PEACE OF A SORT

The next morning there was a long, whispered discussion as to whether Mrs. De Peyster should go down to breakfast or have all her meals sent up to this chamber of distempered green. In the end two considerations decided the matter. In the first place, meals sent to the room would undoubtedly be charged extra. In the second, it was possible that Mrs. De Peyster’s remaining in her room might rouse suspicion. It seemed the cheaper and safer course to try to merge herself, an unnoticed figure, in the routine of the house.

The dining-room was low-ceilinged and occupied the front basement and seemed to be ventilated solely through the kitchen. Mrs. De Peyster hazily saw perhaps a dozen people; from among whom a bare arm, slipping from the sleeve of a pink silk wrapper, languidly waved toward a small table. Into the two chairs Mrs. Gilbert indicated the twain sank.

A colored maid who had omitted her collar dropped before Mrs. De Peyster a heavy saucer containing three shriveled black objects immured in a dark, forbidding liquor that suggested some wry tincture from a chemist’s shop. In response to Mrs. De Peyster’s glance of shrinking inquiry Matilda whispered that they were prunes. Next the casual-handed maid favored them with thin, underdone oatmeal, and with thin, bitter coffee; and last with two stacks of pancakes, which in hardly less substantial incarnation had previously been served them by every whiff of kitchen air.

While she pretended to eat this uneatable usurper of her dainty breakfasts, Mrs. De Peyster glanced furtively at the company. Utterly common. And with such she had to associate for months, perhaps! she who had mixed and mingled only with the earth’s best!

Mrs. Gilbert naturally Mrs. Gilbert was a widow did not give Mrs. De Peyster a second glance. The other boarders, after their first scrutiny, hardly looked at her again. The effect was as if all had turned their backs upon her.

Certainly this was odd behavior.

Then, in a flash, she understood. They were snubbing her as a social inferior!

Mrs. De Peyster was beginning to flame when the clergyman they had glimpsed the night before entered and pronounced a sonorous good-morning, all-inclusive, as though intended for a congregation. He seated himself at a small table just beyond Mrs. De Peyster’s and was unfolding his napkin when his eyes fell upon Mrs. De Peyster. And then Mrs. De Peyster saw one of the oddest changes in a man’s face imaginable. Mr. Pyecroft’s eyes, which had been large with benedictory roundness, flashed with a smile. And then, at an instant’s end, his face was once more grave and clerically benign.

But that instant-long look made her shiver. What was in this clergyman’s mind? She watched him, in spite of herself strangely fascinated; stole looks at him during this meal, and the next, and when they passed upon the stairway. He had a confusingly contradictory face, had the Reverend Herbert E. Pyecroft for such she learned was his full name; a face customarily sedate and elderish, and then, almost without perceptible change, for swift moments oddly youthful; with a wide mouth, which would suddenly twist up at its right corner as though from some unholy quip of humor, and whose as sudden straightening into a solemn line would show that the unseemly humor had been exorcised. In manner he was bland, ornate, gestureish, ample; giving the sense that in nothing less commodious than a church could he loose his person and his powers to their full expression. He was genially familiar; the church-man who is a good fellow. Yet never did he let one forget the respect that was due his cloth.

He was at present without a charge, as she learned later. It was understood that he was waiting an almost certain call from a church in Kansas City.

As Mrs. De Peyster came out of her room that first Sunday at supper-time, there emerged from the room in front of hers the Reverend Mr. Pyecroft. He held out his hand, and smiled parochially.

“Ah, Miss Thompson,” that was the name she had given the landlady, “since we are neighbors we should also be friends.” And on he went, voluminously, in his full, upholstered voice.

Somehow Mrs. De Peyster got away from him. But thereafter he spoke to her whenever he could waylay her in the hallway or upon the stairs. And his attentions did not stop with words. Flowers, even edibles, were continuously found against her door, his card among them. The situation somehow recalled to her the queer gentleman in shorts who threw vegetables over Mrs. Nickleby’s garden wall. Mrs. De Peyster felt outraged; she fumed; yet she dared not be outspokenly resentful.

She had at first no inkling of the meaning of these attentions. It was Matilda who suggested the dismaying possibility.

“Don’t you think, ma’am, he’s trying to make love to you?”

