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diff --git a/14532-0.txt b/14532-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..085034e --- /dev/null +++ b/14532-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19603 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14532 *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE HONORABLE PETER STIRLING + +_and +WHAT PEOPLE THOUGHT OF HIM_ + +by +PAUL LEICESTER FORD + +Stitt Publishing Company New York +Henry Holt & Co. +1894 + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + +CHAPTER I. +CHAPTER II. +CHAPTER III. +CHAPTER IV. +CHAPTER V. +CHAPTER VI. +CHAPTER VII. +CHAPTER VIII. +CHAPTER IX. +CHAPTER X +CHAPTER XI. +CHAPTER XII. +CHAPTER XIII. +CHAPTER XIV. +CHAPTER XV. +CHAPTER XVI. +CHAPTER XVII. +CHAPTER XVIII. +CHAPTER XIX. +CHAPTER XX. +CHAPTER XXI. +CHAPTER XXII. +CHAPTER XXIII +CHAPTER XXIV. +CHAPTER XXV. +CHAPTER XXVI. +CHAPTER XXVII. +CHAPTER XXVIII. +CHAPTER XXIX. +CHAPTER XXX. +CHAPTER XXXI. +CHAPTER XXXII. +CHAPTER XXXIII. +CHAPTER XXXIV. +CHAPTER XXXV. +CHAPTER XXXVI. +CHAPTER XXXVII. +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +CHAPTER XXXIX. +CHAPTER XL. +CHAPTER XLI. +CHAPTER XLII. +CHAPTER XLIII. +CHAPTER XLIV. +CHAPTER XLV. +CHAPTER XLVI. +CHAPTER XLVII. +CHAPTER XLVIII. +CHAPTER XLIX. +CHAPTER L. +CHAPTER LI. +CHAPTER LII. +CHAPTER LIII. +CHAPTER LIV. +CHAPTER LV. +CHAPTER LVI. +CHAPTER LVII +CHAPTER LVIII. +CHAPTER LIX. +CHAPTER LX. +CHAPTER LXI. + + + + +To + +THOSE DEAR TO ME +AT +STONEY WOLDE, +TURNERS, NEW YORK; +PINEHURST; +NORWICH, CONNECTICUT; +BROOK FARM, +PROCTORSVILLE, VERMONT; +AND +DUNESIDE, +EASTHAMPTON, NEW YORK, + +THIS BOOK, +WRITTEN WHILE AMONG THEM, +IS DEDICATED. + + + + +CHAPTER I. +ROMANCE AND REALITY. + + +Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr. Pierce was generally talking. From the day +that his proud mamma had given him a sweetmeat for a very inarticulate +“goo” which she translated into “papa,” Mr. Pierce had found speech +profitable. He had been able to talk his nurse into granting him every +indulgence. He had talked his way through school and college. He had +talked his wife into marrying him. He had talked himself to the head of +a large financial institution. He had talked his admission into +society. Conversationally, Mr. Pierce was a success. He could discuss +Schopenhauer or cotillion favors; St. Paul, the apostle, or St. Paul, +the railroad. He had cultivated the art as painstakingly as a +professional musician. He had countless anecdotes, which he introduced +to his auditors by a “that reminds me of.” He had endless quotations, +with the quotation marks omitted. Finally he had an idea on every +subject, and generally a theory as well. Carlyle speaks somewhere of an +“inarticulate genius.” He was not alluding to Mr. Pierce. + +Like most good talkers, Mr. Pierce was a tongue despot. Conversation +must take his course, or he would none of it. Generally he controlled. +If an upstart endeavored to turn the subject, Mr. Pierce waited till +the intruder had done speaking, and then quietly, but firmly would +remark: “Relative to the subject we were discussing a moment ago—” If +any one ventured to speak, even _sotto voce_, before Mr. Pierce had +finished all he had to say, he would at once cease his monologue, wait +till the interloper had finished, and then resume his lecture just +where he had been interrupted. Only once had Mr. Pierce found this +method to fail in quelling even the sturdiest of rivals. The +recollection of that day is still a mortification to him. It had +happened on the deck of an ocean steamer. For thirty minutes he had +fought his antagonist bravely. Then, humbled and vanquished, he had +sought the smoking-room, to moisten his parched throat, and solace his +wounded spirit, with a star cocktail. He had at last met his superior. +He yielded the deck to the fog-horn. + +At the present moment Mr. Pierce was having things very much his own +way. Seated in the standing-room of a small yacht, were some eight +people. With a leaden sky overhead, and a leaden sea about it, the boat +gently rose and fell with the ground swell. Three miles away could be +seen the flash-light marking the entrance to the harbor. But though +slowly gathering clouds told that wind was coming, the yacht now lay +becalmed, drifting with the ebb tide. The pleasure-seekers had been +together all day, and were decidedly talked out. For the last hour they +had been singing songs—always omitting Mr. Pierce, who never so trifled +with his vocal organs. During this time he had been restless. At one +point he had attempted to deliver his opinion on the relation of verse +to music, but an unfeeling member of the party had struck up “John +Brown’s Body,” and his lecture had ended, in the usual serial style, at +the most interesting point, without even the promise of a “continuation +in our next.” Finally, however, the singers had sung themselves hoarse +in the damp night air, the last “Spanish Cavalier” had been safely +restored to his inevitable true-love, and the sound of voices and banjo +floated away over the water. Mr. Pierce’s moment had come. + +Some one, and it is unnecessary to mention the sex, had given a sigh, +and regretted that nineteenth century life was so prosaic and +unromantic. Clearing his throat, quite as much to pre-empt the pause as +to articulate the better, Mr. Pierce spoke: + +“That modern times are less romantic and interesting than bygone +centuries is a fallacy. From time immemorial, love and the battle +between evil and good are the two things which have given the world +romance and interest. Every story, whether we find it in the myths of +the East, the folklore of Europe, the poems of the Troubadours, or in +our newspaper of this morning, is based on one or the other of these +factors, or on both combined. Now it is a truism that love never played +so important a part as now in shaping the destinies of men and women, +for this is the only century in which it has obtained even a partial +divorce from worldly and parental influences. Moreover the great battle +of society, to crush wrong and elevate right, was never before so +bravely fought, on so many fields, by so many people as to-day. But +because our lovers and heroes no longer brag to the world of their +doings; no longer stand in the moonlight, and sing of their ‘dering +does,’ the world assumes that the days of tourneys and guitars were the +only days of true love and noble deeds. Even our professed writers of +romance join in the cry. ‘Draw life as it is,’ they say. ‘We find +nothing in it but mediocrity, selfishness, and money-loving.’ By all +means let us have truth in our novels, but there is truth and truth. +Most of New York’s firemen presumably sat down at noon to-day to a +dinner of corned-beef and cabbage. But perhaps one of them at the same +moment was fighting his way through smoke and flame, to save life at +the risk of his own. Boiled dinner and burned firemen are equally true. +Are they equally worthy of description? What would the age of chivalry +be, if the chronicles had recorded only the brutality, filthiness and +coarseness of their contemporaries? The wearing of underclothing +unwashed till it fell to pieces; the utter lack of soap; the eating +with fingers; the drunkenness and foul-mouthedness that drove women +from the table at a certain point, and so inaugurated the custom, now +continued merely as an excuse for a cigar? Some one said once that a +man finds in a great city just the qualities he takes to it. That’s +true of romance as well. Modern novelists don’t find beauty and +nobility in life, because they don’t look for them. They predicate from +their inner souls that the world is ‘cheap and nasty’ and that is what +they find it to be. There is more true romance in a New York tenement +than there ever was in a baron’s tower—braver battles, truer love, +nobler sacrifices. Romance is all about us, but we must have eyes for +it. You are young people, with your lives before you. Let me give you a +little advice. As you go through life look for the fine things—not for +the despicable. It won’t make you any richer. It won’t make you famous. +It won’t better you in a worldly way. But it will make your lives +happier, for by the time you are my age, you’ll love humanity, and look +upon the world and call it good. And you will have found romance enough +to satisfy all longings for mediæval times.” + +“But, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anything +romantic in life,” said a voice, which, had it been translated into +words would have said, “I know you are right, of course, and you will +convince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it +seems to me that—” the voice, already low, became lower. “Now”—a +moment’s hesitation—“there is—Peter Stirling.” + +“Exactly,” said Mr. Pierce. “That is a very case in point, and proves +just what I’ve been saying. Peter is like the novelists of whom I’ve +been talking. I don’t suppose we ought to blame him for it. What can +you expect of a son of a mill-foreman, who lives the first sixteen +years of his life in a mill-village? If his hereditary tendencies gave +him a chance, such an experience would end it. If one lives in the +country, one may get fine thoughts by contact with Nature. In great +cities one is developed and stimulated by art, music, literature, and +contact with clever people. But a mill-village is one vast expanse of +mediocrity and prosaicness, and it would take a bigger nature than +Peter’s to recognize the beautiful in such a life. In truth, he is as +limited, as exact, and as unimaginative as the machines of his own +village. Peter has no romance in him; hence he will never find it, nor +increase it in this world. This very case only proves my point; that to +meet romance one must have it. Boccaccio said he did not write novels, +but lived them. Try to imagine Peter living a romance! He could be +concerned in a dozen and never dream it. They would not interest him +even if he did notice them. And I’ll prove it to you.” Mr. Pierce +raised his voice. “We are discussing romance, Peter. Won’t you stop +that unsocial tramp of yours long enough to give us your opinion on the +subject?” + +A moment’s silence followed, and then a singularly clear voice, coming +from the forward part of the yacht, replied: “I never read them, Mr. +Pierce.” + +Mr. Pierce laughed quietly. “See,” he said, “that fellow never dreams +of there being romance outside of novels. He is so prosaic that he is +unconscious of anything bigger than his own little sphere of life. +Peter may obtain what he wants in this world, for his desires will be +of the kind to be won by work and money. But he will never be +controlled by a great idea, nor be the hero of a true romance.” + +Steele once wrote that the only difference between the Catholic Church +and the Church of England was, that the former was infallible and the +latter never wrong. Mr. Pierce would hardly have claimed for himself +either of these qualities. He was too accustomed in his business to +writing, “E. and O.E.” above his initials, to put much faith in human +dicta. But in the present instance he felt sure of what he said, and +the little group clearly agreed. If they were right, this story is like +that recounted in Mother Goose, which was ended before it was begun. +But Mr. Pierce had said that romance is everywhere to those who have +the spirit of it in them. Perhaps in this case the spirit was lacking +in his judges—not in Peter Stirling. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +APPEARANCES. + + +The unconscious illustration of Mr. Pierce’s theory was pacing +backwards and forwards on the narrow space between the cuddy-roof and +the gunwale, which custom dignifies with the name of deck. Six strides +forward and turn. Six strides aft and turn. That was the extent of the +beat. Yet had Peter been on sentry duty, he could not have continued it +more regularly or persistently. If he were walking off his supper, as +most of those seated aft would have suggested, the performance was not +particularly interesting. The limit and rapidity of the walk resembled +the tramp of a confined animal, exercising its last meal. But when one +stands in front of the lion’s cage, and sees that restless and tireless +stride, one cannot but wonder how much of it is due to the last +shin-bone, and how much to the wild and powerful nature under the tawny +skin. The question occurs because the nature and antecedents of the +lion are known. For this same reason the yachters were a unit in +agreeing that Stirling’s unceasing walk was merely a digestive +promenade. The problem was whether they were right? Or whether, to +apply Mr. Pierce’s formula, they merely imposed their own frame of mind +in place of Stirling’s, and decided, since their sole reason for +walking at the moment would be entirely hygienic, that he too must be +striding from the same cause? + +Dr. Holmes tells us that when James and Thomas converse there are +really six talkers. First, James as James thinks he is, and Thomas as +Thomas thinks he is. Second James as Thomas thinks him, and Thomas as +James thinks him. Finally, there are James and Thomas as they really +are. Since this is neither an autobiography nor an inspired story, the +world’s view of Peter Stirling must be adopted without regard to its +accuracy. And because this view was the sum of his past and personal, +these elements must be computed before we can know on what the world +based its conclusions concerning him. + +His story was as ordinary and prosaic as Mr. and Mrs. Pierce seemed to +think his character. Neither riches nor poverty had put a shaping hand +to it. The only child of his widowed mother, he had lived in one of the +smaller manufacturing cities of New England a life such as falls to +most lads. Unquestionably he had been rather more shielded from several +forms of temptation than had most of his playmates, for his mother’s +isolation had made him not merely her son, but very largely her +companion. In certain ways this had tended to make him more manly than +the average fellow of his age, but in others it had retarded his +development; and this backwardness had been further accentuated by a +deliberate mind, which hardly kept pace with his physical growth. His +school record was fair: “Painstaking, but slow,” was the report in +studies. “Exemplary,” in conduct. He was not a leader among the boys, +but he was very generally liked. A characteristic fact, for good or +bad, was that he had no enemies. From the clergyman to the “hired +help,” everybody had a kind word for him, but tinctured by no +enthusiasm. All spoke of him as “a good boy,” and when this was said, +they had nothing more to say. + +One important exception to this statement is worthy of note. The girls +of the High School never liked him. If they had been called upon for +reasons, few could have given a tangible one. At their age, everything +this world contains, be it the Falls of Niagara, or a stick of chewing +gum, is positively or negatively “nice.” For some crime of commission +or omission, Peter had been weighed and found wanting. “He isn’t nice,” +was the universal verdict of the scholars who daily filed through the +door, which the town selectmen, with the fine contempt of the narrow +man for his unpaid “help,” had labelled, “For Females.” If they had +said that he was “perfectly horrid,” there might have been a chance for +him. But the subject was begun and ended with these three words. Such +terseness in the sex was remarkable and would have deserved a +psychological investigation had it been based on any apparent data. But +women’s opinions are so largely a matter of instinct and feeling, and +so little of judgment and induction, that an analysis of the mental +processes of the hundred girls who had reached this one conclusion, +would probably have revealed in each a different method of obtaining +this product. The important point is to recognize this consensus of +opinion, and to note its bearing on the development of the lad. + +That Peter could remain ignorant of this feeling was not conceivable. +It puzzled him not a little when he first began to realize the +prejudice, and he did his best to reverse it. Unfortunately he took the +very worst way. Had he avoided the girls persistently and obviously, he +might have interested them intensely, for nothing is more difficult for +a woman to understand than a woman-hater; and from the days of mother +Eve the unknown is rumored to have had for her sex a powerful +fascination. But he tried to win their friendship by humbleness and +kindness, and so only made himself the more cheap in their eyes. “Fatty +Peter,” as they jokingly called him, epitomized in two words their +contempt of him. + +Nor did things mend when he went to Harvard. Neither his mother’s +abilities nor his choice were able to secure for him an _entrée_ to the +society which Cambridge and Boston dole out stintedly to certain +privileged collegians. Every Friday afternoon he went home, to return +by an early train Monday morning. In his first year it is to be +questioned if he exchanged ten words with women whose names were known +to him, except during these home-visits. That this could long continue, +was impossible. In his second year he was several times taken by his +chum, Watts D’Alloi, to call. But always with one result. Invariably +Peter would be found talking to Mamma, or, better still, from his point +of view, with Pater-familias, while Watts chatted with the presumptive +attractions. Watts laughed at him always. Laughed still more when one +of these calls resulted in a note, “requesting the pleasure” of Mr. +Peter Stirling’s company to dinner. It was Watts who dictated the +acceptance, helped Peter put the finishing touches to his toilet, and +eventually landed him safely in Mrs. Purdie’s parlor. His description +to the boys that night of what followed is worthy of quotation: + +“The old fellow shook hands with Mrs. P., O.K. Something was said about +the weather, and then Mrs. P. said, ‘I’ll introduce you to the lady you +are to take down, Mr. Stirling, but I shan’t let you talk to her before +dinner. Look about you and take your choice of whom you would like to +meet?’ Chum gave one agonized look round the room. There wasn’t a woman +over twenty-five in sight! And what do you think the wily old fox said? +Call him simple! Not by a circumstance! A society beau couldn’t have +done it better. Can’t guess? Well, he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you, +Mrs. Purdie.’ Fact! Of course she took it as a compliment, and was as +pleased as could be. Well, I don’t know how on earth he ever got +through his introduction or how he ever reached the dining-room, for my +inamorata was so pretty that I thought of nothing till we were seated, +and the host took her attention for a moment. Then I looked across at +chum, who was directly opposite, to see how he was getting on. Oh, you +fellows would have died to see it! There he sat, looking straight out +into vacancy, so plainly laboring for something to say that I nearly +exploded. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and each time closed them +again. The girl of course looked surprised, but she caught my eye, and +entered into the joke, and we both waited for developments. Then she +suddenly said to him, ‘Now let’s talk about something else.’ It was too +much for me. I nearly choked. I don’t know what followed. Miss Jevons +turned and asked me something. But when I looked again, I could see the +perspiration standing on Peter’s forehead, while the conversation went +by jerks and starts as if it was riding over a ploughed field. Miss +Callender, whom he took in, told me afterwards that she had never had a +harder evening’s work in her life. Nothing but ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ to be +got from him. She wouldn’t believe what I said of the old fellow.” + +Three or four such experiences ended Peter’s dining out. He was +recognized as unavailable material. He received an occasional card to a +reception or a dance, for anything in trousers passes muster for such +functions. He always went when invited, and was most dutiful in the +counter-calls. In fact, society was to him a duty which he discharged +with the same plodding determination with which he did his day’s +studies. He never dreamed of taking his social moments frivolously. He +did not recognize that society is very much like a bee colony—stinging +those who approached it shyly and quietly, but to be mastered by a bold +beating of tin pans. He neither danced nor talked, and so he was +shunted by the really pleasant girls and clever women, and passed his +time with wall-flowers and unbearables, who, in their normal sourness, +regarded and, perhaps, unconsciously made him feel, hardly to his +encouragement, that his companionship was a sort of penance. If he had +been asked, at the end of his senior year, what he thought of young +women and society, he would probably have stigmatized them, as he +himself had been formerly: “not nice.” All of which, again to apply Mr. +Pierce’s theory, merely meant that the phases which his own +characteristics had shown him, had re-acted on his own mind, and had +led him to conclude that girls and society were equally unendurable. + +The condition was a dangerous one, and if psychology had its doctors +they would have predicted a serious heart illness in store for him. How +serious, would depend largely on whether the fever ran its natural +course, or whether it was driven inwards by disappointment. If these +doctors had ceased studying his mental condition and glanced at his +physical appearance, they would have had double cause to shake their +heads doubtingly. + +Peter was not good-looking. He was not even, in a sense, attractive. In +spite of his taking work so hardly and life so seriously, he was +entirely too stout. This gave a heaviness to his face that neutralized +his really pleasant brown eyes and thick brown hair, which were his +best features. Manly the face was, but, except when speaking in +unconscious moments, dull and unstriking. A fellow three inches +shorter, and two-thirds his weight would have been called tall. “Big” +was the favorite adjective used in describing Peter, and big he was. +Had he gone through college ten years later, he might have won +unstinted fame and admiration as the full-back on the team, or stroke +on the crew. In his time, athletics were but just obtaining, and were +not yet approved of either by faculties or families. Shakespeare speaks +of a tide in the affairs of men. Had Peter been born ten years later +the probabilities are that his name would have been in all the papers, +that he would have weighed fifty pounds less, have been cheered by +thousands, have been the idol of his class, have been a hero, have +married the first girl he loved (for heroes, curiously, either marry or +die, but never remain bachelors) and would have—but as this is a tale +of fact, we must not give rein to imagination. To come back to realism, +Peter was a hero to nobody but his mother. + +Such was the man, who, two weeks after graduation from Harvard, was +pacing up and down the deck of Mr. Pierce’s yacht, the “Sunrise,” as +she drifted with the tide in Long Island Sound. Yet if his expression, +as he walked, could for a moment have been revealed to those seated +aft, the face that all thought dull and uninteresting would have +riveted their attention, and set each one questioning whether there +might not be something both heroic and romantic underneath. The set +determination of his look can best be explained by telling what had +given his face such rigid lines. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +A CRAB CHAPTER. + + +Mr. Pierce and those about him had clearly indicated by the +conversation, or rather monologue, already recorded, that Peter was in +a sense an odd number in the “Sunrise’s” complement of +pleasure-seekers. Whether or no Mr. Pierce’s monologue also indicated +that he was not a map who dealt in odd numbers, or showered hospitality +on sons of mill-overseers, the fact was nevertheless true. “For value +received,” or “I hereby promise to pay,” were favorite formulas of Mr. +Pierce, and if not actually written in such invitations as he permitted +his wife to write at his dictation to people whom he decided should be +bidden to the Shrubberies, a longer or shorter time would develop the +words, as if written in sympathetic ink. Yet Peter had had as pressing +an invitation and as warm a welcome at Mr. Pierce’s country place as +had any of the house-party ingathered during the first week of July. +Clearly something made him of value to the owner of the Shrubberies. +That something was his chum, Watts D’Alloi. + +Peter and Watts were such absolute contrasts that it seemed impossible +that they could have an interest or sympathy, in common. Therefore they +had become chums. A chance in their freshman year had brought them +together. Watts, with the refined and delicate sense of humor abounding +in collegians, had been concerned with sundry freshmen in an attempt to +steal (or, in collegiate terms, “rag”) the chapel Bible, with a view to +presenting it to some equally subtle humorists at Yale, expecting a +similar courtesy in return from that college. Unfortunately for the +joke, the college authorities had had the bad taste to guard against +the annually attempted substitution. Two of the marauders were caught, +while Watts only escaped by leaving his coat in the hands of the +watchers. Even then he would have been captured had he not met Peter in +his flight, and borrowed the latter’s coat, in which he reached his +room without detection. Peter was caught by the pursuers, and summoned +before the faculty, but he easily proved that the captured coat was not +his, and that he had but just parted from one of the tutors, making it +certain that he could not have been an offender. There was some talk of +expelling him for aiding and abetting in the true culprit’s escape, and +for refusing to tell who it was. Respect for his motives, however, and +his unimpeachable record saved him from everything but an admonition +from the president, which changed into a discussion of cotton printing +before that august official had delivered half of his intended rebuke. +People might not enthuse over Peter, but no one ever quarrelled with +him. So the interview, after travelling from cotton prints to spring +radishes, ended with a warm handshake, and a courteous suggestion that +he come again when there should be no charges nor admonitions to go +through with. Watts told him that he was a “devilish lucky” fellow to +have been on hand to help, for Peter had proved his pluck to his class, +had made a friend of the president and, as Watts considerately put it: +“but for your being on the corner at 11:10 that evening, old chap, +you’d never have known me.” Truly on such small chances do the greatest +events of our life turn. Perhaps, could Peter have looked into the +future, he would have avoided that corner. Perhaps, could he have +looked even further, he would have found that in that chance lay the +greatest happiness of his life. Who can tell, when the bitter comes, +and we later see how we could have avoided it, what we should have +encountered in its place? Who can tell, when sweet comes, how far it is +sweetened by the bitterness that went before? Dodging the future in +this world is a success equal to that of the old woman who triumphantly +announced that she had borrowed money enough to pay all her debts. + +As a matter of course Watts was grateful for the timely assistance, and +was not slow either to say or show it. He told his own set of fellows +that he was “going to take that Stirling up and make him one of us,” +and Watts had a remarkable way of doing what he chose. At first Peter +did not respond to the overtures and insistance of the handsome, +well-dressed, free-spending, New York swell. He was too conscious of +the difference between himself and Watts’s set, to wish or seek +identification with them. But no one who ever came under Watts’s +influence could long stand out against his sunny face and frank manner, +and so Peter eventually allowed himself to be “taken up.” Perhaps the +resistance encountered only whetted Watts’s intention. He was certainly +aided by Peter’s isolation. Whether the cause was single or multiple, +Peter was soon in a set from which many a seemingly far more eligible +fellow was debarred. + +Strangely enough, it did not change him perceptibly. He still plodded +on conscientiously at his studies, despite laughter and attempts to +drag him away from them. He still lived absolutely within the +comfortable allowance that his mother gave him. He still remained the +quiet, serious looking fellow of yore. The “gang,” as they styled +themselves, called him “kill-joy,” “graveyard,” or “death’s head,” in +their evening festivities, but Peter only puffed at his pipe +good-naturedly, making no retort, and if the truth had really been +spoken, not a man would have changed him a particle. His silence and +seriousness added the dash of contrast needed to make the evening +perfect. All joked him. The most popular verse in a class-song Watts +wrote, was devoted to burlesquing his soberness, the gang never tiring +of singing at all hours and places: + +“Goodness gracious! Who’s that in the ‘yard’ a yelling in the rain? +That’s the boy who never gave his mother any pain, +But now his moral character is sadly on the wane, +’Tis little Peter Stirling, bilin’ drunk again. +Oh, the Sunday-school boy, +His mamma’s only joy, +Is shouting drunk as usual, and raising Cain!” + + +Yet joke Peter as they would, in every lark, be it drive, sail, feed, +drink, or smoke, whoever’s else absence was commented upon, his never +passed unnoticed. + +In Sophomore year, Watts, without quite knowing why, proposed that they +should share rooms. Nor would he take Peter’s refusal, and eventually +succeeded in reversing it. + +“I can’t afford your style of living,” Peter had said quietly, as his +principal objection. + +“Oh, I’ll foot the bills for the fixings, so it shan’t cost you a cent +more,” said Watts, and when Peter had finally been won over to give his +assent, Watts had supposed it was on this uneven basis. But in the end, +the joint chambers were more simply furnished than those of the rest of +the gang, who promptly christened them “the hermitage,” and Peter had +paid his half of the expense. And though he rarely had visitors of his +own asking at the chambers, all cost of wine and tobacco was equally +borne by him. + +The three succeeding years welded very strong bands round these two. It +was natural that they should modify each other strongly, but in truth, +as in most cases, when markedly different characteristics are brought +in contact, the only effect was to accentuate each in his +peculiarities. Peter dug at his books all the harder, by reason of +Watts’s neglect of them. Watts became the more free-handed with his +money because of Peter’s prudence. Watts talked more because of Peter’s +silence, and Peter listened more because of Watts’s talk. Watts, it is +true, tried to drag Peter into society, yet in truth, Peter was really +left more alone than if he had been rooming with a less social fellow. +Each had in truth become the complement of the other, and seemed as +mutually necessary as the positive and negative wires in electricity. +Peter, who had been taking the law lectures in addition to the regular +academic course, and had spent his last two summers reading law in an +attorney’s office, in his native town, taking the New York examination +in the previous January, had striven to get Watts to do the same, with +the ultimate intention of their hanging out a joint legal shingle in +New York. + +“I’ll see the clients, and work up the cases, Watts, and you’ll make +the speeches and do the social end,” said Peter, making a rather long +speech in the ardor of his wishes. + +Watts laughed. “I don’t know, old man. I rather fancy I shan’t do +anything. To do something requires that one shall make up one’s mind +what to do, and that’s such devilish hard work. I’ll wait till I’ve +graduated, and had a chin with my governor about it Perhaps he’ll make +up my mind for me, and so save my brain tissue. But anyway, you’ll come +to New York, and start in, for you must be within reach of me. Besides, +New York’s the only place in this country worth living in.” + +Such were the relations between the two at graduation time. Watts, who +had always prepared his lessons in a tenth part of the time it had +taken Peter, buckled down in the last few weeks, and easily won an +honorable mention. Peter had tried hard to win honors, but failed. + +“You did too much outside work, old man,” said Watts, who would +cheerfully have given his own triumph to his friend. “If you want +success in anything, you’ve got to sacrifice other things and +concentrate on the object. The Mention’s really not worth the ink it’s +written with, in my case, but I knew it would please mammy and pappy, +so I put on steam, and got it. If I’d hitched on a lot of freight cars +loaded with stuff that wouldn’t have told in Exams, I never could have +been in on time.” + +Peter shook his head rather sadly. “You outclass me in brains, Watts, +as much as you do in other things” + +“Nonsense,” said Watts. “I haven’t one quarter of your head. But my +ancestors—here’s to the old coves—have been brain-culturing for three +hundred years, while yours have been land-culturing; and of course my +brain moves quicker and easier than yours. I take to a book, by +hereditary instinct, as a duck to water, while you are like a yacht, +which needs a heap of building and fitting before she can do the same. +But you’ll beat me in the long run, as easily as the boat does the +duck. And the Honor’s nothing.” + +“Except, as you said, to one’s”—Peter hesitated for a moment, divided +in mind by his wish to quote accurately, and his dislike of anything +disrespectful, and then finished “to one’s mother.” + +“That’s the last person it’s needed for, chum,” replied Watts. “If +there’s one person that doesn’t need the world’s or faculty’s opinion +to prove one’s merit, it’s one’s dear, darling, doating, self-deluded +and undisillusioned mamma. Heigh-ho. I’ll be with mine two weeks from +now, after we’ve had our visit at the Pierces’. I’m jolly glad you are +going, old man. It will be a sort of tapering-off time for the summer’s +separation. I don’t see why you insist on starting in at once in New +York? No one does any law business in the summertime. Why, I even think +the courts are closed. Come, you’d better go on to Grey-Court with me, +and try it, at least. My mammy will kill the fatted calf for you in +great style.” + +“We’ve settled that once,” said Peter, who was evidently speaking +journalistically, for he had done the settling. + +Watts said something in a half-articulate way, which certainly would +have fired the blood of every dime museum-keeper in the country, had +they been there to hear the conversation, for, as well as could be +gathered from the mumbling, it related to a “pig-headed donkey” known +of to the speaker. “I suppose you’ll be backing out of the Pierce +affair yet,” he added, discontentedly. + +“No,” said Peter. + +“An invitation to Grey-Court is worth two of the Shrubberies. My mother +knows only the right kind of people, while Mr. Pierce—” + +“Is to be our host,” interrupted Peter, but with no shade of correction +in his voice. + +“Yes,” laughed Watts, “and he is a host. He’ll not let any one else get +a word in edgewise. You are just the kind of talker he’ll like. Mark my +word, he’ll be telling every one, before you’ve been two hours in the +house, that you are a remarkably brilliant conversationalist.” + +“What will he say of you?” said Peter, in a sentence which he broke up +into reasonable lengths by a couple of pulls at his pipe in the middle +of it. + +“Mr. Pierce, chum,” replied Watts, with a look in his eyes which Peter +had learned to associate with mischief on Watts’s part, “has too great +an affection for yours truly to object to anything I do. Do you +suppose, if I hadn’t been sure of my footing at the Shrubberies, that I +should have dared to ask an invitation for”—then Watts hesitated for a +moment, seeing a half-surprised, half-anxious look come into Peter’s +face, “for myself?” he continued. + +“Tell truth and shame the devil,” said Peter. + +Watts laughed. “Confound you! That’s what comes of letting even such a +stupid old beggar as you learn to read one’s thoughts. It’s mighty +ungrateful of you to use them against me. Yes. I did ask to have you +included in the party. But you needn’t put your back up, Mr. +Unbendable, and think you were forced on them. Mr. Pierce gave me +_carte blanche_, and if it hadn’t been you, it would have been some +other donkey.” + +“But Mrs. Pierce?” queried Peter. + +“Oh,” explained Watts, “of course Mrs. Pierce wrote the letter. I +couldn’t do it in my name, and so Mr. Pierce told her to do it. They’re +very land of me, old man, because my governor is the largest +stockholder, and a director in Mr. P.’s bank, and I was told I could +bring down some fellows next week for a few days’ jollity. I didn’t +care to do that, but of course I wouldn’t have omitted you for any +amount of ducats.” + +Which explanation solves the mystery of Peter’s presence at the +Shrubberies. To understand his face we must trace the period between +his arrival and the moment this story begins. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +BEGINNINGS. + + +How far Watts was confining himself to facts in the foregoing dialogue +is of no concern, for the only point of value was that Peter was +invited, without regard to whether Watts first asked Mr. Pierce, or Mr. +Pierce first asked Watts. A letter which the latter wrote to Miss +Pierce, as soon as it was settled that Peter should go, is of more +importance, and deserves quotation in full: + + +JUNE 7TH. + +MY DEAR HELEN— + +Between your Pater and my Peter, it has taken an amount of diplomacy to +achieve the scheme we planned last summer, which would be creditable to +Palmerston at his palmiest and have made Bismarck even more marked than +he is. But the deed, the mighty deed is done, and June twenty-ninth +will see chum and me at the Shrubberies “if it kills every cow in the +barn,” which is merely another way of saying that in the bright lexicon +of youth, there’s no such word as fail. + +Now a word as to the fellow you are so anxious to meet. I have talked +to you so much about him, that you will probably laugh at my attempting +to tell you anything new. I’m not going to try, and you are to consider +all I say as merely a sort of underlining to what you already know. +Please remember that he will never take a prize for his beauty—nor even +for his grace. He has a pleasing way with girls, not only of not +talking himself, but of making it nearly impossible for them to talk. +For instance, if a girl asks me if I play croquet, which by the way, is +becoming very _passé_ (three last lines verge on poetry) being replaced +by a new game called tennis, I probably say, “No. Do you?” In this way +I make croquet good for a ten minutes’ chat, which in the end leads up +to some other subject. Peter, however, doesn’t. He says “No,” and so +the girl can’t go on with croquet, but must begin a new subject. It is +safest to take the subject-headings from an encyclopædia, and introduce +them in alphabetical order. Allow about ninety to the hour, unless you +are brave enough to bear an occasional silence. If you are, you can +reduce this number considerably, and chum doesn’t mind a pause in the +least, if the girl will only look contented. If she looks worried, +however, Peter gets worried, too. Just put the old chap between you and +your mamma at meals, and pull him over any rough spots that come along. +You, I know, will be able to make it easy for him. Neglect me to any +extent. I shan’t be jealous, and shall use that apparent neglect as an +excuse for staying on for a week after he goes, so as to have my +innings. I want the dear old blunderbuss to see how nice a really nice +girl can be, so do your prettiest to him, for the sake of + +WATTS CLARKSON D’ALLOI. + + +When Watts and Peter saved the “cows in the barn” by stepping off the +train on June 29th, the effect of this letter was manifest. Watts was +promptly bestowed on the front seat of the trap with Mr. Pierce, while +Peter was quickly sitting beside a girl on the back seat. Of course an +introduction had been made, but Peter had acquired a habit of not +looking at girls, and as a consequence had yet to discover how far Miss +Pierce came up to the pleasant word-sketch Watts had drawn of her. +Indeed, Peter had looked longingly at the seat beside Mr. Pierce, and +had attempted, in a very obvious manner, though one which seemed to him +the essence of tact and most un-apparent, to have it assigned to him. +But two people, far his superior in natural finesse and experience, had +decided beforehand that he was to sit with Helen, and he could not +resist their skilful manoeuvres. So he climbed into place, hoping that +she wouldn’t talk, or if that was too much to expect, that at least +Watts would half turn and help him through. + +Neither of these fitted, however, with Miss Pierce’s plans. She gave +Peter a moment to fit comfortably into his seat, knowing that if she +forced the running before he had done that, he would probably sit awry +for the whole drive. Then: “I can’t tell you how pleased we all are +over Watts’s success. We knew, of course, he could do it if he cared +to, but he seemed to think the attempt hardly worth the making, and so +we did not know if he would try.” + +Peter breathed more easily. She had not asked a question, and the +intonation of the last sentence was such as left him to infer that it +was not his turn to say something; which, Peter had noticed, was the +way in which girls generally ended their remarks. + +“Oh, look at that absurd looking cow,” was her next remark, made before +Peter had begun to worry over the pause. + +Peter looked at the cow and laughed. He would like to have laughed +longer, for that would have used up time, but the moment he thought the +laugh could be employed in place of conversation, the laugh failed. +However, to be told to look at a cow required no rejoinder, so there +was as yet no cause for anxiety. + +“We are very proud of our roads about here,” said Miss Pierce. “When we +first bought they were very bad, but papa took the matter in hand and +got them to build with a rock foundation, as they do in Europe.” + +Three subjects had been touched upon, and no answer or remark yet +forced upon him. Peter thought of _rouge et noir_, and wondered what +the odds were that he would be forced to say something by Miss Pierce’s +next speech. + +“I like the New England roadside,” continued Miss Pierce, with an +apparent relativeness to the last subject that delighted Peter, who was +used by this time to much disconnection of conversation, and found not +a little difficulty in shifting quickly from one topic to another. +“There is a tangled finish about it that is very pleasant. And in +August, when the golden-rod comes, I think it is glorious. It seems to +me as if all the hot sunbeams of the summer had been gathered up +in—excuse the expression—it’s a word of Watts’s—into ‘gobs’ of +sunshine, and scattered along the roads and fields.” + +Peter wondered if the request to be excused called for a response, but +concluded that it didn’t. + +“Papa told me the other day,” continued Miss Pierce, “that there were +nineteen distinct varieties of golden-rod. I had never noticed that +there were any differences.” + +Peter began to feel easy and comfortable. He made a mental note that +Miss Pierce had a very sweet voice. It had never occurred to Peter +before to notice if a girl had a pleasant voice. Now he distinctly +remembered that several to whom he had talked—or rather who had talked +to him—had not possessed that attraction. + +“Last year,” said Miss Pierce, “when Watts was here, we had a +golden-rod party. We had the whole house decked with it, and yellow +lamps on the lawn.” + +“He told me about it,” said Peter. + +“He really was the soul of it,” said Miss Pierce, “He wove himself a +belt and chaplet of it and wore it all through the evening. He was so +good-looking!” + +Peter, quite unconscious that he had said anything, actually continued: +“He was voted the handsomest man of the class.” + +“Was he really? How nice!” said Miss Pierce. + +“Yes,” said Peter. “And it was true.” Peter failed to notice that a +question had been asked, or that he had answered it. He began to think +that he would like to look at Miss Pierce for a moment. Miss Pierce, +during this interval, remarked to herself: “Yes. That was the right +way, Helen, my dear.” + +“We had quite a houseful for our party,” Miss Pierce remarked, after +this self-approval. “And that reminds me that I must tell you about +whom you meet to-day.” Then the next ten minutes were consumed in +naming and describing the two fashionable New York girls and their +brother, who made the party then assembled. + +During this time Peter’s eyes strayed from Watts’s shapely back, and +took a furtive glance at Miss Pierce. He found that she was looking at +him as she talked, but for some reason it did not alarm him, as such +observation usually did. Before the guests were properly catalogued, +Peter was looking into her eyes as she rambled on, and forgot that he +was doing so. + +The face that he saw was not one of any great beauty, but it was sweet, +and had a most attractive way of showing every change of mood or +thought. It responded quickly too, to outside influence. Many a girl of +more real beauty was less popular. People liked to talk to Miss Pierce, +and many could not escape from saying more than they wished, impelled +thereto by her ready sympathy. Then her eyes were really beautiful, and +she had the trimmest, dearest little figure in the world; “squeezable” +was the word Watts used to describe it, and most men thought the same. +Finally, she had a pleasant way of looking into people’s eyes as she +talked to them, and for some reason people felt very well satisfied +when she did. + +It had this effect upon Peter. As he looked down into the large gray +eyes, really slate-color in their natural darkness, made the darker by +the shadows of the long lashes, he entirely forgot place and +circumstances; ceased to think whose turn it was to speak; even forgot +to think whether he was enjoying the moment. In short he forgot himself +and, what was equally important, forgot that he was talking to a girl. +He felt and behaved as he did with men. “Moly hoses!” said Watts to +himself on the front seat, “the old fellow’s getting loquacious. +Garrulity must be contagious, and he’s caught it from Mr. Pierce.” +Which, being reduced to actual facts, means that Peter had spoken eight +times, and laughed twice, in the half hour that was passed between the +station and the Shrubberies’ gate. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +MINES AND COUNTER-MINES. + + +The sight of the party on the veranda of the Shrubberies brought a +return of self-consciousness to Peter, and he braced himself, as the +trap slowed up, for the agony of formal greetings. If Miss Pierce had +been a less sweet, sympathetic girl, she could hardly have kept from +smiling at the way Peter’s face and figure stiffened, as the group came +in sight. But Miss Pierce had decided, before she met Peter, that she +should like him, and, moreover, that he was a man who needed help. Let +any woman reach these conclusions about a man, and for some reason +quite beyond logic or philosophy, he ceases to be ridiculous. So +instead of smiling, she bridged over the awful greetings with feminine +engineering skill quite equal to some great strategic movement in war. +Peter was made to shake hands with Mrs. Pierce, but was called off to +help Miss Pierce out of the carriage, before speech was necessary. Then +a bundle was missing in the bottom of the carriage, and Mr. Pawling, +the New York swell, was summoned to help Peter find it, the incident +being seized upon to name the two to each other. Finally, he was +introduced to the two girls, but, almost instantly, Watts and Peter +were sent to their rooms; and Miss Pierce, nodding her head in a way +which denoted satisfaction, remarked as she went to her own room, +“Really, Helen, I don’t think it will be so very hard, after all. He’s +very tractable.” + +As Peter came downstairs, before dinner, he speculated on whether he +should be able to talk to Miss Pierce. He rather doubted from past +experience, if such a result was attainable, seeing that there were two +other men, who would of course endeavor to do the same. But strangely +enough the two men were already seated by the New York girls, and a +vacant chair was next that holding Miss Pierce. What was more, he was +at once summoned to fill it, and in five minutes was again entirely +unconscious of everything but the slate-colored eyes, looking so +pleasantly into his. Then he took Miss Pierce in to dinner, and sat +between her and her mother again becoming absorbed in the slate-colored +eyes, which seemed quite willing to be absorbed. After dinner, too, +when the women had succeeded the weed, Peter in someway found it very +easy to settle himself near Miss Pierce. Later that night Peter sat in +his room, or rather, with half his body out of the window, puffing his +pipe, and thinking how well he had gone through the day. He had not +made a single slip. Nothing to groan over. “I’m getting more +experienced,” he thought, with the vanity noticeable in even the most +diffident of collegians, never dreaming that everything that he had +said or done in the last few hours, had been made easy for him by a +woman’s tact. + +The following week was practically a continuation of this first day. In +truth Peter was out of his element with the fashionables; Mr. Pierce +did not choose to waste his power on him; and Mrs. Pierce, like the +yielding, devoted wife she was, took her coloring from her husband. +Watts had intended to look after him, but Watts played well on the +piano, and on the billiard table; he rowed well and rode well; he sang, +he danced, he swam, he talked, he played all games, he read aloud +capitally, and, what was more, was ready at any or all times for any or +all things. No man who can do half these had better intend seriously to +do some duty in a house-party in July. For, however good his +intentions, he will merely add to the pavement of a warmer place than +even a July temperature makes Long Island Sound. Instinctively, Peter +turned to Miss Pierce at every opportunity. He should have asked +himself if the girl was really enjoying his company more than she did +that of the other young people. Had he been to the manner born he would +have known better than to force himself on a hostess, or to make his +monopoly of a young girl so marked. But he was entirely oblivious of +whether he was doing as he ought, conscious only that, for causes which +he made no attempt to analyze, he was very happy when with her. For +reasons best known to Miss Pierce, she allowed herself to be +monopolized. She was even almost as devoted to Peter as he was to her, +and no comparison could be stronger. It is to be questioned if she +enjoyed it very much, for Peter was not talkative, and the little he +did say was neither brilliant nor witty. With the jollity and “high +jinks” (to use a word of Watts’s) going on about her, it is hardly +possible that Peter’s society shone by contrast. Yet in drawing-room or +carriage, on the veranda, lawn, or yacht’s deck, she was ever ready to +give him as much of her attention and help as he seemed to need, and he +needed a good deal. Watts jokingly said that “the moment Peter comes in +sight, Helen puts out a sign ‘vacant, to let,’” and this was only one +of many jokes the house-party made over the dual devotion. + +It was an experience full of danger to Peter. For the first time in his +life he was seeing the really charming phases which a girl has at +command. Attractive as these are to all men, they were trebly so to +Peter, who had nothing to compare with them but the indifferent +attitudes hitherto shown him by the maidens of his native town, and by +the few Boston women who had been compelled to “endure” his society. If +he had had more experience he would have merely thought Miss Pierce a +girl with nice eyes, figure and manner. But as a single glass of wine +is dangerous to the teetotaller, so this episode had an over-balancing +influence on Peter, entirely out of proportion to its true value. +Before the week was over he was seriously in love, and though his +natural impassiveness and his entire lack of knowledge how to convey +his feelings to Miss Pierce, prevented her from a suspicion of the +fact, the more experienced father and mother were not so blind. + +“Really, Charles,” said Mrs. Pierce, in the privacy of their own room, +“I think it ought to be stopped.” + +“Exactly, my dear,” replied her other half, with an apparent yielding +to her views that amazed and rather frightened Mrs. Pierce, till he +continued: “Beyond question _it_ should be stopped, since you say so. +_It_ is neuter, and as neutral things are highly objectionable, stop +_it_ by all means.” + +“I mean Mr. Stirling—” began Mrs. Pierce. + +“Yes?” interrupted Mr. Pierce, in an encouraging, inquiring tone. +“Peter is certainly neuter. I think one might say negative, without +gross exaggeration. Still, I should hardly stop him. He finds enough +difficulty in getting out an occasional remark without putting a +stopper in him. Perhaps, though, I mistake your meaning, and you want +Peter merely to stop here a little longer.” + +“I mean, dear,” replied Mrs. Pierce, with something like a tear in her +voice, for she was sadly wanting in a sense of humor, and her husband’s +jokes always half frightened her, and invariably made her feel inferior +to him, “I mean his spending so much time with Helen. I’m afraid he’ll +fall in love with her.” + +“My dear,” said Mr. Pierce, “you really should be a professional +mind-reader. Your suggestion comes as an awful revelation to me. Just +supposing he should—aye—just supposing he has, fallen in love with +Helen!” + +“I really think he has,” said Mrs. Pierce, “though he is so different +from most men, that I am not sure.” + +“Then by all means we must stop him. By the way, how does one stop a +man’s falling in love?” asked Mr. Pierce. + +“Charles!” said Mrs. Pierce. + +This remark of Mrs. Pierce’s generally meant a resort to a +handkerchief, and Mr. Pierce did not care for any increase of +atmospheric humidity just then. He therefore concluded that since his +wit was taken seriously, he would try a bit of seriousness, as an +antidote. + +“I don’t think there is any occasion to interfere. Whatever Peter does +can make no difference, for it is perfectly evident that Helen is nice +to him as a sort of duty, and, I rather suspect, to please Watts. So +anything she may do will be a favor to him, while the fact that she is +attractive to Peter will not lessen her value to—others.” + +“Then you don’t think—?” asked Mrs. Pierce, and paused there. + +“Don’t insult my intelligence,” laughed Mr. Pierce. “I do think. I +think things can’t be going better. I was a little afraid of Mr. +Pawling, and should have preferred to have him and his sisters later, +but since it is policy to invite them and they could not come at any +other time, it was a godsend to have sensible, dull old Peter to keep +her busy. If he had been in the least dangerous, I should not have +interfered, but I should have made him very ridiculous. That’s the way +for parents to treat an ineligible man. Next week, when all are gone +but Watts, he will have his time, and shine the more by contrast with +what she has had this week.” + +“Then you think Helen and Watts care for each other?” asked Mrs. +Pierce, flushing with pleasure, to find her own opinion of such a +delightful possibility supported by her husband’s. + +“I think,” said Mr. Pierce, “that the less we parents concern ourselves +with love the better. If I have made opportunities for Helen and Watts +to see something of each other, I have only done what was to their +mutual interests. Any courtesy I have shown him is well enough +accounted for on the ground of his father’s interest in my institution, +without the assumption of any matrimonial intentions. However, I am not +opposed to a marriage. Watts is the son of a very rich man of the best +social position in New York, besides being a nice fellow in himself. +Helen will make any man a good wife, and whoever wins her will not be +the poorer. If the two can fix it between themselves, I shall cry _nunc +dimittis_, but further than this, the deponent saith and doeth not.” + +“I am sure they love each other,” said Mrs. Pierce. + +“Well,” said Mr. Pierce, “I think if most parents would decide whom it +was best for their child to marry, and see that the young people saw +just enough of each other, before they saw too much of the world, they +could accomplish their purpose, provided they otherwise kept their +finger out of the pot of love. There is a certain period in a man’s +life when he must love something feminine, even if she’s as old as his +grandmother. There is a certain period in a girl’s life when it is +well-nigh impossible for her to say ‘no’ to a lover. He really only +loves the sex, and she really loves the love and not the lover; but it +is just as well, for the delusion lasts quite as long as the more +personal love that comes later. And, being young, they need less +breaking for double harness.” + +Mrs. Pierce winced. Most women do wince when a man really verges on his +true conclusions concerning love in the abstract, however satisfactory +his love in the concrete may be to them. “I am sure they love each +other,” she affirmed. + +“Yes, I think they do,” replied Mr. Pierce. “But five years in the +world before meeting would have possibly brought quite a different +conclusion. And now, my dear, if we are not going to have the young +people eloping in the yacht by themselves, we had better leave both the +subject and the room, for we have kept them fifteen minutes as it is.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +A MONOLOGUE AND A DIALOGUE. + + +It was at the end of this day’s yachting that Peter was having his +“unsocial walk.” Early on the morrow he would be taking the train for +his native town, and the thought of this, in connection with other +thoughts, drew stern lines on his face. His conclusions were something +to this effect: + +“I suspected before coming that Watts and Miss Pierce loved each other. +I was evidently wrong, for if they did they could not endure seeing so +little of each other. How could he know her and not love her? But it’s +very fortunate for me, for I should stand no chance against him, even +supposing I should try to win the girl he loved. She can’t care for me! +As Watts says, ‘I’m an old stupid naturally, and doubly so with girls.’ +Still, I can’t go to-morrow without telling her. I shan’t see her again +till next winter. I can’t wait till then. Some one else—I can’t wait.” + +Then he strode up and down half a dozen times repeating the last three +words over and over again. His thoughts took a new turn. + +“It’s simply folly, and you have no right to give in to it. You have +your own way to make. You have no right to ask mother for more than the +fifteen hundred she says you are to have as an allowance, for you know +that if she gave you more, it would be only by scrimping herself. What +is fifteen hundred a year to such a girl? Why, her father would think I +was joking!” + +Then Peter looked out on the leaden waters and wished it was not +cowardly to end the conflict by letting them close over him. The dark +color made him think, however, of a pair of slate-colored eyes, so +instead of jumping in, he repeated “I can’t wait” a few times, and +walked with redoubled energy. Having stimulated himself thereby, he +went on thinking. + +“She has been so kind to me that—no—she can’t care for me. But if +she—if by chance—if—supposing she does! Why, the money is nothing. We +can wait.” + +Peter repeated this last remark several times, clearly showing that he +made a great distinction between “I can wait” and “We can wait.” +Probably the same nice distinction has been made before, and lovers +have good authority for the distinction, for many an editor’s public +“We think” is the exact opposite of his private “I think.” Then Peter +continued: + +“Of course I shall have difficulty with Mr. Pierce. He’s a worldly man. +That’s nothing, though, if she cares for me. If she cares for me?” + +Peter repeated this last sentence a number of times and seemed to enjoy +the prospect it conjured up. He saw Peter Stirling taking a fond +farewell of a certain lady. He saw him entering the arena and +struggling with the wild beasts, and of course conquering them. He saw +the day when his successes would enable him to set up his own fireside. +He saw that fireside made perfect by a pair of slate-colored eyes, +which breakfast opposite him, follow him as he starts for his work, and +greet him on his return. A pair of eyes to love when present, and think +of when absent. Heigho! How many firesides and homes have been built +out of just such materials! + +From all this the fact can be gathered that Peter was really, despite +his calm, sober nature, no more sensible in love matters than are other +boys verging on twenty-one. He could not see that success in this love +would be his greatest misfortune. That he could not but be distracted +from his work. That he would almost certainly marry before he could +well afford it, and thus overweight himself in his battle for success. +He forgot prudence and common-sense, and that being what a lover +usually does, he can hardly be blamed for it. + +Bump! + +Down came the air-castle. Home, fireside, and the slate-colored eyes +dissolved into a wooden wharf. The dream was over. + +“Bear a hand here with these lunch-baskets, chum,” called Watts. “Make +yourself useful as well as ornamental.” + +And so Peter’s solitary tramp ceased, and he was helping lunch-baskets +and ladies to the wharf. + +But the tramp had brought results which were quickly to manifest +themselves. As the party paired off for the walk to the Shrubberies, +both Watts and Peter joined Miss Pierce, which was not at all to +Peter’s liking. + +“Go on with the rest, Watts,” said Peter quietly. + +Miss Pierce and Watts both stopped short in surprise. + +“Eh?” said the latter. + +“You join the rest of the party on ahead,” said Peter. + +“I don’t understand,” said Watts, who could hardly have been more +surprised if Peter had told him to drown himself. + +“I want to say something to Miss Pierce,” explained Peter. + +Watts caught his breath. If Peter had not requested his absence and +given his reason for wishing it, in Miss Pierce’s hearing, Watts would +have formed an instant conclusion as to what it meant, not far from the +truth. But that a man should deliberately order another away, in the +girl’s hearing, so that he might propose to her, was too great an +absurdity for Watts to entertain for more than a second. He laughed, +and said, “Go on yourself, if you don’t like the company.” + +“No,” said Peter. “I want you to go on.” Peter spoke quietly, but there +was an inflexion in his singularly clear voice, which had more command +in it than a much louder tone in others. Watts had learned to recognize +it, and from past experience knew that Peter was not to be moved when +he used it. But here the case was different. Hitherto he had been +trying to make Peter do something. Now the boot was on the other leg, +and Watts saw therein a chance for some fun. He therefore continued to +stand still, as they had all done since Peter had exploded his first +speech, and began to whistle. Both men, with that selfishness common to +the sex, failed entirely to consider whether Miss Pierce was enjoying +the incident. + +“I think,” remarked Miss Pierce, “that I will leave you two to settle +it, and run on with the rest.” + +“Don’t,” spoke Peter quickly. “I have something to say to you.” + +Watts stopped his whistling. “What the deuce is the old boy up to?” he +thought to himself. Miss Pierce hesitated. She wanted to go, but +something in Peter’s voice made it very difficult. “I had no idea he +could speak so decidedly. He’s not so tractable as I thought. I think +Watts ought to do what he asks. Though I don’t see why Mr. Stirling +wants to send him away,” she said to herself. + +“Watts,” said Peter, “this is the last chance I shall really have to +thank Miss Pierce, for I leave before breakfast to-morrow.” + +There was nothing appealing in the way it was said. It seemed a mere +statement of a fact. Yet something in the voice gave it the character +of a command. + +“’Nough said, chum,” said Watts, feeling a little cheap at his +smallness in having tried to rob Peter of his farewell. The next moment +he was rapidly overtaking the advance-party. + +By all conventions there should have been an embarrassing pause after +this extraordinary colloquy, but there was not. When Peter decided to +do a thing, he never faltered in the doing. If making love or declaring +it had been a matter of directness and plain-speaking, Peter would have +been a successful lover. But few girls are won by lovers who carry +business methods and habits of speech into their courtship. + +“Miss Pierce,” said Peter, “I could not go without thanking you for +your kindness to me. I shall never forget this week.” + +“I am so glad you have enjoyed it,” almost sang Miss Pierce, in her +pleasure at this reward for her week of self-sacrifice. + +“And I couldn’t go,” said Peter, his clear voice suddenly husking, +“without telling you how I love you.” + +“Love me!” exclaimed Miss Pierce, and she brought the walk again to a +halt, in her surprise. + +“Yes,” replied Peter simply, but the monosyllable meant more than the +strongest protestations, as he said it. + +“Oh,” almost cried his companion, “I am so sorry.” + +“Don’t say that,” said Peter; “I don’t want it to be a sorrow to you.” + +“But it’s so sudden,” gasped Miss Pierce. + +“I suppose it is,” said Peter, “but I love you and can’t help telling +it. Why shouldn’t one tell one’s love as soon as one feels it? It’s the +finest thing a man can tell a woman.” + +“Oh, please don’t,” begged Miss Pierce, her eyes full of tears in +sympathy for him. “You make it so hard for me to say that—that you +mustn’t” + +“I really didn’t think you could care for me—as I cared for you,” +replied Peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last +speech. “Girls have never liked me.” + +Miss Pierce began to sob. “It’s all a mistake. A dreadful mistake,” she +cried, “and it is my fault.” + +“Don’t say that,” said Peter, “It’s nothing but my blundering.” + +They walked on in silence to the Shrubberies, but as they came near to +the glare of the lighted doorway, Peter halted a moment. + +“Do you think,” he asked, “that it could ever be different?” + +“No,” replied Miss Pierce. + +“Because, unless there is—is some one else,” continued Peter, “I shall +not——” + +“There is,” interrupted Miss Pierce, the determination in Peter’s voice +frightening her info disclosing her secret. + +Peter said to himself, “It is Watts after all.” He was tempted to say +it aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so. +But he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman. Instead he +said, “Thank you.” Then he braced himself, and added: “Please don’t let +my love cause you any sorrow. It has been nothing but a joy to me. +Good-night and good-bye.” + +He did not even offer to shake hands in parting. They went into the +hallway together, and leaving the rest of the party, who were already +raiding the larder for an impromptu supper, to their own devices, they +passed upstairs, Miss Pierce to bathe her eyes and Peter to pack his +belongings. + +“Where are Helen and Stirling?” inquired Mr. Pierce when the time came +to serve out the Welsh rarebit he was tending. + +“They’ll be along presently,” said Watts. “Helen forgot something, and +they went back after it.” + +“They will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the +rarebit, if they don’t hurry. And as we are all agreed that Stirling is +somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure +from the longer stroll to reward him for that. There, ladies and +gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the +absent ones regret their foolishness. As the gourmand says in +‘Richelieu,’ ‘What’s diplomacy compared to a delicious pâté?’” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +FACING THE WORLD. + + +Army surgeons recognize three types of wounded. One type so nervous, +that it drops the moment it is struck, whether the wound is disabling +or not. Another so nerveless, that it fights on, unconscious that it +has been hit. A third, who, feeling the wound, goes on fighting, +sustained by its nerve. It is over the latter sort that the surgeons +shake their heads and look anxious. + +Peter did his packing quietly and quickly, not pausing for a moment in +the task. Then he went downstairs, and joined the party, just finishing +the supper. He refused, it is true, to eat anything, and was quiet, but +this phase was so normal in him, that it occasioned no remark. Asked +where Miss Pierce was, he explained briefly that he had left her in the +hall, in order to do his packing and had not seen her since. + +In a few moments the party broke up. Peter said a good-bye to each, +quite conscious of what he was doing, yet really saying more and better +things than he had said in his whole visit, and quite surprising them +all in the apparent ease with which he went through the duty. + +“You must come and see us when you have put your shingle out in New +York,” said Mr. Pierce, not quite knowing why, having previously +decided that they had had enough of Peter. “We shall be in the city +early in September, and ready to see our friends.” + +“Thank you,” replied Peter. He turned and went upstairs to his room. He +ought to have spent the night pacing his floor, but he did not. He went +to bed instead Whether Peter slept, we cannot say. He certainly lay +very still, till the first ray of daylight brightened the sky. Then he +rose and dressed. He went to the stables and explained to the groom +that he would walk to the station, and merely asked that his trunk +should be there in time to be checked. Then he returned to the house +and told the cook that he would breakfast on the way. Finally he +started for the station, diverging on the way, so as to take a +roundabout road, that gave him a twelve-mile tramp in the time he had +before the train left. + +Perhaps the hardest thing Peter encountered was answering his mother’s +questions about the visit. Yet he never flinched nor dodged from a true +reply, and if his mother had chosen, she could have had the whole +story. But something in the way Peter spoke of Miss Pierce made Mrs. +Stirling careful, and whatever she surmised she kept to herself, merely +kissing him good-night with a tenderness that was unusual not merely in +a New-Englander, but even in her. During the rest of his stay, the +Pierces were quite as much kept out of sight, as if they had never been +known. Mrs. Stirling was not what we should call a “lady,” yet few of +those who rank as such, would have been as considerate or tender of +Peter’s trouble, if the power had been given them to lay it bare. Love, +sympathy, unselfishness and forbearance are not bad equivalents for +breeding and etiquette, and have the additional advantage of meeting +new and unusual conditions which sometimes occur to even the most +conventional. + +One hope did come to her, “Perhaps, now that”—and Mrs. Stirling left +“that” blank even in her thoughts; “now my boy, my Peter, will not be +so set on going to New York.” In this, however, she was disappointed. +On the second day of his stay, Peter spoke of his intention to start +for New York the following week. + +“Don’t you think you could do as well here?” said Mrs. Stirling. + +“Up to a certain point, better. But New York has a big beyond,” said +Peter. “I’ll try it there first, and if I don’t make my way, I’ll come +back here” + +Few mothers hope for a son’s failure, yet Mrs. Stirling allowed herself +a moment’s happiness over this possibility. Then remembering that her +Peter could not possibly fail, she became despondent. “They say New +York’s full of temptations,” she said. + +“I suppose it is, mother,” replied Peter, “to those who want to be +tempted.” + +“I know I can trust you, Peter,” said his mother, proudly, “but I want +you to promise me one thing.” + +“What?” + +“That if you do yield, if you do what you oughtn’t to, you’ll write and +tell me about it?” Mrs. Stirling put her arms about Peter’s neck, and +looked wistfully into his face. + +Peter was not blind to what this world is. Perhaps, had his mother +known it as he did, she might have seen how unfair her petition was. He +did not like to say yes, and could not say no. + +“I’ll try to go straight, mother,” he replied, “but that’s a good deal +to promise.” + +“It’s all I’m going to ask of you, Peter,” urged Mrs. Stirling. + +“I have gone through four years of my life with nothing in it I +couldn’t tell her,” thought Peter. “If that’s possible, I guess another +four is.” Then he said aloud, “Well, mother, since you want it, I’ll do +it.” + +The reason of Peter’s eagerness to get to New York, was chiefly to have +something definite to do. He tried to obtain this distraction of +occupation, at present, in a characteristic way, by taking excessively +long walks, and by struggling with his mother’s winter supply of wood. +He thought that every long stride and every swing of the axe was +working him free from the crushing lack of purpose that had settled +upon him. He imagined it would be even easier when he reached New York. +“There’ll be plenty to keep me busy there,” was his mental hope. + +All his ambitions and plans seemed in a sense to have become +meaningless, made so by the something which but ten days before had +been unknown to him. Like Moses he had seen the promised land. But +Moses died. He had seen it, and must live on without it. He saw nothing +in the future worth striving for, except a struggle to forget, if +possible, the sweetest and dearest memory he had ever known. He thought +of the epigram: “Most men can die well, but few can live well.” Three +weeks before he had smiled over it and set it down as a bit of French +cynicism. Now—on the verge of giving his mental assent to the theory, a +pair of slate-colored eyes in some way came into his mind, and even +French wit was discarded therefrom. + +Peter was taking his disappointment very seriously, if quietly. Had he +only known other girls, he might have made a safe recovery, for love’s +remedy is truly the homeopathic “similia similibus curantur,” woman +plural being the natural cure for woman singular. As the Russian in the +“Last Word” says, “A woman can do anything with a man—provided there is +no other woman.” In Peter’s case there was no other woman. What was +worse, there seemed little prospect of there being one in the future. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +SETTLING. + + +The middle of July found Peter in New York, eager to begin his grapple +with the future. How many such stormers have dashed themselves against +its high ramparts, from which float the flags of “worldly success;” how +many have fallen at the first attack; how many have been borne away, +stricken in the assault; how many have fought on bravely, till driven +back by pressure, sickness or hunger; how few have reached the top, and +won their colors! + +As already hinted, Peter had chosen the law as his ladder to climb +these ramparts. Like many another fellow he had but a dim comprehension +of the struggle before him. His college mates had talked over +professions, and agreed that law was a good one in New York. The +attorney in his native town, “had known of cases where men without +knowing a soul in a place, had started in and by hard work and merit +had built up a good practice, and I don’t see why it can’t be done as +well in New York as in Lawrence or Lowell. If New York is bigger, then +there is more to be done.” So Peter, whose New York acquaintances were +limited to Watts and four other collegians, the Pierces and their +fashionables, and a civil engineer originally from his native town, had +decided that the way to go about it was to get an office, hang up a +sign, and wait for clients. + +On the morning after his arrival, his first object was a lodging. +Selecting from the papers the advertisements of several +boarding-houses, he started in search of one. Watts had told him about +where to locate, “so as to live in a decent part of the city,” but +after seeing and pricing a few rooms near the “Avenue,” about Thirtieth +Street, Peter saw that Watts had been thinking of his own purse, rather +than of his friend’s. + +“Can you tell me where the cheaper boarding-houses are?” he asked the +woman who had done the honors of the last house. + +“If it’s cheapness you want, you’d better go to Bleecker Street,” said +the woman with a certain contemptuousness. + +Peter thanked her, and, walking away, accosted the first policeman. + +“It’s Blaker Strate, is it? Take the Sixth Avenue cars, there beyant,” +he was informed. + +“Is it a respectable street?” asked Peter. + +“Don’t be afther takin’ away a strate’s character,” said the policeman, +grinning good-naturedly. + +“I mean,” explained Peter, “do respectable people live there?” + +“Shure, it’s mostly boarding-houses for young men,” replied the unit of +“the finest.” “Ye know best what they’re loike.” + +Reassured, Peter, sought and found board in Bleecker Street, not +comprehending that he had gone to the opposite extreme. It was a dull +season, and he had no difficulty in getting such a room as suited both +his expectations and purse. By dinner-time he had settled his simple +household goods to his satisfaction, and slightly moderated the +dreariness of the third floor front, so far as the few pictures and +other furnishings from his college rooms could modify the effect of +well-worn carpet, cheap, painted furniture, and ugly wall-paper. + +Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a +fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he +was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the +summer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks, +another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the +fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. They +all looked at Peter’s clothes before looking at his face, and though +the greetings were civil enough, Peter’s ready-made travelling suit, +bought in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of +jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great +consideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely +from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable +acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in +the way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. +Under his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and +“show” talk. Much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. It was made +the worse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before +the newcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to +him. To make Peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various +questions. + +“Do you like—?” a popular soubrette of the day. + +“What, never seen her? Where on earth have you been living?” + +“Oh? Well, she’s got too good legs to waste herself on such a little +place.” + +They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared +to seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing +interest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in. + +“I haven’t got to work yet,” answered Peter + +“Looking for a place” was the mental comment of all, for they could not +conceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage. +So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When time +had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a +man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of +dry-goods clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He +could not, however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the +manly high-minded, cultivated Harvard classmates, every moment of their +society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor +asked them to his. Peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found +reading or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way +of passing his evenings. + +The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on his +friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Watts +had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr. +Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan. + +“Do you know any New York people,” he asked, “who will be likely to +give you cases?” + +“No,” said Peter. + +“Then it’s absolutely foolish of you to begin that way,” said Mr. +Converse. “Get into a lawyer’s office, and make friends first before +you think of starting by yourself. You’ll otherwise never get a +client.” + +Peter shook his head. “I’ve thought it out,” he added, as if that +settled it. + +Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to +explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said, +“If that’s so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between the +Battery and Canal Street.” Later in the day, when he had time, he shook +his head, and said, “Poor devil! Like all the rest.” + +Anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street represented a fairly +large range of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and +for the next three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting +rooms and dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized +office, far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it +fitted with a desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single +clients) and a shelf containing the few law books that were the +monuments of his Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the +following Monday, when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of +satisfaction at seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed +glass the sign of: + + +PETER STIRLING + +ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW. + + +He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding +place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early +hours were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to +do with himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. +Then he rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave +little spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more +imposing thereby. After that he took down a book—somebody “On +Torts,”—and dug into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a +week of this book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. +Then he took paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an +abstract of what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the +book. Returning the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the +accuracy of his memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past +eleven. Peter sat down at his desk. “Would all the days go like this?” +he asked himself. He had got through the first week by his room and +office-seeking and furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more +than four hours a day, and get anything from it. What was to be done +with the rest of the time? What could he do to keep himself from +thinking of—from thinking? He looked out of his one window, over the +dreary stretch of roofs and the drearier light shafts spoken of +flatteringly as yards. He compressed his lips, and resorted once more +to his book. But he found his mind wandering, and realized that he had +done all he was equal to on a hot July morning. Again he looked out +over the roofs. Then he rose and stood in the middle at his room, +thinking. He looked at his watch again, to make sure that he was right. +Then he opened his door and glanced about the hall. It was one blank, +except for the doors. He went down the two flights of stairs to the +street. Even that had the deserted look of summer. He turned and went +back to his room. Sitting down once more at his desk, and opening +somebody “On Torts” again, he took up his pen and began to copy the +pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then with pauses. +Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly. Then +he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded from view, and +all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid his head down +on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed. + +There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Most +of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, +for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So +it was in Peter’s case. It was waiting—waiting—for what? If clients +came, if fame came, if every form of success came,—for what? + +There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city. +About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and +health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that +Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from +noon one day till daylight of the next. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +HAPPINESS BY PROXY. + + +The window of Peter’s office faced east, and the rays of the morning +sun shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness +of things mundane. He rose, and went downstairs, to find the night +watch-man just opening the building. Fortunately he had already met the +man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a +pleasant “good-morning,” Peter passed into the street. It was a good +morning indeed, with all that freshness and coolness which even a great +city cannot take from a summer dawn. For some reason Peter felt more +encouraged. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his +loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. Perhaps it was only +the natural spring of twenty years. At all events, he felt dimly, that +miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet; +that he was going to fight on, come what might. + +He turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a passing cart +for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned +north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper +and had reached the new avenue or “drive,” which, by the liberality of +Mr. Tweed with other people’s money, was then just approaching +completion. After walking the length of it, he turned back to his +boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight +the future to any extent. + +As a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast The +presider over the box-office had ascertained that Peter had spent the +night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. He +failed, however, to carry out his intention. It was not the first time +that both he and his companions had decided to “roast” Peter, absent, +but had done other wise with Peter, present. He had also decided to say +to Peter, “Who’s your dandy letter-writer?” But he also failed to do +that. This last intention referred to a letter that lay at Peters +place, and which was examined by each of the four in turn. That letter +had an air about it. It was written on linen paper of a grade which, if +now common enough, was not so common at that time. Then it was +postmarked from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the +country. Finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the +wax bore the impression of a crest. They were all rather disappointed +when Peter put that letter in his pocket, without opening it. + +Peter read the letter at his office that morning. It was as follows: + + +GREY-COURT, July 21st. + +DEAR. OLD MAN— + +Like a fool I overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not get +my talk with you. You know I never get up early, and never can, so you +have only your refusal to let me in that night to blame for our not +having a last chat. If I had had the news to tell you that I now have, +I should not have let you keep me out, even if you had forced me to +break my way in. + +Chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me, and +we are both as happy as happy can be, I know you will not be in a +moment’s doubt as to who she is, I have only run down here to break it +to my family, and shall go back to the Shrubberies early next week—to +talk to Mr. Pierce, you understand! + +My governor has decided that a couple of years’ travel will keep me out +of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as the prospect +is not unpleasant, I am not going to let my new plans interfere with +it, merely making my journeyings a _solitude à deux_, instead of solus. +So we shall be married in September, at the Shrubberies, and sail for +Europe almost immediately. + +Now, I want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other things, +and help me through. I want you, in short, to be my “best man” as you +have been my Best friend. “Best man,” I should inform you, is an +English wedding institution, which our swell people have suddenly +discovered is a necessity to make a marriage ceremony legal. He doesn’t +do much. Holding his principal’s hat, I believe, is the most serious +duty that falls to him, though perhaps not stepping on the bridal +dresses is more difficult. + +My Mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in our +next. + +Aff., + +W. + + +Peter did not read law that morning. But after sitting in his chair for +a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something +quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face, +wrote two letters, as follows: + + +DEAR WATTS: + +You hardly surprised me by your letter. I had suspected, both from your +frequent visits to the Shrubberies, and from a way in which you +occasionally spoke of Miss Pierce, that you loved her. After seeing +her, I felt that it was not possible you did not. So I was quite +prepared for your news. You have indeed been fortunate in winning such +a girl. That I wish you every joy and happiness I need not say. + +I think you could have found some other of the fellows better suited to +stand with you, but if you think otherwise, I shall not fail you. + +You will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. Perhaps you can +suggest a gift that will do? I remember Miss Pierce saying she was very +fond of pearls. Would it be right to give something of that kind? + +Faithfully yours, + +PETER. + + +DEAR MISS PIERCE: + +A letter from Watts this morning tells me of his good fortune. Fearing +lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, I write to say that +your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life, and nothing which +increases it can be other than good news to me. If I can ever serve you +in any way, you will be doing me a great favor by telling me how. + +Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, and believe me, + +Yours ever sincerely, + +PETER STIRLING. + + +After these letters were written, Peter studied the wall again for a +time. Studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched. +The wall had three cracks in it which approximated to an outline of +Italy, but though Peter gazed at this particular wall a good many hours +in the next few weeks, he did not discover this interesting fact till +long after this time of wall-gazing. + +In the early morning and after dinner, in spite of the summer heat, he +took long walks. During the day he sat in his office doing nothing, +with the exception of an occasional letter to his mother, and one or +two to Watts in respect to the coming wedding. Two visits to the +tailor’s, and another to Tiffany’s, which resulted in a pearl pin +rather out of proportion to his purse, were almost the sole variations +of this routine. It was really a relief to this terrible inactivity, +when he found himself actually at the Shrubberies, the afternoon before +the wedding. + +Peter was rather surprised at the ease with which he went through the +next twenty-four hours. It is true that the house was too full, and +each person too busy, to trouble the silent groomsman with attention, +so he might have done pretty much what he wished, without being +noticed. He arrived late, thus having no chance for greetings till +after a hurried dressing for dinner, when they were made in the +presence of the whole party, who had waited his coming to go to the +meal. He went through the ordeal well, even that with Miss Pierce, +actually showing less embarrassment than she did. What was more +astonishing, he calmly offered his arm to the bridesmaid who fell to +his lot, and, after seating her, chatted without thinking that he was +talking. Indeed, he hardly heeded what he did say, but spoke +mechanically, as a kind of refuge from thought and feeling. + +“I didn’t find him a bit so,” the girl said to Miss Pierce, later in +the evening, with an indefiniteness which, if not merely feminine, must +presuppose a previous conversation. “He isn’t exactly talkative, but he +is perfectly easy to get on with. I tried him on New York, and found he +had gone into a good many odd places and can tell about them. He +describes things very well, so that one sees them.” + +“It must be your tact, then, Miss Leroy,” said Mrs. Pierce, “for we +could get nothing out of him before.” + +“No? I had nothing to do with it, and, between ourselves, I think he +disapproved of me. If Helen hadn’t told me about him, I should have +been very cool to him, his manner was so objectionable. He clearly +talked to me because he felt it a duty, and not a pleasure.” + +“That’s only that unfortunate manner of his,” said Helen. “I really +think at heart he’s dreadfully afraid of us. At least that’s what Watts +says. But he only behaves as if—as if—well, you know what I mean, +Alice!” + +“Exactly,” said Alice. “You can’t describe it. He’s so cool, and +stolid, and silent, that you feel shoddy and cheap, and any simple +little remark doesn’t seem enough to say. You try to talk up to him, +and yet feel small all the time.” + +“Not at all,” said Helen. “You talk down to him, as if he +were—were—your old grandfather, or some one else you admired, but +thought very dull and old-fashioned.” + +“But the worst is the way he looks at you. So gravely, even when you +try to joke. Now I really think I’m passably pretty, but Mr. Stirling +said as plainly as could be: ‘I look at you occasionally because that’s +the proper thing to do, when one talks, but I much prefer looking at +that picture over your head.’ I don’t believe he noticed how my hair +was dressed, or the color of my eyes. Such men are absolutely +maddening. When they’ve finished their smoke, I’m going to make him +notice me.” + +But Miss Leroy failed in her plan, try as she would. Peter did not +notice girls any more. After worrying in his school and college days, +over what women thought of him and how they treated him, he had +suddenly ceased to trouble himself about them. It was as if a man, +after long striving for something, had suddenly discovered that he did +not wish it—that to him women’s opinions had become worthless. Perhaps +in this case it was only the Fox and the Grapes over again. At all +events, from this time on Peter cared little what women did. Courteous +he tried to be, for he understood this to be a duty. But that was all. +They might laugh at him, snub him, avoid him. He cared not. He had +struck women out of his plan of life. And this disregard, as we have +already suggested, was sure to produce a strange change, not merely in +Peter, but in women’s view and treatment of him. Peter trying to please +them, by dull, ordinary platitudes, was one thing. Peter avoiding them +and talking to them when needs must, with that distant, uninterested +look and voice, was quite another. + +The next morning, Peter, after finding what a fifth wheel in a coach +all men are at weddings, finally stood up with his friend. He had not +been asked to stay on for another night, as had most of the bridal +party, so he slipped away as soon as his duty was done, and took a +train that put him into New York that evening. A week later he said +good-bye to the young couple, on the deck of a steamship. + +“Don’t forget us, Peter,” shouted Watts, after the fasts were cast off +and the steamer was slowly moving into mid-stream. + +Peter waved his hat, and turning, walked off the pier. + +“Could he forget them?” was the question he asked himself. + + + + +CHAPTER X +WAITING. + + +“My friend,” said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man, +who with all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer the +world quickly, “youth has many things to learn, but one of the most +important is never to let another man beat you at waiting.” + +Peter went back to his desk, and waited. He gave up looking at the wall +of his office, and took to somebody “On Torts” again. When that was +finished he went through the other law books of his collection. Those +done, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughness +and persistence. In one of his many walks, he stumbled upon the +Apprentices’ Library. Going in, he inquired about its privileges, and +became a regular borrower of books. Peter had always been a reader, but +now he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his law +study. Although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read, +but really mastered was marvellous. Books which he liked, without much +regard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simple +life left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects within +moderation. He was particularly careful to read a classic occasionally +to keep up his Greek and Latin, and for the same reason he read French +and German books aloud to himself. Before the year was out, he was a +recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to +browse at will both among old and new books without interference or +suggestion from the “stock” clerks. “There isn’t any good trying to +sell him anything,” remarked one. “He makes up his mind for himself.” + +His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres +grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by +another recreation now become habitual with him. In his long tramps +about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat +with people—with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a +truckster. It mattered little who it was. Then he often entered +manufactories and “yards” and asked if he could go through them, +studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about the +trade. When he occasionally encountered some one who told him “your +kind ain’t got no business here” he usually found the statement “my +father was a mill-overseer” a way to break down the barrier. He had to +use it seldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which +seldom failed to make them feel that he was one of them. After such +inspection and chat, he would get books from the library, and read up +about the business or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy +works otherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge +of many subjects. Just how interesting he found such books as “Our +Fire-Laddies,” which he read from cover to cover, after an inspection +of, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; or +Latham’s “The Sewage Difficulty,” which the piping of uptown New York +induced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable. +Probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthier +than gazing at blank walls. + +When the courts opened, Peter kept track of the calendars, and whenever +a case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the great +lights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. He tried to +write out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practice +induced him to give two evenings a week during the winter mastering +shorthand. It was really only a mental discipline, for any case of +importance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but Peter +was trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, and +employed this as one of the means. + +When winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned to +other things. More from necessity than choice, he visited the art and +other exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays, +all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter were +the most seldom indulged in. Art and music did not come easy to him, +but he read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the +reviews of the daily press, and just because there was so much in both +that he failed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently. + +One trait of his New England training remained to him. He had brought a +letter from his own Congregational church in his native town, to one of +the large churches of the same sect in New York, and when admitted, +hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning and +evening service. In time this produced a call from his new pastor. It +was the first new friend he had gained in New York. “He seems a quiet, +well-informed fellow,” was the clergyman’s comment; “I shall make a +point of seeing something of him.” But he was pastor of a very large +and rich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man, +so his intention was not realized. + +Peter spent Christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little +over his loss of flesh. + +“You have been overworking,” she said anxiously. + +“Why mother, I haven’t had a client yet,” laughed Peter. + +“Then you’ve worried over not getting on,” said his mother, knowing +perfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. She had hoped that +Peter would be satisfied with his six months’ trial, but did not +mention her wish. She marvelled to herself that New York had not yet +discovered his greatness. + +When Peter returned to the city, he made a change in his living +arrangements. His boarding-place had filled up with the approach of +winter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. Even though +he met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him. +When a room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very +cheap price, he decided to use it as a bedroom. So he moved his few +belongings on his return from his visit to his mother’s. + +Although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders, +nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to +speak of his leaving. Two or three affected to be pleased, but +“Butter-and-cheese” said he “was a first-rate chap,” and this seemed to +gain the assent of the table generally. + +“I’m dreadfully sorry to lose him,” his landlady informed her other +boarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side +hit at some of them. “He never has complained once, since he came here, +and he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself.” + +“Well,” said the box-office oracle, “I guess he’s O.K., if he is a bit +stiff; and a fellow who’s best man to a big New York swell, and gets +his name in all the papers, doesn’t belong in a seven-dollar, +hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house.” + +Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so +called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New York +business office, consciences not yet being tubbable. He had made his +mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continental +system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a French +breakfast in his own rooms. Then he lunched regularly not far from his +office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried +him. He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his +feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose. + +He did not hear from the honeymoon party. Watts had promised to write +to him and send his address “as soon as we decide whether we pass the +winter in Italy or on the Nile.” But no letter came. Peter called on +the Pierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of his +pasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit. + +Such was the first year of Peter’s New York life. He studied, he read, +he walked, and most of all, he waited. But no client came, and he +seemed no nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his +office door. “How much longer will I have to wait? How long will my +patience hold out?” These were the questions he asked himself, when for +a moment he allowed himself to lose courage. Then he would take to a +bit of wall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +NEW FRIENDS. + + +Mr. Converse had evidently thought that the only way for Peter to get +on was to make friends. But in this first year Peter did not made a +single one that could be really called such. His second summer +broadened his acquaintance materially, though in a direction which +promised him little law practice. + +When the warm weather again closed the courts and galleries, and +brought an end to the concerts and theatres, Peter found time harder to +kill, the more, because he had pretty well explored the city. Still he +walked much to help pass the time, and to get outside of his rooms into +the air. For the same reason he often carried his book, after the heat +of the day was over, to one of the parks, and did his reading there. +Not far from his office, eastwardly, where two streets met at an angle, +was a small open space too limited to be called a square, even if its +shape had not been a triangle. Here, under the shade of two very sickly +trees, surrounded by tall warehouses, were a couple of benches. Peter +sat here many evenings smoking his pipe. Though these few square feet +made perhaps the largest “open” within half a mile of his office, the +angle was confined and dreary. Hence it is obvious there must have been +some attraction to Peter, since he was such a walker, to make him +prefer spending his time there rather than in the parks not far distant +The attraction was the children. + +Only a few hundred feet away was one of the most densely crowded +tenement districts of New York. It had no right to be there, for the +land was wanted for business purposes, but the hollow on which it was +built had been a swamp in the old days, and the soft land, and perhaps +the unhealthiness, had prevented the erection of great warehouses and +stores, which almost surrounded it. So it had been left to the storage +of human souls instead of merchandise, for valuable goods need careful +housing, while any place serves to pack humanity. It was not a nice +district to go through, for there was a sense of heat and dirt, and +smell, and crowd, and toil and sorrow throughout. It was probably no +nicer to live in, and nothing proved it better than the overflow of the +children therefrom into the little, hot, paved, airless angle. Here +they could be found from five in the morning till twelve at night. +Here, with guards set, to give notice of the approach of the children’s +joy-destroying Siva—otherwise the policeman—they played ball. Here +“cat” and “one old cat” render bearable many a wilting hour for the +little urchins. Here “Sally in our Alley” and “Skip-rope” made the +little girls forget that the temperature was far above blood-heat. Here +of an evening, Peter smoked and watched them. + +At first he was an object of suspicion, and the sport visibly ceased +when he put in an appearance. But he simply sat on one of the benches +and puffed his pipe, and after a few evenings they lost all fear of +him, and went on as if he were not there. In time, an intercourse +sprang up between them. One evening Peter appeared with a stick of +wood, and as he smoked, he whittled at it with a _real_ jack-knife! He +was scrutinized by the keen-eyed youngsters with interest at once, and +before he had whittled long, he had fifty children sitting in the shape +of a semicircle on the stone pavement, watching his doings with almost +breathless Interest. When the result of his work actually developed +into a “cat” of marvellous form and finish, a sigh of intense joy +passed through the boy part of his audience. When the “cat” was passed +over to their mercies, words could not be found to express their +emotions. Another evening, the old clothes-line that served for a +jump-rope, after having bravely rubbed against the pavement many +thousand times in its endeavor to lighten the joyless life of the +little pack, finally succumbed, worn through the centre and quite +beyond hope of further knotting. Then Peter rose, and going to one of +the little shops that supplied the district, soon returned with a +_real_ jump-rope, with _wooden handles!