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

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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 Choleraepidemien 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 societe_ 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 _entree_, 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."

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