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

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"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-a-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.

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