_ So from time to time, _real_ +tops, _real_ dolls, _real_ marbles and various other _real_, if cheap, +things, hitherto only enjoyed in dreams, or at most through home-made +attempts, found their way into the angle, and were distributed among +the little imps. They could not resist such subtle bribery, and soon +Peter was on as familiar and friendly a footing as he could wish. He +came to know each by name, and was made the umpire in all their +disputes and the confidant in all their troubles. They were a dirty, +noisy, lawless, and godless little community, but they were interesting +to watch, and the lonely fellow grew to like them much, for with all +their premature sharpness, they were really natural, and responded +warmly to his friendly overtures. + +After a time, Peter tried to help them a little more than by mere small +gifts. A cheap box of carpenter’s tools was bought, and under his +superintendence, evenings were spent in the angle, in making various +articles. A small wheel barrow, a knife-and-fork basket, a +clock-bracket and other easy things were made, one at a time. All boys, +and indeed some girls, were allowed to help. One would saw off the end +of a plank; another would rule a pencil line; the next would plane the +plank down to that line; the next would bore the holes in it; the next +would screw it into position; the next would sandpaper it The work went +very slowly, but every one who would, had his share in it, while the +rest sat and watched. When the article was completed, lots were drawn +for it, and happy was the fortunate one who drew the magnificent prize +in life’s lottery! + +Occasionally too, Peter brought a book with him, and read it aloud to +them. He was rather surprised to find that they did not take to +Sunday-school stories or fairy tales. Wild adventures in foreign lands +were the most effective; and together they explored the heart of +Africa, climbed the Swiss mountains, fought the Western Indians, and +attempted to discover the North Pole. They had a curious liking for +torture, blood-letting, and death. Nor were they without +discrimination. + +“I guess that fellow is only working his jaw,” was one little chap’s +criticism at a certain point of the narrative of a well-known African +explorer, rather famous for his success in advertising himself. Again, +“that’s bully,” was the comment uttered by another, when Peter, rather +than refuse their request to read aloud, had been compelled to choose +something in Macaulay’s Essays, and had read the description of the +Black Hole of Calcutta, “Say, mister,” said another, “I don’t believe +that fellow wasn’t there, for he never could a told it like that, if he +wasn’t.” + +As soon as his influence was secure, Peter began to affect them in +other ways. Every fight, every squabble, was investigated, and the +blame put where it belonged. Then a mandate went forth that profanity +was to cease: and, though contrary to every instinct and habit, cease +it did after a time, except for an occasional unconscious slip. +“Sporadic swearing,” Peter called it, and explained what it meant to +the children, and why he forgave that, while punishing the intentional +swearer with exclusion from his favor. So, too, the girls were told +that to “poke” tongues at each other, and make faces, was but another +way of swearing; “for they all mean that there is hate in your hearts, +and it is that which is wrong, and not the mere words or faces.” He ran +the risk of being laughed at, but they didn’t laugh, for something in +his way of talking to them, even when verging on what they called +“goody-goody,” inspired them with respect. + +Before many weeks of this intercourse, Peter could not stroll east from +his office without being greeted with yells of recognition. The elders, +too, gave him “good-evening” pleasantly and smiled genially. The +children had naturally told their parents about him of his wonderful +presents, and great skill with knife and string. + +“He can whittle anything you ask!” + +“He knows how to make things you want!” + +“He can tie a knot sixteen different kinds!” + +“He can fold a newspaper into soldiers’ and firemen’s caps!” + +“He’s friends with the policeman!” + +Such laudations, and a hundred more, the children sang of him to their +elders. + +“Oh,” cried one little four-year-old girl, voicing the unanimous +feeling of the children, “Mister Peter is just shplendid.” + +So the elders nodded and smiled when they met him, and he was pretty +well known to several hundred people whom he knew not. + +But another year passed, and still no client came. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +HIS FIRST CLIENT. + + +Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival, +writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after a +visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the +first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return +to his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared to +acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother’s +disappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the +door, and, in response to his “come in,” a plain-looking laborer +entered and stood awkwardly before him. + +“What can I do for you?” asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the +man to state his business. + +“If you please, sir,” said the man, humbly, “it’s Missy. And I hope +you’ll pardon me for troubling you.” + +“Certainly,” said Peter. “What about Missy?” + +“She’s—the doctor says she’s dying,” said the man, adding, with a +slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he +felt: “Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already.” + +“And what can I do?” said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea. + +“Missy wants to see you before she goes. It’s only a child’s wish, sir, +and you needn’t trouble about it. But I had to promise her I’d come and +ask you. I hope it’s no offence?” + +“No.” Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the +two went into the street together. + +“What is the trouble?” asked Peter, as they walked. + +“We don’t know, sir. They were all took yesterday, and two are dead +already.” The man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve, +smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face. + +“You’ve had a doctor?” + +“Not till this morning. We didn’t think it was bad at first.” + +“What is your name?” + +“Blackett, sir—Jim Blackett.” + +Peter began to see daylight. He remembered both a Sally and Matilda +Blackett.—That was probably “Missy.” + +A walk of six blocks transferred them to the centre of the tenement +district. Two flights of stairs brought them to the Blackett’s rooms. +On the table of the first, which was evidently used both as a kitchen +and sitting-room, already lay a coffin containing a seven-year-old +girl. Candles burned at the four corners, adding to the bad air and +heat. In the room beyond, in bed, with a tired-looking woman tending +her, lay a child of five. Wan and pale as well could be, with +perspiration standing in great drops on the poor little hot forehead, +the hand of death, as it so often does, had put something into the face +never there before. + +“Oh, Mister Peter,” the child said, on catching sight of him, “I said +you’d come.” + +Peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head. Then he took a +newspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and began +fanning the child as he sat on the bed. + +“What did you want me for?” he asked. + +“Won’t you tell me the story you read from the book? The one about the +little girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and real +flowers.” + +Peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but it +was never finished. For while he talked another little girl went to the +country, a far country, from which there is no return—and a very +ordinary little story ended abruptly. + +The father and mother took the death very calmly. Peter asked them a +few questions, and found that there were three other children, the +eldest of whom was an errand boy, and therefore away. The others, twin +babies, had been cared for by a woman on the next floor. He asked about +money, and found that they had not enough to pay the whole expenses of +the double funeral. + +“But the undertaker says he’ll do it handsome, and will let the part I +haven’t money for, run, me paying it off in weekly payments,” the man +explained, when Peter expressed some surprise at the evident needless +expense they were entailing on themselves. + +While he talked, the doctor came in. + +“I knew there was no chance,” he said, when told of the death. “And you +remember I said so,” he added, appealing to the parents. + +“Yes, that’s what he said,” responded the father. + +“Well,” said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar to +him, “I’ve found what the matter was.” + +“No?” said the mother, becoming interested at once. + +“It was the milk,” the doctor continued. “I thought there was something +wrong with it, the moment I smelt it, but I took some home to make +sure.” He pulled a paper out of his pocket. “That’s the test, and Dr. +Plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there.” + +The Blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, not +understanding a word of it. Peter looked too, when they had satisfied +their curiosity. As he read it, a curious expression came into his +face. A look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the +“Sunrise.” It could hardly be called a change of expression, but rather +a strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look. + +“That was in the milk drunk by the children?” he asked, placing his +finger on a particular line. + +“Yes,” replied the doctor. “The milk was bad to start with, and was +drugged to conceal the fact. These carbonates sometimes work very +unevenly, and I presume this particular can of milk got more than its +share of the doctoring. + +“There are almost no glycerides,” remarked Peter, wishing to hold the +doctor till he should have had time to think. + +“No,” said the doctor. “It was skim milk.” + +“You will report it to the Health Board?” asked Peter. + +“When I’m up there,” said the doctor. “Not that it will do any good. +But the law requires it” + +“Won’t they investigate?” + +“They’ll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they +investigate, but don’t prosecute.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went +upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where +Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely +were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly +drawn, were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with +beer, reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. +Peter asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and +sister. Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a +little money laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. “Mr. Moriarty gave +us the whisky and beer at half price,” the girl explained incidentally. +“Thank you, sir. We don’t need anything.” Peter rose to go. “Bridget +was often speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for +her.” + +Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb’s patients. +These were in a fair way for recovery. + +“They didn’t get any of the milk till last night,” the gray-haired, +rather sad-looking doctor told him, “and I got at them early this +morning. Then I suspected the milk at once, and treated them +accordingly. I’ve been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it’s +generally the milk. Dr. Sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn’t +get hold quite as quick. But he knows more of the science of the thing, +and can make a good analysis.” + +“You think they have a chance?” + +“If this heat will let up a bit” said the doctor, mopping his forehead. +“It’s ninety-eight in here; that’s enough to kill a sound child.” + +“Could they be moved?” + +“To-morrow, perhaps.” + +“Mrs. Dooley, could you take your children away to the country +to-morrow, if I find a place for you?” + +“It’s very little money I have, sir.” + +“It won’t cost you anything. Can you leave your family?” + +“There’s only Moike. And he’ll do very well by himself,” he was told. + +“Then if the children can go, be ready at 10:15 to-morrow, and you +shall all go up for a couple of weeks to my mother’s in Massachusetts. +They’ll have plenty of good food there,” he explained to the doctor, +“grass and flowers close to the house and woods not far away.” + +“That will fix them,” said the doctor. + +“About this milk. Won’t the Health Board punish the sellers?” Peter +asked. + +“Probably not,” he was told “It’s difficult to get them to do anything, +and at this season so many of them are on vacations, it is doubly hard +to make them stir.” + +Peter went to the nearest telegraph, and sent a dispatch to his mother. +Then he went back to his office, and sitting down, began to study his +wall. But he was not thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. He was +thinking of his first case. He had found a client. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +THE CASE. + + +Peter went to work the next morning at an hour which most of us, if we +are indiscreet enough to wake, prefer to use as the preface to a +further two to four hours’ nap. He had spent his evening in a +freshening of his knowledge in certain municipal laws, and other +details which he thought he might need, and as early as five o clock he +was at work in the tenement district, asking questions and taking +notes. The inquiry took little skill The milk had come from the cart of +a certain company, which passed daily through the locality, not to +supply orders, but to peddle milk to whoever cared to buy. Peter had +the cart pointed out that morning, but, beyond making a note of the +exact name of the company, he paid no attention to it. He was aiming at +bigger game than a milk cart or its driver. + +His work was interrupted only by his taking Mrs. Dooley and the two +children to the train. That done, Peter walked northwardly and +westwardly, till he had nearly reached the river front. It took some +little inquiry, but after a while he stumbled on a small shanty which +had a sign: + +NATIONAL MILK COMPANY. + +OFFICE. + +The place, however, was closed and no one around seemed connected with +it, though a number of milk carts were standing about. Close to these +was a long line of sheds, which in turn backed up against a great +brewery. A couple of men lounged at the door of the sheds. Peter walked +up to them, and asked if they could tell him where he could find any +one connected with the milk company. + +“The boss is off for lunch,” said one. “I can take an order, if that’s +what you want.” + +Peter said it was not an order, and began chatting with the men. Before +he had started to question them, a third man, from inside the sheds, +joined the group at the door. + +“That cow’s dead,” he remarked as he came up. + +“Is it?” said the one called Bill. Both rose, and went into the shed. +Peter started to go with them. + +“You can’t come in,” said the new-comer. + +But Peter passed in, without paying the least attention to him. + +“Come back,” called the man, following Peter. + +Peter turned to him: “You are one of the employees of the National Milk +Company?” he asked. + +“Yes,” said the man, “and we have orders—” + +Peter usually let a little pause occur after a remark to him, but in +this case he spoke before the man completed his speech. He spoke, too, +with an air of decision and command that quieted the man. + +“Go back to your work,” he said, “and don’t order me round. I know what +I’m about.” Then he walked after the other two men as rapidly as the +dimness permitted. The employee scratched his head, and then followed. + +Dim as the light was, Peter could discern that he was passing between +two rows of cows, with not more than space enough for men to pass each +other between the rows. It was filthy, and very warm, and there was a +peculiar smell in the air which Peter did not associate with a cow +stable. It was a kind of vapor which brought some suggestion to his +mind, yet one he could not identify. Presently he came upon the two +men. One had lighted a lantern and was examining a cow that lay on the +ground. That it was dead was plain. But what most interested Peter, +although he felt a shudder of horror at the sight, were the rotted tail +and two great sores on the flank that lay uppermost. + +“That’s a bad-looking cow,” he said. + +“Ain’t it?” replied the one with the lantern. “But you can’t help their +havin’ them, if you feed them on mash.” + +“Hold your tongue, Bill,” said the man who had followed Peter. + +“Take some of your own advice,” said Peter, turning quickly, and +speaking in a voice that made the man step back. A terrible feeling was +welling up in Peter’s heart. He thought of the poor little +fever-stricken children. He saw the poor fever-stricken cow. He would +like to—to—. + +He dropped the arm he had unconsciously raised. “Give me that lantern,” +he demanded. + +The man hesitated and looked at the others. + +“Give me that lantern,” said Peter, speaking low, but his voice ringing +very clear. + +The lantern was passed to him, and taking it, he walked along the line +of cows. He saw several with sores more or less developed. One or two +he saw in the advanced stages of the disease, where the tail had begun +to rot away. The other men followed him on his tour of inspection, and +whispered together nervously. It did not take Peter long to examine all +he wanted to see. Handing back the lantern at the door, he said: “Give +me your names.” + +The men looked nonplussed, and shifted their weights uneasily from leg +to leg. + +“You,” said Peter, looking at the man who had interfered with him. + +“Wot do yer want with it?” he was asked. + +“That’s my business. What’s your name?” + +“John Tingley.” + +“Where do you live?” + +“310 West 61st Street.” + +Peter obtained and wrote down the names and addresses of the trio. He +then went to the “office” of the company, which was now opened. + +“Is this an incorporated company?” he asked of the man tilted back in a +chair. + +“No,” said the man, adding two chair legs to terra firma, and looking +at Peter suspiciously. + +“Who owns it?” Peter queried. + +“I’m the boss.” + +“That isn’t what I asked.” + +“That’s what I answered.” + +“And your name is?” + +“James Coldman.” + +“Do you intend to answer my question?” + +“Not till I know your business.” + +“I’m here to find out against whom to get warrants for a criminal +prosecution.” + +“For what?” + +“The warrant will say.” + +The man squirmed in his chair. “Will you give me till to-morrow?” + +“No. The warrant is to be issued to-day. Decide at once, whether you or +your principal, shall be the man to whom it shall be served.” + +“I guess you’d better make it against me,” said the man. + +“Very well,” said Peter. “Of course you know your employer will be run +down, and as I’m not after the rest of you, you will only get him a few +days safety at the price of a term in prison.” + +“Well, I’ve got to risk it,” said the man. + +Peter turned and walked away. He went down town to the Blacketts. + +“I want you to carry the matter to the courts,” he told the father. +“These men deserve punishment, and if you’ll let me go on with it, it +shan’t cost you anything; and by bringing a civil suit as well, you’ll +probably get some money out of it.” + +Blackett gave his assent. So too did Patrick Milligan, and “Moike” +Dooley. They had won fame already by the deaths and wakes, but a “coort +case” promised to give them prestige far beyond what even these +distinctions conferred. So the three walked away proudly with Peter, +and warrants were sworn to and issued against the “boss” as principal, +and the driver and the three others as witnesses, made returnable on +the following morning. On many a doorstep of the district, that night, +nothing else was talked of, and the trio were the most envied men in +the neighborhood. Even Mrs. Blackett and Ellen Milligan forgot their +grief, and held a joint _soirée_ on their front stoop. + +“Shure, it’s mighty hard for Mrs. Dooley, that she’s away!” said one. +“She’ll be feeling bad when she knows what she’s missed.” + +The next morning, Peter, the two doctors, the Blacketts, the Milligans, +Dooley, the milk quintet, and as many inhabitants of the “district” as +could crush their way in, were in court by nine o’clock. The plaintiffs +and their friends were rather disappointed at the quietness of the +proceedings. The examinations were purely formal except in one +instance, when Peter asked for the “name or names of the owner or +owners” of the National Milk Company. Here the defendant’s attorney, a +shrewd criminal lawyer, interfered, and there was a sharp passage at +arms, in which an attempt was made to anger Peter. But he kept his +head, and in the end carried his point. The owner turned out to be the +proprietor of the brewery, as Peter had surmised, who thus utilized the +mash from his vats in feeding cattle. But on Peter’s asking for an +additional warrant against him, the defendant’s lawyer succeeded in +proving, if the statement of the overseer proved it, that the brewer +was quite ignorant that the milk sold in the “district” was what had +been unsalable the day before to better customers, and that the +skimming and doctoring of it was unknown to him. So an attempt to +punish the rich man as a criminal was futile. He could afford to pay +for straw men. + +“Arrah!” said Dooley to Peter as they passed out of the court, “Oi +think ye moight have given them a bit av yer moind.” + +“Wait till the trial,” said Peter. “We mustn’t use up our powder on the +skirmish line.” + +So the word was passed through the district that “theer’d be fun at the +rale trial,” and it was awaited with intense interest by five thousand +people. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +NEW YORK JUSTICE. + + +Peter saw the District Attorney the next morning for a few moments, and +handed over to him certain memoranda of details that had not appeared +in the committing court’s record. + +“It shall go before the grand jury day after to-morrow,” that official +told him, without much apparent interest in the matter. + +“How soon can it be tried, if they find a true bill? asked Peter. + +“Can’t say,” replied the official. + +“I merely wished to know,” said Peter, “because three of the witnesses +are away, and I want to have them back in time.” + +“Probably a couple of weeks,” yawned the man, and Peter, taking the +hint, departed. + +The rest of the morning was spent in drawing up the papers in three +civil suits against the rich brewer. Peter filed them as soon as +completed, and took the necessary steps for their prompt service. + +These produced an almost immediate result, in the shape of a call the +next morning from the same lawyer who had defended the milkmen in the +preliminary examination. Peter, as he returned from his midday meal, +met the lawyer on the stairs. + +“Ah, Mr. Stirling. Good-morning,” said the man, whose name was Dummer. +“I’ve just left your office, finding it closed.” + +“Come in,” said Peter. + +The lawyer glanced around the plain room, and a quiet look of +satisfaction came over his face. The two sat down. + +“About those cases, Mr. Stirling?” + +“Well?” + +“For reasons you can easily understand, we don’t wish them to come to +trial.” + +“Well?” + +“And we take it for granted that your clients will be quite willing to +settle them.” + +“We will talk about that, after the criminal trial is over” + +“Why not now?” + +“Because we hope to make Coldman speak the truth in the trial, and thus +be able to reach Bohlmann.” + +“You’re wasting your time.” + +“Not if there’s the smallest chance of sending the brewer to prison.” + +“There isn’t. Coldman will stick to what he said if the thing is ever +tried, which it won’t be.” + +Peter eyed Dummer without changing a muscle. “The District Attorney +told me that it ought to be in the courts in a couple of weeks.” + +Dummer smiled blandly, and slowly closed one eye. “The District +Attorney tries to tell the truth,” he said, “and I have no doubt he +thought that was what he was telling you. Now, name your figure?” + +“The civil suits will not be compromised till the criminal one is +finished.” + +“But I tell you the criminal one is dead. Squashed. Bohlmann and I have +seen the right people, and they’ve seen the District Attorney. That +case won’t even go to the grand jury. So now, drop it, and say what +you’ll settle the civil suits for?” + +“James Coldman shall go to prison for killing those children,” said +Peter, “and till he does, it is waste time to talk of dropping or +settling anything.” + +“Humph,” half laughed the lawyer, though with obvious disgust at the +mulishness in Peter’s face and voice. “You think you know it all. But +you don’t. You can work for ten years, and that case will be no nearer +trial than it is to-day. I tell you, young man, you don’t know New +York.” + +“I don’t know New York,” said Peter, “but—” + +“Exactly,” interrupted Dummer. “And I do.” + +“Probably,” replied Peter quietly, “You may know New York, Mr. Dummer, +but you don’t know me. That case shall be tried.” + +“Well,” laughed Dummer, “if you’ll agree not to press the civil suits, +till that’s out of the way, we shall have no need to compromise. +Good-day.” + +The next morning Peter went to the District Attorney’s office, and +inquired for him. + +“He’s gone to Bar Harbor for a couple of weeks’ vacation,” he was told. + +“Whom must I see in his stead?” And after some time Peter was brought +face to face with the acting official. + +“Mr. Nelson told me he should present the Coldman case to the grand +jury to-day, and finding he has left the city, I wish to know who has +it in charge?” asked Peter. + +“He left all the presentments with me,” the deputy replied, “but there +was no such case as that.” + +“Could he have left it with some one else to attend to?” + +“No.” + +Peter went back to his office, took down the Code and went over certain +sections. His eyes had rather a sad look as they gazed at his wall, +after his study, as if what he had read had not pleased him. But if the +eyes were sad, the heavy jaw had a rigidness and setness which gave no +indication of weakness or yielding. + +For two weeks Peter waited, and then once more invaded officialdom. + +“The District Attorney’s engaged, and can’t see you,” he was told. +Peter came again in the afternoon, with the same result. The next +morning, brought only a like answer, and this was duplicated in the +afternoon. The third day he said he would wait, and sat for hours in +the ante-room, hoping to be called, or to intercept the officer. But it +was only to see man after man ushered into the private office, and +finally to be told that the District Attorney had gone to lunch, and +would not return that day. The man who told him this grinned, and +evidently considered it a good joke, nor had Peter been unconscious +that all the morning the clerks and underlings had been laughing, and +guying him as he waited. Yet his jaw was only set the more rigidly, as +he left the office. + +He looked up the private address of the officer in the directory, and +went to see him that evening. He was wise enough not to send in his +name, and Mr. Nelson actually came into the hall to see him. + +The moment he saw Peter, however, he said: “Oh, it’s you. Well, I never +talk business except in business hours.” + +“I have tried to see you—” began Peter. + +“Try some more,” interrupted the man, smiling, and going toward the +parlor. + +Peter followed him, calmly. “Mr. Nelson,” he said, “do you intend to +push that case?” + +“Of course,” smiled Nelson. “After I’ve finished four hundred +indictments that precede it.” + +“Not till then?” + +“No.” + +“Mr. Nelson, can’t you overlook politics for a moment, and think of—” + +“Who said anything of politics?” interrupted Nelson, “I merely tell you +there are indictments which have been in my office for five years and +are yet to be tried, and that your case is going to take its turn.” +Nelson passed into the back room, leaving his caller alone. + +Peter left the room, and passed out of the front door, just as a man +was about to ring the bell. + +“Is Mr. Nelson in?” asked the man. + +“I have just left him, Mr. Dummer,” said Peter. + +“Ah! Good-evening, Mr. Stirling. I think I can guess your business. +Well. How do you come on?” Dummer was obviously laughing internally. + +Peter started down the steps without answering. + +“Perhaps I can help you?” said Dummer. “I know Mr. Nelson very well in +politics, and so does Mr. Bohlmann. If you’ll tell me what you are +after, I’ll try to say a good word for you?” + +“I don’t need your help, thank you,” said Peter calmly. + +“Good,” said Dummer. “You think a briefless lawyer of thirty can go it +alone, do you, even against the whole city government?” + +“I know I have not influence enough to get that case pushed, Mr. +Dummer, but the law is on my side, and I’m not going to give up yet.” + +“Well, what are you going to do about it?” said Dummer, sneeringly. + +“Fight,” said Peter, walking away. + +He went back to his office, and sitting at his desk, wrote a formal +letter to the District Attorney, calling his attention to the case, and +asking information as to when it would be brought to trial. Then he +copied this, and mailed the original. Then he read the Code again. +After that he went over the New York reports, making notes. For a +second time the morning sun found Peter still at his desk. But this +time his head was not bowed upon his blotter, as if he were beaten or +dead. His whole figure was stiff with purpose, and his jaw was as rigid +as a mastiff’s. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +THE FIGHT. + + +The only reply which Peter received to his letter to the +District-Attorney, was a mere formal reiteration of that officer’s +verbal statement, that the case would be taken up in its due order, +after those which preceded it had been dealt with. Peter knew enough of +the numberless cases which never reach trial to understand that this +meant in truth, the laying aside of the case, till it was killed by the +statute of limitations. + +On receiving this reply, Peter made another move, by going to three +newspapers, and trying to see their managing editors. One declined to +see him. A second merely told Peter, after his statement, which the +editor only allowed him partly to explain, that he was very busy and +could not take time to look into it, but that Peter might come again in +about a month. The third let Peter tell his story, and then shook his +head: + +“I have no doubt you are right, but it isn’t in shape for us to use. +Such a case rarely goes to trial for six months or a year, and so, if +we begin an attack now, it will simply fall flat. If you can get us a +written statement from the District Attorney that he doesn’t intend to +push the case, we can do something, but I suppose he’s far too shrewd +to commit himself.” + +“Yes.” + +“Then there’s no use in beginning an attack, for you really have no +powder. Come in again a year from now, and then we may be able to say +something, if he hasn’t acted in the meantime.” + +Peter left the office, knowing that that chance of pressure was gone. +If the papers of the Republican party would not use it, it was idle +spending time in seeing or trying to see the editors of the Democratic +papers. He wasted therefore no more efforts on newspapers. + +The next three days Peter passed in the New York Law Institute Library, +deep in many books. Then he packed his bag, and took an afternoon train +for Albany. He was going to play his last card, with the odds of a +thousand to one against his winning. But that very fact only nerved him +the more. + +Promptly at ten o’clock, the morning after his arrival at the state +capital, he sent in his card to the Governor. Fortunately for him, the +middle of August is not a busy time with that official, and after a +slight delay, he was ushered into the executive chamber. + +Peter had been planning this interview for hours, and without +explanation or preamble, he commenced his statement. He knew that he +must interest the Governor promptly, or there would be a good chance of +his being bowed out. So he began with a description of the cow-stables. +Then he passed to the death of the little child. He sketched both +rapidly, not taking three minutes to do it, but had he been pleading +for his own life, he could not have spoken more earnestly nor +feelingly. + +The Governor first looked surprised at Peter’s abruptness; then weary; +then interested; and finally turned his revolving chair so as to put +his back to Peter. And after Peter had ended his account, he remained +so for a moment. That back was very expressive to Peter. For the first +time he felt vanquished. + +But suddenly the Governor turned, and Peter saw tears on his cheek. And +he said, after a big swallow, “What do you want of me?” in a voice that +meant everything to Peter. + +“Will you listen to me for five minutes?” asked Peter, eagerly. + +“Yes.” + +Than Peter read aloud a statement of the legal proceedings, and of his +interviews with the District Attorney and with Dummer, in the clearest +and most compact sentences he had been able to frame. + +“You want me to interfere?” asked the Governor. + +“Yes.” + +“I’m afraid it’s not possible. I can of course remove the District +Attorney, but it must be for cause, and I do not see that you can +absolutely prove his non intention to prosecute those scoundrels.” + +“That is true. After study, I did not see that you could remove him. +But there’s another remedy.” + +“What is that?” + +“Through the State Attorney you can appoint a special counsel for this +case.” + +“Are you sure?” + +Peter laid one of the papers in his hands before the Governor. After +reading it, the Governor rang a bell. + +“Send for Mr. Miller,” he said to the boy. Then he turned, and with +Peter went over the court papers, till Mr. Miller put in an appearance. + +“State the matter to Mr. Miller,” said the Governor, and Peter read his +paper again and told what he wished. + +“The power unquestionably exists,” said the Attorney-General. “But it +has not been used in many years. Perhaps I had better look into it a +bit.” + +“Go with Mr. Miller, Mr. Stirling, and work over your papers with him,” +said the Governor. + +“Thank you,” said Peter simply, but his hand and face and voice said +far more, as he shook hands. He went out with the first look of hope +his face had worn for two years. + +The ground which the Attorney-General and his subordinates had to +traverse was that over which Peter had so well travelled already, that +he felt very much at home, while his notes indeed aided the study, and +were doubly welcomed, because the summer season had drained the office +of its underlings. Half as assistant, and half as principal, he worked +till three o’clock, with pleasure that grew, as he saw that the opinion +of the Attorney-General seemed to agree more and more with his own. +Then they returned to the Governor, to whom the Attorney-General gave +his opinion that his present conclusion was that the Governor could +empower him, or some appointee, to prosecute the case. + +“Well,” said the Governor, “I’m glad you think so. But if we find that +it isn’t possible, Mr. Stirling, I’ll have a letter written to the +District Attorney that may scare him into proceeding with the case.” + +Peter thanked him, and rose to go. + +“Are you going to New York at once?” asked the Governor. + +“Yes. Unless I can be of use here.” + +“Suppose you dine with me, and take a late train?” + +“It will be a great pleasure,” said Peter. + +“Very well. Six sharp.” Then after Peter had left the room, the +Governor asked, “How is he on law?” + +“Very good. Clear-headed and balanced.” + +“He knows how to talk,” said the Governor. “He brought my heart up in +my mouth as no one has done in years. Now, I must get word to some of +the people in New York to find out who he is, and if this case has any +concealed boomerang in it.” + +The dinner was a very quiet one with only the Governor and his wife. +The former must have told his better-half something about Peter, for +she studied him with a very kind look in her face, and prosaic and +silent as Peter was, she did not seem bored. After the dinner was +eaten, and some one called to talk politics with the Governor, she took +Peter off to another room, and made him tell her about the whole case, +and how he came to take it up, and why he had come to the Governor for +help. She cried over it, and after Peter had gone, she went upstairs +and looked at her own two sleeping boys, quite large enough to fight +the world on their own account, but still little children to the +mother’s heart, and had another cry over them. She went downstairs +later to the Governor’s study, and interrupting him in the work to +which he had settled down, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. +“You must help him, William,” she said. “Do everything you can to have +those scoundrels punished, and let him do it.” + +The Governor only laughed; but he pushed back his work, and his wife +sat down, and told of her admiration and sympathy for Peter’s fight. +There was a bad time ahead for the criminal and his backers. They might +have political influence of the strongest character, fighting their +battle, but there was a bigger and more secret one at work. Say what we +please, the strongest and most subtle “pull” this world as yet contains +is the under-current of a woman’s influence. + +Peter went back to New York that night, feeling hopeful, yet doubtful. +It almost seemed impossible that he had succeeded, yet at twenty-three, +failure is hard to believe in. So he waited, hoping to see some move on +the part of the State, and dreaming of nothing better. But better came, +for only five days after his return his mail brought him a large +envelope, and inside that envelope was a special commission, which made +Peter a deputy of the Attorney-General, to prosecute in the Court of +Sessions, the case of “The People of the State of New York _versus_ +James Goldman.” If any one could have seen Peter’s face, as he read the +purely formal instrument, he would not have called it dull or heavy. +For Peter knew that he had won; that in place of justice blocking and +hindering him, every barrier was crushed down; that this prosecution +rested with no officials, but was for him to push; that that little +piece of parchment bound every court to support him; that if necessary +fifty thousand troops would enforce the power which granted it. Within +three hours, the first formal steps to place the case in the courts had +been taken, and Peter was working at the evidence and law in the +matter. + +These steps produced a prompt call from Dummer, who showed considerably +less assurance than hitherto, even though he tried to take Peter’s +success jauntily. He wanted Peter to drop the whole thing, and hinted +at large sums of money, but Peter at first did not notice his hints, +and finally told him that the case should be tried. Then Dummer pleaded +for delay. Peter was equally obdurate. Later they had a contest in the +court over this. But Peter argued in a quiet way, which nevertheless +caught the attention of the judge, who ended the dispute by refusing to +postpone. The judge hadn’t intended to act in this way, and was rather +surprised at his own conduct. The defendant’s lawyer was furious. + +No stone was left unturned, however, to prevent the case going to +trial. Pressure of the sharpest and closest kind was brought to bear on +the Governor himself—pressure which required backbone to resist. But he +stood by his act: perhaps because he belonged to a different party than +that in control of the city government; perhaps because of Peter’s +account, and the truthfulness in his face as he told it; perhaps +because the Attorney-General had found it legal; perhaps because of his +wife; perhaps it was a blending of all these. Certain it is, that all +attempts to block failed, and in the last week in August it came before +the court. + +Peter had kept his clients informed as to his struggles, and they were +tremendously proud of the big battle and ultimate success, as indeed +were the residents of the whole district, who felt that it was really +their own case. Then the politicians were furious and excited over it, +while the almost unexampled act of the Governor had created a good deal +of public interest in the case. So the court was packed and the press +had reporters in attendance. Since the trial was fully reported, it is +needless to go over the testimony here. What Peter could bring out, is +already known. The defence, by “experts,” endeavored to prove that the +cowsheds were not in a really unhygienic condition; that feeding cows +on “mash” did not affect their milk, nor did mere “skin sores;” that +the milk had been sold by mistake, in ignorance that it was thirty-six +hours old, and skimmed; and that the proof of this particular milk +being the cause of the deaths was extremely inadequate and doubtful. +The only dramatic incident in the testimony was the putting the two +little Dooleys (who had returned in fat and rosy condition, the day +before) on the stand. + +“Did you find country milk different from what you have here?” Peter +asked the youngest. + +“Oh, yes,” she said. “Here it comes from a cart, but in the country it +squirts from a cow.” + +“Order,” said the judge to the gallery. + +“Does it taste differently?” + +“Yes. It’s sweet, as if they put sugar in it. It’s lovely I like cow +milk better than cart milk.” + +“Damn those children!” said Dummer, to the man next him. + +The event of the trial came, however, when Peter summed up. He spoke +quietly, in the simplest language, using few adjectives and no +invective. But as the girl at the Pierces’ dinner had said, “he +describes things so that one sees them.” He told of the fever-stricken +cows, and he told of the little fever-stricken children in such a way +that the audience sobbed; his clients almost had to be ordered out of +court; the man next Dummer mopped his eyes with his handkerchief; the +judge and jury thoughtfully covered their eyes (so as to think the +better); the reporters found difficulty (owing to the glary light), in +writing the words despite their determination not to miss one; and even +the prisoner wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Peter was unconscious that +he was making a great speech; great in its simplicity, and great in its +pathos. He afterwards said he had not given it a moment’s thought and +had merely said what he felt. Perhaps his conclusion indicated why he +was able to speak with the feeling he did. For he said: + +“This is not merely the case of the State _versus_ James Goldman. It is +the case of the tenement-house children, against the inhumanity of +man’s greed.” + +Dummer whispered to the man next him, “There’s no good. He’s done for +us.” Then he rose, and made a clever defence. He knew it was wasting +his time. The judge charged against him, and the jury gave the full +verdict: “Man-slaughter in the first degree.” Except for the desire for +it, the sentence created little stir. Every one was still feeling and +thinking of Peter’s speech. + +And to this day that speech is talked of in “the district.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE CONSEQUENCES. + + +Nor was it the district alone which talked of the speech. Perhaps the +residents of it made their feelings most manifest, for they organized a +torchlight procession that night, and went round and made Peter an +address of thanks. Mr. Dennis Moriarty being the spokesman. The judge +shook hands with him after the trial, and said that he had handled his +case well. The defendant’s lawyer told him he “knew his business.” A +number of the reporters sought a few words with him, and blended praise +with questions. + +The reporters did far more than this, however. It was the dull +newspaper season, and the case had turned out to be a thoroughly +“journalistic” one. So they questioned and interviewed every one +concerned, and after cleverly winnowing the chaff, which in this case +meant the dull, from the gleanings, most of them gave several columns +the next morning to the story. Peter’s speech was printed in full, and +proved to read almost as well as it had sounded. The reporters were +told, and repeated the tales without much attempt at verification, that +Peter had taken the matter up without hope of profit; had paid the +costs out of his own pocket; had refused to settle “though offered nine +thousand dollars:” had “saved the Dooley children’s lives by sending +them into the country;” and “had paid for the burials of the little +victims.” So all gave him a puff, and two of the better sort wrote +really fine editorials about him. At election time, or any other than a +dull season, the case would have had small attention, but August is the +month, to reverse an old adage, when “any news is good news.” + +The press began, too, a crusade against the swill-milk dealers, and the +men who had allowed all this to be possible. “What is the Health Board +about, that poison for children can be sold in the public streets?” +“Where is the District Attorney, that prosecutions for the public good +have to be brought by public-spirited citizens?” they demanded. +Lynx-eyed reporters tracked the milk-supplies of the city, and though +the alarm had been given, and many cows had been hastily sent to the +country, they were able to show up certain companies, and print details +which were quite lurid enough, when sufficiently “colored” by their +skilful pens. Most residents of New York can remember the “swill-milk” +or “stump-tail milk” exposures and prosecutions of that summer, and of +the reformation brought about thereby in the Board of Health. As the +details are not pleasant reading, any one who does not remember is +referred to the daily press, and, if they want horrible pictures, to +Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly. Except for the papers, it is to be +questioned if Peter’s case would have resulted in much more than the +punishment of the man actually convicted; but by the press taking the +matter up, the moment’s indignation was deepened and intensified to a +degree which well-nigh swept every cow-stable off the island, and drove +the proper officials into an activity leading to great reforms. + +No one was more surprised than Peter, at the sudden notoriety, or at +the far-reaching results. He collected the articles, and sent them to +his mother. He wrote: + + +“Don’t think that this means any great start. In truth, I am a hundred +dollars the poorer for the case, and shall have to cut off a few +expenses for the rest of the year. I tell you this, because I know you +will not think for a moment that I grudge the money, and you are not to +spoil my trifling self-denial by any offer of assistance You did quite +enough in taking in those two little imps. Were they very bad? Did they +tramp on your flowers, and frighten poor old Russet [Russet was the +cat] out of his fast waning lives? It was a great pleasure to me to see +them so plump and brown, and I thank you for it. Their testimony in +court was really amusing, though at the same time pathetic. People tell +me that my speech was a good one. What is more surprising, they tell me +that I made the prisoner, and Mr. Bohlmann, the brewer, who sat next to +Dummer, both cry. I confess I grieve over the fact that I was not +prosecuting Bohlmann. He is the real criminal, yet goes scot free. But +the moral effect is, I suppose, the important thing, and any one to +whom responsibility could be traced (and convicted) gives us that. I +find that Mr. Bohlmann goes to the same church I attend!” + + +His mother was not surprised. She had always known her Peter was a +hero, and needed no “York papers” to teach her the fact. Still she read +every line of the case, and of the subsequent crusade. She read Peter’s +speech again and again, stopping to sob at intervals, and hugging the +clipping to her bosom from time to time, as the best equivalent for +Peter, while sobbing: “My boy, my darling boy.” Every one in the +mill-town knew of it, and the clippings were passed round among Peter’s +friends, beginning with the clergyman and ending with his school-boy +companions. They all wondered why Peter had spoken so briefly. “If I +could talk like that,” said a lawyer to the proud mother, “I’d have +spoken for a couple of hours.” Mrs. Stirling herself wished it had been +longer. Four columns of evidence, and only a little over a half column +of speech! It couldn’t have taken him twenty minutes at the most. “Even +the other lawyer, who had nothing to say but lies, took over a column +to his speech. And his was printed close together, while that of +Peter’s was spread out (_e.g._ solid and leaded) making the difference +in length all the greater.” Mrs. Stirling wondered if there could be a +conspiracy against her Peter, on the part of the Metropolitan press. +She had promptly subscribed for a year to the New York paper which +glorified Peter the most, supposing that from this time on his name +would appear on the front page. When she found it did not and that it +was not mentioned in the press and Health Board crusade against the +other “swill-milk” dealers, she became convinced that there was some +definite attempt to rob Peter of his due fame. “Why, Peter began it +all,” she explained, “and now the papers and Health Board pretend it’s +all their doings.” She wrote a letter to the editor of the paper—a +letter which was passed round the office, and laughed over not a little +by the staff. She never received an answer, nor did the paper give +Peter the more attention because of it. + +Two days after the trial, Peter had another call from Dummer. + +“You handled that case in great style, Mr. Stirling,” he told Peter. +“You know the ropes as well as far older men. You got just the right +evidence out of your witnesses, and not a bit of superfluous rubbish. +That’s the mistake most young men make. They bury their testimony in +unessential details, I tell you, those two children were worth all the +rest put together. Did you send them to the country on purpose to get +that kind of evidence?” + +“No,” said Peter. + +“Well, every man in that jury was probably a father, and that child’s +talk took right hold of them. Not but that your speech would have done +the business. You were mighty clever in just telling what you saw, and +not going into the testimony. You could safely trust the judge to do +that. It was a great speech.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. + +“He’s not to be taffied,” thought the lawyer. “Plain talking’s the way +to deal with him.” He ended his allusions to the trial, and said: “Now, +Mr. Stirling, Mr. Bohlmann doesn’t want to have these civil suits go +any further. Mr. Bohlmann’s a man of respectability, with a nice wife +and some daughters. The newspapers are giving him quite enough music +without your dragging him into court.” + +“It’s the only way I can reach him,” said Peter. + +“But you mustn’t want to reach him. He’s really a well-meaning man, and +if you ask your clergyman—for I believe you go to Dr. Purple’s +church?—you’ll find he’s very charitable and generous with his money.” + +Peter smiled curiously. “Distributing money made that way is not much +of a charity.” + +“He didn’t know,” said the lawyer. Then catching a look which came into +Peter’s face, he instantly added, “at least, he had no idea it was that +bad. He tells me that he hadn’t been inside those cow-sheds for four +years.” + +“Come and see me to-morrow,” said Peter. + +After Dummer had gone, Peter walked uptown, and saw his clergyman. + +“Yes,” he was told, “Mr. Bohlmann has always stood high in the church, +and has been liberal and sensible with his money. I can’t tell you how +this whole thing has surprised and grieved me, Mr. Stirling. It must be +terrible for his wife. His daughters, too, are such nice sweet girls. +You’ve probably noticed them in church?” + +“No,” Peter had not noticed them. He did not add that he did not notice +young girls—that for some reason they had not interested him +since—since— + +“Where does he live?” inquired Peter. + +“Not ten blocks from here,” replied Dr. Purple, and named the street +and number. + +Peter looked at his watch and, thanking the clergyman, took his leave. +He did not go back to his office, but to the address, and asked for Mr. +Bohlmann. A respectable butler showed him into a handsome parlor and +carried his name to the brewer. + +There were already two girls in the room. One was evidently a caller. +The other, a girl with a sweet, kindly, German face, was obviously one +of the “nice” daughters. His arrival checked the flow of conversation +somewhat, but they went on comparing their summer experiences. When the +butler came back and said aloud, “Mr. Bohlmann will see you in the +library, Mr. Stirling,” Peter noticed that both girls turned +impulsively to look at him, and that the daughter flushed red. + +He found Mr. Bohlmann standing uneasily on the rug by the fireplace, +and a stout woman gazing out of the window, with her back to the room. + +“I had a call from your lawyer this morning, Mr. Bohlmann,” said Peter, +“and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you about the cases.” + +“Sid down, sid down,” said his host, nervously, though not sitting +himself. + +Peter sat down. “I want to do what is best about the matter,” he said. + +The woman turned quickly to look at him, and Peter saw that there were +tears in her eyes. + +“Vell,” said the brewer, “what is dat?” + +“I don’t know,” said Peter, “and that’s why I’ve come to see you.” + +Mr. Bohlmann’s face worked for a moment. Then suddenly he burst into +tears. “I give you my word, Mr. Stirling,” he said, “that I didn’t know +it was so. I haven’t had a happy moment since you spoke that day in +court.” He had heretofore spoken in English with a slight German +accent. But this he said in German. He sat down at the table and buried +his face in his arms. His wife, who was also weeping, crossed to him, +and tried to comfort him by patting him on the back. + +“I think,” said Peter, “we had best drop the suits.” + +Mr. Bohlmann looked up. “It is not the money, Mr. Stirling,” he said, +still speaking in German. “See.” He drew from a drawer in his desk a +check-book, and filling up a check, handed it to Peter. It was dated +and signed, but the amount was left blank. “There,” he said, “I leave +it to you what is right.” + +“I think Mr. Dummer will feel we have not treated him fairly,” said +Peter, “if we settle it in this way.” + +“Do not think of him. I will see that he has no cause for complaint,” +the brewer said. “Only let me know it is ended, so that my wife and my +daughters—” he choked, and ended the sentence thus. + +“Very well,” said Peter. “We’ll drop the suits.” + +The husband and wife embraced each other in true German fashion. + +Peter rose and came to the table. “Three of the cases were for five +thousand each, and the other two were for two thousand each,” he said, +and then hesitated. He wished to be fair to both sides. “I will ask you +to fill in the check for eight thousand dollars. That will be two each +for three, and one each for two.” + +Mr. Bohlmann disengaged himself from his wife, and took his pen. “You +do not add your fee,” he said. + +“I forgot it,” laughed Peter, and the couple laughed with him in their +happiness. “Make it for eight thousand, two hundred and fifty.” + +“Och,” said the brewer once more resuming his English. “Dat is too +leedle for vive cases.” + +“No,” said Peter. “It was what I had decided to charge in case I got +any damages.” + +So the check was filled in, and Peter, after a warm handshake from +both, went back to his office. + +“Dat iss a fine yoong mahn,” said the brewer. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +A NEW FRIEND. + + +The day after this episode, Peter had the very unusual experience of a +note by his morning’s mail. Except for his mother’s weekly letter, it +was the first he had received since Watts had sailed, two years before. +For the moment he thought that it must be from him, and the color came +into his face at the mere thought that he would have news of—of—Watts. +But a moment’s glance at the writing showed him he was wrong, and he +tore the envelope with little interest in his face. Indeed after he had +opened it, he looked at his wall for a moment before he fixed his mind +on it. + +It contained a brief note, to this effect: + + +“A recent trial indicates that Mr. Stirling needs neither praise not +reward as incentives for the doing of noble deeds. + +“But one who prefers to remain unknown cannot restrain her grateful +thanks to Mr. Stirling for what he did; and being debarred from such +acts herself, asks that at least she may be permitted to aid him in +them by enclosing a counsel fee for ‘the case of the tenement children +of New York against the inhumanity of men’s greed.’ + +“September third.” + + +Peter looked at the enclosure, and found it was a check for five +hundred dollars. He laid it on his desk, and read the note over again. +It was beyond question written by a lady. Every earmark showed that, +from the delicate scent of the paper, to the fine, even handwriting. +Peter wanted to know who she was. He looked at the check to see by whom +it was signed; to find that it was drawn by the cashier of the bank at +which it was payable. + +Half an hour later, a rapid walk had brought him to the bank the name +of which was on the check. It was an uptown one, which made a specialty +of family and women’s accounts. Peter asked for the cashier. + +“I’ve called about this check,” he said, when that official +materialized, handing the slip of paper to him. + +“Yes,” said the cashier kindly, though with a touch of the resigned +sorrow in his voice which cashiers of “family’s” and women’s banks +acquire. “You must sign your name on the back, on the left-hand end, +and present it to the paying-teller, over at that window. You’ll have +to be identified if the paying-teller doesn’t know you.” + +“I don’t want the money,” said Peter, “I want to know who sent the +check to me?” + +The cashier looked at it more carefully. “Oh!” he said. Then he looked +up quickly at Peter? with considerable interest, “Are you Mr. +Stirling?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I filled this up by order of the president, and you’ll have to +see him about it, if you want more than the money.” + +“Can I see him?” + +“Come this way.” + +They went into a small office at the end of the bank. + +“Mr. Dyer,” said the cashier, “this is Mr. Stirling, and he’s come to +see about that check.” + +“Glad to see you, Mr. Stirling. Sit down.” + +“I wish to learn who sent the check.” + +“Very sorry we can’t oblige you. We had positive instructions from the +person for whom we drew it, that no name was to be given.” + +“Can you receive a letter?” + +“That was forbidden too.” + +“A message?” + +“Nothing was said about that.” + +“Then will you do me the favor to say to the lady that the check will +not be cashed till Mr. Stirling has been able to explain something to +her.” + +“Certainly. She can’t object to that.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Not at all.” The president rose and escorted him to the door. “That +was a splendid speech of yours, Mr. Stirling,” he added. “I’m not a bit +ashamed to say that it put salt water in my old eyes.” + +“I think,” said Peter, “it was the deaths of the poor little children, +more than anything I said, that made people feel it.” + +The next morning’s mail brought Peter a second note, in the same +handwriting as that of the day before. It read: + + +“Miss De Voe has received Mr. Stirling’s message and will be pleased to +see him in regard to the check, at half after eleven to-day (Wednesday) +if he will call upon her. + +“Miss De Voe regrets the necessity of giving Mr. Stirling such brief +notice, but she leaves New York on Thursday.” + + +As Peter walked up town that morning, he was a little surprised that he +was so cool over his intended call. In a few minutes he would be in the +presence of a lady, the firmness of whose handwriting indicated that +she was not yet decrepit. Three years ago such a prospect would have +been replete with terror to him. Down to that—that week at the +Pierce’s, he had never gone to a place where he expected to “encounter” +(for that was the word he formerly used) women without dread. Since +that week—except for the twenty-four hours of the wedding, he had not +“encountered” a lady. Yet here he was, going to meet an entire stranger +without any conscious embarrassment or suffering. He was even in a +sense curious. Peter was not given to self-analysis, but the change was +too marked a one for him to be unconscious of it. Was it merely the +poise of added years? Was it that he had ceased to care what women +thought of him? Or was it that his discovery that a girl was lovable +had made the sex less terrible to him? Such were the questions he asked +himself as he walked, and he had not answered them when he rang the +bell of the old-fashioned, double house on Second Avenue. + +He was shown into a large drawing-room, the fittings of which were +still shrouded in summer coverings, preventing Peter from inferring +much, even if he had had time to do so. But the butler had scarcely +left him when, with a well-bred promptness from which Peter might have +drawn an inference, the rustle of a woman’s draperies was heard. +Rising, Peter found himself facing a tall, rather slender woman of +between thirty-five and forty. It did not need a second glance from +even Peter’s untrained eye, to realize the suggestion of breeding in +the whole atmosphere about her. The gown was of the simplest summer +material, but its very simplicity, and a certain lack of “latest +fashion” rather than “old-fashionedness” gave it a quality of +respectability. Every line of the face, the set of the head, and even +more the carriage of the figure, conveyed the “look of race.” + +“I must thank you, Mr. Stirling,” she said, speaking deliberately, in a +low, mellow voice, by no means so common then as our women’s imitation +of the English tone and inflexion has since made it, “for suiting your +time to mine on such short notice.” + +“You were very kind,” said Peter, “to comply with my request. Any time +was convenient to me.” + +“I am glad it suited you.” + +Peter had expected to be asked to sit down, but, nothing being said, +began his explanation. + +“I am very grateful, Miss De Voe, for your note, and for the check. I +thank you for both. But I think you probably sent me the latter through +a mistake, and so I did not feel justified in accepting it.” + +“A mistake?” + +“Yes. The papers made many errors in their statements. I’m not a ‘poor +young lawyer’ as they said. My mother is comfortably off, and gives me +an ample allowance.” + +“Yes?” + +“And what is more,” continued Peter, “while they were right in saying +that I paid some of the expenses of the case, yet I was more than +repaid by my fees in some civil suits I brought for the relatives of +the children, which we settled very advantageously.” + +“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Stirling?” said Miss De Voe. “I should like to +hear about the cases.” + +Peter began a very simple narrative of the matter. But Miss De Voe +interjected questions or suppositions here and there, which led to +other explanations, and before Peter had finished, he had told not +merely the history of the cases, but much else. His mention of the two +Dooley children had brought out the fact of their visit to his mother, +and this had explained incidentally her position in the world. The +settlement of the cases involved the story of the visit to the brewer’s +home, and Peter, to justify his action, added his interview with his +pastor, Peter’s connection with the case compelled him to speak of his +evenings in the “angle,” and the solitary life that had sent him there. +Afterwards, Peter was rather surprised at how much he had told. He did +not realize that a woman with tact and experience can, without making +it evident, lead a man to tell nearly anything and everything he knows, +if she is so minded. If women ever really take to the bar seriously, +may Providence protect the average being in trousers, when on the +witness stand. + +As Peter talked, a clock struck. Stopping short, he rose. “I must ask +your pardon,” he said. “I had no idea I had taken so much of your +time.” Then putting his hand in his pocket, he produced the check. “You +see that I have made a very good thing out of the whole matter and do +not need this.” + +“One moment, Mr. Stirling,” said the lady, still sitting. “Can you +spare the time to lunch with me? We will sit down at once, and you +shall be free to go whenever you wish.” + +Peter hesitated. He knew that he had the time, and it did not seem easy +to refuse without giving an excuse, which he did not have. Yet he did +not feel that he had the right to accept an invitation which he had +perhaps necessitated by his long call. + +“Thank you,” said his hostess, before he had been able to frame an +answer. “May I trouble you to pull that bell?” + +Peter pulled the bell, and coming back, tendered the check rather +awkwardly to Miss De Voe. She, however, was looking towards a doorway, +which the next moment was darkened by the butler. + +“Morden,” she said, “you may serve luncheon at once.” + +“Luncheon is served, madam,” said Morden. + +Miss De Voe rose. “Mr. Stirling, I do not think your explanation has +really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check. You +acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and +received no fees for trying it. As I wrote you, I merely was giving a +retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, I still +wish to do it. I cannot do such things myself, but I am weal—I—I can +well afford to aid others to do them, and I hope you will let me have +the happiness of feeling that I have done my little in this matter.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “I was quite willing to take the money, but I +was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception.” + +Miss De Voe smiled at Peter with a very nice look in her face. “I am +the one to say ‘thank you,’ and I am most grateful. But we will +consider that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place.” + +Peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the +beauty of the table service. The meal itself was the simplest of summer +luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never +seen before. + +“What wine will you have with your luncheon, Mr. Stirling?” he was +asked by his hostess. + +“I don’t—none for me,” replied Peter. + +“You don’t approve of wine?” asked his hostess. + +“Personally I have no feeling about it.” + +“But?” And there was a very big question mark in Miss De Voe’s voice. + +“My mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so I do not take it. It +is really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to +her if I drank.” + +This started the conversation on Peter’s mother and his early years, +and before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much +more about his origin and his New York life. The clock finally cut him +short again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was +finished, though Miss De Voe made the pretence of eating a grape +occasionally. When three o’clock struck, Peter, without the least +simulating any other cause for going, rose hastily. + +“I have used up your whole afternoon,” he said, apologetically. + +“I think,” smiled Miss De Voe, “that we are equal culprits in that. I +leave town to-morrow, Mr. Stirling, but return to the city late in +October, and if your work and inclination favor it, I hope you will +come to see me again?” + +Peter looked at the silver and the china. Then he looked at Miss De +Voe, so obviously an aristocrat. + +“I shall be happy to,” he said, “if, when you return, you will send me +word that you wish to see me.” + +Miss De Voe had slightly caught her breath while Peter hesitated. “I +believe he is going to refuse!” she thought to herself, a sort of +stunned amazement seizing her. She was scarcely less surprised at his +reply. + +“I never ask a man twice to call on me, Mr. Stirling,” she said, with a +slight hauteur in her voice. + +“I’m sorry for that,” said Peter quietly. + +Miss De Voe caught her breath again. “Good-afternoon,” she said, +holding out her hand. “I shall hope to see you.” + +“Good-bye,” said Peter, and the next moment was walking towards his +office. + +Miss De Voe stood for a moment thinking. “That was curious,” she +thought, “I wonder if he intends to come?” + +The next evening she was dining with relatives in one of the +fashionable summering places, and was telling them about her call “from +Mr. Stirling, the lawyer who made that splendid speech.” + +“I thought,” she said, “when I received the message, that I was going +to be buried under a bathos of thanks, or else have my gift declined +with the expectation that I would gush over the disinterestedness of +the refusal. Since I couldn’t well avoid seeing him, I was quite +prepared to snub him, or to take back the money without a word. But he +wasn’t a bit that kind of creature. He isn’t self-assured nor +tonguey—rather the reverse. I liked him so, that I forced him to stay +to luncheon, and made him tell me a good deal about himself, without +his knowing I was doing so. He leads a very unusual life, without +seeming conscious that he does, and he tells about it very well. Uses +just the right word every time, so that you know exactly what he means, +without taxing your own brain to fill up blanks. He has such a nice +voice too. One that makes you certain of the absolute truth underneath. +No. He isn’t good looking, though he has fine eyes, and hair. His face +and figure are both too heavy.” + +“Is he a gentleman, cousin Anneke?” asked one of the party. + +“He is a little awkward, and over-blunt at moments, but nothing to +which one would give a second thought. I was so pleased with him that I +asked him to call on me.” + +“It seems to me,” said another, “that you are over-paying him.” + +“That was the most curious part,” replied Miss De Voe. “I’m not at all +sure that he means to come. It was really refreshing not to be truckled +to, but it is rather startling to meet the first man who does not want +to win his way to my visiting list. I don’t think he even knows who +Miss De Voe is.” + +“He will find out quick enough,” laughed a girl, “and then he will do +what they all do.” + +“No,” said Miss De Voe. “I suspect it will make no difference. He isn’t +that kind, I think. I really am curious to see if I have to ask him a +second time. It will be the only case I can remember. I’m afraid, my +dears, your cousin is getting to be an old woman.” + +Peter, had in truth, met, and spent over four hours in the company of a +woman whom every one wished to know. A woman equally famous for her +lineage, her social position, her wealth and her philanthropy. It would +not have made any difference, probably, had he known it, though it +might have increased his awkwardness a little. That he was not quite as +unconscious as Miss De Voe seemed to think, is shown by a passage in a +letter he wrote to his mother: + + +“She was very much interested in the case, and asked a good many +questions about it, and about myself. Some which I would rather not +have answered, but since she asked them I could not bring myself to +dodge them. She asked me to come and see her again. It is probably +nothing but a passing interest, such as this class feel for the +moment.”—[Then Peter carefully inked out “such as this class feel for +the moment,” and reproved himself that his bitterness at—at—at one +experience, should make him condemn a whole class]—“but if she asks me +again I shall go, for there is something very sweet and noble about +her. I think she is probably some great personage.” + + +Later on in the letter he wrote: + + +“If you do not disapprove, I will put this money in the savings bank, +in a special or trustee account, and use it for any good that I can do +for the people about here. I gave the case my service, and do not think +I am entitled to take pay when the money can be so much better employed +for the benefit of the people I tried to help.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +ANOTHER CLIENT. + + +Peter had seen his clients on the morning following the settlement of +the cases, and told them of their good fortune. They each had a look at +Bohlmann’s check, and then were asked how they would like their shares. + +“Sure,” said Dooley, “Oi shan’t know what to do wid that much money.” + +“I think,” said Peter, “that your two thousand really belongs to the +children.” + +“That it does,” said Mrs. Dooley, quite willing to deprive her husband +of it, for the benefit of her children. + +“But what shall Oi do wid it?” asked Mr. Dooley. + +“I’d like Mr. Stirling to take charge of mine,” said Blackett. + +“That’s the idea,” said Dooley. + +And so it was settled by all. Peter said the best thing would be to put +it in the savings bank. “Perhaps later we’ll find something better.” +They all went around to a well-known institution on the Bowery, and +Peter interviewed the cashier. It proved feasible to endorse over the +check to the bank, and credit the proper share to each. + +“I shall have to ask you to give me the odd two hundred and fifty,” +Peter said, “as that is my legal fee.” + +“You had better let me put that in your name, Mr. Stirling?” said the +president, who had been called into the consultation. + +“Very well,” said Peter. “I shall want some of it before long, but the +rest will be very well off here.” So a book was handed him, and the +president shook him by the hand with all the warmth that eight thousand +two hundred and fifty dollars of increased assets and four new +depositors implied. + +Peter did not need to draw any of the two hundred and fifty dollars, +however. In November he had another knock at his door. + +It proved to be Mr. Dennis Moriarty, of whom we have incidentally +spoken in connection with the half-price drinks for the Milligan wake, +and as spokesman of the torchlight procession. + +“Good-mornin’ to yez, sir,” said the visitor. + +It was a peculiarity of Peter’s that he never forgot faces. He did not +know Mr. Moriarty’s name, never having had it given him, but he placed +him instantly. + +“Thank you,” said Peter, holding out his hand. Peter did not usually +shake hands in meeting people, but he liked the man’s face. It would +never take a prize for beauty. The hair verged on a fiery red, the nose +was a real sky-scraper and the upper lip was almost proboscidian in its +length. But every one liked the face. + +“It’s proud Oi’m bein’ shakin’ the hand av Misther Stirling,” said the +Irishman. + +“Sit down,” said Peter. + +“My name’s Moriarty, sir, Dinnis Moriarty, an’ Oi keeps a saloon near +Centre Street, beyant.” + +“You were round here in the procession.” + +“Oi was, sir. Shure, Oi’m not much at a speech, compared to the likes +av yez, but the b’ys would have me do it.” + +Peter said something appropriate, and then there was a pause. + +“Misther Stirling,” finally said Moriarty, “Oi was up before Justice +Gallagher yesterday, an’ he fined me bad. Oi want yez to go to him, an’ +get him to be easier wid me. It’s yezself can do it.” + +“What were you fined for?” asked Peter. + +“For bein’ open on Sunday.” + +“Then you ought to be fined.” + +“Don’t say that till Oi tell yez. Oi don’t want to keep my place open, +but it’s in my lease, an’ so Oi have to.” + +“In your lease?” enquired Peter. + +“Yes.” And the paper was handed over to him. + +Peter ran over the three documents. “I see,” he said, “you are only the +caretaker really, the brewer having an assignment of the lease and a +chattel mortgage on your fixtures and stock.” + +“That’s it,” said Dennis. “It’s mighty quick yez got at it. It’s +caretaker Oi am, an’ a divil of a care it is. Shure, who wants to work +seven days a week, if he can do wid six?” + +“You should have declined to agree to that condition?” + +“Then Oi’d have been turned out. Begobs, it’s such poor beer that it’s +little enough Oi sell even in seven days.” + +“Why don’t you get your beer elsewhere then?” + +“Why, it’s Edelhein put me in there to sell his stuff, an’ he’d never +let me sell anythin’ else.” + +“Then Edelhein is really the principal, and you are only put in to keep +him out of sight?” + +“That’s it” + +“And you have put no money in yourself?” + +“Divil a cent.” + +“Then why doesn’t he pay the fine?” + +“He says Oi have no business to be afther bein’ fined. As if any one +sellin’ his beer could help bein’ fined!” + +“How is that?” said Peter, inferring that selling poor beer was a +finable offence, yet ignorant of the statute. + +“Why yez see, sir, the b’ys don’t like that beer—an’ sensible they +are—so they go to other places, an’ don’t come to my place.” + +“But that doesn’t explain your fines.” + +“Av course it does. Shure, if the boys don’t come to my place, it’s +little Oi can do at the primary, an’ so it’s no pull Oi have in +politics, to get the perlice an’ the joodges to be easy wid me, like +they are to the rest.” + +Peter studied his blank wall a bit. + +“Shure, if it’s good beer Oi had,” continued Moriarty, “Oi’d be afther +beatin’ them all, for Oi was always popular wid the b’ys, on account of +my usin’ my fists so fine.” + +Peter smiled. “Why don’t you go into something else?” he asked. + +“Well, there’s mother and the three childers to be supported, an’ then +Oi’d lose my influence at the primary.” + +“What kind of beer does Mr. Bohlmann make?” asked Peter, somewhat +irrelevantly. + +“Ah,” said Moriarty, “that’s the fine honest beer! There’s never +anythin’ wrong wid his. An’ he treats his keepers fair. Lets them do as +they want about keepin’ open Sundays, an’ never squeezes a man when +he’s down on his luck.” + +Peter looked at his wall again. Peter was learning something. + +“Supposing,” he asked, “I was able to get your fine remitted, and that +clause struck out of the lease. Would you open on Sunday?” + +“Divil a bit.” + +“When must you pay the fine?” + +“Oi’m out on bail till to-morrow, sir.” + +“Then leave these papers with me, and come in about this time.” + +Peter studied his wall for a bit after his new client was gone. He did +not like either saloon-keepers or law-breakers, but this case seemed to +him to have—to have—extenuating circumstances. His cogitations finally +resulted in his going to Justice Gallagher’s court. He found the judge +rather curt. + +“He’s been up here three times in as many months, and I intend to make +an example of him.” + +“But why is only he arrested, when every saloon keeper in the +neighborhood does the same thing?” + +“Now, sir,” said the judge, “don’t waste any more of my time. What’s +the next case?” + +A look we have mentioned once or twice came into Peter’s face. He +started to leave the court, but encountered at the door one of the +policemen whom he was “friends with,” according to the children, which +meant that they had chatted sometimes in the “angle.” + +“What sort of a man is Dennis Moriarty?” he asked of him. + +“A fine young fellow, supporting his mother and his younger brothers.” + +“Why is Justice Gallagher so down on him?” + +The policeman looked about a moment. “It’s politics, sir, and he’s had +orders.” + +“From whom?” + +“That’s more than we know. There was a row last spring in the primary, +and we’ve had orders since then to lay for him.” + +Peter stood and thought for a moment. “What saloon-keeper round here +has the biggest pull?” he asked. + +“It’s all of them, mostly, but Blunkers is a big man.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. He stood in the street thinking a little. Then +he walked a couple of blocks and went into Blunkers’s great gin palace. + +“I want to see the proprietor,” he said. + +“Dat’s me,” said a man who was reading a paper behind the bar. + +“Do you know Justice Gallagher?” + +“Do I? Well, I guess,” said the man. + +“Will you do me the favor to go with me to his court, and get him to +remit Dennis Moriarty’s fine?” + +“Will I? No. I will not. Der’s too many saloons, and one less will be +bully.” + +“In that case,” said Peter quietly, “I suppose you won’t mind my +closing yours up?” + +“Wot der yer mean?” angrily inquired the man. + +“If it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game.” + +“Who is yer, anyway?” The man came out from behind the bar, squaring +his shoulders in an ugly manner. + +“My name’s Stirling. Peter Stirling.” + +The man looked at him with interest. “How’ll yer close my place?” + +“Get evidence against you, and prosecute you.” + +“Dat ain’t de way.” + +“It will be my way.” + +“Wot yer got against me?” + +“Nothing. But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play. You want to +fight on the square too. You’re not a man to hit a fellow in the dark.” + +Peter was not flattering the man. He had measured him and was telling +him the result of that measure. He told it, too, in a way that made the +other man realize the opinion behind the words. + +“Come on,” said Blunkers, good-naturedly. + +They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place +between the justice and the bartender. + +“That’s all right, Mr. Stirling,” presently said the judge. “Clerk, +strike Dennis Moriarty’s fine off the list.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter to the saloon-keeper. “If I can ever do a turn +for you, let me know it.” + +“Dat’s hunky,” said the man, and they parted. + +Peter went out and walked into the region of the National Milk Company, +but this time he went to the brewery. He found Mr. Bohlmann, and told +him the story, asking his advice at the end. + +“Dondt you vool von minute mit dod Edelheim. I dells you vot I do. I +harf choost a blace vacant down in Zender Streed, and your frient he +shall it haf.” + +So they chatted till all the details had been arranged. Dennis was to +go in as caretaker, bound to use only Bohlmann’s beer, with a +percentage on that, and the profits on all else. He was to pay the +rent, receiving a sub-lease from Bohlmann, who was only a lesee +himself, and to give a chattel mortgage on the stock supplied him. +Finally he was to have the right of redemption of stock, lease, and +good-will at any time within five years, on making certain payments. + +“You draw up der babers, Misder Stirling, and send der bill to me. Ve +vill give der yoonger a chance,” the brewer said. + +When Dennis called the next day, he was “spacheless” at the new +developments. He wrung Peter’s hand. + +“Arrah, what can Oi say to yez?” he exclaimed finally. Then having +found something, he quickly continued: “Now, Patsy Blunkers, lookout +for yezself. It’s the divil Oi’ll give yez in the primary this year.” + +He begged Peter to come down the opening night, and help to “celebrate +the event.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter, “but I don’t think I will.” + +“Shure,” said Dennis, “yez needn’t be afraid it won’t be orderly. It’s +myself can do the hittin’, an’ the b’ys know it.” + +“My mother brought me up,” Peter explained, “not to go into saloons, +and when I came to New York I promised her, if I ever did anything she +had taught me not to, that I would write her about it. She would hardly +understand this visit, and it might make her very unhappy.” + +Peter earned fifty dollars by drawing the papers, and at the end of the +first month Dennis brought him fifty more. + +“Trade’s been fine, sir, an’ Oi want to pay something for what yez +did.” + +So Peter left his two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, having +recouped the expenses of the first case out of his new client. + +He wrote all about it to his mother: + + +“I am afraid you won’t approve of what I did entirely, for I know your +strong feeling against men who make and sell liquor. But I somehow have +been made to feel in the last few days that more can be done in the +world by kindness and help than by frowns and prosecutions. I had no +thought of getting money out of the case, so I am sure I was not +influenced by that. It seemed to me that a man was being unfairly +treated, and that too, by laws which are meant for other purposes. I +really tried to think it out, and do what seemed right to me. My last +client has a look and a way of speaking that makes me certain he’s a +fine fellow, and I shall try to see something of him, provided it will +not worry you to think of me as friendly with a saloon-keeper. I know I +can be of use to him.” + + +Little did Peter know how useful his last client would be to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +THE PRIMARY. + + +After this rush of work, Peter’s life became as routine as of yore. The +winter passed without an event worth noting, if we except a steadily +growing acquaintance with the dwellers of the district. But in July a +new phase was injected into it by a call from Dennis Moriarty. + +“Good-mornin’ to yez, sir, an’ a fine day it is,” said the latter, with +his usually breezy way. + +“Yes,” said Peter. + +“Misther Stirling. An’ is it engaged yez are for this night?” + +“No.” Peter had nothing. + +“Then,” said Dennis, “maybe ye’ll be afther goin’ wid me to the +primary?” + +“What primary?” + +“For the election of delegates to the convention, shure.” + +“No. What party?” + +“What party is it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Misther Stirling, do yez know my name?” + +“Dennis Moriarty, isn’t it?” + +“Yes. An’ what’s my business?” + +“You keep a saloon.” + +“Yes. An’ what ward do Oi live in?” + +“The sixth, don’t you?” + +“Then,” said Dennis, his upper lip twisting into a smile of enormous +proportions, “Oi suppose yez afther thinkin’ Oi’m a dirty black +Republican.” + +Peter laughed, as few could help doing, when Dennis led the way. “Look +here, Dennis,” he said, “don’t you run down that party. My father was a +Democrat, but he voted for Lincoln, and fought for the blacks when the +time came, and though I’m a Democrat like him, the Republicans are only +black in their sympathies, and not in their acts.” + +“An’ what do yez say to the whisky frauds, an’ black Friday, an’ credit +mobilier?” asked Dennis. + +“Of course I don’t like them,” said Peter; “but that’s the politicians, +not the party.” + +“Shure,” said Dennis, “what’s the party but the men that run it?” + +“You’ve seen something of Mr. Bohlmann lately, Dennis?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, he was the man who put Goldman in charge of that cow stable. Yet +he’s an honest man.” + +Dennis scratched his head. “It’s a convincin’ way yez have wid yez,” he +said; “but it’s scoundrels the Republicans are, all the same. Look at +them in the district; there’s not one a decent man would invite to +drink wid him.” + +“I think, Dennis,” said Peter, “that when all the decent men get into +one party, there’ll be only one worth talking about.” + +“Av course,” replied Dennis. “That’s the reason there’s only the +Democratic party in New York City.” + +“Tell me about this primary,” said Peter, concluding that abstract +political philosophy was not the way to liberalize Dennis. + +“It’s most important, it is,” he was told, “it’s on top Patsy Blunkers +an’ his gang av dirty spalpeens (Dennis seemed to forget that he had +just expressed the opinion that all the “decent” men were Democrats) +have been this two years, but we’ve got orders for a new enrollment at +last, an’ if we don’t knock them this time, my name isn’t Dinnis +Moriarty.” + +“What is the question before the meeting?” + +“Afther the enrollment, it’s to vote for delegates.” + +“Oh! Then it’s just a struggle over who shall be elected?” + +“That’s it. But a fine, big fight it will be. The whole district’s so +excited, sir, that it’s twice Oi’ve had to pound the b’ys a bit in my +saloon to keep the peace.” + +“What do you want of me?” + +“Shure, every vote counts on a night like this. An’ ye’d be afther +helpin’ us big, for the district likes yez.” + +“But, Dennis, I can’t vote without knowing something about the way +things are. I shouldn’t know whether I was voting rightly.” + +“Why, a man votes right when he votes for his friends!” + +“No; a man votes right when he votes for his convictions.” + +“Convictions, is it?” + +“Yes. That is, he votes as he thinks is best for the country.” + +“That, maybe, is the way yez do it where yez come from,” said Dennis, +“but it’s no good it would be here. Convictions, whatever they be, are +never nominated here. It’s real things we’re afther votin’ for in New +York.” + +Peter laughed. “I’ve got to take you in hand, Dennis, and you’ve got to +take me in hand. I think we both need each other’s help. Yes, I’ll come +to the primary. Will they let me vote?” + +“The dirty spalpeens will never dare to stop yez! Thank yez, sir. Oi’ll +be along for yez about eight.” + +“Remember, though, Dennis—I don’t say how I’ll vote.” + +“Yez just listen, an I’m not afraid av what ye’ll do.” + +That evening, Peter was ushered into a large hot room, pretty well +packed with men, and the interstices already filled in with dense +tobacco smoke. He looked about him curiously, and was surprised to find +how many of the faces he knew. Blackett, Dooley, and Milligan were +there, and shook hands with him warmly. Judge Gallagher and Blunkers +were in evidence. In plain clothes were two policemen, and three of the +“fire-laddies,” who formed part of the “crew” of the nearest engine, +with all of whom he had often chatted. Mr. Dummer, his rival lawyer in +the case, and one of the jurymen in it, likewise were visible. Also +many faces which were familiar to Peter by a former occasional friendly +word or nod exchanged in passing. Intense excitement evidently reigned, +and every one was whispering in a sort of breathless way, which showed +how deeply interested they were. + +At Dennis’s suggestion, made in walking to the room, Peter presented +himself without guidance, at the desk. Some one behind him asked if he +lived in the ward, and for how long, but this was the only apparent +opposition made to the prompt entering of his name. Then Peter strolled +round and talked to those whom he knew, and tried to find out, without +much success, just what was the division. Every one knew that a fight +was on, but in just what it consisted they seemed neither to know nor +care. + +He noticed that hot words were constantly exchanged at the enrolling +desk, over would-be members, but not understanding the exact nature of +the qualifications needed, he could not follow the disputes. Finally +these ceased, for want of applicants. + +“Misther Stirling,” said Dennis, coming up to him hurriedly. “Will yez +be afther bein’ chairman for us?” + +“No. I don’t know anything about the proceedings.” + +“It don’t take any,” said Dennis. “It’s only fair play we’re afther.” + +He was gone again before Peter could say anything. The next instant, +the enrolling officer rose and spoke. + +“Are there any more to be enrolled?” he called. No one came forward, so +after a moment he said: “Will the meeting choose a presiding officer?” + +“Mr. Chairman,” rang two voices so quickly that they in truth cut the +presiding officer off in his suggestion. + +“Mr. Muldoon,” said that officer. + +“Oi spoke first,” shouted Dennis, and Peter felt that he had, and that +he was not having fair play. + +Instantly a wave of protest, denials, charges, and counter-charges +swept through the room, Peter thought there was going to be a fight, +but the position was too critical to waste a moment on what Dennis +styled “a diversion.” It was business, not pleasure, just then. + +“Mr. Muldoon,” said the officer again, not heeding the tempest in the +least. + +“Mr. Chairman,” shouted Muldoon, “I am proud to nominate Justice +Gallagher, the pride of the bar, for chairman of this distinguished +meeting, and I move to make his election unanimous.” + +“Misther Chairman,” shouted Dennis. + +“Mr. Moriarty,” said the officer. + +“Misther Chairman, Oi have the honor to nominate for chairman av this +meetin’ the people’s an’ the children’s friend, Misther Peter Stirling, +an’ Oi don’t have to move to make it unanimous, for such is the +intelligince an’ manhood av this meetin’ that it will be that way for +shure.” + +Peter saw a hurried consultation going on between Gallagher, Muldoon, +and two others, during the latter part of this speech, and barely had +Dennis finished his remarks, when Justice Gallagher spoke up. + +“Mr. Chairman.” + +“The Honorable Justice Gallagher,” said that gentleman. + +“I take pride in withdrawing in favor of Mr. Stirling, who so justly +merits the honor of presiding on this important occasion. From recent +events too well known to need mention, I am sure we can all look to him +for justice and fairness.” + +“Bad cess to him!” groaned Dennis. “Oi hoped they’d be just fools +enough to oppose yez, an’ then we’d have won the first blood.” + +Peter was chosen without dissent, and was escorted to the seat behind +the desk. + +“What is the first business before the meeting?” he asked of Gallagher, +aside, as he was taking his seat. + +“Election of delegates to the State convention. That’s all to-night,” +he was told. + +Peter had presided at college in debates, and was not flurried. “Will +you stay here so as to give me the names of those I don’t know?” he +said to the enrolling officer. “The meeting will please come to order,” +he continued aloud. “The nomination of delegates to the State +convention is the business to be acted upon.” + +“Misther Chairman,” yelled Dennis, evidently expecting to find another +rival as before. But no one spoke. + +“Mr. Moriarty,” said Peter. + +“Misther Chairman. It’s my delight to nominate as delegates to the +State convention, the Honorable Misther Schlurger, our distinguished +representative in the Assembly, the Honorable Misther Kennedy, our +noble Police-commissioner, an’ Misther Caggs, whom it would be insult +for me to praise in this company.” + +“Second the motion,” said some one. + +“Mr. Chairman,” shouted a man. + +“That’s Caggs,” said the enrolling officer. + +“Mr. Caggs,” said Peter. + +“Mr. Chairman,” said Caggs. “I must decline the honor offered me from +such a source.” + +“What?” shrieked Dennis, amazement and rage contesting for first place +in voice and expression. + +“Mr. Chairman,” said Dummer. + +“Mr. Dummer,” said Peter. + +“I have the honor to nominate the Honorable Justice Gallagher, Mr. +Peter Sweeney, and Mr. Caggs, to whom Mr. Moriarty has just paid so +glowing a tribute, as delegates to the State convention.” + +“Second the—” shouted some one, but the rest was drowned by another +storm which swept through the room. Even above the tumult, Peter could +hear Dennis challenging and beseeching Mr. Caggs to come “outside an’ +settle it like gentlemen.” Caggs, from a secure retreat behind +Blunkers’s right arm, declined to let the siren’s song tempt him forth. +Finally Peter’s pounding brought a degree of quiet again. + +“Misther Chairman,” said Dennis. + +“Mr. Moriarty,” said Peter. + +“Misther Chairman. Oi’ll not take the valuable time av this meetin’ to +speak av dirty, cowardly, black-hearted, treacherous snakes, wid souls +blacker than the divil’s own—” + +“Order!” said Peter to the crowd. + +“No,” continued Dennis, in answer to the audible remarks of the +opposition. “It’s no names Oi’m callin’. If yez know such a beast, such +a snake, fit it to him. Oi’m mentionin’ no names. As Oi was sayin’, +Misther Chairman, Oi’ll not waste the time av this meetin’ wid +discribin’ the conduct av a beast so vile that he must be the contempt +av every honest man. Who would have been driven out by St. Patrick, wid +the rest av the reptiles, if he’d lived at that time. Oi only rise to +widdraw the name av Caggs from the list Oi nominated for delegates to +the state convention, an’ to put in place av it that av a man who is as +noble an’ true, as some are false an’ divilish. That of Misther Peter +Stirling, God bless him!” + +Once more chaos came. Peter pounded in vain. Both sides were at fever +heat. Finally Peter rose. + +“Gentlemen,” he shouted, in a voice that rang through the hall above +even the tumult, “if this meeting does not come to order, I shall +declare it adjourned.” + +Instant quiet fell, for all had paused a moment to hear his words, and +they concluded that he was in earnest. + +“Was the last motion seconded?” asked the chairman calmly. + +“I seconded it,” shouted Blackett and Milligan together. + +“You have heard the nominations, gentlemen. Has any one any remarks to +make?” + +A man next Justice Gallagher said, “Mr. Chairman,” and being duly +recognized, proceeded to talk for ten minutes in a very useless way. +But during this time, Peter noticed first a good deal of whispering +among Blunkers’s friends, and then an interview between Gallagher and +Dennis. The latter was apparently not reconcilable, and shook his head +in a way that meant war. Then there was more consultation between the +opposition, and another confab with Dennis, with more headshakes on his +part. Finally a compromise having been evidently made impossible, the +orator was “called down” and it was voted to proceed to an election. +Peter named one of the firemen, Dooley, and Blunkers, tellers, who, +after a ballot, announced that Dennis had carried his nominations, +Peter heading the list with two hundred and twelve votes, and the +others getting one hundred and seventy-two, and one hundred and +fifty-eight respectively. The “snake” got but fifty-seven votes. + +“Shure,” said Dennis, later, “maybe we don’t vote for convictions here, +but we don’t vote for the likes av him!” + +“Then you are voting for convictions,” said Peter. + +“It’s yezself is the convictions then,” said Dennis. + +Perhaps he was right. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +A POLITICAL DEBUT. + + +Peter declared the meeting adjourned as soon as the results of the +election had been read, and slipped away in the turmoil that +immediately followed, without a word to any one. He was in truth not +bewildered—because he had too much natural poise and phlegm—but he was +surprised by the suddenness of it all, and wanted to think before +talking with others. So he took advantage of the mutual bickerings and +recriminations which seemed the order of the day, to get back to his +office, and there he sat, studying his wall for a time. Then he went to +bed, and slept as quickly and as calmly as if he had spent his evening +in reading the “Modern Cottage Architecture” or “Questions de +Sociologie,” which were on his table instead of presiding at a red-hot +primary, and being elected a delegate. + +The next morning Dennis came to see him as early as well could be. + +“Misther Stirling,” he said, his face expanding into the broadest of +grins, “let me salute the delegate to the State convention.” + +“Look here, Dennis,” said Peter, “you know you had no business to +spring that on me.” + +“Ah, sir! Shure, when that dirty little spalpeen av a Caggs went back +on us so, what could Oi do? Oi know it’s speak to yez Oi ought, but wid +de room yellin’ like that it’s divilish tryin’ to do the right thing +quick, barrin’ it’s not hittin’ some one’s head, which always comes +natural.