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

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




"Taciturnity Stirling in his great circus feat of riding a whole ward at
once," said Watts.

"I don't claim that I'm right," said Peter. "I once thought very
differently. I started out very hotly as a reformer when I began life.
But I have learned that humanity is not reformed with a club, and that
if most people gave the energy they spend in reforming the world, or
their friends, to reforming themselves, there would be no need of
reformers."

"The old English saying that 'people who can't mind their own business
invariably mind some one's else,' seems applicable," said Watts.

"But is it not very humiliating to you to have to be friends with such
men?" said Mrs. D'Alloi.

"You know Mr. Drewitt?" asked Peter.

"Yes," said all but madame.

"Do you take pleasure in knowing him?"

"Of course," said Watts. "He's very amusing and a regular parlor pet."

"That is the reason I took him. For ten years that man was notoriously
one of the worst influences in New York State politics. At Albany, in
the interest of a great corporation, he was responsible for every job
and bit of lobbying done in its behalf. I don't mean to say that he
really bribed men himself, for he had lieutenants for the actual dirty
work, but every dollar spent passed through his hands, and he knew for
what purpose it was used. At the end of that time, so well had he done
his work, that he was made president of the corporation. Because of that
position, and because he is clever, New York society swallowed him and
has ever since delighted to fete him. I find it no harder to shake hands
and associate with the men he bribed, than you do to shake hands and
associate with the man who gave the bribe."

"Even supposing the great breweries, and railroads, and other interests
to be chiefly responsible for bribery, that makes it all the more
necessary to elect men above the possibility of being bribed," said Le
Grand. "Why not do as they do in Parliament? Elect only men of such high
character and wealth, that money has no temptation for them."

"The rich man is no better than the poor man, except that in place of
being bribed by other men's money, he allows his own money to bribe him.
Look at the course of the House of Lords on the corn-laws. The
slave-holders' course on secession. The millionaire silver senators'
course on silver. The one was willing to make every poor man in England
pay a half more for his bread than need be, in order that land might
rent for higher prices. The slave-owner was willing to destroy his own
country, rather than see justice done. The last are willing to force a
great commercial panic, ruining hundreds and throwing thousands out of
employment, if they can only get a few cents more per ounce for their
silver. Were they voting honestly in the interest of their fellow-men?
Or were their votes bribed?"

Mrs. D'Alloi rose, saying, "Peter. We came early and we must go early.
I'm afraid we've disgraced ourselves both ways."

Peter went down with them to their carriage. He said to Leonore in the
descent, "I'm afraid the politics were rather dull to you. I lectured
because I wanted to make some things clear to you."

"Why?" questioned Leonore.

"Because, in the next few months you'll see a great deal about bosses in
the papers, and I don't want you to think so badly of us as many do."

"I shan't think badly of you, Peter," said Leonore, in the nicest tone.

"Thank you," said Peter. "And if you see things said of me that trouble
you, will you ask me about them?"

"Yes. But I thought you wouldn't talk politics?"

"I will talk with you, because, you know, friends must tell each other
everything."

When Leonore had settled back in the carriage for the long drive, she
cogitated: "Mr. Le Grand said that he and Miss De Voe, and Mr. Ogden had
all tried to get Peter to talk about politics, but that he never would.
Yet, he's known them for years, and is great friends with them. It's
very puzzling!"

Probably Leonore was thinking of American politics.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE BLUE-PETER.


Leonore's puzzle went on increasing in complexity, but there is a limit
to all intricacy, and after a time Leonore began to get an inkling of
the secret. She first noticed that Peter seemed to spend an undue amount
of time with her. He not merely turned up in the Park daily, but they
were constantly meeting elsewhere. Leonore went to a gallery. There was
Peter! She went to a concert. Ditto, Peter! She visited the flower-show.
So did Peter! She came out of church. Behold Peter! In each case with
nothing better to do than to see her home. At first Leonore merely
thought these meetings were coincidences, but their frequency soon ended
this theory, and then Leonore noticed that Peter had a habit of
questioning her about her plans beforehand, and of evidently shaping his
accordingly.

Nor was this all. Peter seemed to be constantly trying to get her to
spend time with him. Though the real summer was fast coming, he had an
other dinner. He had a box at the theatre. He borrowed a drag from Mr.
Pell, and took them all up for a lunch at Mrs. Costell's in Westchester.
Then nothing would do but to have another drive, ending in a dinner at
the Country Club.

Flowers, too, seemed as frequent as their meetings. Peter had always
smiled inwardly at bribing a girl's love with flowers and bon-bons, but
he had now discovered that flowers are just the thing to send a girl, if
you love her, and that there is no bribing about it. So none could be
too beautiful and costly for his purse. Then Leonore wanted a dog--a
mastiff. The legal practice of the great firm and the politics of the
city nearly stopped till the finest of its kind had been obtained for
her.

