! I hate the place!"
"Don't give way; think!" commanded Mrs. De Peyster, who was in a condition not far removed from Olivetta's. "Think, Matilda!"
"Yes, ma'am," said Matilda obediently.
"You think, Caroline," whimpered Olivetta. "You always had such a superior intellect, and were always so equal to every emergency."
Mrs. De Peyster thus reminded of what was expected of her life-long leadership, tried to collect her scattered forces, and sat with pale, drawn, twitching face, staring at her predicament—and her two faithful subjects sat staring at her, waiting the inspired idea for escape that would fall from her never-failing lips. Moment after moment of deepest silence followed.
At length Mrs. De Peyster spoke.
"There are only two ways. First, for me to go down and disclose myself—"
"But the scandal! The humiliation!" cried Olivetta.
"Yes, that first way will never do," said Mrs. De Peyster. "The second way is not a solution; it is only a means to a possible solution. But before I state the way, I must ask you, Olivetta, if any one saw you come in?"
"There were a number of people coming and going, people preparing for the funeral—but I watched my chance, and used my latch-key, and I'm sure no one connected with the house saw me."
"That is good. If any outsiders saw you, they will merely believe that you also were some person concerned in the funeral. As for my plan, it is simple. You must both slip out of here unseen; you, Olivetta, will, of course, say that you have returned to the city to attend my funeral. From the outside you both must help me."
"Yes. But you, Caroline?" said Olivetta.
"As for me, I must stay here, quietly, just as I have done for the last three weeks. I still have some supplies left. After everything has quieted down, I shall watch my chance, and steal out of the house late some night. That's as far as I have planned, but once away I can work out some explanation for the terrible mistake and then come home. That seems the only way; that seems the only chance."
"You always were a wonder!" cried Olivetta admiringly.
"Then you agree to the plan?"
"Of course!"
"And you, Matilda?"
"Of course, ma'am."
Thus praised and seconded, Mrs. De Peyster resumed some faint shadow of her accustomed dignity.
"Very well, then. You must both leave here this instant."
Olivetta threw her arms about her cousin's neck.
"Good-bye, Caroline," she quavered. "You really have no hard feelings against me?"
"No, none. You must go!" said Mrs. De Peyster.
"I'm sure, with you in charge, it's all going to come out right!" said the clinging Olivetta hopefully.
"You must really go!" And Mrs. De Peyster pressed her and Matilda toward the door.
But midway to the door the trio halted suddenly. Coming up the stairway was the sound of hurried feet—of many pairs of feet. The footsteps came through the hall. The trio did not breathe. The footsteps paused before the sitting-room door. The confederates gripped each others' arms.
"Are you sure you saw that person come in here?" they heard a voice ask—Jack's voice.
"I'm certain." The voice that answered was Mary's.
"I'll bet it was a sneak thief," said a third voice—Mr. Pyecroft's. "To slip into a house at a funeral, or a wedding, when a lot of people are coming and going—that's one of their oldest tricks." He turned the knob, and finding the door locked, shook it violently. "Open up, in there!" he called.
The three clung to one another for support.
"Better open up!" called a fourth voice—Judge Harvey's. "For we know you're in there!"
Breathless, the trembling conspirators clung yet more desperately.
"But how could she get in?" queried the excited voice of Mary. "I understood that Mrs. De Peyster locked the door before she went away."
"Skeleton key," was Mr. Pyecroft's brief explanation. "Mrs. De Peyster, we three will watch the door to see she doesn't get out—there may have been more than one of her. You go and telephone for a locksmith and the police."
"All right," said Mary.
"It's—it's all over!" breathed Mrs. De Peyster.
"Oh, oh! What shall we ever do?" wailed Olivetta, collapsing into a chair.
"The police!—she mustn't go!" gasped Mrs. De Peyster. "Open the door, Matilda, quick!" Then in a weak, quavering voice she called to her besiegers:—
"Wait!"
After which she wilted away into the nearest chair—which chanced to be directly beneath the awesome, unbending, blue-blue-blooded Mrs. De Peyster of the golden frame, whose proud composure it was beyond things mortal to disturb.