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “of course I’m very much pleased to have been +chosen, but I wish it could have been done with less hard feeling.” + +“Hard feelin,’ is it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Shure, the b’ys are as pleased and kindly this mornin’ as can be. It’s +a fight like that makes them yieldin’ an’ friendly. Nothin’ but a +little head-punchin’ could make them in a sweeter mood, an’ we’d a +given them that if little Caggs had had any sense in him.” + +“You mean Gallagher and Blunkers and the rest of them?” + +“Av course. That little time last night didn’t mean much. No one feels +bad over that. Shure, it’s Gallagher was in my place later last night, +an’ we had a most friendly time, he treatin’ the whole crowd twice. +We’ve got to fight in the primary to keep the b’ys interested, but it’s +seldom that they’re not just as friendly the next day.” + +Peter looked at his wall. He had not liked Gallagher at either time he +had met him. “Still,” he thought to himself, “I have no right to +prevent him and Dennis being friends, from the little I’ve seen.” + +“Now, sir, about the convention?” said Dennis. + +“I suppose Porter is the best man talked of for the nomination,” +remarked Peter. + +“Begobs, sir, that he’s not,” said Dennis. “It’s Justice Gallagher was +tellin’ me himself that he was a poor kind av creature, wid a strong +objection to saloons.” + +Peter’s eye lost its last suggestion of doubt. “Oh, Justice Gallagher +told you that?” he asked. “When?” + +“Last night.” + +“After the primary?” + +“Av course.” + +“Whom does he favor?” + +“Catlin.” + +“Well, Dennis, you’ve made me a delegate, but I’ve got to vote my own +way.” + +“Shure, sir, Oi’d not have yez do any thin’ else. It’s yezself knows +better than me. Oi was only tellin’ yez what the Justice—” + +A knock at the door interrupted him. It proved to be Gallagher, who +greeted them both in a hearty, friendly way. Peter brought another +chair from his bedroom. + +“Well, Mr. Stirling, that was a fine contest we had last night,” said +his honor. + +“It seemed to be earnest,” said Peter. + +“It’s just as well our friend here sprang your nomination on us as a +surprise, for if we had known, we should not have put up an opposition +candidate. You are just the sort of a man we want to represent us in +the convention.” + +“I have never met my colleagues,” said Peter. “What kind of men are +they?” + +So he got Gallagher’s opinion, and Dennis’s opinion. Then he wanted to +know about the candidates, asking questions about them at considerable +length. The intentions of the other city delegates were next +introduced. Finally the probable planks of the platform were brought +up. While they were still under discussion Gallagher said the sitting +of his court compelled him to leave. + +“I’ll come in some time when I have more to spare.” + +Gallagher went to his court, and found a man waiting for him there. + +“He’s either very simple or very deep,” said Gallagher. “He did nothing +but ask questions; and try my best I could not get him to show his +hand, nor commit himself. It will be bad if there’s a split in a solid +delegation!” + +“I hope it will be a lesson to you to have things better arranged.” + +“Blunkers would have it that way, and he’s not the kind of man to +offend. We all thought he would win.” + +“Oh, let them have their fights,” said the man crossly; “but it’s your +business to see that the right men are put up, so that it doesn’t make +any difference which side wins.” + +“Well,” said Gallagher, “I’ve done all I could to put things straight. +I’ve made peace, and got Moriarty on our side, and I’ve talked to this +Stirling, and made out a strong case for Catlin, without seeming to +care which man gets the nomination.” + +“Is there any way of putting pressure on him?” + +“Not that I can find out. He’s a young lawyer, who has no business.” + +“Then he’s a man we don’t need to conciliate, if he won’t behave?” + +“No. I can’t say that. He’s made himself very popular round here by +that case and by being friendly to people. I don’t think, if he’s going +into politics, that it will do to fight him.” + +“He’s such a green hand that we ought to be able to down him.” + +“He’s new, but he’s a pretty cool, knowing chap, I think. I had one +experience with him, which showed me that any man who picked him up for +a fool would drop him quick.” Then he told how Dennis’s fine had been +remitted. + +In the next few weeks Peter met a good many men who wanted to talk +politics with him. Gallagher brought some; Dennis others; his +fellow-ward delegates, more. But Peter could not be induced to commit +himself. He would talk candidates and principles endlessly, but without +expressing his own mind. Twice he was asked point blank, “Who’s your +man?” but he promptly answered that he had not yet decided. He had +always read a Democratic paper, but now he read two, and a Republican +organ as well. His other reading lessened markedly, and the time gained +was spent in talking with men in the “district.” He even went into the +saloons and listened to the discussions. + +“I don’t drink,” he had to explain several times, “because my mother +doesn’t like it.” For some reason this explanation seemed to be +perfectly satisfactory. One man alone sneered at him. “Does she feed +yer still on milk, sonny?” he asked. “No,” said Peter, “but everything +I have comes from her, and that’s the kind of a mother a fellow wants +to please; don’t you think so?” The sneerer hesitated, and finally said +he “guessed it was.” So Peter was made one of them, and smoked and +listened. He said very little, but that little was sound, good sense, +and, if he did not talk, he made others do so; and, after the men had +argued over something, they often looked at Peter, rather than at their +opponents, to see if he seemed to approve of their opinions. + +“It’s a fine way he has wid the b’ys,” Dennis told his mother. “He +makes them feel that he’s just the likes av them, an’ that he wants +their minds an’ opinions to help him. Shure, they’d rather smoke one +pipe av his tobaccy than drink ten times at Gallagher’s expense.” + +After Peter had listened carefully and lengthily, he wrote to “The +Honorable Lemuel Porter, Hudson, N.Y.,” asking him if he could give him +an hour’s talk some day. The reply was prompt, and told Peter that +Porter would be glad to see him any time that should suit his +convenience. So Peter took a day off and ran up to Hudson. + +“I am trying to find out for whom I should vote,” he explained to +Porter. “I’m a new man at this sort of thing, and, not having met any +of the men talked of, I preferred to see them before going to the +convention.” + +Porter found that Peter had taken the trouble to go over a back file of +papers, and read some of his speeches. + +“Of course,” Peter explained, “I want, as far as possible, to know what +you think of questions likely to be matters for legislation.” + +“The difficulty in doing that, Mr. Stirling,” he was told, “is that +every nominee is bound to surrender his opinions in a certain degree to +the party platform, while other opinions have to be modified to new +conditions.” + +“I can see that,” said Peter. “I do not for a moment expect that what +you say to-day is in any sense a pledge. If a man’s honest, the poorest +thing we can do to him is to tie him fast to one course of action, when +the conditions are constantly changing. But, of course, you have +opinions for the present state of things?” + +Something in Peter’s explanation or face pleased Mr. Porter. He +demurred no more, and, for an hour before lunch, and during that meal, +he talked with the utmost freedom. + +“I’m not easily fooled on men,” he told his secretary afterwards, “and +you can say what you wish to that Stirling without danger of its being +used unfairly or to injure one. And he’s the kind of man to be won by +square dealing.” + +Peter had spoken of his own district “I think,” he said, “that some +good can be done in the way of non-partisan legislation. I’ve been +studying the food supplies of the city, and, if I can, I shall try to +get a bill introduced this winter to have official inspections +systematized.” + +“That will receive my approval if it is properly drawn. But you’ll +probably find the Health Board fighting you. It’s a nest of +politicians.” + +“If they won’t yield, I shall have to antagonize them, but I have had +some talks with the men there, in connection with the ‘swill-milk’ +investigations, and I think I can frame a bill that will do what I +want, yet which they will not oppose. I shall try to make them help me +in the drafting, for they can make it much better through their +practical experience.” + +“If you do that, the opposition ought not to be troublesome. What else +do you want?” + +“I’ve been thinking of a general Tenement-house bill, but I don’t think +I shall try for that this winter. It’s a big subject, which needs very +careful study, in which a lot of harm may be done by ignorance. There’s +no doubt that anything which hurts the landlord, hurts the tenant, and +if you make the former spend money, the tenant pays for it in the long +run. Yet health must be protected. I shall try to find out what can be +done.” + +“I wish you would get into the legislature yourself, Mr. Stirling.” + +“I shall not try for office. I want to go on with my profession. But I +shall hope to work in politics in the future.” + +Peter took another day off, and spent a few minutes of it with the +other most promising candidate. He did not see very much of him, for +they were interrupted by another caller, and Peter had to leave before +he could have a chance to continue the interview. + +“I had a call to-day from that fellow Stirling, who’s a delegate from +the sixth ward,” the candidate told a “visiting statesman” later. “I’m +afraid he’ll give us trouble. He asks too many questions. Fortunately +Dewilliger came to see me, and though I shouldn’t have seen him +ordinarily, I found his call very opportune as a means of putting an +end to Stirling’s cross-examination.” + +“He’s the one doubtful man on the city’s delegation,” said the +statesman. “It happened through a mistake. It will be very unfortunate +if we can’t cast a solid city vote.” + +Peter talked more in the next few days. He gave the “b’ys” his +impressions of the two candidates, in a way which made them trust his +conclusions. He saw his two fellow delegates, and argued long and +earnestly with them. He went to every saloon-keeper in the district, +and discussed the change in the liquor law which was likely to be a +prominent issue in the campaign, telling them what he had been able to +draw from both candidates about the subject. + +“Catlin seems to promise you the most,” he told them, “and I don’t want +to say he isn’t trying to help you. But if you get the law passed which +he promises to sign, you won’t be much better off. In the first place, +it will cost you a lot of money, as you know, to pass it; and then it +will tempt people to go into the business, so that it will cut your +profits that way. Then, you may stir up a big public sentiment against +you in the next election, and so lay yourselves open to unfriendly +legislation. It is success, or trying to get too much, which has beaten +every party, sooner or later, in this country. Look at slavery. If the +Southerners had left things as they were under the Missouri Compromise, +they never would have stirred up the popular outbreak that destroyed +slavery. Now, Porter is said to be unfriendly to you, because he wants +a bill to limit the number of licenses, and to increase the fee to new +saloons. Don’t you see that is all in your favor, though apparently +against you? In the first place, you are established, and the law will +be drawn so as to give the old dealer precedence over a new one in +granting fresh licenses. This limit will really give the established +saloon more trade in the future, by reducing competition. While the +increase in fee to new saloons will do the same.” + +“By ——, yer right,” said Blunkers. + +“That’s too good a name to use that way,” said Peter, but more as if he +were stating a fact than reproving. + +Blunkers laughed good-naturedly. “Yer’ll be gittin’ usen to close up +yet, Mister Stirling. Yer too good for us.” + +Peter looked at him. “Blunkers,” he said warmly, “no man is too good +not to tell the truth to any one whom he thinks it will help.” + +“Shake,” said Blunkers. Then he turned to the men at the tables. “Step +up, boys,” he called. “I sets it up dis time to drink der health of der +feller dat don’t drink.” + +The boys drank + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +A POLITICAL DINNER. + + +Peter had only a month for work after reaching his own conclusions, +before the meeting of the convention, but in that month he worked hard. +As the result, a rumor, carrying dismay to the party leaders, became +current. + +“What’s this I hear?” said Gallagher’s former interviewer to that +gentleman. “They say Schlurger says he intends to vote for Porter, and +Kennedy’s getting cold?” + +“If you’ll go through the sixth you’ll hear more than that.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“There was a torchlight last night, of nearly every voter in the ward, +and nothing but Stirling prevented them from making the three delegates +pledge themselves to vote for Porter. He said they must go unbound.” + +The interviewer’s next remark is best represented by several “blank +its,” no allusion however being intended to bed-coverings. Then he +cited the lower regions to know what it all meant. + +“It means that that chap Stirling has got to be fixed, and fixed big. I +thought I knew how to wire pull, and manage men, but he’s taken hold +and just runs it as he wants. It’s he makes all the trouble.” + +The interviewer left the court, and five minutes later was in +Stirling’s office. + +“My name’s Green,” he said. “I’m a delegate to the convention, and one +of the committee who has the arranging of the special train and +accommodations at Saratoga.” + +“I’m glad you came in,” said Peter. “I bought my ticket yesterday, and +the man at headquarters said he’d see that I was assigned a room at the +United States.” + +“There’ll be no trouble about the arrangements. What I want to see you +for, is to ask if you won’t dine with me this evening? There’s to be +several of the delegates and some big men there, to talk over the +situation.” + +“I should like to,” said Peter. + +The man pulled out a card, and handed it to Peter. “Six o’clock sharp,” +he said. Then he went to headquarters, and told the result of his two +interviews. “Now who had better be there?” he asked. After +consultation, a dinner of six was arranged. + +The meal proved to be an interesting one to Peter. First, he found that +all the guests were well-known party men, whose names and opinions were +matters of daily notice in the papers. What was more, they talked +convention affairs, and Peter learned in the two hours’ general +conversation more of true “interests” and “influences” and “pulls” and +“advantages” than all his reading and talking had hitherto gained him. +He learned that in New York the great division of interest was between +the city and country members, and that this divided interest played a +part in nearly every measure. “Now,” said one of the best known men at +the table, “the men who represent the city, must look out for the city. +Porter’s a fine man, but he has no great backing, and no matter how +well he intends by us, he can’t do more than agree to such bills as we +can get passed. But Catlin has the Monroe members of the legislature +under his thumb, and his brother-in-law runs Onandaga. He promises they +shall vote for all we want. With that aid, we can carry what New York +City needs, in spite of the country members.” + +“Would the country members refuse to vote for really good and needed +city legislation?” asked Peter. + +“Every time, unless we agree to dicker with them on some country job. +The country members hold the interest of the biggest city in this +country in their hands, and threaten or throttle those interests every +time anything is wanted.” + +“And when it comes to taxation,” added another, “the country members +are always giving the cities the big end to carry.” + +“I had a talk with Catlin,” said Peter. “It seemed to me that he wasn’t +the right kind of man.” + +“Catlin’s a timid man, who never likes to commit himself. That’s +because he always wants to do what his backers tell him. Of course when +a man does that, he hasn’t decided views of his own, and naturally +doesn’t wish to express what he may want to take back an hour later.” + +“I don’t like straw men,” said Peter. + +“A man who takes other people’s opinions is not a bad governor, Mr. +Stirling. It all depends on whose opinion he takes. If we could find a +man who was able to do what the majority wants every time, we could +re-elect him for the next fifty years. You must remember that in this +country we elect a man to do what we want—not to do what he wants +himself.” + +“Yes,” said Peter. “But who is to say what the majority wants?” + +“Aren’t we—the party leaders—who are meeting daily the ward leaders, +and the big men in the different districts, better able to know what +the people want than the man who sits in the governor’s room, with a +doorkeeper to prevent the people from seeing him?” + +“You may not choose to do what the people want.” + +“Of course. I’ve helped push things that I knew were unpopular. But +this is very unusual, because it’s risky. Remember, we can only do +things when our party is in power, so it is our interest to do what +will please the people, if we are to command majorities and remain in +office. Individually we have got to do what the majority of our party +wants done, or we are thrown out, and new men take our places. And it’s +just the same way with the parties.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “I understand the condition better, and can see +what I could not fathom before, why the city delegates want Catlin. But +my own ward has come out strong for Porter. We’ve come to the +conclusion that his views on the license question are those which are +best for us, and besides, he’s said that he will stand by us in some +food and tenement legislation we want.” + +“I know about that change, and want to say, Mr. Stirling, that few men +of your years and experience, were ever able to do as much so quickly. +But there are other sides, even to these questions, which you may not +have yet considered. Any proposed restriction on the license will not +merely scare a lot of saloon-keepers, who will only understand that it +sounds unfriendly, but it will alienate every brewer and distiller, for +their interest is to see saloons multiplied. Then food and tenement +legislation always stirs up bad feeling in the dealers and owners. If +the opposite party would play fair, we could afford to laugh at it, but +you see the party out of power can oppose about anything, knowing that +a minority is never held responsible, and so by winning over the +malcontents which every piece of legislation is sure to make, before +long it goes to the polls with a majority, though it has really been +opposing the best interests of the whole state. We can’t sit still, and +do nothing, yet everything we do will alienate some interest.” + +“It’s as bad as the doctrine of fore-ordination,” laughed another of +the party: + +“You can’t if you will, +You can if you won’t, +You’ll be damned if you do, +You’ll be damned if you don’t.” + + +“You just said,” stated Peter, “that the man who could do what the +majority wants done every time, would be re-elected. Doesn’t it hold +true as to a party?” + +“No. A party is seldom retained in power for such reasons. If it has a +long tenure of office it is generally due to popular distrust of the +other party. The natural tendency otherwise is to make office-holding a +sort of see-saw. Let alone change of opinion in older men, there are +enough new voters every four years to reverse majorities in almost +every state. Of course these young men care little for what either +party has done in the past, and being young and ardent, they want to +change things. The minority’s ready to please them, naturally. Reform +they call it, but it’s quite as often ‘Deform’ when they’ve done it.” + +Peter smiled and said, “Then you think my views on license, and +food-inspection, and tenement-house regulation are ‘Deformities’?” + +“We won’t say that, but a good many older and shrewder heads have +worked over those questions, and while I don’t know what you hope to +do, you’ll not be the first to want to try a change, Mr. Stirling.” + +“I hope to do good. I may fail, but it’s not right as it is, and I must +try to better it.” Peter spoke seriously, and his voice was very clear. +“I’m glad to have had this talk, before the convention meets. You are +all experienced men, and I value your opinions.” + +“But don’t intend to act on them,” said his host good-naturedly. + +“No. I’m not ready to say that. I’ve got to think them over.” + +“If you do that, Mr. Stirling, you’ll find we are right. We have not +been twenty and thirty years in this business for nothing.” + +“I think you know how to run a party—but poisoned milk was peddled in +my ward. I went to law to punish the men who sold it. Now I’m going +into politics to try and get laws and administration which will prevent +such evils. I’ve told my district what I want. I think it will support +me. I know you can help me, and I hope you will. We may disagree on +methods, but if we both wish the good of New York, we can’t disagree on +results.” Peter stopped, rather amazed himself at the length of his +speech. + +“What do you want us to do?” + +“You say that you want to remain in control. You say you can only do so +by majorities. I want you to give this city such a government that +you’ll poll every honest vote on our side,” said Peter warmly. + +“That’s only the generalization of a very young man,” said the leader. + +Peter liked him all the better for the snub. “I generalized, because it +would make clear the object of my particular endeavors. I want to have +the Health Board help me to draft a food-inspection bill, and I want +the legislature to pass it, without letting it be torn to pieces for +the benefit of special interests. I don’t mind fair amendments, but +they must be honest ones.” + +“And if the Health Board helps you, and the bill is made a law?” + +Peter looked Mr. Costell in the face, and spoke quietly: “I shall tell +my ward that you have done them a great service.” + +Two of the men moved uneasily in their seats, as if not comfortable, +and a third scowled. + +“And if we can give you some tenement-house legislation?” + +“I shall tell my ward that you have done them a great service.” Peter +spoke in the same tone of voice, and still looked Mr. Costell in the +face. + +“And if we don’t do either?” + +“What I shall do then will depend on whether you refuse for a good +reason or for none. In either case I shall tell them the facts.” + +“This is damned——” began one of the dinner-party, but the lifting of +Mr. Costell’s hand stopped the speech there. + +“Mr. Stirling,” said Mr. Costell, rising as he spoke, “I hope when you +come to think it over, that you will vote with us for Catlin. But +whether you do or not, we want you to work with us. We can help you, +and you can help us. When you are ready to begin on your bills, come +and see me.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “That is just what I want.” He said good-night +to the company, and left the house. + +“That fellow is going to be troublesome,” said Green. + +“There’s no good trying to get anything out of him. Better split with +him at once,” said the guest who had used the expletive. + +“He can’t have any very big hold,” said a third. “It’s only that trial +which has given him a temporary popularity.” + +“Wait and see if he goes back on Catlin, and if he does, lay for him,” +remarked Green. + +A pause came, and they all looked at Costell, who was smiling a certain +deep smile that was almost habitual with him, and which no one had ever +yet been able to read. “No,” he said slowly. “You might beat him, but +he isn’t the kind that stays beat. I’ll agree to outwit any man in +politics, except the man who knows how to fight and to tell the people +the truth. I’ve never yet seen a man beaten in the long run who can do +both those, unless he chose to think himself beaten. Gentlemen, that +Stirling is a fighter and a truth-teller, and you can’t beat him in his +ward. There’s no use having him against us, so it’s our business to see +that we have him with us. We may not be able to get him into line this +time, but we must do it in the long run. For he’s not the kind that +lets go. He’s beaten Nelson, and he’s beaten Gallagher, both of whom +are old hands. Mark my words, in five years he’ll run the sixth ward. +Drop all talk of fighting him. He is in politics to stay, and we must +make it worth his while to stay with us.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +POLITICS. + + +Peter sat up later than was prudent that night, studying his blank +wall. Yet when he rose to go to bed, he gave his head a puzzled shake. +When he had gone through his papers, and drunk his coffee the next +morning, he went back to wall-gazing again. He was working over two +conundrums not very easy to answer, which were somewhat to this effect: + +Does the best man always make the best official? + +Is the honest judgment of a fellow verging on twenty-four better than +the experienced opinion of many far older men? + +Peter began to think life had not such clear and direct “right” and +“wrong” roads as he had thought. He had said to himself long ago that +it was easy to take the right one, but he had not then discovered that +it is often difficult to know which is the right, in order to follow +it. He had started in to punish Bohlmann, and had compromised. He had +disapproved of Dennis breaking the law, and had compromised his +disapproval. He had said he should not go into saloons, and had ended +by going. Now he was confronted with the problem whether the interests +of his ward would be better served by the nomination of a man of good +record, whom Peter personally liked, or by that of a colorless man, who +would be ruled by the city’s leaders. In the one case Peter feared no +support for his measures from his own party. In the other case he saw +aid that was tantamount to success. Finally he shook himself. + +“I believe Dennis is right,” he said aloud. “There are more ‘real’ +things than ‘convictions’ in New York politics, and a ‘real’ thing is +much harder to decide about in voting than a ‘conviction.’” + +He went to his bedroom, packed his bag, and took his way to the +station. There he found a dense crowd of delegates and “well-wishers,” +both surrounding and filling the special train which was to carry New +York’s contribution to the collected party wisdom, about to concentrate +at Saratoga. + +Peter felt like a stranger in the crowd, but on mingling in it he +quickly found himself a marked man. He was seized upon by one of the +diners of the evening before, and soon found himself forming part of a +group, which constantly changed its components, but continued to talk +convention affairs steadily. Nor did the starting of the train, with +cheers, brass bands, flags, and other enthusing elements, make more +than a temporary break. From the time the special started, till it +rolled into Saratoga, six hours later, there was one long series of +political debates and confabs. Peter listened much, and learned much, +for the talk was very straight and plain. He had chats with Costell and +Green. His two fellow-delegates from “de sixt” sought him and discussed +intentions. He liked Schlurger, a simple, guileless German, who wanted +only to do what his constituents wished him to do, both in convention +and Assembly. Of Kennedy he was not so sure. Kennedy had sneered a +little at Peter’s talk about the “best man,” and about “helping the +ward,” and had only found that Peter’s ideas had value after he had +been visited by various of the saloon-keepers, seen the vast torchlight +meeting, and heard the cheers at Peter’s arguments. Still, Peter was by +no means sure that Kennedy was not a square man, and concluded he was +right in not condemning him, when, passing through one of the cars, he +overheard the following: + +“What kind of man is that Stirling, who’s raised such —— in the sixth?” + +“I don’t know him, but Kennedy told me, before he’d swung round, that +he was a darned good sort of a cuss.” + +This was flattery, Peter understood, however questionable the form +might seem, and he was pleased. Very few of us do not enjoy a real +compliment. What makes a compliment uncomfortable is either a suspicion +that the maker doesn’t mean it, or a knowledge that it is not merited. + +Peter went at once to his room on reaching the hotel in Saratoga, +intending to make up the sleep of which his long “think” the night +before had robbed him. But scarcely had the colored gentleman bowed +himself out, after the usual “can I git de gentleman a pitcher of ice +water” (which translated means: “has de gentleman any superfluous +change?”) when a knock came at the door. Peter opened it, to find a man +outside. + +“Is this Mr. Stirling’s room?” inquired the individual. + +“Yes.” + +“Can I see him?” + +“Come in.” Peter moved his bag off one of his chairs, and his hat and +overcoat off the other. + +“Mr. Stirling,” said the stranger as he sat down, “I am Senator +Maguire, and am, as perhaps you know, one of Porter’s managers.” + +“Yes.” + +“We understand that you are friendly to us. Now, I needn’t say that New +York is otherwise a unit in opposing us.” + +“No,” said Peter. “My fellow-delegates from the sixth, Schlurger and +Kennedy, stand as I do!” + +“Are you sure?” + +“Yes.” + +“The change must have been very sudden. They were elected as Catlin +men, we were told.” + +“Yes. But there’s quite a different feeling in the ward now, and they +have yielded to it.” + +“That’s good news.” + +“We all three come here prepared to do what seems best.” + +The Senator’s expression lost some of the satisfaction Peter’s news had +put into it. He gave a quick look at Peter’s face, as if to try and +find from it what lay behind the words. He hesitated, as if divided in +mind over two courses of action. Finally he said: + +“I needn’t tell you that this opposition of practically the whole of +the New York City delegation, is the most serious set-back to Porter’s +chance. Now, we have talked it over, and it seemed to us that it would +be a great card for him if he could be nominated by a city delegate. +Will you do it?” + +“I don’t know him well enough, do I? Doesn’t the nominating delegate +have to make a speech in his favor?” + +“Yes. But I can give you the material to-night. Or if you prefer, we’ll +give it to you all written for delivery?” + +“I don’t make other men’s speeches, Mr. Maguire.” + +“Suit yourself about that. It shall be just as you please.” + +“The difficulty is that I have not decided myself, yet, how I shall +vote, and of course such an act is binding.” + +Mr. Maguire’s countenance changed again. “I’m sorry to hear that. I +hoped you were for Porter. He’s far away the best man.” + +“So I think.” + +The Senator leaned back in his chair, and tucked his thumbs into the +armholes of his waistcoat. He thought he had fathomed Peter, and felt +that the rest was plain sailing. “This is not a chap to be tolled. I’ll +give him the gaff at once,” was his mental conclusion. Then he asked +aloud: + +“What do you want?” + +It was a question susceptible of many different constructions, but as +Mr. Maguire asked it, it seemed to him to have but one, and that not +very honest. Peter hesitated. The temptation was strong to lead the +Senator on, but he did not like to do it. It seemed to savor of traps, +and Peter had never liked traps. Still—he did want to know if the +managers on Porter’s side would stoop to buy his support by some +bargain. As Peter hesitated, weighing the pros and cons, Maguire spoke +again. + +“What does the other side offer you?” + +Peter spoke quickly. “They haven’t offered me anything, but advice. +That is, Costell said he’d try and help me on some legislation I want—” + +“Special?” interrupted Maguire. + +“No, General. I’ve talked about it with Porter as well” + +“Oh! Indeed?” + +“I’m really anxious to get that. Otherwise I want nothing.” + +“Whew,” said the Senator to himself. “That was a narrow squeak. If he +hadn’t spoken so quickly, I should have shown my hand before the call. +I wonder if he got any inkling?” He never dreamed that Peter had spoken +quickly to save that very disclosure. + +“I needn’t say, Mr. Stirling, that if you can see your way to nominate +Porter, we shall not forget it. Nor will he. He isn’t the kind of man +who forgets his friends. Many a man in to-morrow’s convention would +give anything for the privilege we offer you.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “I realize the honor offered me, but I don’t see my +way to take it. It will please me better to see him nominated by some +one who has really stood close to him, than to gain his favor by doing +it myself.” + +“Think twice, Mr. Stirling.” + +“If you would rather, I will not give you my answer till to-morrow +morning?” + +“I would,” said Maguire rising, “Try and make it favorable. It’s a +great chance to do good for yourself and for your side. Good-night.” + +Peter closed his door, and looked about for a bit of blank wall. But on +second thought he sat down on his window-sill, and, filling his pipe, +tried to draw conclusions as well as smoke from it. + +“I wonder,” he pondered to himself, “how much of that was Maguire, and +how much Porter? Ought I, for the sake of doing my best for my ward, to +have let him go on? Has an agent any right to refuse what will help is +client, even if it comes by setting pitfalls?” + +Rap, rap, rap. + +“Come in,” called Peter, forgetting he had turned down his light. + +The door opened and Mr. Costell came in. “Having a quiet smoke?” he +asked. + +“Yes. I haven’t a cigar to offer you. Can you join me in a pipe?” + +“I haven’t come to that yet. Suppose you try one of my cigars.” Costell +sat down on the window-ledge by Peter. + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “I like a cigar, but it must be a good one, +and that kind I can’t afford.” He lit the cigar, and leaned back to +luxuriate in it. + +“You’ll like that, I’m sure. Pretty sight, isn’t it?” Costell pointed +to the broad veranda, three stories below them, gay with brilliant +dresses. + +“Yes. It’s my first visit here, so it’s new to me.” + +“It won’t be your last. You’ll be attending other conventions than +this.” + +“I hope so.” + +“One of my scouts tells me you’ve had a call from Maguire?” + +“Yes.” Peter hesitated a moment. “He wants me to nominate Porter,” he +continued, as soon as he had decided that plain speaking was fair to +Maguire. + +“We shall be very sorry to see you do it.” + +“I don’t think I shall. They only want me because it would give the +impression that Porter has a city backing, and to try to give that +amounts to a deception.” + +“Can they get Schlurger or Kennedy?” + +“Schlurger is safe. I don’t know about Kennedy.” + +“Can you find out for us?” + +“Yes. When would you like to know?” + +“Can you see him now? I’ll wait here.” + +Peter rose, looking at his cigar with a suggestion of regret. But he +rubbed out the light, and left the room. At the office, he learned the +number of Kennedy’s room, and went to it. On knocking, the door was +opened only a narrow crack. + +“Oh! it’s you,” said Kennedy. “Come in.” + +Peter entered, and found Maguire seated in an easy attitude on a +lounge. He noticed that his thumbs were once more tucked into his +waistcoat. + +“Mr. Kennedy,” said Peter without seating himself, “there is an attempt +being made to get a city delegate to nominate Porter. It seems to me +that is his particular friends’ business.” + +Maguire spoke so quickly that Kennedy had no chance to reply: +“Kennedy’s promised to nominate him, Mr. Stirling, if you won’t.” + +“Do you feel that you are bound to do it?” asked Peter. + +Kennedy moved uneasily in his chair. “Yes, I suppose I have promised.” + +“Will you release Mr. Kennedy from his promise if he asks it?” Peter +queried to Maguire. + +“Why, Mr. Stirling, I don’t think either he or you ought to ask it.” + +“That was not my question.” + +It was the Senator’s turn to squirm. He did not want to say no, for +fear of angering Peter, yet he did not like to surrender the advantage. +Finally he said: “Yes, I’ll release him, but Mr. Kennedy isn’t the kind +of a man that cries off from a promise. That’s women’s work.” + +“No,” said Kennedy stiffening suddenly in backbone, as he saw the +outlet opened by Maguire, between antagonizing Peter, and retracting +his consent. “I don’t play baby. Not me.” + +Peter stood thinking for a longer time than the others found +comfortable. Maguire whistled to prove that he was quite at ease, but +he would not have whistled if he had been. + +“I think, Mr. Kennedy, that I’ll save you from the difficulty by +nominating Mr. Porter myself,” said Peter finally. + +“Good!” said Maguire; and Kennedy, reaching down into his hip pocket, +produced a version of the holy text not yet included in any +bibliography. Evidently the atmosphere was easier. “About your speech, +Mr. Stirling?” continued the Senator. + +“I shall say what I think right.” + +Something in Peter’s voice made Maguire say: “It will be of the usual +kind, of course?” + +“I don’t know,” said Peter, “I shall tell the facts.” + +“What sort of facts?” + +“I shall tell how it is that a delegate of the sixth ward nominates +Porter.” + +“And that is?” + +“I don’t see,” said Peter, “why I need say it. You know it as well as I +do.” + +“I know of many reasons why you should do it.” + +“No,” said Peter. “There’s only one, and that has been created in the +last ten minutes. Mr. Maguire, if you insist on the sixth ward +nominating Mr. Porter, the sixth ward is going to tell why it does so. +I’m sorry, for I like Porter, but the sixth ward shan’t lend itself to +a fraud, if I can help it.” + +Kennedy had been combining things spiritual and aqueous at his +wash-stand. But his interest in the blending seemed suddenly to cease. +Maguire, too, took his thumbs from their havens of rest, and looked +dissatisfied. + +“Look here, Mr. Stirling,” he said, “it’s much simpler to leave it to +Kennedy. You think you’re doing what’s right, but you’ll only do harm +to us, and to yourself. If you nominate Porter, the city gang won’t +forgive you, and unless you can say what we want said, we shall be down +on you. So you’ll break with both sides.” + +“I think that is so. That is why I want some real friend of Porter’s to +do it.” + +Maguire laughed rather a forced laugh. “I suppose we’ve got to satisfy +you. We’ll have Porter nominated by one of our own crowd.” + +“I think that’s best. Good-evening.” Peter went to the door. + +“Mr. Stirling,” called Kennedy. “Won’t you stay and take some whisky +and water with us?” + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “Mr. Costell’s in my room and he must be tired +of waiting.” He closed the door, and walked away. + +The couple looked at each other blankly for a moment. + +“The —— cuss is playing a double game,” Maguire gasped. + +“I don’t know what it means!” said Kennedy. + +“Mean?” cried Maguire. “It can mean only one thing. He’s acting under +Costell’s orders.” + +“But why should he give it away to us?” + +“How the —— should I know? Look here, Kennedy, you must do it, after +all.” + +“I don’t want to.” + +“Tut, tut, man, you must.” + +“But my ward?” + +“Come. We’ll make it quarantine, as you want. That’s six years, and you +can —— your ward.” + +“I’ll do it.” + +“That’s the talk.” + +They sat and discussed plans and whisky for nearly an hour. Then +Maguire said good-night. + +“You shall have the speech the first thing in the morning,” he said at +parting. Then as he walked down the long corridor, he muttered, “Now +then, Stirling, look out for the hind heel of the mule.” + +Peter found Costell still waiting for him. + +“It took me longer than I thought, for Maguire was there.” + +“Indeed!” said Costell, making room for Peter on the window-ledge. + +Peter re-lit his cigar, “Maguire promises me that Porter shall be +nominated by one of his friends.” + +“He had been trying Kennedy?” + +“I didn’t ask.” + +Costell smiled. “I had no business to ask you that?” + +“No,” Peter said frankly. + +Both puffed their cigars for a time in silence. + +Then Costell began talking about Saratoga. He told Peter where the +“Congress” spring was, and what was worth seeing. Finally he rose to +go. He held out his hand, and said: + +“Mr. Stirling, you’ve been as true as steel with us, and with the other +men. I don’t want you to suppose we are not conscious of it. I think +you’ve done us a great service to-night, although it might have been +very profitable to you if you had done otherwise. I don’t think that +you’ll lose by it in the long run, but I’m going to thank you now, for +myself. Good-night.” + +Peter had a good night. Perhaps it was only because he was sleepy, but +a pleasant speech is not a bad night-cap. At least it is better than a +mental question-mark as to whether one has done wrong. Peter did not +know how it was coming out, but he thought he had done right, and need +not spend time on a blank wall that evening. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +THE CONVENTION. + + +Though Peter had not gone to bed so early as he hoped, he was up the +next morning, and had tramped his eight miles through and around +Saratoga, before the place gave many evidences of life. He ended his +tramp at the Congress spring, and tasted the famous water, with +exceeding disgust at the result. As he set down his half-finished +tumbler, and turned to leave, he found Miss De Voe at his elbow, about +to take her morning glass. + +“This is a very pleasant surprise,” she said, holding out her hand. +“When did you arrive?” + +“I only came last night.” + +“And how long shall you be here?” + +“I cannot say. I am attending the convention, and my stay will depend +on that.” + +“Surely you are not a Democrat?” said Miss De Voe, a shade of horror +showing itself in her face, in spite of her good breeding. In those +days it was not, to put it mildly, a guarantee of respectability to +belong to that party, and Miss De Voe had the strong prejudices of her +social station, all the more because she was absolutely ignorant of +political events. + +Peter said he was. + +“How can you be? When a man can ally himself with the best, why should +he choose the worst?” + +“I think,” said Peter quietly, “that a Pharisee said the same thing, in +different words, many hundred years ago.” + +Miss De Voe caught her breath and flushed. She also became suddenly +conscious of the two girls who had come to the spring with her. They +had been forgotten in the surprise over Peter, but now Miss De Voe +wondered if they had heard his reply, and if they had enough Bible lore +to enable them to understand the reproof. + +“I am sure you don’t mean that,” she said, in the sting of the moment. + +“I am very sorry,” said Peter, “if I made an unkind speech. What I +meant was that no one has a right to pick out the best for himself. I +am sure, from your letter to me, that you think a man should help those +not as well off as himself.” + +“Oh, but that is very different. Of course we should be charitable to +those who need our help, but we need not mix in their low politics.” + +“If good laws, and good administration can give the poor good food, and +good lodgings, don’t you think the best charity is to ‘mix’ in +politics, and try to obtain such results?” + +“I want you to know my two cousins,” Miss De Voe replied. “Dorothy, I +wish to present Mr. Stirling. My cousin, Miss Ogden, and Miss Minna +Ogden.” + +Peter saw two very pretty girls, and made a bow to them. + +“Which way are you walking?” asked Miss De Voe. + +“I have been tramping merely for exercise,” said Peter, “and stopped +here to try the spring, on my way to the United States.” + +“It is hardly worth while, but if you will get into our carriage, we +will drop you there. Or if you can spare the time, we will drive to our +cottage, and then send you back to the hotel.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter, “but I shall only crowd you, I fear.” + +“No. There is plenty of room.” + +“Will the convention be interesting to watch, Mr. Stirling?” asked one +of the girls, as soon as they were seated. + +“I don’t know,” Peter told her. “It is my first experience at it. There +is pretty strong feeling, and that of course makes it interesting to +the delegates, but I am not sure that it would be so to others.” + +“Will there be speeches, and cheers, and all that sort of thing?” + +“Yes.” + +“Cousin Anneke, won’t you take us? It will be such fun!” + +“Are spectators admitted, Mr. Stirling?” + +“I believe so. I heard something about tickets last night. If you care +to go, I’ll see if I can get you some?” + +“Oh, please,” cried both girls. + +“If you can do so, Mr. Stirling, we should like to see the interesting +part,” said Miss De Voe. + +“I’ll try.” + +“Send word back by Oliver.” The carriage had drawn up at the cottage, +and farewells were made. + +As soon as Peter reached the hotel, he went to the New York City +delegation room, and saw Costell. He easily secured admissions, and +pencilling on a card, “At headquarters they tell me that the +nominations will begin at the afternoon session, about two o’clock,” he +sent them back by the carriage. Then bearding the terrors of the +colored “monarch of all he surveys,” who guards the dining-room of +every well-ordered Saratoga hotel, he satisfied as large an appetite as +he remembered in a long time. + +The morning proceedings in the convention were purely formal. The +election of the chairman, the roll-call, the naming of the committees, +and other routine matter was gotten through with, but the real interest +centred in the undertone of political talk, going on with little regard +to the business in hand. After the committees were named, an unknown +man came up to Peter, and introduced himself by a name which Peter at +once recognized as that of one of the committee on the platform. + +“Mr. Costell thinks you might like to see this, and can perhaps suggest +a change,” explained Mr. Talcott, laying several sheets of manuscript +on Peter’s desk and indicating with his finger a certain paragraph. + +Peter read it twice before saying anything. “I think I can better it,” +he said. “If you can give me time I’m very slow about such things.” + +“All right. Get it in shape as quickly as possible, and send it to the +committee-room.” + +Left alone Peter looked round for a blank wall. Failing in his search, +he put his head into his hands, and tried to shut out the seething, +excited mass of men about him. After a time he took a sheet of paper +and wrote a paragraph for the platform. It pledged the party to +investigate the food and tenement questions, and to pass such remedial +legislation as should seem best. It pledged the party to do this, with +as little disturbance and interference with present conditions as +possible, “but fully recognizing the danger of State interference, we +place human life above money profits, and human health above annual +incomes, and shall use the law to its utmost to protect both.” When it +appeared in the platform, there was an addition that charged the +failure to obtain legislation “which should have rendered impossible +the recent terrible lesson in New York City” to “the obstruction in the +last legislature in the interest of the moneyed classes and landlords, +by the Republican party.” That had not been in Peter’s draft and he was +sorry to see it. Still, the paragraph had a real ring of honesty and +feeling in it. That was what others thought too. “Gad, that Stirling +knows how to sling English,” said one of the committee, when the +paragraph was read aloud. “He makes it take right hold.” Many an orator +in that fall’s campaign read the nineteenth section of the Democratic +platform aloud, feeling that it was ammunition of the right kind. It is +in all the New York papers of September 24th, of that year. + +Immediately after the morning adjournment, Green came up to Peter. + +“We’ve had a count, and can’t carry Catlin. So we shan’t even put him +up. What do you think of Milton?” + +“I don’t know him personally, but he has a very good record, I +believe.” + +“He isn’t what we want, but that’s not the question. We must take what +we can get.” + +“I suppose you think Porter has a chance.” + +“Not if we take Milton.” + +“Between the two I have no choice.” + +An hour later, the convention was called to order by the chairman. A +few moments sufficed to complete the unfinished business, and then the +chairman’s gavel fell, and every one knew without his announcement that +the crucial moment had been reached. + +Much to Peter’s surprise, Kennedy was one of the members who was +instantly on his feet, and was the one selected for recognition by the +chairman. He was still more surprised when Kennedy launched at once +into a glowing eulogium of Porter. Peter was sitting next Kennedy, and +though he sat quietly, a sad look came into the face usually so +expressionless. He felt wronged. He felt that he had been an instrument +in the deceiving of others. Most of all he grieved to think that a +delegate of his ward, largely through his own interference, was acting +discreditably. Peter wanted others to do right, and he felt that that +was not what Kennedy was doing. + +The moment Kennedy finished, Peter rose, as did Maguire. The convention +was cheering for Porter, and it took some time to quiet it to a +condition when it was worth while recognizing any one. During this time +the chairman leaned forward and talked with Green, who sat right below +him, for a moment. Green in turn spoke to Costell, and a little slip of +paper was presently handed up to the chairman, who from that moment +became absolutely oblivious of the fact that Maguire was on his feet. +When silence finally came, in spite of Maguire’s, “Mr. Chairman,” that +individual said, “Mr. Stirling.” + +Peter began in a low voice, “In rising, Mr. Chairman, to second the +nomination of Mr. Porter, I feel that it would be idle in me to praise +one so well known to all of us, even if he had not just been the +subject of so appreciative a speech from my colleague—” + +Here cries of “louder” interrupted Peter, during which interruption +Green said to Costell, “We’ve been tricked.” + +“I’m not so sure,” replied Costell, “Maguire’s on his feet yet, and +doesn’t look happy. Something’s happening which has not been slated.” + +When Peter resumed, there were no more cries of “louder.” His +introduction had been a matter of trouble and doubt to him, for he +liked Porter, and feared he might not show it. But now he merely had +something to tell his audience, and that was easy work. So, his voice +ringing very clear and distinct, he told them of the original election +of the delegates; of the feeling of his ward; of the attempts to obtain +a city nomination of Porter; of Maguire’s promise. “Gad, he hits from +the shoulder,” said Green. As soon as the trend of his remarks was +realized, Porter’s supporters began to hiss and hoot. Peter at once +stopped, but the moment silence came he began again, and after a +repetition of this a few times, they saw they could neither embarrass +nor anger him, so they let him have his say. He brought his speech to +an end by saying: + +“I have already expressed my admiration of Mr. Porter, and as soon as I +had made up my mind to vote for him, I made no secret of that +intention. But he should not have been nominated by a city delegate, +for he is not the choice of New York City, and any attempt to show that +he is, or that he has any true backing there, is only an attempt to +deceive. In seconding his nomination therefore, I wish it to be +distinctly understood that both his nomination and seconding are +personal acts, and in no sense the act of the delegates of the city of +New York.” + +There was a mingling of hoots and cheers as Peter sat down, though +neither was very strong. In truth, the larger part of the delegates +were very much in the dark as to the tendency of Peter’s speech. “Was +it friendly or unfriendly to Porter?” they wondered. + +“Mr. Maguire,” said the chairman. + +“Mr. Chairman, the gentleman who has just sat down is to be +complimented on his speech. In my whole life I have never heard so +deceptive and blinding a narration. We know of Brutus stabbing his +friend. But what shall we say of a pretended Brutus who caresses while +he stabs?” + +Here the Porter adherents became absolutely sure of the character of +Peter’s speech, and hissed. + +“Nor is it Imperial Caesar alone,” continued Maguire, “against whom he +turns his poniard. Not content with one foul murder, he turns against +Caesar’s friends. By devilish innuendo, he charges the honorable Mr. +Kennedy and myself with bargaining to deceive the American people. I +call on him for proof or retraction.” + +The convention laughed. Peter rose and said: “Mr. Chairman, I gave a +truthful account of what actually took place last evening in the United +States hotel. I made no charges.” + +“But you left the impression that Mr. Kennedy and I had made a deal,” +shrieked Maguire. + +“If the gentleman draws that conclusion from what passed, it is not my +fault.” + +The convention laughed. “Do you mean to charge such a bargain?” angrily +shouted Maguire. + +“Will you deny it?” asked Peter calmly. + +“Then you do charge it?” + +Here the convention laughed for the third time. Green shouted “deny +it,” and the cry was taken up by many of the delegates. + +“Yes,” screamed Maguire. “I do deny it” + +Peter turned to Kennedy. “Do you too, deny it?” + +“Yes,” shouted Kennedy, loudly. + +Again the convention laughed. + +“Then,” said Peter, “if I had charged you with a bargain, I should now +find it necessary to apologize.” + +The convention roared. Maguire screamed something, but it could not be +heard. The tenor of his remarks was indicated by his red face and +clinched fist. + +Costell smiled his deep smile. “I’m very glad,” he said to the man next +him, “that we didn’t pick Stirling up.” + +Then Milton was nominated and seconded, as were also Catlin, and four +minor stars. That done, a ballot was taken and the vote stood: + +Porter 206 Milton 197 Catlin 52 Scattering 29 + +A second ballot showed: + +Porter 206 Milton 202 Catlin 54 Scattering 22 + +A third ballot gave: + +Porter 206 Milton 210 Catlin 52 Scattering 16 + +“Porter’s done for on the next,” was whispered round the hall, though +where it started, no one knew. Evidently his adherents thought so, for +one made a motion to adjourn. It was voted down, and once more the roll +call started. + +“I shall vote for Milton,” Peter told Schlurger, and the changes in the +delegations as the call proceeded, proved that many changes were being +made the same way. Yet the fourth ballot showed: + +Porter 125 Milton 128 Catlin 208 Scattering 14 + +The wildest excitement broke out in the Porter delegates. “They’ve +beaten us,” screamed Kennedy, as much to himself as to those about. +“They’ve used Milton to break our ranks, meaning Catlin all the time.” +So in truth, it was. Milton had been put up to draw off Porter’s +delegates, but the moment they had begun to turn to Milton, enough New +York City delegates had been transferred to Catlin to prevent Milton +being chosen. Amid protests and angry words on all sides another ballot +was taken: + +Catlin 256 Porter 118 Milton 110 + +Before the result was announced. Green was at Peter’s elbow. + +“Will you move to make it unanimous?” he asked. + +“Yes.” And Peter made the formal motion, which was carried by +acclamation. Half an hour served to choose the Lieutenant-Governor and +the rest of the ticket, for the bulk of it had already been slated. The +platform was adopted, and the convention dissolved. + +“Well,” said Kennedy angrily to Peter, “I guess you’ve messed it this +time. A man can’t please both sides, but he needn’t get cussed by +both.” + +Peter went out and walked to his hotel. “I’m afraid I did mess it,” he +thought, “yet I don’t see what else I could have done.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +MISUNDERSTANDINGS AND UNDERSTANDINGS. + + +“Did you understand what it all meant, Cousin Anneke?” asked Dorothy, +as they were coming downstairs. + +“No. The man who got so angry seemed to think Mr. Stirling had—” + +She stopped short. A group of men on the sidewalk were talking, and she +paused to hear one say: + +“To see that young chap Stirling handling Maguire was an eye-opener.” + +Another man laughed, rather a deep, quiet laugh. “Maguire understands +everything but honesty,” he said. “You can always beat him with that.” + +Miss De Voe would have like to stay and listen, but there were too many +men. So the ladies entered the carriage. + +“At least we know that he said he was trying to tell the truth,” she +went on, “and you just heard what that man said. I don’t know why they +all laughed.” + +“He didn’t seem to mind a bit.” + +“No. Hasn’t he a funny half-embarrassed, half-cool manner?” + +“He wasn’t embarrassed after he was fairly speaking. You know he was +really fine-looking, when he spoke.” + +“Yes,” said Dorothy. “You said he had a dull, heavy face.” + +“That was the first time I saw him, Dorothy. It’s a face which varies +very much. Oliver, drive to the United States. We will take him home to +dinner.” + +“Oh, good,” cried the youngest. “Then he will tell us why they +laughed.” + +As they drove up to the hotel, Peter had just reached the steps. He +turned to the carriage, the moment he saw that they wanted him. + +“We wish to carry you off to a simple country dinner,” Miss De Voe told +him. + +“I am going to take the special to New York, and that leaves in half an +hour.” + +“Take a later train.” + +“My ticket wouldn’t be good on it.” + +Most men Miss De Voe would have snubbed on the spot, but to Peter she +said: “Then get another ticket.” + +“I don’t care to do that,” said Peter. + +“Oh, please, Mr. Stirling,” said Minna. “I want to ask you a lot of +questions about the convention.” + +“Hush, Minna,” said Miss De Voe. She was nettled that Peter should +refuse, and that her niece could stoop to beg of “a criminal lawyer and +ward politician,” as she put it mentally. But she was determined not to +show it “We are sorry. Good-evening. Home, Oliver.” + +So they did not learn from Peter why the convention laughed. The +subject was brought up at dinner, and Dorothy asked the opinion of the +voters of the family. + +“Probably he had made a fluke of some kind,” one said. + +“More probably he had out-sharped the other side,” suggested a second. + +“It will be in the papers to-morrow,” said the first suggestor. + +The three women looked in the next day’s papers, but the reporters were +as much at sea in regard to the Stirling-sixth-ward incident, as had +been the rank-and-file in the convention. Three took their views from +Maguire, and called it “shameful treason,” and the like. Two called it +“unprincipled and contradictory conduct.” One alone said that “Mr. +Stirling seemed to be acting conscientiously, if erratically.” Just +what effect it had had on the candidates none of the papers agreed in. +One said it had killed Porter. Another, that “it was a purely personal +matter without influence on the main question.” The other papers shaded +between these, though two called it “a laughable incident.” The +opposition press naturally saw in it an entire discrediting of both +factions of the Democratic party, and absolute proof that the nominee +finally selected was unfit for office. + +Unable to sift out the truth, the ladies again appealed to the voters +of the family. + +“Oh,” said one, “Stirling did something tricky and was caught in it.” + +“I don’t believe that,” said Miss De Voe. + +“Nor I,” said Dorothy. + +“Well, if you want to make your political heeler an angel, I have no +objection,” laughed the enfranchised being. + +“I don’t think a man who made that speech about the children can be a +scoundrel,” said Dorothy. + +“I don’t either,” said Minna. + +“That’s the way you women reason,” responded he of the masculine +intellect. “Because a man looks out for some sick kittens, ergo, he is +a political saint. If you must take up with politicians, do take +Republicans, for then, at least, you have a small percentage of chance +in your favor that they are gentlemen.” + +“Don’t be a Pharisee, Lispenard,” said Miss De Voe, utilizing Peter’s +rebuke. + +“Then don’t trouble me with political questions. Politics are so vulgar +in this country that no gentleman keeps up with them.” + +Miss De Voe and the two girls dropped the “vulgar” subject, but Miss De +Voe said later: + +“I should like to know what they laughed at?” + +“Do ask him—if he comes to call on you, this winter, Cousin Anneke.” + +“No. I asked him once and he did not come.” Miss De Voe paused a +moment. “I shall not ask him again,” she added. + +“I don’t think he intends to be rude,” said Dorothy. + +“No,” responded Miss De Voe. “I don’t think he knows what he is doing. +He is absolutely without our standards, and it is just as well for both +that he shouldn’t call.” Woman-like, Miss De Voe forgot that she had +said Peter was a gentleman. + +If Peter had found himself a marked man in the trip up, he was doubly +so on the return train. He sat most of the time by himself, pondering +on what had happened, but he could not be unconscious of the number of +people to whom he was pointed out. He was conscious too, that his +course had not been understood, and that many of those who looked at +him with interest, did so without approbation. He was not buoyed up +either, by a sense that he had succeeded in doing the best. He had +certainly hurt Porter, and had made enemies of Maguire and Kennedy. +Except for the fact that he had tried to do right, he could see no +compensating balance. + +Naturally the newspapers the next morning did not cheer him, though +perhaps he cared less for what they said than he ought. He sent them, +good, bad, and indifferent, to his mother, writing her at the same time +a long letter, telling her how and why he had taken this course. He +wrote also a long letter to Porter, explaining his conduct. Porter had +already been told that Peter was largely responsible for his defeat, +but after reading Peter’s letter, he wrote him a very kind reply, +thanking him for his support and for his letter. “It is not always easy +to do what one wants in politics,” he wrote, “but if one tries with +high motives, for high things, even defeat loses its bitterness. I +shall not be able to help you, in your wished-for reforms as greatly as +I hoped, but I am not quite a nonentity in politics even now, and if at +any time you think my aid worth the asking, do not hesitate to call on +me for it. I shall always be glad to see you at my house for a meal or +a night, whether you come on political matters or merely for a chat.” + +Peter found his constituents torn with dissensions over his and +Kennedy’s course in the convention. He did not answer in kind the blame +and criticism industriously sowed by Kennedy; but he dropped into a +half-a-dozen saloons in the next few days, and told “the b’ys” a pretty +full history of the “behind-the-scenes” part. + +“I’m afraid I made mistakes,” he frankly acknowledged, “yet even now I +don’t see how I could have done differently. I certainly thought I was +doing right.” + +“An’ so yez were,” shouted Dennis. “An’ if that dirty beast Kennedy +shows his dirty face inside these doors, it’s a washin’ it will get wid +the drainin’ av the beer-glasses. We wants none av his dirty bargains +here.” + +“I don’t know that he had made any bargain,” said Peter. + +“But we do,” shouted one of the men. “It’s a bargain he’s always +makin’.” + +“Yes,” said Dennis. “It’s Kennedy looks out for himself, an’ we’ll let +him do it next time all by himself.” It could not be traced to its +origin, but in less than a week the consensus of opinion in the ward +was that: “Kennedy voted for himself, but Stirling for us.” + +The ward, too, was rather proud of the celebrity it had achieved. The +papers had not merely paragraphed Peter, and the peculiar position of +the “district” in the convention, but they had begun now asking +questions as to how the ward would behave. “Would it support Catlin?” +“Was it true that the ward machine had split, and intended to nominate +rival tickets?” “Had one faction made a deal with the Republicans?” + +“Begobs,” said Dennis, “it’s the leaders an’ the papers are just afther +discoverin’ there is a sixth ward, an’ it’s Misther Stirling’s made +them do it.” + +The chief party leaders had stayed over at Saratoga, but Peter had a +call from Costell before the week was out. + +“The papers gave it to you rather rough,” Costell said kindly, “but +they didn’t understand it. We thought you behaved very square.” + +“They tell me I did Porter harm.” + +“No. It was Maguire did the harm. You simply told about it. Of course +you get the blame.” + +“My constituents stand by me.” + +“How do they like Catlin?” + +“I think they are entirely satisfied. I’m afraid they never cared much +who got it.” + +“I’m told Kennedy is growling, and running amuck?” + +“He’s down on Catlin and me.” + +“Well, if you think best, we’ll placate him? But Gallagher seemed to +think he couldn’t do much?” + +“I don’t think he has much of a following. Even Moriarty, who was his +strong card, has gone back on him.” + +“Will you make a couple of speeches for us in this ward?” + +“If you’ll let me say what I want?” + +“You can support us?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then we’ll leave it to you. Only beware of making too many statements. +You’ll get dates and places from the committee as soon as they are +settled. We pay twenty-five dollars a night. If you hit the right key, +we may want you in some of the other wards, too.” + +“I shall be glad to talk. It’s what I’ve been doing to small crowds in +the saloons.” + +“So I’m told. You’ll never get a better place. Men listen there, as +they never will at a mass-meeting.” Costell rose. “If you are free next +Sunday, come up into Westchester and take a two o’clock dinner with me. +We won’t talk politics, but you shall see a nice little woman, who’s +good enough to make my life happier, and after we’ve looked over my +stables, I’ll bring you back to the city behind a gray mare that will +pass about anything there is on the road.” + +So Peter had a half day in the country and enjoyed it very much. He +looked over Mrs. Costell’s flower-garden, in which she spent almost her +whole time, and chatted with her about it. He saw the beautiful +stables, and their still more beautiful occupants. He liked the couple +very much. Both were simple and silent people, of little culture, but +it seemed to Peter that the atmosphere had a gentle, homely tone that +was very pleasing. As he got into the light buggy, he said to Mrs. +Costell: + +“I’ll get the seed of that mottled gillyflower from my mother as soon +as possible. Perhaps you’ll let me bring it up myself?” + +“Do,” she said. “Come again, whether you get the seed or not.” + +After they had started, Mr. Costell said: “I’m glad you asked that. +Mrs. Costell doesn’t take kindly to many of the men who are in politics +with me, but she liked you, I could see.” + +Peter spoke twice in the next week in small halls in his ward. He had +good audiences, and he spoke well, if simply. + +“There ain’t no fireworks in his stuff,” said the ward satirist. “He +don’t unfurl the American flag, nor talk about liberty and the +constitution. He don’t even speak of us as noble freemen. He talks just +as if he thought we was in a saloon. A feller that made that speech +about the babies ought to treat us to something moving.” + +That was what many of the ward thought. Still they went because they +wanted to see if he wouldn’t burst out suddenly. They felt that Peter +had unlimited potentialities in the way of eloquence (for eloquence to +them meant the ability to move the emotions) and merely saved his +powers. Without quite knowing it they found what he had to say +interesting. He brought the questions at issue straight back to +elementary forms. He showed just how each paragraph in the platform +would directly affect, not the state, but the “district.” + +“He’s thoroughly good,” the party leaders were told. “If he would abuse +the other side a little more, and stick in a little tinsel and calcium +light he would be great.” + +So he was called upon to speak elsewhere in the city. He worked at one +of the polls on election day, and was pleased to find that he was able +to prevent a little of the “trading” for which Kennedy had arranged. +His ward went Democratic, as was a foregone conclusion, but by an +unusually large majority, and Peter found that he and Dennis were given +the credit for it, both in the ward, and at headquarters. Catlin was +elected, and the Assembly had been won. So Peter felt that his three +months’ work had not been an entire failure. The proceeds of his +speeches had added also two hundred and fifty dollars to his savings +bank account, and one hundred more to the account of “Peter Stirling, +Trustee.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +VARIOUS KINDS OF SOCIETY. + + +Peter spent Christmas with his mother, and found her very much worried +over his “salooning.” + +“It’s first steps, Peter, that do the mischief,” she told him. + +“But, mother, I only go to talk with the men. Not to drink.” + +“You’ll come to that later. The devil’s paths always start straight, my +boy, but they end in wickedness. Promise me you won’t go any more.” + +“I can’t do that, mother. I am trying to help the men, and you ought +not ask me to stop doing what may aid others.” + +“Oh, my boy, my boy!” sobbed the mother. + +“If you could only understand it, mother, as I have come to, you +wouldn’t mind. Here, the saloon is chiefly a loafing place for the lazy +and shiftless, but in New York, it’s very different. It’s the poor +man’s club. If you could see the dark, cold, foul-aired tenements where +they live, and then the bright, warm, cheerful saloons, that are open +to all, you would see that it isn’t the drink that draws the men. I +even wish the women could come. The bulk of the men are temperate, and +only take a glass or two of beer or whisky, to pay for their welcome. +They really go for the social part, and sit and talk, or read the +papers. Of course a man gets drunk, sometimes, but usually it is not a +regular customer, and even such cases would be fewer, it we didn’t tax +whisky so outrageously that the dishonest barkeepers are tempted to +doctor their whisky with drugs which drive men frantic if they drink. +But most of the men are too sensible, and too poor, to drink so as +really to harm themselves.” + +“Peter, Peter! To think that three years in New York should bring you +to talk so! I knew New York was a sink-hole of iniquity, but I thought +you were too good a boy to be misled.” + +“Mother, New York has less evil in it than most places. Here, after the +mills shut down, there’s no recreation for the men, and so they amuse +themselves with viciousness. But in a great place like New York, there +are a thousand amusements specially planned for the evening hours. +Exhibitions, theatres, concerts, libraries, lectures—everything to +tempt one away from wrong-doing to fine things. And there wickedness is +kept out of sight as it never is here. In New York you must go to it, +but in these small places it hunts one out and tempts one.” + +“Oh, Peter! Here, where there’s room in church of a Sabbath for all the +folks, while they say that in New York there isn’t enough seats in +churches for mor’n a quarter of the people. A missionary was saying +only last week that we ought to help raise money to build churches in +New York. Just think of there being mor’n ten saloons for every church! +And that my son should speak for them and spend nights in them!” + +“I’m sorry it troubles you so. If I felt I had any right to stop, I’d +do it.” + +“You haven’t drunk in them yet, Peter?” + +“No.” + +“And you’ll promise to write me if you do.” + +“I’ll promise you I won’t drink in them, mother.” + +“Thank you, Peter.” Still his mother was terrified at the mere thought, +and at her request, her clergyman spoke also to Peter. He was easier to +deal with, and after a chat with Peter, he told Mrs. Stirling: + +“I think he is doing no harm, and may do much good. Let him do what he +thinks best.” + +“It’s dreadful though, to have your son’s first refusal be about going +to saloons,” sighed the mother. + +“From the way he spoke I think his refusal was as hard to him as to +you. He’s a good boy, and you had better let him judge of what’s +right.” + +On Peter’s return to the city, he found an invitation from Mrs. +Bohlmann to come to a holiday festivity of which the Germans are so +fond. He was too late to go, but he called promptly, to explain why he +had not responded. He was very much surprised, on getting out his +dress-suit, now donned for the first time in three years, to find how +badly it fitted him. + +“Mother is right,” he had to acknowledge. “I have grown much thinner.” + +However, the ill-fit did not spoil his evening. He was taken into the +family room, and passed a very pleasant hour with the jolly brewer, his +friendly wife, and the two “nice girls.” They were all delighted with +Catlin’s election, and Peter had to tell them about his part in it. +They did not let him go when he rose, but took him into the +dining-room, where a supper was served at ten. In leaving a box of +candy, saved for him from the Christmas tree, was given him. + +“You will come again, Mr. Stirling?” said Mrs. Bohlmann, warmly. + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “I shall be very glad to.” + +“Yah,” said Mr. Bohlmann. “You coom choost as ofden as you blease.” + +Peter took his dress-suit to a tailor the next day, and ordered it to +be taken in. That individual protested loudly on the ground that the +coat was so old-fashioned that it would be better to make a new suit. +Peter told him that he wore evening dress too rarely to make a new suit +worth the having, and the tailor yielded rather than lose the job. +Scarcely had it been put in order, when Peter was asked to dine at his +clergyman’s, and the next day came another invitation, to dine with +Justice Gallagher. Peter began to wonder if he had decided wisely in +vamping the old suit. + +He had one of the pleasantest evenings of his life at Dr. Purple’s. It +was a dinner of ten, and Peter was conscious that a real compliment had +been paid him in being included, for the rest of the men were not +merely older than himself, but they were the “strong” men of the +church. Two were trustees. All were prominent in the business world. +And it pleased Peter to find that he was not treated as the youngster +of the party, but had his opinions asked. At one point of the meal the +talk drifted to a Bethel church then under consideration, and this in +turn brought up the tenement-house question. Peter had been studying +this, both practically and in books, for the last three months. Before +long, the whole table was listening to what he had to say. When the +ladies had withdrawn, there was political talk, in which Peter was much +more a listener, but it was from preference rather than ignorance. One +of the men, a wholesale dealer in provisions, spoke of the new +governor’s recommendation for food legislation. + +“The leaders tell me that the legislature will do something about it,” +Peter said. + +“They’ll probably make it worse,” said Mr. Avery. + +“Don’t you think it can be bettered?” asked Peter. + +“Not by politicians.” + +“I’m studying the subject,” Peter said. “Will you let me come down some +day, and talk with you about it?” + +“Yes, by all means. You’d better call about lunch hour, when I’m free, +and we can talk without interruption.” + +Peter would much have preferred to go on discussing with the men, when +they all joined the ladies, but Mrs. Purple took him off, and placed +him between two women. They wanted to hear about “the case,” so Peter +patiently went over that well-worn subject. Perhaps he had his pay by +being asked to call upon both. More probably the requests were due to +what Mrs. Purple had said of him during the smoking time: + +“He seems such a nice, solid, sensible fellow. I wish some of you would +ask him to call on you. He has no friends, apparently.” + +The dinner at Justice Gallagher’s was a horse of a very different +color. The men did not impress him very highly, and the women not at +all. There was more to eat and drink, and the talk was fast and lively. +Peter was very silent. So quiet, that Mrs. Gallagher told her “take in” +that she “guessed that young Stirling wasn’t used to real fashionable +dinners,” and Peter’s partner quite disregarded him for the rattling, +breezy talker on her other side. After the dinner Peter had a pleasant +chat with the Justice’s seventeen-year-old daughter, who was just from +a Catholic convent, and the two tried to talk in French. It is +wonderful what rubbish is tolerable if only talked in a foreign tongue. + +“I don’t see what you wanted to have that Stirling for?” said Honorable +Mrs. Justice Gallagher, to him who conferred that proud title upon her, +after the guests had departed. + +“You are clever, arn’t you?” said Gallagher, bitingly. + +“That’s living with you,” retorted the H.M.J., who was not easily put +down. + +“Then you see that you treat Stirling as if he was somebody. He’s +getting to be a power in the ward, and if you want to remain Mrs. +Justice Gallagher and spend eight thousand—and pickings—a year, you see +that you keep him friendly.” + +“Oh, I’ll be friendly, but he’s awful dull.” + +“Oh, no, mamma,” said Monica. “He really isn’t. He’s read a great many +more French books than I have.” + +Peter lunched with the wholesale provision-dealer as planned. The lunch +hour proving insufficient for the discussion, a family dinner, a few +days later, served to continue it. The dealer’s family were not very +enthusiastic about Peter. + +“He knows nothing but grub talk,” grumbled the heir apparent, who from +the proud altitude of a broker’s office, had come to scorn the family +trade. + +“He doesn’t know any fashionable people,” said one of the girls, who +having unfulfilled ambitions concerning that class, was doubly +interested and influenced by its standards and idols. + +“He certainly is not brilliant,” remarked the mother. + +“Humph,” growled the pater-familias, “that’s the way all you women go +on. Brilliant! Fashionable! I don’t wonder marriage is a failure when I +see what you like in men. That Stirling is worth all your dancing men, +but just because he holds his tongue when he hasn’t a sensible thing to +say, you think he’s no good.” + +“Still he is ‘a nobody.’” + +“He’s the fellow who made that big speech in the stump-tail milk case.” + +“Not that man?” + +“Exactly. But of course he isn’t ‘brilliant.’” + +“I never should have dreamed it.” + +“Still,” said the heir, “he keeps his eloquence for cows, and not for +dinners.” + +“He talked very well at Dr. Purple’s,” said the mamma, whose opinion of +Peter had undergone a change. + +“And he was invited to call by Mrs. Dupont and Mrs. Sizer, which is +more than you’ve ever been,” said Avery senior to Avery junior. + +“That’s because of the prog,” growled the son, seeing his opportunity +to square accounts quickly. + +Coming out of church the next Sunday, Peter was laid hold of by the +Bohlmanns and carried off to a mid-day dinner, at which were a lot of +pleasant Germans, who made it very jolly with their kindly humor. He +did not contribute much to the laughter, but every one seemed to think +him an addition to the big table. + +Thus it came to pass that late in January Peter dedicated a week of +evenings to “Society,” and nightly donning his dress suit, called +dutifully on Mrs. Dupont, Mrs. Sizer, Mrs. Purple, Mrs. Avery, Mrs. +Costell, Mrs. Gallagher and Mrs. Bohlmann. Peter was becoming very +frivolous. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +AN EVENING CALL. + + +But Peter’s social gadding did not end with these bread-and-butter +calls. One afternoon in March, he went into the shop of a famous +picture-dealer, to look over an exhibition then advertised, and had +nearly finished his patient examination of each picture, which always +involved quite as much mental gymnastics as aesthetic pleasure to +Peter, when he heard a pleasant: + +“How do you do, Mr. Stirling?” + +Turning, he found Miss De Voe and a well-dressed man at his elbow. +Peter’s face lighted up in a way which made the lady say to herself: “I +wonder why he wouldn’t buy another ticket?” Aloud she said, “I want you +to know another of my cousins. Mr. Ogden, Mr. Stirling.” + +“Charmed,” said Mr. Ogden genially. Any expression which Peter had +thought of using seemed so absolutely lame, beside this passive +participle, that he merely bowed. + +“I did not know you cared for pictures,” said Miss De Voe. + +“I see most of the public exhibitions,” Peter told her. “I try to like +them.” + +Miss De Voe looked puzzled. + +“Don’t,” said Mr. Ogden. “I tried once, when I first began. But it’s +much easier to notice what women say, and answer ‘yes’ and ‘no’ at the +right points.” + +Peter looked puzzled. + +“Nonsense, Lispenard,” said Miss De Voe. “He’s really one of the best +connoisseurs I know, Mr. Stirling.” + +“There,” said Lispenard. “You see. Only agree with people, and they +think you know everything.” + +“I suppose you have seen the pictures, and so won’t care to go round +with us?” inquired Miss De Voe. + +“I’ve looked at them, but I should like to go over again with you,” +said Peter. Then he added, “if I shan’t be in the way.” + +“Not a bit,” said Lispenard heartily. “My cousin always wants a +listener. It will be a charity to her tongue and my ears.” Miss De Voe +merely gave him a very pleasant smile. “I wonder why he wouldn’t buy a +ticket?” she thought. + +Peter was rather astonished at the way they looked at the pictures. +They would pass by a dozen without giving them a second glance, and +then stop at one, and chat about it for ten minutes. He found that Miss +De Voe had not exaggerated her cousin’s art knowledge. He talked +familiarly and brilliantly, though making constant fun of his own +opinions, and often jeering at the faults of the picture. Miss De Voe +also talked well, so Peter really did supply the ears for the party. He +was very much pleased when they both praised a certain picture. + +“I liked that,” he told them, making the first remark (not a question) +which he had yet made. “It seemed to me the best here.” + +“Unquestionably,” said Lispenard. “There is poetry and feeling in it.” + +Miss De Voe said: “That is not the one I should have thought of your +liking.” + +“That’s womanly,” said Lispenard, “they are always deciding what a man +should like.” + +“No,” denied Miss De Voe. “But I should think with your liking for +children, that you would have preferred that piece of Brown’s, rather +than this sad, desolate sand-dune.” + +“I cannot say why I like it, except, that I feel as if it had something +to do with my own mood at times.” + +“Are you very lonely?” asked Miss De Voe, in a voice too low for +Lispenard to hear. + +“Sometimes,” said Peter, simply. + +“I wish,” said Miss De Voe, still speaking low, “that the next time you +feel so you would come and see me.” + +“I will,” said Peter. + +When they parted at the door, Peter thanked Lispenard: “I’ve really +learned a good deal, thanks to Miss De Voe and you. I’ve seen the +pictures with eyes that know much more about them than mine do.” + +“Well, we’ll have to have another turn some day. We’re always in search +of listeners.” + +“If you come and see me, Mr. Stirling,” said Miss De Voe, “you shall +see my pictures. Good-bye.” + +“So that is your Democratic heeler?” said Lispenard, eyeing Peter’s +retreating figure through the carriage window. + +“Don’t call him that, Lispenard,” said Miss De Voe, wincing. + +Lispenard laughed, and leaned back into a comfortable attitude. “Then +that’s your protector of sick kittens?” + +Miss De Voe made no reply. She was thinking of that dreary wintry +stretch of sand and dune. + +Thus it came to pass that a week later, when a north-easter had met a +south-wester overhead and both in combination had turned New York +streets into a series of funnels, in and through which wind, sleet and +snow fought for possession, to the almost absolute dispossession of +humanity and horses, that Peter ended a long stare at his blank wall by +putting on his dress-suit, and plunging into the streets. He had, very +foolishly, decided to omit dinner, a couple of hours before, rather +than face the storm, and a north-east wind and an empty stomach are +enough to set any man staring at nothing, if that dangerous inclination +is at all habitual. Peter realized this, for the opium eater is always +keenly alive to the dangers of the drug. Usually he fought the tendency +bravely, but this night he felt too tired to fight himself, and +preferred to battle with a little thing like a New York storm. So he +struggled through the deserted streets until he had reached his +objective point in the broad Second Avenue house. Miss De Voe was at +home, but was “still at dinner.” + +Peter vacillated, wondering what the correct thing was under the +circumstances. The footman, remembering him of old, and servants in +those simple days being still open to impressions, suggested that he +wait. Peter gladly accepted the idea. But he did not wait, for hardly +had the footman left him than that functionary returned, to tell Peter +that Miss De Voe would see him in the dining-room. + +“I asked you to come in here, because I’m sure, after venturing out +such a night, you would like an extra cup of coffee,” Miss De Voe +explained. “You need not sit at the table. Morden, put a chair by the +fire.” + +So Peter found himself sitting in front of a big wood-fire, drinking a +cup of coffee decidedly better in quality than his home-brew. Blank +walls ceased to have any particular value for the time. + +In a moment Miss De Voe joined him at the fire. A small table was moved +up, and a plate of fruit, and a cup of coffee placed upon it. + +“That is all, Morden,” she said. “It is so nice of you to have come +this evening. I was promising myself a very solitary time, and was +dawdling over my dinner to kill some of it. Isn’t it a dreadful night?” + +“It’s blowing hard. Two or three times I thought I should have to give +it up.” + +“You didn’t walk?” + +“Yes. I could have taken a solitary-car that passed, but the horses +were so done up that I thought I was better able to walk.” + +Miss De Voe touched the bell. “Another cup of coffee, Morden, and bring +the cognac,” she said. “I am not going to let you please your mother +to-night,” she told Peter. “I am going to make you do what I wish.” So +she poured a liberal portion of the eau-de-vie into Peter’s second cup, +and he most dutifully drank it. “How funny that he should be so +obstinate sometimes, and so obedient at others,” thought Miss De Voe. +“I don’t generally let men smoke, but I’m going to make an exception +to-night in your case,” she continued. + +It was a sore temptation to Peter, but he answered quickly, “Thank you +for the thought, but I won’t this evening.” + +“You have smoked after dinner already?” + +“No. I tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew and +sleeted too hard.” + +“Then you had better.” + +“Thank you, no.” + +Miss De Voe thought her former thought again. + +“Where do you generally dine?” she asked. + +“I have no regular place. Just where I happen to be.” + +“And to-night?” + +Peter was not good at dodging. He was silent for a moment. Then he +said, “I saw rather a curious thing, as I was walking up. Would you +like to hear about it?” + +Miss De Voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularly +interested in what Peter had to tell her, in response to her “yes.” It +concerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness. + +“I didn’t think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen,” Peter +concluded, “and I told the policeman it was a case for an ambulance +rather than a station-house. He didn’t agree, so I had to go with them +both to the precinct and speak to the superintendent.” + +“That was before your dinner?” asked Miss De Voe, calmly. + +It was a very easily answered question, apparently, but Peter was +silent again. + +“It was coming up here,” he said finally. + +“What is he trying to keep back?” asked Miss De Voe mentally. “I +suppose some of the down-town places are not quite—but he wouldn’t—” +then she said out loud: “I wonder if you men do as women do, when they +dine alone? Just live on slops. Now, what did you order to-night? Were +you an ascetic or a sybarite?” + +“Usually,” said Peter, “I eat a very simple dinner.” + +“And to-night?” + +“Why do you want to know about to-day?” + +“Because I wish to learn where you dined, and thought I could form some +conclusion from your menu.” Miss De Voe laughed, so as to make it +appear a joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving. + +“I didn’t reply to your question,” said Peter, “because I would have +preferred not. But if you really wish to know, I’ll answer it.” + +“Yes. I should like to know.” Miss De Voe still smiled. + +“I haven’t dined.” + +“Mr. Stirling! You are joking?” Miss De Voe’s smile had ended, and she +was sitting up very straight in her chair. Women will do without eating +for an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of a +hungry man fills them with horror—unless they have the wherewithal to +mitigate the consequent appetite. Hunger with woman, as regards +herself, is “a theory.” As regards a man it is “a condition.” + +“No,” said Peter. + +Miss De Voe touched the bell again, but quickly as Morden answered it, +Peter was already speaking. + +“You are not to trouble yourself on my account, Miss De Voe. I wish for +nothing.” + +“You must have—” + +Peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word “Nothing.” + +“But I shall not have a moment’s pleasure in your call if I think of +you as—” + +Peter interrupted again. “If that is so,” he said, rising, “I had +better go.” + +“No,” cried Miss De Voe. “Oh, won’t you please? It’s no trouble. I’ll +not order much.” + +“Nothing, thank you,” said Peter. + +“Just a chop or—” + +Peter held out his hand. + +“No, no. Sit down. Of course you are to do as you please. But I should +be so happy if—?” and Miss De Voe looked at Peter appealingly. + +“No. Thank you.” + +“Nothing, Morden.” They sat down again. “Why didn’t you dine?” asked +Miss De Voe. + +“I didn’t care to face the storm.” + +“Yet you came out?” + +“Yes. I got blue, and thought it foolish to stay indoors by myself.” + +“I’m very glad you came here. It’s a great compliment to find an +evening with me put above dinner. You know I had the feeling that you +didn’t like me.” + +“I’m sorry for that. It’s not so.” + +“If not, why did you insist on my twice asking you to call on me?” + +“I did not want to call on you without being sure that you really +wished to have me.” + +“Then why wouldn’t you stay and dine at Saratoga?” + +“Because my ticket wouldn’t have been good.” + +“But a new ticket would only cost seven dollars.” + +“In my neighborhood, we don’t say ‘only seven dollars.’” + +“But you don’t need to think of seven dollars.” + +“I do. I never have spent seven dollars on a dinner in my life.” + +“But you should have, this time, after making seven hundred and fifty +dollars in one month. I know men who would give that amount to dine +with me.” It was a foolish brag, but Miss De Voe felt that her usual +means of inspiring respect were not working,—not even realized. + +“Very likely. But I can’t afford such luxuries. I had spent more than +usual and had to be careful.” + +“Then it was economy?” + +“Yes.” + +“I had no idea my dinner invitations would ever be held in so little +respect that a man would decline one to save seven dollars.” Miss De +Voe was hurt. “I had given him five hundred dollars,” she told herself, +“and he ought to have been willing to spend such a small amount of it +to please me.” Then she said; “A great many people economize in foolish +ways.” + +“I suppose so,” said Peter. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you. I really +didn’t think I ought to spend the money.” + +“Never mind,” said Miss De Voe. “Were you pleased with the nomination +and election of Catlin?” + +“I was pleased at the election, but I should have preferred Porter.” + +“I thought you tried to prevent Porter’s nomination?” + +“That’s what the papers said, but they didn’t understand.” + +“I wasn’t thinking of the papers. You know I heard your speech in the +convention.” + +“A great many people seem to have misunderstood me. I tried to make it +clear.” + +“Did you intend that the convention should laugh?” + +“No. That surprised and grieved me very much!” + +Miss De Voe gathered from this and from what the papers had said that +it must be a mortifying subject to Peter, and knew that she ought to +discontinue it. But she could not help saying, “Why?” + +“It’s difficult to explain, I’m afraid. I had a feeling that a man was +trying to do wrong, but I hoped that I was mistaken. It seemed to me +that circumstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, +but I was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. Yet the moment I +told them they laughed.” + +“Why?” + +“Because they felt sure that the man had done wrong.” + +“Oh!” It was a small exclamation, but the expression Miss De Voe put +into it gave it a big meaning. “Then they were laughing at Maguire?” + +“At the time they were. Really, though, they were laughing at human +weakness. Most people seem to find that amusing.” + +“And that is why you were grieved?” + +“Yes.” + +“But why did the papers treat you so badly?” + +“Mr. Costell tells me that I told too much truth for people to +understand. I ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain right +out, for then they would have understood. A friend of—a fellow I used +to know, said I was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and I’m +afraid it’s true.” + +“Do you know Costell? I thought he was such a dishonest politician?” + +“I know Mr. Costell. I haven’t met the dishonest politician yet.” + +“You mean?” + +“He hasn’t shown me the side the papers talk about.” + +“And when he does?” + +“I shall be very sorry, for I like him, and I like his wife.” Then +Peter told about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, +and about the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself +from putting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who +had told about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. +“He had his cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and +he speaks of it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a +child.” + +“Has he a great scar on his cheek?” + +“Yes. Have you seen him?” + +“Once. Just as we were coming out of the convention. He said something +about you to a group of men which called my attention to him.” Miss De +Voe thought Peter would ask her what it was. “Would you like to know +what he said?” she asked, when Peter failed to do so. + +“I think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it.” + +Miss De Voe’s mind reverted to her criticism of Peter. “He is so +absolutely without our standards.” Her chair suddenly ceased to be +comfortable. She rose, saying, “Let us go to the library. I shall not +show you my pictures now. The gallery is too big to be pleasant such a +night. You must come again for that. Won’t you tell me about some of +the other men you are meeting in politics?” she asked when they had sat +down before another open fire. “It seems as if all the people I know +are just alike—I suppose it’s because we are all so conventional—and I +am very much interested in hearing about other kinds.” + +So Peter told about Dennis and Blunkers, and the “b’ys” in the saloons; +about Green and his fellow delegates; about the Honorable Mr., Mrs., +and Miss Gallagher, and their dinner companions. He did not satirize in +the least. He merely told various incidents and conversations, in a +sober, serious way; but Miss De Voe was quietly amused by much of the +narrative and said to herself, “I think he has humor, but is too +serious-minded to yield to it.” She must have enjoyed his talk for she +would not let Peter go early, and he was still too ignorant of social +usages to know how to get away, whether a woman wished or no. Finally +he insisted that he must leave when the clock pointed dangerously near +eleven. + +“Mr. Stirling,” said Miss De Voe, in a doubtful, “won’t-you-please” +voice, such as few men had ever heard from her, “I want you to let me +send you home? It will only take a moment to have the carriage here.” + +“I wouldn’t take a horse out in such weather,” said Peter, in a very +settling kind of voice. + +“He’s obstinate,” thought Miss De Voe. “And he makes his obstinacy so +dreadfully—dreadfully pronounced!” Aloud she said: “You will come +again?” + +“If you will let me.” + +“Do. I am very much alone too, as perhaps you know?” Miss De Voe did +not choose to say that her rooms could be filled nightly and that +everywhere she was welcome. + +“No. I really know nothing about you, except what you have told me, and +what I have seen.” + +Miss De Voe laughed merrily at Peter’s frankness. “I feel as if I knew +all about you,” she said. + +“But you have asked questions,” replied Peter. + +Miss De Voe caught her breath again. Try as she would, she could not +get accustomed to Peter. All her social experience failed to bridge the +chasm opened by his speech. “What did he mean by that plain statement, +spoken in such a matter-of-fact voice?” she asked herself. Of course +the pause could not continue indefinitely, and she finally said: “I +have lived alone ever since my father’s death. I have relatives, but +prefer to stay here. I am so much more independent. I suppose I shall +have to move some day. This part of the city is beginning to change +so.” Miss De Voe was merely talking against time, and was not sorry +when Peter shook hands, and left her alone. + +“He’s very different from most men,” she said to the blazing logs. “He +is so uncomplimentary and outspoken! How can he succeed in politics? +Still, after the conventional society man he is—he is—very refreshing. +I think I must help him a little socially.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +A DINNER. + + +The last remark made by Miss De Voe to her fire resulted, after a few +days, in Peter’s receiving a formal dinner invitation, which he +accepted with a promptness not to be surpassed by the best-bred +diner-out. He regretted now his vamping of the old suit. Peter +understood that he was in for quite another affair than the Avery, the +Gallagher, or even the Purple dinner. He did not worry, however, and if +in the dressing-room he looked furtively at the coats of the other men, +he entirely forgot the subject the moment he started downstairs, and +thought no further of it till he came to take off the suit in his own +room. + +When Peter entered the drawing-room, he found it well filled with young +people, and for a moment a little of the bewildered feeling of four +years before came over him. But he found himself chatting with Miss De +Voe, and the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. In a moment he +was introduced to a “Miss Lenox,” who began talking in an easy way +which gave Peter just as much or as little to say as he chose. Peter +wondered if many girls were as easy to talk to as—as—Miss Lenox. + +He took Miss De Voe in, and found Dorothy Ogden sitting on his other +side. He had barely exchanged greetings with her, when he heard his +name spoken from across the table, and looking up, he found Miss Leroy +sitting opposite. + +“I hope you haven’t entirely forgotten me,” that girl said, the moment +his attention was caught. + +“Not at all,” said Peter. + +“Nor my dress,” laughed Miss Leroy. + +“I remember the style, material, and train.” + +“Especially the train I am sure.” + +“Do explain these mysterious remarks,” said Dorothy. + +“Mr. Stirling and I officiated at a wedding, and I was in such mortal +terror lest some usher should step on my gown, that it became a joke.” + +“Whose wedding was that?” asked Miss De Voe. + +“Miss Pierce’s and Watts D’Alloi’s,” said the bridesmaid. + +“Do you know Watts D’Alloi?” exclaimed Miss De Voe to Peter. + +“Yes.” + +“Indeed! When?” + +“At college.” + +“Are you a Harvard man?” + +“Yes.” + +“You were Mr. D’Alloi’s chum, weren’t you?” said Miss Leroy. + +“Yes.” + +“Watts D’Alloi?” again exclaimed Miss De Voe. + +“Yes.” + +“But he’s a mere boy.” + +“He’s two years my senior.” + +“You don’t mean it?” + +“Yes.” + +“I thought you were over thirty.” + +“Most people do.” + +Miss De Voe said to herself, “I don’t know as much about him as I +thought I did. He may be very frank, but he doesn’t tell all one +thinks. Now I know where he gets his nice manner. I ought to have +recognized the Harvard finish.” + +“When did you last hear from the D’Allois?” asked Miss Leroy. + +“Not since they sailed,” said Peter, wincing internally. + +“Not really?” said the bridesmaid. “Surely you’ve heard of the baby?” + +“No.” Lines were coming into Peter’s face which Miss De Voe had never +before seen. + +“How strange. The letters must have gone astray. But you have written +him?” + +“I did not know his address.” + +“Then you really haven’t heard of the little baby—why, it was born +two—no, three years ago—and of Helen’s long ill-health, and of their +taking a villa on the Riviera, and of how they hope to come home this +spring?” + +“No.” + +“Yes. They will sail in June if Helen is well enough. I’m to be +god-mother.” + +“If you were Mr. D’Alloi’s chum, you must have known Ray Rivington,” +said Dorothy. + +“Yes. But I’ve not seen him since we graduated. He went out West.” + +“He has just returned. Ranching is not to his taste.” + +“Will you, if you see him, say that I’m in New York and should like to +run across him?” + +“I will. He and Laurence—my second brother—are old cronies, and he +often drops in on us. I want you to know my brothers. They are both +here this evening.” + +“I have met the elder one, I suppose.” + +“No. That was a cousin, Lispenard Ogden. He spoke of meeting you. You +would be amused to hear his comment about you.” + +“Mr. Stirling doesn’t like to have speeches repeated to him, Dorothy,” +said Miss De Voe. + +“What do you mean?” asked Dorothy, looking from one to the other. + +“He snubbed me the other evening when I tried to tell him what we +heard, coming out of the convention last autumn,” explained Miss De +Voe, smiling slightly at the thought of treating Peter with a dose of +his own medicine. + +Peter looked at Miss De Voe. “I hope you don’t mean that?” + +“How else could I take it?” + +“You asked me if I wished something, and I merely declined, I think.” + +“Oh, no. You reproved me.” + +“I’m very sorry if I did. I’m always blundering.” + +“Tell us what Lispenard said, Dorothy. I’m curious myself.” + +“May I, Mr. Stirling? + +“I would rather not,” said Peter. + +And Dorothy did not tell him, but in the drawing-room she told Miss De +Voe: + +“He said that except his professor of archaeology at Heidelberg, Mr. +Stirling was the nicest old dullard he’d ever met, and that he must be +a very good chap to smoke with.” + +“He said that, Dorothy?” exclaimed Miss De Voe, contemptuously. + +“Yes.” + +“How ridiculous,” said Miss De Voe. “Lispenard’s always trying to hit +things off in epigrams, and sometimes he’s very foolish.” Then she +turned to Miss Leroy. “It was very nice, your knowing Mr. Stirling.” + +“I only met him that once. But he’s the kind of man somehow that you +remember. It’s curious I’ve never heard of him since then.” + +“You know he’s the man who made that splendid speech when the poor +children were poisoned summer before last.” + +“I can’t believe it!” + +“It’s so. That is the way I came to know him.” + +Miss Leroy laughed. “And Helen said he was a man who needed help in +talking!” + +“Was Mrs. D’Alloi a great friend of his?” + +“No. She told me that Watts had brought him to see them only once. I +don’t think Mr. Pierce liked him.” + +“He evidently was very much hurt at Watts’s not writing him.” + +“Yes. I was really sorry I spoke, when I saw how he took it.” + +“Watts is a nice boy, but he always was thoughtless.” + +In passing out of the dining-room, Dorothy had spoken to a man for a +moment, and he at once joined Peter. + +“You know my sister, Miss Ogden, who’s the best representative of us,” +he said. “Now I’ll show you the worst. I don’t know whether she +exploited her brother Ogden to you?” + +“Yes. She talked about you and your brother this evening.” + +“Trust her to stand by her family. There’s more loyalty in her than +there was in the army of the Potomac. My cousin Lispenard says it’s +wrecking his nervous system to live up to the reputation she makes for +him.” + +“I never had a sister, but it must be rather a good thing to live up +to.” + +“Yes. And to live with. Especially other fellows’ sisters.” + +“Are you ready to part with yours for that purpose?” + +“No. That’s asking too much. By the way, I think we are in the same +work. I’m in the office of Jarvis, Redburn and Saltus.” + +“I’m trying it by myself.” + +“You’ve been very lucky.” + +“Yes. I’ve succeeded much better than I hoped for. But I’ve had very +few clients.” + +“Fortunately it doesn’t take many. Two or three rich steady clients +will keep a fellow running. I know a man who’s only got one, but he +runs him for all he’s worth, and gets a pretty good living out of him.” + +“My clients haven’t been of that sort.” Peter smiled a little at the +thought of making a steady living out of the Blacketts, Dooleys or +Milligans. + +“It’s all a matter of friends.” + +Peter had a different theory, but he did not say so. Just at that point +they were joined by Laurence Ogden, who was duly introduced, and in a +moment the conversation at their end of the table became general. Peter +listened, enjoying his Havana. + +When they joined the ladies, they found Lispenard Ogden there, and he +intercepted Peter. + +“Look here,” he said. “A friend of mine has just come back from Europe, +with a lot of prints. He’s a fellow who thinks he has discrimination, +and he wants me to come up and look them over to-morrow evening. He +hopes to have his own taste approved and flattered. I’m not a bit good +at that, with men. Won’t you go with me, and help me lie?” + +“Of course I should like to.” + +“All right. Dine with me at six at the Union Club.” + +“I’m not going to let you talk to each other,” said Miss De Voe. +“Lispenard, go and talk with Miss McDougal.” + +“See how quickly lying brings its own punishment,” laughed Lispenard, +walking away. + +“What does he mean?” asked Miss De Voe. + +“The opposite of what he says, I think,” said Peter. + +“That is a very good description of Lispenard. Almost good enough to +have been said by himself. If you don’t mind, I’ll tell him.” + +“No.” + +“Do tell me, Mr. Stirling, how you and Watts D’Alloi came to room +together?” + +“He asked me.” + +“Yes. But what ever made him do that?” + +“I’ve often wondered myself.” + +“I can easily understand his asking you, but what first threw you +together?” + +“A college scrape.” + +“Were you in a college scrape?” + +“Yes. I was up before the faculty twice.” + +“Do tell me what you had done?” + +“I was charged with stealing the chapel Bible, and with painting a +front door of one of the professors.” + +“And had you done these things?” + +“No.” + +The guests began to say good-night, so the dialogue was interrupted. +When it came Peter’s turn to go, Miss De Voe said: + +“I hope you will not again refuse my dinner invitations.” + +“I have had a very pleasant evening,” said Peter. “But I had a +pleasanter one, the other night.” + +“Good-evening,” said Miss De Voe mechanically. She was really thinking +“What a very nice speech. He couldn’t have meant anything by his remark +about the questions.” + +Peter dined the next evening with Lispenard, who in the course of the +meal turned the conversation to Miss De Voe. Lispenard was curious to +learn just what Peter knew of her. + +“She’s a great swell, of course,” he said incidentally. + +“I suppose so. I really know nothing about her, but the moment I saw +her I felt that she was different from any other woman I had ever met.” + +“But you’ve found out about her since?” + +“No. I was tempted to question Dr. Purple, but I didn’t like to ask +about a friend.” + +Lispenard laughed. “You’ve got a pretty bad case of conscience, I’m +afraid. It’s a poor thing to have in New York, too. Well, my cousin is +one of the richest, best born women in this country, though I say it. +You can’t do better than cultivate her.” + +“Is that what you do?” + +“No. You have me there. She doesn’t approve of me at all. You see, +women in this country expect a man to be serious and work. I can’t do +either. I suppose its my foreign education. She likes my company, and +finds my escortage very convenient. But while she thinks I’m a pretty +good companion, she is sure I’m a poor sort of a man. If she takes a +shine to you, make the most of it. She can give you anything she +pleases socially.” + +“I suppose you have anything you please socially?” + +“Pretty much.” + +“And would you advise me to spend time to get it?” + +“Um. I wouldn’t give the toss of a copper for it—but I can have it. +It’s not being able to have it that’s the bad thing.” + +“So I have found,” said Peter gravely. + +Lispenard laughed heartily, as he sipped his “Court France.” “I wish,” +he said, “that a lot of people, whose lives are given to nothing else, +could have heard you say that, in that tone of voice. You don’t spell +Society with a capital, do you?” + +“Possibly,” said Peter, “if I had more capital, I should use some on +society.” + +“Good,” said Lispenard. “Heavens,” he said to himself, “he’s made a +joke! Cousin Anneke will never believe it.” + +He told her the next day, and his statement proved correct. + +“I know you made the joke,” she said. “He didn’t.” + +“And why shouldn’t he joke as well as I?” + +“It doesn’t suit him.” + +“Why not?” + +“Parlor tricks are all right in a lap-dog, but they only belittle a +mastiff.” + +Lispenard laughed good-naturedly. He was used to his cousin’s hits at +his do-nothingness, and rather enjoyed them. “He is a big beast, isn’t +he? But he’s a nice fellow. We had such a good time over Le Grand’s +etchings last night. Didn’t get away till after one. It’s really a +pleasure to find a man who can smoke and keep quiet, and yet enjoy +things strongly. Le Grand was taken with him too. We just fitted each +other.” + +“I’m glad you took him. I’m going to give him some society.” + +“Did you ever hear the story of Dr. Brown?” + +“No. What is it?” + +“A certain widow announced to her son that she was to marry Dr. Brown. +‘Bully for you, Ma,’ said the son, ‘Does Dr. Brown know it?’” + +“What do you mean?” + +Lispenard laughed. “Does Stirling know it? Because I advise you to tell +him before you decide to do anything with him. He’s not easy to drive.” + +“Of course he’ll be glad to meet nice people.” + +“Try him.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean that Peter Stirling won’t give a raparee for all the society +you can give him.” + +“You don’t know what you are talking about.” + +But Lispenard was right. Peter had enjoyed the dinner at Miss De Voe’s +and the evening at Mr. Le Grand’s. Yet each night on reaching his +rooms, he had sat long hours in his straight office chair, in the dark. +He was thinking of what Miss Leroy had told him of—of—He was not +thinking of “Society.