Another incriminating fact came to her through Dorothy.

"I had a great surprise to-day," she told Leonore. "One that fills me
with delight, and that will please you."

"What is that?"

"Peter asked me at dinner, if we weren't to have Anneke's house at
Newport for the summer, and when I said 'yes,' he told me that if I
would save a room for him, he would come down Friday nights and stay
over Sunday, right through the summer. He has been a simply impossible
man hitherto to entice into a visit. Ray and I felt like giving three
cheers."

"He seemed glad enough to be invited to visit Grey-Court," thought
Leonore.

But even without all this, Peter carried the answer to the puzzle about
with him in his own person. Leonore could not but feel the difference in
the way he treated, and talked, and looked at her, as compared to all
about her. It is true he was no more demonstrative, than with others;
his face held its quiet, passive look, and he spoke in much the usual,
quiet, even tone of voice. Yet Leonore was at first dimly conscious, and
later certain, that there was a shade of eagerness in his manner, a
tenderness in his voice, and a look in his eye, when he was with her,
that was there in the presence of no one else.

So Leonore ceased to puzzle over the problem at a given point, having
found the answer. But the solving did not bring her much apparent
pleasure.

"Oh, dear!" she remarked to herself. "I thought we were going to be such
good friends! That we could tell each other everything. And now he's
gone and spoiled it. Probably, too, he'll be bothering me later, and
then he'll be disappointed, and cross, and we shan't be good friends any
more. Oh, dear! Why do men have to behave so? Why can't they just be
friends?"

It is a question which many women have asked. The query indicates a
degree of modesty which should make the average masculine blush at his
own self-love. The best answer to the problem we can recommend to the
average woman is a careful and long study of a mirror.

As a result of this cogitation Leonore decided that she would nip
Peter's troublesomeness in the bud, that she would put up a sign,
"Trespassing forbidden;" by which he might take warning. Many women have
done the same thing to would-be lovers, and have saved the lovers much
trouble and needless expense. But Leonore, after planning out a dialogue
in her room, rather messed it when she came to put it into actual public
performance. Few girls of eighteen are cool over a love-affair. And so
it occurred thusly:

Leonore said to Peter one day, when he had dropped in for a cup of
afternoon tea after his ride with her:

"If I ask you a question, I wonder if you will tell me what you think,
without misunderstanding why I tell you something?"

"I will try."

"Well," said Leonore, "there is a very nice Englishman whom I knew in
London, who has followed me over here, and is troubling me. He's
dreadfully poor, and papa says he thinks he is after my money. Do you
think that can be so?"

So far the public performance could not have gone better if it had been
rehearsed. But at this point, the whole programme went to pieces.
Peter's cup of tea fell to the floor with a crash, and he was leaning
back in his chair, with a look of suffering on his face.

"Peter," cried Leonore, "what is it?"

"Excuse me," said Peter, rallying a little. "Ever since an operation on
my eyes they sometimes misbehave themselves. It's neuralgia of the optic
nerve. Sometimes it pains me badly. Don't mind me. It will be all right
in a minute if I'm quiet."

"Can't I do anything?"

"No. I have an eye-wash which I used to carry with me, but it is so long
since I have had a return of my trouble that I have stopped carrying
it."

"What causes it?"

"Usually a shock. It's purely nervous."

"But there was no shock now, was there?" said Leonore, feeling so guilty
that she felt it necessary to pretend innocence.

Peter pulled himself together instantly and, leaning over, began
deliberately to gather up the fragments of the cup. Then he laid the
pieces on the tea-table and said: "I was dreadfully frightened when I
felt the cup slipping. It was very stupid in me. Will you try to forgive
me for breaking one of your pretty set?"

"That's nothing," said Leonore. To herself that young lady remarked,
"Oh, dear! It's much worse than I thought. I shan't dare say it to him,
after all"

But she did, for Peter helped her, by going back to her original
question, saying bravely: "I don't know enough about Mr. Max ---- the
Englishman, to speak of him, but I think I would not suspect men of
that, even if they are poor."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be much easier, to most men, to love you than to love
your money."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"I'm so glad. I felt so worried over it. Not about this case, for I
don't care for him, a bit. But I wondered if I had to suspect every man
who came near me."

Peter's eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment
before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods.

Then at last Leonore made the remark towards which she had been working.
At twenty-five Leonore would have been able to say it without so
dangerous a preamble.

"I don't want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone,"
she said. "I haven't the slightest intention of marrying for at least
five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,"'

Five years! Peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling.
He would like to claim that bit of womanhood as his own that moment, and
she could talk of five years! It was the clearest possible indication to
Peter that Leonore was heart-whole. "No one, who is in love," he
thought, "could possibly talk of five years, or five months even." When
Peter got back to his chambers that afternoon, he was as near being
despairing as he had been since--since--a long time ago. Even the
obvious fact, that, if Leonore was not in love with him, she was also
not in love with any one else, did not cheer him. There is a flag in the
navy known as the Blue-Peter. That evening, Peter could have supplied
our whole marine, with considerable bunting to spare.