“Make love to me!” rising in horror from one of Mrs. Gilbert’s veteran “easy"-chairs.

“I’m sure it’s that, ma’am,” said the troubled Matilda.

“Matilda! Of all the effrontery!”

“Indeed, it is an insult to you, ma’am. But that may not be the worst of it. For if he really falls in love with you, he may try to follow you when you get ready to leave.”

“Matilda!” gasped Mrs. De Peyster.

Thereafter, whenever he tried to speak to her in the hallways she shrank from him in both fear and indignation. But her rebuffs did not lessen by one ray the smiling amicability of his bland countenance He tried to become confidential, tried to press toward intimacy; one evening he even had the unbelievable audacity to ask if he might call upon her! She flamed with the desire to destroy him with a look, a word; Mrs. De Peyster knew well how thus to snuff out presuming upstarts. But caution warned her that she dared not unloose her powers. So she merely turned and fled, choking.

But the reverend gentleman’s unperturbed overtures continued.

Mrs. De Peyster and Matilda did not speak of money at first; but it was constantly in both their minds as a problem of foremost importance. Their failure to buy fresh outfits, as they had told Mrs. Gilbert they intended doing, thus supplying “baggage” that would be security for their board, caused Mrs. Gilbert to regard them with hostile suspicion. Matilda saw eviction in their landlady’s penciled eyes, and without a word as to her intention to Mrs. De Peyster, she slipped out on the third day, returned minus her two rings, and handed Mrs. Gilbert ten dollars.

They were secure to the week’s end. After that ?

Fitfully Mrs. De Peyster pondered this matter of finances. She had money so near, yet utterly unreachable. Her house was filled with negotiable wealth, but she dared not go near it. Judge Harvey would secure her money gladly; but if the previous Friday she could not accept his aid, then a thousand times less could she accept it now. To ask his aid would be to reveal, not alone her presence in America, but the series of undignified experiences which had involved her deeper and deeper. That humiliation was unthinkable.

But on Thursday, locked in their room, they spoke of the matter openly.

“Please, ma’am,” said Matilda, who had been maturing a plan, “you might make out a check to me, dated last week, before you sailed, and I could get it cashed. They’d think it was for back wages.”

“I told you last Friday, when everything happened, that I had drawn out my balance.”

“But your bank won’t mind your overdrawing for a hundred or two,” urged Matilda.

“That,” said Mrs. De Peyster with an air of noble principle, “is a thing I will not do.”

Matilda knew nothing of the secret of Mrs. De Peyster’s exhausted credit at her bank.

“My own money,” Matilda remarked plaintively, “is all in a savings bank. I have to give thirty days’ notice before I can draw a penny.”

There was a brief silence. Matilda’s gaze, which had several times wandered to a point a few inches below Mrs. De Peyster’s throat, now fixed themselves upon this spot. She spoke hesitantly.

“There’s your pearl pendant you forgot and kept on when you put on my dress to go out riding with William.” It was not one of the world’s famous jewels; yet was of sufficient importance to be known, in a limited circle, as “The De Peyster Pearl.” “I know the chain wouldn’t bring much; but you could raise a lot on the pearl from a pawnbroker.”

Mrs. De Peyster tried to look shocked. “What! I take my pearl to a pawnbroker!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to go to a pawnshop, ma’am,” Matilda apologized. “I’d take it.”

Mrs. De Peyster had a moment’s picture of Matilda’s laying the pearl before a pawnbroker and asking for a fraction of its worth, a mere thousand or two; and of the hard-eyed usurer glancing at it, announcing that the pearl was spoof, and offering fifty cents upon it.

“Matilda, you should know that I would not part with such an heirloom,” she said rebukingly.

“But, ma’am, in a crisis like this

“That will do, Matilda!”

Matilda said no more about the pearl then. She went to her bank and gave due notice of her desire to withdraw her funds. That, however, was provision merely for the next month and thereafter. It did not help to-day.

But all the rest of that day, and all of the following, Mrs. De Peyster felt Matilda’s eyes, aggrieved, bitterly resentful, upon the spot where beneath her black housekeeper’s dress hung the pearl she was unwilling to pawn to save them.

It was most uncomfortable.