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +COMMISSIONS. + + +Peter made his dinner call at Miss De Voe’s, but did not find her at +home. He received a very pleasant letter expressing her regret at +missing him, and a request to lunch with her two days later, and to go +with some friends to an afternoon piano recital, “if you care for +music. If not, merely lunch with us.” Peter replied that he was very +sorry, but business called him to Albany on that day. + +“I really regret it,” said Miss De Voe to Dorothy. “It is getting so +late in the season, that unless he makes his call quickly, I shall +hardly be able to give him more than one other chance.” + +Peter’s business in Albany had been sprung on him suddenly. It was +neither more nor less than a request sent verbally through Costell from +Governor Catlin, to come up and see him. + +“It’s about the food and tenement commission bills,” Costell told him. +“They’ll be passed by the Senate to-day or to-morrow, and be in +Catlin’s hands.” + +“I hope he’ll make good appointments,” said Peter, anxiously. + +“I think he will,” said Costell, smiling quietly. “But I don’t believe +they will be able to do much. Commissions are commonly a way of staving +off legislation.” + +Peter went up to Albany and saw Catlin. Much to his surprise he found +the Governor asking his advice about the bills and the personnel of the +commissions. But after a few minutes he found that this seeking for aid +and support in all matters was chronic, and meant nothing special in +his own case. + +“Mr. Schlurger tells me, though he introduced the bills, that you +drafted both. Do you think I had better sign them?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mr. Costell told me to take your advice. You really think I had +better?” + +“Yes.” + +The Governor evidently found something solacing in the firm voice in +which Peter spoke his “yes.” He drew two papers towards him. + +“You really think I had better?” + +“Yes.” + +The Governor dipped his pen in the ink, but hesitated. + +“The amendments haven’t hurt them?” he queried. + +“Not much.” + +“But they have been hurt?” + +“They have been made better in some ways.” + +“Really?” + +“Yes.” + +Still the Governor hesitated, but finally began a big G. Having +committed himself, he wrote the rest rapidly. He paused for a moment +over the second bill, and fingered it nervously. Then he signed it +quickly. “That’s done.” He shoved them both away much as if they were +dangerous. + +“I wonder,” thought Peter, “if he enjoys politics?” + +“There’s been a great deal of trouble about the commissioners,” said +the Governor. + +“I suppose so,” said Peter. + +“Even now, I can’t decide. The leaders all want different men.” + +“The decision rests with you.” + +“That’s the trouble,” sighed the Governor. “If only they’d agree.” + +“You should make your own choice. You will be held responsible if the +appointments are bad.” + +“I know I shall. Just look over those lists, and see if you think +they’ll do?” + +Peter took the slips of paper and read them. + +“I needn’t say I’m pleased to see my name,” he said. “I had no idea you +would think of me.” + +“That was done by Costell,” said the Governor, hastening to shift the +responsibility. + +“I really don’t know any of the rest well enough to express an opinion. +Personally, I should like to see some scientific men on each +commission.” + +“Scientific! But we have none in politics.” + +“No? But this isn’t politics.” + +“I hoped you’d think these lists right.” + +“I think they are good. And the bills give us the power to take +evidence; perhaps we can get the scientific part that way.” + +Peter did his best to brace Catlin up; and his talk or other pressure +seemed to have partially galvanized the backbone of that limp +individual, for a week later the papers announced the naming of the two +commissions. The lists had been changed, however. That on food +consisted of Green, a wholesale grocer, and a member of the Health +Board. Peter’s name had been dropped. That on tenements, of five +members, was made up of Peter; a very large property-owner in New York, +who was a member as well of the Assembly; a professional labor +agitator; a well-known politician of the better type, and a public +contractor. Peter, who had been studying some reports of a British +Royal Commission on the same subject, looked grave, thinking that what +the trained men in England had failed in doing, he could hardly hope to +accomplish with such ill-assorted instruments. The papers were rather +down on the lists. “The appointments have destroyed any chance of +possible benefit,” was their general conclusion, and Peter feared they +were right. + +Costell laughed when Peter spoke of the commissions. “If you want +Catlin to do anything well, you’ve got to stand over him till it’s +done. I wanted you on both commissions, so that you could see how +useless they all are, and not blame us politicians for failing in our +duty. Green promises to get you appointed Secretary of the Food +Commission, which is the next best thing, and will give you a good +salary for a time.” + +The Tenement Commission met with little delay, and Peter had a chance +to examine its motley members. The big landlord was a great swell, who +had political ambitions, but was too exclusive, and too much of a +dilettante to be a real force. Peter took a prejudice against him +before meeting him, for he knew just how his election to the Assembly +had been obtained—even the size of the check—and Peter thought buying +an election was not a very creditable business. He did not like what he +knew of the labor agitator, for such of the latter’s utterances and +opinions as he had read seemed to be the cheapest kind of demagogism. +The politician he had met and liked. Of the contractor he knew nothing. + +The Commission organized by electing the politician as chairman. Then +the naming of a secretary was discussed, each member but Peter having a +candidate. Much to Peter’s surprise, the landlord, Mr. Pell, named Ray +Rivington. + +“I thought he was studying law?” Peter said. + +“He is,” said Pell. “But he can easily arrange to get off for the few +hours we shall meet a week, and the five dollars a day will be a very +nice addition to his income. Do you know him?” + +“We were in college together. I thought he was rich.” + +“No. He’s of good family, but the Rivingtons are growing poorer every +year. They try to live on their traditions, and traditions don’t pay +grocers. I hope you’ll help him. He’s a very decent fellow.” + +“I shall vote for him,” replied Peter, marvelling that he should be +able to give a lift to the man who, in the Harvard days, had seemed so +thoroughly the mate of Watts and the other rich fellows of the “gang.” +Rivington being the only candidate who had two votes, he was promptly +selected. + +Thirty arduous minutes were spent in waiting for the arrival of the +fifth member of the Commission, and in the election of chairman and +secretary. A motion was then made to adjourn, on the ground that the +Commission could not proceed without the secretary. + +Peter promptly objected. He had been named secretary for this +particular meeting, and offered to act until Rivington could be +notified. “I think,” he said, “that we ought to lay out our programme.” + +The labor agitator agreed with him, and, rising, delivered an extempore +speech, declaring that “we must not delay. The leeches (here he looked +at Mr. Pell) are sucking the life-blood of the people,” etc. + +The chairman started to call him to order, but Peter put his hand on +the chairman’s arm. “If you stop him,” he said in a low voice, “he’ll +think we are against him, and he’ll say so outside.” + +“But it’s such foolishness.” + +“And so harmless! While he’s talking, look over this.” Peter produced +an outline of action which he had drawn up, and having written it in +duplicate, he passed one draft over to Mr. Pell. + +They all let the speech go on, Peter, Mr. Pell and the chairman +chatting over the plan, while the contractor went to sleep. The +agitator tried to continue, but as the inattention became more and more +evident, his speech became tamer and tamer. Finally he said, “That is +my opinion,” and sat down. + +The cessation of the oration waked up the contractor, and Peter’s +outline was read aloud. + +“I don’t move its adoption,” said Peter. “I merely submit it as a +basis.” + +Not one of the members had come prepared with knowledge of how to go to +work, except the chairman, who had served on other commissions. He +said: + +“I think Mr. Stirling’s scheme shows very careful thought and is +admirable. We cannot do better than adopt it.” + +“It is chiefly copied from the German committee of three years ago,” +Peter told them. “But I have tried to modify it to suit the different +conditions.” + +Mr. Pell objected to the proposed frequent sittings. Thereupon the +agitator praised that feature. The hour of meeting caused discussion. +But finally the scheme was adopted, and the date of the first session +fixed. + +Peter went downstairs with Mr. Pell, and the latter offered to drop him +at his office. So they drove off together, and talked about the +Commission. + +“That Kurfeldt is going to be a nuisance,” said Pell + +“I can’t say yet. He evidently has no idea of what our aim is. Perhaps, +though, when we really get to work, he’ll prove useful.” + +Peter had a call the next day from Rivington. It was made up of thanks, +of college chat, and of inquiry as to duties. Peter outlined the +preliminary work, drafted the “Inquiries” and other printed papers +necessary to be sent out before the first meeting, and told him about +the procedure at the meetings. + +“I know I shall get into all kinds of pickles,” said Ray. “I write such +a bad hand that often I can’t read it myself. How the deuce am I to +take down evidence?” + +“I shall make notes for my own use, and you will be welcome to them, if +they will help you.” + +“Thanks, Peter. That’s like you.” + +The Commission began its inquiry, on the date fixed, and met three +times a week from that time on. Peter did not try to push himself +forward, but he was by far the best prepared on the subject, and was +able to suggest the best sources of information. He asked good +questions, too, of the various witnesses summoned. Finally he was the +one regular attendant, and therefore was the one appealed to for +information elicited at previous meetings. He found the politician his +best helper. Pell was useful when he attended, which was not very +often, and even this intermittent attendance ceased in June. “I’m going +to Newport,” he explained, and did not appear again till late in the +fall. The contractor really took no part in the proceedings beyond a +fairly frequent attendance, and an occasional fit of attention whenever +the inquiry related to building. The labor-agitator proved quite a good +man. He had, it is true, no memory, and caused them to waste much time +in reading over the minutes of previous meetings. But he was in +earnest, and proved to be perfectly reasonable as soon as he found that +the commissioners’ duties were to inquire and not to make speeches. +Peter walked home with him several times, and they spent evenings +together in Peter’s rooms, talking over the evidence, and the +possibilities. + +Peter met a great many different men in the course of the inquiry; +landlords, real-estate agents, architects, engineers, builders, +plumbers, health officials, doctors and tenants. In many cases he went +to see these persons after they had been before the Commission, and +talked with them, finding that they were quite willing to give facts in +private which they did not care to have put on record. + +He had been appointed the Secretary of the Food Commission, and spent +much time on that work. He was glad to find that he had considerable +influence, and that Green not merely acted on his suggestions, but +encouraged him to make them. The two inquiries were so germane that +they helped him reciprocally. No reports were needed till the next +meeting of the Legislature, in the following January, and so the two +commissions took enough evidence to swamp them. Poor Ray was reduced +almost to despair over the mass of “rubbish” as he called it, which he +would subsequently have to put in order. + +Between the two tasks, Peter’s time was well-nigh used up. It was +especially drawn upon when the taking of evidence ceased and the +drafting of the reports began. Ray’s notes proved hopeless, so Peter +copied out his neatly, and let Ray have them, rather glad that +irrelevant and useless evidence was thus omitted. It was left to Peter +to draw the report, and when his draft was submitted, it was +accompanied by a proposed General Tenement-house Bill. Both report and +bill were slightly amended, but not in a way that Peter minded. + +Peter drew the Food-Commission report as well, although it went before +the Commission as Green’s. To this, too, a proposed bill was attached, +which had undergone the scrutiny of the Health Board, and had been +conformed to their suggestions. + +In November Peter carried both reports to Albany, and had a long talk +with Catlin over them. That official would have preferred no reports, +but since they were made, there was nothing to do but to submit them to +the Legislature. Peter did not get much encouragement from him about +the chances for the bills. But Costell told him that they could be +“whipped through. The only danger is of their being amended, so as to +spoil them.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “I hope they will be passed. I’ve done my best, +whatever happens.” + +A very satisfactory thing to be able to say of yourself, if you believe +in your own truthfulness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +IN THE MEANTIME. + + +In spite of nine months’ hard work on the two Commissions, it is not to +be supposed that Peter’s time was thus entirely monopolized. If one +spends but seven hours of the twenty-four in sleep, and but two more on +meals, there is considerable remaining time, and even so slow a worker +as Peter found spare hours not merely for society and saloons, but for +what else he chose to undertake. + +Socially he had an evening with Miss De Voe, just before she left the +city for the summer; a dinner with Mr. Pell, who seemed to have taken a +liking to Peter; a call on Lispenard; another on Le Grand; and a family +meal at the Rivingtons, where he was made much of in return for his aid +to Ray. + +In the saloons he worked hard over the coming primary, and spent +evenings as well on doorsteps in the district, talking over objects and +candidates. In the same cause, he saw much of Costell, Green, +Gallagher, Schlurger and many other party men of greater or less note +in the city’s politics. He had become a recognized quantity in the +control of the district, and the various ward factions tried hard to +gain his support. When the primary met, the proceedings, if exciting, +were never for a moment doubtful, for Gallagher, Peter, Moriarty and +Blunkers had been able to agree on both programme and candidates. An +attempt had been made to “turn down” Schlurger, but Peter had opposed +it, and had carried his point, to the great gratitude of the silent, +honest German. What was more important to him, this had all been done +without exciting hard feelings. + +“Stirling’s a reasonable fellow,” Gallagher told Costell, not knowing +how much Peter was seeing of the big leader, “and he isn’t dead set on +carrying his own schemes. We’ve never had so little talk of mutiny and +sulking as we have had this paring. Moriarty and Blunkers swear by him. +It’s queer. They’ve always been on opposite sides till now.” + +When the weather became pleasant, Peter took up his “angle” visitings +again, though not with quite the former regularity. Yet he rarely let a +week pass without having spent a couple of evenings there. The +spontaneous welcome accorded him was payment enough for the time, let +alone the pleasure and enjoyment he derived from the imps. There was +little that could raise Peter in their estimation, but they understood +very well that he had become a man of vast importance, as it seemed to +them. They had sharp little minds and ears, and had caught what the +“district” said and thought of Peter. + +“Cheese it, the cop, Tim,” cried an urchin one evening to another, who +was about to “play ball.” + +“Cheese it yerself. He won’t dare tech me,” shouted Tim, “so long as +Mister Peter’s here.” + +That speech alone showed the magnitude of his position in their eyes. +He was now not merely, “friends wid de perlice;” he was held in fear by +that awesome body! + +“If I was as big as him,” said one, “I’d fire all the peelers.” + +“Wouldn’t that be dandy!” cried another. + +He won their hearts still further by something he did in midsummer. +Blunkers had asked him to attend what brilliant posters throughout that +part of the city announced as: + + +HO FOR THE SEA-SHORE! + +SIXTH ANNUAL + +CLAM BAKE + +OF THE + +PATRICK N. BLUNKERS’S ASSOCIATION. + + +When Peter asked, he found that it was to consist of a barge party +(tickets fifty cents) to a bit of sand not far away from the city, with +music, clams, bathing and dancing included in the price of the ticket, +and unlimited beer for those who could afford that beverage. + +“The beer just pays for it,” Blunkers explained. “I don’t give um +whisky cause some —— cusses don’t drink like as dey orter.” Then +catching a look in Peter’s face, he laughed rather shamefacedly. “I +forgits,” he explained. “Yer see I’m so da—” he checked himself—“I +swears widout knowin’ it.” + +“I shall be very glad to go,” said Peter. + +“Dat’s bully,” said Blunkers. Then he added anxiously: “Dere’s +somethin’ else, too, since yer goin’. Ginerally some feller makes a +speech. Yer wouldn’t want to do it dis time, would yer?” + +“What do they talk about?” + +“Just what dey—” Blunkers swallowed a word, nearly choking in so doing, +and ended “please.” + +“Yes. I shall be glad to talk, if you don’t mind my taking a dull +subject?” + +“Yer just talk what yer want. We’ll listen.” + +After Peter had thought it over for a day, he went to Blunkers’s gin +palace. + +“Look here,” he said. “Would it be possible to hire one more barge, and +take the children free? I’ll pay for the boat, and for the extra food, +if they won’t be in the way.” + +“I’m damned if yer do,” shouted Blunkers. “Yer don’t pay for nothinks, +but der childers shall go, or my name ain’t Blunkers.” + +And go they did, Blunkers making no secret of the fact that it was +Peter’s idea. So every child who went, nearly wild with delight, felt +that the sail, the sand, the sea, and the big feed, was all owed to +Peter. + +It was rather an amusing experience to Peter. He found many of his +party friends in the district, not excluding such men as Gallagher, +Kennedy and others of the more prominent rank. He made himself very +pleasant to those whom he knew, chatting with them on the trip down. He +went into the water with the men and boys, and though there were many +good swimmers, Peter’s country and river training made it possible for +him to give even the “wharf rats,” a point or two in the way of water +feats. Then came the regulation clam-bake, after which Peter talked +about the tenement-house question for twenty minutes. The speech was +very different from what they expected, and rather disappointed them +all. However, he won back their good opinions in closing, for he ended +with a very pleasant “thank you,” to Blunkers, so neatly worded, and +containing such a thoroughly apt local joke, that it put all in a good +humor, and gave them something to tell their neighbors, on their return +home. The advantage of seldom joking is that people remember the joke, +and it gets repeated. Peter almost got the reputation of a wit on that +one joke, merely because it came after a serious harangue, and happened +to be quotable. Blunkers was so pleased with the end of the speech that +he got Peter to write it out, and to this day the “thank you” part of +the address, in Peter’s neat handwriting, handsomely framed, is to be +seen in Blunkers’s saloon. + +Peter also did a little writing this summer. He had gone to see three +or four of the reporters, whom he had met in “the case,” to get them to +write up the Food and Tenement subjects, wishing thereby to stir up +public feeling. He was successful to a certain degree, and they not +merely wrote articles themselves, but printed three or four which Peter +wrote. In two cases, he was introduced to “staff” writers, and even +wrote an editorial, for which he was paid fifteen dollars. This money +was all he received for the time spent, but he was not working for +shekels. All the men told him to let them know when he had more +“stories” for them, and promised him assistance when the reports should +go in to the legislature. + +Peter visited his mother as usual during August. Before going, he +called on Dr. Plumb, and after an evening with him, went to two +tenements in the district. As the result of these calls, he carried +three children with him when he went home. Rather pale, thin little +waifs. It is a serious matter to charge any one with so grave a crime +as changling, but Peter laid himself open to it, for when he came back, +after two weeks, he returned very different children to the parents. +The fact that they did not prosecute for the substitution only proves +how little the really poor care for their offspring. + +But this was not his only summering. He spent four days with the +Costells, as well as two afternoons later, thoroughly enjoying, not +merely the long, silent drives over the country behind the fast horses, +but the pottering round the flower-garden with Mrs. Costell. He had +been reading up a little on flowers and gardening, and he was glad to +swap his theoretical for her practical knowledge. Candor compels the +statement that he enjoyed the long hours stretched on the turf, or +sitting idly on the veranda, puffing Mr. Costell’s good Havanas. + +Twice Mr. Bohlmann stopped at Peter’s office of a Saturday and took him +out to stay over Sunday at his villa in one of the Oranges. The family +all liked Peter and did not hesitate to show it. Mr. Bohlmann told him: + +“I sbend about dree dousand a year on law und law-babers. Misder Dummer +id does for me, but ven he does nod any longer it do, I gifts id you.” + +On the second visit Mrs. Bohlmann said: + +“I tell my good man that with all the law-business he has, he must get +a lawyer for a son-in-law.” + +Peter had not heard Mrs. Bohlmann say to her husband the evening +before, as they were prinking for dinner: + +“Have you told Mr. Stirling about your law business?” + +Nor Mr. Bohlmann’s prompt: + +“Yah. I dells him der last dime.” + +Yet Peter wondered if there were any connection between the two +statements. He liked the two girls. They were nice-looking, sweet, +sincere women. He knew that Mr. Bohlmann was ranked as a millionaire +already, and was growing richer fast. Yet—Peter needed no blank walls. + +During this summer, Peter had a little more law practice. A small +grocer in one of the tenements came to him about a row with his +landlord. Peter heard him through, and then said: “I don’t see that you +have any case; but if you will leave it to me to do as I think best, +I’ll try if I can do something,” and the man agreeing, Peter went to +see the landlord, a retail tobacconist up-town. + +“I don’t think my client has any legal grounds,” he told the landlord, +“but he thinks that he has, and the case does seem a little hard. Such +material repairs could not have been foreseen when the lease was made.” + +The tobacconist was rather obstinate at first. Finally he said, “I’ll +tell you what I’ll do. I’ll contribute one hundred dollars towards the +repairs, if you’ll make a tenant named Podds in the same building pay +his rent; or dispossess him if he doesn’t, so that it shan’t cost me +anything.” + +Peter agreed, and went to see the tenant in arrears. He found that the +man had a bad rheumatism and consequently was unable to work. The wife +was doing what she could, and even the children had been sent on the +streets to sell papers, or by other means, to earn what they could. +They also owed a doctor and the above-mentioned grocer. Peter went back +to the landlord and told him the story. + +“Yes,” he said, “it’s a hard case, I know, but, Mr. Stirling, I owe a +mortgage on the place, and the interest falls due in September. I’m out +four months’ rent, and really can’t afford any more.” So Peter took +thirty-two dollars from his “Trustee” fund, and sent it to the +tobacconist. “I have deducted eight dollars for collection,” he wrote. +Then he saw his first client, and told him of his landlord’s +concession. + +“How much do I owe you?” inquired the grocer. + +“The Podds tell me they owe you sixteen dollars.” + +“Yes. I shan’t get it.” + +“My fee is twenty-five. Mark off their bill and give me the balance.” + +The grocer smiled cheerfully. He had charged the Podds roundly for +their credit, taking his chance of pay, and now got it paid in an +equivalent of cash. He gave the nine dollars with alacrity. + +Peter took it upstairs and gave it to Mrs. Podds. “If things look up +with you later,” he said, “you can pay it back. If not, don’t trouble +about it. Ill look in in a couple of weeks to see how things are +going.” + +When this somewhat complicated matter was ended, he wrote about it to +his mother: + + +“Many such cases would bankrupt me. As it is, my fund is dwindling +faster than I like to see, though every lessening of it means a +lessening of real trouble to some one. I should like to tell Miss De +Voe what good her money has done already, but fear she would not +understand why I told her. It has enabled me to do so much that +otherwise I could not have afforded. There is only one hundred and +seventy-six dollars left. Most of it though, is merely loaned and +perhaps will be repaid. Anyway, I shall have nearly six hundred dollars +for my work as secretary of the Food Commission, and I shall give half +of it to this fund.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +A “COMEDY.” + + +When the season began again, Miss De Voe seriously undertook her +self-imposed work of introducing Peter. He was twice invited to dinner +and was twice taken with opera parties to sit in her box, besides +receiving a number of less important attentions. Peter accepted +dutifully all that she offered him. Even ordered a new dress-suit of a +tailor recommended by Lispenard. He was asked by some of the people he +met to call, probably on Miss De Voe’s suggestion, and he dutifully +called. Yet at the end of three months Miss De Voe shook her head. + +“He is absolutely a gentleman, and people seem to like him. Yet +somehow—I don’t understand it.” + +“Exactly,” laughed Lispenard. “You can’t make a silk purse out of a +sow’s ear.” + +“Lispenard,” angrily said Miss De Voe, “Mr. Stirling is as much better +than—” + +“That’s it,” said Lispenard. “Don’t think I’m depreciating Peter. The +trouble is that he is much too good a chap to make into a society or a +lady’s man.” + +“I believe you are right. I don’t think he cares for it at all.” + +“No,” said Lispenard. “Barkis is not willin’. I think he likes you, and +simply goes to please you.” + +“Do you really think that’s it?” + +Lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked. +“No,” he replied. “I was joking. Peter cultivates you, because he wants +to know your swell friends.” + +Either this conversation or Miss De Voe’s own thoughts, led to a change +in her course. Invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly +ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, +and evenings at concerts took their place. Sometimes Lispenard went +with them, sometimes one of the Ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. +It was an unusual week when Peter’s mail did not now bring at least one +little note giving him a chance to see Miss De Voe if he chose. + +In February came a request for him to call. “I want to talk with you +about something,” it said. That same evening he was shown into her +drawing-rooms. She thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and +Peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some +strong feeling. He had stumbled in on her evening—for at that time +people still had evenings—but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they +were left alone together. + +“Come into the library,” she said. As they passed across the hall she +told Morden, “I shall not receive any more to-night.” + +The moment they were in the smaller and cosier room, without waiting to +sit even, she began: “Mr. Stirling, I dined at the Manfreys yesterday.” +She spoke in a voice evidently endeavoring not to break. Peter looked +puzzled. + +“Mr. Lapham, the bank president, was there.” + +Peter still looked puzzled. + +“And he told the table about a young lawyer who had very little money, +yet who put five hundred dollars—his first fee—into his bank, and had +used it to help—” Miss De Voe broke down, and, leaning against the +mantel, buried her face in her handkerchief. + +“It’s curious you should have heard of it,” said Peter. + +“He—he didn’t mention names, b-bu-but I knew, of course.” + +“I didn’t like to speak of it because—well—I’ve wanted to tell you the +good it’s done. Suppose you sit down.” Peter brought a chair, and Miss +De Voe took it. + +“You must think I’m very foolish,” she said, wiping her eyes. + +“It’s nothing to cry about.” And Peter began telling her of some of the +things which he had been able to do:—of the surgical brace it had +bought; of the lessons in wood-engraving it had given; of the +sewing-machine it had helped to pay for; of the arrears in rent it had +settled. “You see,” he explained, “these people are too self-respecting +to go to the big charities, or to rich people. But their troubles are +talked over in the saloons and on the doorsteps, so I hear of them, and +can learn whether they really deserve help. They’ll take it from me, +because they feel that I’m one of them.” + +Miss De Voe was too much shaken by her tears to talk that evening. Miss +De Voe’s life and surroundings were not exactly weepy ones, and when +tears came they meant much. She said little, till Peter rose to go, and +then only: + +“I shall want to talk with you, to see what I can do to help you in +your work. Please come again soon. I ought not to have brought you here +this evening, only to see me cry like a baby. But—I had done you such +injustice in my mind about that seven dollars, and then to find +that—Oh!” Miss De Voe showed signs of a recurring break-down, but +mastered herself. “Good-evening.” + +Peter gone, Miss De Voe had another “good” cry—which is a feminine +phrase, quite incomprehensible to men—and, going to her room, bathed +her eyes. Then she sat before her boudoir fire, thinking. Finally she +rose. In leaving the fire, she remarked aloud to it: + +“Yes. He shall have Dorothy, if I can do it.” + +So Dorothy became a pretty regular addition to the informal meals, +exhibitions and concerts. Peter was once more taken to the opera, but +Dorothy and Miss De Voe formed with him the party in the box on such +nights. Miss De Voe took him to call on Mrs. Odgen, and sang his +praises to both parents. She even went so far as to say frankly to them +what was in her mind. + +Mr. Ogden said, “Those who know him speak very well of him. I heard +‘Van’ Pell praise him highly at Newport last summer. Said all the +politicians thought of him as a rising man.” + +“He seems a nice steady fellow,” said the mamma. “I don’t suppose he +has much practice?” + +“Oh, don’t think of the money,” said Miss De Voe. “What is that +compared to getting a really fine man whom one can truly love?” + +“Still, money is an essential,” said the papa. + +“Yes. But you both know what I intend to do for Dorothy and Minna. They +need not think of money. If he and Dorothy only will care for each +other!” + +Peter and Dorothy did like each other. Dorothy was very pretty, and had +all the qualities which make a girl a strong magnet to men. Peter could +not help liking her. As for Dorothy, she was like other women. She +enjoyed the talking, joking, “good-time” men in society, and chatted +and danced with them with relish. But like other women, when she +thought of marriage, she did not find these gingerbread ornamentations +so attractive. The average woman loves a man, aside from his love for +her, for his physical strength, and his stiff truth-telling. The first +is attractive to her because she has it not. Far be it from man to say +why the second attracts. So Dorothy liked Peter. She admired many +qualities in him which she would not have tolerated in other men. It is +true that she laughed at him, too, for many things, but it was the +laughter of that peculiar nature which implies admiration and approval, +rather than the lower feelings. When the spring separation came, Miss +De Voe was really quite hopeful. + +“I think things have gone very well. Now, Mr. Stirling has promised to +spend a week with me at Newport. I shall have Dorothy there at the same +time,” she told Mrs. Ogden. + +Lispenard, who was present, laughed as usual. “So you are tired of your +new plaything already?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Arn’t you marrying him so as to get rid of his calls and his +escortage?” + +“Of course not. We shall go on just the same.” + +“Bully for you, Ma. Does Dr. Brown know it?” + +Miss De Voe flushed angrily, and put an end to her call. + +“What a foolish fellow Lispenard is!” she remarked unconsciously to +Wellington at the carriage door. + +“Beg pardon, mum?” said Wellington, blank wonderment filling his face. + +“Home, Wellington,” said Miss De Voe crossly. + +Peter took his week at Newport on his way back from his regular August +visit to his mother. Miss De Voe had told him casually that Dorothy +would be there, and Dorothy was there. Yet he saw wonderfully little of +her. It is true that he could have seen more if he had tried, but Peter +was not used to practice finesse to win minutes and hours with a girl, +and did not feel called upon, bluntly, to take such opportunities. His +stay was not so pleasant as he had expected. He had thought a week in +the same house with Miss De Voe, Dorothy and Lispenard, without much +regard to other possible guests, could not but be a continual pleasure. +But he was conscious that something was amiss with his three friends. +Nor was Peter the only one who felt it. Dorothy said to her family when +she went home: + +“I can’t imagine what is the matter with Cousin Anneke. All last spring +she was nicer to me than she has ever been before, but from the moment +I arrived at Newport, and before I could possibly have said or done +anything to offend her, she treated me in the snippiest way. After two +days I asked her what the matter was, but she insisted there was +nothing, and really lost her temper at my suggesting the idea. There +was something, I know, for when I said I was coming home sooner than I +had at first intended, she didn’t try to make me stay.” + +“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Ogden, “she was disappointed in something, and so +vented her feeling on you.” + +“But she wasn’t cross—except when I asked her what the matter was. She +was just—just snippy.” + +“Was Mr. Stirling there?” + +“Yes. And a lot of other people. I don’t think anybody had a good time, +unless it was Cousin Lispenard. And he wasn’t a bit nice. He had some +joke to himself, and kept making remarks that nobody could understand, +and chuckling over them. I told him once that he was rude, but he said +that ‘when people went to a play they should laugh at the right +points.’ That’s the nice thing about Mr. Stirling. You know that what +he says is the real truth.” + +“Lispenard’s always trying to be clever.” + +“Yes. What do you suppose he said to me as I came away!” + +“What?” + +“He shook my hand, laughing, and said, ‘Exit villain. It is to be a +comedy, not a tragedy.’ What could he mean?” + +Lispenard stayed on to see the “comedy,” and seemed to enjoy it, if the +amused expression on his face when he occasionally gave himself up to +meditation was any criterion. Peter had been pressed to stay beyond the +original week, and had so far yielded as to add three days to his +visit. These last three days were much pleasanter than those which had +gone before, although Dorothy had departed and Peter liked Dorothy. But +he saw much more of Miss De Voe, and Miss De Voe was in a much +pleasanter mood. They took long drives and walks together, and had long +hours of talk in and about the pleasant house and grounds. Miss De Voe +had cut down her social duties for the ten days Peter was there, giving +far more time for them to kill than usually fell to Newporters even in +those comparitively simple days. + +In one of these talks, Miss De Voe spoke of Dorothy. + +“She is such a nice, sweet girl,” she said. “We all hope she’ll marry +Lispenard.” + +“Do you think cousins ought to marry?” + +Miss De Voe had looked at Peter when she made her remark. Peter had +replied quietly, but his question, as Miss De Voe understood it, was +purely scientific, not personal. Miss De Voe replied: + +“I suppose it is not right, but it is so much better than what may +happen, that it really seems best. It is so hard for a girl in +Dorothy’s position to marry as we should altogether wish.” + +“Why?” asked Peter, who did not see that a girl with prospective +wealth, fine social position, and personal charm, was not necessarily +well situated to get the right kind of a husband. + +“It is hard to make it clear—but—I’ll tell you my own story, so that +you can understand. Since you don’t ask questions, I will take the +initiative. That is, unless your not asking them means you are not +interested?” Miss De Voe laughed in the last part of this speech. + +“I should like to hear it.” + +People, no matter what Peter stated, never said “Really?” “You are in +earnest?” or “You really mean it?” So Miss De Voe took him at his word. + +“Both my father and mother were rich before they married, and the rise +in New York real estate made them in time, much richer. They both +belonged to old families. I was the only child—Lispenard says old +families are so proud of themselves that they don’t dare to have large +families for fear of making the name common. Of course they lavished +all their thought, devotion and anxiety on me. I was not spoiled; but I +was watched and tended as if I were the most precious thing the world +contained. When I grew up, and went into society, I question if I ever +was a half-hour out of the sight of one or the other of my parents. I +had plenty of society, of course, but it was restricted entirely to our +set. None other was good enough for me! My father never had any +business, so brought no new element into our household. It was old +families, year in and year out! From the moment I entered society I was +sought for. I had many suitors. I had been brought up to fear +fortune-hunting, and suspected the motives of many men. Others did not +seem my equals—for I had been taught pride in my birth. Those who were +fit as regarded family were, many of them, unfit in brains or +morals—qualities not conspicuous in old families. Perhaps I might have +found one to love—if it had not been for the others. I was surrounded +wherever I went and if by chance I found a pleasant man to talk to, +_téte-à-téte,_ we were interrupted by other men coming up. Only a few +even of the men whom I met could gain an _entrée_ to our house.—They +weren’t thought good enough. If a working, serious man had ever been +able to see enough of me to love me, he probably would have had very +little opportunity to press his suit. But the few men I might have +cared for were frightened off by my money, or discouraged by my +popularity and exclusiveness. They did not even try. Of course I did +not understand it then. I gloried in my success and did not see the +wrong it was doing me. I was absolutely happy at home, and really had +not the slightest inducement to marry—especially among the men I saw +the most. I led this life for six years. Then my mother’s death put me +in mourning. When I went back into society, an almost entirely new set +of men had appeared. Those whom I had known were many of them +married—others were gone. Society had lost its first charm to me. So my +father and I travelled three years. We had barely returned when he +died. I did not take up my social duties again till I was thirty-two. +Then it was as the spinster aunt, as you have known me. Now do you +understand how hard it is for such a girl as Dorothy to marry rightly?” + +“Yes. Unless the man is in love. Let a man care enough for a woman, and +money or position will not frighten him off.” + +“Such men are rare. Or perhaps it is because I did not attract them. I +did not understand men as well then as I do now. Of some whom I thought +unlovable or dull at that time, I have learned to think better. A woman +does not marry to be entertained—or should not.” + +“I think,” said Peter, “that one marries for love and sympathy.” + +“Yes. And if they are given, it does not matter about the rest. Even +now, thirty-seven though I am, if I could find a true man who could +love me as I wish to be loved, I could love him with my whole heart. It +would be my happiness not merely to give him social position and +wealth, but to make his every hope and wish mine also.” + +All this had been said in the same natural manner in which they both +usually spoke. Miss De Voe had talked without apparent emotion. But +when she began the last remark, she had stopped looking at Peter, and +had gazed off through the window at the green lawn, merely showing him +her profile. As a consequence she did not see how pale he suddenly +became, nor the look of great suffering that came into his face. She +did not see this look pass and his face, and especially his mouth, +settle into a rigid determination, even while the eyes remained sad. + +Miss De Voe ended the pause by beginning, “Don’t you”—but Peter +interrupted her there, by saying: + +“It is a very sad story to me—because I—I once craved love and +sympathy.” + +Miss De Voe turned and looked at him quickly. She saw the look of +suffering on his face, but read it amiss. “You mean?” she questioned. + +“There was a girl I loved,” said Peter softly, “who did not love me.” + +“And you love her still?” + +“I have no right to.” + +“She is married?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you tell me about it?” + +“I—I would rather not.” + +Miss De Voe sat quietly for a moment, and then rose. “Dear friend,” she +said, laying her hand on Peter’s shoulder, “we have both missed the +great prize in life. Your lot is harder than the one I have told you +about. It is very,”—Miss De Voe paused a moment,—“it is very sad to +love—without being loved.” + +And so ended Lispenard’s comedy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +CONFLICTS. + + +Lispenard went back with Peter to the city. He gave his reason on the +train: + +“You see I go back to the city occasionally in the summer, so as to +make the country bearable, and then I go back to the country, so as to +make the city endurable. I shall be in Newport again in a week. When +will you come back?” + +“My summering’s over.” + +“Indeed. I thought my cousin would want you again!” + +“She did not say so.” + +“The deuce she didn’t. It must be the only thing she didn’t say, then, +in your long confabs?” + +Peter made no reply, though Lispenard looked as well as asked a +question. + +“Perhaps,” continued Lispenard, “she talked too much, and so did not +remember to ask you?” + +Still Peter said nothing. + +“Are you sure she didn’t give you a chance to have more of her +society?” Lispenard was smiling. + +“Ogden,” said Peter gently, “you are behaving contemptibly and you know +it.” + +The color blazed up into Lispenard’s face and he rose, saying: + +“Did I understand you aright?” The manner and attitude were both +threatening though repressed. + +“If you tell me that I misunderstood you, I will apologize. If you +think the statement insulting, I will withdraw it. I did not speak to +insult you; but because I wished you to know how your questions +impressed me.” + +“When a man tells another he is contemptible, he cannot expect to +escape results. This is no place to have a scene. You may send me your +apology when we reach New York—” + +Peter interrupted. “I shall, if you will tell me I wronged you in +supposing your questions to be malicious.” + +Lispenard paid no attention to the interjection. “Otherwise,” he +finished, “we will consider our relations ended.” He walked away. + +Peter wrote Lispenard that evening a long letter. He did not apologize +in it, but it ended: + + +“There should be no quarrel between us, for we ought to be friends. If +alienation has come, it is due to what has occurred to-day, and that +shall not cause unkind feelings, if I can help it. An apology is due +somewhere. You either asked questions you had no right to ask, or else +I misjudged you. I have written you my point of view. You have your +own. I leave the matter to your fairness. Think it over, and if you +still find me in the wrong, and will tell me so, I will apologize.” + + +He did not receive a reply. Meeting Ogden Ogden a few days later, he +was told that Lispenard had gone west for a hunting trip, quite +unexpectedly. “He said not to expect him back till he came. He seemed +out of sorts at something.” In September Peter had a letter from Miss +De Voe. Merely a few lines saying that she had decided to spend the +winter abroad, and was on the point of sailing. “I am too hurried to +see my friends, but did not like to go without some good-byes, so I +write them.” On the whole, as in the case of most comedies, there was +little amusement for the actual performers. A great essayist has +defined laughter as a “feeling of superiority in the laugher over the +object laughed at.” If this is correct, it makes all humor despicable. +Certainly much coarseness, meanness and cruelty are every day +tolerated, because of the comic covering with which it is draped. + +It is not to be supposed that this comedy nor its winter prologue had +diverted Peter from other things. In spite of Miss De Voe’s demands on +his time he had enough left to spend many days in Albany when the +legislature took up the reports of the Commissions. He found strong +lobbies against both bills, and had a long struggle with them. He had +the help of the newspapers, and he had the help of Costell, yet even +with this powerful backing, the bills were first badly mangled, and +finally were side-tracked. In the actual fight, Pell helped him most, +and Peter began to think that a man might buy an election and yet not +be entirely bad. Second only to Pell, was his whilom enemy, the former +District-Attorney, now a state senator, who battled himself into +Peter’s reluctant admiration and friendship by his devotion and loyalty +to the bills. Peter concluded that he had not entirely done the man +justice in the past. Curiously enough, his chief antagonist was +Maguire. + +Peter did not give up the fight with this defeat. His work for the +bills had revealed to him the real under-currents in the legislative +body, and when it adjourned, making further work in Albany only a waste +of time, he availed himself of the secret knowledge that had come to +him, to single out the real forces which stood behind and paid the +lobby, and to interview them. He saw the actual principals in the +opposition, and spoke with utmost frankness. He told them that the +fight would be renewed, on his part, at every session of the +legislature till the bills were passed; that he was willing to consider +proposed amendments, and would accept any that were honest. He made the +fact very clear to them that they would have to pay yearly to keep the +bills off the statute book. Some laughed at him, others quarrelled. But +a few, after listening to him, stated their true objections to the +bills, and Peter tried to meet them. + +When the fall elections came, Peter endeavored to further his cause in +another way. Three of the city’s assemblymen and one of her senators +had voted against the bills. Peter now invaded their districts, and +talked against them in saloons and elsewhere. It very quickly stirred +up hard feeling, which resulted in attempts to down him. But Peter’s +blood warmed up as the fight thickened, and hisses, eggs, or actual +attempts to injure him physically did not deter him. The big leaders +were appealed to to call him off, but Costell declined to interfere. + +“He wouldn’t stop anyway,” he told Green, “so we should do no good. Let +them fight it out by themselves.” Both of which sentences showed that +Mr. Costell understood his business. + +Peter had challenged his opponents to a joint debate, and when that was +declined by them, he hired halls for evenings and spoke on the subject. +He argued well, with much more feeling than he had shown since his +speech in “the case.” After the first attempt of this kind, he had no +difficulty in filling his halls. The rumor came back to his own +district that he was “talkin’ foin,” and many of his friends there +turned out to hear him. The same news went through other wards of the +city and drew men from them. People were actually excluded, for want of +room, and therefore every one became anxious to hear his speeches. +Finally, by subscription of a number of people who had become +interested, headed by Mr. Pell, the Cooper Union was hired, and Peter +made a really great speech to nearly three thousand people. + +The papers came to his help too, and stood by him manfully. By their +aid, it was made very clear that this was a fight against a selfish +lobby. By their aid, it became one of the real questions of the local +campaign, and was carried beyond the borders of the city, so as to play +a part in the county elections. Peter met many of the editors, and +between his expert knowledge, acquired on the Commissions, and his +practical knowledge, learned at Albany, proved a valuable man to them. +They repaid his help by kind words and praise in their columns, and +brought him forward as the chief man in the movement. Mrs. Stirling +concluded that the conspiracy to keep Peter in the background had been +abandoned. + +“Those York papers couldn’t help my Peter’s getting on,” was the way +she put it. + +The results of this fight were even better than he had hoped. One +Assemblyman gave in and agreed no longer to oppose the bills. Another +was defeated. The Senator had his majority so cut down that he retired +from the opposition. The questions too had become so much more +discussed and watched, and the blame so fastened upon the lobby that +many members from the country no longer dared to oppose legislation on +the subject. Hence it was that the bills, newly drawn by Peter, to +reduce opposition as far as possible, when introduced by Schlurger soon +after the opening of the legislature, went through with a rush, not +even ayes and nays being taken. Aided by Mr. Costell, Peter secured +their prompt signing by Catlin, his long fight had ended in victory. + +The “sixt” was wild with joy over the triumph. Whether it was because +it was a tenement ward, or because Peter had talked there so much about +it, or because his success was felt to redound to their credit, the +voters got up a display of fireworks on the night when the news of the +signing of the bills reached New York. When Peter returned to the city, +he was called down to a hall one evening, to witness a torchlight +procession and receive resolutions “engrossed and framed” from his +admiring friends. Blunkers was chairman and made a plain speech which +set the boys cheering by its combination of strong feeling and lack of +grammar. Then Justice Gallagher made a fine-sounding, big-worded +presentation. In the enthusiasm of the moment, Dennis broke the +programme by rising and giving vent to a wild burst of feeling, telling +his audience all that they owed to Peter, and though they knew already +what he told them, they cheered and cheered the strong, natural +eloquence. + +“Yer was out a order,” said Blunkers, at the end of the speech. + +“Yez loi!” said Dennis, jumping on his feet again. “It’s never out av +order to praise Misther Stirling.” + +The crowd applauded his sentiment. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +THE END OF THE CONFLICT. + + +Peter had had some rough experiences two or three times in his fall +campaign, and Dennis, who had insisted on escorting him, took him to +task about his “physical culture.” + +“It’s thirty pounds yez are too heavy, sir,” he told Peter. “An’ it’s +too little intirely yez afther knowin’ av hittin’.” + +Peter asked his advice, bought Indian clubs, dumb-bells, and +boxing-gloves, and under Dennis’s tutelage began to learn the art of +self-defence. He was rather surprised, at the end of two months, to +find how much flesh he had taken off, how much more easily he moved, +how much more he was eating, and how much more he was able to do, both +mentally and physically. + +“It seems as if somebody had oiled my body and brain,” he told Dennis. + +Dennis let him into another thing, by persuading him to join the +militia regiment most patronized by the “sixth,” and in which Dennis +was already a sergeant. Peter received a warm welcome from the +regiment, for Dennis, who was extremely popular, had heralded his fame, +and Peter’s physical strength and friendly way did the rest. Ogden +Ogden laughed at him for joining a “Mick” regiment, and wanted to put +Peter into the Seventh. Peter only said that he thought his place was +where he was. + +Society did not see much of Peter this winter. He called on his friends +dutifully, but his long visits to Albany, his evenings with Dennis, and +his drill nights, interfered badly with his acceptance of the +invitations sent him. He had, too, made many friends in his commission +work and politics, so that he had relatively less time to give to his +older ones. The absence of Miss De Voe and Lispenard somewhat reduced +his social obligations it is true, but the demands on his time were +multiplying fast. + +One of these demands was actual law work. The first real case to come +to him was from the contractor who had served on the +tenement-commission. He was also employed by the Health Board as +special counsel in a number of prosecutions, to enforce clauses of his +Food Bill. The papers said it was because of his familiarity with the +subject, but Peter knew it was the influence of Green, who had become a +member of that Board. Then he began to get cases from the “district,” +and though there was not much money in each case, before long the +number of them made a very respectable total. + +The growth of his practice was well proven by a suggestion from Dummer +that they should join forces. “Mr. Bohlmann wants to give you some of +his work, and it’s easier to go into partnership than to divide his +practice.” + +Peter knew that Dummer had a very lucrative business of a certain kind, +but he declined the offer. + +“I have decided never to take a case which has not right on its side.” + +“A lawyer is just as much bound to try a case as a physician is bound +to take a patient.” + +“That is what lawyers say outside, but they know better.” + +“Well, have your scruples. We’ll make the firm cases only such as you +choose. I’ll manage the others.” + +“I should like to,” said Peter. “I’m very grateful for the offer—but we +could hardly do that successfully. If the firm was good for anything, +we should be known as belonging to it, and the public could not well +discriminate.” + +So that chance of success was passed. But every now and then Bohlmann +sent him something to do, and Dummer helped him to a joint case +occasionally. + +So, though friends grew steadily in numbers, society saw less and less +of Peter. Those who cared to study his tastes came to recognize that to +force formal entertaining on him was no kindness, and left it to Peter +to drop in when he chose, making him welcome when he came. + +He was pleased to get a letter from Lispenard during the winter, from +Japan. It was long, but only the first paragraph need be quoted, for +the rest related merely to his travels: + + +“The breezes of the Pacific have blown away all my bad temper,” he +wrote, “and I want to say that I was wrong, and regret my original +fault, as well as what it later led me into. You are quite right. We +must continue friends.” + + +Peter wrote a reply, which led to a regular correspondence. He sent +Miss De Voe, also, a line of Christmas greetings, and received a long +letter from her at Nice, which told him something of Watts and Helen: + + +“She is now well again, but having been six years in Europe, she and +her husband have become wedded to the life. I question if they ever +return. I spoke of you, and they both inquired with great warmth about +you.” + + +Peter replied, sending his “remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. D’Alloi in case +you again meet them.” From that time on Miss De Voe and he +corresponded, she telling him of her Italian, Greek and Egyptian +wanderings, and he writing of his doings, especially in regard to a +certain savings bank fund standing in the name of “Peter Stirling, +trustee” to which Miss De Voe had, the winter before, arranged to +contribute a thousand dollars yearly. + +As his practice increased he began to indulge himself a little. Through +the instrumentality of Mr. Pell, he was put first into one and later +into a second of the New York clubs, and his dinners became far less +simple in consequence. He used these comforters of men, indeed, almost +wholly for dining, and, though by no means a club-man in other senses, +it was still a tendency to the luxurious. To counteract this danger he +asked Mr. Costell to pick him up a saddle-horse, whereupon that friend +promptly presented him with one. He went regularly now to a good +tailor, which conduct ought to have ruined him with the “b’ys,” but it +didn’t. He still smoked a pipe occasionally in the saloons or on the +doorsteps of the district, yet candor compels us to add that he now had +in his room a box of cigars labelled “Habana.” These were creature +pleasures, however, which he only allowed himself on rare occasions. +And most of these luxuries did not appear till his practice had +broadened beyond the point already noted. + +Broaden it did. In time many city cases were thrown in his way. As he +became more and more a factor in politics, the judges began to send him +very profitable referee cases. Presently a great local corporation, +with many damage suits, asked him to accept its work on a yearly +salary. + +“Of course we shall want you to look out for us at Albany,” it was +added. + +“I’ll do what I can to prevent unfair legislation. That must be all, +though. As for the practice, you must let me settle every case where I +think the right is with the plaintiff.” This caused demur at first, but +eventually he was employed, and it was found that money was saved in +the long run, for Peter was very successful in getting people to settle +out of court. + +Then the savings bank, for which Peter had done his best (not merely as +recorded, but at other times), turned over its law business to him, +giving him many real estate transactions to look into, besides papers +to draw. “He brings us a good many depositors,” Mr. Lapham told his +trustees, “and is getting to be a large depositor himself.” + +Peter began to find help necessary, and took a partner. He did this at +the suggestion of Ogden Ogden, who had concluded his clerkship, and who +said to Peter: + +“I have a lot of friends who promise me their work. I don’t know how +much it will be, but I should like to try it with you. Of course, yours +is the bigger practice, but we can arrange that.” + +So after considerable discussion, the sign on Peter’s door became +“Stirling and Ogden,” and the firm blossomed out with an office boy—one +of Peter’s original “angle” friends, now six years older than when +Peter and he had first met. + +Ogden’s friends did materialize, and brought good paying cases. As the +city, referee, corporation and bank work increased, their joint +practice needed more help, and Ray Rivington was, on Ogden’s request, +taken in. + +“He doesn’t get on with his law studies, though he pretends to work +over them hard. In fact he’ll never be a good lawyer. He hasn’t a legal +mind. But he’ll bring cases, for he’s very popular in society, and +he’ll do all the palavering and running round very well. He’s just the +fellow to please people.” This was what Ogden urged, adding, “I might +as well tell you that I’m interested for another reason, too. He and +Dorothy will marry, if he can ever get to the marrying point. This, of +course, is to be between us.” + +“I’ll be very glad to have him, both for his own sake, and for what +you’ve just told me,” said Peter. + +Thus it was that the firm again changed its name, becoming “Stirling, +Ogden and Rivington,” and actually spread into two other rooms, Peter’s +original little “ten by twelve” being left to the possession of the +office boy. That functionary gazed long hours at the map of Italy on +the blank wall, but it did not trouble him. He only whistled and sang +street songs at it. As for Peter, he was too busy to need blank walls. +He had fought two great opponents. The world and himself. He had +conquered them both. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +A RENEWAL. + + +If the American people had anglicized themselves as thoroughly into +liking three-volume stories, as they have in other things, it would be +a pleasure to trace the next ten years of Peter’s life; for his growing +reputation makes this period a far easier matter to chronicle than the +more obscure beginnings already recorded. If his own life did not +supply enough material we could multiply our characters, as did +Dickens, or journey sideways, into little essays, as did Thackeray. His +life and his biographer’s pen might fail to give interest to such +devices, but the plea is now for “realism,” which most writers take to +mean microscopical examination of minutia. If the physical and +psychical emotions of a heroine as she drinks a glass of water can +properly be elaborated so as to fill two printed pages, Peter’s life +could be extended endlessly. There were big cases, political fights, +globe trottings, and new friends, all of which have unlimited +potentialities for numerous chapters. But Americans are peculiar +people, and do not buy a pound of sugar any the quicker because its +bulk has been raised by a skilful admixture of moisture and sand. So it +seems best partly to take the advice of the Bellman, in the “Hunting of +the Snark,” to skip sundry years. In resuming, it is to find Peter at +his desk, reading a letter. He has a very curious look on his face, due +to the letter, the contents of which are as follows: + + +MARCH 22. + +DEAR OLD CHUM— + +Here is the wretched old sixpence, just as bad as ever—if not +worse—come back after all these years. + +And as of yore, the sixpence is in a dreadful pickle, and appeals to +the old chum, who always used to pull him out of his scrapes, to do it +once more. Please come and see me as quickly as possible, for every +moment is important. You see I feel sure that I do not appeal in vain. +“Changeless as the pyramids” ought to be your motto. + +Helen and our dear little girl will be delighted to see you, as will + +Yours affectionately, + +WATTS. + + +Peter opened a drawer and put the letter into it. Then he examined his +diary calendar. After this he went to a door, and, opening it, said: + +“I am going uptown for the afternoon. If Mr. Murtha comes, Mr. Ogden +will see him.”. + +Peter went down and took a cab, giving the driver a number in Grammercy +Park. + +The footman hesitated on Peter’s inquiry. “Mr. D’Alloi is in, sir, but +is having his afternoon nap, and we have orders he’s not to be +disturbed.” + +“Take him my card. He will see me.” + +The footman showed Peter into the drawing-room, and disappeared. Peter +heard low voices for a moment, then the curtains of the back room were +quickly parted, and with hands extended to meet him, Helen appeared. + +“This is nice of you—and so unexpected!” + +Peter took the hand, but said nothing. They sat down, and Mrs. D’Alloi +continued: + +“Watts is asleep, and I have given word that he is not to be disturbed. +I want to see you for a moment myself. You have plenty of time?” + +“Yes.” + +“That’s very nice. I don’t want you to be formal with us. Do say that +you can stay to dinner?” + +“I would, if I were not already engaged.” + +“Then we’ll merely postpone it. It’s very good of you to come to see +us. I’ve tried to get Watts to look you up, but he is so lazy! It’s +just as well since you’ve found us out. Only you should have asked for +both of us.” + +“I came on business,” said Peter. + +Mrs. D’Alloi laughed. “Watts is the poorest man in the world for that, +but he’ll do anything he can to help you, I know. He has the warmest +feeling for you.” + +Peter gathered from this that Mrs. D’Alloi did not know of the +“scrape,” whatever it was, and with a lawyer’s caution, he did not +attempt to disabuse her of the impression that he had called about his +own affairs. + +“How you have changed!” Mrs. D’Alloi continued. “If I had not known who +it was from the card, I am not sure that I should have recognized you.” + +It was just what Peter had been saying to himself of Mrs. D’Alloi. Was +it her long ill-health, or was it the mere lapse of years, which had +wrought such changes in her? Except for the eyes, everything had +altered. The cheeks had lost their roundness and color; the hair had +thinned noticeably; lines of years and pain had taken away the sweet +expression that formerly had counted for so much; the pretty roundness +of the figure was gone, and what charm it now had was due to the +modiste’s skill. Peter felt puzzled. Was this the woman for whom he had +so suffered? Was it this memory that had kept him, at thirty-eight, +still a bachelor? Like many another man, he found that he had been +loving an ideal—a creation of his own mind. He had, on a boyish fancy, +built a dream of a woman with every beauty and attraction, and had been +loving it for many years, to the exclusion of all other womankind. Now +he saw the original of his dream, with the freshness and glamour gone, +not merely from the dream, but from his own eyes. Peter had met many +pretty girls, and many sweet ones since that week at the Pierces. He +had gained a very different point of view of women from that callow +time. + +Peter was not blunderer enough to tell Mrs. D’Alloi that he too, saw a +change. His years had brought tact, if they had not made him less +straightforward. So he merely said, “You think so?” + +“Ever so much. You’ve really grown slender, in spite of your broad +shoulders—and your face is so—so different.” + +There was no doubt about it. For his height and breadth of shoulder, +Peter was now by no means heavy. His face, too, had undergone a great +change. As the roundness had left it, the eyes and the forehead had +both become more prominent features, and both were good. The square, +firm jaw still remained, but the heaviness of the cheek and nose had +melted into lines which gave only strength and character, and destroyed +the dulness which people used to comment upon. The face would never be +called handsome, in the sense that regular features are supposed to +give beauty, but it was strong and speaking, with lines of thought and +feeling. + +“You know,” laughed Mrs. D’Alloi, “you have actually become +good-looking, and I never dreamed that was possible!” + +“How long have you been here?” + +“A month. We are staying with papa, till the house in Fifty-seventh +Street can be put in order. It has been closed since Mrs. D’Alloi’s +death. But don’t let’s talk houses. Tell me about yourself.” + +“There is little to tell. I have worked at my profession, with +success.” + +“But I see your name in politics. And I’ve met many people in Europe +who have said you were getting very famous.” + +“I spend a good deal of time in politics. I cannot say whether I have +made myself famous, or infamous. It seems to depend on which paper I +read.” + +“Yes, I saw a paper on the steamer, that—” Mrs. D’Alloi hesitated, +remembering that it had charged Peter with about every known sin of +which man is capable. Then she continued, “But I knew it was wrong.” +Yet there was quite as much of question as of assertion in her remark. +In truth, Mrs. D’Alloi was by no means sure that Peter was all that was +desirable, for any charge made against a politician in this country has +a peculiar vitality and persistence. She had been told that Peter was +an open supporter of saloons, and that New York politics battened on +all forms of vice. So a favorite son could hardly have retained the +purity that women take as a standard of measurement. “Don’t you find +ward politics very hard?” she asked, dropping an experimental plummet, +to see what depths of iniquity there might be. + +“I haven’t yet.” + +“But that kind of politics must be very disagreeable to gentlemen. The +men must have such dirty hands!” + +“It’s not the dirty hands which make American politics disagreeable. +It’s the dirty consciences.” + +“Are—are politics so corrupt and immoral?” + +“Politics are what the people make them.” + +“Really?” + +“I suppose your life has not been of a kind to make you very familiar +with it all. Tell me what these long years have brought you?” + +“Perfect happiness! Oh, Mr. Stirling—may I call you Peter?—thank you. +Peter, I have the finest, noblest husband that ever lived! He is +everything that is good and kind!” Mrs. D’Alloi’s face lighted up with +happiness and tenderness. + +“And your children?” + +“We have only one. The sweetest, loveliest child you can imagine.” + +“Fie, fie, Rosebud,” cried a voice from the doorway. “You shouldn’t +speak of yourself so, even if it is the truth. Leave that to me. How +are you, Peter, old fellow? I’d apologize for keeping you waiting, but +if you’ve had Helen, there’s no occasion. Isn’t it Boileau who said +that: ‘The best thing about many a man is his wife’?” + +Mrs. D’Alloi beamed, but said, “It isn’t so, Peter. He’s much better +than I.” + +Watts laughed. “You’ll have to excuse this, old man. Will happen +sometimes, even in the properest of families, if one marries an angel.” + +“There, you see,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “He just spoils me, Peter.” + +“And she thrives on it, doesn’t she, Peter?” said Watts. “Isn’t she +prettier even than she was in the old days?” + +Mrs. D’Alloi colored with pleasure, even while saying: “Now, Watts +dear, I won’t swallow such palpable flattery. There’s one kiss for +it—Peter won’t mind—and now I know you two want to talk old times, so +I’ll leave you together. Good-bye, Peter—or rather _au revoir_—for you +must be a regular visitor now. Watts, arrange with Peter to dine with +us some day this week.” + +Mrs. D’Alloi disappeared through the doorway. Peter’s pulse did not +change a beat. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +HELP. + + +The moment she was gone, Watts held out his hand, saying: “Here, old +man, let us shake hands again. It’s almost like going back to college +days to see my old chum. Come to the snuggery, where we shan’t be +interrupted.” They went through two rooms, to one fitted up as a +smoking-room and office. “It’s papa-in-law’s workshop. He can’t drop +his work at the bank, so he brings it home and goes on here. Sit down. +Here, take a cigar. Now, are you comfortable?” + +“Yes.” + +“_Maintenant_, I suppose you want to know why I wrote you to come so +quickly?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, the truth of it is, I’m in an awful mess. Yesterday I was so +desperate I thought I should blow my brains out. I went round to the +club to see if I couldn’t forget or drown my trouble, just as sick as a +man could be. Fellows talking. First thing I heard was your name. ‘Just +won a great case.’ ‘One of the best lawyers in New York.’ Thinks I to +myself, ‘That’s a special providence.’ Peter always was the fellow to +pull me through my college scrapes. I’ll write him.’ Did it, and played +billiards for the rest of the evening, secure in the belief that you +would come to my help, just as you used to.” + +“Tell me what it is?” + +“Even that isn’t easy, chum. It’s a devilish hard thing to tell even to +you.” + +“Is it money trou—?” + +“No, no!” Watts interrupted. “It isn’t that. The truth is I’ve a great +deal more money than is good for me, and apparently always shall have. +I wish it were only that!” + +“How can I help you?” began Peter. + +“I knew you would,” cried Watts, joyfully. “Just the same old reliable +you always were. Here. Draw up nearer. That’s it. Now then, here goes. +I shan’t mind if you are shocked at first. Be as hard on me as you +like.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, to make a long story short, I’m entangled with a woman, and +there’s the devil to pay. Now you’ll pull me through, old man, won’t +you?” + +“No.” + +“Don’t say that, Peter! You must help me. You’re my only hope. + +“I do not care to mix myself in such a business,” said Peter, very +quietly. “I would rather know nothing about it.” Peter rose. + +“Don’t desert me,” cried Watts, springing to his feet, and putting his +hand on Peter’s shoulder, so as to prevent his progress to the door. +“Don’t. She’s going to expose me. Think of the disgrace! My God, Peter, +think—” + +“Take your hand off my shoulder.” + +“But Peter, think—” + +“The time to think was before—not now, Watts. I will not concern myself +in this.” + +“But, old man. I can’t face it. It will kill Helen!” + +Peter had already thrown aside the arm, and had taken a step towards +the doorway. He stopped and turned. “She does not know?” + +“Not a suspicion. And nothing but absolute proof will make her believe +it. She worships me. Oh, Peter, save her! Save Leonore—if you won’t +save me!” + +“Can they be saved?” + +“That’s what I want to know. Here—sit down, please! I’ll tell you all +about it.” + +Peter hesitated a moment, and then sat down. + +“It began in Paris twelve years ago. Such affairs have a way of +beginning in Paris, old man. It’s in the atmosphere. She—” + +“Stop. I will ask questions. There’s no good going over the whole +story.” Peter tried to speak calmly, and to keep his voice and face +from showing what he felt. He paused a moment, and then said: “She +threatens to expose you. Why?” + +“Well, after three years I tired of it and tried to end it. Then she +used it to blackmail me for ten years, till, in desperation, I came to +America, to see if I couldn’t escape her.” + +“And she followed you?” + +“Yes. She was always tracking me in Europe, and making my life a hell +on earth, and now she’s followed me here.” + +“If it’s merely a question of money, I don’t see what you want of me.” + +“She says she doesn’t want money now—but revenge. She’s perfectly +furious over my coming off without telling her—always had an awful +temper—and—well, you know an infuriated woman is capable of anything. +The Spaniard was right who said it was easier to take care of a peck of +fleas than one woman, eh, chum?” + +“So she threatens to tell your wife?” + +“No. She says she’s going to summon me into court.” + +“On what grounds?” + +“That’s the worst part of it. You see, chum, there’s a child, and she +says she’s going to apply for a proper support for it. Proper support! +Heavens! The money I’ve paid her would support ten children. It’s only +temper.” + +Peter said, “Watts, Watts,” in a sad voice. + +“Pretty bad, isn’t it? If it wasn’t for the child I could—” + +Peter interrupted. “Has she any proofs of paternity besides—?” + +Watts interrupted in turn. “Yes. Confound it! I was fool enough to +write letters during my infatuation. Talleyrand was right when he said +only fools and women wrote letters.” + +“How could you?” + +“That’s what I’ve asked myself a hundred times. Oh, I’m sorry enough. +I’ve sworn never to put pen to paper again. _Jamais!_” + +“I did not mean the letters. But your vow.” + +“My vow?” + +“Your marriage vow.” + +“Oh, yes. I know. But you know, chum, before you promise to love one +woman for all time you should have seen them all.” + +“And that display ten minutes ago was all mockery?” + +“No, no! Really, Peter, I’m awfully fond of the little woman. Really I +am. And you know Daudet says a man can love two women at the same +time.” + +“And if so, how about his honor?” Peter was trying to repress his +emotion, but it would jerk out questions. + +“Yes, I know. I’ve said that to myself over and over again. Why, look +here.” Watts pulled a small revolver from his hip pocket. “This will +show you how close to the desperation point I have come. I’ve carried +that for two days, so that if worse comes to worse—well. Phut!—_Voila +tout_.” + +Peter rose, speaking in a voice ringing with scorn. “You would escape +your sin, to leave it with added disgrace for your wife and daughter to +bear! Put up your pistol, Watts D’Alloi. If I am to help you, I want to +help a man—not a skulker. What do you want me to do?” + +“That’s what I wish to know. What can I do?” + +“You have offered her money?” + +“Yes. I told her that—” + +“Never mind details,” interrupted Peter, “Was it enough to put further +offers out of the question?” + +“Yes. She won’t hear of money. She wants revenge.” + +“Give me her name and address.” + +“Celestine—” The rest was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Well?” +said Watts. + +The door was opened, and a footman entered. “If you please, Mr. +D’Alloi, there’s a Frenchwoman at the door who wants to see you. She +won’t give me her name, but says you’ll know who it is.” + +“Say I won’t see her. That I’m busy.” + +“She told me to say that if you were engaged, she’d see Mrs. D’Alloi.” + +“My God!” said Watts, under his breath. + +“Ask the woman to come in here,” said Peter, quietly, but in a way +which made the man leave the room without waiting to see if Watts +demurred. + +A complete silence followed. Then came the rustle of skirts, and a +woman entered the room. Peter, who stood aside, motioned to the footman +to go, and closed the door himself, turning the key. + +The woman came to the middle of the room. “So, Monsieur D’Alloi,” she +said in French, speaking very low and distinctly, “you thought it best +not to order your groom to turn me out, as you did that last day in +Paris, when you supposed your flight to America left you free to do as +you pleased? But you did not escape me. Here I am.” + +Watts sat down in an easy-chair, and striking a match, lighted a +cigarette. “That, Celestine,” he said in French, “is what in English we +call a self-evident proposition.” + +Celestine’s foot began to tap the floor, “You needn’t pretend you +expected I would follow you. You thought you could drop me, like an old +slipper.” + +Watts blew a whiff of tobacco from his mouth. “It was a remark of +Ricard’s, I believe, ‘that in woman, one should always expect the +unexpected.’” + +“_Mon Dieu_!” shrieked Celestine. “If I—if I could kill you—you—” + +She was interrupted by Peter’s bringing a chair to her and saying in +French, “Will you not sit down, please?” + +She turned in surprise, for she had been too wrought up to notice that +Peter was in the room. She stared at him and then sat down. + +“That’s right,” said Watts. “Take it easy. No occasion to get excited.” + +“Ah!” screamed Celestine, springing to her feet, “your name shall be in +all the papers. You shall—” + +Peter again interrupted. “Madame, will you allow me to say something?” +He spoke gently and deferentially. + +Celestine looked at him again, saying rapidly: “Why should I listen to +you? What are you to me? I don’t even know you. My mind’s made up. I +tell you—” The woman was lashing herself into a fury, and Peter +interrupted her again: + +“Pardon me. We are strangers. If I ask anything of you for myself, I +should expect a refusal. But I ask it for humanity, to which we all owe +help. Only hear what I have to say. I do not claim it as a right, but +as a favor.” + +Celestine sat down. “I listen,” she said. She turned her chair from +Watts and faced Peter, as he stood at the study table. + +Peter paused a moment, and then said: “After what I have seen, I feel +sure you wish only to revenge yourself on Mr. D’Alloi?” + +“Yes.” + +“Now let me show you what you will do. For the last two days Mr. +D’Alloi has carried a pistol in his pocket, and if you disgrace him he +will probably shoot himself.” + +“Bon!” + +“But where is your revenge? He will be beyond your reach, and you will +only have a human life upon your conscience ever after.” + +“I shall not grieve!” + +“Nor is that all. In revenging yourself on him, you do one of the +cruelest acts possible. A wife, who trusts and believes in him, will +have her faith and love shattered. His daughter—a young girl, with all +her life before her—must ever after despise her father and blush at her +name. Do not punish the weak and innocent for the sin of the guilty!” +Peter spoke with an earnestness almost terrible. Tears came into his +eyes as he made his appeal, and his two auditors both rose to their +feet, under the impulse of his voice even more than of his words. So +earnest was he, and so spell-bound were the others, that they failed to +hear the door from the dining-room move, or notice the entrance of Mrs. +D’Alloi as Peter ended his plea. + +A moment’s silence followed Peter’s outburst of feeling. Then the +Frenchwoman cried: + +“Truly, truly. But what will you do for me and my child? Haven’t we +been ill-treated? Don’t you owe us help, too? Justice? Don’t we deserve +tenderness and protection?” + +“Yes,” said Peter. “But you wish revenge. Ask for justice, ask for +help, and I will do what is within my power to aid you.” + +“Watts,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi, coming forward, “of what child are you +talking? Whose child? Who is this woman?” + +Watts jumped as if he had been shot. Celestine even retreated before +the terrible voice and face with which Mrs. D’Alloi asked her +questions. A sad, weary look came into Peter’s eyes. No one answered +Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“Answer me,” she cried + +“My dear little woman. Don’t get excited. It’s all right.” Watts +managed to say this much. But he did not look his last remark. + +“Answer me, I say. Who is this woman? Speak!” + +“It’s all right, really, it’s all right. Here. Peter will tell you it’s +all right.” + +“Peter,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi. “Of whose child were you speaking?” + +Peter was still standing by the desk. He looked sad and broken, as he +said: + +“This is the mother, Mrs. D’Alloi.” + +“Yes? Yes?” + +Peter raised his eyes to Helen’s and looked at her. Then he said +quietly: + +“And Watts—will tell you that—I am its father.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +RUNNING AWAY. + + +The dramatic pause which followed Peter’s statement was first broken by +Mrs. D’Alloi, who threw her arms about Watt’s neck, and cried: “Oh! my +husband. Forgive me, forgive me for the suspicion!” + +Peter turned to Celestine. “Madame,” he said. “We are not wanted here.” +He unlocked the door into the hall, and stood aside while she passed +out, which she did quietly. Another moment found the two on the +sidewalk. “I will walk with you to your hotel, if you will permit me?” +Peter said to her. + +“Certainly,” Celestine replied. Nothing more was said in the walk of +ten blocks. When they reached the hotel entrance, Peter asked: “Can you +see me for a few moments?” + +“Yes. Come to my private parlor.” They took the elevator, and were but +a moment in reaching that apartment. + +Peter spoke the moment the door was closed. “Madame,” he said, “you saw +that scene. Spare his wife and child? He is not worth your anger.” + +“Ah, Ciel!” cried Celestine, emotionally. “Do you think so lowly of me, +that you can imagine I would destroy your sacrifice? Your romantic, +your dramatic, _mon Dieu!_ your noble sacrifice? Non, non. Celestine +Lacour could never do so. She will suffer cruelty, penury, insults, +before she behaves so shamefully, so perfidiously.” + +Peter did not entirely sympathize with the Frenchwoman’s admiration for +the dramatic element, but he was too good a lawyer not to accept an +admission, no matter upon what grounds. He held out his hand promptly. +“Madame,” he said, “accept my thanks and admiration for your generous +conduct.” + +Celestine took it and shook it warmly. + +“Of course,” said Peter. “Mr. D’Alloi owes you an ample income.” + +“Ah!” cried Celestine, shrugging her shoulders. “Do not talk of him—I +leave it to you to make him do what is right.” + +“And you will return to France?” + +“Yes, yes. If you say so?” Celestine looked at Peter in a manner known +only to the Latin races. Just then a side door was thrown open, and a +boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a +French poodle. + +“Little villain!” cried Celestine. “How dare you approach without +knocking? Go. Go. Quickly.” + +“Pardon, Madame,” said the child. “I thought you still absent.” + +“Is that the child?” asked Peter. + +“Yes,” said Celestine. + +“Does he know?” + +“Nothing. I do not tell him even that I am his mother.” + +“Then you are not prepared to give him a mother’s care and tenderness?” + +“Never. I love him not. He is too like his father. And I cannot have it +known that I am the mother of a child of twelve. It would not be +believed, even.” Celestine took a look at herself in the tall mirror. + +“Then I suppose you would like some arrangement about him?” + +“Yes.” + +Peter stayed for nearly an hour with the woman. He stayed so long, that +for one of the few times in his life he was late at a dinner +engagement. But when he had left Celestine, every detail had been +settled. Peter did not have an expression of pleasure on his face as he +rode down-town, nor was he very good company at the dinner which he +attended that evening. + +The next day did not find him in any better mood. He went down-town, +and called on an insurance company and talked for a while with the +president. Then he called at a steamship office. After that he spent +twenty minutes with the head of one of the large schools for boys in +the city. Then he returned to his office. + +“A Mr. D’Alloi is waiting for you in your private office, sir,” he was +told. “He said that he was an old friend and insisted on going in +there.” + +Peter passed into his office. + +Watts cried: “My dear boy, how can I ever—” + +He was holding out his hand, but Peter failed to take it, and +interrupted him. + +“I have arranged it all with Madame Lacour,” Peter said coldly. “She +sails on La Bretagne on Thursday. You are to buy an annuity for three +thousand dollars a year. In addition, you are to buy an annuity for the +boy till he is twenty-five, of one thousand dollars a year, payable to +me as his guardian. This will cost you between forty and fifty thousand +dollars. I will notify you of the amount when the insurance company +sends it to me. In return for your check, I shall send you the letters +and other things you sent Madame Lacour, or burn them, as you direct. +Except for this the affair is ended. I need not detain you further.” + +“Oh, I say, chum. Don’t take it this way,” cried Watts. “Do you +think—?” + +“I end it as suits me,” said Peter. “Good-day.” + +“But, at least you must let me pay you a fee for your work?” + +Peter turned on Watts quickly, but checked the movement and the words +on his tongue. He only reiterated. “Good-day.” + +“Well, if you will have it so.” Watts went to the door, but hesitated. +“Just as you please. If, later, you change your mind, send me word. I +shan’t cherish any feeling for this. I want to be friends.” + +“Good-day,” said Peter. Watts passed out, closing the door. + +Peter sat down at his desk, doing nothing, for nearly an hour. How long +he would have sat will never be known, if his brown study had not been +ended by Rivington’s entrance. “The Appeals have just handed down their +decision in the Henley case. We win.” + +“I thought we should,” said Peter mechanically. + +“Why, Peter! What’s the matter with you? You look as seedy as—” + +“As I feel,” said Peter. “I’m going to stop work and take a ride, to +see if I can’t knock some of my dulness out of me.” Within an hour he +was at the Riding Club. + +“Hello,” said the stable man. “Twice in one day! You’re not often here +at this hour, sir. Which horse will you have?” + +“Give me whichever has the most life in him.” + +“It’s Mutineer has the devil in him always, sir. Though it’s not +yourself need fear any horse. Only look out for the ice.” + +Peter rode into the Park in ten minutes. He met Lispenard at the first +turn. + +“Hello! It’s not often you are here at this hour.” Lispenard reined his +horse up alongside. + +“No,” said Peter. “I’ve been through a very revolt—a very disagreeable +experience, and I’ve come up here to get some fresh air. I don’t want +to be sociable.” + +“That’s right. Truthful as ever. But one word before we separate. +Keppel has just received two proofs of Haden’s last job. He asks awful +prices for them, but you ought to see them.” + +“Thanks.” And the two friends separated as only true friends can +separate. + +Peter rode on, buried in his own thoughts. The park was rather empty, +for dark comes on early in March, and dusk was already in the air. He +shook himself presently, and set Mutineer at a sharp canter round the +larger circle of the bridle path. But before they had half swung the +circle, he was deep in thought again, and Mutineer was taking his own +pace. Peter deserved to get a stumble and a broken neck or leg, but he +didn’t. He was saved from it by an incident which never won any credit +for its good results to Peter, however much credit it gained him. + +Peter was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear +the clutter of a horse’s feet behind him, just as he struck the long +stretch of the comparatively straight path along the Reservoir. But +Mutineer did, and pricked up his ears. Mutineer could not talk +articulately, but all true lovers of horses understand their language. +Mutineer’s cogitations, transmuted into human speech, were something to +this effect: + +“Hello! What’s that horse trying to do? He can’t for a moment expect to +pass me!” + +But the next moment a roan mare actually did pass him, going at a swift +gallop. + +Mutineer laid his ears back, “The impudence!” he said. “Does that +little whiffet of a roan mare think she’s going to show me her heels? +I’ll teach her!” It is a curious fact that both the men and horses who +are most seldom passed by their kind, object to it most when it +happens. + +Peter suddenly came back to affairs earthly to find Mutineer just +settling into a gait not permitted by Park regulations. He drew rein, +and Mutineer, knowing that the fun was up, danced round the path in his +bad temper. + +“Really,” he said to himself, “if I wasn’t so fond of you, I’d give you +and that mare, an awful lesson. Hello! not another? This is too much!” + +The last remarks had relation to more clattering of hoofs. In a moment +a groom was in view, going also at a gallop. + +“Hout of the way,” cried the groom, to Peter, for Mutineer was waltzing +round the path in a way that suggested “no thoroughfare.” “Hi’m after +that runaway.” + +Peter looked after the first horse, already a hundred feet away. He +said nothing to groom nor horse, but Mutineer understood the sudden +change in the reins, even before he felt that maddening prick of the +spurs. There was a moment’s wild grinding of horse’s feet on the +slippery road and then Mutineer had settled to his long, tremendous +stride. + +“Now, I’ll show you,” he remarked, “but if only he wouldn’t hold me so +damned tight.” We must forgive Mutineer for swearing. He lived so much +with the stablemen, that, gentleman though he was, evil communications +could not be entirely resisted. + +Peter was riding “cool.” He knew he could run the mare down, but he +noticed that the woman, who formed the mount, was sitting straight, and +he could tell from the position of her elbows that she was still +pulling on her reins, if ineffectually. He thought it best therefore to +let the mare wind herself before he forced himself up, lest he should +only make the runaway horse the wilder. So after a hundred yards’ run, +he drew Mutineer down to the mare’s pace, about thirty feet behind her. + +They ran thus for another hundred yards. Then suddenly Peter saw the +woman drop her reins, and catch at the saddle. His quick eye told him +in a moment what had happened. The saddle-girth had broken, or the +saddle was turning. He dug his spurs into Mutineer, so that the horse, +who had never had such treatment, thought that he had been touched by +two branding irons. He gave a furious shake of his ears, and really +showed the blood of his racing Kentucky forebears. In fifteen seconds +the horse was running even with the mare. + +Peter had intended merely to catch the reins of the runaway, trusting +to his strength to do what a woman’s could not. But when he came up +alongside, he saw that the saddle had turned so far that the rider +could not keep her seat ten seconds longer. So he dropped his reins, +bent over, and putting his arms about the woman lifted her off the +precarious seat, and put her in front of him. He held her there with +one arm, and reached for his reins. But Mutineer had tossed them over +his head. + +“Mutineer!” said Peter, with an inflection of voice decidedly +commanding. + +“I covered a hundred yards to your seventy,” Mutineer told the roan +mare. “On a mile track I could go round you twice, without getting out +of breath. I could beat you now, even with double mount easily. But my +Peter has dropped the reins and that puts me on my honor. Good-bye.” +Mutineer checked his great racing stride, broke to a canter; dropped to +a trot; altered that to a walk, and stopped. + +Peter had been rather astonished at the weight he had lifted. Peter had +never lifted a woman before. His chief experience in the weight of +human-kind had been in wrestling matches at the armory, and only the +largest and most muscular men in the regiment cared to try a bout with +him. Of course Peter knew as a fact that women were lighter than men, +but after bracing himself, much as he would have done to try the +cross-buttock with two hundred pounds of bone and brawn, he marvelled +much at the ease with which he transferred the rider. “She can’t weigh +over eighty pounds,” he thought. Which was foolish, for the woman +actually weighed one hundred and eighteen, as Peter afterwards learned. + +The woman also surprised Peter in another way. Scarcely had she been +placed in front of him, than she put her arms about his neck and buried +her face in his shoulder. She was not crying, but she was drawing her +breath in great gasps in a manner which scared Peter terribly. Peter +had never had a woman cling to him in that way, and frightened as he +was, he made three very interesting discoveries: + +1. That a man’s shoulder seems planned by nature as a resting place for +a woman’s head. + +2. That a man’s arm about a woman’s waist is a very pleasant position +for the arm. + +3. That a pair of woman’s arms round a man’s neck, with the clasped +hands, even if gloved, just resting on the back of his neck, is very +satisfying. + +Peter could not see much of the woman. His arm told him that she was +decidedly slender, and he could just catch sight of a small ear and a +cheek, whose roundness proved the youth of the person. Otherwise he +could only see a head of very pretty brown hair, the smooth dressing of +which could not entirely conceal its longing to curl. + +When Mutineer stopped, Peter did not quite know what to do. Of course +it was his duty to hold the woman till she recovered herself. That was +a plain duty—and pleasant. Peter said to himself that he really was +sorry for her, and thought his sensations were merely the satisfaction +of a father in aiding his daughter. We must forgive his foolishness, +for Peter had never been a father, and so did not know the parental +feeling. + +It had taken Mutineer twenty seconds to come to a stand, and for ten +seconds after, no change in the condition occurred. Then suddenly the +woman stopped her gasps. Peter, who was looking down at her, saw the +pale cheek redden. The next moment, the arms were taken from his neck +and the woman was sitting up straight in front of him. He got a +downward look at the face, and he thought it was the most charming he +had ever seen. + +The girl kept her eyes lowered, while she said firmly, though with +traces of breathlessness and tremulo in her voice, “Please help me +down.” + +Peter was out of his saddle in a moment, and lifted the girl down. She +staggered slightly on reaching the ground, so that Peter said: “You had +better lean on me.” + +“No,” said the girl, still looking down, “I will lean against the +horse.” She rested against Mutineer, who looked around to see who was +taking this insulting liberty with a Kentucky gentleman. Having looked +at her he said: “You’re quite welcome, you pretty dear!” Peter thought +he would like to be a horse, but then it occurred to him that equines +could not have had what he had just had, so he became reconciled to his +lot. + +The girl went on flushing, even after she was safely leaning against +Mutineer. There was another ten seconds’ pause, and then she said, +still with downcast eyes, “I was so frightened, that I did not know +what I was doing.” + +“You behaved very well,” said Peter, in the most comforting voice he +could command. “You held your horse splendidly.” + +“I wasn’t a bit frightened, till the saddle began to turn.” The girl +still kept her eyes on the ground, and still blushed. She was +undergoing almost the keenest mortification possible for a woman. She +had for a moment been horrified by the thought that she had behaved in +this way to a groom. But a stranger—a gentleman—was worse! She had not +looked at Peter’s face, but his irreproachable riding-rig had been +noticed. “If it had only been a policeman,” she thought. “What can I +say to him?” + +Peter saw the mortification without quite understanding it. He knew, +however, it was his duty to ease it, and took the best way by giving +her something else to think about. + +“As soon as you feel able to walk, you had better take my arm. We can +get a cab at the 72d Street entrance, probably. If you don’t feel able +to walk, sit down on that stone, and I’ll bring a cab. It oughtn’t to +take me ten minutes.” + +“You are very good,” said the girl, raising her eyes, and taking a look +at Peter’s face for the first time. + +A thrill went through Peter. + +The girl had slate-colored eyes!! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +A DREAM. + + +Something in Peter’s face seemed to reassure the girl, for though she +looked down after the glance, she ceased leaning against the horse, and +said, “I behaved very foolishly, of course. Now I will do whatever you +think best.” + +Before Peter had recovered enough from his thrill to put what he +thought into speech, a policeman came riding towards them, leading the +roan mare. “Any harm done?” he called. + +“None, fortunately. Where can we get a cab? Or can you bring one here?” + +“I’m afraid there’ll be none nearer than Fifty-ninth Street. They leave +the other entrances before it’s as dark as this.” + +“Never mind the cab,” said the girl. “If you’ll help me to mount, I’ll +ride home.” + +“That’s the pluck!” said the policeman. + +“Do you think you had better?” asked Peter. + +“Yes. I’m not a bit afraid. If you’ll just tighten the girth.” + +It seemed to Peter he had never encountered such a marvellously +fascinating combination as was indicated by the clinging position of a +minute ago and the erect one of the present moment. He tightened the +girth with a pull that made the roan mare wonder if a steam-winch had +hold of the end, and then had the pleasure of the little foot being +placed in his hand for a moment, as he lifted the girl into the saddle. + +“I shall ride with you,” he said, mounting instantly. + +“Beg pardon,” said the policeman. “I must take your names. We are +required to report all such things to headquarters.” + +“Why, Williams, don’t you know me?” asked Peter. + +Williams looked at Peter, now for the first time on a level with him. +“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stirling. It was so dark, and you are so seldom +here afternoons that I didn’t know you.” + +“Tell the chief that this needn’t go on record, nor be given to the +reporters.” + +“Very well, Mr. Stirling.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the girl in a frank yet shy way, “but will +you tell me your first name?” + +Peter was rather astonished, but he said “Peter.” + +“Oh!” cried the girl, looking Peter in the face. “I understand it now. +I didn’t think I could behave so to a stranger! I must have felt it was +you.” She was smiling joyfully, and she did not drop her eyes from his. +On the contrary she held out her hand to him. + +Of course Peter took it. He did not stop to ask if it was right or +wrong to hold a young girl’s hand. If it was wrong, it was certainly a +very small one, judging from the size of the hand. + +“I was so mortified! But if it’s you it’s all right.” + +Peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and +complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its +general friendliness. His manner may have suggested this, for suddenly +the girl said: + +“But of course, you do not know who I am? How foolish of me! I am +Leonore D’Alloi.” + +It was Peter’s turn to gasp. “Not—?” he began and then stopped. + +“Yes,” said the girl joyfully, as if Peter’s “not” had had something +delightful in it. + +“But—she’s a child.” + +“I’ll be eighteen next week,” said Leonore, with all the readiness of +that number of years to proclaim its age. + +Peter concluded that he must accept the fact. Watts could have a child +that old. Having reached this conclusion, he said, “I ought to have +known you by your likeness to your mother.” Which was an unintentional +lie. Her mother’s eyes she had, as well as the long lashes; and she had +her mother’s pretty figure, though she was taller. But otherwise she +was far more like Watts. Her curly hair, her curvy mouth, the dimple, +and the contour of the face were his. Leonore D’Alloi was a far greater +beauty than her mother had ever been. But to Peter, it was merely a +renewal of his dream. + +Just at this point the groom rode up. “Beg pardon, Miss D’Alloi,” he +said, touching his cap. “My ’orse went down on a bit of hice.” + +“You are not hurt, Belden?” said Miss D’Alloi. + +Peter thought the anxious tone heavenly. He rather wished he had broken +something himself. + +“No. Nor the ’orse.” + +“Then it’s all right. Mr. Stirling, we need not interrupt your ride. +Belden will see me home.” + +Belden see her home! Peter would see him do it! That was what Peter +thought. He said, “I shall ride with you, of course.” So they started +their horses, the groom dropping behind. + +“Do you want to try it again?” asked Mutineer of the roan. + +“No,” said the mare. “You are too big and strong.” + +Leonore was just saying: “I could hear the pound of a horse’s feet +behind me, but I thought it was the groom, and knew he could never +overtake Fly-away. So when I felt the saddle begin to slip, I thought I +was—was going to be dragged—as I once saw a woman in England—Oh!—and +then suddenly I saw a horse’s head, and then I felt some one take hold +of me so firmly that I didn’t have to hold myself at all, and I knew I +was safe. Oh, how nice it is to be big and strong!” + +Peter thought so too. + +So it is the world over. Peter and Mutineer felt happy and proud in +their strength, and Leonore and Fly-away glorified them for it. Yet in +spite of this, as Peter looked down at the curly head, from his own and +Mutineers altitude, he felt no superiority, and knew that the slightest +wish expressed by that small mouth, would be as strong with him as if a +European army obeyed its commands. + +“What a tremendous horse you have?” said Leonore. “Isn’t he?” assented +Peter. “He’s got a bad temper, I’m sorry to say, but I’m very fond of +him. He was given me by my regiment, and was the choice of a very dear +friend now dead.” + +“Who was that?” + +“No one you know. A Mr. Costell.” + +“Oh, yes I do. I’ve heard all about him.” + +“What do you know of Mr. Costell?” + +“What Miss De Voe told me.” + +“Miss De Voe?” + +“Yes. We saw her both times in Europe. Once at Nice, and once in—in +1882—at Maggiore. The first time, I was only six, but she used to tell +me stories about you and the little children in the angle. The last +time she told me all she could remember about you. We used to drift +about the lake moonlight nights, and talk about you.” + +“What made that worth doing to you?” + +“Oh from the very beginning, that I can remember, papa was always +talking about ‘dear old Peter’”—the talker said the last three words in +such a tone, shot such a look up at Peter, half laughing and half +timid, that in combination they nearly made Peter reel in his +saddle—“and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak +of, so I became very curious about you as a little girl, and then Miss +De Voe made me more interested, so that I began questioning Americans, +because I was really anxious to learn things concerning you. Nearly +every one did know something, so I found out a great deal about you.” + +Peter was realizing for the first time in his life, how champagne made +one feel. + +“Tell me whom you found who knew anything about me?” + +“Oh, nearly everybody knew something. That is, every one we’ve met in +the last five years. Before that, there was Miss De Voe, and grandpapa, +of course, when he came over in 1879—” + +“But,” interrupted Peter, “I don’t think I had met him once before that +time, except at the Shrubberies.” + +“No, he hadn’t seen you. But he knew a lot about you, from Mr. Lapharn +and Mr. Avery, and some other men who had met you.” + +“Who else?” + +“Miss Leroy, mamma’s bridesmaid, who spent two weeks at our villa near +Florence, and Dr. Purple, your clergyman, who was in the same house +with us at Ober-Ammergau, and—and—oh the best were Mr. and Mrs. +Rivington. They were in Jersey, having their honeymoon. They told me +more than all the rest put together.” + +“I feel quite safe in their hands. Dorothy and I formed a mutual +admiration society a good many years ago.” + +“She and Mr. Rivington couldn’t say enough good of you.” + +“You must make allowance for the fact that they were on their wedding +journey, and probably saw everything rose-colored.” + +“That was it. Dorothy told me about your giving Mr. Rivington a full +partnership, in order that Mr. Ogden should give his consent.” + +Peter laughed. + +“Ray swore that he wouldn’t tell. And Dorothy has always appeared +ignorant. And yet she knew it on her wedding trip.” + +“She couldn’t help it. She said she must tell some one, she was so +happy. So she told mamma and me. She showed us your photograph. Papa +and mamma said it was like you, but I don’t think it is.” + +Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had +the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did +not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the +man’s remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that +Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not +intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of +this dialogue, Peter had had only “come-and-go” glimpses of those eyes. +He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face +up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair, +and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. +For the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that “life isn’t all +beer and skittles.” + +“I’ve been so anxious to meet you. I’ve begged papa ever since we +landed to take me to see you. And he’s promised me, over and over +again, to do it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very +strange and—and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt +that I really knew you, and wouldn’t have to begin new as I do with +other people. I do so dread next winter when I’m to go into society. I +don’t know what I shall do, I’ll not know any one.” + +“You’ll know me.” + +“But you don’t go into society.” + +“Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next +winter. I’ve shut myself up too much.” This was a discovery of Peter’s +made in the last ten seconds. + +“How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of +attention?” + +“You’ll probably want very little. I don’t dance.” Peter suddenly +became conscious that Mr. Weller was right. + +“But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing.” + +Peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with Leonore. Was +it possible life had such richness in it? Then he said with a bitter +note in his voice very unusual to him: + +“I’m afraid I’m too old to learn.” + +“Not a bit,” said Leonore. “You don’t look any older than lots of men +I’ve seen valsing. Young men I mean. And I’ve seen men seventy years +old dancing in Europe.” + +Whether Peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned. +But fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a +stable. + +“Why,” said Leonore, “here we are already! What a short ride it has +been.” + +Peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. But then he +suddenly remembered that Leonore was to be lifted from her horse. He +became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to +her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a +military training. He put his hands up, and for a moment had—well, +Peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment +into words. And it was not merely that Leonore had been in his arms for +a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes. + +“I wish you would take my horse round to the Riding Club,” he told the +groom. “I wish to see Miss D’Alloi home.” + +“Thank you very much, but my maid is here in the brougham, so I need +not trouble you. Good-bye, and thank you. Oh, thank you so much!” She +stood very close to Peter, and looked up into his eyes with her own. +“There’s no one I would rather have had save me.” + +She stepped into the brougham, and Peter closed the door. He mounted +his horse again, and straightening himself up, rode away. + +“Hi thought,” remarked the groom to the stableman, “that ’e didn’t know +’ow to sit ’is ’orse, but ’e’s all right, arter all. ’E rides like ha +’orse guards capting, w’en ’e don’t ’ave a girl to bother ’im.” + +Would that girl bother him? