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

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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."

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