The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him by Paul Leicester Ford

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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.

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