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +“FRIENDS.” + + +At first blush, judging from Peter’s behavior, the girl was not going +to bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom, +went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening +papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had +reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead +of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, +put on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock’s, and lighting +one, settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many +cigars he smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make +people skeptical of the narrative. + +Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not +fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the +sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from +him for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his +face. He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but +he did not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what +he called a “revolting experience,” but it is doubtful if he was +thinking of that. Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different +look on his face than that which it used to wear while he studied blank +walls. + +When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the +next morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, “Dear sir,” upon it. +Then he tore it up. He took another and wrote, “My dear Mr. D’Alloi.” +He tore that up. Another he began, “Dear Watts.” A moment later it was +in the paper basket. “My dear friend,” served to bring a similar fate +to the fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. +Finally he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, +and, opening a door, put his head in. + +“You hypocritical scoundrel,” he said. “You swore to me that you would +never tell a living soul.” + +“Well?” came a very guilty voice back. + +“And Dorothy’s known all this time.” + +Dead silence. + +“And you’ve both been as innocent as—as you were guilty.” + +“Look here, Peter, I can’t make you understand, because you’ve—you’ve +never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your +generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn’t bring a tenth of +the business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn’t told her, I +should have simply—bust. She swore she’d never tell. And now she’s told +you!” + +“No, but she told some one else.” + +“Never!” + +“Yes.” + +“Then she’s broken her word. She—” + +“The Pot called the Kettle black.” + +“But to tell one’s own wife is different. I thought she could keep a +secret.” + +“How can you expect a person to keep a secret when you can’t keep it +yourself?” Peter and Ray were both laughing. + +Ray said to himself, “Peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and +is resting the brain tissue for a moment.” Ray had noticed, when Peter +interrupted him during office hours, on matters not relating to +business, that he had a big or complex question in hand. + +Peter closed the door and went back to his room. Then he took a fifth +sheet of paper, and wrote: + + +“WATTS: A day’s thought has brought a change of feeling on my part. +Neither can be the better for alienation or unkind thoughts. I regret +already my attitude of yesterday. Let us cancel all that has happened +since our college days, and put aside as if it had never occurred. + +“PETER” + + +Just as he had finished this, his door opened softly. ‘Peter did not +hear it, but took the letter up and read it slowly. + +“Boo!” + +Peter did not jump at the Boo. He looked up very calmly, but the moment +he looked up, jump he did. He jumped so that he was shaking hands +before the impetus was lost. + +“This is the nicest kind of a surprise,” he said. + +“Bother you, you phlegmatic old cow,” cried a merry voice. “Here we +have spent ten minutes palavering your boy, in order to make him let us +surprise you, and then when we spring it on you, you don’t budge. +Wasn’t it shabby treatment, Dot?” + +“You’ve disappointed us awfully, Mr. Stirling.” + +Peter was shaking hands more deliberately with Leonore than he had with +Watts. He had been rather clever in shaking hands with him first, so +that he need not hurry himself over the second. So he had a very nice +moment—all too short—while Leonore’s hand lay in his. He said, in order +to prolong the moment, without making it too marked, “It will take +something more frightful than you, Miss D’Alloi, to make me jump.” Then +Peter was sorry he had said it, for Leonore dropped her eyes. + +“Now, old man, give an account of yourself.” Watts was speaking +jauntily, but not quite as easily as he usually did. “Here Leonore and +I waited all last evening, and you never came. So she insisted that we +come this morning.” + +“I don’t understand?” Peter was looking at Leonore as if she had made +the remark. Leonore was calmly examining Peter’s room. + +“Why, even a stranger would have called last night to inquire about +Dot’s health, after such an accident. But for you not to do it, was +criminal. If you have aught to say why sentence should not now be +passed on you, speak now or forever—no—that’s the wedding ceremony, +isn’t it? Not criminal sentence—though, on second thought, there’s not +much difference.” + +“Did you expect me, Miss D’Alloi?” + +Miss D’Alloi was looking at a shelf of law books with her back to +Peter, and was pretending great interest in them. She did not turn, but +said “Yes.” + +“I wish I had known that,” said Peter, with the sincerest regret in his +voice. + +Miss D’Alloi’s interest in legal literature suddenly ceased. She turned +and Peter had a momentary glimpse of those wonderful eyes. Either his +words or tone had evidently pleased Miss D’Alloi. The corners of her +mouth were curving upwards. She made a deep courtesy to him and said: +“You will be glad to know, Mr. Stirling, that Miss D’Alloi has suffered +no serious shock from her runaway, and passed a good night. It seemed +to Miss D’Alloi that the least return she could make for Mr. Stirling’s +kindness, was to save him the trouble of coming to inquire about Miss +D’Alloi’s health, and so leave Mr. Stirling more time to his grimy old +law books.” + +“There, sir, I hope you are properly crushed for your wrong-doing,” +cried Watts. + +“I’m not going to apologize for not coming,” said Peter, “for that is +my loss; but I can say that I’m sorry.” + +“That’s quite enough,” said Leonore. “I thought perhaps you didn’t want +to be friends. And as I like to have such things right out, I made papa +bring me down this morning so that I could see for myself.” She spoke +with a frankness that seemed to Peter heavenly, even while he grew cold +at the thought that she should for a moment question his desire to be +friends. + +“Of course you and Peter will be friends,” said Watts. + +“But mamma told me last night—after we went upstairs, that she was sure +Mr. Stirling would never call.” + +“Never, Dot?” cried Watts. + +“Yes. And when I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me at first, but at +last she said it was because he was so unsociable. I shan’t be friends +with any one who won’t come to see me.” Leonore was apparently looking +at the floor, but from under her lashes she was looking at something +else. + +Whatever Peter may have felt, he looked perfectly cool. Too cool, +Leonore thought. “I’m not going to make any vows or protestations of +friendship,” he said, “I won’t even pledge myself to come and see you, +Miss D’Alloi. Remember, friendship comes from the word free. If we are +to be friends, we must each leave the other to act freely.” + +“Well,” said Leonore, “that is, I suppose, a polite way of saying that +you don’t intend to come. Now I want to know why you won’t?” + +“The reasons will take too long to explain to you now, so I’ll defer +the telling till the first time I call on you.” Peter was smiling down +at her. + +Miss D’Alloi looked up at Peter, to see what meaning his face gave his +last remark. Then she held out her two hands. “Of course we are to be +the best of friends,” she said. Peter got a really good look down into +those eyes as they shook hands. + +The moment this matter had been settled, Leonore’s manner changed. “So +this is the office of the great Peter Stirling?” she said, with the +nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to Peter. + +“It doesn’t look it,” said Watts. “By George, with the business people +say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. It’s worse even +than our old Harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough.” + +“There is a method in its plainness. If you want style, go into Ogden’s +and Rivington’s rooms.” + +“Why do you have the plain office, Mr. Stirling?” + +“I have a lot of plain people to deal with, and so I try to keep my +room simple, to put them at their ease. I’ve never heard of my losing a +client yet, because my room is as it is, while I should have frightened +away some if I had gone in for the same magnificence as my partners.” + +“But I say, chum, I should think that is the sort you would want to +frighten away. There can’t be any money in their business?” + +“We weren’t talking of money. We were talking of people. I am very glad +to say, that with my success, there has been no change in my relations +with my ward. They all come to me here, and feel perfectly at home, +whether they come as clients, as co-workers, or merely as friends.” + +“Ho, ho,” laughed Watts. “You wily old fox! See the four bare walls. +The one shelf of law books. The one cheap cabinet of drawers. The four +simple chairs, and the plain desk. Behold the great politician! The man +of the people.” + +Peter made no reply. But Leonore said to him, “I’m glad you help the +poor people still, Mr. Stirling,” and gave Peter another glimpse of +those eyes. Peter didn’t mind after that. + +“Look here, Dot,” said Watts. “You mustn’t call chum Mr. Stirling. That +won’t do. Call him—um—call him Uncle Peter.” + +“I won’t,” said Leonore, delighting Peter thereby. “Let me see. What +shall I call you?” she asked of Peter. + +“Honey,” laughed Watts. + +“What shall I call you?” Miss D’Alloi put her head on one side, and +looked at Peter out of the corners of her eyes. + +“You must decide that, Miss D’Alloi.” + +“I suppose I must. I—think—I—shall—call—you—Peter.” She spoke +hesitatingly till she said his name, but that went very smoothly. Peter +on the spot fell in love with the five letters as she pronounced them. + +“Plain Peter?” inquired Watts. + +“Now what will you call me?” + +“Miss D’Alloi,” said Peter. + +“No. You—are—to—call—me—call—me—” + +“Miss D’Alloi,” re-affirmed Peter. + +“Then I will call you Mr. Stirling, Peter.” + +“No, you won’t.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you said you’d call me Peter.” + +“But not if you won’t—” + +“You made no condition at the time of promise. Shall I show you the +law?” + +“No. And I shall not call you Peter, any more, Peter.” + +“Then I shall prosecute you.” + +“But I should win the case, for I should hire a friend of mine to +defend me. A man named Peter.” Leonore sat down in Peter’s chair. “I’m +going to write him at once about it.” She took one of his printed +letter sheets and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her +lips (Peter has that pen still), thought for a moment. Then she wrote: + + +DEAR PETER: + +I am threatened with a prosecution. Will you defend me? Address your +reply to “Dear Leonore.” + +LEONORE D’ALLOI. + + +“Now” she said to Peter, “you must write me a letter in reply. Then you +can have this note.” Leonore rose with the missive in her hand. + +“I never answer letters till I’ve received them.” Peter took hold of +the slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. Then he sat down +at his desk and wrote on another sheet: + + +DEAR MISS D’ALLOI: + +I will defend you faithfully and always. + +PETER STIRLING + + +“That isn’t what I said,” remarked Miss D’Alloi. “But I suppose it will +have to do.” + +“You forget one important thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“My retaining fee.” + +“Oh, dear,” sighed Leonore. “My allowance is nearly gone. Don’t you +ever do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?” + +“Not if their poverty is pretence.” + +“Oh, but mine isn’t. Really. See. Here is my purse. Look for yourself. +That’s all I shall have till the first of the month.” + +She gave Peter her purse. He was still sitting at his desk, and he very +deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. He +handled each article. There was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the +last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. There +were two one-dollar bills. There was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters +and a dime. A gold German twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of +narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove button, completed the contents. +Peter returned the American money and the glove button to the purse and +handed it back to Miss D’Alloi. + +“You’ve forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece,” said Leonore. + +“You were never more mistaken in your life,” replied Peter, with +anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. He +folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat +pocket. + +“Oh,” said Leonore, “I can’t let you have that That’s my luck-piece.” + +“Is it?” Peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his +tone. + +“Yes. You don’t want to take my good luck.” + +“I will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later. + +“Please!” Miss D’Alloi pleaded. + +“That is just what I have succeeded in doing—for myself.” + +“But I want my luck-piece. I found it in a crack of the rocks crossing +the Ghemi. And I must have the ribbon. I need it to match for a gown it +goes with.” Miss D’Alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she +really felt. + +“I shall be glad to help you match it,” said Peter, “and any time you +send me word, I will go shopping with you. As for your luck, I shall +keep that for the present.” + +“Now I know,” said Leonore crossly, “why lawyers have such a bad +reputation. They are perfect thieves!” She looked at Peter with the +corners of her mouth drawn down. He gazed at her with a very grave look +on his face. They eyed each other steadily for a moment, and then the +corners of Leonore’s mouth suddenly curled upwards. She tried hard for +a moment to keep serious. Then she gave up and laughed. Then they both +laughed. + +Many people will only see an amusing side to the dialogue here so +carefully recorded. If so, look back to the time when everything that +he or she said was worth listening to. Or if there has never been a he +or a she, imitate Peter, and wait. It is worth waiting for. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +THE HERMITAGE. + + +It is not to be supposed from this last reflection of ours, that +Leonore was not heart-whole. Leonore had merely had a few true friends, +owing to her roving life, and at seventeen a girl craves friends. When, +therefore, the return to America was determined upon, she had at once +decided that Peter and she would be the closest of friends. That she +would tell him all her confidences, and take all her troubles to him. +Miss De Voe and Dorothy had told her about Peter, and from their +descriptions, as well as from her father’s reminiscences, Leonore had +concluded that Peter was just the friend she had wanted for so long. +That Leonore held her eyes down, and tried to charm yet tantalize her +intended friend, was because Leonore could not help it, being only +seventeen and a girl. If Leonore had felt anything but a friendly +interest and liking, blended with much curiosity, in Peter, she never +would have gone to see him in his office, and would never have talked +and laughed so frankly with him. + +As for Peter, he did not put his feelings into good docketed shape. He +did not attempt to label them at all. He had had a delicious half-hour +yesterday. He had decided, the evening before, that he must see those +slate-colored eyes again, if he had to go round the world in pursuit of +them. How he should do it, he had not even thought out, till the next +morning. He had understood very clearly that the owner of those +slate-colored eyes was really an unknown quantity to him. He had +understood, too, that the chances were very much against his caring to +pursue those eyes after he knew them better. But he was adamant that he +must see those eyes again, and prove for himself whether they were but +an _ignis fatuus_, or the radiant stars that Providence had cast for +the horoscope of Peter Stirling. He was studying those eyes, with their +concomitants, at the present time. He was studying them very coolly, to +judge from his appearance and conduct. Yet he was enjoying the study in +a way that he had never enjoyed the study of somebody “On Torts.” +Somebody “On Torts,” never looked like that. Somebody “On Torts,” never +had luck-pieces, and silk ribbons. Somebody “On Torts,” never wrote +letters and touched the end of pens to its lips. Somebody “On Torts,” +never courtesied, nor looked out from under its eyelashes, nor called +him Peter. + +While this investigation had been progressing, Watts had looked at the +shelf of law books, had looked out of the window, had whistled, and had +yawned. Finally, in sheer _ennui_ he had thrown open a door, and looked +to see what lay beyond. + +“Ha, ha!” he cried. “All is discovered. See! Here sits Peter Stirling, +the ward politician, enthroned in Jeffersonian simplicity. But here, +behind the arras, sits Peter Stirling, the counsellor of banks and +railroads, in the midst of all the gorgeousness of the golden East.” +Watts passed into the room beyond. + +“What does he mean, Peter?” + +“He has gone into my study. Would you like—” + +He was interrupted by Watts calling, “Come in here, Dot, and see how +the unsociable old hermit bestows himself.” + +So Leonore and Peter followed Watts’s lead. The room into which they +went was rather a curious one. It was at least twenty-five feet square, +having four windows, two looking out on Broadway, and two on the side +street. It had one other door besides that by which they had entered. +Here the ordinary quality ended. Except for the six openings already +noted and a large fireplace, the walls were shelved from floor to +ceiling (which was not a low one), with dusky oak shelving. The ceiling +was panelled in dark oak, and the floor was covered with a smooth +surface of the same wood. Yet though the shelves were filled with +books, few could be seen, for on every upright of the shelving, were +several frames of oak, hinged as one sees them in public galleries +occasionally, and these frames contained etchings, engravings, and +paintings. Some were folded back against the shelves. Others stood out +at right angles to them and showed that the frames were double ones, +both sides containing something. Four easy-chairs, three less easy +chairs, and a large table desk, likewise of dusky oak were the sole +other fittings of the room, if we except two large polar bear skins. + +“Oh,” cried Leonore looking about, “I’m so glad to see this. People +have told me so much about your rooms. And no two of them ever agreed.” + +“No,” said Peter. “It seems a continual bone of contention with my +friends. They scold me because I shelved it to the ceiling, because I +put in one-colored wood, because I framed my pictures and engravings +this way, and because I haven’t gone in for rugs, and bric-à-brac, and +the usual furnishings. At times I have really wondered, from their +determination to change things, whether it was for them to live in, or +for my use?” + +“It is unusual,” said Leonore, reluctantly, and evidently selecting a +word that should not offend Peter. + +“You ought to be hung for treating fine pictures so,” said Watts. + +“I had to give them those broad flat mats, because the books gave no +background.” + +“It’s—it’s—” Leonore hesitated. “It’s not so startling, after a +moment.” + +“You see they had to hang this way, or go unhung. I hadn’t wall space +for both pictures and books. And by giving a few frames a turn, +occasionally, I can always have fresh pictures to look at.” + +“Look here, Dot, here’s a genuine Rembrandt’s ‘Three Crosses,’” called +Watts. “I didn’t know, old man, that you were such a connoisseur.” + +“I’m not,” said Peter. “I’m fond of such things, but I never should +have had taste or time to gather these.” + +“Then how did you get them?” + +“A friend of mine—a man of exquisite taste—gathered them. He lost his +money, and I bought them of him.” + +“That was Mr. Le Grand?” asked Leonore, ceasing her study of the “Three +Crosses.” + +“Yes.” + +“Mrs. Rivington told me about it.” + +“It must have been devilish hard for him to part with such a +collection,” said Watts. + +“He hasn’t really parted with them. He comes down here constantly, and +has a good time over them. It was partly his scheme to arrange them +this way.” + +“And are the paintings his, too, Peter?” + +Peter could have hugged her for the way she said Peter. “No,” he +managed to remark. “I bought some of them, and Miss De Voe and +Lispenard Ogden the others. People tell me I spoil them by the flat +framing, and the plain, broad gold mats. But it doesn’t spoil them to +me. I think the mixture of gold mats and white mats breaks the +monotony. And the variation just neutralizes the monotone which the +rest of the room has. But of course that is my personal equation.” + +“Then this room is the real taste of the ‘plain man,’ eh?” inquired +Watts. + +“Really, papa, it is plain. Just as simple as can be.” + +“Simple! Yes, sweet simplicity! Three-thousand-dollar-etching +simplicity! Millet simplicity! Oh, yes. Peter’s a simple old dog.” + +“No, but the woodwork and the furniture. Isn’t this an enticing chair? +I must try it.” And Leonore almost dissolved from view in its depths. +Peter has that chair still. He would probably knock the man down who +offered to buy it. + +It occurred to Peter that since Leonore was so extremely near the +ground, and was leaning back so far, that she could hardly help but be +looking up. So he went and stood in front of the fireplace, and looked +down at her. He pretended that his hands were cold. Watts perhaps was +right. Peter was not as simple as people thought. + +It seemed to Peter that he had never had so much to see, all at once, +in his life. There were the occasional glimpses of the eyes (for +Leonore, in spite of her position, did manage to cover the larger part +of them) not one of which must be missed. Then there was her mouth. +That would have been very restful to the eye; if it hadn’t been for the +distracting chin below it. Then there were the little feet, just +sticking out from underneath the tailor-made gown, making Peter think +of Herrick’s famous lines. Finally there were those two hands! Leonore +was very deliberately taking off her gloves. Peter had not seen those +hands ungloved yet, and waited almost breathlessly for the unveiling. +He decided that he must watch and shake hands at parting before Leonore +put those gloves on again. + +“I say,” said Watts, “how did you ever manage to get such a place +here?” + +“I was a tenant for a good many years of the insurance company that +owns the building, and when it came to rebuild, it had the architect +fit this floor for me just as I wished it. So I put our law-offices in +front and arranged my other rooms along the side street. Would you like +to see them?” Peter asked this last question very obviously of Leonore. + +“Very much.” + +So they passed through the other door, to a little square hall, lighted +by a skylight, with a stairway going up to the roof. + +“I took the upper floor, so as to get good air and the view of the city +and the bay, which is very fine,” Peter said. “And I have a staircase +to the roof, so that in good weather I can go up there.” + +“I wondered what the great firm was doing up ten stories,” said Watts. + +“Ogden and Rivington have been very good in yielding to my +idiosyncracies. This is my mealing closet.” + +It was a room nine feet square, panelled, ceiled and floored in +mahogany, and the table and six chairs were made of the same material. + +“So this is what the papers call the ‘Stirling political incubator?’ It +doesn’t look like a place for hatching dark plots,” said Watts. + +“Sometimes I have a little dinner here. Never more than six, however, +for it’s too small.” + +“I say, Dot, doesn’t this have a jolly cosy feeling? Couldn’t one sit +here blowy nights, with the candles lit, eating nuts and telling +stories? It makes me think of the expression, ‘snug as a bug.’” + +“Miss Leroy told me, Peter, what a reputation your dinners had, and how +every one was anxious to be invited just once,” said Leonore. + +“But not a second time, old man. You caught Dot’s inference, I hope? +Once is quite enough.” + +“Peter, will you invite me some day?” + +“Would he?” Peter longed to tell her that the place and everything it +contained, including its owner—Then Peter said to himself, “You really +don’t know anything about her. Stop your foolishness.” Still Peter knew +that—that foolishness was nice. He said, “People only care for my +dinners because they are few and far between, and their being way down +here in the city, after business hours, makes them something to talk +about. Society wants badly something to talk about most of the time. Of +course, my friends are invited.” Peter looked down at Leonore, and she +understood, without, his saying so, that she was to be a future guest. + +“How do you manage about the prog, chum?” + +“Mr. Le Grand had a man—a Maryland darky—whom he turned over to me. He +looks after me generally, but his true forte is cooking. For oysters +and fish and game I can’t find his equal. And, as I never attempt very +elaborate dinners, he cooks and serves for a party of six in very good +shape. We are not much in haste down here after six, because it’s so +still and quiet. The hurry’s gone up-town to the social slaves. Suppose +you stay and try his skill at lunch to-day? My partners generally are +with me, and Jenifer always has something good for them.” + +“By all means,” said Watts. + +But Leonore said: “No. We mustn’t make a nuisance of ourselves the +first time we come.” Peter and Watts tried to persuade her, but she was +not persuadable. Leonore had no intention, no matter how good a time it +meant, of lunching sola with four men. + +“I think we must be going,” she said. + +“You mustn’t go without seeing the rest of my quarters,” said Peter, +hoping to prolong the visit. + +Leonore was complaisant to that extent. So they went into the pantry, +and Leonore proceeded, apparently, to show her absolute ignorance of +food matters under the pretext that she was displaying great +housekeeping knowledge. She told Peter that he ought to keep his +champagne on ice. “That champagne will spoil if it isn’t kept on ice.” +She complained because some bottles of Burgundy had dust on them. +“That’s not merely untidy,” she said, “but it’s bad for the wine. It +ought to be stood on end, so that the sediment can settle.” She +criticised the fact that a brace of canvas-backs were on ice. “All your +game should be hung,” she said. She put her finger or her eyes into +every drawer and cupboard, and found nothing to praise. She was +absolutely grave over it, but before long Peter saw the joke and +entered into it. It was wonderful how good some of the things that she +touched tasted later. + +Then they went into Peter’s sleeping-room, Leonore said it was very +ordinary, but promptly found two things to interest her. + +“Do you take care of your window flowers?” + +“No, Mrs. Costell comes down to lunch with me once a week, and potters +with them. She keeps all the windows full of flowers—perhaps you have +noticed them in the other rooms, as well?” + +“Yes. I liked them, but I didn’t think they could be yours. They grow +too well for a man.” + +“It seems as if Mrs. Costell had only to look at a plant, and it breaks +out blossoming,” Peter replied. + +“What a nice speech,” said Leonore. + +“It’s on a nice subject,” Peter told her. “When you have that, it’s +very easy to make a nice speech.” + +“I want to meet Mrs. Costell. I’ve heard all about her.” + +The second point of interest concerned the contents of what had +evidently been planned as an umbrella-stand. + +“Why do you have three swords?” she asked, taking the handsomest from +its resting place. + +“So that I can kill more people.” + +“Why, Dot, you ought to know that an officer wants a service sword and +a dress-sword.” + +“But these are all dress-swords. I’m afraid you are very proud of your +majorship.” + +Peter only smiled a reply down at her. + +“Yes,” said Leonore, “I have found out your weakness at last. You like +gold lace and fixings.” + +Still Peter only smiled. + +“This sword is presented to Captain Peter Stirling in recognition of +his gallant conduct at Hornellsville, July 25, 1877,” Leonore read on +the scabbard. “What did you do at Hornellsville?” + +“Various things.” + +“But what did you do to get the sword?” + +“My duty!” + +“Tell me?” + +“I thought you knew all about me.” + +“I don’t know this.” + +Peter only smiled at her. + +“Tell me. If you don’t, somebody else will. Please.” + +“Why, Dot, these are all presentation swords.” + +“Yes,” said Peter; “and so gorgeous that I don’t dare use them. I keep +the swords I wear at the armory.” + +“Are you going to tell me what you did to get them?” + +“That one was given me by my company when I was made captain. That was +subscribed for by some friends. The one you have was given me by a +railroad.” + +“For what?” + +“For doing my duty.” + +“Come, papa. We’ll go home.” + +Peter surrendered. “There were some substitutes for strikers in freight +cars that were fitted up with bunks. The strikers fastened the doors on +them, and pushed them into a car-shed.” + +“And what did you do?” + +“We rolled the cars back.” + +“I don’t think that was much. Nothing to give a sword for. Now, have +you anything more to show us?” + +“No. I have a spare room, and Jenifer has a kitchen and sleeping place +beyond, but they are not worth showing.” + +They went out into the little square hall, and so into the study. +Leonore began unfolding her gloves. + +“I’ve had a very nice time,” she said. “I think I shall come again very +often, I like down-town New York.” Leonore was making her first trip to +it, so that she spoke from vast knowledge. + +“I can’t tell you how pleasant it has been to me. It isn’t often that +such sunshine gets in here,” said Peter. + +“Then you do prefer sunshine to grimy old law books?” inquired Leonore, +smiling demurely. + +“Some sunshine,” said Peter, meaningly. + +“Wherever there has been sunshine there ought to be lots of flowers. I +have a good mind—yes, I will—leave you these violets,” Leonore took a +little bunch that she had worn near her throat and put them and her +hand in Peter’s. And she hadn’t put her glove on yet! Then she put her +gloves on, and Peter shook hands. Then he remembered that he ought to +see them to the elevator, so he took them out—and shook hands again. +After that he concluded it was his duty to see them to the carriage—and +he shook hands again. + +Peter was not an experienced hand, but he was doing very well. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +THE DUDE. + + +Just as Peter came back to his office, his lunch was announced. + +“What makes you look so happy?” asked Ray. + +“Being so,” said Peter, calmly. + +“What a funny old chap he is?” Ray remarked to Ogden, as they went back +to work. “He brought me his opinion, just after lunch, in the +Hall-Seelye case. I suppose he had been grubbing all the morning over +those awful figures, and a tougher or dryer job, you couldn’t make. Yet +he came in to lunch looking as if he was walking on air.” + +When Peter returned to his office, he would have preferred to stop work +and think for a bit. He wanted to hold those violets, and smell them +now and then. He wished to read that letter over again. He longed to +have a look at that bit of ribbon and gold. But he resisted temptation. +He said: “Peter Stirling, go to work.” So all the treasures were put in +a drawer of his study table, and Peter sat down at his office desk. +First, after tearing up his note to Watts, he wrote another, as +follows: + + +WATTS: + +You can understand why I did not call last night, or bind myself as to +the future. I shall hope to receive an invitation to call from Mrs. +D’Alloi. How, I must leave to you; but you owe me this much, and it is +the only payment I ask of you. Otherwise let us bury all that has +occurred since our college days, forever. + +PETER. + + +Then he ground at the law till six, when he swung his clubs and +dumb-bells for ten minutes; took a shower; dressed himself, and dined. +Then he went into his study, and opened a drawer. Did he find therein a +box of cigars, or a bunch of violets, gold-piece, ribbon and sheet of +paper? One thing is certain. Peter passed another evening without +reading or working. And two such idle evenings could not be shown in +another week of his life for the last twenty years. + +The next day Peter was considerably nearer earth. Not that he didn’t +think those eyes just as lovely, and had he been thrown within their +radius, he would probably have been as strongly influenced as ever. But +he was not thrown within their influence, and so his strong nature and +common sense reasserted themselves. He took his coffee, his early +morning ride, and then his work, in their due order. After dinner, that +evening, he only smoked one cigar. When he had done that, he remarked +to himself—apropos of the cigars, presumably—“Peter, keep to your work. +Don’t burn yourself again.” Then his face grew very firm, and he read a +frivolous book entitled: “Neun atiologische und prophylactische Satze +... uber die Choleræpidemien in Ostindien,” till nearly one o’clock. + +The following day was Sunday. Peter went to church, and in the +afternoon rode out to Westchester to pass the evening there with Mrs. +Costell. Peter thought his balance was quite recovered. Other men have +said the same thing. The fact that they said so, proved that they were +by no means sure of themselves. + +This was shown very markedly on Monday in Peter’s case, for after lunch +he did not work as steadily as he had done in the morning hours. He was +restless. Twice he pressed his lips, and started in to work very, very +hard—and did it for a time. Then the restlessness would come on again. +Presently he took to looking at his watch. Then he would snap it to, +and go to work again, with a great determination in his face, only to +look at the watch again before long. Finally he touched his bell. + +“Jenifer,” he said, “I wish you would rub off my spurs, and clean up my +riding trousers.” + +“For lohd, sar, I done dat dis day yesserday.” + +“Never mind, then,” said Peter. “Tell Curzon to ring me up a hansom.” + +When Peter rode into the park he did not vacillate. He put his horse at +a sharp canter, and started round the path. But he had not ridden far +when he suddenly checked his horse, and reined him up with a couple of +riders. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said frankly. Peter had not +ceased to be straightforward. + +“Hello! This is nice,” said Watts. + +“Don’t you think it’s about time?” said Leonore. Leonore had her own +opinion of what friendship consisted. She was not angry with Peter—not +at all. But she did not look at him. + +Peter had drawn his horse up to the side on which Leonore was riding. +“That is just what I thought,” he said deliberately, “and that’s why +I’m here now.” + +“How long ago did that occur to you, please?” said Leonore, with +dignity. + +“About the time it occurred to me that you might ride here regularly +afternoons.” + +“Don’t you?” Leonore was mollifying. + +“No. I like the early morning, when there are fewer people.” + +“You unsociable old hermit,” exclaimed Watts. + +“But now?” asked Leonore. + +When Leonore said those two words Peter had not yet had a sight of +those eyes. And he was getting desperately anxious to see them. So he +replied: “Now I shall ride in the afternoons.” + +He was rewarded by a look. The sweetest kind of a look. “Now, that is +very nice, Peter,” said Leonore. “If we see each other every day in the +Park, we can tell each other everything that we are doing or thinking +about. So we will be very good friends for sure.” Leonore spoke and +looked as if this was the pleasantest of possibilities, and Peter was +certain it was. + +“I say, Peter,” said Watts. “What a tremendous dude we have come out. I +wanted to joke you on it the first time I saw you, but this afternoon +it’s positively appalling. I would have taken my Bible oath that it was +the last thing old Peter would become. Just look at him, Dot. Doesn’t +he fill you with ‘wonder, awe and praise?’” + +Leonore looked at Peter a little shyly, but she said frankly: + +“I’ve wondered about that, Peter. People told me you were a man +absolutely without style.” + +Peter smiled. “Do you remember what Friar Bacon’s brass head said?” + +“Time is: Time was: Time will never be again?” asked Leonore. + +“That fits my lack of style, I think.” + +“Pell and Ogden, and the rest of them, have made you what I never +could, dig at you as I would. So you’ve yielded to the demands of your +toney friends?” + +“Of course I tried to dress correctly for my up-town friends, when I +was with them. But it was not they who made me careful, though they +helped me to find a good tailor, when I decided that I must dress +better.” + +“Then it was the big law practice, eh? Must keep up appearances?” + +“I fancy my dressing would no more affect my practice, than does the +furnishing of my office.” + +“Then who is she? Out with it, you sly dog.” + +“Of course I shan’t tell you that” + +“Peter, will you tell me?” asked Leonore. + +Peter smiled into the frank eyes. “Who she is?” + +“No. Why you dress so nicely. Please?” + +“You’ll laugh when I tell you it is my ward.” + +“Oh, nonsense,” laughed Watts. “That’s too thin. Come off that roof. +Unless you’re guardian of some bewitching girl?” + +“Your ward, Peter?” + +“Yes. I don’t know whether I can make you understand it. I didn’t at +first. You see I became associated with the ward, in people’s minds, +after I had been in politics for a few years. So I was sometimes put in +positions to a certain extent representative of it. I never thought +much how I dressed, and it seems that sometimes at public meetings, and +parades, and that sort of thing, I wasn’t dressed quite as well as the +other men. So when the people of my ward, who were present, were asked +to point me out to strangers, they were mortified about the way I +looked. It seemed to reflect on the ward. The first inkling I had of it +was after one of these parades, in which, without thinking, I had worn +a soft hat. I was the only man who did not wear a silk one, and my ward +felt very badly about it. So they made up a purse, and came to me to +ask me to buy a new suit and silk hat and gloves. Of course that set me +asking questions, and though they didn’t want to hurt my feelings, I +wormed enough out of them to learn how they felt. Since then I’ve spent +a good deal of money on tailors, and dress very carefully.” + +“Good for ‘de sixt’! Hurrah for the unwashed democracy, where one man’s +as good as another! So a ‘Mick’ ward wants its great man to put on all +the frills? I tell you, chum, we may talk about equality, but the lower +classes can’t but admire and worship the tinsel and flummery of +aristocracy.” + +“You are mistaken. They may like to see brilliant sights. Soldiers, +ball-rooms or the like, and who does not? Beauty is aesthetic, not +aristocratic. But they judge people less by their dress or money than +is usually supposed. Far less than the people up-town do. They wanted +me to dress better, because it was appropriate. But let a man in the +ward try to dress beyond his station, and he’d be jeered out of it, or +the ward, if nothing worse happened.” + +“Oh, of course they’d hoot at their own kind,” said Watts. “The hardest +thing to forgive in this world is your equal’s success. But they +wouldn’t say anything to one of us.” + +“If you, or Pell, or Ogden should go into Blunkers’s place in my ward, +this evening, dressed as you are, or better, you probably would be told +to get out. I don’t believe you could get a drink. And you would stand +a chance of pretty rough usage. Last week I went right from a dinner to +Blunkers’s to say a word to him. I was in evening dress, newcastle, and +crush hat—even a bunch of lilies of the valley—yet every man there was +willing to shake hands and have me sit down and stay. Blunkers couldn’t +have been dressed so, because it didn’t belong to him. For the same +reason, you would have no business in Blunkers’s place, because you +don’t belong there. But the men know I dressed for a reason, and came +to the saloon for a reason. I wasn’t putting on airs. I wasn’t +intruding my wealth on them.” + +“Look here, chum, will you take me into Blunkers’s place some night, +and let me hear you powwow the ‘b’ys?’ I should like to see how you do +it.” + +“Yes,” Peter said deliberately, “if some night you’ll let me bring +Blunkers up to watch one of your formal dinners. He would enjoy the +sight, I’m sure.” + +Leonore cocked her little nose up in the air, and laughed merrily. + +“Oh, but that’s very different,” said Watts. + +“It’s just as different as the two men with the toothache,” said Peter. +“They both met at the dentist’s, who it seems had only time to pull one +tooth. The question arose as to which it should be. ‘I’m so brave,’ +said one, ‘that I can wait till to-morrow.’ ‘I’m such a coward,’ said +the other, ‘that I don’t dare have it done to-day.’” + +“Haven’t you ever taken people to those places, Peter?” asked Leonore. + +“No. I’ve always refused. It’s a society fad now to have what are +called ‘slumming parties,’ and of course I’ve been asked to help. It +makes my blood tingle when I hear them talk over the ‘fun’ as they call +it. They get detectives to protect them, and then go through the +tenements—the homes of the poor—and pry into their privacy and poverty, +just out of curiosity. Then they go home and over a chafing dish of +lobster or terrapin, and champagne, they laugh at the funny things they +saw. If the poor could get detectives, and look in on the luxury and +comfort of the rich, they wouldn’t see much fun in it, and there’s less +fun in a down-town tenement than there is in a Fifth Avenue palace. I +heard a girl tell the other night about breaking in on a wake by +chance. ‘Weren’t we lucky?’ she said. ‘It was so funny to see the poor +people weeping and drinking whisky at the same time. Isn’t it +heartless?’ Yet the dead—perhaps the bread-winner of the family, fallen +in the struggle—perhaps the last little comer, not strong enough to +fight this earth’s battle—must have lain there in plain view of that +girl. Who was the most heartless? The family and friends who had +gathered over that body, according to their customs, or the party who +looked in on them and laughed?” Peter had forgotten where he was, or to +whom he was talking. + +Leonore had listened breathlessly. But the moment he ceased speaking, +she bowed her head and began to sob. Peter came down from his indignant +tirade like a flash. “Miss D’Alloi,” he cried, “forgive me. I forgot. +Don’t cry so.” Peter was pleading in an anxious voice. He felt as if he +had committed murder. + +“There, there, Dot. Don’t cry. It’s nothing to cry about.” + +Miss D’Alloi was crying and endeavoring at the same time to solve the +most intricate puzzle ever yet propounded by man or woman—that is, to +find a woman’s pocket. She complicated things even more by trying to +talk. “I—I—know I’m ver—ver—very fooooooolish,” she managed to get out, +however much she failed in a similar result with her +pocket-handkerchief. + +“Since I caused the tears, you must let me stop them,” said Peter. He +had produced his own handkerchief, and was made happy by seeing Leonore +bury her face in it, and re-appear not quite so woe-begone. + +“I—only—didn’t—know—you—could— talk—like—like that,” explained Leonore. + +“Let this be a lesson for you,” said Watts. “Don’t come any more of +your jury-pathos on my little girl.” + +“Papa! You—I—Peter, I’m so glad you told me—I’ll never go to one.” + +Watts laughed. “Now I know why you charm all the women whom I hear +talking about you. I tell you, when you rear your head up like that, +and your eyes blaze so, and you put that husk in your voice, I don’t +wonder you fetch them. By George, you were really splendid to look at.” + +That was the reason why Leonore had not cried till Peter had finished +his speech. We don’t charge women with crying whenever they wish, but +we are sure that they never cry when they have anything better to do. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. +OPINIONS. + + +When the ride was ended, Leonore was sent home in the carriage, Watts +saying he would go with Peter to his club. As soon as they were in the +cab, he said: + +“I wanted to see you about your letter.” + +“Well?” + +“Everything’s going as well as can be expected. Of course the little +woman’s scandalized over your supposed iniquity, but I’m working the +heavy sentimental ‘saved-our-little-girl’s life’ business for all it’s +worth. I had her crying last night on my shoulder over it, and no woman +can do that and be obstinate long. She’ll come round before a great +while.” + +Peter winced. He almost felt like calling Watts off from the endeavor. +But he thought of Leonore. He must see her—just to prove to himself +that she was not for him, be it understood—and how could he see enough +of her to do that—for Peter recognized that it would take a good deal +of that charming face and figure and manner to pall on him—if he was +excluded from her home? So he justified the continuance of the attempt +by saying to himself: “She only excludes me because of something of +which I am guiltless, and I’ve saved her from far greater suffering +than my presence can ever give her. I have earned the privilege if ever +man earned it” Most people can prove to themselves what they wish to +prove. The successful orator is always the man who imposes his frame of +mind on his audience. We call it “saying what the people want said.” +But many of the greatest speakers first suggest an idea to their +listeners, and when they say it in plain English, a moment later, the +audience say, mentally, “That’s just what we thought a moment ago,” and +are convinced that the speaker is right. + +Peter remained silent, and Watts continued: “We get into our own house +to-morrow, and give Leonore a birthday dinner Tuesday week as a +combined house-warming and celebration. Save that day, for I’m +determined you shall be asked. Only the invitation may come a little +late. You won’t mind that?” + +“No. But don’t send me too many of these formal things. I keep out of +them as much as I can. I’m not a society man and probably won’t fit in +with your friends.” + +“I should know you were not _de societé_ by that single speech. If +there’s one thing easy to talk to, or fit in with, it’s a society man +or woman. It’s their business to be chatty and pleasant, and they would +be polite and entertaining to a kangaroo, if they found one next them +at dinner. That’s what society is for. We are the yolk of the egg, +which holds and blends all the discordant, untrained elements. The oil, +vinegar, salt, and mustard We don’t add much flavor to life, but people +wouldn’t mix without us.” + +“I know,” said Peter, “if you want to talk petty personalities and +trivialities, that it’s easy enough to get through endless hours of +time. But I have other things to do.” + +“Exactly. But we have a purpose, too. You mustn’t think society is all +frivolity. It’s one of the hardest working professions.” + +“And the most brainless.” + +“No. Don’t you see, that society is like any other kind of work, and +that the people who will centre their whole life on it must be the +leaders of it? To you, the spending hours over a new _entrée_, or over +a cotillion figure, seems rubbish, but it’s the exact equivalent of +your spending hours over who shall be nominated for a certain office. +Because you are willing to do that, you are one of the ‘big four.’ +Because we are willing to do our task, we differentiate into the ‘four +hundred.’ You mustn’t think society doesn’t grind up brain-tissue. But +we use so much in running it, that we don’t have enough for other +subjects, and so you think we are stupid. I remember a woman once +saying she didn’t like conversazioni, ‘because they are really +brain-parties, and there is never enough to go round, and give a second +help,’ Any way, how can you expect society to talk anything but +society, when men like yourself stay away from it.” + +“I don’t ask you to talk anything else. But let me keep out of it.” + +“‘He’s not the man for Galway’,” hummed Watts. “He prefers talking to +‘heelers,’ and ‘b’ys,’ and ‘toughs,’ and other clever, intellectual +men.” + +“I like to talk to any one who is working with a purpose in life.” + +“I say, Peter, what do those fellows really say of us?” + +“I can best describe it by something Miss De Voe once said. We were at +a dinner together, where there was a Chicago man who became irritated +at one or two bits of ignorance displayed by some of the other guests +over the size and prominence of his abiding place. Finally he said: +‘Why, look here, you people are so ignorant of my city, that you don’t +even know how to pronounce its name.’ He turned to Miss De Voe and +said, ‘We say Chicawgo. Now, how do you pronounce it in New York?’ Miss +De Voe put on that quiet, crushing manner she has when a man displeases +her, and said, ‘We never pronounce it in New York.’” + +“Good for our Dutch-Huguenot stock! I tell you, Peter, blood does +tell.” + +“It wasn’t a speech I should care to make, because it did no good, and +could only mortify. But it does describe the position of the lower +wards of New York towards society. I’ve been working in them for nearly +sixteen years, and I’ve never even heard the subject mentioned.” + +“But I thought the anarchists and socialists were always taking a whack +at us?” + +“They cry out against over-rich men—not against society. Don’t confuse +the constituents with the compound. Citric acid is a deadly poison, but +weakened down with water and sugar, it is only lemonade. They growl at +the poison, not at the water and sugar. Before there can be hate, there +must be strength.” + +The next day Peter turned up in the park about four, and had a +ride—with Watts. The day after that, he was there a little earlier, and +had a ride—with the groom. The day following he had another ride—with +the groom. Peter thought they were very wonderful rides. Some one told +him a great many interesting things. About some one’s European life, +some one’s thoughts, some one’s hopes, and some one’s feelings. Some +one really wanted a friend to pour it all out to, and Peter listened +well, and encouraged well. + +“He doesn’t laugh at me, as papa does,” some one told herself, “and so +it’s much easier to tell him. And he shows that he really is +interested. Oh, I always said he and I should be good friends, and we +are going to be.” + +This put some one in a very nice frame of mind, and Peter thought he +had never met such a wonderful combination of frankness, of confluence, +and yet of a certain girlish shyness and timidity. Some one would tell +him something, and then appeal to him, if he didn’t think that was so? +Peter generally thought it was. Some one did not drop her little touch +of coquetry, for that was ingrain, as it is in most pretty girls. But +it was the most harmless kind of coquetry imaginable. Someone was not +thinking at all of winning men’s hearts. That might come later. At +present all she wanted was that they should think her pretty, and +delightful, so that—that they should want to be friend. + +When Peter joined Watts and Leonore, however, on the fourth day, there +was a noticeable change in Leonore’s manner to him. He did not get any +welcome except a formal “Good-afternoon,” and for ten minutes Watts and +he had to sustain the conversation by firing remarks at each other past +a very silent intermediary. Peter had no idea what was wrong, but when +he found that she did not mollify at the end of that time, he said to +her; + +“What is the matter?” + +“Matter with what?” asked Leonore, calmly. + +“With you.” + +“Nothing.” + +“I shan’t take that for an answer. Remember, we have sworn to be +friends.” + +“Friends come to see each other.” + +Peter felt relieved; and smiled, “They do,” he said, “when they can.” + +“No, they don’t, sometimes,” said Leonore severely. Then she unbent a +little. “Why haven’t you been to see us? You’ve had a full week.” + +“Yes,” said Peter, “I have had a very full week.” + +“Are you going to call on us, Mr. Stirling?” + +“To whom are you talking?” + +“To you.” + +“My name’s Peter.” + +“That depends. Are you going to call on us?” + +“That is my hope and wish.” + +Leonore unbent a little more. “If you are,” she said, “I wish you would +do it soon, because mamma said to-day she thought of asking you to my +birthday dinner next Tuesday, but I said you oughtn’t to be asked till +you had called.” + +“Did you know that bribery is unlawful?” + +“Are you going to call?” + +“Of course I am.” + +“That’s better. When?” + +“What evening are you to be at home?” + +“To-morrow,” said Leonore, beginning to curl up the corners of her +mouth. + +“Well,” said Peter, “I wish you had said this evening, because that’s +nearer, but to-morrow isn’t so far away.” + +“That’s right. Now we’ll be friends again.” + +“I hope so.” + +“Are you willing to be good friends—not make believe, or half friends, +but—real friends?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Don’t you think friends should tell each other everything?” + +“Yes.” Peter was quite willing, even anxious, that Leonore should tell +him everything. + +“You are quite sure?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then,” said Leonore, “tell me about the way you got that sword.” + +Watts laughed. “She’s been asking every one she’s met about that. Do +tell her, just for my sake.” + +“I’ve told you already.” + +“Not the way I want it. I know you didn’t try to make it interesting. +Some of the people remembered there was something very fine, but I +haven’t found anybody yet who could really tell it to me. Please tell +about it nicely, Peter.” Leonore was looking at Peter with the most +pleading of looks. + +“It was during the great railroad strike. The Erie had brought some men +up from New York to fill the strikers’ places. The new hands were +lodged in freight cars, when off work, for it wasn’t safe for them to +pass outside the guard lines of soldiers. Some of the strikers applied +for work, and were reinstated. They only did it to get inside our +lines. At night, when the substitutes in the cars were fast asleep, +tired out with the double work they had done, the strikers locked the +car-doors. They pulled the two cars into a shed full of freight, broke +open a petroleum tank, and with it wet the cars and some others loaded +with jute. They set fire to the cars and barricaded the shed doors. Of +course we didn’t know till the flames burst through the roof of the +shed, when by the light, one of the superintendents found the bunk cars +gone. The fire-department was useless, for the strikers two days +before, had cut all the hose. So we were ordered up to get the cars +out. Some strikers had concealed themselves in buildings where they +could overlook the shed, and while we were working at the door, they +kept firing on us. We were in the light of the blazing shed, and they +were in the dark, which gave them a big advantage over us, and we +couldn’t spare the time to attend to them. We tore up some rails and +with them smashed in the door. The men in the cars were screaming, so +we knew which to take, and fortunately they were the nearest to the +door. We took our muskets—for the frames of the cars were blazing, and +the metal part too hot to touch—and fixing bayonets, drove them into +the woodwork and so pushed the cars out. When we were outside, we used +the rails again, to smash an opening in the ends of the cars which were +burning the least. We got the men out unharmed, but pretty badly +frightened.” + +“And were you not hurt?” + +“We had eight wounded and a good many badly burned.” + +“And you?” + +“I had my share of the burn.” + +“I wish you would tell me what you did—not what the others did.” + +Peter would have told her anything while she looked like that at him. + +“I was in command at that point. I merely directed things, except +taking up the rails. I happened to know how to get a rail up quickly, +without waiting to unscrew the bolts. I had read it, years before, in a +book on railroad construction. I didn’t think that paragraph would ever +help me to save forty lives—for five minutes’ delay would have been +fatal. The inside of the shed was one sheet of flame. After we broke +the door down, I only stood and superintended the moving of the cars. +The men did the real work.” + +“But you said the inside of the shed was a sheet of flame.” + +“Yes. The railroad had to give us all fresh uniforms. So we made new +toggery out of that night’s work. I’ve heard people say militia are no +good. If they could have stood by me that night, and seen my company +working over those blazing cars, in that mass of burning freight, with +the roof liable to fall any minute, and the strikers firing every time +a man showed himself, I think they would have altered their opinion.” + +“Oh,” said Leonore, her eyes flashing with enthusiasm. “How splendid it +is to be a man, and be able to do real things! I wish I had known about +it in Europe.” + +“Why?” + +“Because the officers were always laughing about our army. I used to +get perfectly wild at them, but I couldn’t say anything in reply. If I +could only have told them about that.” + +“Hear the little Frenchwoman talk,” said Watts. + +“I’m not French.” + +“Yes you are, Dot.” + +“I’m all American. I haven’t a feeling that isn’t all American. Doesn’t +that make me an American, Peter, no matter where I was born?” + +“I think you are an American under the law.” + +“Am I really?” said Leonore, incredulously. + +“Yes. You were born of American parents, and you will be living in this +country when you become of age. That constitutes nationality.” + +“Oh, how lovely! I knew I was an American, really, but papa was always +teasing me and saying I was a foreigner. I hate foreigners.” + +“Confound you, chum, you’ve spoiled one of my best jokes! It’s been +such fun to see Dot bristle when I teased her. She’s the hottest little +patriot that ever lived.” + +“I think Miss D’Alloi’s nationality is akin to that of a case of which +I once heard,” said Peter, smiling. “A man was bragging about the +number of famous men who were born in his native town. He mentioned a +well-known personage, among others, and one of his auditors said: ‘I +didn’t know he was born there,’ ‘Oh, yes, he was,’ replied the man. ‘He +was born there, but during the temporary absence of his parents!’” + +“Peter, how much does a written opinion cost?” asked Leonore, eagerly. + +“It has a range about equal to the woman’s statement that a certain +object was as long as a piece of string.” + +“But your opinions?” + +“I have given an opinion for nothing. The other day I gave one to a +syndicate, and charged eight thousand dollars.” + +“Oh, dear!” said Leonore. “I wonder if I can afford to get your opinion +on my being an American? I should like to frame it and hang it in my +room. Would it be expensive?” + +“It is usual with lawyers,” said Peter gravely, “to find out how much a +client has, and then make the bill for a little less. How much do you +have?” + +“I really haven’t any now. I shall have two hundred dollars on the +first. But then I owe some bills.” + +“You forget your grandmamma’s money, Dot.” + +“Oh! Of course. I shall be rich, Peter, I come into the income of my +property on Tuesday. I forget how much it is, but I’m sure I can afford +to have an opinion.” + +“Why, Dot, we must get those papers out, and you must find some one to +put the trust in legal shape, and take care of it for you,” said Watts. + +“I suppose,” said Leonore to Peter, “if you have one lawyer to do all +your work, that he does each thing cheaper, doesn’t he?” + +“Yes. Because he divides what his client has, on several jobs, instead +of on one,” Peter told her. + +“Then I think I’ll have you do it all. We’ll come down and see you +about it. But write out that opinion at once, so that I can prove that +I’m an American.” + +“Very well. But there’s a safer way, even, of making sure that you’re +an American.” + +“What is that?” said Leonore, eagerly. + +“Marry one,” said Peter. + +“Oh, yes,” said Leonore, “I’ve always intended to do that, but not for +a great many years.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. +CALLS. + + +Peter dressed himself the next evening with particular care, even for +him. As Peter dressed, he was rather down on life. He had been kept +from his ride that afternoon by taking evidence in a referee case. “I +really needed the exercise badly,” he said. He had tried to work his +dissatisfaction off on his clubs and dumb-bells, but whatever they had +done for his blood and tissue, they had not eased his frame of mind. +Dinner made him a little pleasanter, for few men can remain cross over +a proper meal. Still, he did not look happy, when, on rising from his +coffee, he glanced at his watch and found that it was but ten minutes +past eight. + +He vacillated for a moment, and then getting into his outside +trappings, he went out and turned eastward, down the first side street. +He walked four blocks, and then threw open the swing door of a +brilliantly lighted place, stepping at once into a blaze of light and +warmth which was most attractive after the keen March wind blowing +outside. + +He nodded to the three barkeepers. “Is Dennis inside?” he asked. + +“Yes, Misther Stirling. The regulars are all there.” + +Peter passed through the room, and went into another without knocking. +In it were some twenty men, sitting for the most part in attitudes +denoting ease. Two, at a small table in the corner, were playing +dominoes. Three others, in another corner, were amusing themselves with +“High, Low, Jack.” Two were reading papers. The rest were collected +round the centre table, most of them smoking. Some beer mugs and +tumblers were standing about, but not more than a third of the twenty +were drinking anything. The moment Peter entered, one of the men jumped +to his feet. + +“B’ys,” he cried, “here’s Misther Stirling. Begobs, sir, it’s fine to +see yez. It’s very scarce yez been lately.” He had shaken hands, and +then put a chair in place for Peter. + +The cards, papers, and dominoes had been abandoned the moment Dennis +announced Peter’s advent, and when Peter had finished shaking the hands +held out to him, and had seated himself, the men were all gathered +round the big table. + +Peter laid his hat on the table, threw back his Newcastle and lit a +cigar. “I’ve been very short of time, Dennis. But I had my choice this +evening before going uptown, of smoking a cigar in my own quarters, or +here. So I came over to talk with you all about Denton.” + +“An’ what’s he been doin’?” inquired Dennis. + +“I saw him to-day about the Hummel franchise that comes up in the Board +next Tuesday. He won’t vote for it, he says. I told him I thought it +was in the interest of the city to multiply means of transit, and asked +him why he refused. He replied that he thought the Hummel gang had been +offering money, and that he would vote against bribers.” + +“He didn’t have the face to say that?” shouted one of the listeners. + +“Yes.” + +“Oi never!” said Dennis. “An’ he workin’ night an’ day to get the Board +to vote the rival road.” + +“I don’t think there’s much doubt that money is being spent by both +sides,” said Peter. “I fear no bill could ever pass without it. But the +Hummel crowd are really responsible people, who offer the city a good +percentage. The other men are merely trying to get the franchise, to +sell it out at a profit to Hummel. I don’t like the methods of either, +but there’s a road needed, and there’ll be a road voted, so it’s simply +a choice between the two. I shouldn’t mind if Denton voted against both +schemes, but to say he’ll vote against Hummel for that reason, and yet +vote for the other franchise shows that he’s not square. I didn’t say +so to him, because I wanted to talk it over with the ward a little +first to see if they stood with me.” + +“That we do, sir,” said Dennis, with a sureness which was cool, if +nothing more. Fortunately for the boldness of the speaker, no one +dissented, and two or three couples nodded heads or pipes at each +other. + +Peter looked at his watch. “Then I can put the screws on him safely, +you think?” + +“Yes,” cried several. + +Peter rose. “Dennis, will you see Blunkers and Driscoll this evening, +or some time to-morrow, and ask if they think so too? And if they +don’t, tell them to drop in on me, when they have leisure.” + +“Begobs, sir, Oi’ll see them inside av ten minutes. An’ if they don’t +agree widus, shure, Oi’ll make them.” + +“Thank you. Good-night.” + +“Good-night, Mr. Stirling,” came a chorus, and Peter passed into the +street by the much maligned side-door. + +Dennis turned to the group with his face shining with enthusiasm. “Did +yez see him, b’ys? There was style for yez. Isn’t he somethin’ for the +ward to be proud av?” + +Peter turned to Broadway, and fell into a long rapid stride. In spite +of the cold he threw open his coat, and carried his outer covering on +his arm. Peter had no intention of going into an up-town drawing-room +with any suggestion of “sixt” ward tobacco. So he walked till he +reached Madison Square, when, after a glance at his watch, he jumped +into a cab. + +It was a quarter-past nine when the footman opened the door of the +Fifty-seventh Street house, in reply to Peter’s ring. Yet he was told +that, “The ladies are still at dinner.” + +Peter turned and went down the stoop. He walked to the Avenue, and +stopped at a house not far off. + +“Is Mrs. Pell at home?” he asked, and procured entrance for both his +pasteboard and himself. + +“Welcome, little stranger,” was his greeting. “And it is so nice that +you came this evening. Here is Van, on from Washington for two days.” + +“I was going to look you up, and see what ‘we, the people’ were talking +about, so that I could enlighten our legislators when I go back,” said +a man of forty. + +“I wrote Pope a long letter to-day, which I asked him to show you,” +said Peter. “Things are in a bad shape, and getting worse.” + +“But, Peter,” queried the woman, “if you are the leader, why do you let +them get so?” + +“So as to remain the leader,” said Peter, smiling quietly. + +“Now that’s what comes of ward politics,” cried Mrs. Pell, “You are +beginning to make Irish bulls.” + +“No,” replied Peter, “I am serious, and because people don’t understand +what I mean, they don’t understand American politics.” + +“But you say in effect that the way you retain your leadership, is by +not leading. That’s absurd!” + +“No. Contradiction though it may seem the way to lose authority, is to +exercise it too much. Christ enunciated the great truth of democratic +government, when he said, ‘He that would be the greatest among you, +shall be the servant of all’” + +“I hope you won’t carry your theory so far as to let them nominate +Maguire?” said Mr. Pell, anxiously. + +“Now, please don’t begin on politics,” said the woman. “Here is Van, +whom I haven’t seen for nine weeks, and here is Peter whom I haven’t +seen for time out of mind, and just as I think I have a red-letter +evening before me, you begin your everlasting politics.” + +“I merely stopped in to shake hands,” said Peter. “I have a call to +make elsewhere, and can stay but twenty minutes. For that time we +choose you speaker, and you can make us do as it pleases you.” + +Twenty minutes later Peter passed into the D’Alloi drawing-room. He +shook Mrs. D’Alloi’s hand steadily, which was more than she did with +his. Then he was made happy for a moment, with that of Leonore. Then he +was introduced to a Madame Mellerie, whom he placed at once as the +half-governess, half-companion, who had charge of Leonore’s education; +a Mr. Maxwell, and a Marquis de somebody. They were both good-looking +young fellows; and greeted Peter in a friendly way. But Peter did not +like them. + +He liked them less when Mrs. D’Alloi told him to sit in a given place, +and then put Madame Mellerie down by him. Peter had not called to see +Madame Mellerie. But he made a virtue of necessity, and he was too +instinctively courteous not to treat the Frenchwoman with the same +touch of deference his manner towards women always had. After they had +been chatting for a little on French literature, it occurred to Peter +that her opinion of him might have some influence with Leonore, so he +decided that he would try and please her. But this thought turned his +mind to Leonore, and speaking of her to her governess, he at once +became so interested in the facts she began to pour out to him, that he +forgot entirely about his diplomatic scheme. + +This arrangement continued half an hour, when a dislocation of the +_statu quo_ was made by the departure of Mr. Maxwell. When the exit was +completed, Mrs. D’Alloi turned to place her puppets properly again. But +she found a decided bar to her intentions. Peter had formed his own +conclusions as to why he had been set to entertain Madame Mellerie, not +merely from the fact itself, but from the manner in which it had been +done, and most of all, from the way Mrs. D’Alloi had managed to stand +between Leonore and himself, as if protecting the former, till she had +been able to force her arrangements. So with the first stir Peter had +risen, and when the little bustle had ceased he was already standing by +Leonore, talking to her. Mrs. D’Alloi did not look happy, but for the +moment she was helpless. + +Peter had had to skirt the group to get to Leonore, and so had stood +behind her during the farewells. She apparently had not noticed his +advent, but the moment she had done the daughter-of-the-house duty, she +turned to him, and said: “I wondered if you would go away without +seeing me. I was so afraid you were one of the men who just say, ‘How +d’ye do’ and ‘Good-bye,’ and think they’ve paid a call.” + +“I called to see you to-night, and I should not have gone till I had +seen you. I’m rather a persistent man in some things.” + +“Yes,” said Leonore, bobbing her head in a very knowing manner, “Miss +De Voe told me.” + +“Mr. Stirling,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, “can’t you tell us the meaning of +the Latin motto on this seal?” Mrs. D’Alloi held a letter towards him, +but did not stir from her position across the room. + +Peter understood the device. He was to be drawn off, and made to sit by +Mrs. D’Alloi, not because she wanted to see him, but because she did +not want him to talk to Leonore. Peter had no intention of being +dragooned. So he said: “Madame Mellerie has been telling me what a good +Latin scholar Miss D’Alloi is. I certainly shan’t display my ignorance, +till she has looked at it.” Then he carried the envelope over to +Leonore, and in handing it to her, moved a chair for her, not +neglecting one for himself. Mrs. D’Alloi looked discouraged, the more +when Peter and Leonore put their heads close together, to examine the +envelope. + +“‘_In bonam partem_,’” read Leonore. “That’s easy, mamma. It’s—why, she +isn’t listening!” + +“You can tell her later. I have something to talk to you about.” + +“What is that?” + +“Your dinner in my quarters. Whom would you like to have there?” + +“Will you really give me a dinner?” + +“Yes.” + +“And let me have just whom I want?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, lovely! Let me see. Mamma and papa, of course.” + +“That’s four. Now you can have two more.” + +“Peter. Would you mind—I mean——” Leonore hesitated a moment and then +said in an apologetic tone—“Would you like to invite madame? I’ve been +telling her about your rooms—and you—and I think it would please her +so.” + +“That makes five,” said Peter. + +“Oh, goody!” said Leonore, “I mean,” she said, correcting herself, +“that that is very kind of you.” + +“And now the sixth?” + +“That must be a man of course,” said Leonore, wrinkling up her forehead +in the intensity of puzzlement. “And I know so few men.” She looked out +into space, and Peter had a moment’s fear lest she should see the +marquis, and name him. “There’s one friend of yours I’m very anxious to +meet. I wonder if you would be willing to ask him?” + +“Who is that?” + +“Mr. Moriarty.” + +“No, I can’t ask him, I don’t want to cheapen him by making a show of +him.” + +“Oh! I haven’t that feeling about him. I——” + +“I think you would understand him and see the fine qualities. But do +you think others would?” Peter mentioned no names, but Leonore +understood. + +“No,” she said. “You are quite right.” + +“You shall meet him some day,” said Peter, “if you wish, but when we +can have only people who won’t embarrass or laugh at him.” + +“Really, I don’t know whom to select.” + +“Perhaps you would like to meet Le Grand?” + +“Very much. He is just the man.” + +“Then we’ll consider that settled. Are you free for the ninth?” + +“Yes. I’m not going out this spring, and mamma and papa haven’t really +begun yet, and it’s so late in the season that I’m sure we are free.” + +“Then I will ice the canvas-backs and champagne and dust off the +Burgundy for that day, if your mamma accedes.” + +“Peter, I wanted to ask you the other day about that. I thought you +didn’t drink wine.” + +“I don’t. But I give my friends a glass, when they are good enough to +come to me. I live my own life, to please myself, but for that very +reason, I want others to live their lives to please themselves. Trying +to live other people’s lives for them, is a pretty dog-in-the-manger +business.” + +Just then Mrs. D’Alloi joined them. “Were you able to translate it?” +she asked, sitting down by them. + +“Yes, indeed,” said Leonore. “It means ‘Towards the right side,’ or as +a motto it might be translated, ‘For the right side.’” + +Mrs. D’Alloi had clearly, to use a western expression, come determined +to “settle down and grow up with the country.” So Peter broached the +subject of the dinner, and when she hesitated, Leonore called Watts +into the group. He threw the casting ballot in favor of the dinner, and +so it was agreed upon. Peter was asked to come to Leonore’s birthday +festival, “If you don’t mind such short notice,” and he didn’t mind, +apparently. Then the conversation wandered at will till Peter rose. In +doing so, he turned to Leonore, and said: + +“I looked the question of nationality up to-day, and found I was right. +I’ve written out a legal opinion in my best hand, and will deliver it +to you, on receiving my fee.” + +“How much is that?” said Leonore, eagerly. + +“That you come and get it.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. +DOWN-TOWN NEW YORK. + + +Peter had not been working long the next morning when he was told that +“The Honorable Terence Denton wishes to see you,” “Very well,” he said, +and that worthy was ushered in. + +“Good-morning, Denton. I’m glad to see you. I was going down to the +Hall to-day to say something, but you’ve saved me the trouble.” + +“I know you was. So I thought I’d get ahead of you,” said Denton, with +a surly tone and manner. + +“Sit down,” said Peter. Peter had learned that, with a certain class of +individuals, a distance and a seat have a very dampening effect on +anger. It is curious, man’s instinctive desire to stand up to and be +near the object for which anger is felt. + +“You’ve been talking against me in the ward, and makin’ them down on +me.” + +“No, I didn’t talk against you. I’ve spoken with some of the people +about the way you think of voting on the franchises.” + +“Yes. I wasn’t round, but a friend heard Dennis and Blunkers a-going +over it last night. And it’s you did it.” + +“Yes. But you know me well enough to be sure, after my talk with you +yesterday, that I wouldn’t stop there.” + +“So you try to set the pack on me.” + +“No. I try to see how the ward wants its alderman to vote on the +franchises.” + +“Look a-here. What are you so set on the Hummel crowd for?” + +“I’m not.” + +“Is it because Hummel’s a big contractor and gives you lots of law +business?” + +“No,” said Peter, smiling. “And you don’t think it is, either.” + +“Has they offered you some stock cheap?” + +“Come, come, Denton. You know the _tu quoque_ do here.” + +Denton shifted in his seat uneasily, not knowing what reply to make. +Those two little Latin words had such unlimited powers of concealment +in them. He did not know whether _tu quoque_ meant something about +votes, an insulting charge, or merely a reply, and feared to make +himself ridiculous by his response to them. He was not the first man +who has been hampered and floored by his own ignorance. He concluded he +must make an entire change of subject to be safe. So he said, “I ain’t +goin’ to be no boss’s puppy dog.” + +“No,” said Peter, finding it difficult not to smile, “you are not that +kind of a man.” + +“I takes my orders from no one.” + +“Denton, no one wants you to vote by order. We elected you alderman to +do what was best for the ward and city, as it seems to you. You are +responsible for your votes to us, and no other man can be. I don’t care +who orders you or advises you; in the end, you must vote yourself, and +you yourself will be held to account by us.” + +“Yes. But if I don’t vote as you wants, you’ll sour the boys on me.” + +“I shall tell them what I think. You can do the same. It’s a fair game +between us.” + +“No, it ain’t. You’re rich and you can talk more.” + +“You know my money has nothing to do with it. You know I don’t try to +deceive the men in talking to them. If they trust what I tell them, +it’s because it’s reasonable, and because I haven’t tricked them +before.” + +“Well, are you goin’ to drive me out?” + +“I hope not. I think you’ve made a good alderman, Denton, and you’ll +find I’ve said so.” + +“But now?” + +“If you vote for that franchise, I shall certainly tell the ward that I +think you’ve done wrong. Then the ward will do as they please.” + +“As you please, you mean.” + +“No. You’ve been long enough in politics to know that unless I can make +the ward think as I do, I couldn’t do anything. What would you care for +my opinion, if you didn’t know that the votes are back of it?” + +Just then the door swung open, and Dennis came in. “Tim said yez was +alone wid Denton, sir, so Oi came right in. It’s a good-mornin’, sir. +How are yez, Terence?” + +“You are just the man I want, Dennis. Tell Denton how the ward feels +about the franchises.” + +“Shure. It’s one man they is. An’ if Denton will step down to my place +this night, he’ll find out how they think.” + +“They never would have felt so, if Mister Stirling hadn’t talked to +them. Not one in twenty knew the question was up.” + +“That’s because they are most of them too hard working to keep track of +all the things. Come, Denton; I don’t attempt to say how you shall +vote. I only tell you how it seems to me. Go round the ward, and talk +with others. Then you can tell whether I can give you trouble in the +future or not. I don’t want to fight you. We’ve been good friends in +the past, and we can do more by pulling in double harness than by +kicking, I don’t know a man I would rather see at the Hall.” Peter held +out his hand, and Denton took it. + +“All right, Mister Stirling. I’ll do my best to stay friends,” he said, +and went out. + +Peter turned and smiled at Dennis. “They can’t find out that it’s not +I, but the ward. So every time there’s trouble they lay it against me, +and it’s hard to keep them friendly. And I hate quarrels and +surliness.” + +“It’s yezself can do it, though. Shure, Denton was in a great state av +mind this mornin’, they was tellin’ me, but he’s all right now, an’ +will vote right, or my name isn’t Dennis Moriarty.” + +“Yes. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll vote square on Tuesday.” + +Just then Tim brought in the cards of Watts and Leonore, and strangely +enough, Peter said they were to be shown in at once. In they came, and +after the greetings, Peter said: + +“Miss D’Alloi, this is my dear friend, Dennis Moriarty. Dennis, Miss +D’Alloi has wanted to know you because she’s heard of your being such a +friend to me.” + +“Shure,” said Dennis, taking the little hand so eagerly offered him, +“Oim thinkin’ we’re both lucky to be in the thoughts at all, at all, av +such a sweet young lady.” + +“Oh, Mr. Moriarty, you’ve kissed the blarney stone.” + +“Begobs,” responded Dennis, “it needs no blarney stone to say that. +It’s afther sayin’ itself.” + +“Peter, have you that opinion?” + +“Yes.” Peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all +in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink +marginal references to such solid works as “Wheaton,” “Story,” and +“Cranch’s” and “Wallace’s” reports. Peter had taken it practically from +a “Digest,” but many apparently learned opinions come from the same +source. And the whole was given value by the last two lines, which +read, “Respectfully submitted, Peter Stirling.” Peter’s name had value +at the bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else. + +“Look, Mr. Moriarty,” cried Leonore, too full of happiness over this +decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share +it, “I’ve always thought I was French—though I didn’t feel so a bit—and +now Mr. Stirling has made me an American, and I’m so happy. I hate +foreigners.” + +Watts laughed. “Why, Dot. You mustn’t say that to Mr. Moriarty. He’s a +foreigner himself.” + +“Oh, I forgot. I didn’t think that——” Poor Leonore stopped there, +horrified at what she had said. + +“No,” said Peter, “Dennis is not a foreigner. He’s one of the most +ardent Americans I know. As far as my experience goes, to make one of +Dennis’s bulls, the hottest American we have to-day, is the +Irish-American.” + +“Oh, come,” said Watts. “You know every Irishman pins his loyalty to +the ‘owld counthry.’” + +“Shure,” said Dennis, “an’ if they do, what then? Sometimes a man finds +a full-grown woman, fine, an’ sweet, an’ strong, an’ helpful to him, +an’ he comes to love her big like. But does that make him forget his +old weak mother, who’s had a hard life av it, yet has done her best by +him? Begobs! If he forgot her, he wouldn’t be the man to make a good +husband. Oi don’t say Oi’m a good American, for its small Oi feel +besides Misther Stirling. But Oi love her, an’ if she ever wants the +arm, or the blood, or the life, av Dennis Moriarty, she’s only got to +say so.” + +“Well,” said Watts, “this is very interesting, both as a point of view +and as oratory; but it isn’t business. Peter, we came down this morning +to take whatever legal steps are necessary to put Dot in possession of +her grandmother’s money, of which I have been trustee. Here is a lot of +papers about it. I suppose everything is there relating to it.” + +“Papa seemed to think it would be very wise to ask you to take care of +it, and pay me the income, I can’t have the principal till I’m +twenty-five.” + +“You must tie it up some way, Peter, or Dot will make ducks and drakes +of it. She has about as much idea of the value of money as she has of +the value of foreigners. When we had our villa at Florence, she +supported the entire pauper population of the city.” + +Peter had declined heretofore the care of trust funds. But it struck +him that this was really a chance—from a business standpoint, entirely! +It is true, the amount was only ninety two thousand, and, as a trust +company would handle that sum of money for four hundred and odd +dollars, he was bound to do the same; and this would certainly not pay +him for his time. “Sometimes, however,” said Peter to himself, “these, +trusteeships have very handsome picking’s, aside from the half per +cent.” Peter did not say that the “pickings,” as they framed themselves +in his mind, were sundry calls on him at his office, and a justifiable +reason at all times for calling on Leonore; to say nothing of letters +and other unearned increment. So Peter was not obstinate this time. +“It’s such a simple matter that I can have the papers drawn while you +wait, if you’ve half an hour to spare.” Peter did this, thinking it +would keep them longer, but later it occurred to him it would have been +better to find some other reason, and leave the papers, because then +Leonore would have had to come again soon. Peter was not quite as cool +and far-seeing as he was normally. + +He regretted his error the more when they all took his suggestion that +they go into his study. Peter rang for his head clerk, and explained +what was needed with great rapidity, and then left the latter and went +into the study. + +“I wonder what he’s in such a hurry for?” said the clerk, retiring with +the papers. + +When Peter entered the library he found Leonore and Watts reposing in +chairs, and Dennis standing in front of them, speaking. This was what +Dennis was saying: + +“‘Schatter, boys, an’ find me a sledge.’ Shure, we thought it was +demented he was, but he was the only cool man, an’ orders were orders. +Dooley, he found one, an’ then the captain went to the rails an’ gave +it a swing, an’ struck the bolts crosswise like, so that the heads flew +off, like they was shootin’ stars. Then he struck the rails sideways, +so as to loosen them from the ties. Then says he: ‘Half a dozen av yez +take off yez belts an’ strap these rails together!’ Even then we didn’t +understand, but we did it All this time the dirty spal—Oi ask yez +pardon, miss—all this time the strikers were pluggin’ at us, an’ +bullets flyin’ like fun. ‘Drop your muskets,’ says the captain, when we +had done; ‘fall in along those rails. Pick them up, and double-quick +for the shed door,’ says he, just as if he was on parade. Then we saw +what he was afther, and double-quick we went. Begobs, that door went +down as if it was paper. He was the first in. ‘Stand back,’ says he, +‘till Oi see what’s needed.’ Yez should have seen him walk into that +sheet av flame, an’ stand theer, quiet-like, thinkin’, an’ it so hot +that we at the door were coverin’ our faces to save them from +scorchin’. Then he says: ‘Get your muskets!’ We went, an’ Moike says to +me: ‘It’s no good. No man can touch them cars. He’s goin’ to attind to +the strikers,’ But not he. He came out, an’ he says: ‘B’ys, it’s hot in +there, but, if you don’t mind a bit av a burn, we can get the poor +fellows out. Will yez try?’ ‘Yes!’ we shouted. So he explained how we +could push cars widout touchin’ them. ‘Fall in,’ says he. ‘Fix +bayonets. First file to the right av the cars, second rank to the left. +Forward, march!’ An’ we went into that hell, an’ rolled them cars out +just as if we was marchin’ down Broadway, wid flags, an’ music, an’ +women clappin’ hands.” + +“But weren’t you dreadfully burnt?” + +“Oh, miss, yez should have seen us! We was blacker thin the divil +himsilf. Hardly one av us but didn’t have the hair burnt off the part +his cap didn’t cover; an’, as for eyelashes, an’ mustaches, an’ +blisters, no one thought av them the next day. Shure, the whole company +was in bed, except them as couldn’t lie easy.” + +“And Mr. Stirling?” + +“Shure, don’t yez know about him?” + +“No.” + +“Why, he was dreadful burnt, an’ the doctors thought it would be blind +he’d be; but he went to Paris, an’ they did somethin’ to him there that +saved him. Oh, miss, the boys were nearly crazy wid fear av losin’ him. +They’d rather be afther losin’ the regimental cat.” + +Peter had been tempted to interrupt two or three times, but it was so +absorbing to watch Leonore’s face, and its changing expression, as, +unconscious of his presence, she listened to Dennis, that Peter had not +the heart to do it. But now Watts spoke up. + +“Do you hear that, Peter? There’s value for you! You’re better than the +cat.” + +So the scenes were shifted, and they all sat and chatted till Dennis +left. Then the necessary papers were brought in and looked over at +Peter’s study-table, and Miss D’Alloi took another of his pens. Peter +hoped she’d stop and think a little, again, but she didn’t. Just as she +had begun an L she hesitated, however. + +“Why,” she said, “this paper calls me ‘Leonore D’Alloi, spinster!’ I’m +not going to sign that.” + +“That is merely the legal term,” Peter explained. Leonore pouted for +some time over it, but finally signed. “I shan’t be a spinster, anyway, +even if the paper does say so,” she said. + +Peter agreed with her. + +“See what a great blot I’ve made on your clean blotter,” said Leonore, +who had rested the pen-point there. “I’m very sorry.” Then she wrote on +the blotter, “Leonore D’Alloi. Her very untidy mark.” “That was what +Madame Mellerie always made me write on my exercises.” + +Then they said “Good-bye.” “I like down-town New York better and +better,” said Leonore. + +So did Peter. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. +A BIRTHDAY EVENING. + + +Peter went into Ray’s office on Monday. “I want your advice,” he said. +“I’m going to a birthday dinner to-morrow. A girl for whom I’m trustee. +Now, how handsome a present may I send her?” + +“H’m. How well do you know her?” + +“We are good friends.” + +“Just about what you please, I should say, if you know her well, and +make money out of her?” + +“That is, jewelry?” + +“Ye—es.” + +“Thanks.” Peter turned. + +“Who is she, Peter? I thought you never did anything so small as that. +Nothing, or four figures, has always seemed your rule?” + +“This had extenuating circumstances,” smiled Peter. + +So when Peter shook hands, the next evening, with the very swagger +young lady who stood beside her mother, receiving, he was told: + +“It’s perfectly lovely! Look.” And the little wrist was held up to him. +“And so were the flowers. I couldn’t carry a tenth of them, so I +decided to only take papa’s. But I put yours up in my room, and shall +keep them there.” Then Peter had to give place to another, just as he +had decided that he would have one of the flowers from the bunch she +was carrying, or—he left the awful consequences of failure blank. + +Peter stood for a moment unconscious of the other people, looking at +the pretty rounded figure in the dainty evening dress of French +open-work embroidery. “I didn’t think she could be lovelier than she +was in her street and riding dresses but she is made for evening +dress,” was his thought. He knew this observation wasn’t right, +however, so he glanced round the room, and then walked up to a couple. + +“There, I told Mr. Beekman that I was trying to magnetize you, and +though your back was turned, you came to me at once.” + +“Er—really, quite wonderful, you know,” said Mr. Beekman. “I positively +sharn’t dare to be left alone with you, Miss De Voe.” + +“You needn’t fear me. I shall never try to magnetize you, Mr. Beekman,” +said Miss De Voe. “I was so pleased,” she continued, turning to Peter, +“to see you take that deliberate survey of the room, and then come over +here.” + +Peter smiled. “I go out so little now, that I have turned selfish. I +don’t go to entertain people. I go to be entertained. Tell me what you +have been doing?” + +But as Peter spoke, there was a little stir, and Peter had to say +“excuse me.” He crossed the room, and said, “I am to have the pleasure, +Mrs. Grinnell,” and a moment later the two were walking towards the +dining-room. Miss De Voe gave her arm to Beekman calmly, but her eyes +followed Peter. They both could have made a better arrangement. Most +dinner guests can. + +It was a large dinner, and so was served in the ball-room. The sixty +people gathered were divided into little groups, and seated at small +tables holding six or eight. Peter knew all but one at his table, to +the extent of having had previous meetings. They were all fashionables, +and the talk took the usual literary-artistic-musical turn customary +with that set. “Men, not principles” is the way society words the old +cry, or perhaps “personalities, not generalities” is a better form. So +Peter ate his dinner quietly, the conversation being general enough not +to force him to do more than respond, when appealed to. He was, it is +true, appealed to frequently. Peter had the reputation, as many quiet +men have, of being brainy. Furthermore he knew the right kind of +people, was known to enjoy a large income, was an eligible bachelor, +and was “interesting and unusual.” So society no longer rolled its +Juggernaut over him regardlessly, as of yore. A man who was close +friends with half a dozen exclusives of the exclusives, was a man not +to be disregarded, simply because he didn’t talk. Society people +applied much the same test as did the little “angle” children, only in +place of “he’s frinds wid der perlice,” they substituted “he’s very +intimate with Miss De Voe, and the Ogdens and the Pells.” + +Peter had dimly hoped that he would find himself seated at Leonore’s +table—He had too much self depreciation to think for a moment that he +would take her in—but hers was a young table, he saw, and he would not +have minded so much if it hadn’t been for that Marquis. Peter began to +have a very low opinion of foreigners. Then he remembered that Leonore +had the same prejudice, so he became more reconciled to the fact that +the Marquis was sitting next her. And when Leonore sent him a look and +a smile, and held up the wrist, so as to show the pearl bracelet, Peter +suddenly thought what a delicious _rissole_ he was eating. + +As the dinner waned, one of the footmen brought him a card, on which +Watts had written: “They want me to say a few words of welcome and of +Dot. Will you respond?” Peter read the note and then wrote below it: +“Dear Miss D’Alloi: You see the above. May I pay you a compliment? Only +one? Or will it embarrass you?” When the card came back a new line +said: “Dear Peter: I am not afraid of your compliment, and am very +curious to hear it.” Peter said, “Tell Mr. D’Alloi that I will with +pleasure.” Then he tucked the card in his pocket. That card was not +going to be wasted. + +So presently the glasses were filled up, even Peter saying, “You may +give me a glass,” and Watts was on his feet. He gave “our friends” a +pleasant welcome, and after apologizing for their absence, said that at +least, “like the little wife in the children’s play, ‘We too have not +been idle,’ for we bring you a new friend and introduce her to you +to-night.” + +Then Peter rose, and told the host: “Your friends have been grieved at +your long withdrawal from them, as the happy faces and welcome we +tender you this evening, show. We feared that the fascination of +European art, with its beauty and ease and finish, had come to +over-weigh the love of American nature, despite its life and strength +and freshness; that we had lost you for all time. But to-night we can +hardly regret even this long interlude, if to that circumstance we owe +the happiest and most charming combination of American nature and +European art—Miss D’Alloi.” + +Then there was applause, and a drinking of Miss D’Alloi’s health, and +the ladies passed out of the room—to enjoy themselves, be it +understood, leaving the men in the gloomy, quarrelsome frame of mind it +always does. + +Peter apparently became much abstracted over his cigar, but the +abstraction was not perhaps very deep, for he was on his feet the +moment Watts rose, and was the first to cross the hall into the +drawing-room. He took a quick glance round the room, and then crossed +to a sofa. Dorothy and—and some one else were sitting on it. + +“Speaking of angels,” said Dorothy. + +“I wasn’t speaking of you,” said Peter. “Only thinking.” + +“There,” said Leonore. “Now if Mrs. Grinnell had only heard that.” + +Peter looked a question, so Leonore continued: + +“We were talking about you. I don’t understand you. You are so +different from what I had been told to think you. Every one said you +were very silent and very uncomplimentary, and never joked, but you are +not a bit as they said, and I thought you had probably changed, just as +you had about the clothes. But Mrs. Grinnell says she never heard you +make a joke or a compliment in her life, and that at the Knickerbocker +they call you ‘Peter, the silent.’ You are a great puzzle.” + +Dorothy laughed. “Here we four women—Mrs. Grinnell, and Mrs. Winthrop +and Leonore and myself—have been quarrelling over you, and each +insisting you are something different. I believe you are not a bit firm +and stable, as people say you are, but a perfect chameleon, changing +your tint according to the color of the tree you are on. Leonore was +the worst, though! She says that you talk and joke a great deal. We +could have stood anything but that!” + +“I am sorry my conversation and humor are held in such low estimation.” + +“There,” said Leonore, “See. Didn’t I tell you he joked? And, Peter, do +you dislike women?” + +“Unquestionably,” said Peter. + +“Please tell me. I told them of your speech about the sunshine, and +Mrs. Winthrop says that she knows you didn’t mean it. That you are a +woman-hater and despise all women, and like to get off by yourself.” + +“That’s the reason I joined you and Dorothy,” said Peter. + +“Do you hate women?” persisted Leonore. + +“A man is not bound to incriminate himself,” replied Peter, smiling. + +“Then that’s the reason why you don’t like society, and why you are so +untalkative to women. I don’t like men who think badly of women. Now, I +want to know why you don’t like them?” + +“Supposing,” said Peter, “you were asked to sit down to a game of +whist, without knowing anything of the game. Do you think you could +like it?” + +“No. Of course not!” + +“Well, that is my situation toward women. They have never liked me, nor +treated me as they do other men. And so, when I am put with a +small-talk woman, I feel all at sea, and, try as I may, I can’t please +her. They are never friendly with me as they are with other men.” + +“Rubbish!” said Dorothy. “It’s what you do, not what she does, that +makes the trouble. You look at a woman with those grave eyes and that +stern jaw of yours, and we all feel that we are fools on the spot, and +really become so. I never stopped being afraid of you till I found out +that in reality you were afraid of me. You know you are. You are afraid +of all women.” + +“He isn’t a bit afraid of women,” affirmed Leonore. + +Just then Mr. Beekman came up. “Er—Mrs. Rivington. You know this +is—er—a sort of house-warming, and they tell me we are to go over the +house, don’t you know, if we wish. May I harve the pleasure?” + +Dorothy conferred the boon. Peter looked down at Leonore with a laugh +in his eyes. “Er—Miss D’Alloi,” he said, with the broadest of accents, +“you know this,—er—is a sort of a house-warming and—” He only imitated +so far and then they both laughed. + +Leonore rose. “With pleasure. I only wish Mrs. Grinnell had heard you. +I didn’t know you could mimic?” + +“I oughtn’t. It’s a small business. But I am so happy that I couldn’t +resist the temptation.” + +Leonore asked, “What makes you so happy?” + +“My new friend,” said Peter. + +Leonore went on up the stairs without saying anything. At the top, +however, she said, enthusiastically: “You do say the nicest things! +What room would you like to see first?” + +“Yours,” said Peter. + +So they went into the little bedroom, and boudoir, and looked over +them. Of course Peter found a tremendous number of things of interest. +There were her pictures, most of them her own purchases in Europe; and +her books and what she thought of them; and her thousand little +knick-knacks of one kind and another. Peter wasn’t at all in a hurry to +see the rest of the house. + +“These are the photographs of my real friends,” said Leonore, “except +yours. I want you to give me one to complete my rack.” + +“I haven’t had a photograph taken in eight years, and am afraid I have +none left.” + +“Then you must sit.” + +“Very well. But it must be an exchange.” Peter almost trembled at his +boldness, and at the thought of a possible granting. + +“Do you want mine?” + +“Very much.” + +“I have dozens,” said Leonore, going over to her desk, and pulling open +a drawer. “I’m very fond of being taken. You may have your choice.” + +“That’s very difficult,” said Peter, looking at the different +varieties. “Each has something the rest haven’t. You don’t want to be +generous, and let me have these four?” + +“Oh, you greedy!” said Leonore, laughing. “Yes, if you’ll do something +I’m going to ask you.” + +Peter pocketed the four. “That is a bargain,” he said, with a brashness +simply disgraceful in a good business man. “Now, what is it?” + +“Miss De Voe told me long ago about your savings-bank fund for helping +the poor people. Now that I have come into my money, I want to do what +she does. Give a thousand dollars a year to it—and then you are to tell +me just what you do with it.” + +“Of course I’m bound to take it, if you insist. But it won’t do any +good. Even Miss De Voe has stopped giving now, and I haven’t added +anything to it for over five years.” + +“Why is that?” + +“You see, I began by loaning the fund to people who were in trouble, or +who could be boosted a little by help, and for three or four years, I +found the money went pretty fast. But by that time people began to pay +it back, with interest often, and there has hardly been a case when it +hasn’t been repaid. So what with Miss De Voe’s contributions, and the +return of the money, I really have more than I can properly use +already. There’s only about eight thousand loaned at present, and +nearly five thousand in bank.” + +“I’m so sorry!” said Leonore. “But couldn’t you give some of the money, +so that it wouldn’t come back?” + +“That does more harm than good. It’s like giving opium to kill +temporary pain. It stops the pain for the moment, but only to weaken +the system so as to make the person less able to bear pain in the +future. That’s the trouble with most of our charity. It weakens quite +as much as it helps.” + +“I have thought about this for five years as something I should do. I’m +so grieved.” And Leonore looked her words. + +Peter could not stand that look. “I’ve been thinking of sending a +thousand dollars of the fund, that I didn’t think there was much chance +of using, to a Fresh Air fund and the Day Nursery. If you wish I’ll +send two thousand instead and then take your thousand? Then I can use +that for whatever I have a chance.” + +“That will do nicely. But I thought you didn’t think regular charities +did much good?” + +“Some don’t. But it’s different with children. They don’t feel the +stigma and are not humiliated or made indolent by help. We can’t do too +much to help them. The future of this country depends on its poor +children. If they are to do right, they must be saved from ill-health, +and ignorance, and vice; and the first step is to give them good food +and air, so that they shall have strong little bodies. A sound man, +physically, may not be a strong man in other ways, but he stands a much +better chance.” + +“Oh, it’s very interesting,” said Leonore. “Tell me some more about the +poor people.” + +“What shall I tell you?” said Peter. + +“How to help them.” + +“I’ll speak about something I have had in mind for a long time, trying +to find some way to do it. I think the finest opportunity for +benevolence, not already attempted, would be a company to lend money to +the poor, just as I have attempted, on a small scale, in my ward. You +see there are thousands of perfectly honest people who are living on +day wages, and many of them can lay up little or no money. Then comes +sickness, or loss of employment, or a fire which burns up all their +furniture and clothes, or some other mischance, and they can turn only +to pawnbrokers and usurers, with their fearful charges; or charity, +with its shame. Then there are hundreds of people whom a loan of a +little money would help wonderfully. This boy can get a place if he had +a respectable suit of clothes. Another can obtain work by learning a +trade, but can’t live while he learns it. A woman can support herself +if she can buy a sewing-machine, but hasn’t the money to buy it. +Another can get a job at something, but is required to make a deposit +to the value of the goods intrusted to her. Now, if all these people +could go to some company, and tell their story, and get their notes +discounted, according to their reputation, just as the merchant does at +his bank, don’t you see what a help it would be?” + +“How much would it take, Peter?” + +“One cannot say, because, till it is tested, there would be no way of +knowing how much would be asked for. But a hundred thousand dollars +would do to start with.” + +“Why, that’s only a hundred people giving a thousand each,” cried +Leonore eagerly. “Peter, I’ll give a thousand, and I’ll make mamma and +papa give a thousand, and I’ll speak to my friends and—” + +“Money isn’t the difficult part,” said Peter, longing to a fearful +degree to take Leonore in his arms. “If it were only money, I could do +it myself—or if I did not choose to do it alone, Miss De Voe and Pell +would help me.” + +“What is it, then?” + +“It’s finding the right man to run such a company. I can’t give the +time, for I can do more good in other directions. It needs a good +business man, yet one who must have many other qualities which rarely +go with a business training. He must understand the poor, because he +must look into every case, to see if it is a safe risk—or rather if the +past life of the applicant indicates that he is entitled to help. Now +if your grandfather, who is such an able banker, were to go into my +ward, and ask about the standing of a man in it, he wouldn’t get any +real information. But if I ask, every one will tell me what he thinks. +The man in control of such a bank must be able to draw out the truth. +Unless the management was just what it ought to be, it would be +bankrupt in a few months, or else would not lend to one quarter of the +people who deserve help. Yet from my own experience, I know, that money +can be loaned to these people, so that the legal interest more than +pays for the occasional loss, and that most of these losses are due to +inability, more than to dishonesty.” + +“I wish we could go on talking,” sighed Leonore. “But the people are +beginning to go downstairs. I suppose I must go, so as to say good-bye. +I only wish I could help you in charity.” + +“You have given _me_ a great charity this evening,” said Peter. + +“You mean the photographs,” smiled Leonore. + +“No.” + +“What else?” + +“You have shown me the warmest and most loving of hearts,” said Peter, +“and that is the best charity in the world.” + +On the way down they met Lispenard coming up. “I’ve just said +good-night to your mother. I would have spoken to you while we were in +your room, but you were so engrossed that Miss Winthrop and I thought +we had better not interrupt.” + +“I didn’t see you,” said Leonore. + +“Indeed!” said Lispenard, with immense wonderment. “I can’t believe +that. You know you were cutting us.” Then he turned to Peter. “You old +scamp, you,” he whispered, “you are worse than the Standard Oil.” + +“I sent for you some time ago, Leonore,” said her mother, +disapprovingly. “The guests have been going and you were not here.” + +“I’m sorry, mamma. I was showing Peter the house.” + +“Good-night,” said that individual. “I dread formal dinners usually, +but this one has been the pleasantest of my life.” + +“That’s very nice. And thank you, Peter, for the bracelet, and the +flowers, and the compliment. They were all lovely. Would you like a +rose?” + +Would he? He said nothing, but he looked enough to get it. + +“Can’t we put you down?” said a man at the door. “It’s not so far from +Washington Square to your place, that your company won’t repay us.” + +“Thank you,” said Peter, “but I have a hansom here.” + +Yet Peter did not ride. He dismissed cabby, and walked down the Avenue. +Peter was not going to compress his happiness inside a carriage that +evening. He needed the whole atmosphere to contain it. + +As he strode along he said: + +“It isn’t her beauty and grace alone”—(It never is with a man, oh, +no!)—“but her truth and frankness and friendliness. And then she +doesn’t care for money, and she isn’t eaten up with ambition. She is +absolutely untouched by the world yet. Then she is natural, yet +reserved, with other men. She’s not husband-hunting, like so many of +them. And she’s loving, not merely of those about her, but of +everything.” + +Musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited +variations. This was what Peter proceeded to do. From Fifty-seventh +Street to Peter’s rooms was a matter of four miles. Peter had not half +finished his thematic treatment of Leonore when he reached his +quarters. He sat down before his fire, however, and went on, not with +hope of exhausting all possible variations, but merely for his own +pleasure. + +Finally, however, he rose and put photographs, rose, and card away. + +“I’ve not allowed myself to yield to it,” he said (which was a whopper) +“till I was sure she was what I could always love. Now I shall do my +best to make her love me.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. +A GOOD DAY. + + +The next day it was raining torrents, but despite this, and to the +utter neglect of his law business, Peter drove up-town immediately +after lunch, to the house in Fifty-seventh Street. He asked for Watts, +but while he was waiting for the return of the servant, he heard a +light foot-step, and turning, he found Leonore fussing over some +flowers. At the same moment she became conscious of his presence. + +“Good-day,” said Peter. + +“It isn’t a good day at all,” said Leonore, in a disconsolate voice, +holding out her hand nevertheless. + +“Why not?” + +“It’s a horrid day, and I’m in disgrace.” + +“For what?” + +“For misbehaving last night. Both mamma and madame say I did very +wrong. I never thought I couldn’t be real friends with you.” The little +lips were trembling slightly. + +Peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. “Why can’t the +women let such an innocent child alone?” he thought to himself. Aloud +he said, “If any wrong was done, which I don’t think, it was my fault. +Can I do anything?” + +“I don’t believe so,” said Leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her +voice. “They say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will +allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won’t permit it for a +moment.” + +Peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head +against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: “I am so +sorry they blame you. If I could only save you from it.” He evidently +said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle. + +“You see,” said Leonore, “I’ve always been very particular with men, +but with you it seemed different. Yet they both say I stayed too long +upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. They said +I ought to treat you like other men. Don’t you think you are +different?” + +Yes. Peter thought he was very different. + +“Mr. D’Alloi will see you in the library,” announced the footman at +this point. + +Peter turned to go, but in leaving he said: “Is there any pleasure or +service I can do, to make up for the trouble I’ve caused you?” + +Leonore put her head on one side, and looked a little less +grief-stricken. “May I save that up?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +A moment later Peter was shaking hands with Watts. + +“This is nice of you. Quite like old times. Will you smoke?” + +“No. But please yourself. I’ve something to talk about.” + +“Fire away.” + +“Watts, I want to try and win the love of your little girl.” + +“Dear old man,” cried Watts, “there isn’t any one in God’s earth whom I +would rather see her choose, or to whom I would sooner trust her.” + +“Thank you, Watts,” said Peter, gratefully. “Watts is weak, but he is a +good fellow,” was his mental remark. Peter entirely forgot his opinion +of two weeks ago. It is marvellous what a change a different point of +view makes in most people. + +“But if I give you my little Dot, you must promise me one thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“That you will never tell her? Ah! Peter, if you knew how I love the +little woman, and how she loves me. From no other man can she learn +what will alter that love. Don’t make my consent bring us both +suffering?” + +“Watts, I give my word she shall never know the truth from me.” + +“God bless you, Peter. True as ever. Then that is settled. You shall +have a clear field and every chance.” + +“I fear not. There’s something more. Mrs. D’Alloi won’t pardon that +incident—nor do I blame her. I can’t force my presence here if she does +not give her consent. It would be too cruel, even if I could hope to +succeed in spite of her. I want to see her this morning. You can tell +better than I whether you had best speak to her first, or whether I +shall tell her.” + +“H’m. That is a corker, isn’t it? Don’t you think you had better let +things drift?” + +“No. I’m not going to try and win a girl’s love behind the mother’s +back. Remember, Watts, the mother is the only one to whom a girl can go +at such a time. We mustn’t try to take advantage of either.” + +“Well, I’ll speak to her, and do my best. Then I’ll send her to you. +Help yourself to the tobacco if you get tired of waiting _tout seul_.” + +Watts went upstairs and knocked at a door. “Yes,” said a voice. Watts +put his head in. “Is my Rosebud so busy that she can’t spare her lover +a few moments?” + +“Watts, you know I live for you.” + +Watts dropped down on the lounge. “Come here, then, like a loving +little wife, and let me say my little say.” + +No woman nearing forty can resist a little tenderness in her husband, +and Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled up to Watts in the pleasantest frame of mind. +Watts leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled some +more. + +“Now, I want to talk with you seriously, dear,” he said. “Who do you +think is downstairs?” + +“Who?” + +“Dear old Peter. And what do you think he’s come for!” + +“What?” + +“Dot.” + +“For what?” + +“He wants our consent, dear, to pay his addresses to Leonore.” + +“Oh, Watts!” Mrs. D’Alloi ceased to snuggle, and turned a horrified +face to her husband. + +“I’ve thought she attracted him, but he’s such an impassive, cool old +chap, that I wasn’t sure.” + +“That’s what I’ve been so afraid of. I’ve worried so over it.” + +“You dear, foolish little woman. What was there to worry over?” + +“Watts! You won’t give your consent?” + +“Of course we will. Why, what more do you want? Money, reputation, +brains, health.” (That was the order in which Peter’s advantages ranged +themselves in Watts’s mind). “I don’t see what more you can ask, short +of a title, and titles not only never have all those qualities +combined, but they are really getting decidedly _nouveau richey_ and +not respectable enough for a Huguenot family, who’ve lived two hundred +and fifty years in New York. What a greedy mamma she is for her little +girl.” + +“Oh, Watts! But think!” + +“It’s hard work, dear, with your eyes to look at. But I will, if you’ll +tell me what to think about.” + +“My husband! You cannot have forgotten? Oh, no! It is too horrible for +you to have forgotten that day.” + +“You heavenly little Puritan! So you are going to refuse Peter as a +son-in-law, because he—ah—he’s not a Catholic monk. Why, Rosebud, if +you are going to apply that rule to all Dot’s lovers, you had better +post a sign: ‘Wanted, a husband. P.S. No man need apply.’” + +“Watts! Don’t talk so.” + +“Dear little woman. I’m only trying to show you that we can’t do better +than trust our little girl to Peter.” + +“With that stain! Oh, Watts, give him our pure, innocent, spotless +child!” + +“Oh, well. If you want a spotless wedding, let her marry the Church. +She’ll never find one elsewhere, my darling.” + +“Watts! How can you talk so? And with yourself as an example. Oh, +husband! I want our child—our only child—to marry a man as noble and +true as her father. Surely there must be others like you?” + +“Yes. I think there are a great many men as good as I, Rosebud! But I’m +no better than I should be, and it’s nothing but your love that makes +you think I am.” + +“I won’t hear you say such things of yourself. You know you are the +best and purest man that ever lived. You know you are.” + +“If there’s any good in me, it’s because I married you.” + +“Watts, you couldn’t be bad if you tried.” And Mrs. D’Alloi put her +arms round Watts’s neck and kissed him. + +Watts fondled her for a moment in true lover’s fashion. Then he said, +“Dear little wife, a pure woman can never quite know what this world +is. I love Dot next to you, and would not give her to a man whom I +believe would not be true to her, or make her happy. I know every +circumstance of Peter’s connection with that woman, and he is as +blameless as man ever was. Such as it was, it was ended years ago, and +can never give him more trouble. He is a strong man, and will be true +to Dot. She might get a man who would make her life one long torture. +She may be won by a man who only cares for her money, and will not even +give her the husks of love. But Peter loves her, and has outgrown his +mistakes. And don’t forget that but for him we might now have nothing +but some horribly mangled remains to remember of our little darling. +Dear, I love Dot twenty times more than I love Peter. For her sake, and +yours, I am trying to do my best for her.” + +So presently Mrs. D’Alloi came into the library, where Peter sat. She +held out her hand to him, but Peter said: + +“Let me say something first. Mrs. D’Alloi, I would not have had that +occurrence happen in your home or presence if I had been able to +prevent it. It grieves me more than I can tell you. I am not a roué. In +spite of appearances I have lived a clean life. I shall never live any +other in the future. I—I love Leonore. Love her very dearly. And if you +will give her to me, should I win her, I pledge you my word that I will +give her the love, and tenderness, and truth which she deserves. Now, +will you give me your hand?” + +“He is speaking the truth,” thought Mrs. D’Alloi, as Peter spoke. She +held out her hand. “I will trust her to you if she chooses you.” + +Half an hour later, Peter went back to the drawing-room, to find +Leonore reposing in an exceedingly undignified position before the fire +on a big tiger-skin, and stroking a Persian cat, who, in delight at +this enviable treatment, purred and dug its claws into the rug. Peter +stood for a time watching the pretty tableau, wishing he was a cat. + +“Yes, Tawney-eye,” said Leonore, in heartrending tones, “it isn’t a +good day at all.” + +“I’m going to quarrel with you on that,” said Peter. “It’s a glorious +day.” + +Leonore rose from the skin. “Tawney-eye and I don’t think so.” + +“But you will. In the first place I’ve explained about the monopoly and +the photographs to your mamma, and she says she did not understand it, +and that no one is to blame. Secondly, she says I’m to stay to dinner +and am to monopolize you till then. Thirdly, she says we may be just as +good friends as we please. Fourthly, she has asked me to come and stay +for a week at Grey-Court this summer. Now, what kind of a day is it?” + +“Simply glorious! Isn’t it, Tawney-eye?” And the young lady again +forgot her “papas, proprieties, potatoes, prunes and prisms,” and +dropping down on the rug, buried her face in the cat’s long silky hair. +Then she reappeared long enough to say: + +“You are such a comforting person! I’m so glad you were born.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. +THE BOSS. + + +After this statement, so satisfying to both, Leonore recovered her +dignity enough to rise, and say, “Now, I want to pay you for your +niceness. What do you wish to do?” + +“Suppose we do what pleases you.” + +“No. I want to please you.” + +“That _is_ the way to please me,” said Peter emphatically. + +Just then a clock struck four. “I know,” said Leonore. “Come to the +tea-table, and we’ll have afternoon tea together. It’s the day of all +others for afternoon tea.” + +“I just said it was a glorious day.” + +“Oh? yes. It’s a nice day. But it’s dark and cold and rainy all the +same.” + +“But that makes it all the better. We shan’t be interrupted.” + +“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that Miss De Voe told me once that you +were a man who found good in everything, and I see what she meant.” + +“I can’t hold a candle to Dennis. He says its ‘a foine day’ so that you +feel that it really is. I never saw him in my life, when it wasn’t ‘a +foine day.’ I tell him he carries his sunshine round in his heart.” + +“You are so different,” said Leonore, “from what every one said. I +never knew a man pay such nice compliments. That’s the seventh I’ve +heard you make.” + +“You know I’m a politician, and want to become popular.” + +“Oh, Peter! Will you let me ask you something?” + +“Anything,” said Peter, rashly, though speaking the absolute truth. +Peter just then was willing to promise anything. Perhaps it was the +warm cup of tea; perhaps it was the blazing logs; perhaps it was the +shade of the lamp, which cast such a pleasant rosy tint over +everything; perhaps it was the comfortable chair; perhaps it was that +charming face; perhaps it was what Mr. Mantalini called the “demd +total.” + +“You see,” said Leonore, shaking her head in a puzzled way, “I’ve begun +to read the papers—the political part, I mean—and there are so many +things I don’t understand which I want to ask you to explain.” + +“That is very nice,” said Peter, “because there are a great many things +of which I want to tell you.” + +“Goody!” said Leonore, forgetting again she was now bound to conduct +herself as befit a society girl. “And you’ll not laugh at me if I ask +foolish questions?” + +“No.” + +“Then what do the papers mean by calling you a boss?” + +“That I am supposed to have sufficient political power to dictate to a +certain extent.” + +“But don’t they speak of a boss as something not nice?” asked Leonore, +a little timidly, as if afraid of hurting Peter’s feelings. + +“Usually it is used as a stigma,” said Peter, smiling. “At least by the +kind of papers you probably read.” + +“But you are not a bad boss, are you?” said Leonore, very earnestly. + +“Some of the papers say so.” + +“That’s what surprised me. Of course I knew they were wrong, but are +bosses bad, and are you a boss?” + +“You are asking me one of the biggest questions in American politics. I +probably can’t answer it, but I’ll try to show you why I can’t. Are +there not friends whose advice or wish would influence you?” + +“Yes. Like you,” said Leonore, giving Peter a glimpse of her eyes. + +“Really,” thought Peter, “if she does that often, I can’t talk abstract +politics.” Then he rallied and said: “Well, that is the condition of +men as well, and it is that condition, which creates the so-called +boss. In every community there are men who influence more or less the +rest. It may be that one can only influence half a dozen other +intimates. Another may exert power over fifty. A third may sway a +thousand. One may do it by mere physical superiority. Another by a +friendly manner. A third by being better informed. A fourth by a +deception or bribery. A fifth by honesty. Each has something that +dominates the weaker men about him. Take my ward. Burton is a +prize-fighter, and physically a splendid man. So he has his little +court. Driscoll is a humorist, and can talk, and he has his admirers. +Sloftky is popular with the Jews, because he is of their race. Burrows +is a policeman, who is liked by the whole ward, because of his kindness +and good-nature. So I could go on telling you of men who are a little +more marked than the rest, who have power to influence the opinions of +men about them, and therefore have power to influence votes. That is +the first step in the ladder.” + +“But isn’t Mr. Moriarty one?” + +“He comes in the next grade. Each of the men I have mentioned can +usually affect an average of twenty-five votes. But now we get to +another rung of the ladder. Here we have Dennis, and such men as +Blunkers, Denton, Kennedy, Schlurger and others. They not merely have +their own set of followers, but they have more or less power to +dominate the little bosses of whom I have already spoken. Take Dennis +for instance. He has fifty adherents who stick to him absolutely, two +hundred and fifty who listen to him with interest, and a dozen of the +smaller bosses, who pass his opinions to their followers. So he can +thus have some effect on about five hundred votes. Of course it takes +more force and popularity to do this and in this way we have a better +grade of men.” + +“Yes. I like Mr. Moriarty, and can understand why others do. He is so +ugly, and so honest, and so jolly. He’s lovely.” + +“Then we get another grade. Usually men of a good deal of brain force, +though not of necessity well educated. They influence all below them by +being better informed, and by being more far-seeing. Such men as +Gallagher and Dummer. They, too, are usually in politics for a living, +and so can take the trouble to work for ends for which the men with +other work have no time. They don’t need the great personal popularity +of those I have just mentioned, but they need far more skill and brain. +Now you can see, that these last, in order to carry out their +intentions, must meet and try to arrange to pull together, for +otherwise they can do nothing. Naturally, in a dozen or twenty men, +there will be grades, and very often a single man will be able to +dominate them all, just as the smaller bosses dominate the smaller men. +And this man the papers call a boss of a ward. Then when these various +ward bosses endeavor to unite for general purposes, the strongest man +will sway them, and he is boss of the city.” + +“And that is what you are?” + +“Yes. By that I mean that nothing is attempted in the ward or city +without consultation with me. But of course I am more dependent on the +voters than they are on me, for if they choose to do differently from +what I advise, they have the power, while I am helpless.” + +“You mean the smaller bosses?” + +“Not so much them as the actual voters. A few times I have shot right +over the heads of the bosses and appealed directly to the voters.” + +“Then you can make them do what you want?” + +“Within limits, yes. As I told you, I am absolutely dependent on the +voters. If they should defeat what I want three times running, every +one would laugh at me, and my power would be gone. So you see that a +boss is only a boss so long as he can influence votes.” + +“But they haven’t defeated you?” + +“No, not yet.” + +“But if the voters took their opinions from the other bosses how did +you do anything?” + +“There comes in the problem of practical politics. The question of who +can affect the voters most. Take my own ward. Suppose that I want +something done so much that I insist. And suppose that some of the +other leaders are equally determined that it shan’t be done. The ward +splits on the question and each faction tries to gain control in the +primary. When I have had to interfere, I go right down among the voters +and tell them why and what I want to do. Then the men I have had to +antagonize do the same, and the voters decide between us. It then is a +question as to which side can win the majority of the voters. Because I +have been very successful in this, I am the so-called boss. That is, I +can make the voters feel that I am right.” + +“How?” + +“For many reasons. First, I have always tried to tell the voters the +truth, and never have been afraid to acknowledge I was wrong, when I +found I had made a mistake, so people trust what I say. Then, unlike +most of the leaders in politics, I am not trying to get myself office +or profit, and so the men feel that I am disinterested. Then I try to +be friendly with the whole ward, so that if I have to do what they +don’t like, their personal feeling for me will do what my arguments +never could. With these simple, strong-feeling, and unreasoning folk, +one can get ten times the influence by a warm handshake and word that +one can by a logical argument. We are so used to believing what we +read, if it seems reasonable, that it is hard for us to understand that +men who spell out editorials with difficulty, and who have not been +trained to reason from facts, are not swayed by what to us seems an +obvious argument. But, on the contrary, if a man they trust, puts it in +plain language to them, they see it at once. I might write a careful +editorial, and ask my ward to read it, and unless they knew I wrote it, +they probably wouldn’t be convinced in the least. But let me go into +the saloons, and tell the men just the same thing, and there isn’t a +man who wouldn’t be influenced by it.” + +“You are so popular in the ward?” asked Leonore. + +“I think so, I find kind words and welcome everywhere. But then I have +tried very hard to be popular. I have endeavored to make a friend of +every man in it with whom one could be friendly, because I wished to be +as powerful as possible, so that the men would side with me whenever I +put my foot down on something wrong.” + +“Do you ever tell the ward how they are to vote?” + +“I tell them my views. But never how to vote. Once I came very near it, +though.” + +“How was that?” + +“I was laid up for eight months by my eyes, part of the time in Paris. +The primary in the meantime had put up a pretty poor man for an office. +A fellow who had been sentenced for murder, but had been pardoned by +political influence. When I was able to take a hand, I felt that I +could do better by interfering, so I came out for the Republican +candidate, who was a really fine fellow. I tried to see and talk to +every man in the ward, and on election day I asked a good many men, as +a personal favor, to vote for the Republican, and my friends asked +others. Even Dennis Moriarty worked and voted for what he calls a +‘dirty Republican,’ though he said ‘he never thought he’d soil his +hands wid one av their ballots.’ That is the nearest I ever came to +telling them how to vote.” + +“And did they do as you asked?” + +“The only Republican the ward has chosen since 1862 was elected in that +year. It was a great surprise to every one—even to myself—for the ward +is Democratic by about four thousand majority. But I couldn’t do that +sort of thing often, for the men wouldn’t stand it. In other words, I +can only do what I want myself, by doing enough else that the men wish. +That is, the more I can do to please the men, the more they yield their +opinions to mine.” + +“Then the bosses really can’t do what they want?” + +“No. Or at least not for long. That is a newspaper fallacy. A relic of +the old idea that great things are done by one-man power. If you will +go over the men who are said to control—the bosses, as they are +called—in this city, you will find that they all have worked their way +into influence slowly, and have been many years kept in power, though +they could be turned out in a single fight. Yet this power is obtained +only by the wish of a majority, for the day they lose the consent of a +majority of the voters that day their power ends. We are really more +dependent than the representatives, for they are elected for a certain +time, while our tenure can be ended at any moment. Why am I a power in +my ward? Because I am supposed to represent a given number of votes, +which are influenced by my opinions. It would be perfectly immaterial +to my importance how I influenced those votes, so long as I could +control them. But because I can influence them, the other leaders don’t +dare to antagonize me, and so I can have my way up to a certain point. +And because I can control the ward I have made it a great power in city +politics.” + +“How did you do that?” + +“By keeping down the factional feeling. You see there are always more +men struggling for power or office, than can have it, and so there +cannot but be bad blood between the contestants. For instance, when I +first became interested in politics, Moriarty and Blunkers were quite +as anxious to down each other as to down the Republicans. Now they are +sworn friends, made so in this case, by mere personal liking for me. +Some have been quieted in this way. Others by being held in check. +Still others by different means. Each man has to be studied and +understood, and the particular course taken which seems best in his +particular case. But I succeeded even with some who were pretty bitter +antagonists at first, and from being one of the most uncertain wards in +the city, the sixth has been known at headquarters for the last five +years as ‘old reliability’ from the big majority it always polls. So at +headquarters I am looked up to and consulted. Now do you understand why +and what a boss is?” + +“Yes, Peter. Except why bosses are bad.” + +“Don’t you see that it depends on what kind of men they are, and what +kind of voters are back of them. A good man, with honest votes back of +him, is a good boss, and _vice versa_.” + +“Then I know you are a good boss. It’s a great pity that all the bosses +can’t be good?” + +“I have not found them so bad. They are quite as honest, unselfish, and +reasonable as the average of mankind. Now and then there is a bad man, +as there is likely to be anywhere. But in my whole political career, I +have never known a man who could control a thousand votes for five +years, who was not a better man, all in all, than the voters whom he +influenced. More one cannot expect. The people are not quick, but they +find out a knave or a demagogue if you give them time.” + +“It’s the old saying; ‘you can fool all of the people, some of the +time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all of +the people all of the time,’” laughed a voice. + +Peter took his eyes off Leonore’s face, where they had been resting +restfully, and glanced up. Watts had entered the room. + +“Go on,” said Watts. “Don’t let me interrupt your political +disquisitions; I have only come in for a cup of tea.” + +“Miss D’Alloi and I were merely discussing bosses,” said Peter. “Miss +D’Alloi, when women get the ballot, as I hope they will, I trust you +will be a good boss, for I am sure you will influence a great many +votes.” + +“Oh!” said Leonore, laughing, “I shan’t be a boss at all. You’ll be my +boss, I think, and I’ll always vote for you.” + +Peter thought the day even more glorious than he had before. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. +THE BETTER ELEMENT. + + +The evening after this glorious day, Peter came in from his ride, but +instead of going at once to his room, he passed down a little passage, +and stood in a doorway. + +“Is everything going right, Jenifer?” he queried. + +“Yissah!” + +“The flowers came from Thorley’s?” + +“Yissah!” + +“And the candies and ices from Maillard?” + +“Yissah!” + +“And you’ve _frappé_ the champagne?” + +“Yissah?” + +“Jenifer, don’t put quite so much onion juice as usual in the Queen +Isabella dressing. Ladies don’t like it as much as men.” + +“Yissah!” + +“And you stood the Burgundy in the sun?” + +“Yissah! Wha foh yo’ think I doan do as I ginl’y do?” + +Jenifer was combining into a stuffing bread crumbs, chopped broiled +oysters, onions, and many other mysterious ingredients, and was +becoming irritated at such evident doubt of his abilities. + +Peter ought to have been satisfied, but he only looked worried. He +glanced round the little closet that served as a kitchen, in search of +possible sources for slips, but did not see them. All he was able to +say was, “That broth smells very nice, Jenifer.” + +“Yissah. Dar ain’t nuffin in dat sup buh a quart a thick cream, and de +squeezin’s of a hunerd clams, sah. Dat sup will make de angels sorry +dey died. Dey’ll just tink you’se dreful unkine not to offer dem a +secon’ help. Buh doan yo’ do it, sah, foh when dey gits to dem +prayhens, dey’ll be pow’ful glad yo’ didn’t.” To himself, Jenifer +remarked: “Who he gwine hab dis day? He neber so anxious befoh, not +even when de Presidint an Guv’nor Pohter dey dun dine hyah.” + +Peter went to his room and, after a due course of clubbing and tubbing, +dressed himself with the utmost care. Truth compels the confession that +he looked in his glass for some minutes. Not, however, apparently with +much pleasure, for an anxious look came into his face, and he remarked +aloud, as he turned away, “I don’t look so old, but I once heard Watts +say that I should never take a prize for my looks, and he was right. I +wonder if she cares for handsome men?” + +Peter forgot his worry in the opening of a box in the dining-room and +the taking out of the flowers. He placed the bunches at the different +places, raising one of the bouquets of violets to his lips, before he +laid it down. Then he took the cut flowers, and smilax, and spread them +loosely in the centre of the little table, which otherwise had nothing +on it, except the furnishings placed at each seat. After that he again +kissed a bunch of violets. History doesn’t state whether it was the +same bunch. Peter must have been very fond of flowers! + +“Peter,” called a voice. + +“Is that you, Le Grand? Go right into my room.” + +“I’ve done that already. You see I feel at home. How are you?” he +continued, as Peter joined him in the study. + +“As always.” + +“I thought I would run in early, so as to have a bit of you before the +rest. Peter, here’s a letter from Muller. He’s got that ‘Descent’ in +its first state, in the most brilliant condition. You had better get +it, and trash your present impression. It has always looked cheap +beside the rest.” + +“Very well. Will you attend to it?” + +Just then came the sound of voices and the rustle of draperies in the +little hall. + +“Hello! Ladies?” said Le Grand. “This is to be one of what Lispenard +calls your ‘often, frequently, only once’ affairs, is it?” + +“I’m afraid we are early,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “We did not know how much +time to allow.” + +“No. Such old friends cannot come too soon.” + +“And as it is, I’m really starved,” said another personage, shaking +hands with Peter as if she had not seen him for a twelve-month instead +of parting with him but two hours before. “What an appetite riding in +the Park does give one! Especially when afterwards you drive, and +drive, and drive, over New York stones.” + +“Ah,” cried Madame. “_C’est tres bien_!” + +“Isn’t it jolly?” responded Leonore. + +“But it is not American. It is Parisian.” + +“Oh, no, it isn’t! It’s all American. Isn’t it, Peter?” + +But Peter was telling Jenifer to hasten the serving of dinner. So +Leonore had to fight her country’s battles by herself. + +“What’s all this to-day’s papers are saying, Peter?” asked Watts, as +soon as they were seated. + +“That’s rather a large subject even for a slow dinner.” + +“I mean about the row in the Democratic organization over the +nomination for governor?” + +“The papers seem to know more about it than I do,” said Peter calmly. + +Le Grand laughed. “Miss De Voe, Ogden, Rivington—all of us, have tried +to get Peter, first and last, to talk politics, but not a fact do we +get. They say it’s his ability to hold his tongue which made Costell +trust him and push him, and that that was the reason he was chosen to +fill Costells place.” + +“_I_ don’t fill his place,” said Peter. “No one can do that. I merely +succeeded him. And Miss D’Alloi will tell you that the papers calling +me ‘Taciturnity Junior’ is a libel. Am I not a talker, Miss D’Alloi?” + +“_I_ really can’t find out,” responded Leonore, with a puzzled look. +“People say you are not.” + +“I didn’t think you would fail me after the other night.” + +“Ah,” said madame. “The quiet men are the great men. Look at the +French.” + +“Oh, madame!” exclaimed Leonore. + +“You are joking” cried Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“That’s delicious,” laughed Watts. + +“Whew,” said Le Grand, under his breath. + +“Ah! Why do you cry out? Mr. Stirling, am I not right?” Madame appealed +to the one face on which no amusement or skepticism was shown. + +“I think it is rather dangerous to ascribe any particular trait to any +nationality. It is usually misleading. But most men who think much, +talk little, and the French have many thinkers” + +“I always liked Von Moltke, just for it being said of him that he could +be silent in seven languages,” said Le Grand. + +“Yes,” said Leonore. “It’s so restful. We crossed on the steamer with a +French Marquis who can speak six languages, and can’t say one thing +worth listening to in any.” + +Peter thought the soup all Jenifer had cracked it up to be. + +“Peter,” said Leonore, turning to him, “Mr. Le Grand said that you +never will talk politics with anybody. That doesn’t include me, of +course?” + +“No,” said Peter promptly. + +“I thought it didn’t,” said Leonore, her eyes dancing with pleasure, +however, at the reply. “We had Mr. Pell to lunch to-day and I spoke to +him as to what you said about the bosses, and he told me that bosses +could never be really good, unless the better element were allowed to +vote, and not the saloon-keepers and roughs. I could see he was right, +at once.” + +“From his point of view. Or rather the view of his class.” + +“Don’t you think so?” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“Broadly speaking, all persons of sound mind are entitled to vote on +the men and the laws which are to govern them. Aside from this, every +ounce of brain or experience you can add to the ballot, makes it more +certain. Suppose you say that half the people are too ignorant to vote +sensibly. Don’t you see that there is an even chance, at least, that +they’ll vote rightly, and if the wrong half carries the election, it is +because more intelligent people have voted wrongly, have not voted, or +have not taken the trouble to try and show the people the right way, +but have left them to the mercies of the demagogue. If we grant that +every man who takes care of himself has some brain, and some +experience, his vote is of some value, even if not a high one. Suppose +we have an eagle, and a thousand pennies. Are we any better off by +tossing away the coppers, because each is worth so little. That is why +I have always advocated giving the franchise to women. If we can add +ten million voters to an election, we have added just so much knowledge +to it, and made it just so much the harder to mislead or buy enough +votes to change results.” + +“You evidently believe,” said Watts, “in the saying, ‘Everybody knows +more than anybody?’” + +Peter had forgotten all about his company in his interest over—over the +franchise. So he started slightly at this question, and looked up +from—from his subject. + +“Yes,” said Le Grand. “We’ve been listening and longing to ask +questions. When we see such a fit of loquacity, we want to seize the +opportunity.” + +“No,” said Leonore, “I haven’t finished. Tell me. Can’t you make the +men do what you want, so as to have them choose only the best men?” + +“If I had the actual power I would not,” said Peter. + +“Why?” + +“Because I would not dare to become responsible for so much, and +because a government of the ‘best’ men is not an American government.” + +“Why not?” + +“That is the aristocratic idea. That the better element, so called, +shall compel the masses to be good, whether they wish it or no. Just as +one makes a child behave without regard to its own desires. With grown +men, such a system only results in widening the distance between the +classes and masses, making the latter more dependent and unthinking. +Whereas, if we make every man vote he must think a little for himself, +because different people advise him contrarily, and thus we bring him +nearer to the more educated. He even educates himself by his own +mistakes; for every bad man elected, and every bad law passed, make him +suffer the results, and he can only blame himself. Of course we don’t +get as good a government or laws, but then we have other offsetting +advantages.” + +“What are those?” + +“We get men and laws which are the wish of the majority. Such are +almost self-supporting and self-administering. It is not a mere +combination of words, printing-ink, and white paper which makes a law. +It is the popular sentiment back of it which enforces it, and unless a +law is the wish of a majority of the people who are to be governed by +it, it is either a dead letter, or must be enforced by elaborate police +systems, supported oftentimes with great armies. Even then it does not +succeed, if the people choose to resist. Look at the attempt to govern +Ireland by force, in the face of popular sentiment. Then, too, we get a +stability almost unknown in governments which do not conform to the +people. This country has altered its system of government less than any +other great country in the last hundred years. And there is less +socialistic legislation and propaganda here than anywhere else. That +is, less discontent.” + +“But, Peter, if the American people are as sensible as you think, how +do you account for the kind of men who exercise control?” said Le +Grand. + +“By better men not trying.” + +“But we have reform movements all the time, led by good men. Why aren’t +these men elected?” + +“Who are as absolutely inexperienced and blind as to the way to +influence votes, as well can be. Look at it, as a contest, without +regard to the merit of the cause. On one side we have bosses, who know +and understand the men in their wards, have usually made themselves +popular, are in politics for a living, have made it a life-study, and +by dear experience have learned that they must surrender their own +opinions in order to produce harmony and a solid vote. The reformer, on +the contrary, is usually a man who has other occupations, and, if I may +say so, has usually met with only partial success in them. By that I +mean that the really successful merchant, or banker, or professional +man cannot take time to work in politics, and so only the less +successful try. Each reformer, too, is sure that he himself is right, +and as his bread and butter is not in the issue, he quarrels to his +heart’s content with his associates, so that they rarely can unite all +their force. Most of the reform movements in this city have been +attempted in a way that is simply laughable. What should we say if a +hundred busy men were to get together to-morrow, and decide that they +would open a great bank, to fight the clearing-house banks of New York? +Yet this, in effect, is what the reformers have done over and over +again in politics. They say to the men who have been kept in power for +years by the people, ‘You are scoundrels. The people who elected you +are ignorant We know how to do it better. Now we’ll turn you out.’ In +short, they tell the majority they are fools, but ask their votes. The +average reformer endorses thoroughly the theory ‘that every man is as +good as another, and a little better.’ And he himself always is the +better man. The people won’t stand that. The ‘holier than thou’ will +defeat a man quicker in this country than will any rascality he may +have done.” + +“But don’t you think the reformer is right in principle?” + +“In nine cases out of ten. But politics does not consist in being +right. It’s in making other people think you are. Men don’t like to be +told that they are ignorant and wrong, and this assumption is the basis +of most of the so-called educational campaigns. To give impetus to a +new movement takes immense experience, shrewdness, tact, and many other +qualities. The people are obstructive—that is conservative—in most +things, and need plenty of time.” + +“Unless _you_ tell them what they are to do,” laughed Watts. “Then they +know quick enough.” + +“Well, that has taken them fifteen years to learn. Don’t you see how +absurd it is to suppose that the people are going to take the opinions +of the better element off-hand? At the end of a three months’ campaign? +Men have come into my ward and spoken to empty halls; they’ve flooded +it with campaign literature, which has served to light fires; their +papers have argued, and nobody read them. But the ward knows me. +There’s hardly a voter who doesn’t. They’ve tested me. Most of them +like me. I’ve lived among them for years. I’ve gone on their summer +excursions. I’ve talked with them all over the district. I have helped +them in their troubles. I have said a kind word over their dead. I’m +godfather to many. With others I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder when the +bullets were flying. Why, the voters who were children when I first +came here, with whom I use to sit in the angle, are almost numerous +enough now to carry an election as I advise. Do you suppose, because +speakers, unknown to them, say I’m wrong, and because the three-cent +papers, which they never see, abuse me, that they are going to turn +from me unless I make them? That is the true secret of the failure of +reformers. A logical argument is all right in a court of appeals, but +when it comes to swaying five thousand votes, give me five thousand +loving hearts rather than five thousand logical reasons.” + +“Yet you have carried reforms.” + +“I have tried, but always in a practical way. That is, by not +antagonizing the popular men in politics, but by becoming one of them +and making them help me. I have gained political power by recognizing +that I could only have my own way by making it suit the voters. You see +there are a great many methods of doing about the same thing. And the +boss who does the most things that the people want, can do the most +things that the people don’t want. Every time I have surrendered my own +wishes, and done about what the people desire, I have added to my +power, and so have been able to do something that the people or +politicians do not care about or did not like.” + +“And as a result you are called all sorts of names.” + +“Yes. The papers call me a boss. If the voters didn’t agree with me, +they would call me a reformer.” + +“But, Peter,” said Le Grand, “would you not like to see such a type of +man as George William Curtis in office?” + +“Mr. Curtis probably stood for the noblest political ideas this country +has ever produced. But he held a beacon only to a small class. A man +who writes from an easy-chair, will only sway easy-chair people. And +easy-chair people never carried an election in this country, and never +will. This country cannot have a government of the best. It will always +be a government of the average. Mr. Curtis was only a leader to his own +grade, just as Tim Sullivan is the leader of his. Mr. Curtis, in his +editorials, spoke the feelings of one element in America. Sullivan, in +Germania Hall, voices another. Each is representative, the one of five +per cent. of New York; the other of ninety-five per cent. If the +American people have decided one thing, it is that they will not be +taken care of, nor coercively ruled, by their better element, or +minorities.” + +“Yet you will acknowledge that Curtis ought to rule, rather than +Sullivan?” + +“Not if our government is to be representative. I need not say that I +wish such a type as Mr. Curtis was representative.” + +“I suppose if he had tried to be a boss he would have failed?” + +“I think so. For it requires as unusual a combination of qualities to +be a successful boss, as to be a successful merchant or banker. Yet one +cannot tell. I myself have never been able to say what elements make a +boss, except that he must be in sympathy with the men whom he tries to +guide, and that he must be meeting them. Mr. Curtis had a broad, loving +nature and sympathies, and if the people had discovered them, they +would have liked him. But the reserve which comes with culture makes +one largely conceal one’s true feelings. Super-refinement puts a man +out of sympathy with much that is basic in humanity, and it needs a +great love, or a great sacrifice of feeling, to condone it. It is hard +work for what Watts calls a tough, and such a man, to understand and +admire one another.” + +“But don’t you think,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, “that the people of our class +are better and finer?” + +“The expression ‘noblesse oblige’ shows that,” said madame. + +“My experience has led me to think otherwise,” said Peter. “Of course +there is a difference of standards, of ideals, and of education, in +people, and therefore there are differences in conduct. But for their +knowledge of what is right and wrong, I do not think the so-called +better classes, which should, in truth, be called the prosperous +classes, live up to their own standards of right any more than do the +poor.” + +“Oh, I say, draw it mild. At least exclude the criminal classes,” cried +Watts. “They know better.” + +“We all know better. But we don’t live up to our knowledge. I crossed +on one of the big Atlantic liners lately, with five hundred other +saloon passengers. They were naturally people of intelligence, and +presumably of easy circumstances. Yet at least half of those people +were plotting to rob our government of money by contriving plans to +avoid paying duties truly owed. To do this all of them had to break our +laws, and in most cases had, in addition, to lie deliberately. Many of +them were planning to accomplish this theft by the bribery of the +custom-house inspectors, thus not merely making thieves of themselves, +but bribing other men to do wrong. In this city I can show you blocks +so densely inhabited that they are election districts in themselves. +Blocks in which twenty people live and sleep in a single room, year +after year; where the birth of a little life into the world means that +all must eat less and be less warm; where man and woman, old and young, +must shiver in winter, and stifle in summer; where there is not room to +bury the people who live in the block within the ground on which they +dwell. But I cannot find you, in the poorest and vilest parts of this +city, any block where the percentage of liars and thieves and +bribe-givers is as large as was that among the first-class passengers +of that floating palace. Each condition of society has its own +mis-doings, and I believe varies little in the percentage of +wrong-doers to the whole.” + +“To hear Peter talk you would think the whole of us ought to be +sentenced to life terms,” laughed Watts. “I believe it’s only an +attempt on his part to increase the practice of lawyers.” + +“Do you really think people are so bad, Peter?” asked Leonore, sadly. + +“No. I have not, ten times in my life, met a man whom I should now call +bad. I have met men whom I thought so, but when I knew them better I +found the good in them more than balancing the evil. Our mistake is in +supposing that some men are ‘good’ and others ‘bad,’ and that a sharp +line can be drawn between them. The truth is, that every man has both +qualities in him and in very few does the evil overbalance the good. I +marvel at the goodness I find in humanity, when I see the temptation +and opportunity there is to do wrong.” + +“Some men are really depraved, though,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“Yes,” said madame. “Think of those strikers!” + +Peter felt a thrill of pleasure pass through him, but he did not show +it. “Let me tell you something in connection with that. A high light in +place of a dark shadow. There was an attempt to convict some of the +strikers, but it failed, for want of positive evidence. The moral +proof, however, against a fellow named Connelly was so strong that +there could be no doubt that he was guilty. Two years later that man +started out in charge of a long express, up a seven-mile grade, where +one of our railroads crosses the Alleghanies. By the lay of the land +every inch of that seven miles of track can be seen throughout its +entire length, and when he had pulled half way up, he saw a section of +a freight train coming down the grade at a tremendous speed. A coupling +had broken, and this part of the train was without a man to put on the +brakes. To go on was death. To stand still was the same. No speed which +he could give his train by backing would enable it to escape those +uncontrolled cars. He sent his fireman back to the first car, with +orders to uncouple the engine. He whistled ‘on brakes’ to his train, so +that it should be held on the grade safely. And he, and the engine +alone, went on up that grade, and met that flying mass of freight. He +saved two hundred people’s lives. Yet that man, two years before, had +tried to burn alive forty of his fellow-men. Was that man good or bad?” + +“Really, chum, if you ask it as a conundrum, I give it up. But there +are thoroughly and wholly good things in this world, and one of them is +this stuffing. Would it be possible for a fellow to have a second +help?” + +Peter smiled. “Jenifer always makes the portions according to what is +to follow, and I don’t believe he’ll think you had better. Jenifer, can +Mr. D’Alloi have some more stuffing?” + +“Yissah,” said Jenifer, grinning the true darkey grin, “if de gentmun +want’t sell his ap’tite foh a mess ob potash.” + +“Never mind,” said Watts. “I’m not a dyspeptic, and so don’t need +potash. But you might wrap the rest up in a piece of newspaper, and +I’ll take it home.” + +“Peter, you must have met a great many men in politics whom you knew to +be dishonest?” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“No. I have known few men whom I could call dishonest. But then I make +a great distinction between the doer of a dishonest act and a dishonest +man.” + +“That is what the English call ‘a fine-spun’ distinction, I think,” +said madame. + +“I hope not. A dishonest man I hold to be one who works steadily and +persistently with bad means and motives. But there are many men whose +lives tell far more for good than for evil in the whole, yet who are +not above doing wrong at moments or under certain circumstances. This +man will lie under given conditions of temptations. Another will bribe, +if the inducement is strong enough. A third will merely trick. Almost +every man has a weak spot somewhere. Yet why let this one weakness—a +partial moral obliquity or imperfection—make us cast him aside as +useless and evil. As soon say that man physically is spoiled, because +he is near-sighted, lame or stupid. If we had our choice between a new, +bright, keen tool, or a worn, dull one, of poor material, we should not +hesitate which to use. But if we only have the latter, how foolish to +refuse to employ it as we may, because we know there are in the world a +few better ones.” + +“Is not condoning a man’s sins, by failing to blame him, direct +encouragement to them?” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“One need not condone the sin. My rule has been, in politics, or +elsewhere, to fight dishonesty wherever I found it. But I try to fight +the act, not the man. And if I find the evil doer beyond hope of +correction, I do not antagonize the doer of it. More can be done by +amity and forbearance than by embittering and alienating. Man is not +bettered by being told that he is bad. I had an alderman in here three +or four days ago who was up to mischief. I could have called him a +scoundrel, without telling him untruth. But I didn’t. I told him what I +thought was right, in a friendly way, and succeeded in straightening +him out, so that he dropped his intention, yet went away my friend. If +I had quarrelled with him, we should have parted company, he would have +done the wrong, I should have fought him when election time came—and +defeated him. But he, and probably fifty of his adherents in the ward +would have become my bitter enemies, and opposed everything I tried in +the future. If I quarrelled with enough such men, I should in time +entirely lose my influence in the ward, or have it generally lessened. +But by dealing as a friend with him, I actually prevented his doing +what he intended, and we shall continue to work together. Of course a +man can be so bad that this course is impossible, but they are as few +in politics as they are elsewhere.” + +“Taciturnity Stirling in his great circus feat of riding a whole ward +at once,” said Watts. + +“I don’t claim that I’m right,” said Peter. “I once thought very +differently. I started out very hotly as a reformer when I began life. +But I have learned that humanity is not reformed with a club, and that +if most people gave the energy they spend in reforming the world, or +their friends, to reforming themselves, there would be no need of +reformers.” + +“The old English saying that ‘people who can’t mind their own business +invariably mind some one’s else,’ seems applicable,” said Watts. + +“But is it not very humiliating to you to have to be friends with such +men?” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“You know Mr. Drewitt?” asked Peter. + +“Yes,” said all but madame. + +“Do you take pleasure in knowing him?” + +“Of course,” said Watts. “He’s very amusing and a regular parlor pet.” + +“That is the reason I took him. For ten years that man was notoriously +one of the worst influences in New York State politics. At Albany, in +the interest of a great corporation, he was responsible for every job +and bit of lobbying done in its behalf. I don’t mean to say that he +really bribed men himself, for he had lieutenants for the actual dirty +work, but every dollar spent passed through his hands, and he knew for +what purpose it was used. At the end of that time, so well had he done +his work, that he was made president of the corporation. Because of +that position, and because he is clever, New York society swallowed him +and has ever since delighted to fête him. I find it no harder to shake +hands and associate with the men he bribed, than you do to shake hands +and associate with the man who gave the bribe.” + +“Even supposing the great breweries, and railroads, and other interests +to be chiefly responsible for bribery, that makes it all the more +necessary to elect men above the possibility of being bribed,” said Le +Grand. “Why not do as they do in Parliament? Elect only men of such +high character and wealth, that money has no temptation for them.” + +“The rich man is no better than the poor man, except that in place of +being bribed by other men’s money, he allows his own money to bribe +him. Look at the course of the House of Lords on the corn-laws. The +slave-holders’ course on secession. The millionaire silver senators’ +course on silver. The one was willing to make every poor man in England +pay a half more for his bread than need be, in order that land might +rent for higher prices. The slave-owner was willing to destroy his own +country, rather than see justice done. The last are willing to force a +great commercial panic, ruining hundreds and throwing thousands out of +employment, if they can only get a few cents more per ounce for their +silver. Were they voting honestly in the interest of their fellow-men? +Or were their votes bribed?” + +Mrs. D’Alloi rose, saying, “Peter. We came early and we must go early. +I’m afraid we’ve disgraced ourselves both ways.” + +Peter went down with them to their carriage. He said to Leonore in the +descent, “I’m afraid the politics were rather dull to you. I lectured +because I wanted to make some things clear to you.” + +“Why?” questioned Leonore. + +“Because, in the next few months you’ll see a great deal about bosses +in the papers, and I don’t want you to think so badly of us as many +do.” + +“I shan’t think badly of you, Peter,” said Leonore, in the nicest tone. + +“Thank you,” said Peter. “And if you see things said of me that trouble +you, will you ask me about them?” + +“Yes. But I thought you wouldn’t talk politics?” + +“I will talk with you, because, you know, friends must tell each other +everything.” + +When Leonore had settled back in the carriage for the long drive, she +cogitated: “Mr. Le Grand said that he and Miss De Voe, and Mr. Ogden +had all tried to get Peter to talk about politics, but that he never +would. Yet, he’s known them for years, and is great friends with them. +It’s very puzzling!” + +Probably Leonore was thinking of American politics. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. +THE BLUE-PETER. + + +Leonore’s puzzle went on increasing in complexity, but there is a limit +to all intricacy, and after a time Leonore began to get an inkling of +the secret. She first noticed that Peter seemed to spend an undue +amount of time with her. He not merely turned up in the Park daily, but +they were constantly meeting elsewhere. Leonore went to a gallery. +There was Peter! She went to a concert. Ditto, Peter! She visited the +flower-show. So did Peter! She came out of church. Behold Peter! In +each case with nothing better to do than to see her home. At first +Leonore merely thought these meetings were coincidences, but their +frequency soon ended this theory, and then Leonore noticed that Peter +had a habit of questioning her about her plans beforehand, and of +evidently shaping his accordingly. + +Nor was this all. Peter seemed to be constantly trying to get her to +spend time with him. Though the real summer was fast coming, he had +another dinner. He had a box at the theatre. He borrowed a drag from +Mr. Pell, and took them all up for a lunch at Mrs. Costell’s in +Westchester. Then nothing would do but to have another drive, ending in +a dinner at the Country Club. + +Flowers, too, seemed as frequent as their meetings. Peter had always +smiled inwardly at bribing a girl’s love with flowers and bon-bons, but +he had now discovered that flowers are just the thing to send a girl, +if you love her, and that there is no bribing about it. So none could +be too beautiful and costly for his purse. Then Leonore wanted a dog—a +mastiff. The legal practice of the great firm and the politics of the +city nearly stopped till the finest of its kind had been obtained for +her. + +Another incriminating fact came to her through Dorothy. + +“I had a great surprise to-day,” she told Leonore. “One that fills me +with delight, and that will please you.” + +“What is that?” + +“Peter asked me at dinner, if we weren’t to have Anneke’s house at +Newport for the summer, and when I said ‘yes,’ he told me that if I +would save a room for him, he would come down Friday nights and stay +over Sunday, right through the summer. He has been a simply impossible +man hitherto to entice into a visit. Ray and I felt like giving three +cheers.” + +“He seemed glad enough to be invited to visit Grey-Court,” thought +Leonore. + +But even without all this, Peter carried the answer to the puzzle about +with him in his own person. Leonore could not but feel the difference +in the way he treated, and talked, and looked at her, as compared to +all about her. It is true he was no more demonstrative, than with +others; his face held its quiet, passive look, and he spoke in much the +usual, quiet, even tone of voice. Yet Leonore was at first dimly +conscious, and later certain, that there was a shade of eagerness in +his manner, a tenderness in his voice, and a look in his eye, when he +was with her, that was there in the presence of no one else. + +So Leonore ceased to puzzle over the problem at a given point, having +found the answer. But the solving did not bring her much apparent +pleasure. + +“Oh, dear!” she remarked to herself. “I thought we were going to be +such good friends! That we could tell each other everything. And now +he’s gone and spoiled it. Probably, too, he’ll be bothering me later, +and then he’ll be disappointed, and cross, and we shan’t be good +friends any more. Oh, dear! Why do men have to behave so? Why can’t +they just be friends?” + +It is a question which many women have asked. The query indicates a +degree of modesty which should make the average masculine blush at his +own self-love. The best answer to the problem we can recommend to the +average woman is a careful and long study of a mirror. + +As a result of this cogitation Leonore decided that she would nip +Peter’s troublesomeness in the bud, that she would put up a sign, +“Trespassing forbidden;” by which he might take warning. Many women +have done the same thing to would-be lovers, and have saved the lovers +much trouble and needless expense. But Leonore, after planning out a +dialogue in her room, rather messed it when she came to put it into +actual public performance. Few girls of eighteen are cool over a +love-affair. And so it occurred thusly: + +Leonore said to Peter one day, when he had dropped in for a cup of +afternoon tea after his ride with her: + +“If I ask you a question, I wonder if you will tell me what you think, +without misunderstanding why I tell you something?” + +“I will try.” + +“Well,” said Leonore, “there is a very nice Englishman whom I knew in +London, who has followed me over here, and is troubling me. He’s +dreadfully poor, and papa says he thinks he is after my money. Do you +think that can be so?” + +So far the public performance could not have gone better if it had been +rehearsed. But at this point, the whole programme went to pieces. +Peter’s cup of tea fell to the floor with a crash, and he was leaning +back in his chair, with a look of suffering on his face. + +“Peter,” cried Leonore, “what is it?” + +“Excuse me,” said Peter, rallying a little. “Ever since an operation on +my eyes they sometimes misbehave themselves. It’s neuralgia of the +optic nerve. Sometimes it pains me badly. Don’t mind me. It will be all +right in a minute if I’m quiet.” + +“Can’t I do anything?” + +“No. I have an eye-wash which I used to carry with me, but it is so +long since I have had a return of my trouble that I have stopped +carrying it.” + +“What causes it?” + +“Usually a shock. It’s purely nervous.” + +“But there was no shock now, was there?” said Leonore, feeling so +guilty that she felt it necessary to pretend innocence. + +Peter pulled himself together instantly and, leaning over, began +deliberately to gather up the fragments of the cup. Then he laid the +pieces on the tea-table and said: “I was dreadfully frightened when I +felt the cup slipping. It was very stupid in me. Will you try to +forgive me for breaking one of your pretty set?” + +“That’s nothing,” said Leonore. To herself that young lady remarked, +“Oh, dear! It’s much worse than I thought. I shan’t dare say it to him, +after all” + +But she did, for Peter helped her, by going back to her original +question, saying bravely: “I don’t know enough about Mr. Max —— the +Englishman, to speak of him, but I think I would not suspect men of +that, even if they are poor.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because it would be much easier, to most men, to love you than to love +your money.” + +“You think so?” + +“Yes.” + +“I’m so glad. I felt so worried over it. Not about this case, for I +don’t care for him, a bit. But I wondered if I had to suspect every man +who came near me.” + +Peter’s eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment +before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods. + +Then at last Leonore made the remark towards which she had been +working. At twenty-five Leonore would have been able to say it without +so dangerous a preamble. + +“I don’t want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone,” +she said. “I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying for at least +five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,” + +Five years! Peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling. +He would like to claim that bit of womanhood as his own that moment, +and she could talk of five years! It was the clearest possible +indication to Peter that Leonore was heart-whole. “No one, who is in +love,” he thought, “could possibly talk of five years, or five months +even.” When Peter got back to his chambers that afternoon, he was as +near being despairing as he had been since—since—a long time ago. Even +the obvious fact, that, if Leonore was not in love with him, she was +also not in love with any one else, did not cheer him. There is a flag +in the navy known as the Blue-Peter. That evening, Peter could have +supplied our whole marine, with considerable bunting to spare. + +But even worse was in store for him on the morrow. When he joined +Leonore in the Park that day, she proved to him that woman has as much +absolute brutality as the lowest of prize-fighters. Women get the +reputation of being less brutal, because of their dread of +blood-letting. Yet when it comes to torturing the opposite sex in its +feelings, they are brutes compared with their sufferers. + +“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that this is almost our last ride +together?” + +“Don’t jerk the reins needlessly, Peter,” said Mutineer, crossly. + +“I hope not,” said Peter. + +“We have changed our plans. Instead of going to Newport next week, I +have at last persuaded papa to travel a little, so that I can see +something of my own country, and not be so shamefully ignorant. We are +going to Washington on Saturday, and from there to California, and then +through the Yellowstone, and back by Niagara. We shan’t be in Newport +till the middle of August” + +Peter did not die at once. He caught at a life-preserver of a most +delightful description. “That will be a very enjoyable trip,” he said. +“I should like to go myself.” + +“There is no one I would rather have than you,” said Leonore, laying +her little hand softly on the wound she had herself just made, in a way +which women have. Then she stabbed again. “But we think it pleasanter +to have it just a party of four.” + +“How long shall you be in Washington?” asked Peter, catching wildly at +a straw this time. + +“For a week. Why?” + +“The President has been wanting to see me, and I thought I might run +down next week,” + +“Dear me,” thought Leonore. “How very persistent he is!” + +“Where will you put up?” said Peter. + +“We haven’t decided. Where shall you stay?” she had the brutality to +ask. + +“The President wants me with him, but I may go to a hotel. It leaves +one so much freer.” Peter was a lawyer, and saw no need of committing +himself. “If I am there when you are, I can perhaps help you enjoy +yourself. I think I can get you a lunch at the White House, and, as I +know most of the officials, I have an open sesame to some other nice +things.” Poor Peter! He was trying to tempt Leonore to tolerate his +company by offering attractions in connection therewith. A chromo with +the pound of tea. And this from the man who had thought flowers and +bon-bons bribery! + +“Why does the President want to see you?” + +“To talk politics.” + +“About the governorship?” + +“Yes. Though we don’t say so.” + +“Is it true, Peter, that you can decide who it is to be as the papers +say?” + +“No, I would give twenty-five thousand dollars to-day if I could name +the Democratic nominee.” + +“Why?” + +“Would you mind my not telling you?” + +“Yes. I want to know. And you are to tell me,” said her majesty, +calmly. + +“I will tell you, though it is a secret, if you will tell me a secret +of yours which I want to know.” + +“No,” said Leonore. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You are to tell me +without making me promise anything.” Leonore might deprecate a man’s +falling in love with her, but she had no objection to the power and +perquisites it involved. + +“Then I shan’t tell you,” said Peter, making a tremendous rally. + +Leonore looked out from under her lashes to see just how much of +Peter’s sudden firmness was real and how much pretence. Then she became +unconscious of his presence. + +Peter said something. + +Silence. + +Peter said something else. + +Silence. + +“Are you really so anxious to know?” he asked, surrendering without +terms. + +He had a glorious look at those glorious eyes. “Yes,” said the dearest +of all mouths. + +“The great panic,” said Peter, “has led to the formation of a so-called +Labor party, and, from present indications, they are going to nominate +a bad man. Now, there is a great attempt on foot to get the Democratic +convention to endorse whomever the Labor party nominates.” + +“Who will that be?’” + +“A Stephen Maguire.” + +“And you don’t want him?” + +“No. I have never crossed his path without finding him engaged in +something discreditable. But he’s truckled himself into a kind of +popularity and power, and, having always been ‘a Democrat,’ he hopes to +get the party to endorse him.” + +“Can’t you order the convention not to do it?” + +Peter smiled down into the eyes. “We don’t order men in this country +with any success.” + +“But can’t you prevent them?” + +“I hope so. But it looks now as if I should have to do it in a way very +disagreeable to myself.” + +“How?” + +“This is a great secret, you understand?” + +“Yes,” said Leonore, all interest and eagerness. “I can keep a secret +splendidly.” + +“You are sure?” asked Peter. + +“Sure.” + +“So can I,” said Peter. + +Leonore perfectly bristled with indignation. “I won’t be treated so,” +she said. “Are you going to tell me?” She put on her severest manner. + +“No,” said Peter. + +“He is obstinate,” thought Leonore to herself. Then aloud she said: +“Then I shan’t be friends any more?” + +“That is very nice,” said Peter, soberly. + +“What?” said Leonore, looking at him in surprise. + +“I have come to the conclusion,” said Peter, “that there is no use in +our trying to be friends. So we had better give up at once. Don’t you +think so?” + +“What a pretty horse Miss Winthrop has?” said Leonore. And she never +obtained an answer to her question, nor answered Peter’s. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. +A MUTINEER. + + +After Peter’s return from Washington, there was a settled gloom about +him positively appalling. He could not be wooed, on any plea, by his +closest friends, to journey up-town into the social world. He failed +entirely to avail himself of the room in the Rivington’s Newport villa, +though Dorothy wrote appealingly, and cited his own words to him. Even +to his partners he became almost silent, except on law matters. Jenifer +found that no delicacy, however rare or however well cooked and served, +seemed to be noticed any more than if it was mess-pork. The only +moments that this atmosphere seemed to yield at all was when Peter took +a very miscellaneous collection of rubbish out of a little sachet, +meant for handkerchiefs, which he now carried in his breast-pocket, and +touched the various articles to his lips. Then for a time he would look +a little less suicidal. + +But it was astonishing the amount of work he did, the amount of reading +he got through, the amount of politics he bossed, and the cigars he +smoked, between the first of June, and the middle of August The +party-leaders had come to the conclusion that Peter did not intend to +take a hand in this campaign, but, after his return from Washington, +they decided otherwise. “The President must have asked him to +interfere,” was their whispered conclusion, “but it’s too late now. +It’s all cut and dried.” + +Peter found, as this remark suggested, that his two months’ devotion to +the dearest of eyes and sweetest of lips, had had serious results. As +with Mutineer once, he had dropped his bridle, but there was no use in +uttering, as he had, then, the trisyllable which had reduced the horse +to order. He had a very different kind of a creature with which to +deal, than a Kentucky gentleman of lengthy lineage, a creature called +sometimes a “tiger.” Yet curiously enough, the same firm voice, and the +same firm manner, and a “mutineer,” though this time a man instead of a +horse, was effective here. All New York knew that something had been +done, and wanted to know what. There was not a newspaper in the city +that would have refused to give five thousand dollars for an authentic +stenographic report of what actually was said in a space of time not +longer than three hours in all. Indeed, so intensely were people +interested, that several papers felt called upon to fabricate and print +most absurd versions of what did occur, all the accounts reaching +conclusions as absolutely different as the press portraits of +celebrities. From three of them it is a temptation to quote the display +headlines or “scare-heads,” which ushered these reports to the world. +The first read: + +“THE BOSSES AT WAR!” +“HOT WORDS AND LOOKS.” +“BUT THEY’LL CRAWL LATER.” + + +“There’s beauty in the bellow of the blast, +There’s grandeur in the growling of the gale; +But there’s eloquence-appalling, when Stirling is aroaring, +And the Tiger’s getting modest with his tail” + + +That was a Republican account. The second was: + +“MAGUIRE ON TOP!” + + +“The Old Man is Friendly. A Peace-making Dinner at the Manhattan Club. +Friends in Council. Labor and Democracy Shoulder to Shoulder. A United +Front to the Enemy.” + + +The third, printed in an insignificant little penny paper, never read +and almost unknown by reading people, yet which had more city +advertising than all the other papers put together, and a circulation +to match the largest, announced: + +“TACITURNITY JUNIOR’S” +“ONCE MORE AT THE BAT!” +“NO MORE NONSENSE.” +“HE PUTS MAGUIRE OUT ON THIRD BASE.” +“NOW PLAY BALL!” + + +And unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth +to suggest inspiration. But there is no need to reprint the article +that followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what +actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work +to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest +class of all books, that of the historical novel. + +The facts are, that Peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the +middle of July, and went into the Manhattan Club. He exchanged +greetings with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in +while he was reading the evening papers. A man came up to him while he +still read, and said: + +“Well, Stirling. Reading about your own iniquity?” + +“No,” said Peter, rising and shaking hands. “I gave up reading about +that ten years ago. Life is too short.” + +“Pelton and Webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room, +as I came up. I suppose they are in the café.” + +Peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. Peter +shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round +one of the little tables. A good many men who saw that group, nudged +each other, and whispered remarks. + +“A reporter from the _Sun_ is in the strangers’ room. Mr. Stirling, and +asks to see you,” said a servant. + +“I cannot see him,” said Peter, quietly. “But say to him that I may +possibly have something to tell him about eleven o’clock.” + +The four men at the table exchanged glances. + +“I can’t imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, +Stirling,” laughed one of them a little nervously. + +Peter smiled. “Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can’t +imagine any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but +perhaps you may some day.” + +A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted +by the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang +a bell. + +“What shall it be?” he asked. + +There was a moment’s hesitation, and then one said. “Order for us. +You’re host. Just what you like.” + +Peter smiled. “Thomas,” he said, “bring us eight Apollinaris +cocktails.” + +The men all laughed, and Thomas said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?” in a +bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never +heard of that cocktail. + +“Well, Thomas,” said Peter, “if you don’t have that in stock, make it +seven Blackthorns.” + +Then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a +moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. For an +hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were +nothing more than a social dinner. But the moment the servant had +passed the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly +ceased, and a silence came for a moment Then a man said: + +“It’s a pity it can’t please all, but the majority’s got to rule.” + +“Yes,” promptly said another, “this is really a Maguire ratification +meeting.” + +“There’s nothing else to do,” affirmed a third. + +But a fourth said: “Then what are we here for?” + +No one seemed to find an answer. After a moment’s silence, the original +speaker said: + +“It’s the only way we can be sure of winning.” + +“He gives us every pledge,” echoed the second. + +“And we’ve agreed, anyways, so we are bound,” continued the first +speaker. + +Peter took his cigar out of his mouth. “Who are bound?” he asked, +quietly. + +“Why, the organization is—the party,” said Number Two, with a +“deny-it-if-you-dare” in his voice. + +“I don’t see how we can back out now, Stirling,” said Number One. + +“Who wants to?” said another. “The Labor party promises to support us +on our local nominations, and Maguire is not merely a Democrat, but he +gives us every pledge.” + +“There’s no good of talking of anything else anyhow,” said Number One, +“for there will be a clean majority for Maguire in the convention.” + +“And no other candidate can poll fifty votes on the first ballot,” said +Number Two. + +Then they all looked at Peter, and became silent. Peter puffed his +cigar thoughtfully. + +“What do you say?” said Number One. + +Peter merely shook his head. + +“But I tell you it’s done,” cried one of the men, a little excitedly. +“It’s too late to backslide! We want to please you, Stirling, but we +can’t this time. We must do what’s right for the party.” + +“I’m not letting my own feeling decide it,” said Peter. “I’m thinking +of the party. For every vote the Labor people give Maguire, the support +of that party will lose us a Democratic vote.” + +“But we can’t win with a triangular fight. The Republicans will simply +walk over the course.” + +If Peter had been a hot-headed reformer, he would have said: “Better +that than that such a scoundrel shall win.” But Peter was a politician, +and so saw no need of saying the unpleasantest thing that occurred to +him, even if he felt it. Instead, he said: “The Labor party will get as +many votes from the Republicans as from us, and, for every vote the +Labor party takes from us, we shall get a Republican vote, if we put up +the right kind of a man.” + +“Nonsense,” cried Number One. + +“How do you figure that?” asked another. + +“In these panic times, the nomination of such a man as Maguire, with +his truckling to the lowest passions and his socialistic speeches, will +frighten conservative men enough to make them break party lines, and +unite on the most certain candidate. That will be ours.” + +“But why risk it, when, with Maguire, it’s certain?” + +Peter wanted to say: “Maguire shall not be endorsed, and that ends it.” +Instead, he said: “We can win with our own man, and don’t need to trade +with or endorse the Labor party. We can elect Maguire by the aid of the +worst votes in this city, or we can elect our own man by the aid of the +best. The one weakens our party in the future; the other strengthens +it.” + +“You think that possible?” asked the man who had sought information as +to what they “were here for.” + +“Yes. The Labor party makes a stir, but it wouldn’t give us the oyster +and be content with the shells if it really felt strong. See what it +offers us. All the local and State ticket except six assemblymen, two +senators, and a governor, tied hand and foot to us, whose proudest +claim for years has been that he’s a Democrat.” + +“But all this leaves out of sight the fact that the thing’s done,” said +Number One. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“Yes. It’s too late. The polls are closed,” said another. + +Peter stopped puffing. “The convention hasn’t met,” he remarked, +quietly. + +That remark, however, seemed to have a sting in it, for Number Two +cried: + +“Come. We’ve decided. Now, put up or shut up. No more beating about the +bush.” + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“Tell us what you intend, Stirling,” said Number One. “We are committed +beyond retreat. Come in with us, or stay outside the breastworks.” + +“Perhaps,” said Peter, “since you’ve taken your own position, without +consulting me, you will allow me the same privilege.” + +“Go to—where you please,” said Number Six, crossly. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked Number One. + +Peter knocked the ash off his cigar. “You consider yourselves pledged +to support Maguire?” + +“Yes. We are pledged,” said four voices in unison. + +“So am I,” said Peter. + +“How?” + +“To oppose him,” said Peter. + +“But I tell you the majority of the convention is for him,” said Number +One. “Don’t you believe me?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then what good will your opposition do?” + +“It will defeat Maguire.” + +“No power on earth can do that.” + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“You can’t beat him in the convention, Stirling. The delegates pledged +to him, and those we can give him elect him on the first ballot.” + +“How about November fourth?” asked Peter. + +Number One sprang to his feet. “You don’t mean?” he cried. + +“Never!” said Number Three. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“Come, Stirling, say what you intend!” + +“I intend,” said Peter, “if the Democratic convention endorses Stephen +Maguire, to speak against him in every ward of this city, and ask every +man in it, whom I can influence, to vote for the Republican candidate.” + +Dead silence reigned. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“You’ll go back on the party?” finally said one, in awe-struck tones. + +“You’ll be a traitor?” cried another. + +“I’d have believed anything but that you would be a dashed Mugwump!” +groaned the third. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“Say you are fooling?” begged Number Seven. + +“No,” said Peter, “Nor am I more a traitor to my party than you. You +insist on supporting the Labor candidate and I shall support the +Republican candidate. We are both breaking our party.” + +“We’ll win,” said Number One. + +Peter puffed his cigar. + +“I’m not so sure,” said the gentleman of the previous questions. “How +many votes can you hurt us, Stirling?” + +“I don’t know,” Peter looked very contented. + +“You can’t expect to beat us single?” + +Peter smiled quietly. “I haven’t had time to see many men. But—I’m not +single. Bohlmann says the brewers will back me, Hummel says he’ll be +guided by me, and the President won’t interfere.” + +“You might as well give up,” continued the previous questioner. “The +Sixth is a sure thirty-five hundred to the bad, and between Stirling’s +friends, and the Hummel crowd, and Bohlmann’s people, you’ll lose +twenty-five thousand in the rest of the city, besides the Democrats +you’ll frighten off by the Labor party. You can’t put it less than +thirty-five thousand, to say nothing of the hole in the campaign fund.” + +The beauty about a practical politician is that votes count for more +than his own wishes. Number One said: + +“Well, that’s ended. You’ve smashed our slate. What have you got in its +place?” + +“Porter?” suggested Peter. + +“No,” said three voices. + +“We can’t stand any more of him,” said Number One. + +“He’s an honest, square man,” said Peter. + +“Can’t help that. One dose of a man who’s got as little gumption as he, +is all we can stand. He may have education, but I’ll be hanged if he +has intellect. Why don’t you ask us to choose a college professor, and +have done with it.” + +“Come, Stirling,” said the previous questioner, “the thing’s been +messed so that we’ve got to go into convention with just the right man +to rally the delegates. There’s only one man we can do it with, and you +know it.” + +Peter rose, and dropped his cigar-stump into the ash-receiver. “I don’t +see anything else,” he said, gloomily. “Do any of you?” + +A moment’s silence, and then Number One said: “No.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “I’ll take the nomination if necessary, but keep it +back for a time, till we see if something better can’t be hit upon.” + +“No danger,” said Number One, holding out his hand, gleefully. + +“There’s more ways of killing a pig than choking it with butter,” said +Number Three, laughing and doing the same. + +“It’s a pity Costell isn’t here,” added the previous questioner. “After +you’re not yielding to him, he’d never believe we had forced you to +take it.” + +And that was what actually took place at that very-much-talked-about +dinner. + +Peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. At the +door, the keeper of it said: “There are six reporters in the strangers’ +room, Mr. Stirling, who wish to see you.” + +A man who had just come in said: “I’m sorry for you, Peter.” + +Peter smiled quietly. “Tell them our wishes are not mutual.” Then he +turned to the newcomer. “It’s all right,” he said, “so far as the party +is concerned, Hummel. But I’m to foot the bill to do it.” + +“The devil! You don’t mean—?” + +Peter nodded his head. + +“I’ll give twenty-five thousand to the fund,” said Hummel, gleefully. +“See if I don’t.” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Stirling,” said a man who had just come in. + +“Certainly,” said Peter promptly, “But I must ask the same favor of +you, as I am going down town at once.” Peter had the brutality to pass +out of the front door instantly, leaving the reporter with a +disappointed look on his face. + +“If he only would have said something?” groaned the reporter to +himself. “Anything that could be spun into a column. He needn’t have +told me what he didn’t care to tell, yet he could have helped me to pay +my month’s rent as easily as could be.” + +As for Peter, he fell into a long stride, and his face nearly equalled +his stride in length. After he reached his quarters he sat and smoked, +with the same serious look. He did not look cross. He did not have the +gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last +month. But he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few +hours to live, yet to whom death had no terror. + +“I am giving up,” Peter thought, “everything that has been my true life +till now. My profession, my friends, my chance to help others, my +books, and my quiet. I shall be misunderstood, reviled and hated. +Everything I do will be distorted for partisan purposes. Friends will +misjudge. Enemies will become the more bitter. I give up fifty thousand +dollars a year in order to become a slave, with toadies, trappers, +lobbyists and favor-seekers as my daily quota of humanity. I even +sacrifice the larger part of my power.” + +So ran Peter’s thoughts, and they were the thoughts of a man who had +not worked seventeen years in politics for nothing. He saw alienation +of friends, income, peace, and independence, and the only return a mere +title, which to him meant a loss, rather than a gain of power. Yet this +was one of the dozen prizes thought the best worth striving for in our +politics. Is it a wonder that our government and office-holding is left +to the foreign element? That the native American should prefer any +other work, rather than run the gauntlet of public opinion and press, +with loss of income and peace, that he may hold some difficult office +for a brief term? + +But finally Peter rose. “Perhaps she’ll like it,” he said aloud, and +presumably, since no woman is allowed a voice in American politics, he +was thinking of Miss Columbia. Then he looked at some photographs, a +scrap of ribbon, a gold coin (Peter clearly was becoming a money +worshipper), three letters, a card, a small piece of blotting-paper, a +handkerchief (which Leonore and Peter had spent nearly ten minutes in +trying to find one day), a glove, and some dried rose-leaves and +violets. Yet this was the man who had grappled an angry tiger but two +hours before and had brought it to lick his hand. + +He went to bed very happy. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. +CLOUDS. + + +But a month later he was far happier, for one morning towards the end +of August, his mail brought him a letter from Watts, announcing that +they had been four days installed in their Newport home, and that Peter +would now be welcome any time. “I have purposely not filled Grey-Court +this summer, so that you should have every chance. Between you and me +and the post, I think there have been moments when mademoiselle missed +‘her friend’ far more than she confessed.” + +“Dat’s stronory,” thought Jenifer. “He dun eat mo’ dis yar hot mo’nin’ +dan he dun in two mumfs.” + +Then Jenifer was sent out with a telegram, which merely said: “May I +come to-day by Shore line limited? P.S.” + +“When you get back, Jenifer,” said Peter, “you may pack my trunk and +your own. We may start for Newport at two.” Evidently Peter did not +intend to run any risks of missing the train, in case the answer should +be favorable. + +Peter passed into his office, and set to work to put the loose ends in +such shape that nothing should go wrong during his absence. He had not +worked long, when one of the boys told him that: + +“Mr. Cassius Curlew wants to see you, Mr. Stirling.” + +Peter stopped his writing, looking up quickly: “Did he say on what +business?” + +“No.” + +“Ask him, please.” And Peter went on writing till the boy returned. + +“He says it’s about the convention.” + +“Tell him he must be more specific.” + +The boy returned in a moment with a folded scrap of paper. + +“He said that would tell you, Mr. Stirling.” + +Peter unfolded the scrap, and read upon it: “A message from Maguire.” + +“Show him in.” Peter touched a little knob on his desk on which was +stamped “Chief Clerk.” A moment later a man opened a door. “Samuels,” +said Peter, “I wish you would stay here for a moment. I want you to +listen to what’s said.” + +The next moment a man crossed the threshold of another door. +“Good-morning, Mr. Stirling,” he said. + +“Mr. Curlew,” said Peter, without rising and with a cold inclination of +his head. + +“I have a message for you, Mr. Stirling,” said the man, pulling a chair +into a position that suited him, and sitting, “but it’s private.” + +Peter said nothing, but began to write. + +“Do you understand? I want a word with you private,” said the man after +a pause. + +“Mr. Samuels is my confidential clerk. You can speak with perfect +freedom before him.” Peter spoke without raising his eyes from his +writing. + +“But I don’t want any one round. It’s just between you and me.” + +“When I got your message,” said Peter, still writing, “I sent for Mr. +Samuels. If you have anything to say, say it now. Otherwise leave it +unsaid.” + +“Well, then,” said the man, “your party’s been tricking us, and we +won’t stand it.” + +Peter wrote diligently. + +“And we know who’s back of it. It was all pie down to that dinner of +yours.” + +“Is that Maguire’s message?” asked Peter, though with no cessation of +his labors. + +“Nop,” said the man. “That’s the introduction. Now, we know what it +means. You needn’t deny it. You’re squinting at the governorship +yourself. And you’ve made the rest go back on Maguire, and work for you +on the quiet. Oh, we know what’s going on.” + +“Tell me when you begin on the message,” said Peter, still writing. + +“Maguire’s sent me to you, to tell you to back water. To stop bucking.” + +“Tell Mr. Maguire I have received his message.” + +“Oh, that isn’t all, and don’t you forget it! Maguire’s in this for fur +and feathers, and if you go before the convention as a candidate, we’ll +fill the air with them.” + +“Is that part of the message?” asked Peter. + +“By that we mean that half an hour after you accept the nomination, +we’ll have a force of detectives at work on your past life, and we’ll +hunt down and expose every discreditable thing you’ve ever done.” + +Peter rose, and the man did the same instantly, putting one of his +hands on his hip-pocket. But even before he did it, Peter had begun +speaking, in a quiet, self-contained voice: “That sounds so like Mr. +Maguire, that I think we have the message at last. Go to him, and say +that I have received his message. That I know him, and I know his +methods. That I understand his hopes of driving me, as he has some, +from his path, by threats of private scandal. That, judging others by +himself, he believes no man’s life can bear probing. Tell him that he +has misjudged for once. Tell him that he has himself decided me in my +determination to accept the nomination. That rather than see him the +nominee of the Democratic party, I will take it myself. Tell him to set +on his blood-hounds. They are welcome to all they can unearth in my +life.” + +Peter turned towards his door, intending to leave the room, for he was +not quite sure that he could sustain this altitude, if he saw more of +the man. But as his hand was on the knob, Curlew spoke again. + +“One moment,” he called. “We’ve got something more to say to you. We +have proof already.” + +Peter turned, with an amused look on his face. “I was wondering,” he +said, “if Maguire really expected to drive me with such vague threats.” + +“No siree,” said Curlew with a self-assured manner, but at the same +time putting Peter’s desk between the clerk and himself, so that his +flank could not be turned. “We’ve got some evidence that won’t be sweet +reading for you, and we’re going to print it, if you take the +nomination.” + +“Tell Mr. Maguire he had better put his evidence in print at once. That +I shall take the nomination.” + +“And disgrace one of your best friends?” asked Curlew. + +Peter started slightly, and looked sharply at the man. + +“Ho, ho,” said Curlew. “That bites, eh? Well, it will bite worse before +it’s through with.” + +Peter stood silent for a moment, but his hands trembled slightly, and +any one who understood anatomy could have recognized that every muscle +in his body was at full tension. But all he said was: “Well?” + +“It’s about that trip of yours on the ‘Majestic.’” + +Peter looked bewildered. + +“We’ve got sworn affidavits of two stewards,” Curlew continued, “about +yours and some one else’s goings on. I guess Mr. and Mrs. Rivington +won’t thank you for having them printed.” + +Instantly came a cry of fright, and the crack of a revolver, which +brought Peter’s partners and the clerks crowding into the room. It was +to find Curlew lying back on the desk, held there by Peter with one +hand, while his other, clasping the heavy glass inkstand, was swung +aloft. There was a look on Peter’s face that did not become it. An +insurance company would not have considered Curlew’s life at that +moment a fair risk. + +But when Peter’s arm descended it did so gently, put the inkstand back +on the desk, and taking a pocket-handkerchief wiped a splash of ink +from the hand that had a moment before been throttling Curlew. That +worthy struggled up from his back-breaking attitude and the few parts +of his face not drenched with ink, were very white, while his hands +trembled more than had Peter’s a moment before. + +“Peter!” cried Ogden. “What is it?” + +“I lost my temper for a moment,” said Peter. + +“But who fired that shot?” + +Peter turned to the clerks. “Leave the room,” he said, “all of you. And +keep this to yourselves. I don’t think the other floors could have +heard anything through the fire-proof brick, but if any one comes, +refer them to me.” As the office cleared, Peter turned to his partners +and said: “Mr. Curlew came here with a message which he thought needed +the protection of a revolver. He judged rightly, it seems.” + +“Are you hit?” + +“I felt something strike.” Peter put his hand to his side. He +unbuttoned his coat and felt again. Then he pulled out a little sachet +from his breast-pocket, and as e did so, a flattened bullet dropped to +the floor. Peter looked into the sachet anxiously. The bullet had only +gone through the lower corner of the four photographs and the glove! +Peter laughed happily. “I had a gold coin in my pocket, and the bullet +struck that. Who says that a luck-piece is nothing but a superstition?” + +“But, Peter, shan’t we call the police?” demanded Ogden, still looking +stunned. + +Curlew moved towards the door. + +“One moment,” said Peter, and Curlew stopped. + +“Ray,” Peter continued, “I am faced with a terrible question. I want +your advice?” + +“What, Peter?” + +“A man is trying to force me to stand aside and permit a political +wrong. To do this, he threatens to publish lying affidavits of +worthless scoundrels, to prove a shameful intimacy between a married +woman and me.” + +“Bosh,” laughed Ray. “He can publish a thousand and no one would +believe them of you.” + +“He knows that. But he knows, too, that no matter how untrue, it would +connect her name with a subject shameful to the purest woman that ever +lived. He knows that the scavengers of gossip will repeat it, and gloat +over it. That the filthy society papers will harp on it for years. That +in the heat of a political contest, the partisans will be only too glad +to believe it and repeat it. That no criminal prosecution, no court +vindication, will ever quite kill the story as regards her. And so he +hopes that, rather than entail this on a woman whom I love, and on her +husband and family, I will refuse a nomination. I know of such a case +in Massachusetts, where, rather than expose a woman to such a danger, +the man withdrew. What should I do?” + +“Do? Fight him. Tell him to do his worst.” + +Peter put his hand on Ray’s shoulder. + +“Even if—if—it is one dear to us both?” + +“Peter!” + +“Yes. Do you remember your being called home in our Spanish trip, +unexpectedly? You left me to bring Miss De Voe, and—Well. They’ve +bribed, or forged affidavits of two of the stewards of the ‘Majestic.’” + +Ray tried to spring forward towards Curlew. But Peter’s hand still +rested on his shoulder, and held him back, “I started to kill him,” +Peter said quietly, “but I remembered he was nothing but the miserable +go-between.” + +“My God, Peter! What can I say?” + +“Ray! The stepping aside is nothing to me. It was an office which I was +ready to take, but only as a sacrifice and a duty. It is to prevent +wrong that I interfered. So do not think it means a loss to me to +retire.” + +“Peter, do what you intended to do. We must not compromise with wrong +even for her sake.” + +The two shook hands, “I do not think they will ever use it, Ray,” said +Peter. “But I may be mistaken, and cannot involve you in the +possibility, without your consent.” + +“Of course they’ll use it,” cried Ogden. “Scoundrels who could think of +such a thing, will use it without hesitation.” + +“No,” said Peter. “A man who uses a coward’s weapons, is a coward at +heart. We can prevent it, I think.” Then he turned to Curlew. “Tell Mr. +Maguire about this interview. Tell him that I spared you, because you +are not the principal. But tell him from me, that if a word is breathed +against Mrs. Rivington, I swear that I’ll search for him till I find +him, and when I find him I’ll kill him with as little compunction as I +would a rattlesnake.” Peter turned and going to his dressing-room, +washed away the ink from his hands. + +Curlew shuffled out of the room, and, black as he was, went straight to +the Labor headquarters and told his story. + +“And he’ll do it too, Mr. Maguire,” he said. “You should have seen his +look as he said it, and as he stood over me. I feel it yet.” + +“Do you think he means it?” said Ray to Ogden, when they were back in +Ray’s room. + +“I wouldn’t think so if I hadn’t seen his face as he stood over that +skunk. But if ever a man looked murder he did at that moment. And quiet +old Peter of all men!” + +“We must talk to him. Do tell him that—” + +“Do you dare do it?” + +“But you—?” + +“I don’t. Unless he speaks I shall—” + +“Ray and Ogden,” said a quiet voice, “I wish you would write out what +you have just seen and heard. It may be needed in the future.” + +“Peter, let me speak,” cried Ray. “You mustn’t do what you said. Think +of such an end to your life. No matter what that scoundrel does, don’t +end your life on a gallows. It—” + +Peter held up his hand. “You don’t know the American people, Ray. If +Maguire uses that lying story, I can kill him, and there isn’t a jury +in the country which, when the truth was told, wouldn’t acquit me. +Maguire knows it, too. We have heard the last of that threat, I’m +sure.” + +Peter went back to his office. “I don’t wonder,” he thought, as he +stood looking at the ink-stains on his desk and floor, “that people +think politics nothing but trickery and scoundrelism. Yet such vile +weapons and slanders would not be used if there were not people vile +and mean enough at heart to let such things influence them. The fault +is not in politics. It is in humanity.” + + + + +CHAPTER L. +SUNSHINE. + + +But just as Peter was about to continue this rather unsatisfactory +train of thought, his eye caught sight of a flattened bullet lying on +the floor. He picked it up, with a smile. “I knew she was my good +luck,” he said. Then he took out the sachet again, and kissed the +dented and bent coin. Then he examined the photographs. “Not even the +dress is cut through,” he said gleefully, looking at the full length. +“It couldn’t have hit in a better place.” When he came to the glove, +however, he grieved a little over it. Even this ceased to trouble him +the next moment, for a telegram was laid on his desk. It merely said, +“Come by all means. W.C.D’A.” Yet that was enough to make Peter drop +thoughts, work, and everything for a time. He sat at his desk, gazing +at a blank wall, and thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. But his +expression bore no resemblance to the one formerly assumed when that +particular practice had been habitual. + +Nor was this expression the only difference in this day, to mark the +change from Peter past to Peter present. For instead of manoeuvring to +make Watts sit on the back seat, when he was met by the trap late that +afternoon, at Newport, he took possession of that seat in the coolest +possible manner, leaving the one by the driver to Watts. Nor did Peter +look away from the girl on that back seat. Quite the contrary. It did +not seem to him that a thousand eyes would have been any too much. +Peter’s three months of gloom vanished, and became merely a contrast to +heighten his present joy. A sort of “shadow-box.” + +He had had the nicest kind of welcome from his “friend.” If the manner +had not been quite so absolutely frank as of yore, yet there was no +doubt as to her pleasure in seeing Peter. “It’s very nice to see you +again,” she had said while shaking hands. “I hoped you would come +quickly.” Peter was too happy to say anything in reply. He merely took +possession of that vacant seat, and rested his eyes in silence till +Watts, after climbing into place, asked him how the journey to Newport +had been. + +“Lovelier than ever,” said Peter, abstractedly. “I didn’t think it was +possible.” + +“Eh?” said Watts, turning with surprise on his face. + +But Leonore did not look surprised. She only looked the other way, and +the corners of her mouth were curving upwards. + +“The journey?” queried Watts. + +“You mean Newport, don’t you?” said Leonore helpfully, when Peter said +nothing. Leonore was looking out from under her lashes—at things in +general, of course. + +Peter said nothing. Peter was not going to lie about what he had meant, +and Leonore liked him all the better for not using the deceiving +loophole she had opened. + +Watts said, “Oh, of course. It improves every year. But wasn’t the +journey hot, old man?” + +“I didn’t notice,” said Peter. + +“Didn’t notice! And this one of the hottest days of the year.” + +“I had something else to think about,” explained Peter. + +“Politics?” asked Watts. + +“Oh, Peter,” said Leonore, “we’ve been so interested in all the talk. +It was just as maddening as could be, how hard it was to get New York +papers way out west. I’m awfully in the dark about some things. I’ve +asked a lot of people here about it, but nobody seems to know anything. +Or if they do, they laugh at me. I met Congressman Pell yesterday at +the Tennis Tournament, and thought he would tell me all about it. But +he was horrid! His whole manner said: ‘I can’t waste real talk on a +girl.’ I told him I was a great friend of yours, and that you would +tell me when you came, but he only laughed and said, he had no doubt +you would, for you were famous for your indiscretion. I hate men who +laugh at women the moment they try to talk as men do.” + +“I think,” said Peter, “we’ll have to turn Pell down. A Congressman who +laughs at one of my friends won’t do.” + +“I really wish you would. That would teach him,” said Leonore, +vindictively. “A man who laughs at women can’t be a good Congressman.” + +“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Peter. “I don’t want to retire him, +because—because I like his mother. But I will tell you something for +you to tell him, that will astonish him very much, and make him want to +know who told you, and so you can tease him endlessly.” + +“Oh, Peter!” said Leonore. “You are the nicest man.” + +“What’s that?” asked Watts. + +“It’s a great secret,” said Peter. “I shall only tell it to Miss +D’Alloi, so that if it leaks beyond Pell, I shall know whom to blame +for it.” + +“Goody!” cried Leonore, giving a little bounce for joy. + +“Is it about that famous dinner?” inquired Watts. + +“No.” + +“Peter, I’m so curious about that. Will you tell me what you did?” + +“I ate a dinner,” said Peter smiling. + +“Now don’t be like Mr. Pell,” said Leonore, reprovingly, “or I’ll take +back what I just said.” + +“Did you roar, and did the tiger put its tail between its legs?” asked +Watts. + +“That is the last thing our friends, the enemies, have found,” said +Peter. + +“You will tell me about it, won’t you, Peter?” said Leonore, +ingratiatingly. + +“Have you a mount for me, Watts, for to-morrow? Mutineer comes by boat +to-night, but won’t be here till noon.” + +“Yes. I’ve one chap up to your weight, I think.” + +“I don’t like dodgers,” said Leonore, the corners of her mouth drawn +down. + +“I was not dodging,” said Peter. “I only was asking a preliminary +question. If you will get up, before breakfast, and ride with me, I +will tell you everything that actually occurred at that dinner. You +will be the only person, I think, who wasn’t there, who knows.” It was +shameful and open bribery, but bosses are shameful and open in their +doings, so Peter was only living up to his rôle. + +The temptation was too strong to be resisted, Leonore said, “Of coarse +I will,” and the corners of her mouth reversed their position. But she +said to herself: “I shall have to snub you in something else to make up +for it.” Peter was in for a bad quarter of an hour somewhere. + +Leonore had decided just how she was going to treat Peter. To begin +with, she intended to accentuate that “five years” in various ways. +Then she would be very frank and friendly, just as long as he, too, +would keep within those limits, but if Peter even verged on anything +more, she intended to leave him to himself, just long enough to show +him that such remarks as his “not caring to be friends,” brought +instant and dire punishment. “And I shan’t let him speak,” Leonore +decided, “no matter if he wants to. For if he does, I’ll have to say +‘no,’ and then he’ll go back to New York and sulk, and perhaps never +come near me again, since he’s so obstinate, while I want to stay +friends.” Many such campaigns have been planned by the party of the +first part. But the trouble is that, usually, the party of the second +part also has a plan, which entirely disconcerts the first. As the +darkey remarked: “Yissah. My dog he wud a beat, if it hadn’t bin foh de +udder dog.” + +Peter found as much contrast in his evening, as compared with his +morning, as there was in his own years. After dinner. Leonore said: + +“I always play billiards with papa. Will you play too?” + +“I don’t know how,” said Peter. + +“Then it’s time you learned. I’ll take you on my side, because papa +always beats me. I’ll teach you.” + +So there was the jolliest of hours spent in this way, all of them +laughing at Peter’s shots, and at Leonore’s attempts to show him how. +“Every woman ought to play billiards,” Peter thought, when it was +ended. “It’s the most graceful sight I’ve seen in years.” + +Leonore said, “You get the ideas very nicely, but you hit much too +hard. You can’t hit a ball too softly. You pound it as if you were +trying to smash it.” + +“It’s something I really must learn,” said Peter, who had refused over +and over again in the past. + +“I’ll teach you, while you are here,” said Leonore. + +Peter did not refuse this time. + +Nor did he refuse another lesson. When they had drifted into the +drawing-room, Leonore asked: “Have you been learning how to valse?” + +Peter smiled at so good an American using so European a word, but said +seriously, “No. I’ve been too busy.” + +“That’s a shame,” said Leonore, “because there are to be two dances +this week, and mamma has written to get you cards.” + +“Is it very hard?” asked Peter. + +“No,” said Leonore. “It’s as easy as breathing, and much nicer.” + +“Couldn’t you teach me that, also?” + +“Easily. Mamma, will you play a valse? Now see.” Leonore drew her +skirts back with one hand, so as to show the little feet, and said: +“one, two, three, so. One, two, three, so. Now do that.” + +Peter had hoped that the way to learn dancing was to take the girl in +one’s arms. But he recognized that this would follow. So he set to work +manfully to imitate that dainty little glide. It seemed easy as she did +it. But it was not so easy when he tried it. + +“Oh, you clumsy,” said Leonore laughing. “See. One, two, three, so. +One, two, three, so.” + +Peter forgot to notice the step, in his admiration of the little feet +and the pretty figure. + +“Well,” said Leonore after a pause, “are you going to do that?” + +So Peter tried again, and again, and again. Peter would have done it +all night, with absolute contentment, so long as Leonore, after every +failure, would show him the right way in her own person. + +Finally she said, “Now take my hands. No. Way apart, so that I can see +your feet. Now. We’ll try it together. One, two, change. One, two, +change.” + +Peter thought this much better, and was ready to go on till strength +failed. But after a time, Leonore said, “Now. We’ll try it the true +way. Take my hand so and put your arm so. That’s the way. Only never +hold a girl too close. We hate it. Yes. That’s it. Now, mamma. Again. +One, two, three. One, two, three.” + +This was heavenly, Peter thought, and could have wept over the +shortness, as it seemed to him, of this part of the lesson. + +But it ended, and Leonore said: “If you’ll practice that in your room, +with a bolster, you’ll get on very fast.” + +“I always make haste slowly,” said Peter, not taking to the bolster +idea at all kindly. “Probably you can find time to-morrow for another +lesson, and I’ll learn much quicker with you.” + +“I’ll see.” + +“And will you give me some waltzes at the dances?” + +“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Leonore. “You shall have the dances +the other men don’t ask of me. But you don’t dance well enough, in case +I can get a better partner. I love valsing too much to waste one with a +poor dancer.” + +A moment before Peter thought waltzing the most exquisite pleasure the +world contained. But he suddenly changed his mind, and concluded it was +odious. + +“Nevertheless,” he decided, “I will learn how.” + + + + +CHAPTER LI. +THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. + + +Peter had his ride the next morning, and had a very interested listener +to his account of that dinner. The listener, speaking from vast +political knowledge, told him at the end. “You did just right. I +thoroughly approve of you.” + +“That takes a great worry off my mind,” said Peter soberly. “I was +afraid, since we were to be such friends, and you wanted my help in the +whirligig this winter, that you might not like my possibly having to +live in Albany.” + +“Can’t you live in New York?” said Leonore, looking horrified. + +“No.” + +“Then I don’t like it at all,” said Leonore. “It’s no good having +friends if they don’t live near one.” + +“That’s what I think,” said Peter. “I suppose I couldn’t tempt you to +come and keep house for me?” + +“Now I must snub him,” thought Leonore. “No,” she said, “It will be bad +enough to do that five years from now, for the man I love.” She looked +out from under her eyelashes to see if her blow had been fatal, and +concluded from the glumness in Peter’s face, that she really had been +too cruel. So she added: “But you may give me a ball, and we’ll all +come up and stay a week with you.” + +Peter relaxed a little, but he said dolefully, “I don’t know what I +shall do. I shall be in such need of your advice in politics and +housekeeping.” + +“Well,” said Leonore, “if you really find that you can’t get on without +help, we’ll make it two weeks. But you must get up toboggan parties, +and other nice things.” + +“I wonder what the papers will say,” thought Peter, “if a governor +gives toboggan parties?” + +After the late breakfast, Peter was taken down to see the tournament. +He thought he would not mind it, since he was allowed to sit next +Leonore. But he did. First he wished that she wouldn’t pay so much +attention to the score. Then that the men who fluttered round her would +have had the good taste to keep away. It enraged Peter to see how +perfectly willing she was to talk and chat about things of which he +knew nothing, and how more than willing the men were. And then she +laughed at what they said! + +“That’s fifteen-love, isn’t it?” Leonore asked him presently. + +“He doesn’t look over fifteen,” actually growled Peter. “I don’t know +whether he’s in love or not. I suppose he thinks he is. Boys fifteen +years old always do.” + +Leonore forgot the score, even, in her surprise. “Why,” she said, “you +growl just like Bêtise (the mastiff). Now I know what the papers mean +when they say you roar.” + +“Well,” said Peter, “it makes me cross to see a lot of boys doing +nothing but hit a small ball, and a lot more looking at them and +thinking that it’s worth doing.” Which was a misstatement. It was not +that which made Peter mad. + +“Haven’t you ever played tennis?” + +“Never. I don’t even know how to score.” + +“Dear me,” said Leonore, “You’re dreadfully illiterate.” + +“I know it,” growled Peter, “I don’t belong here, and have no business +to come. I’m a ward boss, and my place is in saloons. Don’t hesitate to +say it.” + +All this was very foolish, but it was real to Peter for the moment, and +he looked straight ahead with lines on his face which Leonore had never +seen before. He ought to have been ordered to go off by himself till he +should be in better mood. + +Instead Leonore turned from the tennis, and said: “Please don’t talk +that way, Peter. You know I don’t think that.” Leonore had understood +the misery which lay back of the growl. “Poor fellow,” she thought, “I +must cheer him up.” So she stopped looking at the tennis. “See,” she +said, “there are Miss Winthrop and Mr. Pell. Do take me over to them +and let me spring my surprise. You talk to Miss Winthrop.” + +“Why, Peter!” said Pell. “When did you come?” + +“Last night. How do you do, Miss Winthrop?” Then for two minutes Peter +talked, or rather listened, to that young lady, though sighing +internally. Then, _Laus Deo!_ up came the poor little chap, whom Peter +had libelled in age and affections, only ten minutes before, and set +Peter free. He turned to see how Leonore’s petard was progressing, to +find her and Pell deep in tennis. But just as he was going to expose +his ignorance on that game, Leonore said: + +“Mr. Pell, what do you think of the political outlook?” + +Pell sighed internally, “You can read it in the papers,” he said. + +“No. I want your opinion. Especially about the great departure the +Democratic Convention is going to make.” + +“You mean in endorsing Maguire?” + +Leonore began to visibly swell in importance. “Of course not,” she +said, contemptuously. “Every one knows that that was decided against at +the Manhattan dinner. I mean the unusual resolution about the next +senator.” + +Pell ceased to sigh. “I don’t know what you mean?” he said. + +“Not really?” said Leonore incredulously, her nose cocking a little +more airily. “I thought of course you would know about it. I’m so +surprised!” + +Pell looked at her half quizzingly, and half questioningly. “What is +the resolution?” + +“Naming a candidate for the vacancy for the Senate.” + +“Nonsense,” said Pell, laughing. “The convention has nothing to do with +the senators. The Legislature elects them.” He thought, “Why can’t +women, if they will talk politics, at least learn the ABC.” + +“Yes,” said Leonore, “but this is a new idea. The Senate has behaved so +badly, that the party leaders think it will be better to make it a more +popular body by having the New York convention nominate a man, and then +they intend to make the legislature elect him. If the other states will +only follow New York’s lead, it may make the Senate respectable and +open to public opinion.” + +Pell sniffed obviously. “In what fool paper did you read that?” + +“I didn’t read it,” said Leonore, her eyes dancing with delight. “The +papers are always behind the times. But I didn’t think that you would +be, since you are to be named in the resolution.” + +Pell looked at her blankly. “What do you mean?” + +“Didn’t you know that the Convention will pass a resolution, naming you +for next senator?” said Leonore, with both wonder and pity in her face +and voice. + +“Who told you that?” said Pell, with an amount of interest blended with +doubt that was a decided contrast to a moment ago. + +“That’s telling,” said Leonore. “You know, Mr. Pell, that one mustn’t +tell people who are outside the party councils everything.” + +“I believe you are trying to stuff me,” said Pell, “If it is so, or +anything like it, you wouldn’t know.” + +“Oh,” said Leonore, tantalizingly, “I could tell you a great deal more +than that. But of course you don’t care to talk politics with a girl.” + +Pell weakened. “Tell me who told you about it?” + +“I think we must go home to lunch,” said Leonore, turning to Peter, who +had enjoyed Leonore’s triumph almost as much as she had. + +“Peter,” said Pell, “have you heard what Miss D’Alloi has been saying?” + +“Part of it.” + +“Where can she have picked it up? + +“I met Miss D’Alloi at a lunch at the White House, last June,” said +Peter seriously, “and she, and the President, and I, talked politics. +Politically, Miss D’Alloi is rather a knowing person. I hope you +haven’t been saying anything indiscreet, Miss D’Alloi?” + +“I’m afraid I have,” laughed Leonore, triumphantly, adding, “but I +won’t tell anything more.” + +Pell looked after them as they went towards the carriage. “How +extraordinary!” he said. “She couldn’t have it from Peter. He tells +nothing. Where the deuce did she get it, and is it so?” Then he said: +“Senator Van Brunt Pell,” with a roll on all the r’s. “That sounds +well. I wonder if there’s anything in it?” + +“I think,” said Leonore to Peter, triumphantly “that he would like to +have talked politics. But he’ll get nothing but torture from me if he +tries.” + +It began to dawn on Peter that Leonore did not, despite her frank +manner, mean all she said. He turned to her, and asked: + +“Are you really in earnest in saying that you’ll refuse every man who +asks you to marry him within five years?” + +Leonore’s triumph scattered to the four winds. “What an awfully +impudent question,” she thought, “after my saying it so often. What +shall I answer?” She looked Peter in the eye with severity. “I shan’t +refuse,” she said, “because I shan’t even let him speak. If any man +dares to attempt it, I’ll tell him frankly I don’t care to listen.” + +“She really means it,” sighed Peter internally. “Why is it, that the +best girls don’t care to marry?” Peter became very cross, and, what is +worse, looked it. + +Nor was Leonore much better, “There,” she said, “I knew just how it +would be. He’s getting sulky already. He isn’t nice any more. The best +thing will be to let him speak, for then he’ll go back to New York, and +won’t bother me.” The corners of her mouth drew away down, and life +became very gray. + +So “the best of friends” rode home from the Casino, without so much as +looking at each other, much less speaking. Clearly Peter was right. +There was no good in trying to be friends any longer. + +Precedent or habit, however, was too strong to sustain this condition +long. First Leonore had to be helped out of the carriage. This was +rather pleasant, for she had to give Peter her hand, and so life became +less unworth living to Peter. Then the footman at the door gave Peter +two telegraphic envelopes of the bulkiest kind, and Leonore too began +to take an interest in life again. + +“What are they about?” she asked. + +“The Convention. I came off so suddenly that some details were left +unarranged.” + +“Read them out loud,” she said calmly, as Peter broke the first open. + +Peter smiled at her, and said: “If I do, will you give me another +waltzing lesson after lunch?” + +“Don’t bargain,” said Leonore, disapprovingly. + +“Very well,” said Peter, putting the telegrams in his pocket, and +turning towards the stairs. + +Leonore let him go up to the first landing. But as soon as she became +convinced that he was really going to his room, she said, “Peter.” + +Peter turned and looked down at the pretty figure at the foot of the +stairs. He came down again. When he had reached the bottom he said, +“Well?” + +Leonore was half angry, and half laughing. “You ought to want to read +them to me,” she said, “since we are such friends.” + +“I do,” said Peter, “And you ought to want to teach me to waltz, since +we are such friends.” + +“But I don’t like the spirit,” said Leonore. + +Peter laughed. “Nor I,” he said. “Still, I’ll prove I’m the better, by +reading them to you.” + +“Now I will teach him,” said Leonore to herself. + +Peter unfolded the many sheets. “This is very secret, of course,” he +said. + +“Yes.” Leonore looked round the hall as if she was a conspirator. “Come +to the window-seat upstairs,” she whispered, and led the way. When they +had ensconced themselves there, and drawn the curtains, she said, +“Now.” + +“You had better sit nearer me,” said Peter, “so that I can whisper it.” + +“No,” said Leonore. “No one can hear us.” She thought, “I’d snub you +for that, if I wasn’t afraid you wouldn’t read it.” + +“You understand that you are not to repeat this to anyone.” Peter was +smiling over something. + +Leonore said, “Yes,” half crossly and half eagerly. + +So Peter read: + +“Use Hudson knowledge counties past not belief local twenty imbecility +certified of yet till yesterday noon whose Malta could accurately it at +seventeen. Potomac give throw Haymarket estimated Moselle thirty-three +to into fortify through jurist arrived down right—” + +“I won’t be treated so!” interrupted Leonore, indignantly. + +“What do you mean,” said Peter, still smiling. “I’m reading it to you, +as you asked.” + +“No you are not. You are just making up.” + +“No,” said Peter. “It’s all here.” + +“Let me see it.” Leonore shifted her seat so as to overlook Peter. + +“That’s only two pages,” said Peter, holding them so that Leonore had +to sit very close to him to see. “There are eighteen more.” + +Leonore looked at them. “Was it written by a lunatic?” she asked. + +“No.” Peter looked at the end. “It’s from Green. Remember. You are not +to repeat it to any one.” + +“Luncheon is served, Miss D’Alloi,” said a footman. + +“Bother luncheon,” thought Peter. + +“Please tell me what it means?” said Leonore, rising. + +“I can’t do that, till I get the key and decipher it.” + +“Oh!” cried Leonore, clapping her hands in delight. “It’s a cipher. How +tremendously interesting! We’ll go at it right after lunch and decipher +it together, won’t we?” + +“After the dancing lesson, you mean, don’t you?” suggested Peter. + +“How did you know I was going to do it?” asked Leonore. + +“You told me.” + +“Never! I didn’t say a word.” + +“You looked several,” said Peter. + +Leonore regarded him very seriously. “You are not ‘Peter Simple’ a +bit,” she said. “I don’t like deep men.” She turned and went to her +room. “I really must be careful,” she told the enviable sponge as it +passed over her face, “he’s a man who needs very special treatment. I +ought to send him right back to New York. But I do so want to know +about the politics. No. I’ll keep friends till the campaign’s finished. +Then he’ll have to live in Albany, and that will make it all right. Let +me see. He said the governor served three years. That isn’t five, but +perhaps he’ll have become sensible before then.” + +As for Peter, he actually whistled during his ablutions, which was +something he had not done for many years. He could not quite say why, +but it represented his mood better than did his earlier growl. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. +A GUARDIAN ANGEL. + + +Peter had as glorious an afternoon as he had had a bad morning. First +he danced a little. Then the two sat at the big desk in the deserted +library and worked together over those very complex dispatches till +they had them translated. Then they had to discuss their import. +Finally they had to draft answers and translate them into cipher. All +this with their heads very close together, and an utter forgetfulness +on the part of a certain personage that snubbing rather than politics +was her “plan of campaign.” But Leonore began to feel that she was a +political power herself, and so forgot her other schemes. When they had +the answering dispatches fairly transcribed, she looked up at Peter and +said: + +“I think we’ve done that very well,” in the most approving voice. “Do +you think they’ll do as we tell them?” + +Peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly +and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was +noble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. Several times that +afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from +leaning over and taking one. He even went so far now as to speculate on +exactly what Leonore would do if he did. Fortunately his face was not +given to expressing his thoughts. Leonore never dreamed how narrow an +escape she had. “If only she wouldn’t be so friendly and confiding,” +groaned Peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. “I can’t do it, +when she trusts me so.” + +“Well,” said Leonore, “perhaps when you’ve done staring at me, you’ll +answer my question.” + +“I think they’ll do as we tell them,” smiled Peter. “But we’ll get word +to-morrow about Dutchess and Steuben. Then we shall know better how the +land lies, and can talk plainer.” + +“Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?” + +“Yes.” To himself Peter said, “I must write Green and the rest to +telegraph me every day.” + +“Now we’ll have a cup of tea,” said Leonore. “I like politics.” + +“Then you would like Albany,” said Peter, putting a chair for her by +the little tea-table. + +“I wouldn’t live in Albany for the whole world,” said Leonore, resuming +her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger +with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty +vanished in a wail. “Oh!” she cried. “How it hurts.” + +“Let me see,” said Peter sympathetically. + +The little hand was held up. “It does hurt,” said Leonore, who saw that +there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter +would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered. + +But Peter treated it very seriously. “I’m sure it does,” he said, +taking possession of the hand. “And I know how it hurts.” He leaned +over and kissed the little thumb. Then he didn’t care a scrap whether +Leonore liked Albany or not. + +“I won’t snub you this time,” said Leonore to herself, “because you +didn’t laugh at me for it.” + +Peter’s evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from +dinner that she was going to a dance. “We have permission to take you. +Do you care to go?” + +“Yes. If you’ll give me some dances.” + +“I’ve told you once that I’ll only give you the ones not taken by +better dancers. If you choose to stay round I’ll take you for those.” + +“Do you ever have a dance over?” asked Peter, marvelling at such a +possibility. + +“I’ve only been to one dance. I didn’t have at that.” + +“Well,” said Peter, growling a little, “I’ll go.” + +“Oh,” said Leonore, calmly, “don’t put yourself out on my account.” + +“I’m not,” growled Peter. “I’m doing it to please myself.” Then he +laughed, so Leonore laughed too. + +After a game of billiards they all went to the dance. As they entered +the hall, Peter heard his name called in a peculiar voice behind. He +turned and saw Dorothy. + +Dorothy merely said, “Peter!” again. But Peter understood that +explanations were in order. He made no attempt to dodge. + +“Dorothy,” he said softly, giving a glance at Leonore, to see that she +was out of hearing, “when you spent that summer with Miss De Voe, did +Ray come down every week?” + +“Yes.” + +“Would he have come if you had been travelling out west?” + +“Oh, Peter,” cried Dorothy, below her breath, “I’m so glad it’s come at +last!” + +We hope our readers can grasp the continuity of Dorothy’s mental +processes, for her verbal ones were rather inconsequent. + +“She’s lovely,” continued the verbal process. “And I’m sure I can help +you.” + +“I need it,” groaned Peter. “She doesn’t care in the least for me, and +I can’t get her to. And she says she isn’t going to marry for—” + +“Nonsense!” interrupted Dorothy, contemptuously, and sailed into the +ladies’ dressing-room. + +Peter gazed after her. “I wonder what’s nonsense?” he thought. + +Dorothy set about her self-imposed task with all the ardor for +matchmaking, possessed by a perfectly happy married woman. But Dorothy +evidently intended that Leonore should not marry Peter, if one can +judge from the tenor of her remarks to Leonore in the dressing-room. +Peter liked Dorothy, and would probably not have believed her capable +of treachery, but it is left to masculine mind to draw any other +inference from the dialogue which took place between the two, as they +prinked before a cheval glass. + +“I’m so glad to have Peter here for this particular evening,” said +Dorothy. + +“Why?” asked Leonore, calmly, in the most uninterested of tones. + +“Because Miss Biddle is to be here. For two years I’ve been trying to +bring those two together, so that they might make a match of it. They +are made for each other.” + +Leonore tucked a rebellious curl in behind the drawn-back lock. Then +she said, “What a pretty pin you have.” + +“Isn’t it? Ray gave it to me,” said Dorothy, giving Leonore all the +line she wanted. + +“I’ve never met Miss Biddle,” said Leonore. + +“She’s a great beauty, and rich. And then she has that nice +Philadelphia manner. Peter can’t abide the young-girl manner. He hates +giggling and talking girls. It’s funny too, because, though he doesn’t +dance or talk, they like him. But Miss Biddle is an older girl, and can +talk on subjects which please him. She is very much interested in +politics and philanthropy.” + +“I thought,” said Leonore, fluffing the lace on her gown, “that Peter +never talked politics.” + +“He doesn’t,” said Dorothy. “But she has studied political economy. +He’s willing to talk abstract subjects. She’s just the girl for a +statesman’s wife. Beauty, tact, very clever, and yet very discreet. I’m +doubly glad they’ll meet here, for she has given up dancing, so she can +entertain Peter, who would otherwise have a dull time of it.” + +“If she wants to,” said Leonore. + +“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I’m not a bit afraid about that. Peter’s the kind +of man with whom every woman’s ready to fall in love. Why, my dear, +he’s had chance after chance, if he had only cared to try. But, of +course, he doesn’t care for such women as you and me, who can’t enter +into his thoughts or sympathize with his ambitions. To him we are +nothing but dancing, dressing, prattling flutter-birds.” Then Dorothy +put her head on one side, and seemed far more interested in the effect +of her own frock than in Peter’s fate. + +“He talks politics to me,” Leonore could not help saying. Leonore did +not like Dorothy’s last speech. + +“Oh, Peter’s such a gentleman that he always talks seriously even to +us; but it’s only his politeness. I’ve seen him talk to girls like you, +and he is delightfully courteous, and one would think he liked it. But, +from little things Ray has told me, I know he looks down on society +girls.” + +“Are you ready, Leonore?” inquired Mrs. D’Alloi. + +Leonore was very ready. Watts and Peter were ready also; had been ready +during the whole of this dialogue. Watts was cross; Peter wasn’t. Peter +would willingly have waited an hour longer, impatient only for the +moment of meeting, not to get downstairs. That is the difference +between a husband and a lover. + +“Peter,” said Leonore, the moment they were on the stairs, “do you ever +tell other girls political secrets?” + +Dorothy was coming just behind, and she poked Peter in the back with +her fan. Then, when Peter turned, she said with her lips as plainly as +one can without speaking: “Say yes.” + +Peter looked surprised. Then he turned to Leonore and said, “No. You +are the only person, man or woman, with whom I like to talk politics.” + +“Oh!” shrieked Dorothy to herself. “You great, big, foolish old stupid! +Just as I had fixed it so nicely!” What Dorothy meant is quite +inscrutable. Peter had told the truth. + +But, after the greetings were over, Dorothy helped Peter greatly. She +said to him, “Give me your arm, Peter. There is a girl here whom I want +you to meet.” + +“Peter’s going to dance this valse with me,” said Leonore. And Peter +had two minutes of bliss, amateur though he was. Then Leonore said +cruelly, “That’s enough; you do it very badly!” + +When Peter had seated her by her mother, he said: “Excuse me for a +moment. I want to speak to Dorothy.” + +“I knew you would be philandering after the young married women. Men of +your age always do,” said Leonore, with an absolutely incomprehensible +cruelty. + +So Peter did not speak to Dorothy. He sat down by Leonore and talked, +till a scoundrelly, wretched, villainous, dastardly, low-born, but very +good-looking fellow carried off his treasure. Then he wended his way to +Dorothy. + +“Why did you tell me to say ‘yes’?” he asked. + +Dorothy sighed. “I thought you couldn’t have understood me,” she said; +“but you are even worse than I supposed. Never mind, it’s done now. +Peter, will you do me a great favor?” + +“I should like to,” said Peter. + +“Miss Biddle, of Philadelphia, is here. She doesn’t know many of the +men, and she doesn’t dance. Now, if I introduce you, won’t you try to +make her have a good time?” + +“Certainly,” said Peter, gloomily. + +“And don’t go and desert her, just because another man comes up. It +makes a girl think you are in a hurry to get away, and Miss Biddle is +very sensitive. I know you don’t want to hurt her feelings.” All this +had been said as they crossed the room. Then: “Miss Biddle, let me +introduce Mr. Stirling.” + +Peter sat down to his duty. “I mustn’t look at Leonore,” he thought, +“or I shan’t be attentive.” So he turned his face away from the room +heroically. As for Dorothy, she walked away with a smile of +contentment. “There, miss,” she remarked, “we’ll see if you can trample +on dear old Peter!” + +“Who’s that girl to whom Mr. Stirling is talking?” asked Leonore of her +partner. + +“Ah, that’s the rich Miss Biddle, of Philadelphia,” replied the +scoundrel, in very gentleman-like accents for one of his class. “They +say she’s never been able to find a man good enough for her, and so +she’s keeping herself on ice till she dies, in hopes that she’ll find +one in heaven. She’s a great catch.” + +“She’s decidedly good-looking,” said Leonore. + +“Think so? Some people do. I don’t. I don’t like blondes.” + +When Leonore had progressed as far as her fourth partner, she asked: +“What sort of a girl is that Miss Biddle?” + +“She’s really stunning,” she was told. “Fellows are all wild about her. +But she has an awfully snubbing way.” + +“Is she clever?” + +“Is she? That’s the trouble. She won’t have anything to do with a man +unless he’s clever. Look at her to-night! She got her big fish right +off, and she’s driven away every man who’s come near her ever since. +She’s the kind of a girl that, if she decides on anything, she does +it.” + +“Who’s her big fish?” said Leonore, as if she had not noticed. + +“That big fellow, who is so awfully exclusive—Stirling. He doesn’t +think any people good enough for him but the Pells, and Miss De Voe, +and the Ogdens. What they can see in him I can’t imagine. I sat +opposite him once at dinner, this spring, at the William Pells, and he +only said three things in the whole meal. And he was sitting next that +clever Miss Winthrop.” + +After the fifth dance, Dorothy came up to Leonore. “It’s going +beautifully,” she said; “do you see how Peter has turned his back to +the room? And I heard a man say that Miss Biddle was freezing to every +man who tried to interrupt them. I must arrange some affairs this week +so that they shall have chances to see each other. You will help me?” + +“I’m very much engaged for this week,” said Leonore. + +“What a pity! Never mind; I’ll get Peter. Let me see. She rides +beautifully. Did Peter bring his horses?” + +“One,” said Leonore, with a suggestion of reluctance in stating the +fact. + +“I’ll go and arrange it at once,” said Dorothy, thinking that Peter +might be getting desperate. + +“Mamma,” said Leonore, “how old Mrs. Rivington has grown!” + +“I haven’t noticed it, dear,” said her mother. + +Dorothy went up to the pair and said: “Peter, won’t you show Miss +Biddle the conservatories! You know,” she explained, “they are very +beautiful.” + +Peter rose dutifully, but with a very passive look on his face. + +“And, Peter,” said Dorothy, dolefully, “will you take me in to supper? +I haven’t found a man who’s had the grace to ask me.” + +“Yes.” + +“We’ll sit at the same table,” said Dorothy to Miss Biddle. + +When Peter got into the carriage that evening he was very blue. “I had +only one waltz,” he told himself, “and did not really see anything else +of her the whole evening.” + +“Is that Miss Biddle as clever as people say she is?” asked Mrs. +D’Alloi. + +“She is a very unusual woman,” said Peter, “I rarely have known a +better informed one.” Peter’s tone of voice carried the inference that +he hated unusual and informed women, and as this is the case with most +men, his voice presumably reflected his true thoughts. + +“I should say so,” said Watts. “At our little table she said the +brightest things, and told the best stories. That’s a girl as is a +girl. I tried to see her afterwards, but found that Peter was taking an +Italian lesson of her.” + +“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“I have a chap who breakfasts with me three times a week, to talk +Italian, which I am trying to learn,” said Peter, “and Dorothy told +Mrs. Biddle, so she offered to talk in it. She has a beautiful accent +and it was very good of her to offer, for I knew very little as yet, +and don’t think she could have enjoyed it.” + +“What do you want with Italian?” asked Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“To catch the Italian vote,” said Peter. + +“Oh, you sly-boots,” said Watts. Then he turned. “What makes my Dot so +silent?” he asked. + +“Oh,” said Leonore in weary tones, “I’ve danced too much and I’m very, +very tired.” + +“Well,” said Watts, “see that you sleep late.” + +“I shall be all right to-morrow,” said Leonore, “and I’m going to have +an early horseback ride.” + +“Peter and I will go too,” said Watts. + +“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I’m to ride with Dorothy and Miss Biddle.” + +“Ha, ha,” said Watts. “More Italian lessons, eh?” + +Two people looked very cross that evening when they got to their rooms. + +Leonore sighed to her maid: “Oh, Marie, I am so tired! Don’t let me be +disturbed till it’s nearly lunch.” + +And Peter groaned to nobody in particular, “An evening and a ride gone! +I tried to make Dorothy understand. It’s too bad of her to be so +dense.” + +So clearly Dorothy was to blame. Yet the cause of all this trouble fell +asleep peacefully, remarking to herself, just before she drifted into +dreamland, “Every man in love ought to have a guardian, and I’ll be +Peter’s.” + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. +INTERFERENCE. + + +When Peter returned from his ride the next day, he found Leonore +reading the papers in the big hall. She gave him a very frigid +“good-morning,” yet instantly relaxed a little in telling him there was +another long telegram for him on the mantel. She said nothing of his +reading the despatch to her, but opened a new sheet of paper, and began +to read its columns with much apparent interest. That particular page +was devoted to the current prices of “Cotton;” “Coffee;” “Flour;” +“Molasses;” “Beans;” “Butter;” “Hogs;” “Naval Stores;” “Ocean +Freights,” and a large number of equally kindred and interesting +subjects. + +Peter took the telegram, but did not read it. Instead he looked down at +all of his pretty “friend” not sedulously hidden by the paper; He +recognized that his friend had a distinctly “not-at-home” look, but +after a moment’s hesitation he remarked, “You don’t expect me to read +this alone?” + +Silence. + +“Because,” continued Peter, “it’s an answer to those we wrote and sent +yesterday, and I shan’t dare reply it without your advice.” + +Silence. + +Peter coolly put his hand on the paper and pushed it down till he could +see Leonore’s face. When he had done that he found her fairly beaming. +She tried to put on a serious look quickly, and looked up at him with +it on. + +But Peter said, “I caught you,” and laughed. Then Leonore laughed. Then +they filled in the space before lunch by translating and answering the +telegram. + +As soon as that meal was over, Peter said, “Now will you teach me +waltzing again?” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“I’m not going to spend time teaching a man to dance, who doesn’t +dance.” + +“I was nearly wild to dance last night,” said Peter. + +“Then why didn’t you?” + +“Dorothy asked me to do something.” + +“I don’t think much of men who let women control them.” + +“I wanted to please Dorothy” said Peter, “I was as well off talking to +one girl as to another. Since you don’t like my dancing, I supposed you +would hardly choose to dance again with me, or ropes wouldn’t have held +me.” + +“I can talk Italian too,” said Leonore, with no apparent connection. + +“Will you talk it with me?” said Peter eagerly. “You see, there are a +good many Italians in the district, now, who by their ignorance and +their not speaking English, are getting into trouble all the time. I +want to learn, so as to help them, without calling in an interpreter.” +Peter was learning to put his requests on grounds other than his own +wishes. + +“Yes,” said Leonore very sweetly, “and I’ll give you another lesson in +dancing. How did you enjoy your ride?” + +“I like Dorothy,” said Peter, “and I like Miss Biddle. But I didn’t get +the ride I wanted.” + +He got a very nice look from those slate-colored eyes. + +They set a music-box going, and Peter’s instruction began. When it was +over, Leonore said: + +“You’ve improved wonderfully.” + +“Well enough to dance with you?” + +“Yes,” said Leonore. “I’ll take pity on you unless you’d rather talk to +some other girl.” + +Peter only smiled quietly. + +“Peter,” said Leonore, later, as he was sipping his tea, “do you think +I’m nothing but a foolish society flutterbird?” + +“Do you want to know what I think of you?” asked Peter, eagerly. + +“No,” said Leonore hastily. “But do you think of me as nothing but a +society girl?” + +“Yes,” said Peter, truth speaking in voice and face. + +The corners of Leonore’s mouth descended to a woeful degree. + +“I think you are a society girl,” continued Peter, “because you are the +nicest kind of society.” + +Leonore fairly filled the room with her smile. Then she said, “Peter, +will you do me a favor?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you tell Dorothy that I have helped you translate cipher +telegrams and write the replies?” + +Peter was rather astonished, but said, “Yes.” + +But he did it very badly, Leonore thought, for meeting Dorothy the next +day at a lawn party, after the mere greetings, he said: + +“Dorothy, Miss D’Alloi has been helping me translate and write cipher +telegrams.” + +Dorothy looked startled at the announcement for a moment. Then she gave +a glance at Leonore, who was standing by Peter, visibly holding herself +in a very triumphant attitude. Then she burst out into the merriest of +laughs, and kept laughing. + +“What is it?” asked Peter. + +“Such a joke,” gasped Dorothy, “but I can’t tell you.” + +As for Leonore, her triumphant manner had fled, and her cheeks were +very red. And when some one spoke to Dorothy, and took her attention, +Leonore said to Peter very crossly: + +“You are so clumsy! Of course I didn’t mean that way.” + +Peter sighed internally. “I am stupid, I suppose,” he said to himself. +“I tried to do just what she asked, but she’s displeased, and I suppose +she won’t be nice for the rest of the day. If it was only law or +politics! But women!” + +But Leonore didn’t abuse him. She was very kind to him, despite her +displeasure. “If Dorothy would only let me alone,” thought Peter, “I +should have a glorious time. Why can’t she let me stay with her when +she’s in such a nice mood. And why does she insist on my being +attentive to her. I don’t care for her. It seems as if she was +determined to break up my enjoyment, just as I get her to myself.” +Peter mixed his “hers” and “shes” too thoroughly in this sentence to +make its import clear. His thoughts are merely reported verbatim, as +the easiest way. It certainly indicates that, as with most troubles, +there was a woman in it. + +Peter said much this same thing to himself quite often during the +following week, and always with a groan. Dorothy was continually +putting her finger in. Yet it was in the main a happy time to Peter. +His friend treated him very nicely for the most part, if very variably. +Peter never knew in what mood he should find her. Sometimes he felt +that Leonore considered him as the dirt under her little feet. Then +again, she could not be too sweet to him. There was an evening—a +dinner—at which he sat between Miss Biddle and Leonore when, it seemed +to Peter, Leonore said and looked such nice things, that the millennium +had come. Yet the next morning, she told him that: “It was a very dull +dinner. I talked to nobody but you.” + +Fortunately for Peter, the D’Allois were almost as new an advent in +Newport, so Leonore was not yet in the running. But by the time Peter’s +first week had sped, he found that men were putting their fingers in, +as well as Dorothy. Morning, noon, and night they gathered. Then +lunches, teas, drives, yachts and innumerable other affairs also +plunged their fingers in. Peter did not yield to the superior numbers, +he went wherever Leonore went. But the other men went also, and +understood the ropes far better. He fought on, but a sickening feeling +began to creep over him of impending failure. It was soon not merely +how Leonore treated him; it was the impossibility of getting her to +treat him at all. Even though he was in the same house, it seemed as if +there was always some one else calling or mealing, or taking tea, or +playing tennis or playing billiards, or merely dropping in. And then +Leonore took fewer and fewer meals at home, and spent fewer and fewer +hours there. One day Peter had to translate those despatches all by +himself! When he had a cup of tea now, even with three or four men +about, he considered himself lucky. He understood at last what Miss De +Voe had meant when she had spoken of the difficulty of seeing enough of +a popular girl either to love her or to tell her of it. They prayed for +rain in church on Sunday, on account of the drought, and Peter said +“Amen” with fervor. Anything to end such fluttering. + +At the end of two weeks, Peter said sadly that he must be going. + +“Rubbish,” said Watts. “You are to stay for a month.” + +“I hope you’ll stay,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +Peter waited a moment for some one else to speak. Some one else didn’t. + +“I think I must,” he said. “It isn’t a matter of my own wishes, but I’m +needed in Syracuse.” Peter spoke as if Syracuse was the ultimate of +human misery. + +“Is it necessary for you to be there?” asked Leonore. + +“Not absolutely, but I had better go.” + +Later in the day Leonore said, “I’ve decided you are not to go to +Syracuse. I shall want you here to explain what they do to me.” + +And that cool, insulting speech filled Peter with happiness. + +“I’ve decided to stay another week,” he told Mrs. D’Alloi. + +Nor could all the appeals over the telegraph move him, though that day +and the next the wires to Newport from New York and Syracuse were kept +hot, the despatches came so continuously. + +Two days after this decision, Peter and Leonore went to a cotillion. +Leonore informed him that: “Mamma makes me leave after supper, because +she doesn’t like me to stay late, so I miss the nice part.” + +“How many waltzes are you going to give me?” asked Peter, with an eye +to his one ball-room accomplishment. + +“I’ll give you the first,” said Leonore, “and then if you’ll sit near +me, I’ll give you a look every time I see a man coming whom I don’t +like, and if you are quick and ask me first, I’ll give it to you.” + +Peter became absolutely happy. “How glad I am,” he thought, “that I +didn’t go to Syracuse! What a shame it is there are other dances than +waltzes.” + +But after Peter had had two waltzes, he overheard his aged friend of +fifteen years say something to a girl that raised him many degrees in +his mind. “That’s a very brainy fellow,” said Peter admiringly. “That +never occurred to me!” + +So he waited till he saw Leonore seated, and then joined her. “Won’t +you sit out this dance with me?” he asked. + +Leonore looked surprised. “He’s getting very clever,” she thought, +never dreaming that Peter’s cleverness, like so many other people’s +nowadays, consisted in a pertinent use of quotations. Parrot +cleverness, we might term it. Leonore listened to the air which the +musicians were beginning, and finding it the Lancers, or dreariest of +dances, she made Peter happy by assenting. + +“Suppose we go out on the veranda,” said Peter, still quoting. + +“Now of what are you going to talk?” said Leonore, when they were +ensconced on a big wicker divan, in the soft half light of the Chinese +lanterns. + +“I want to tell you of something that seems to me about a hundred years +ago,” said Peter. “But it concerns myself, and I don’t want to bore +you.” + +“Try, and if I don’t like it I’ll stop you,” said Leonore, opening up a +line of retreat worthy of a German army. + +“I don’t know what you’ll think about it,” said Peter, faltering a +little. “I suppose I can hardly make you understand it, as it is to me. +But I want you to know, because—well—it’s only fair.” + +Leonore looked at Peter with a very tender look in her eyes. He could +not see it, because Leonore sat so that her face was in shadow. But she +could see his expression, and when he hesitated, with that drawn look +on his face, Leonore said softly: + +“You mean—about—mamma?” + +Peter started. “Yes! You know?” + +“Yes,” said Leonore gently. “And that was why I trusted you, without +ever having met you, and why I wanted to be friends.” + +Peter sighed a sigh of relief. “I’ve been so afraid of it,” he said. +“She told you?” + +“Yes. That is, Miss De Voe told me first of your having been +disappointed, so I asked mamma if she knew the girl, and then mamma +told me. I’m glad you spoke of it, for I’ve wanted to ask you +something.” + +“What?” + +“If that was why you wouldn’t call at first on us?” + +“No.” + +“Then why did mamma say you wouldn’t call?” When Peter made no reply, +Leonore continued, “I knew—that is I felt, there was something wrong. +What was it?” + +“I can’t tell you.” + +“Yes,” said Leonore, very positively. + +Peter hesitated. “She thought badly of me about something, till I +apologized to her.” + +“And now?” + +“Now she invites me to Grey-Court.” + +“Then it wasn’t anything?” + +“She had misjudged me.” + +“Now, tell me what it was.” + +“Miss D’Alloi, I know you do not mean it,” said Peter, “but you are +paining me greatly. There is nothing in my whole life so bitter to me +as what you ask me to tell.” + +“Oh, Peter,” said Leonore, “I beg your pardon. I was very thoughtless!” + +“And you don’t think the worse of me, because I loved your mother, and +because I can’t tell you?” said Peter, in a dangerous tone. + +“No,” said Leonore, but she rose. “Now we’ll go back to the dancing.” + +“One moment,” begged Peter. + +But Leonore was already in the full light blazing from the room. “Are +you coming?” she said. + +“May I have this waltz?” said Peter, trying to get half a loaf. + +“No,” said Leonore, “it’s promised to Mr. Rutgers.” + +Just then mine host came up and said. “I congratulate you, Mr. +Stirling.” + +Peter wanted to kick him, but he didn’t. + +“I congratulate you,” said another man. + +“On what?” Peter saw no cause for congratulation, only for sorrow. + +“Oh, Peter,” said Dorothy, sailing up at this junction, “how nice! And +such a surprise!” + +“Why, haven’t you heard?” said mine host. + +“Oh,” cried Leonore, “is it about the Convention?” + +“Yes,” said a man. “Manners is in from the club and tells us that a +despatch says your name was sprung on the Convention at nine, and that +you were chosen by acclamation without a single ballot being taken. +Every one’s thunderstruck.” + +“Oh, no,” said a small voice, fairly bristling with importance, “I knew +all about it.” + +Every one laughed at this, except Dorothy. Dorothy had a suspicion that +it was true. But she didn’t say so. She sniffed visibly, and said, +“Nonsense. As if Peter would tell you secrets. Come, Peter, I want to +take you over and let Miss Biddle congratulate you.” + +“Peter has just asked me for this waltz,” said Leonore. “Oh, Mr. +Rutgers, I’m so sorry, I’m going to dance this with Mr. Stirling.” + +And then Peter felt he was to be congratulated. + +“I shan’t marry him myself,” thought Leonore, “but I won’t have my +friends married off right under my nose, and you can try all you want, +Mrs. Rivington.” + +So Peter’s guardianship was apparently bearing fruit. Yet man to this +day holds woman to be the weaker vessel! + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. +OBSTINACY. + + +The next morning Peter found that his prayer for a rainy day had been +answered, and came down to breakfast in the pleasantest of humors. + +“See how joyful his future Excellency looks already,” said Watts, +promptly recalling Peter to the serious part of life. And fortunately +too, for from that moment, the time which he had hoped to have alone +(if _two_ ever can be alone), began to be pilfered from him. Hardly +were they seated at breakfast when Pell dropped in to congratulate him, +and from that moment, despite the rain, every friend in Newport seemed +to feel it a bounden duty to do the same, and to stay the longer +because of the rain. Peter wished he had set the time for the +Convention two days earlier or two days later. + +“I hope you won’t ask any of these people to luncheon,” Peter said in +an aside to Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“Why?” he was asked. + +Peter looked puzzled, and finally said weakly, “I—I have a good deal to +do.” + +And then as proper punishment for his misdemeanor, the footman +announced Dorothy and Miss Biddle, Ray and Ogden. Dorothy sailed into +the room with the announcement: + +“We’ve all come to luncheon if we are asked.” + +“Oh, Peter,” said Ray, when they were seated at the table. “Have you +seen this morning’s ‘Voice of Labor?’ No? Good gracious, they’ve raked +up that old verse in Watts’s class-song and print it as proof that you +were a drunkard in your college days. Here it is. Set to music and +headed ‘Saloon Pete.’” + +“Look here, Ray, we must write to the ‘Voice’ and tell them the truth,” +said Watts. + +“Never write to the paper that tells the lie,” said Peter, laughing. +“Always write to the one that doesn’t. Then it will go for the other +paper. But I wouldn’t take the trouble in this case. The opposition +would merely say that: ‘Of course Mr. Stirling’s intimate friends are +bound to give such a construction to the song, and the attempt does +them credit.’” + +“But why don’t you deny it, Peter?” asked Leonore anxiously. “It’s +awful to think of people saying you are a drunkard!” + +“If I denied the untruths told of me I should have my hands full. +Nobody believes such things, except the people who are ready to believe +them. They wouldn’t believe otherwise, no matter what I said. If you +think a man is a scoundrel, you are not going to believe his word.” + +“But, Peter,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, “you ought to deny them for the +future. After you and your friends are dead, people will go back to the +newspapers, and see what they said about you, and then will misjudge +you.” + +“I am not afraid of that. I shall hardly be of enough account to figure +in history, or if I become so, such attacks will not hurt me. Why, +Washington was charged by the papers of his day, with being a murderer, +a traitor, and a tyrant. And Lincoln was vilified to an extent which +seems impossible now. The greater the man, the greater the abuse.” + +“Why do the papers call you ‘Pete’?” asked Leonore, anxiously. “I +rather like Peter, but Pete is dreadful!” + +“To prove that I am unfit to be governor.” + +“Are you serious?” asked Miss Biddle. + +“Yes. From their point of view, the dropping of the ‘r’ ought to +convince voters that I am nothing but a tough and heeler.” + +“But it won’t!” declared Leonore, speaking from vast experience. + +“I don’t think it will. Though if they keep at it, and really convince +the voters who can be convinced by such arguments, that I am what they +call me, they’ll elect me.” + +“How?” asked Mrs. D’Alloi. + +“Because intelligent people are not led astray but outraged by such +arguments, and ignorant people, who can be made to believe all that is +said of me, by such means, will think I am just the man for whom they +want to vote.” + +“How is it possible that the papers can treat you so?” said Watts. “The +editors know you?” + +“Oh, yes. I have met nearly every man connected with the New York +press.” + +“They must know better?” + +“Yes. But for partisan purposes they must say what they do.” + +“Then they are deliberately lying to deceive the people?” asked Miss +Biddle. + +“It’s rather a puzzling matter in ethics,” said Peter. “I don’t think +that the newspaper fraternity have any lower standard of morals, than +men in other professions. In the main they stand for everything that is +admirable, so long as it’s non-partisan, and some of the men who to-day +are now writing me down, have aided me in the past more than I can say, +and are at this moment my personal friends.” + +“How dishonest!” + +“I cannot quite call it that. When the greatest and most honorable +statesmen of Europe and America will lie and cheat each other to their +utmost extent, under cover of the term ‘diplomacy,’ and get rewarded +and praised by their respective countries for their knavery, provided +it is successful, I think ‘dishonest’ is a strong word for a merely +partisan press. Certain it is, that the partisan press would end +to-morrow, but for the narrowness and meanness of readers.” + +“Which they cause,” said Ogden. + +“Just as much,” said Peter, “as the saloon makes a drunkard, food +causes hunger, and books make readers.” + +“But, at least, you must acknowledge they’ve got you, when they say you +are the saloon-keepers’ friend,” laughed Watts. + +“Yes. I am that—but only for votes, you understand.” + +“Mr. Stirling, why do you like saloons?” asked Miss Biddle. + +“I don’t like saloons. My wish is to see the day come, when such a +gross form of physical enjoyment as tippling shall cease entirely. But +till that day comes, till humanity has taught itself and raised itself, +I want to see fair play.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“The rich man can lay in a stock of wine, or go to a hotel or club, and +get what he wants at any time and all times. It is not fair, because a +man’s pockets are filled with nickels instead of eagles, that he shall +not have the same right. For that reason, I have always spoken for the +saloon, and even for Sunday openings. You know what I think myself of +that day. You know what I think of wine. But if I claim the right to +spend Sunday in my way and not to drink, I must concede an equal right +to others to do as they please. If a man wants to drink at any time, +what right have I to say he shall not?” + +“But the poor man goes and makes a beast of himself,” said Watts. + +“There is as much champagne drunkenness as whisky drunkenness, in +proportion to the number of drinkers of each. But a man who drinks +champagne, is sent home in a cab, and is put to bed, while the man who +can’t afford that kind of drink, and is made mad by poisoned and +doctored whisky, doctored and poisoned because of our heavy tax on it, +must take his chance of arrest. That is the shameful thing about all +our so-called temperance legislation. It’s based on an unfair +interference with personal liberty, and always discriminates in favor +of the man with money. If the rich man has his club, let the poor man +have his saloon.” + +“How much better, though,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, “to stop the sale of wine +everywhere.” + +“That is neither possible nor right. You can’t strengthen humanity by +tying its hands. It must be left free to become strong. I have thought +much about the problem, and I see only one fair and practical means of +bettering our present condition. But boss as the papers say I am, I am +not strong enough to force it.” + +“What is that, Peter?” asked Dorothy. + +“So long as a man drinks in such a way as not to interfere with another +person’s liberty we have no right to check him. But the moment he does, +the public has a right to protect itself and his family, by restraining +him, as it does thieves, or murderers, or wife-beaters. My idea is, +that a license, something perhaps like our dog-license, shall be given +to every one who applies for it. That before a man can have a drink, +this license must be shown. Then if a man is before the police court a +second time, for drunkenness, or if his family petition for it, his +license shall be cancelled, and a heavy fine incurred by any one who +gives or sells that man a drink thereafter.” + +“Oh,” laughed Watts, “you are heavenly! Just imagine a host saying to +his dinner-party, ‘Friends, before this wine is passed, will you please +show me your drink licenses.’” + +“You may laugh, Watts,” said Peter, “but such a request would have +saved many a young fellow from ruin, and society from an occasional +terrible occurrence which even my little social experience has shown +me. And it would soon be so much a matter of course, that it would be +no more than showing your ticket, to prove yourself entitled to a ride. +It solves the problem of drunkenness. And that is all we can hope to +do, till humanity is—” Then Peter, who had been looking at Leonore, +smiled. + +“Is what?” asked Leonore. + +“The rest is in cipher,” said Peter, but if he had finished his +sentence, it would have been, “half as perfect as you are.” + +After this last relay of callers had departed, it began to pour so +nobly that Peter became hopeful once more. He wandered about, making a +room-to-room canvass, in search of happiness, and to his surprise saw +happiness descending the broad stair incased in an English +shooting-cap, and a mackintosh. + +“You are not going out in such weather?” demanded Peter. + +“Yes. I’ve had no exercise to-day, and I’m going for a walk.” + +“It’s pouring torrents,” expostulated Peter. + +“I know it.” + +“But you’ll get wet through.” + +“I hope so. I like to walk in the rain.” + +Peter put his hand on the front door-handle, to which this conversation +had carried them, “You mustn’t go out,” he said. + +“I’m going,” said Leonore, made all the more eager now that it was +forbidden. + +“Please don’t,” said Peter weakening. + +“Let me pass,” said Leonore decisively. + +“Does your father know?” + +“Of course not.” + +“Then you should ask him. It’s no weather for you to walk in.” + +“I shan’t ask him.” + +“Then I shall,” and Peter went hurriedly to the library. + +“Watts,” he said, “it’s raining torrents and Leonore insists on going +to walk. Please say she is not to go.” + +“All right,” said Watts, not looking up from his book. + +That was enough. Peter sped back to the hall. It was empty. He put his +head into the two rooms. Empty. He looked out of the front door. There +in the distance, was that prettiest of figures, distinguishable even +when buried in a mackintosh. Peter caught up a cap from the hall rack, +and set out in pursuit. Leonore was walking rapidly, but it did not +take Peter many seconds to come up with her. + +“Your father says you are not to go out.” + +“I can’t help it, since I am out,” said Leonore, sensibly. + +“But you should come back at once.” + +“I don’t care to,” said Leonore. + +“Aren’t you going to obey him?” + +“He never would have cared if you hadn’t interfered. It’s your orders, +not his. So I intend to have my walk.” + +“You are to come back,” said Peter. + +Leonore stopped and faced him. “This is getting interesting,” she +thought. “We’ll see who can be the most obstinate.” Aloud she said, +“Who says so?” + +“I do.” + +“And I say I shan’t.” + +Peter felt his helplessness. “Please come back.” + +Leonore laughed internally. “I don’t choose to.” + +“Then I shall have to make you.” + +“How?” asked Leonore. + +That was a conundrum, indeed. If it had been a knotty law point, Peter +would have been less nonplussed by it. + +Leonore felt her advantage, and used it shamefully. She knew that Peter +was helpless, and she said, “How?” again, laughing at him. + +Peter groped blindly. “I shall make you,” he said again, for lack of +anything better. + +“Perhaps,” said Leonore, helping him out, though with a most insulting +laugh in her voice and face, “you will get a string and lead me?” + +Peter looked the picture of helplessness. + +“Or you might run over to the Goelets’, and borrow their baby’s +perambulator,” continued that segment of the Spanish Inquisition. If +ever an irritating, aggravating, crazing, exasperating, provoking +fretting enraging, “I dare you,” was uttered, it was in Leonore’s +manner as she said this. + +Peter looked about hopelessly. + +“Please hurry up and say how,” Leonore continued, “for I want to get +down to the cliff walk. It’s very wet here on the grass. Perhaps you +will carry me back? You evidently think me a baby in arms.” “He’s such +fun to tease,” was her thought, “and you can say just what you please +without being afraid of his doing anything ungentlemanly.” Many a woman +dares to torture a man for just the same reason. + +She was quite right as to Peter. He had recognized that he was +powerless; that he could not use force. He looked the picture of utter +indecision. But as Leonore spoke, a sudden change came over his face +and figure. “Leonore had said it was wet on the grass! Leonore would +wet her feet! Leonore would take cold! Leonore would have pneumonia! +Leonore would die!” It was a shameful chain of argument for a light of +the bar, logic unworthy of a school-boy. But it was fearfully real to +Peter for the moment, and he said to himself: “I must do it, even if +she never forgives me.” Then the indecision left his face, and he took +a step forward. + +Leonore caught her breath with a gasp. The “dare-you” look, suddenly +changed to a very frightened one, and turning, she sped across the +lawn, at her utmost speed. She had read something in Peter’s face, and +felt that she must fly, however ignominious such retreat might be. + +Peter followed, but though he could have caught her in ten seconds, he +did not. As on a former occasion, he thought: “I’ll let her get out of +breath. Then she will not be so angry. At least she won’t be able to +talk. How gracefully she runs!” + +Presently, as soon as Leonore became convinced that Peter did not +intend to catch her, she slowed down to a walk. Peter at once joined +her. + +“Now,” he said, “will you come back?” + +Leonore was trying to conceal her panting. She was not going to +acknowledge that she was out of breath since Peter wasn’t. So she made +no reply. + +“You are walking in the wrong direction,” said Peter, laying his hand +on her arm. Then, since she made no reply, his hand encircled the arm, +and he stopped. Leonore took two more steps. Then she too, curiously +enough, halted. + +“Stop holding me,” she said, not entirely without betraying her +breathlessness. + +“You are to come back,” said Peter. + +He got an awful look from those eyes. They were perfectly blazing with +indignation. + +“Stop holding me,” she repeated. + +It was a fearful moment to Peter. But he said, with an appeal in his +voice, “You know I suffer in offending you. I did not believe that I +could touch you without your consent. But your health is dearer to me +than your anger is terrible. You must come home.” + +So Leonore, realizing that helplessness in a man exists only by his own +volition, turned, and began walking towards the now distant house. +Peter at once released her arm, and walked beside her. Not a glimpse +did he get of those dear eyes. Leonore was looking directly before her, +and a grenadier could not have held himself straighter. If insulted +dignity was to be acted in pantomime, the actor could have obtained +some valuable points from that walk. + +Peter walked along, feeling semi-criminal, yet semi-happy. He had saved +Leonore from an early grave, and that was worth while doing. Then, too, +he could look at her, and that was worth while doing. The run had made +Leonore’s cheeks blaze, as Peter’s touch had made her eyes. The rain +had condensed in little diamonds on her stray curls, and on those long +lashes. It seemed to Peter that he had never seen her lovelier. The +longing to take her in his arms was so strong, that he almost wished +she had refused to return. But then Peter knew that she was deeply +offended, and that unless he could make his peace, he was out of favor +for a day at least. That meant a very terrible thing to him. A whole +day of neglect; a whole day with no glimpse of these eyes; a whole day +without a smile from those lips! + +Peter had too much sense to say anything at once. He did not speak till +they were back in the hall. Leonore had planned to go straight to her +room, but Peter was rather clever, since she preceded him, in getting +to the foot of the staircase so rapidly that he was there first. + +This secured him his moment for speech. He said simply: “Miss D’Alloi, +I ask your forgiveness for offending you.” + +Leonore had her choice of standing silent, of pushing passed Peter, or +of speaking. If she had done the first, or the second, her position was +absolutely impregnable. But a woman’s instinct is to seek defence or +attack in words rather than actions. So she said: “You had no right, +and you were very rude.” She did not look at Peter. + +“It pained me far more than it could pain you.” + +Leonore liked Peter’s tone of voice, but she saw that her position was +weakening. She said, “Let me by, please.” + +Peter with reluctance gave her just room to pass. He felt that he had +not said half of what he wished, but he did not dare to offend again. + +As it turned out, it was the best thing he could do, for the moment +Leonore had passed him, she exclaimed, “Why! Your coat’s wringing wet.” + +“That’s nothing,” said Peter, turning to the voice. + +He found those big dark eyes at last looking at him, and looking at him +without anger. Leonore had stopped on the step above him. + +“That shows how foolish you were to go out in the rain,” said Leonore. + +“Yes,” said Peter, venturing on the smallest smiles. + +Leonore promptly explained the charge in Peter’s “yes.” “It’s very +different,” he was told. “I put on tips and a mackintosh. You didn’t +put on anything. And it was pouring torrents.” + +“But I’m tough,” said Peter, “A wetting won’t hurt me.” + +“So am I,” said Leonore. “I’ve tramped for hours in the Orkneys, and +Sweden and Norway, when it was raining. But then I was dressed for it. +Go and put on dry clothes at once.” + +That was what Peter had intended to do, but he saw his advantage. “It +isn’t worth while,” he said. + +“I never heard of such obstinacy,” said Leonore. “I pity your wife, if +you ever get one. She’ll have an awful time of it.” + +Peter did not like that view at all. But he did not forego at once his +hope of getting some compensation out of Leonore’s wish. So he said: +“It’s too much trouble to change my clothes, but a cup of your tea may +keep me from taking cold.” It was nearly five, o’clock, and Peter was +longing for that customary half-hour at the tea-table. + +Leonore said in the kindness of her heart, “When you’ve changed your +clothes, I’ll make you a cup.” Then she went upstairs. When she had +reached the second floor, she turned, and leaning over the balustrade +of the gallery, said, “Peter.” + +“Yes,” said Peter, surveying her from below, and thinking how lovely +she was. + +Leonore was smiling saucily. She said in triumph: “I had my way. I did +get my walk.” Then she went to her room, her head having a very +victorious carriage. + +Peter went to his room, smiling. “It’s a good lawyer,” he told his +mirror, “who compromises just enough to make both sides think they’ve +won.” Peter changed his clothes with the utmost despatch, and hurried +downstairs to the tea-table. She was not there! Peter waited nearly +five minutes quietly, with a patience almost colossal. Then he began to +get restless. He wandered about the room for another two minutes. Then +he became woe-begone. “I thought she had forgiven me,” he remarked. + +“What?” said the loveliest of visions from the doorway. Most women +would have told one that the beauty lay in the Parisian tea-gown. Peter +knew better. Still, he was almost willing to forgive Leonore the delay +caused by the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory. +“And it will take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway,” he +thought. + +“Hadn’t I better put some rum into it to-day?” he was asked, presently. + +“You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs,” said Peter, +taking possession of that article. + +“But then I can’t put any sugar in.” + +“Fingers were made before forks,” suggested Peter. “You don’t want to +give me anything bitter, do you?” + +“You deserve it,” said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers, +and dropped them in the cup. + +“I can’t wait five years!” thought Peter, “I can’t wait five +months—weeks—days—hours—minutes—sec—— ” + +Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here. “Hello! Here you are. +How cosy you look. I tried to find you both a few minutes ago, but +thought you must have gone to walk after all. Here, Peter. Here’s a +special delivery letter, for which I receipted a while ago. Give me a +cup, Dot.” + +Peter said, “Excuse me,” and, after a glance at the envelope, opened +the letter with a sinking sensation. He read it quickly, and then +reached over and rang the bell. When the footman came, Peter rose and +said something in a low voice to him. Then he came back to his tea. + +“Nothing wrong, I hope,” asked Watts. + +“Yes. At least I am called back to New York,” said Peter gloomily. + +“Bother,” said Watts. “When?” + +“I shall leave by the night express.” + +“Nonsense. If it was so important as that, they’d have wired you.” + +“It isn’t a matter which could be telegraphed.” + +“What is it, Peter?” said Leonore, putting her finger in. + +“It’s confidential.” + +So Leonore did not ask again. But when the tea was finished, and all +had started upstairs, Leonore said, “Peter,” on the landing. When Peter +stopped, she whispered, “Why are you going to New York?” + +“I can’t tell you,” said Peter. + +“Yes, you can, now that papa isn’t here.” + +“No.” + +“Yes. I know it’s politics, and you are to tell me.” + +“It isn’t politics.” + +“Then what is it?” + +“You really want to know?” + +“Of course.” + +“It’s something really confidential.” + +Leonore gave Peter one look of insulted dignity, and went upstairs to +her room. “He’s different,” she said. “He isn’t a bit afraid of +displeasing me any more. I don’t know what to do with him.” + +Peter found Jenifer waiting. “Only pack the grip,” he said. “I hope to +come back in a few days.” But he looked very glum, and the glumness +stuck to him even after he had dressed and had descended to dinner. + +“I am leaving my traps,” he told Mrs. D’Alloi. “For I hope to be back +next week.” + +“Next week!” cried Watts. “What has been sprung on you that will take +you that long?” + +“It doesn’t depend on me, unfortunately,” said Peter, “or I wouldn’t +go.” + +When the carriage was announced later, Peter shook hands with Watts and +Mrs. D’Alloi, and then held out his hand to Leonore. “Good-bye,” he +said. + +“Are you going to tell me why you are going?” said that young lady, +with her hands behind her, in the prettiest of poses. + +“No.” + +“Then I shan’t say good-bye.” + +“I cannot tell you,” said Peter, quietly; “please say good-bye.” + +“No.” + +That refusal caused Peter gloom all the way to the station. But if +Leonore could have looked into the future she would have seen in her +refusal the bitterest sorrow she had ever known. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. +OATHS. + + +As soon as Peter was on the express he went into the smoking cabin of +the sleeping-car, and lighting a cigar, took out a letter and read it +over again. While he was still reading it, a voice exclaimed: + +“Good! Here’s Peter. So you are in it too?” Ogden continued, as Ray and +he took seats by Peter. + +“I always did despise Anarchists and Nihilists,” sighed Ray, “since I +was trapped into reading some of those maudlin Russian novels, with +their eighth-century ideas grafted on nineteenth-century conditions. +Baby brains stimulated with whisky.” + +Ogden turned to Peter. “How serious is it likely to be, Colonel?” + +“I haven’t any idea,” replied Peter, “The staff is of the opposite +party now, and I only have a formal notification to hold my regiment in +readiness. If it’s nothing but this Socialist and Anarchist talk, there +is no real danger in it.” + +“Why not?” + +“This country can never be in danger from discontent with our +government, for it’s what the majority want it to be, or if not, it is +made so at the next election. That is the beauty of a Democracy. The +majority always supports the government. We fight our revolutions with +ballots, not with bullets.” + +“Yet Most says that blood must be shed.” + +“I suppose,” said Peter, “that he has just reached the stage of +intelligence which doctors had attained when they bled people to make +them strong.” + +“What can you do with such a fellow’s talk? You can’t argue with him,” +said Ogden. + +“Talk!” muttered Ray, “Don’t dignify it with that word. Gibberish!” + +“No?” said Peter, “It’s too earnest to deserve that name. The man can’t +express himself, but way down underneath all the absurd talk of +‘natural monopolies,’ and of ‘the oppression of the money-power,’ there +lies a germ of truth, without which none of their theories would have a +corporal’s guard of honest believers. We have been working towards that +truth in an unsystematic way for centuries, but we are a long way from +it, and till we solve how to realize it, we shall have ineffectual +discontent.” + +“But that makes the whole thing only the more arrant nonsense,” +grumbled Ray. “It’s foolish enough in all conscience sake, if they had +a chance of success, but when they haven’t any, why the deuce do they +want to drag us poor beggars back from Newport?” + +“Why did Rome insist on burning while Nero fiddled?” queried Peter +smiling. “We should hear nothing of socialism and anarchy if Newport +and the like had no existence.” + +“I believe at heart you’re a Socialist yourself,” cried Ray. + +“No danger,” laughed Ogden; “his bank account is too large. No man with +Peter’s money is ever a Socialist” + +“You forget,” said Ray, “that Peter is always an exception to the +rule.” + +“No,” said Peter. “I disagree with Socialists entirely both in aims and +methods, but I sympathize with them, for I see the fearful problems +which they think their theories will solve, and though I know how +mistaken they are, I cannot blame them, when I see how seriously and +honestly they believe in, and how unselfishly they work for, their +ideas. Don’t blame the Socialists, for they are quite as conscientious +as were the Abolitionists. Blame it to the lack of scientific +education, which leaves these people to believe that theories +containing a half truth are so wholly true that they mean the +regeneration and salvation of society.” + +“I suppose you are right,” sighed Ray, “for you’ve thought of it, and I +haven’t. I don’t want to, either. I thank the Lord I’m not as serious +as you, Graveyard. But if you want to air your theory, I’ll lend you my +ears, for friendship’s sake. I don’t promise to remember.” + +Peter puffed his cigar for a moment “I sometimes conclude,” he said, +“that the people who are most in need of education, are the +college-bred men. They seem to think they’ve done all the work and +study of their life in their four years, and so can dissipate mentally +ever after.” But Peter smiled as he said this and continued, more +seriously: “Society and personal freedom are only possible in +conjunction, when law or public opinion interferes to the degree of +repressing all individual acts that interfere with the freedom of +others; thus securing the greatest individual freedom to all. So far as +physical force is concerned, we have pretty well realized this +condition. Because a man is strong he can no longer take advantage of +the weak. But strength is not limited to muscle. To protect the weak +mind from the strong mind is an equal duty, and a far more difficult +task. So far we have only partially succeeded. In this difficulty lies +the whole problem. Socialism, so far as it attempts to repress +individualism, and reduce mankind to an evenness opposed to all natural +laws, is suicidal of the best in favor of mediocrity. But so far as it +attempts to protect that mediocrity and weakness from the superior +minds of the best, it is only in line with the laws which protect us +from murder and robbery. You can’t expect men of the Most variety, +however, to draw such distinctions.” + +“I do wish they would settle it, without troubling me,” groaned Ray. +“Lispenard’s right. A man’s a fool who votes, or serves on a jury, or +joins a regiment. What’s the good of being a good citizen, when the +other fellow won’t be? I’m sick of being good for nothing.” + +“Have you just discovered that?” laughed Ogden. “You’re progressing.” + +“No,” said Ray, “I am good for one thing. Like a good many other men I +furnish the raw material on which the dearest of women may lavish her +affection. Heigh-ho! I wish I was before the fire with her now. It’s +rather rough to have visits to one’s wife cut short in this way.” + +Peter rose. “I am going to get some sleep, for we don’t know what’s +before us, and may not have much after to-night. But, Ray, there’s a +harder thing than leaving one’s wife at such a time.” + +“What’s that, Peter?” asked Ray, looking at Peter with surprise. + +“To know that there is no one to whom your going or return really +matters.” Peter passed out of the cabin. + +“By George!” said Ray, “if it wasn’t Peter, I’d have sworn there was +salt water in his eyes.” + +“Anneke has always insisted that he was lonely. I wonder if she’s +right?” Ogden queried. + +“If he is, why the deuce does he get off in those solitary quarters of +his?” + +“Ray,” said Ogden, “I have a sovereign contempt for a man who answers +one question with another.” + +Peter reached the city at six the next morning, and, despite the hour, +began his work at once. He made a number of calls in the district, +holding whispered dialogues with men; who, as soon as Peter was gone, +hurried about and held similar conversations with other men; who +promptly went and did the same to still others. While they were doing +this, Peter drove uptown, and went into Dickel’s riding academy. As he +passed through the office, a man came out. + +“Ah, Mr. Stirling. Good-morning.” + +“Good-morning, Mr. Byrnes,” said Peter. “How serious is it likely to +be?” + +“We can’t say yet. But the force has all it can do now to handle the +Anarchists and unemployed, and if this strike takes place we shall need +you.” + +Peter passed into another room where were eight men. + +“Good-morning, Colonel,” said one. “You are prompt.” + +“What is the trouble?” + +“The Central has decided to make a general reduction. They put it in +force at noon to-day, and are so certain that the men will go out, that +they’ve six hundred new hands ready somewhere to put right in.” + +“Byrnes tells me he has all he can do.” + +“Yes. We’ve obtained the governor’s consent to embody eight regiments. +It isn’t only the strike that’s serious, but this parade of the +unemployed to-morrow, and the meeting which the Anarchists have called +in the City Hall. Byrnes reports a very ugly feeling, and buying of +arms.” + +“It’s rather rough on you, Stirling,” spoke up a man, “to have it come +while you are a nominee.” + +Peter smiled, and passed into the room beyond. “Good-morning, General +Canfield,” he said. “I have taken the necessary steps to embody my +regiment. Are there any further orders?” + +“If we need you, we shall put you at the Central Station,” the officer +replied; “so, if you do not know the lay of the land, you had better +familiarize yourself at once.” + +“General Canfield,” said Peter, “my regiment has probably more +sympathizers with the strikers than has any other in the city. It could +not be put in a worse place.” + +“Are you objecting to orders?” said the man, in a sharp decisive voice. + +“No,” replied Peter. “I am stating a fact, in hopes that it may prevent +trouble.” + +The man and Peter looked each other in the eye. + +“You have your orders,” said the man, but he didn’t look pleased or +proud. + +Peter turned and left the room, looking very grave. He look his cab and +went to his quarters. He ate a hurried breakfast, and then went down +into the streets. They seemed peaceably active as he walked through +them. A small boy was calling an extra, but it was in reference to the +arrival of a much-expected racing-yacht. There was nothing to show that +a great business depression rested with crushing weight on the city, +and especially on the poor; that anarchy was lifting its head, and from +hungering for bread was coming to hunger for blood and blaze; that +capital and labor were preparing to lock arms in a struggle which +perhaps meant death and destruction. + +The armory door was opened only wide enough to let a man squeeze +through, and was guarded by a keeper. Peter passed in, however, without +question, and heard a hum of voices which showed that if anarchy was +gathering, so too was order. Peter called his officers together, and +gave a few orders. Then he turned and whispered for a moment with +Dennis. + +“They don’t put us there, sir!” exclaimed Dennis. + +“Yes.” + +“Are they mad?” + +“They’ve given us the worst job, not merely as a job, but especially +for the regiment. Perhaps they won’t mind if things do go wrong.” + +“Yez mean?” + +“What will people say of me on November fourth, if my regiment flunks +on September thirtieth?” + +“Arrah musha dillah!” cried Dennis. “An’ is that it?” + +“I’m afraid so. Will the men stand by me?” + +“Oi’ll make them. Yez see,” shouted Dennis, “Oi’ll tell the b’ys they +are tryin’ to put yez in a hole, an’ they’ll stan’ by yez, no matter +what yez are told to do.” + +As quickly as possible Peter put on his fatigue uniform. When he came +out, it was to find that the rank and file had done the same, and were +now standing in groups about the floor. A moment later they were lined +up. + +Peter stepped forward and said in a clear, ringing voice: “Before the +roll is called I wish to say a word. We may receive orders any moment +to take possession of the buildings and switches at the Central +Station, to protect the property and operators of that road. This will +be hard to some of you, who believe the strikers are right. But we have +nothing to do with that. We have taken our oath to preserve order and +law, and we are interested in having it done, far more than is the +capitalist, for he can buy protection, whether laws are enforced or +not, while the laboring man cannot. But if any man here is not prepared +to support the State in its duty to protect the life and property of +all, by an enforcement of the laws, I wish to know it now.” + +Peter stood a moment waiting, and then said, “Thank you, men.” + +The roll-call was made, and Peter sent off a line to headquarters, +stating that his regiment, with only eighteen reported “missing” was +mustered and ready for further orders. Then the regiment broke ranks, +and waited. + +Just as two o’clock struck a despatch was handed Peter. A moment later +came the rap of the drum, and the men rose from the floor and fell in. +A few sharp, quick words were passed from mouth to mouth. Guns rose to +the shoulders with a click and a movement almost mechanical. The +regiment swung from a long straight line into companies, the door +rolled open, and without a sound, except the monotonous pound of the +regular tread, the regiment passed into the street. At the corner they +turned sharply, and marched up a side street, so narrow that the ranks +had to break their lines to get within the curbs. So without sound of +drum or music they passed through street after street. A regiment is +thrilling when it parades to music: it is more so when it marches in +silence. + +Presently it passed into a long tunnel, where the footfall echoed in a +startling way. But as it neared the other end, a more startling sound +could be heard. It was a low murmur, as of many voices, and of voices +that were not pleasant. Peter’s wisdom in availing himself of the +protection and secrecy of the tunnel as an approach became obvious. + +A moment later, as the regiment debouched from the tunnel’s mouth, the +scene broke upon them. A vast crowd filled Fourth Avenue and +Forty-second Street. Filled even the cut of the entrance to the tunnel. +An angry crowd, judging from the sounds. + +A sharp order passed down the ranks, and the many broad lines melted +into a long-thin one again, even as the regiment went forward. It was +greeted with yells, and bottles and bricks were hurled from above it, +but the appearance of the regiment had taken the men too much by +surprise for them to do more. The head entered the mob, and seemed to +disappear. More and more of the regiment was swallowed up. Finally, +except to those who could trace the bright glint of the rifle-barrels, +it seemed to have been submerged. Then even the rifles disappeared. The +regiment had passed through the crowd, and was within the station. +Peter breathed a sigh of relief. To march up Fifth Avenue, with empty +guns, in a parade, between ten thousand admiring spectators is one +thing. To march between ten thousand angry strikers and their +sympathizers, with ball cartridges in the rifles, is quite another. It +is all the difference between smoking a cigar after dinner, and smoking +one in a powder magazine. + +The regiment’s task had only just begun, however. Peter had orders to +clear the streets about the station. After a consultation with the +police captain, the companies were told off, and filing out of the +various doors, they began work. Peter had planned his debouchments so +as to split the mob into sections, knowing that each fragment pushed +back rendered the remainder less formidable. First a sally was made +from the terminal station, and after two lines of troops had been +thrown across Forty-second Street, the second was ordered to advance. +Thus a great tongue of the mob, which stretched towards Third Avenue, +was pressed back, almost to that street, and held there, without a +quarter of the mob knowing that anything was being done. Then a similar +operation was repeated on Forty-third Street and Forty-fourth Street, +and possession was taken of Madison Avenue. Another wedge was driven +into the mob and a section pushed along Forty-second, nearly to Fifth +Avenue. Then what was left of the mob was pushed back from the front of +the building down Park Avenue. Again Peter breathed more freely. + +“I think the worst is done,” he told his officers. “Fortunately the +crowd did not expect us, and was not prepared to resist. If you can +once split a mob, so that it has no centre, and can’t get together +again, except by going round the block, you’ve taken the heart out of +it” + +As he said this a soldier came up, and saluting, said: “Captain +Moriarty orders me to inform you that a committee of the strikers ask +to see you, Colonel.” + +Peter followed the messenger. He found a couple of sentries marking a +line. On one side of this line sat or reclined Company D. and eight +policemen. On the other stood a group of a dozen men, and back of them, +the crowd. + +Peter passed the sentry line, and went up to the group. Three were the +committee. The rest were the ubiquitous reporters. From the newspaper +report of one of the latter We quote the rest: + + +“You wish to see me?” asked Colonel Stirling. + +“Yes, Colonel,” said Chief Potter. “We are here to remonstrate with +you.” + +“We’ve done nothing yet,” said Doggett, “and till we had, the troops +oughtn’t to have been called in.” + +“And now people say that the scabs are to be given a regimental escort +to the depot, and will go to work at eight.” + +“We’ve been quiet till now,” growled a man in the crowd surlily, “but +we won’t stand the militia protecting the scabs and rats.” + +“Are you going to fight for the capitalist?” ask Kurfeldt, when Colonel +Stirling stood silent. + +“I am fighting no man’s battle, Kurfeldt,” replied Colonel Stirling. “I +am obeying orders.” + +The committee began to look anxious. + +“You’re no friend of the poor man, and you needn’t pose any more,” +shouted one of the crowd. + +“Shut your mouth,” said Kurfeldt to the crowd. “Colonel Stirling,” he +continued, “we know you’re our friend. But you can’t stay so if you +fight labor. Take your choice. Be the rich man’s servant, or our +friend.” + +“I know neither rich man nor poor man in this,” Colonel Stirling said. +“I know only the law.” + +“You’ll let the scabs go on?” + +“I know no such class. If I find any man doing what the law allows him +to do, I shall not interfere. But I shall preserve order.” + +“Will you order your men to fire on us?” + +“If you break the laws.” + +“Do it at your peril,” cried Potter angrily. “For every shot your +regiment fires, you’ll lose a thousand votes on election day.” + +Colonel Stirling turned on him, his face blazing with scorn. “Votes,” +he cried. “Do you think I would weigh votes at such a time? There is no +sacrifice I would not make, rather than give the order that ends a +human life; and you think that paper ballots can influence my action? +Votes compared to men’s lives!” + +“Oh,” cried Doggett, “don’t come the heavy nobility racket on us. We +are here for business. Votes is votes, and you needn’t pretend you +don’t think so.” + +Colonel Stirling was silent for a moment. Then he said calmly: “I am +here to do my duty, not to win votes. There are not votes enough in +this country to make me do more or less.” + +“Hear him talk,” jeered one of the crowd, “and he touting round the +saloons to get votes.” + +The crowd jeered and hissed unpleasantly. + +“Come, Colonel,” said Kurfeldt, “we know you’re after votes this year, +and know too much to drive them away. You ain’t goin’ to lose fifty +thousand votes, helpin’ scabs to take the bread away from us, only to +see you and your party licked.” + +“No,” shouted a man in the crowd. “You don’t dare monkey with votes!” + +Colonel Stirling turned and faced the crowd. “Do you want to know how +much I care for votes,” he called, his head reared in the air. + +“Speak up loud, sonny,” shouted a man far back in the mass, “we all +want to hear.” + +Colonel Stirling’s voice rang quite clear enough, “Votes be damned!” he +said, and turning on his heel, strode back past the sentries. And the +strikers knew the fate of their attempt to keep out the scabs. Colonel +Stirling’s “damn” had damned the strike as well as the votes. + + +Dead silence fell on the committee and crowd. Even Company D. looked +astounded. Finally, however, one of the committee said, “There’s no +good wasting time here.” Then a reporter said to a confrère, “What a +stunning headline that will make?” Then the Captain of Company D. got +his mouth closed enough to exclaim, “Oi always thought he could swear +if he tried hard. Begobs, b’ys, it’s proud av him we should be this +day. Didn’t he swear strong an’ fine like? Howly hivens! it’s a delight +to hear damn said like that.” + +For some reason that “swear-word” pleased New York and the country +generally, showing that even an oath has its purpose in this world, so +long as it is properly used. Dean Swift said a lie “was too good to be +lavished about.” So it is of profanity. The crowd understood Peter’s +remark as they would have understood nothing else. They understood that +besides those rifles and bayonets there was something else not to be +trifled with. So in this case, it was not wasted. + +And Mr. Bohlmann, Christian though he was, as he read his paper that +evening cried, “Och! Dod Beder Stirling he always does say chust der +righd ding!” + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. +CUI BONO? + + +Of the further doings of that day it seems hardly necessary to write, +for the papers recorded it with a fulness impossible here. The +gathering crowds. The reinforcement of the militia. The clearing and +holding of Forty-second Street to the river. The arrival of the three +barge-loads of “scabs.” Their march through that street to the station +safely, though at every cross street greeted with a storm of stones and +other missiles. The struggle of the mob at the station to force back +the troops so as to get at the “rats.” The impact of the “thin line” +and that dense seething mass of enraged, crazed men. The yielding of +the troops from mere pressure. The order to the second rank to fix +bayonets. The pushing back of the crowd once more. The crack of a +revolver. Then the dozen shots fired almost simultaneously. The great +surge of the mob forward. The quick order, and the rattle of guns, as +they rose to the shoulder. Another order, and the sheet of flame. The +great surge of the mob backwards. Then silence. Silence in the ranks. +Silence in the mob. Silence in those who lay on the ground between the +two. + +Capital and Labor were disagreed as to a ten per cent reduction of +wages, and were trying to settle it. At first blush capital had the +best of it. “Only a few strikers and militia-men killed,” was the +apparent result of that struggle. The scabs were in safety inside the +station, and trains were already making up, preparatory to a resumption +of traffic. But capital did not go scot-free. “Firing in the streets of +New York,” was the word sent out all over the world, and on every +exchange in the country, stocks fell. Capital paid twenty-five million +dollars that day, for those few ounces of lead. Such a method of +settlement seems rather crude and costly, for the last decade of the +nineteenth century. + +Boys all over the city were quickly crying extras of the “Labor-party” +organ, the first column of which was headed: + +BUTCHER STIRLING + +THE NOMINEE OF THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY + +SHOOTS DOWN UNARMED MEN + +IN + +COLD BLOOD. + + +This was supplemented by inflammatory broadsides. Men stood up on +fences, lamp-posts, or barrels, wherever they could get an audience, +and shrieked out invectives against police, troops, government, and +property; and waved red flags. Orders went out to embody more +regiments. Timid people retired indoors, and bolted their shutters. The +streets became deserted, except where they were filled by groups of +angry men listening to angrier speakers. It was not a calm night in New +York. + +Yet in reality, the condition was less serious, for representatives of +Capital, Labor, and Government were in consultation. Inside the +station, in the Directors’ room of the railroad, its officials, a +committee of the strikers, and an officer in fatigue uniform, with a +face to match, were seated in great leather-covered chairs, around a +large table. When they had first gathered, there had been dark brows, +and every sentence had been like the blow of flint on steel. At one +moment all but the officer had risen from their seats, and the meeting +had seemed ended. But the officer had said something quietly, and once +more they had seated themselves. Far into the night they sat, while +mobs yelled, and sentries marched their beats. When the gathering +ended, the scowls were gone. Civil partings were exchanged, and the +committee and the officer passed out together. + +“That Stirling is a gritty bull-dog for holding on, isn’t he?” said one +of the railroad officials. “It’s a regular surrender for us.” + +“Yes, but we couldn’t afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may +be the next governor.” + +One of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the +street, “Well, we’ve given up everything to the road, to please you. I +hope you’ll remember it when you’re governor and we want things done.” + +“Gentlemen,” said Peter, “for every surrender of opinion you and the +railroad officials have made to-night, I thank you. But you should have +compromised twelve hours sooner.” + +“So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?” asked +Kurfeldt. “You needn’t be afraid. You’ve done your best for us. Now +we’ll do our best for you.” + +“I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead,” said Peter. + +Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all +was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger +waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave +face. + +But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a +compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier. + +Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of—of a +striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with +a pair of slate-colored eyes—when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He +was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak. + +“A despatch from headquarters,” said the man. + +Peter broke it open. It said: + +“Take possession of Printing-house Square, and await further orders.” +In ten minutes the regiment was tramping through the dark, silent +streets, on its way to the new position. + +“I think we deserve a rest,” growled the Lieutenant-Colonel to Peter. + +“We shan’t get it,” said Peter, “If there’s anything hard to be done, +we shall have it.” Then he smiled. “You’ll have to have an +understanding hereafter, before you make a man colonel, that he shan’t +run for office.” + +“What are we in for now?” + +“I can’t say. To-day’s the time of the parade and meeting in City Hall +Park.” + +It was sunrise when the regiment drew up in the square facing the Park. +It was a lovely morning, with no sign of trouble in sight, unless the +bulletin boards of the newspapers, which were chiefly devoted to the +doings about the Central Station, could be taken as such. Except for +this, the regiment was the only indication that the universal peace had +not come, and even this looked peaceful, as soon as it had settled down +to hot coffee, bread and raw ham. + +In the park, however, was a suggestive sight. For not merely were all +the benches filled with sleeping men, but the steps of the City Hall, +the grass, and even the hard asphalt pavement were besprinkled with a +dirty, ragged, hungry-looking lot of men, unlike those usually seen in +the streets of New York. When the regiment marched into the square, a +few of the stragglers rose from their recumbent attitudes, and looked +at it, without much love in their faces. As the regiment breakfasted, +more and more rose from their hard beds to their harder lives. They +moved about restlessly, as if waiting for something. Some gathered in +little groups and listened to men who talked and shrieked far louder +than was necessary in order that their listeners should hear. Some came +to the edge of the street and cursed and vituperated the breakfasting +regiment. Some sat on the ground and ate food which they produced from +their pockets or from paper bundles. It was not very tempting-looking +food. Yet there were men in the crowd who looked longingly at it, and a +few scuffles occurred in attempts to get some. That crowd represented +the slag and scum of the boiling pot of nineteenth-century conditions. +And as the flotsam on a river always centres at its eddies, so these +had drifted, from the country, and from the slums, to the centre of the +whirlpool of American life. Here they were waiting. Waiting for what? +The future only would show. But each moment is a future, till it +becomes the present. + +While the regiment still breakfasted it became conscious of a +monotonous sound, growing steadily in volume. Then came the tap of the +drum, and the regiment rose from a half-eaten meal, and lined up as if +on parade. Several of the members remarked crossly: “Why couldn’t they +wait ten minutes?” + +The next moment the head of another regiment swung from Chambers Street +into the square. It was greeted by hisses and groans from the denizens +of the park, but this lack of politeness was more than atoned for, by +the order: “Present arms,” passed down the immovable line awaiting it. +After a return salute the commanding officers advanced and once more +saluted. + +“In obedience to orders from headquarters, I have the honor to report +my regiment to you, Colonel Stirling, and await your orders,” said the +officer of the “visiting” regiment, evidently trying not to laugh. + +“Let your men break ranks, and breakfast, Major Rivington,” said Peter. +In two minutes dandy and mick were mingled, exchanging experiences, as +they sliced meat off the same ham-bones and emptied the same cracker +boxes. What was more, each was respecting and liking the other. One +touch of danger is almost as efficacious as one touch of nature. It is +not the differences in men which make ill-feeling or want of sympathy, +it is differences in conditions. + +In the mean time, Peter, Ray and Ogden had come together over their +grub, much as if it was a legal rather than an illegal trouble to be +dealt with. + +“Where were you?” asked Peter. + +“At the Sixty-third Street terminals,” said Ray. “We didn’t have any +fun at all. As quiet as a cow. You always were lucky! Excuse me, Peter, +I oughtn’t to have said it,” Ray continued, seeing Peter’s face. “It’s +this wretched American trick of joking at everything.” + +Ogden, to change the subject, asked: “Did you really say ‘damn’?” + +“Yes.” + +“But I thought you disapproved of cuss words.” + +“I do. But the crowd wouldn’t believe that I was honest in my intention +to protect the substitutes. They thought I was too much of a politician +to dare to do it. So I swore, thinking they would understand that as +they would not anything else. I hoped it might save actual firing. But +they became so enraged that they didn’t care if we did shoot.” + +Just then one of the crowd shrieked, “Down with the blood-suckers. On +to freedom. Freedom of life, of property, of food, of water, of air, of +land. Destroy the money power!” + +“If we ever get to the freedom he wants,” said Ray, “we’ll utilize that +chap for supplying free gas.” + +“Splendid raw material for free soap,” said Ogden. + +“He’s not the only one,” said Ray. “I haven’t had a wash in nine hours, +and salt meats are beginning to pall.” + +“There are plenty of fellows out there will eat it for you, Ray,” said +Peter, “and plenty more who have not washed in weeks.” + +“It’s their own fault.” + +“Yes. But if you burn or cut yourself, through ignorance, that doesn’t +make the pain any the less.” + +“They don’t look like a crowd which could give us trouble.” + +“They are just the kind who can. They are men lifted off their common +sense, and therefore capable of thinking they can do anything, just as +John Brown expected to conquer Virginia with forty men.” + +“But there’s no danger of their getting the upper hand.” + +“No. Yet I wish we had orders to clear the Park now, while there are +comparatively few here, or else to go back to our armories, and let +them have their meeting in peace. Our being here will only excite +them.” + +“Hear that,” said Ray, as the crowd gave a great roar as another +regiment came up Park Place, across the Park and spread out so as to +cover Broadway. + +As they sat, New Yorkers began to rise and begin business. But many +seemed to have none, and drifted into the Park. Some idlers came from +curiosity, but most seemed to have some purpose other than the mere +spectacle. From six till ten they silted in imperceptibly from twenty +streets. As fast as the crowd grew, regiments appeared, and taking up +positions, lay at ease. There was something terrible about the quiet +way in which both crowd and troops increased. The mercury was not high, +but it promised to be a hot morning in New York. All the car lines took +off their cars. Trucks disappeared from the streets. The exchanges and +the banks closed their doors, and many hundred shops followed their +example. New York almost came to a standstill as order and anarchy +faced each other. + +While these antagonistic forces still gathered, a man who had been +yelling to his own coterie of listeners in that dense crowd, extracted +himself, and limped towards Peter. + +“Mr. Stirling,” he shouted, “come out from those murderers. I want to +tell you something.” + +Peter went forward. “What is it, Podds?” he asked. + +Podds dropped his voice. “We’re out for blood to-day. But I don’t want +yours, if you do murder my fellow-men. Get away from here, quick. Hide +yourself before the people rise in their might.” + +Peter smiled sadly. “How are Mrs. Podds and the children?” he asked +kindly. + +“What is a family at such a moment?” shrieked Podds. + +“The world is my family. I love the whole world, and I’m going to +revolutionize it. I’m going to give every man his rights. The gutters +shall reek with blood, and every plutocrat’s castle shall be levelled +to the soil. But I’ll spare you, for though you are one of the classes, +it’s your ignorance, not your disposition, that makes you one. Get away +from here. Get away before it’s too late.” + +Just then the sound of a horse’s feet was heard, and a staff officer +came cantering from a side street into the square. He saluted Peter and +said, “Colonel Stirling, the governor has issued a proclamation +forbidding the meeting and parade. General Canfield orders you to clear +the Park, by pushing the mob towards Broadway. The regiments have been +drawn in so as to leave a free passage down the side streets.” + +“Don’t try to move us a foot,” screamed Podds, “or there’ll be blood. +We claim the right of free meeting and free speech.” + +Even as he spoke, the two regiments formed, stiffened, fixed bayonets, +and moved forward, as if they were machines rather than two thousand +men. + +“Brethren,” yelled Podds, “the foot of the tyrant is on us. Rise. Rise +in your might.” Then Podds turned to find the rigid line of bayonets +close upon him. He gave a spring, and grappled with Peter, throwing his +arms about Peter’s neck. Peter caught him by the throat with his free +arm. + +“Don’t push me off,” shrieked Podds in his ear, “it’s coming,” and he +clung with desperate energy to Peter. + +Peter gave a twist with his arm. He felt the tight clasp relax, and the +whole figure shudder. He braced his arm for a push, intending to send +Podds flying across the street. + +But suddenly there was a flash, as of lightning. Then a crash. Then the +earth shook, cobble-stones, railroad tracks, anarchists, and soldiers, +rose in the air, leaving a great chasm in crowd and street. Into that +chasm a moment later, stones, rails, anarchists, and soldiers fell, +leaving nothing but a thick cloud of overhanging dust. Underneath that +great dun pall lay soldier and anarchist, side by side, at last at +peace. The one died for his duty, the other died for his idea. The +world was none the better, but went on unchanged. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII +HAPPINESS + + +The evening on which Peter had left Grey-Court, Leonore had been moved +“for sundry reasons” to go to her piano and sing an English ballad +entitled “Happiness.” She had sung it several times, and with gusto. + +The next morning she read the political part of the papers. “I don’t +see anything to have taken him back,” she said “but I am really glad, +for he was getting hard to manage. I couldn’t send him away, but now I +hope he’ll stay there.” Then Leonore fluttered all day, in the true +Newport style, with no apparent thought of her “friend.” + +But something at a dinner that evening interested her. + +“I’m ashamed,” said the hostess, “of my shortage of men. Marlow was +summoned back to New York last night, by business, quite unexpectedly, +and Mr. Dupont telegraphed me this afternoon that he was detained +there.” + +“It’s curious,” said Dorothy. “Mr. Rivington and my brother came on +Tuesday expecting to stay for a week, but they had special delivery +letters yesterday, and both started for New York. They would not tell +me what it was.” + +“Mr. Stirling received a special delivery, too,” said Leonore, “and +started at once. And he wouldn’t tell.” + +“How extraordinary!” said the hostess. “There must be something very +good at the roof-gardens.” + +“It has something to do with headwears,” said Leonore, not hiding her +light under a bushel. + +“Headwear?” said a man. + +“Yes,” said Leonore. “I only had a glimpse of the heading, but I saw +‘Headwears N.G.S.N.Y.’” + +A sudden silence fell, no one laughing at the mistake. + +“What’s the matter?” asked Leonore. + +“We are wondering what will happen,” said the host, “if men go in for +headwear too.” + +“They do that already,” said a man, “but unlike women, they do it on +the inside, not the outside of the head.” + +But nobody laughed, and the dinner seemed to drag from that moment. + +Leonore and Dorothy had come together, and as soon as they were in +their carriage, Leonore said, “What a dull dinner it was?” + +“Oh, Leonore,” cried Dorothy, “don’t talk about dinners. I’ve kept up +till now, bu—” and Dorothy’s sentence melted into a sob. + +“Is it home, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the tiger, sublimely unconscious, +as a good servant should be, of this dialogue, and of his mistress’s +tears. + +“No, Portman, the Club,” sobbed Dorothy. + +“Dorothy,” begged Leonore, “what is it?” + +“Don’t you understand?” sobbed Dorothy. “All this fearful anarchist +talk and discontent? And my poor, poor darling! Oh, don’t talk to me.” +Dorothy became inarticulate once more. + +“How foolish married women are!” thought Leonore, even while putting +her arm around Dorothy, and trying blindly to comfort her. + +“Is it a message, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the man, opening the +carriage-door. + +“Ask for Mr. Melton, or Mr. Duer, and say Mrs. Rivington wishes to see +one of them.” Dorothy dried her eyes, and braced up. Before Leonore had +time to demand an explanation, Peter’s gentlemanly scoundrel was at the +door. + +“What is it, Mrs. Rivington?” he asked. + +“Mr. Duer, is there any bad news from New York?” + +“Yes. A great strike on the Central is on, and the troops have been +called in to keep order.” + +“Is that all the news?” asked Dorothy. + +“Yes.” + +“Thank you,” said Dorothy. “Home, Portman.” + +The two women were absolutely silent during the drive. But they kissed +each other in parting, not with the peck which women so often give each +other, but with a true kiss. And when Leonore, in crossing the porch, +encountered the mastiff which Peter had given her, she stopped and +kissed him too, very tenderly. What is more, she brought him inside, +which was against the rules, and put him down before the fire. Then she +told the footman to bring her the evening-papers, and sitting down on +the rug by Bêtise, proceeded to search them, not now for the political +outlook, but for the labor troubles. Leonore suddenly awoke to the fact +that there were such things as commercial depressions and unemployed. +She read it all with the utmost care. She read the outpourings of the +Anarchists, in a combination of indignation, amazement and fear, “I +never dreamed there could be such fearful wretches!” she said. There +was one man—a fellow named Podds—whom the paper reported as shrieking +in Union Square to a select audience: + + +“Rise! Wipe from the face of the earth the money power! Kill! Kill! +Only by blood atonement can we lead the way to better things. To a +universal brotherhood of love. Down with rich men! Down with their paid +hirelings, the troops! Blow them in pieces!” + + +“Oh!” cried Leonore shuddering. “It’s fearful. I wish some one would +blow you in pieces!” Thereby was she proving herself not unlike Podds. +All humanity have something of the Anarchist in them. Then Leonore +turned to the mastiff and told him some things. Of how bad the strikers +were, and how terrible were the Anarchists. “Yes, dear,” she said, “I +wish we had them here, and then you could treat them as they deserve, +wouldn’t you, Bêtise? I’m so glad he has my luck-piece!” + +A moment later her father and another man came into the hall from the +street, compelling Leonore to assume a more proper attitude. + +“Hello, Dot!” said Watts. “Still up? Vaughan and I are going to have a +game of billiards. Won’t you score for us?” + +“Yes,” said Leonore. + +“Bad news from New York, isn’t it?” said Vaughan, nonchalantly, as he +stood back after his first play. + +Leonore saw her father make a grimace at Vaughan, which Vaughan did not +see. She said, “What?” + +“I missed,” said Watts. “Your turn, Will.” + +“Tell me the news before you shoot?” said Leonore. + +“The collision of the strikers and the troops.” + +“Was any one hurt?” asked Leonore, calmly scoring two to her father’s +credit. + +“Yes. Eleven soldiers and twenty-two strikers.” + +“What regiment was it?” asked Leonore. + +“Colonel Stirling’s,” said Vaughan, making a brilliant _massé_. +“Fortunately it’s a Mick regiment, so we needn’t worry over who was +killed.” + +Leonore thought to herself: “You are as bad every bit as Podds!” Aloud +she said, “Did it say who were killed?” + +“No. The dispatch only said fourteen dead.” + +“That was a beautiful shot,” said Leonore. “You ought to run the game +out with that position. I think, papa, that I’ll go to bed. I find I’m +a little tired. Good-night, Mr. Vaughan.” Leonore went upstairs, +slowly, deep in thought. She did not ring for her maid. On the contrary +she lay down on her bed in her dinner-gown, to its everlasting +detriment. “I know he isn’t hurt,” she said, “because I should feel it. +But I wish the telegram had said.” She hardly believed herself, +apparently, for she buried her head in the pillow, and began to sob +quietly. “If I only had said good-bye,” she moaned. + +Early the next morning Watts found Leonore in the hall. + +“How pale my Dot is!” he exclaimed. + +“I didn’t sleep well,” said Leonore. + +“Aren’t you going to ride with me?” + +“No. I don’t feel like it this morning,” said Leonore. + +As Watts left the hall, a servant entered it. + +“I had to wait, Miss D’Alloi,” he said. “No papers are for sale till +eight o’clock.” + +Leonore took the newspaper silently and went to the library. Then she +opened it and looked at the first column. She read it hurriedly. + +“I knew he wasn’t hurt,” she said, “because I would have felt it, and +because he had my luck piece.” Then she stepped out of one of the +windows, called Bêtise to her, and putting her arms about his neck, +kissed him. + +When the New York papers came things were even better, for they +recorded the end of the strike. Leonore even laughed over that big, big +D. “I can’t imagine him getting so angry,” she said “He must have a +temper, after all.” She sang a little, as she fixed the flowers in the +vases, and one of the songs was “Happiness.” Nor did she snub a man who +hinted at afternoon tea, as she had a poor unfortunate who suggested +tennis earlier in the day. + +While they were sipping their tea, however, Watts came in from the +club. + +“Helen,” he said, going to the bay window farthest from the tea-table, +“come here I want to say something.” + +They whispered for a moment, and then Mrs. D’Alloi came back to her +tea. + +“Won’t you have a cup, papa?” asked Leonore. + +“‘Not to-day, dear,” said Watts, with an unusual tenderness in his +voice. + +Leonore was raising a spoon to her mouth, but suddenly her hand +trembled a little. After a glance at her father and mother, she pushed +her tea-cup into the centre of the table as if she had finished it, +though it had just been poured. Then she turned and began to talk and +laugh with the caller. + +But the moment the visitor was out of the room, Leonore said: + +“What is it, papa?” + +Watts was standing by the fire. He hesitated. Then he groaned. Then he +went to the door. “Ask your mother,” he said, and went out of the room. + +“Mamma?” said Leonore. + +“Don’t excite yourself, dear,” said her mother. “I’ll tell you +to-morrow.” + +Leonore was on her feet. “No,” she said huskily, “tell me now.” + +“Wait till we’ve had dinner.” + +“Mamma,” cried Leonore, appealingly, “don’t you see that—that—that I +suffer more by not knowing it? Tell me.” + +“Oh, Leonore,” cried her mother, “don’t look that way. I’ll tell you; +but don’t look that way!” + +“What?” + +Mrs. D’Alloi put her arms about Leonore. “The Anarchists have exploded +a bomb.” + +“Yes?” said Leonore. + +“And it killed a great many of the soldiers.” + +“Not—?” + +“Yes.” + +“Thank you, mamma,” said Leonore. She unclasped her mother’s arms, and +went towards the door. + +“Leonore,” cried her mother, “stay here with me, dear.” + +“I’d rather be alone,” said Leonore, quietly. She went upstairs to her +room and sank down by an ottoman which stood in the middle of the +floor. She sat silent and motionless, for over an hour, looking +straight before her at nothing, as Peter had so often done. Is it +harder to lose out of life the man or woman whom one loves, or to see +him or her happy in the love of another. Is the hopelessness of the +impossible less or greater than the hopelessness of the unattainable? + +Finally Leonore rose, and touched her bell. When her maid came she +said, “Get me my travelling dress.” Ten minutes later she came into the +library, saying to Watts. + +“Papa, I want you to take me to New York, by the first train.” + +“Are you crazy, my darling?” cried Watts. “With riots and Anarchists +all over the city.” + +“I must go to New York,” said Leonore. “If you won’t take me, I’ll go +with madame.” + +“Not for a moment—” began Watts. + +“Papa,” cried Leonore, “don’t you see it’s killing me? I can’t bear +it—” and Leonore stopped. + +“Yes, Watts, we must,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. + +Two hours later they were all three rolling towards New York. It was a +five hours’ ride, but Leonore sat the whole distance without speaking, +or showing any consciousness of her surroundings. For every turn of +those wheels seemed to fall into a rhythmic repetition of: “If I had +only said ‘good-bye.’” + +The train was late in arriving, and Watts tried to induce Leonore to go +to a hotel for the night. She only said “No. Take me to him,” but it +was in a voice which Watts could not disregard. So after a few +questions at the terminal, which produced no satisfactory information, +Watts told the cabman to drive to the City Hall Park. + +They did not reach it, however, for at the corner of Centre Street and +Chambers, there came a cry of “halt,” and the cab had to stop. + +“You can’t pass this line,” said the sentry. “You must go round by +Broadway.” + +“Why?” asked Watts. + +“The street is impassable.” + +Watts got out, and held a whispered dialogue with the sentry. This +resulted in the summoning of the officer of the watch. In the mean time +Leonore descended and joined them. Watts turned and said to her: “The +sentry says he’s here.” + +Presently an officer came up. + +“An’ what do the likes av yez want at this time av night?” he inquired +crossly. “Go away wid yez.” + +“Oh, Captain Moriarty,” said Leonore, “won’t you let me see him? I’m +Miss D’Alloi.” + +“Shure,” said Dennis, “yez oughtn’t to be afther disturbin’ him. It’s +two nights he’s had no sleep.” + +Leonore suddenly put her hand on Dennis’s arm. “He’s not killed?” she +whispered, as if she could not breathe, and the figure swayed a little. + +“Divil a bit! They got it wrong entirely. It was that dirty spalpeen av +a Podds.” + +“Are you sure?” said Leonore, pleadingly. “You are not deceiving me?” + +“Begobs,” said Dennis, “do yez think Oi could stand here wid a dry eye +if he was dead?” + +Leonore put her head on Dennis’s shoulder, and began to sob softly. For +a moment Dennis looked aghast at the results of his speech, but +suddenly his face changed. “Shure,” he whispered, “we all love him just +like that, an that’s why the Blessed Virgin saved him for us.” + +Then Leonore, with tears in her eyes, said, “I felt it,” in the most +joyful of voices. A voice that had a whole _Te Deum_ in it. + +“Won’t you let me see him?” she begged. “I won’t wake him, I promise +you.” + +“That yez shall,” said Dennis. “Will yez take my arm?” The four passed +within the lines. “Step careful,” he continued. “There’s pavin’ stones, +and rails, and plate-glass everywheres. It looks like there’d been a +primary itself.” + +All thought that was the best of jokes and laughed. They passed round a +great chasm in the street and sidewalk. Then they came to long rows of +bodies stretched on the grass, or rather what was left of the grass, in +the Park. Leonore shuddered. “Are they all dead?” she whispered. “Dead! +Shurely not. It’s the regiment sleepin’,” she was told. They passed +between these rows for a little distance. “This is him,” said Dennis, +“sleepin’ like a babby.” Dennis turned his back and began to describe +the explosion to Mrs. D’Alloi and Watts. + +There, half covered with a blanket, wrapped in a regulation great coat, +his head pillowed on a roll of newspapers, lay Peter. Leonore knelt +down on the ground beside him, regardless of the proprieties or the +damp. She listened to hear if he was breathing, and when she found that +he actually was, her face had on it a little thanksgiving proclamation +of its own. Then with the prettiest of motherly manners, she softly +pulled the blanket up and tucked it in about his arms. Then she looked +to see if there was not something else to do. But there was nothing. So +she made more. “The poor dear oughtn’t to sleep without something on +his head. He’ll take cold.” She took her handkerchief and tried to fix +it so that it should protect Peter’s head. She tried four different +ways, any one of which would have served; but each time she thought of +a better way, and had to try once more. She probably would have thought +of a fifth, if Peter had not suddenly opened his eyes. + +“Oh!” said Leonore, “what a shame? I’ve waked you up. And just as I had +fixed it right.” + +Peter studied the situation calmly, without moving a muscle. He looked +at the kneeling figure for some time. Then he looked up at the arc +light a little distance away. Then he looked at the City Hall clock. +Then his eyes came back to Leonore. “Peter,” he said finally, “this is +getting to be a monomania. You must stop it.” + +“What?” said Leonore, laughing at his manner as if it was intended as a +joke. + +Peter put out his hand and touched Leonore’s dress. Then he rose +quickly to his feet. “What is the matter?” he asked. + +“Hello,” cried Watts. “Have you come to? Well. Here we are, you see. +All the way from Newport to see you in fragments, only to be +disappointed. Shake!” + +Peter said nothing for a moment. But after he had shaken hands, he +said, “It’s very good of you to have thought of me.” + +“Oh,” explained Leonore promptly, “I’m always anxious about my friends. +Mamma will tell you I am.” + +Peter turned to Leonore, who had retired behind her mother. “Such +friends are worth having,” he said, with a strong emphasis on +“friends.” + +Then Leonore came out from behind her mother. “‘How nice he’s stupid,” +she thought. “He is Peter Simple, after all.” + +“Well,” said Watts, “your friends are nearly dying with hunger and want +of sleep, so the best thing we can do, since we needn’t hunt for you in +scraps, is to go to the nearest hotel. Where is that?” + +“You’ll have to go uptown,” said Peter. “Nothing down here is open at +this time.” + +“I’m not sleepy,” said Leonore, “but I am so hungry!” + +“Serves you right for eating no din—” Watts started to say, but Leonore +interjected, in an unusually loud voice. “Can’t you get us something?” + +“Nothing; that will do for you, I’m afraid,” said Peter. “I had Dennett +send up one of his coffee-boilers so that the men should have hot +coffee through the night, and there’s a sausage-roll man close to him +who’s doing a big business. But they’ll hardly serve your purpose.” + +“The very thing,” cried Watts. “What a lark!” + +“I can eat anything,” said Leonore. + +So they went over to the stands. Peter’s blanket was spread on the +sidewalk, and three Newport swells, and the Democratic nominee for +governor sat upon it, with their feet in the gutter, and drank +half-bean coffee and ate hot sausage rolls, made all the hotter by the +undue amount of mustard which the cook would put in. What is worse, +they enjoyed it as much as if it was the finest of dinners. Would not +society have been scandalized had it known of their doings? + +How true it is that happiness is in a mood rather than in a moment. How +eagerly we prepare for and pursue the fickle sprite, only to find our +preparations and chase giving nothing but dullness, fatigue, and ennui. +But then how often without exertion or warning, the sprite is upon us, +and tinges the whole atmosphere. So it was at this moment, with two of +the four. The coffee might have been all beans, and yet it would have +been better than the best served in Viennese cafés. The rolls might +have had even a more weepy amount of mustard, and yet the burning and +the tears would only have been the more of a joke. The sun came up, as +they ate, talked and laughed, touching everything about them with gold, +but it might have poured torrents, and the two would have been as +happy. + +For Leonore was singing to herself: “He isn’t dead. He isn’t dead.” + +And Peter was thinking: “She loves me. She must love me.” + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. +GIFTS. + + +After the rolls and coffee had been finished, Peter walked with his +friends to their cab. It had all been arranged that they were to go to +Peter’s quarters, and get some sleep. These were less than eight blocks +away, but the parting was very terrific! However, it had to be done, +and so it was gone through with. Hard as it was, Peter had presence of +mind enough to say, through the carriage window. + +“You had better take my room, Miss D’Alloi, for the spare room is the +largest. I give you the absolute freedom of it, minus the gold-box. Use +anything you find.” + +Then Peter went back to the chaotic street and the now breakfasting +regiment, feeling that strikes, anarchists, and dynamite were only +minor circumstances in life. + +About noon Leonore came back to life, and succeeded in making a very +bewitching toilet despite the absence of her maid. Whether she peeped +into any drawers or other places, is left to feminine readers to +decide. If she did, she certainly had ample authority from Peter. + +This done she went into the study, and, after sticking her nose into +some of the window flowers, she started to go to the bookshelves. As +she walked her foot struck something which rang with a metallic sound, +as it moved on the wood floor. The next moment, a man started out of a +deep chair. + +“Oh!” was all Leonore said. + +“I hope I didn’t startle you. You must have kicked my sword.” + +“I—I didn’t know you were here!” Leonore eyed the door leading to the +hall, as if she were planning for a sudden flight. + +“The regiment was relieved by another from Albany this morning. So I +came up here for a little sleep.” + +“What a shame that I should have kept you out of your room,” said +Leonore, still eyeing the door. From Leonore’s appearance, one would +have supposed that she had purloined something of value from his +quarters, and was meditating a sudden dash of escape with it. + +“I don’t look at it in that light,” said Peter. “But since you’ve +finished with the room for the moment, I’ll borrow the use temporarily. +Strikers and anarchists care so little for soap and water themselves, +that they show no consideration to other people for those articles.” +Peter passed through the doorway towards which Leonore had glanced. +Then Leonore’s anxious look left her, and she no longer looked at the +door. One would almost have inferred that Leonore was afraid of Peter, +but that is absurd, since they were such good friends, since Leonore +had come all the way from Newport to see him, and since Leonore had +decided that Peter must do as she pleased. + +Yet, curiously enough, when Peter returned in about twenty minutes, the +same look came into Leonore’s face. + +“We shall have something to eat in ten minutes,” Peter said, “for I +hear your father and mother moving.” + +Leonore looked towards the door. She did not intend that Peter should +see her do it, but he did. + +“Now what shall we do or talk about?” he said. “You know I am host and +mustn’t do anything my guests don’t wish.” + +Peter said this in the most matter-of-fact way, but Leonore, after a +look from under her eyelashes at him, stopped thinking about the door. +She went over to one of the window-seats. + +“Come and sit here by me,” she said, “and tell me everything about it.” + +So Peter described “the war, and what they fought each other for,” as +well as he was able, for, despite his intentions, his mind would wander +as those eyes looked into his. + +“I am glad that Podds was blown to pieces!” said Leonore. + +“Don’t say that.” + +“Why?” + +“Because it’s one of those cases of a man of really good intentions, +merely gone wrong. He was a horse-car driver, who got inflammatory +rheumatism by the exposure, and was discharged. He suffered fearful +pain, and saw his family suffer for bread. He grew bitter, and took up +with these wild theories, not having enough original brain force, or +education, to see their folly. He believed firmly in them. So firmly, +that when I tried to reason him out of them many years ago he came to +despise me and ordered me out of his rooms. I had once done him a +service, and felt angered at what I thought ungrateful conduct, so I +made no attempt to keep up the friendliness. He knew yesterday that +dynamite was in the hands of some of those men, and tried to warn me +away. When I refused to go, he threw himself upon me, to protect me +from the explosion. Nothing else saved my life.” + +“Peter, will your regiment have to do anything more?” + +“I don’t think so. The dynamite has caused a reaction, and has driven +off the soberer part of the mob. The pendulum, when it swings too far, +always swings correspondingly far the other way. I must stay here for a +couple of days, but then if I’m asked, I’ll go back to Newport.” + +“Papa and mamma want you, I’m sure,” said Leonore, glancing at the door +again, after an entire forgetfulness. + +“Then I shall go,” said Peter, though longing to say something else. + +Leonore looked at him and said in the frankest way; “And I want you +too.” That was the way she paid Peter for his forbearance. + +Then they all went up on the roof, where in one corner there were pots +of flowers about a little table, over which was spread an awning. Over +that table, too, Jenifer had spread himself. How good that breakfast +was! What a glorious September day it was! How beautiful the view of +the city and the bay was! It was all so thoroughly satisfactory, that +the three nearly missed the “limited.” Of course Peter went to the +station with them, and, short as was the time, he succeeded in +obtaining for one of the party, “all the comic papers,” “the latest +novel,” a small basket of fruit, and a bunch of flowers, not one of +which, with the exception of the latter, the real object of these +attentions wanted in the least. + +Just here it is of value to record an interesting scientific discovery +of Leonore’s, because women so rarely have made them. It was, that the +distance from New York to Newport is very much less than the distance +from Newport to New York. + +Curiously enough, two days later, his journey seemed to Peter the +longest railroad ride he had ever taken. “His friend” did not meet him +this time. His friend felt that her trip to New York must be offset +before she could resume her proper self-respect. “He was very nice,” +she had said, in monologue, “about putting the trip down to friendship. +And he was very nice that morning in his study. But I think his very +niceness is suspicious, and so I must be hard on him!” A woman’s +reasoning is apt to seem defective, yet sometimes it solves problems +not otherwise answerable. + +Leonore found her “hard” policy harder than she thought for. She told +Peter the first evening that she was going to a card-party. “I can’t +take you,” she said. + +“I shall be all the better for a long night’s sleep,” said Peter, +calmly. + +This was bad enough, but the next morning, as she was arranging the +flowers, she remarked to some one who stood and watched her, “Miss +Winthrop is engaged. How foolish of a girl in her first season! Before +she’s had any fun, to settle down to dull married life.” + +She had a rose in her hand, prepared to revive Peter with it, in case +her speech was too much for one dose, but when she glanced at him, he +was smiling happily. + +“What is it?” asked Leonore, disapprovingly. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Peter. “I wasn’t listening. Did you say Miss +Winthrop was married?” + +“What were you smiling over?” said Leonore, in the same voice. + +“I was thinking of—of—.” Then Peter hesitated and laughed. + +“Of what?” asked Leonore. + +“You really mustn’t ask me,” laughed Peter. + +“Of what were you thinking?” + +“Of eyelashes,” confessed Peter. + +“It’s terrible!” cogitated Leonore, “I can’t snub him any more, try as +I may.” + +In truth, Peter was not worrying any longer over what Leonore said or +did to him. He was merely enjoying her companionship. He was at once +absolutely happy, and absolutely miserable. Happy in his hope. +Miserable in its non-certainty. To make a paradox, he was confident +that she loved him, yet he was not sure. A man will be absolutely +confident that a certain horse will win a race, or he will be certain +that a profit will accrue from a given business transaction. Yet, until +the horse has won, or the profit is actually made, he is not assured. +So it was with Peter. He thought that he had but to speak, yet dared +not do it. The present was so certain, and the future might have such +agonies. So for two days he merely followed Leonore about, enjoying her +pretty ways and hardly heeding her snubs and petulance. He was very +silent, and often abstracted, but his silence and abstraction brought +no relief to Leonore, and only frightened her the more, for he hardly +let her out of his sight, and the silent devotion and tenderness were +so obvious that Leonore felt how absolutely absurd was her pretence of +unconsciousness. In his very “Miss D’Alloi” now, there was a tone in +his voice and a look in his face which really said the words: “My +darling.” Leonore thought this was a mean trick, of apparently +sustaining the conventions of society, while in reality outraging them +horribly, but she was helpless to better his conduct. Twice unwittingly +he even called her “Leonore” (as he had to himself for two months), +thereby terribly disconcerting the owner of that name. She wanted to +catch him up and snub him each time, but she was losing her courage. +She knew that she was walking on a mine, and could not tell what chance +word or deed of hers would bring an explosion. “And then what can I say +to him?” she asked. + +What she said was this: + +Peter came downstairs the third evening of his stay “armed and equipped +as the law directs” for a cotillion. In the large hallway, he found +Leonore, likewise in gala dress, resting her hand on the tall mantel of +the hall, and looking down at the fire. Peter stopped on the landing to +enjoy that pose. He went over every detail with deliberation. But girl, +gown, and things in general, were much too tempting to make this +distant glimpse over lengthy. So he descended to get a closer view. The +pose said nothing, and Peter strolled to the fire, and did likewise. +But if he did not speak he more than made up for his silence with his +eyes. + +Finally the pose said, “I suppose it’s time we started?” + +“Some one’s got to speak,” the pose had decided. Evidently the pose +felt uneasy under that silent gaze. + +“It’s only a little past ten,” said Peter, who was quite satisfied with +the _status quo_. + +Then silence came again. After this had held for a few moments, the +pose said: “Do say something!” + +“Something,” said Peter. “Anything else I can do for you?” + +“Unless you can be more entertaining, we might as well be sitting in +the Purdies’ dressing-rooms, as standing here. Suppose we go to the +library and sit with mamma and papa?” Clearly the pose felt nervous. + +Peter did not like this idea. So he said: “I’ll try to amuse you. Let +me tell you something very interesting to me. It’s my birthday +to-morrow.” + +“Oh!” said Leonore. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Then I would have +had a gift for you.” + +“That’s what I was afraid of.” + +“Don’t you want me to give you something?” + +“Yes.” Then Peter’s hands trembled, and he seemed to have hard work in +adding, “I want you to give me—a kiss.” + +“Peter!” said Leonore, drawing back grieved and indignant. “I didn’t +think you would speak to me so. Of all men!” + +“You mustn’t think,” said Peter, “that I meant to pain you.” + +“You have,” said Leonore, almost ready to cry. + +“Because,” said Peter, “that isn’t what I meant.” Peter obviously +struggled to find words to say what he did mean as he had never +struggled over the knottiest of legal points, or the hardest of +wrestling matches. “If I thought you were a girl who would kiss a man +for the asking, I should not care for a kiss from you.” Peter strayed +away from the fire uneasily. “But I know you are not.” Peter gazed +wildly round, as if the furnishings, of the hall might suggest the +words for which he was blindly groping. But they didn’t, and after one +or two half-begun sentences, he continued: “I haven’t watched you, and +dreamed about you, and loved you, for all this time, without learning +what you are.” Peter roamed about the great hall restlessly. “I know +that your lips will never give what your heart doesn’t.” Then his face +took a despairing look, and he continued quite rapidly: “I ask without +much hope. You are so lovely, while I—well I’m not a man women care +for. I’ve tried to please you. Tried to please you so hard, that I may +have deceived you. I probably am what women say of me. But if I’ve been +otherwise with you it is because you are different from any other woman +in the world.” Here the sudden flow of words ended, and Peter paced up +and down, trying to find what to say. If any one had seen Peter as he +paced, without his present environment, he would have thought him a man +meditating suicide. Suddenly his voice and face became less wild, and +he said tenderly: “There is no use in my telling you how I love you. +You know it now, or will never learn it from anything I can say.” Peter +strode back to the fire. “It is my love which asks for a kiss. And I +want it for the love you will give with it, if you can give it.” + +Leonore had apparently kept her eyes on the blazing logs during the +whole of this monologue. But she must have seen something of Peter’s +uneasy wanderings about the room, for she had said to herself: “Poor +dear! He must be fearfully in earnest, I never knew him so restless. He +prowls just like a wild animal.” + +A moment’s silence came after Peter’s return to the fire. Then he said: +“Will you give it to me, Miss D’Alloi?” But his voice in truth, made +the words, “Give me what I ask, my darling.” + +“Yes,” said Leonore softly. “On your birthday.” Then Leonore shrank +back a little, as if afraid that her gift would be sought sooner. No +young girl, however much she loves a man, is quite ready for that first +kiss. A man’s lips upon her own are too contrary to her instinct and +previous training to make them an unalloyed pleasure. The girl who is +over-ready for her lover’s first kiss, has tasted the forbidden fruit +already, or has waited over-long for it. + +Peter saw the little shrinking and understood it. What was more, he +heeded it as many men would not have done. Perhaps there was something +selfish in his self-denial, for the purity and girlishness which it +indicated were very dear to him, and he hated to lessen them by +anything he did. He stood quietly by her, and merely said, “I needn’t +tell you how happy I am!” + +Leonore looked up into Peter’s face. If Leonore had seen there any lack +of desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, she would never have +forgiven him. But since his face showed beyond doubt that he was +longing to do it, Leonore loved him all the better for his repression +of self, out of regard for her. She slipped her little hand into +Peter’s confidingly, and said, “So am I.” It means a good deal when a +girl does not wish to run away from her lover the moment after she has +confessed her love. + +So they stood for some time, Leonore looking down into the fire, and +Peter looking down at Leonore. + +Finally Peter said, “Will you do me a great favor?” + +“No,” said Leonore, “I’ve done enough for one night. But you can tell +me what it is.” + +“Will you look up at me?” + +“What for?” said Leonore, promptly looking up. + +“I want to see your eyes,” said Peter. + +“Why?” asked Leonore, promptly looking down again. + +“Well,” said Peter, “I’ve been dreaming all my life about some eyes, +and I want to see what my dream is like in reality.” + +“That’s a very funny request,” said Leonore perversely. “You ought to +have found out about them long ago. The idea of any one falling in +love, without knowing about the eyes!” + +“But you show your eyes so little,” said Peter. “I’ve never had a +thoroughly satisfying look at them.” + +“You look at them every time I look at you,” said Leonore. “Sometimes +it was very embarrassing. Just supposing that I showed them to you now, +and that you find they aren’t what you like?” + +“I never waste time discussing impossibilities,” said Peter. “Are you +going to let me see them?” + +“How long will it take?” + +“I can tell better after I’ve seen them,” said Peter, astutely. + +“I don’t think I have time this evening,” said Leonore, still +perversely, though smiling a look of contentment down into the fire. + +Peter said nothing for a moment, wishing to give Leonore’s conscience a +chance to begin to prick. Then be ended the silence by saying: “If I +had anything that would give you pleasure, I wouldn’t make you ask for +it twice.” + +“That’s—different,” said Leonore. “Still, I’ll—well, look at them,” and +Leonore lifted her eyes to Peter’s half laughingly and half timidly. + +Peter studied those eyes in silence—studied them till Leonore, who did +not find that steady look altogether easy to bear, and yet was not +willing to confess herself stared out of countenance, asked: “Do you +like them?” + +“Yes,” said Peter. + +“Is that all you can say? Other people have said very complimentary +things!” said Leonore, pretending to be grieved over the monosyllable, +yet in reality delighting in its expressiveness as Peter said it. + +“I think,” said Peter, “that before I can tell you what I think of your +eyes, we shall have to invent some new words.” + +Leonore looked down again into the fire, smiling a satisfied smile. +Peter looked down at that down-turned head, also with a satisfied +smile. Then there was another long silence. Incidentally it is to be +noted that Peter still held the hand given him some time before. To use +a poker term, Peter was standing “pat,” and wished no change. Once or +twice the little hand had hinted that it had been held long enough, but +Peter did not think so, and the hand had concluded that it was safest +to let well alone. If it was too cruel It might rouse the sleeping lion +which the owner of that hand knew to exist behind that firm, quiet +face. + +Presently Peter put his unoccupied hand in his breast-pocket, and +produced a small sachet. “I did something twice,” he said, “that I have +felt very meanly about at times. Perhaps you’ll forgive me now?” He +took from the sachet, a glove, and a small pocket-handkerchief, and +without a word showed them to Leonore. + +Leonore looked at them. “That’s the glove I lost at Mrs. Costell’s, +isn’t it?” she asked gravely. + +Peter nodded his head. + +“And is that the handkerchief which disappeared in your rooms, at your +second dinner?” + +Peter nodded his head. + +“And both times you helped me hunt for them?” + +Peter nodded his head. He at last knew how prisoners felt when he was +cross-examining them. + +“I knew you had them all the time,” said Leonore laughing. “It was +dreadfully funny to see you pretend to hunt, when the guilty look on +your own face was enough to show you had them. That’s why I was so +determined to find them.” + +Peter knew how prisoners felt when the jury says, “Not guilty.” + +“But how did the holes come in them?” said Leonore. “Do you have mice +in your room?” Leonore suddenly looked as worried as had Peter the +moment before. + +Peter put his hand in the sachet, and produced a bent coin. “Look at +that,” he said. + +“Why, it’s my luck-piece!” exclaimed Leonore. “And you’ve spoiled that +too. What a careless boy!” + +“No,” said Peter. “They are not spoiled to me. Do you know what cut +these holes and bent this coin?” + +“What?” + +“A bullet.” + +“Peter!” + +“Yes. Your luck-piece stopped it, or I shouldn’t be here.” + +“There,” said Leonore triumphantly, “I said you weren’t hurt, when the +news of the shooting came, because I knew you had it. I was so glad you +had taken it!” + +“I am going to give it back to you by and by,” said Peter. + +“I had rather that you should have it,” said Leonore. “I want you to +have my luck.” + +“I shall have it just the same even after I’ve given it to you,” said +Peter. + +“How?” + +“I’m going to have it made into a plain gold ring,” replied Peter, “and +when I give it to you, I shall have all your luck.” + +Then came a silence. + +Finally Peter said, “Will you please tell me what you meant by talking +about five years!” + +“Oh! Really, Peter,” Leonore hastened to explain, in an anxious way, as +if Peter had charged her with murder or some other heinous crime. “I +did think so. I didn’t find it out till—till that night. Really! Won’t +you believe me?” + +Peter smiled. He could have believed anything. + +“Now,” he said, “I know at last what Anarchists are for.” + +His ready acceptance of her statement made Leonore feel a slight prick +of conscience. She said: “Well—Peter—I mean—that is—at least, I did +sometimes think before then—that when I married, I’d marry you—but I +didn’t think it would come so soon. Did you? I thought we’d wait. It +would have been so much more sensible!” + +“I’ve waited a long time,” said Peter. + +“Poor dear!” said Leonore, putting her other hand over Peter’s, which +held hers. + +Peter enjoyed this exquisite pleasure in silence for a time, but the +enjoyment was too great not to be expressed So he said; + +“I like your hands almost as much as your eyes.” + +“That’s very nice,” said Leonore. + +“And I like the way you say ‘dear,’” said Peter. “Don’t you want to say +it again?” + +“No, I hate people who say the same thing twice.” + +Then there was a long pause. + +“What poor things words are?” said Peter, at the end of it. + +“I know just what you mean,” said Leonore. + +Clearly they both meant what they said, for there came another absence +of words. How long the absence would have continued is a debatable +point. Much too soon a door opened. + +“Hello!” said a voice. “Back already? What kind of an evening had you?” + +“A very pleasant one,” said Peter, calmly, yet expressively. + +“Let go my hand, Peter, please,” a voice whispered imploringly. “Oh, +please! I can’t to-night. Oh, please!” + +“Say ‘dear,’” whispered Peter, meanly. + +“Please, dear,” said Leonore. Then Leonore went towards the stairs +hurriedly. + +“Not off already, Dot, surely?” + +“Yes. I’m going to bed.” + +“Come and have a cigar, Peter,” said Watts, walking towards the +library. + +“In a moment,” said Peter. He went to the foot of the stairs and said, +“Please, dear,” to the figure going up. + +“Well?” said the figure. + +Peter went up five steps. “Please,” he begged. + +“No,” said the figure, “but there is my hand.” + +So Peter turned the little soft palm uppermost and kissed it Then he +forgot the cigar and Watts. He went to his room, and thought of—of his +birthday gift. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. +“GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY.” + + +If Peter had roamed about the hall that evening, he was still more +restless the next morning. He was down early, though for no apparent +reason, and did nothing but pass from hall to room, and room to hall, +spending most of his time in the latter, however. + +How Leonore could have got from her room into the garden without +Peter’s seeing her was a question which puzzled him not a little, when, +by a chance glance out of a window, he saw that personage clipping +roses off the bushes. He did not have time to spare, however, to reason +out an explanation. He merely stopped roaming, and went out to—to the +roses. + +“Good-morning,” said Leonore pleasantly, though not looking at Peter, +as she continued her clipping. + +Peter did not say anything for a moment. Then he asked, “Is that all?” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Leonore, innocently. “Besides, +someone might be looking out of a window.” + +Peter calmly took hold of the basket to help Leonore sustain its +enormous weight. “Let me help you carry it,” he said. + +“Very well,” said Leonore. “But there’s no occasion to carry my hand +too. I’m not decrepit.” + +“I hoped I was helping you,” said Peter. + +“You are not. But you may carry the basket, since you want to hold +something.” + +“Very well,” said Peter meekly. + +“Do you know,” said Leonore, as she snipped, and dropped roses into the +basket, “you are not as obstinate as people say you are.” + +“Don’t deceive yourself on that score,” said Peter. + +“Well! I mean you are not absolutely determined to have your own way.” + +“I never give up my own views,” said Peter, “unless I can see more to +be gained by so doing. To that extent I am not at all obstinate.” + +“Suppose,” said Leonore, “that you go and cut the roses on those +furthest bushes while I go in and arrange these?” + +“Suppose,” said Peter calmly, and with an evident lack of enthusiasm. + +“Well. Will you?” + +“No.” + +“Why not?” + +“The motion to adjourn,” said Peter, “is never debatable.” + +“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that you are beginning very badly?” + +“That is what I have thought ever since I joined you.” + +“Then why don’t you go away?” + +“Why make bad, worse?” + +“There,” said Leonore, “Your talking has made me cut my finger, +almost.” + +“Let me see,” said Peter, reaching out for her hand. + +“I’m too busy,” said Leonore. + +“Do you know,” said Peter, “that if you cut many more buds, you won’t +have any more roses for a week. You’ve cut twice as many roses as you +usually do.” + +“Then I’ll go in and arrange them. I wish you would give Bêtise a run +across the lawn.” + +“I never run before breakfast,” said Peter. “Doctors say it’s very +bad.” + +So he followed her in. Leonore became tremendously occupied in +arranging the flowers, Peter became tremendously occupied in watching +her. + +“You want to save one of those for me,” he said, presently. + +“Take one,” said Leonore. + +“My legal rule has been that I never take what I can get given me. You +can’t do less than pin it in my button-hole, considering that it is my +birthday.” + +“If I have a duty to do, I always get through with it at once,” said +Leonore. She picked out a rose, arranged the leaves as only womankind +can, and, turning to Peter, pinned it in his button-hole. But when she +went to take her hands away, she found them held against the spot so +firmly that she could feel the heart-beats underneath. + +“Oh, please,” was all she said, appealingly, while Peter’s rose seemed +to reflect some of its color on her cheeks. + +“I don’t want you to give it to me if you don’t wish,” said Peter, +simply. “But last night I sat up late thinking about it. All night I +dreamed about it. When I waked up this morning, I was thinking about +it. And I’ve thought about it ever since. I can wait, but I’ve waited +so long!” + +Then Leonore, with very red cheeks, and a very timid manner, held her +lips up to Peter. + +“Still,” Leonore said presently, when again arranging of the roses, +“since you’ve waited so long, you needn’t have been so slow about it +when you did get it.” + +“I’m sorry I did it so badly,” said Peter, contritely. “I always was +slow! Let me try again?” + +“No.” + +“Then show me how?” + +“No.” + +“Now who’s obstinate?” inquired Peter. + +“You,” said Leonore, promptly. “And I don’t like it.” + +“Oh, Leonore,” said Peter. “If you only knew how happy I am!” + +Leonore forgot all about her charge of obstinacy. “So am I,” she said. +“And I won’t be obstinate any more.” + +“Was that better?” Peter asked, presently. + +“No,” said Leonore. “That wouldn’t have been possible. But you do take +so long! I shan’t be able to give you more than one a day. It takes so +much time.” + +“But then I shall have to be much slower about it.” + +“Then I’ll only give you one every other day.” + +“Then I shall be so much the longer.” + +“Yes,” sighed Leonore. “You are obstinate, after all!” + +So they went on till breakfast was announced. Perhaps it was foolish. +But they were happy in their foolishness, if such it was. It is not +profitable to write what they said. It is idle to write of the week +that followed. To all others what they said and did could only be the +sayings and doings of two very intolerable people. But to them it was +what can never be told in words—and to them we will leave it. + +It was Leonore who put an end to this week. Each day that Peter +lingered brought letter and telegraphic appeals to him from the +party-leaders, over which Peter only laughed, and which he not +infrequently failed even to answer. But Mr. Pell told Leonore something +one day which made her say to Peter later: + +“Is it true that you promised to speak in New York on the fifteenth?” + +“Yes. But I wrote Green last night saying I shan’t.” + +“And were you to have made a week of speeches through the State?” + +“Yes. But I can’t spare the time.” + +“Yes, you can. You must leave to-morrow and make them.” + +“I can’t,” groaned Peter. + +“You must.” + +“Who says so?” + +“I do. Please, Peter? I so want to see you win. I shall never forgive +myself if I defeat you.” + +“But a whole week,” groaned Peter. + +“We shall break up here on the eighteenth, and of course you would have +to leave a day sooner. So you’ll not be any better off.” + +“Well,” sighed Peter, “If I do as you want, will you give me the seven +I shall lose before I go.” + +“Dear me, Peter,” sighed Leonore, “you oughtn’t to ask them, since it’s +for your own sake. I can’t keep you contented. You do nothing but +encroach.” + +“I should get them if I was here,” said Peter, “And one a day is little +enough! I think, if I oblige you by going away, I shouldn’t be made to +suffer more than is necessary.” + +“I’m going to call you Growley,” said Leonore, patting him on the +cheek. Then she put her own against it. “Thank you, dear,” she said. +“It’s just as hard for me.” + +So Peter buckled on his armor and descended into the arena. Whether he +spoke well or ill, we leave it to those to say who care to turn back to +the files of the papers of that campaign. Perhaps, however, it may be +well to add that an entirely unbiassed person, after reading his +opening speeches, delivered in the Cooper Union and the Metropolitan +Opera House, in New York City, wrote him: “It is libel to call you +Taciturnity. They are splendid! How I wish I could hear you—and see +you, dear. I’m very lonely, and so are Bêtise and Tawney-eye. We do +nothing but wander round the house all day, waiting for your letter, +and the papers.” Three thousand people in the Brooklyn Rink were kept +waiting for nearly ten minutes by Peter’s perusal of that letter. But +when he had finished it, and had reached the Rink, he out-Stirlinged +Stirling. A speaker nowadays speaks far more to the people absent than +to the people present. Peter did this that evening. He spoke, it is +true, to only one person that night, but it was the best speech of the +campaign. + +A week later, Peter rang the bell of the Fifty-seventh Street house. He +was in riding costume, although he had not been riding. + +“Mr. and Mrs. D’Alloi are at breakfast,” he was informed. + +Peter rather hurriedly laid his hat and crop on the hall-table, and +went through the hall, but his hurry suddenly came to an end, when a +young lady, carrying her napkin, added herself to the vista. “I knew it +must be you,” she said, offering her hand very properly—(on what +grounds Leonore surmised that a ring at the door-bell at nine o’clock +meant Peter, history does not state)—“I wondered if you knew enough to +come to breakfast. Mamma sent me out to say that you are to come right +in.” + +Peter was rather longer over the handshake than convention demands, but +he asked very politely, “How are your father and—?” But just then the +footman closed a door behind him, and Peter’s interest in parents +suddenly ceased. + +“How could you be so late?” said some one presently. “I watched out of +the window for nearly an hour.” + +“My train was late. The time-table on that road is simply a satire!” +said Peter. Yet it is the best managed road in the country, and this +particular train was only seven minutes overdue. + +“You have been to ride, though,” said Leonore. + +“No. I have an engagement to ride with a disagreeable girl after +breakfast, so I dressed for it.” + +“Suppose the disagreeable girl should break her engagement—or declare +there never was one?” + +“She won’t,” said Peter. “It may not have been put in the contract, but +the common law settles it beyond question.” + +Leonore laughed a happy laugh. Then she asked: “For whom are those +violets?” + +“I had to go to four places before I could get any at this season,” +said Peter. “Ugly girls are just troublesome enough to have +preferences. What will you give me for them?” + +“Some of them,” said Leonore, and obtained the bunch. Who dares to say +after that that women have no business ability nor shrewdness? It is +true that she kissed the fraction returned before putting it in Peter’s +button-hole, which raises the question which had the best of the +bargain. + +“I’m behind the curtain, so I can’t see anything,” said a voice from a +doorway, “and therefore you needn’t jump; but I wish to inquire if you +two want any breakfast?” + +A few days later Peter again went up the steps of the Fifty-seventh +Street house. This practice was becoming habitual with Peter; in fact, +so habitual that his cabby had said to him this very day, “The old +place, sir?” Where Peter got the time it is difficult to understand, +considering that his law practice was said to be large, and his +political occupations just at present not small. But that is +immaterial. The simple fact that Peter went up the steps is the +essential truth. + +From the steps, he passed into a door; from the door he passed into a +hall; from a hall he passed into a room; from a room he passed into a +pair of arms. + +“Thank the Lord, you’ve come,” Watts remarked. “Leonore has up and down +refused to make the tea till you arrived.” + +“I was at headquarters, and they would talk, talk, talk,” said Peter. +“I get out of patience with them. One would think the destinies of the +human race depended on this campaign!” + +“So the Growley should have his tea,” said a vision, now seated on the +lounge at the tea-table. “Then Growley will feel better.” + +“I’m doing that already,” said Growley, sitting down on the +delightfully short lounge—now such a fashionable and deservedly popular +drawing-room article. “May I tell you how you can make me absolutely +contented?” + +“I suppose that will mean some favor from me,” said Leonore. “I don’t +like children who want to be bribed out of their bad temper. Nice +little boys are never bad-tempered.” + +“I was only bad-tempered,” whispered Peter, “because I was kept from +being with you. That’s cause enough to make the best-tempered man in +the universe murderous.” + +“Well?” said Leonore, mollifying, “what is it this time?” + +“I want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. +I’ve received warning that I’m to be serenaded about nine o’clock, and +I thought you would like to hear it.” + +“What fun,” cried Leonore. “Of course we’ll go. Shall you speak?” + +“No. We’ll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen.” + +“How many will there be?” + +“It depends on the paper you read. The ‘World’ will probably say ten +thousand, the ‘Tribune’ three thousand, and the ‘Voice of Labor’ ‘a +handful.’ Oh! by the way, I brought you a ‘Voice’.” He handed Leonore a +paper, which he took from his pocket. + +Now this was simply shameful of him! Peter had found, whenever the +papers really abused him, that Leonore was doubly tender to him, the +more, if he pretended that the attacks and abuse pained him. So he +brought her regularly now that organ of the Labor party which was most +vituperative of him, and looked sad over it just as long as was +possible, considering that Leonore was trying to comfort him. + +“Oh, dear!” said Leonore. “That dreadful paper. I can’t bear to read +it. Is it very bad to-day?” + +“I haven’t read it,” said Peter, smiling. “I never read—” then Peter +coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued—“the parts that do not +speak of me.” “That isn’t a lie,” he told himself, “I don’t read them.” +But he felt guilty. Clearly Peter was losing his old-time +straightforwardness. + +“After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling +those suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in +politics, I don’t believe they can say anything worse,” said Leonore, +putting two lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. Then +she stirred the tea, and tasted it. Then she touched the edge of the +cup with her lips. “Is that right?” she asked, as she passed it to +Peter. + +“Absolutely,” said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. But then he +remembered that this wasn’t his rôle, so he looked sad and said: “That +hurt me, I confess. It is so unkind.” + +“Poor dear,” whispered a voice. “You shall have an extra one to-day, +and you shall take just as long as you want!” + +Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American +newspaper, with that prospect in view? It is true that “one” is a very +indefinite thing. Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea. +Whatever she meant, Peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his +tea when the girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry. She rose, and as +she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash. + +“Leonore!” cried Peter. “What—” + +“Peter!” cried Leonore. “Say it isn’t so?” It was terrible to see the +suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice. + +“My darling,” cried the mother, “what is the matter?” + +“It can’t be,” cried Leonore. “Mamma! Papa! Say it isn’t so?” + +“What, my darling?” said Peter, supporting the swaying figure. + +“This,” said Leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper. + +Mrs. D’Alloi snatched it. One glance she gave it. “Oh, my poor +darling!” she cried. “I ought not to have allowed it. Peter! Peter! Was +not the stain great enough, but you must make my poor child suffer for +it?” She shoved Peter away, and clasped Leonore wildly in her arms. + +“Mamma!” cried Leonore. “Don’t talk so! Don’t! I know he didn’t! He +couldn’t!” + +Peter caught up the paper. There in big head-lines was: + +SPEAK UP, STIRLING! + + + +WHO IS THIS BOY? + + +DETECTIVE PELTER FINDS A WARD UNKNOWN TO THE COURTS, AND EXPLANATIONS +ARE IN ORDER FROM + + +PURITY STIRLING. + + +The rest of the article it is needless to quote. What it said was so +worded as to convey everything vile by innuendo and inference, yet in +truth saying nothing. + +“Oh, my darling!” continued Mrs. D’Alloi. “You have a right to kill me +for letting him come here after he had confessed it to me. But I—Oh, +don’t tremble so. Oh, Watts! We have killed her.” + +Peter held the paper for a moment. Then he handed it to Watts. He only +said “Watts?” but it was a cry for help and mercy as terrible as +Leonore’s had been the moment before. + +“Of course, chum,” cried Watts. “Leonore, dear, it’s all right. You +mustn’t mind. Peter’s a good man. Better than most of us. You mustn’t +mind.” + +“Don’t,” cried Leonore. “Let me speak. Mamma, did Peter tell you it was +so?” + +All were silent. + +“Mamma! Say something? Papa! Peter! Will nobody speak?” + +“Leonore,” said Peter, “do not doubt me. Trust me and I will—” + +“Tell me,” cried Leonore interrupting, “was this why you didn’t come to +see us? Oh! I see it all! This is what mamma knew. This is what pained +you. And I thought it was your love for—!” Leonore screamed. + +“My darling,” cried Peter wildly, “don’t look so. Don’t speak—” + +“Don’t touch me,” cried Leonore. “Don’t. Only go away.” Leonore threw +herself upon the rug weeping. It was fearful the way those sobs shook +her. + +“It can’t be,” said Peter. “Watts! She is killing herself.” + +But Watts had disappeared from the room. + +“Only go away,” cried Leonore. “That’s all you can do now. There’s +nothing to be done.” + +Peter leaned over and picked up the prostrate figure, and laid it +tenderly on the sofa. Then he kissed the edge of her skirt. “Yes. +That’s all I can do,” he said quietly. “Good-bye, sweetheart. I’ll go +away.” He looked about as if bewildered, then passed from the room to +the hall, from the hall to the door, from the door to the steps. He +went down them, staggering a little as if dizzy, and tried to walk +towards the Avenue. Presently he ran into something. “Clumsy,” said a +lady’s voice. “I beg your pardon,” said Peter mechanically. A moment +later he ran into something again. “I beg your pardon,” said Peter, and +two well-dressed girls laughed to see a bareheaded man apologize to a +lamp-post. He walked on once more, but had not gone ten paces when a +hand was rested on his shoulder. + +“Now then, my beauty,” said a voice. “You want to get a cab, or I shall +have to run you in. Where do you want to go?” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Peter. + +“Come,” said the policeman shaking him, “where do you belong? My God! +It’s Mr. Stirling. Why, sir. What’s the matter?” + +“I think I’ve killed her,” said Peter. + +“He’s awfully screwed,” ejaculated the policeman. “And him of all men! +Nobody shall know.” He hailed a passing cab, and put Peter into it. +Then he gave Peter’s office address, and also got in. He was fined the +next day for being off his beat “without adequate reasons,” but he +never told where he had been. When they reached the building, he helped +Peter into the elevator. From there he helped him to his door. He rang +the bell, but no answer came. It was past office-hours, and Jenifer +having been told that Peter would dine up-town, had departed on his own +leave of absence. The policeman had already gone through Peter’s +pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, +taking possession of Peter’s keys. He opened the door and, putting him +into a deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter’s +desk, writing on a scrap of paper with much difficulty: “mr. stirling +$2.50 I took to pay the carriage. John Motty policeman 22 precinct,” he +laid it beside the keys and purse. Then he went back to his beat. + +And what was Peter doing all this time? Just what he now did. He tried +to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in +it. Presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept +stumbling over the desk and chairs. As he stumbled he thought, +sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud: “If I could only think! I can’t +see. What was it Dr. Pilcere said about her eyes? Or was it my eyes? +Did he give me some medicine? I can’t remember. And it wouldn’t help +her. Why can’t I think? What is this pain in her head and eyes? Why +does everything look so dark, except when those pains go through her +head? They feel like flashes of lightning, and then I can see. Why +can’t I think? Her eyes get in the way. He gave me something to put on +them. But I can’t give it to her. She told me to go away. To stop this +agony! How she suffers. It’s getting worse every moment. I can’t +remember about the medicine. There it comes again. Now I know. It’s not +lightning. It’s the petroleum! Be quick, boys. Can’t you hear my +darling scream? It’s terrible. If I could only think. What was it the +French doctor said to do, if it came back? No. We want to get some +rails.” Peter dashed himself against a window. “Once more, men, +together. Can’t you hear her scream? Break down the door!” Peter caught +up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass shattered +and fell to the floor and street “If I could see. But it’s all dark. +Are those lights? No. It’s too late. I can’t save her from it.” + +So he wandered physically and mentally. Wandered till sounds of martial +music came up through the broken window. “Fall in,” cried Peter. “The +Anarchists are after her. It’s dynamite, not lightning. Podds, Don’t +let them hurt her. Save her. Oh! save her I Why can’t I get to her? +Don’t try to hold me,” he cried, as he came in contact with a chair. He +caught it up and hurled it across the room, so that it crashed into the +picture-frames, smashing chair and frames into fragments. “I can’t be +the one to throw it,” he cried, in an agonized voice. “She’s all I +have. For years I’ve been so lonely. Don’t I can’t throw it. It kills +me to see her suffer. It wouldn’t be so horrible if I hadn’t done it +myself. If I didn’t love her so. But to blow her up myself. I can’t. +Men, will you stand by me, and help me to save her?” + +The band of music stopped. A moment’s silence fell and then up from the +street, came the air of: “Marching through Georgia,” five thousand +voices singing: + +“Rally round our party, boys; +Rally to the blue, +And battle for our candidate, +So sterling and so true, +Fight for honest government, boys, +And down the vicious crew; +Voting for freedom and Stirling. + +“Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, brave and strong. +Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, never wrong. +And roll the voters up in line, +Two hundred thousand strong; +Voting for freedom and Stirling.” + + +“I can’t fight so many. Two hundred thousand! I have no sword. I didn’t +shoot them. No! I only gave the order. It hurt me, but I didn’t mean to +hurt her. She’s all I have. Do you think I intended to kill her? No! No +sacrifice would be too great. And you can talk to me of votes! Two +hundred thousand votes! I did my best for her. I didn’t mean to hurt +her. And I went to see the families. I went to see them all. If I only +could think. But she is suffering too much. I can’t think as long as +she lies on the rug, and trembles so. See the flashes of lightning pass +through her head. Don’t bury your face in the rug. No wonder it’s all +dark. Try to think, and then it will be all right.” + +Up from the street came the air of: “There were three crows,” and the +words: + +“Steven Maguire has schemed to be elected November fourth, +Steven Maguire has schemed to be elected November fourth. +Steven Maguire has schemed and schemed, + But all his schemes will end in froth! +And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah. +And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah. + +“For Peter Stirling elected will be upon November fourth, +For Peter Stirling elected will be upon November fourth, +For Peter Stirling elected will be + And Steven Maguire will be in broth, +And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah, +And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah.” + + +“It’s Steven Maguire. He never could be honest. If I had him here!” +Peter came in contact with a chair. “Who’s that? Ah! It’s you. You’ve +killed her. Now!” And another chair went flying across the room with +such force, that the door to the hall flew off its hinges, and fell +with a crash. “I’ve killed him” screamed Peter. “I’ve—No, I’ve killed +my darling. All I have in the world!” + +And so he raved, and roamed, and stumbled, and fell; and rose, and +roamed, and raved, and stumbled, and fell, while the great torchlight +procession sang and cheered him from below. + +He was wildly fighting his pain still when two persons, who, after +ringing and ringing, had finally been let in by Jenifer’s key, stood +where the door had been. + +“My God,” cried one, in terror. “He’s crazy! Come away!” + +But the other, without a word or sign of fear, went up to that +wild-looking figure, and put her hand in his. + +Peter stopped his crazed stride. + +“I can’t think, I tell you. I can’t think as long as you lie there on +the rug. And your eyes blaze so. They feel just like balls of fire.” + +“Please sit down, Peter. Please? For my sake. Here. Here is the chair. +Please sit down.” + +Peter sank back in the chair. “I tell you I can’t think. They do +nothing but burn. It’s the petroleum!” He started forward, but a +slender arm arrested his attempt to rise, and he sank back again as if +it had some power over him. + +“Hyah, miss. Foh de lub ub heaben, put some ub dis yar on he eyes,” +said Jenifer, who had appeared with a bottle, and was blubbering enough +to supply a whole whaling fleet. “De doctor he done give dis yar foh de +Aspic nerve.” Which is a dish that Jenifer must have invented himself, +for it is not discoverable even on the fullest of menus. + +Leonore knelt in front of Peter, and, drenching her fingers with the +wash, began rubbing it softly over his eyes. It has always been a +problem whether it was the remedy or the ends of those fingers which +took those lines of suffering out of Peter’s face and made him sit +quietly in that chain Those having little faith in medicines, and much +faith in a woman’s hands, will opine the latter. Doctors will not. + +Sufficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which +Peter’s face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to +one which denoted eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he +finally put out his hands and took Leonore’s. + +“You have come to me,” he said, “Has he told you?” + +“Who? What?” asked Leonore. + +“You still think I could?” cried Peter. “Then why are you here?” He +opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, only Leonore was kneeling +in front of the chair still. + +“Don’t excite yourself, Peter,” begged Leonore. “We’ll not talk of that +now. Not till you are better.” + +“What are you here for?” cried Peter. “Why did you come—?” + +“Oh, please, Peter, be quiet.” + +“Tell me, I will have it.” Peter was exciting himself, more from +Leonore’s look than by what she said. + +“Oh, Peter. I made papa bring me—because—Oh! I wanted to ask you to do +something. For my sake!” + +“What is it?” + +“I wanted to ask you,” sobbed Leonore, “to marry her. Then I shall +always think you were what I—I—have been loving, and not—” Leonore laid +her head down on his knee, and sobbed bitterly. + +Peter raised Leonore in his arms, and laid the little head on his +shoulder. + +“Dear one,” he said, “do you love me?” + +“Yes,” sobbed Leonore. + +“And do you think I love you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Now look into your heart. Could you tell me a lie?” + +“No.” + +“Nor can I you. I am not the father of that boy, and I never wronged +his mother.” + +“But you told—” sobbed Leonore. + +“I lied to your mother, dear.” + +“For what?” Leonore had lifted her head, and there was a look of hope +in her eyes, as well as of doubt. + +“Because it was better at that time than the truth. But Watts will tell +you that I lied.” + +“Papa?” + +“Yes, Dot. Dear old Peter speaks the truth.” + +“But if you lied to her, why not to me?” + +“I can’t lie to you, Leonore. I am telling you the truth. Won’t you +believe me?” + +“I do,” cried Leonore. “I know you speak the truth. It’s in your face +and voice.” And the next moment her arms were about Peter’s neck, and +her lips were on his. + +Just then some one in the “torchlight” shouted: + +“What’s the matter wid Stirling?” + +And a thousand voices joyfully yelled; + +“He’s all right.” + +And so was the crowd. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. +A CONUNDRUM. + + +Mr. Pierce was preparing to talk. Usually Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr. +Pierce had been talking already, but it had been to single listeners +only, and for quite a time in the last three hours Mr. Pierce had been +compelled to be silent. But at last Mr. Pierce believed his moment had +come. Mr. Pierce thought he had an audience, and a plastic audience at +that. And these three circumstances in combination made Mr. Pierce +fairly bubbling with words. No longer would he have to waste his +precious wit and wisdom, _tête-à-tête,_ or on himself. + +At first blush Mr. Pierce seemed right in his conjecture. Seated—in +truth, collapsed, on chairs and lounges, in a disarranged and +untidy-looking drawing-room, were nearly twenty very tired-looking +people. The room looked as if there had just been a free fight there, +and the people looked as if they had been the participants. But the +multitude of flowers and the gay dresses proved beyond question that +something else had made the disorder of the room and had put that +exhausted look upon the faces. + +Experienced observers would have understood it at a glimpse. From the +work and fatigues of this world, people had gathered for a little +enjoyment of what we call society. It is true that both the room and +its occupants did not indicate that there had been much recreation. +But, then, one can lay it down as an axiom that the people who work for +pleasure are the hardest-working people in the world; and, as it is +that for which society labors, this scene is but another proof that +they get very much fatigued over their pursuit of happiness and +enjoyment, considering that they hunt for it in packs, and entirely +exclude the most delicious intoxicant known—usually called oxygen—from +their list of supplies from the caterer. Certainly this particular +group did look exhausted far beyond the speech-making point. But this, +too, was a deception. These limp-looking individuals had only remained +in this drawing-room for the sole purpose of “talking it over,” and Mr. +Pierce had no walk-over before him. + +Mr. Pierce cleared his throat and remarked: “The development of +marriage customs and ceremonies from primeval days is one of the most +curious and—” + +“What a lovely wedding it has been!” said Dorothy, heaving a sigh of +fatigue and pleasure combined. + +“Wasn’t it!” went up a chorus from the whole party, except Mr. Pierce, +who looked eminently disgusted. + +“As I was remarking—” began Mr. Pierce again. + +“But the best part,” said Watts, who was lolling on one of the lounges, +“was those ‘sixt’ ward presents. As Mr. Moriarty said; ‘Begobs, it’s +hard it would be to find the equal av that tureen!’ He was right! Its +equal for ugliness is inconceivable.” + +“Yet the poor beggars spent eight hundred dollars on it” sighed +Lispenard, wearily. + +“Relative to the subject—” said Mr. Pierce. + +“And Leonore told me,” said a charmingly-dressed girl, “that she liked +it better than any other present she had received.” + +“Oh, she was more enthusiastic,” laughed Watts, “over all the ‘sixt’ +ward and political presents than she was over what we gave her. We +weren’t in it at all with the Micks. She has come out as much a +worshipper of hoi-polloi as Peter.” + +“I don’t believe she cares a particle for them,” said our old friend, +the gentlemanly scoundrel; “but she worships them because they worship +him.” + +“Well,” sighed Lispenard, “that’s the way things go in life. There’s +that fellow gets worshipped by every one, from the Irish saloon-keeper +up to Leonore. While look at me! I’m a clever, sweet-tempered, friendly +sort of a chap, but nobody worships me. There isn’t any one who gives a +second thought for yours truly. I seem good for nothing, except being +best man to much luckier chaps. While look at Peter! He’s won the love +of a lovely girl, who worships him to a degree simply inconceivable. I +never saw such idealization.” + +“Then you haven’t been watching Peter,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, who, as a +mother, had no intention of having it supposed that Leonore was not +more loved than loving. + +“Taking modern marriage as a basis—” said Mr. Pierce. + +“Oh,” laughed Dorothy, “there’s no doubt they are a pair, and I’m very +proud of it, because I did it.” + +“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” crowed Ray. + +“I did,” said Dorothy, “and my own husband is not the one to cast +reflection on my statement.” + +“He’s the only one who dares,” said Ogden. + +“Well, I did. Leonore would never have cared for such a silent, serious +man if I hadn’t shown her that other women did, and—” + +“Nonsense,” laughed Ogden. “It was Podds did it. Dynamite is famous for +the uncertainty of the direction in which it will expend its force, and +in this case it blew in a circle, and carried Leonore’s heart clear +from Newport to Peter.” + +“Or, to put it scientifically,” said Lispenard, “along the line of +least resistance.” + +“It seems to me that Peter was the one who did it,” said Le Grand. “But +of course, as a bachelor, I can’t expect my opinion to be accepted.” + +“No,” said Dorothy. “He nearly spoiled it by cheapening himself. No +girl will think a man is worth much who lets her tramp on him.” + +“Still,” said Lispenard, “few girls can resist the flattery of being +treated by a man as if she is the only woman worth considering in the +world, and Peter did that to an extent which was simply disgraceful. It +was laughable to see the old hermit become social the moment she +appeared, and to see how his eyes and attention followed her. And his +learning to dance! That showed how things were.” + +“He began long before any of you dreamed,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “Didn’t +he, Watts?” + +“Undoubtedly,” laughed Watts. “And so did she. I really think Leonore +did quite as much in her way, as Peter did. I never saw her treat any +one quite as she behaved to Peter from the very first. I remember her +coming in after her runaway, wild with enthusiasm over him, and saying +to me ‘Oh, I’m so happy. I’ve got a new friend, and we are going to be +such friends always!’” + +“That raises the same question,” laughed Ogden, “that the Irishman did +about the street-fight, when he asked ‘Who throwed that last brick +first?’” + +“Really, if it didn’t seem too absurd,” said Watts, “I should say they +began it the moment they met.” + +“I don’t think that at all absurd,” said a gray-haired, refined looking +woman who was the least collapsed of the group, or was perhaps so well +bred as to conceal her feelings. “I myself think it began before they +even met. Leonore was half in love with Peter when she was in Europe, +and Peter, though he knew nothing of her, was the kind of a man who +imagines an ideal and loves that. She happened to be his ideal.” + +“Really, Miss De Voe,” said Mr. Pierce, “you must have misjudged him. +Though Peter is now my grandson, I am still able to know what he is. He +is not at all the kind of man who allows himself to be controlled by an +ideal.” + +“I do not feel that I have ever known Peter. He does not let people +perceive what is underneath,” said Miss De Voe. “But of one thing I am +sure. Nearly everything he does is done from sentiment. At heart he is +an idealist.” + +“Oh!” cried several. + +“That is a most singular statement,” said Mr. Pierce. “There is not a +man I know who has less of the sentimental and ideal in him. An +idealist is a man of dreams and romance. Peter is far too sensible a +fellow to be that. There is nothing heroic or romantic in him.” + +“Nonsense, _Paternus_,” said Watts. “You don’t know anything about the +old chap. You’ve only seen him as a cool clever lawyer. If your old +definition of romance is right: that it is ‘Love, and the battle +between good and evil,’ Peter has had more true romance than all the +rest of us put together.” + +“No,” said Mr. Pierce. “You have merely seen Peter in love, and so you +all think he is romantic. He isn’t. He is a cool man, who never acts +without weighing his actions, and therein has lain the secret of his +success. He calmly marks out his line of life, and, regardless of +everything else, pursues it. He disregards everything not to his +purpose, and utilizes everything that serves. I predicted great success +for him many years ago when he was fresh from college, simply from a +study of his mental characteristics and I have proved myself a prophet. +He has never made a slip, legally, politically, or socially. To use a +yachting expression, he has ‘made everything draw.’ An idealist, or a +man of romance and fire and impulse could never succeed as he has done. +It is his entire lack of feeling which has led to his success. Indeed—” + +“I can’t agree with you,” interrupted Dorothy, sitting up from her +collapse as if galvanized into life and speech by Mr. Pierce’s +monologue. “You don’t understand Peter. He is a man of great feeling. +Think of that speech of his about those children! Think of his conduct +to his mother as long as she lived! Think of the goodness and kindness +he showed to the poor! Why, Ray says he has refused case after case for +want of time in recent years, while doing work for people in his ward +which was worth nothing. If—” + +“They were worth votes,” interjected Mr. Pierce. + +“Look at his buying the Costell place in Westchester when Mr. Costell +died so poor, and giving it to Mrs. Costell,” continued Dorothy, +warming with her subject. “Look at his going to those strikers’ +families, and arranging to help them. Were those things done for votes? +If I could only tell you of something he once did for me, you would not +say that he was a man without feeling.” + +“I have no doubt,” said Mr. Pierce blandly, “that he did many things +which, on their face, seemed admirable and to indicate feeling. But if +carefully examined, they would be found to have been advantageous to +him. Any service he could have done to Mrs. Rivington surely did not +harm him. His purchase of Costell’s place pleased the political friends +of the dead leader. His aiding the strikers’ families placated the men, +and gained him praise from the press. I dislike greatly to oppose this +rose-colored view of Peter, but, from my own knowledge of the man, I +must. He is without feeling, and necessarily makes no mistakes, nor is +he led off from his own ambitions by sentiment of any kind. When we had +that meeting with the strikers, he sat there, while all New York was +seething, with mobs and dead just outside the walls, as cool and +impassive as a machine. He was simply determined that we should +compromise, because his own interests demanded it, and he carried his +point merely because he was the one cool man at that meeting. If he had +had feeling he could not have been cool. That one incident shows the +key-note of his success.” + +“And I say his strong sympathies and feeling were the key-note,” +reiterated Dorothy. + +“I think,” said Pell, “that Peter’s great success lay in his ability to +make friends. It was simply marvellous. I’ve seen it, over and over +again, both in politics and society. He never seemed to excite envy or +bitterness. He had a way of doing things which made people like him. +Every one he meets trusts him. Yet nobody understands him. So he +interests people, without exciting hostility. I’ve heard person after +person say that he was an uninteresting, ordinary man, and yet nobody +ever seemed to forget him. Every one of us feels, I am sure, that, as +Miss De Voe says, he had within something he never showed people. I +have never been able to see why he did or did not do hundreds of +things. Yet it always turned out that what he did was right. He makes +me think of the Frenchwoman who said to her sister, ‘I don’t know why +it is, sister, but I never meet any one who’s always right but +myself.’” + +“You have hit it,” said Ogden Ogden, “and I can prove that you have by +Peter’s own explanation of his success. I spoke to him once of a rather +curious line of argument, as it seemed to me, which he was taking in a +case, and he said: ‘Ogden, I take that course because it is the way +Judge Potter’s mind acts. If you want to convince yourself, take the +arguments which do that best, but when you have to deal with judges or +juries, take the lines which fit their capacities. People talk about my +unusual success in winning cases. It’s simply because I am not certain +that my way and my argument are the only way and the only argument. +I’ve studied the judges closely, so that I know what lines to take, and +I always notice what seems to interest the jury most, in each case. +But, more important than this study, is the fact that I can comprehend +about how the average man will look at a certain thing. You see I am +the son of plain people. Then I am meeting all grades of mankind, and +hearing what they say, and getting their points of view. I have never +sat in a closet out of touch with the world and decided what is right +for others, and then spent time trying to prove it to them. In other +words, I have succeeded, because I am merely the normal or average man, +and therefore am understood by normal or average people, or by +majorities, to put it in another way.’” + +“But Mr. Stirling isn’t a commonplace man,” said another of the +charmingly dressed girls. “He is very silent, and what he says isn’t at +all clever, but he’s very unusual and interesting.” + +“Nevertheless,” said Ogden, “I believe he was right. He has a way of +knowing what the majority of people think or feel about things. And +that is the secret of his success, and not his possession or lack of +feeling.” + +“You none of you have got at the true secret of Peter’s success,” said +Ray. “It was his wonderful capacity for work. To a lazy beggar like +myself it is marvellous. I’ve known that man to work from nine in the +morning till one at night, merely stopping for meals.” + +“Yet he did not seem an ambitious man,” said Le Grand. “He cared +nothing for social success, he never has accepted office till now, and +he has refused over and over again law work which meant big money.” + +“No,” said Ray. “Peter worked hard in law and politics. Yet he didn’t +want office or money. He could more than once have been a judge, and +Costell wanted him governor six years ago. He took the nomination this +year against his own wishes. He cared as little for money or reputation +in law, as he cared for society, and would compromise cases which would +have added greatly to his reputation if he had let them go to trial. He +might have been worth double what he is to-day, if he had merely +invested his money, instead of letting it lie in savings banks or trust +companies. I’ve spoken about it repeatedly to him, but he only said +that he wasn’t going to spend time taking care of money, for money +ceased to be valuable when it had to be taken care of; its sole use to +him being to have it take care of him. I think he worked for the sake +of working.” + +“That explains Peter, certainly. His one wish was to help others,” said +Miss De Voe. “He had no desire for reputation or money, and so did not +care to increase either.” + +“And mark my words,” said Lispenard. “From this day, he’ll set no limit +to his endeavors to obtain both.” + +“He can’t work harder than he has to get political power,” said an +usher. “Think of how anxious he must have been to get it, when he would +spend so much time in the slums and saloons! He couldn’t have liked the +men he met there.” + +“I’ve taken him to task about that, and told him he had no business to +waste his time so,” said Ogden; “but he said that he was not taking +care of other people’s money or trying to build up a great business, +and that if he chose to curtail his practice, so as to have some time +to work in politics, it was a matter of personal judgment.” + +“I once asked Peter,” said Miss De Voe, “how he could bear, with his +tastes and feelings, to go into saloons, and spend so much time with +politicians, and with the low, uneducated people of his district. He +said, ‘That is my way of trying to do good, and it is made enjoyable to +me by helping men over rough spots, or by preventing political wrong. I +have taken the world and humanity as it is, and have done what I could, +without stopping to criticise or weep over shortcomings and sins. I +admire men who stand for noble impossibilities. But I have given my own +life to the doing of small possibilities. I don’t say the way is the +best. But it is my way, for I am a worker, not a preacher. And just +because I have been willing to do things as the world is willing to +have them done, power and success have come to me to do more.’ I +believe it was because Peter had no wish for worldly success, that it +came to him.” + +“You are all wrong,” groaned Lispenard. “I love Peter as much as I love +my own kin, with due apology to those of it who are present, but I must +say that his whole career has been the worst case of sheer, downright +luck of which I ever saw or heard.” + +“Luck!” exclaimed Dorothy. + +“Yes, luck!” said Lispenard. “Look at it. He starts in like all the +rest of us. And Miss Luck calls him in to look at a sick kitten die. +Very ordinary occurrence that! Health-board report several hundred +every week. But Miss Luck knew what she was about and called him in to +just the right kind of a kitten to make a big speech about. Thereupon +he makes it, blackguarding and wiping the floor up with a millionaire +brewer. Does the brewer wait for his turn to get even with him? Not a +bit. Miss Luck takes a hand in and the brewer falls on Peter’s +breast-bone, and loves him ever afterwards. My cousin writes him, and +he snubs her. Does she annihilate him as she would have other men? No. +Miss Luck has arranged all that, and they become the best of friends.” + +“Lispenard—” Miss De Voe started to interrupt indignantly, but +Lispenard continued, “Hold on till I finish. One at a time. Well. Miss +Luck gets him chosen to a convention by a fluke and Peter votes against +Costell’s wishes. What happens? Costell promptly takes him up and +pushes him for all he’s worth. He snubs society, and society concludes +that a man who is more snubby and exclusive than itself must be a man +to cultivate. He refuses to talk, and every one promptly says: ‘How +interesting he is!’ He gets in the way of a dynamite bomb. Does it kill +him? Certainly not. Miss Luck has put an old fool there, to protect +him. He swears a bad word. Does it shock respectable people? No! Every +one breathes easier, and likes him the better. He enrages and shoots +the strikers. Does he lose votes? Not one. Miss Luck arranges that the +directors shall yield things which they had sworn not to yield; and the +strikers are reconciled and print a card in praise of him. He runs for +office. Do the other parties make a good fight of it? No. They promptly +nominate a scoundrelly demagogue and a nonentity who thinks votes are +won by going about in shirtsleeves. So he is elected by the biggest +plurality the State has ever given. Has Miss Luck done enough? No. She +at once sets every one predicting that he’ll get the presidential +nomination two years from now, if he cares for it. Be it friend or +enemy, intentional or unintentional, every one with whom he comes in +contact gives him a boost. While look at me! There isn’t a soul who +ever gave me help. It’s been pure, fire-with-your-eyes-shut luck. + +“Was this morning luck too?” asked a bridesmaid. + +“Absolutely,” sighed Lispenard. “And what luck! I always said that +Peter would never marry, because he would insist on taking women +seriously, and because at heart he was afraid of them to a woeful +degree, and showed it in such a way, as simply to make women think he +didn’t like them individually. But Miss Luck wouldn’t allow that. Oh, +no! Miss Luck isn’t content even that Peter shall take his chance of +getting a wife, with the rest of us. She’s not going to have any +accidents for him. So she takes the loveliest of girls and trots her +all over Europe, so that she shan’t have friends, or even know men +well. She arranges too, that the young girl shall have her head filled +with Peter by a lot of admiring women, who are determined to make him +into a sad, unfortunate hero, instead of the successful man he is. A +regular conspiracy to delude a young girl. Then before the girl has +seen anything of the world, she trots her over here. Does she introduce +them at a dance, so that Peter shall be awkward and silent? Not she! +She puts him where he looks his best—on a horse. She starts the thing +off romantically, so that he begins on the most intimate footing, +before another man has left his pasteboard. So he’s way ahead of the +pack when they open cry. Is that enough? No! At the critical moment he +is called to the aid of his country. Gets lauded for his pluck. Gets +blown up. Gets everything to make a young girl worship him. Pure luck! +It doesn’t matter what Peter says or does. Miss Luck always arranges +that it turn up the winning card.” + +“There is no luck in it,” cried Mr. Pierce. “It was all due to his +foresight and shrewdness. He plans things beforehand, and merely +presses the button. Why, look at his marriage alone? Does he fall in +love early in life, and hamper himself with a Miss Nobody? Not he! He +waits till he has achieved a position where he can pick from the best, +and then he does exactly that, if you’ll pardon a doating grandfather’s +saying it.” + +“Well,” said Watts, “we have all known Peter long enough to have found +out what he is, yet there seems to be a slight divergence of opinion. +Are we fools, or is Peter a gay deceiver?” + +“He is the most outspoken man I ever knew,” said Miss De Voe. + +“But he tells nothing,” said an usher. + +“Yes. He is absolutely silent,” said a bridesmaid. + +“Except when he’s speechifying,” said Ray. + +“And Leonore says he talks and jokes a great deal,” said Watts. + +“I never knew any one who is deceiving herself so about a man,” said +Dorothy. “It’s terrible. What do you think she had the face to say to +me to-day?” + +“What?” + +“She was speaking of their plans after returning from the wedding +journey, and she said: ‘I am going to have Peter keep up his bachelor +quarters.’ ‘Does he say he’ll do it?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t spoken to +him,’ she replied, ‘but of course he will.’ I said: ‘Leonore, all women +think they rule their husbands, but they don’t in reality, and Peter +will be less ruled than any man I know.’ Then what do you think she +said?” + +“Don’t keep us in suspense.” + +“She said: ‘None of you ever understood Peter. But I do.’ Think of it! +From that little chit, who’s known Peter half the number of months that +I’ve known him years!” + +“I don’t know,” sighed Lispenard. “I’m not prepared to say it isn’t so. +Indeed, after seeing Peter, who never seemed able to understand women +till this one appeared on the scene, develop into a regulation lover, I +am quite prepared to believe that every one knows more than I do. At +the same time, I can’t afford to risk my reputation for discrimination +and insight over such a simple thing as Peter’s character. You’ve all +tried to say what Peter is. Now I’ll tell you in two words and you’ll +all find you are right, and you’ll all find you are wrong.” + +“You are as bad as Leonore,” cried Dorothy. + +“Well,” said Watts, “we are all listening. What is Peter?” + +“He is an extreme type of a man far from uncommon in this country, yet +who has never been understood by foreigners, and by few Americans.” + +“Well?” + +“Peter is a practical idealist” + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. +LEONORE’S THEORY. + + +And how well had that “talk-it-over” group at the end of Peters +wedding-day grasped his character? How clearly do we ever gain an +insight into the feelings and motives which induce conduct even in +those whom we best know and love? Each had found something in Peter +that no other had discovered. We speak of rose-colored glasses, and +Shakespeare wrote, “All things are yellow to a jaundiced eye.” When we +take a bit of blue glass, and place it with yellow, it becomes green. +When we put it with red, it becomes purple. Yet blue it is all the +time. Is not each person responsible for the tint he seems to produce +in others? Can we ever learn that the thing is blue, and that the green +or purple aspect is only the tinge which we ourselves help to give? Can +we ever learn that we love and are loved entirely as we give ourselves +colors which may harmonize with those about us? That love, wins love; +kindness, kindness; hate, hate. That just such elements as we give to +the individual, the individual gives back to us? That the sides we show +are the sides seen by the world. There were people who could truly +believe that Peter was a ward boss; a frequenter of saloons; a +drunkard; a liar; a swearer; a murderer, in intention, if not in act; a +profligate; and a compromiser of many of his own strongest principles. +Yet there were people who could, say other things of him. + +But more important than the opinion of Peter’s friends, and of the +world, was the opinion of Peter’s wife. Was she right in her theory +that she was the only one who understood him? Or had she, as he had +once done, reared an ideal, and given that ideal the love which she +supposed she was giving Peter? It is always a problem in love to say +whether we love people most for the qualities they actually possess, or +for those with which our own love endows them. Here was a young girl, +inexperienced in world and men, joyfully sinking her own life in that +of a man whom, but a few months before, had been only a matter of +hearsay to her. Yet she had apparently taken him, as women will, for +better, for worse, till death, as trustfully as if he and men generally +were as knowable as A B C, instead of as unknown as the algebraic X. +Only once had she faltered in her trust of him, and then but for a +moment. How far had her love, and the sight of Peter’s misery, led her +blindly to renew that trust? And would it hold? She had seen how little +people thought of that scurrilous article, and how the decent papers +had passed it over without a word. But she had also seen, the scandal +harped upon by partisans and noted that Peter failed to vindicate +himself publicly, or vouchsafe an explanation to her. Had she taken +Peter with trust or doubt, knowledge or blindness? + +Perhaps a conversation between the two, a week later, will answer these +questions. It occurred on the deck of a vessel. Yet this parting +glimpse of Peter is very different from that which introduced him. The +vessel is not drifting helplessly, but its great screw is whirling it +towards the island of Martinique, as if itself anxious to reach that +fairy land of fairy lands. Though the middle of November, the soft +warmth of the tropics is in the air. Nor are the sea and sky now +leaden. The first is turned into liquid gold by the phosphorescence, +and the full moon silvers everything else. Neither is Peter pacing the +deck with lines of pain and endurance on his face. He is up in the bow, +where the vessel’s forefoot throws up the white foam in silver drops in +the moonlight. And he does not look miserable. Anything but that. He is +sitting on an anchor stock, with his back comfortably braced against +the rail. Another person is not far distant. What that person sits upon +and leans against is immaterial to the narrative. + +“Why don’t you smoke?” asked that person. + +“I’m too happy,” said Peter, in a voice evidencing the truth of his +words. + +“Will you if I bite off the end?” asked Eve, Jr., placing temptation +most temptingly. + +“I like the idea exceedingly,” said Peter. “But my right arm is so very +pleasantly placed that it objects to moving.” + +“Don’t move it. I know where they are. I even know about the matches.” +And Peter sat calmly while his pockets were picked. He even seemed to +enjoy the sensation of that small hand rummaging in his waistcoat +pockets. “You see, dear, that I am learning your ways,” Leonore +continued, in a tone of voice which suggested that that was the chief +end of woman. Perhaps it is. The Westminster catechism only tells us +the chief end of man. + +“There. Now are you really happy?” + +“I don’t know anybody more so.” + +“Then, dear, I want to talk with you.” + +“The wish is reciprocal. But what have we been doing for six days?” + +“We’ve been telling each other everything, just as we ought. But now I +want to ask two favors, dear.” + +“I don’t think that’s necessary. Just tell me what they are.” + +“Yes. These favors are. Though I know you’ll say ‘yes.’” + +“Well?” + +“First. I want you always to keep your rooms just as they are?” + +“Dear-heart, after our six weeks’ trip, we must be in Albany for three +years, and when we come back to New York, we’ll have a house of +course.” + +“Yes. But I want you to keep the rooms just as they are, because I love +them. I don’t think I shall ever feel the same for any other place. It +will be very convenient to have them whenever, we want to run down from +Albany. And of course you must keep up with the ward.” + +“But you don’t suppose, after we are back in New-York, that I’ll stay +down there, with you uptown?” + +“Oh, no! Of course not. Peter! How absurd you are! But I shall go down +very often. Sometimes we’ll give little dinners to real friends. And +sometimes, when we want to get away from people, we’ll dine by +ourselves and spend the night there. Then whenever you want to be at +the saloons or primaries we’ll dine together there and I’ll wait for +you. And then I think I’ll go down sometimes, when I’m shopping, and +lunch with you. I’ll promise not to bother you. You shall go back to +your work, and I’ll amuse myself with your flowers, and books, till you +are ready to go uptown. Then we’ll ride together.” + +“Lispenard frightened me the other day, but you frighten me worse.” + +“How?” + +“He said you would be a much lovelier woman at thirty than you are +now.” + +“And that frightened you?” laughed Leonore. + +“Terribly. If you are that I shall have to give up law and politics +entirely, so as to see enough of you.” + +“But what has that to do with my lunching with you?” + +“Do you think I could work at law with you in the next room?” + +“Don’t you want me? I thought it was such a nice plan.” + +“It is. If your other favor is like that I shan’t know what to say. I +shall merely long for you to ask favors.” + +“This is very different. Will you try to understand me?” + +“I shan’t misunderstand you, at all events.” Which was a crazy speech +for any man to make any woman. + +“Then, dear, I want to speak of that terrible time—only for a moment, +dear. You mustn’t think I don’t believe what you said. I do! I do! +Every word of it, and to prove it to you I shall never speak of it +again. But when I’ve shown you that I trust you entirely, some stormy +evening, when we’ve had the nicest little dinner together at your +rooms, and I’ve given you some coffee, and bitten your cigar for you, I +shall put you down before the fire, and sit down in your lap, as I am +doing now, and put my arms about your neck so, and put my cheek so. And +then I want you, without my asking to tell me why you told mamma that +lie, and all about it.” + +“Dear-heart,” said Peter, “I cannot tell. I promised.” + +“Oh, but that didn’t include your wife, dear, of course. Besides, +Peter, friends should tell each other everything. And we are the best +of friends, aren’t we?” + +“And if I don’t tell my dearest friend?” + +“I shall never speak of it, Peter, but I know sometimes when I am by +myself I shall cry over it. Not because I doubt you, dear, but because +you won’t give me your confidence.” + +“Do you know, Dear-heart, that I can’t bear the thought of your doing +that!” + +“Of course not, dear. That’s the reason I tell you. I knew you couldn’t +bear it.” + +“How did you know?” + +“Because I understand you, dear. I know just what you are. I’m the only +person who does.” + +“Tell me what I am.” + +“I think, dear, that something once came into your life that made you +very miserable, and took away all your hope and ambition. So, instead +of trying to make a great position or fortune, you tried to do good to +others. You found that you could do the most good among the poor +people, so you worked among them. Then you found that you needed money, +so you worked hard to get that. Then you found that you could help most +by working in politics, so you did that. And you have tried to gain +power so as to increase your power for good. I know you haven’t liked a +great deal you have had to do. I know that you much prefer to sit +before your study fire and read than sit in saloons. I know that you +would rather keep away from tricky people than to ask or take their +help. But you have sacrificed your own feelings and principles because +you felt that they were not to be considered if you could help others. +And, because people have laughed at you or misunderstood, you have +become silent and unsocial, except as you have believed your mixing +with the world to be necessary to accomplish good.” + +“What a little idealist we are!” + +“Well, dear, that isn’t all the little idealist has found out. She +knows something else. She knows that all his life her ideal has been +waiting and longing for some one who did understand him, so that he can +tell her all his hopes and feelings, and that at last he has found her, +and she will try to make up for all the misery and sacrifice he has +endured She knows, too, that he wants to tell her everything. You +mustn’t think, dear, that it was only prying which made me ask you so +many questions. I—I really wasn’t curious except to see if you would +answer, for I felt that you didn’t tell other people your real thoughts +and feelings, and so, whenever you told me, it was really getting you +to say that you loved me. You wanted me to know what you really are. +And that was why I knew that you told me the truth that night. And that +is the reason why I know that some day you will tell me about that +lie.” + +Peter, whatever he might think, did not deny the correctness of +Leonore’s theories concerning his motives in the past or his conduct in +the future. He kissed the soft cheek so near him, tenderly, and said: + +“I like your thoughts about me, dear one.” + +“Of course you do,” said Leonore. “You said once that when you had a +fine subject it was always easy to make a fine speech. It’s true, too, +of thoughts, dear.” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14532 *** |