But even worse was in store for him on the morrow. When he joined
Leonore in the Park that day, she proved to him that woman has as much
absolute brutality as the lowest of prize-fighters. Women get the
reputation of being less brutal, because of their dread of
blood-letting. Yet when it comes to torturing the opposite sex in its
feelings, they are brutes compared with their sufferers.

"Do you know," said Leonore, "that this is almost our last ride
together?"

"Don't jerk the reins needlessly, Peter," said Mutineer, crossly.

"I hope not," said Peter.

"We have changed our plans. Instead of going to Newport next week, I
have at last persuaded papa to travel a little, so that I can see
something of my own country, and not be so shamefully ignorant. We are
going to Washington on Saturday, and from there to California, and then
through the Yellowstone, and back by Niagara. We shan't be in Newport
till the middle of August"

Peter did not die at once. He caught at a life-preserver of a most
delightful description. "That will be a very enjoyable trip," he said.
"I should like to go myself."

"There is no one I would rather have than you," said Leonore, laying her
little hand softly on the wound she had herself just made, in a way
which women have. Then she stabbed again. "But we think it pleasanter to
have it just a party of four."

"How long shall you be in Washington?" asked Peter, catching wildly at a
straw this time.

"For a week. Why?"

"The President has been wanting to see me, and I thought I might run
down next week,"

'"Dear me," thought Leonore. "How very persistent he is!"

"Where will you put up?" said Peter.

"We haven't decided. Where shall you stay?" she had the brutality to
ask.

"The President wants me with him, but I may go to a hotel. It leaves one
so much freer." Peter was a lawyer, and saw no need of committing
himself. "If I am there when you are, I can perhaps help you enjoy
yourself. I think I can get you a lunch at the White House, and, as I
know most of the officials, I have an open sesame to some other nice
things." Poor Peter! He was trying to tempt Leonore to tolerate his
company by offering attractions in connection therewith. A chromo with
the pound of tea. And this from the man who had thought flowers and
bon-bons bribery!

"Why does the President want to see you?"

"To talk politics."

"About the governorship?"

"Yes. Though we don't say so."

"Is it true, Peter, that you can decide who it is to be as the papers
say?"

"No, I would give twenty-five thousand dollars to-day if I could name
the Democratic nominee."

"Why?"

"Would you mind my not telling you?"

"Yes. I want to know. And you are to tell me," said her majesty, calmly.

"I will tell you, though it is a secret, if you will tell me a secret of
yours which I want to know."

"No," said Leonore. "I don't think that's necessary. You are to tell me
without making me promise anything." Leonore might deprecate a man's
falling in love with her, but she had no objection to the power and
perquisites it involved.

"Then I shan't tell you," said Peter, making a tremendous rally.

Leonore looked out from under her lashes to see just how much of Peter's
sudden firmness was real and how much pretence. Then she became
unconscious of his presence.

Peter said something.

Silence.

Peter said something else.

Silence.

"Are you really so anxious to know?" he asked, surrendering without
terms.

He had a glorious look at those glorious eyes. "Yes," said the dearest
of all mouths.

"The great panic," said Peter, "has led to the formation of a so-called
Labor party, and, from present indications, they are going to nominate a
bad man. Now, there is a great attempt on foot to get the Democratic
convention to endorse whomever the Labor party nominates."

"Who will that be?'"

"A Stephen Maguire."

"And you don't want him?"

"No. I have never crossed his path without finding him engaged in
something discreditable. But he's truckled himself into a kind of
popularity and power, and, having always been 'a Democrat,' he hopes to
get the party to endorse him."

"Can't you order the convention not to do it?"

Peter smiled down into the eyes. "We don't order men in this country
with any success."

"But can't you prevent them?"

"I hope so. But it looks now as if I should have to do it in a way very
disagreeable to myself."

"How?"

"This is a great secret, you understand?"

"Yes," said Leonore, all interest and eagerness. "I can keep a secret
splendidly."

"You are sure?" asked Peter.

"Sure."

"So can I," said Peter.

Leonore perfectly bristled with indignation. "I won't be treated so,"
she said. "Are you going to tell me?" She put on her severest manner.

"No," said Peter.

"He is obstinate," thought Leonore to herself. Then aloud she said:
"Then I shan't be friends any more?"

"That is very nice," said Peter, soberly.

"What?" said Leonore, looking at him in surprise.

"I have come to the conclusion," said Peter, "that there is no use in
our trying to be friends. So we had better give up at once. Don't you
think so?"

"What a pretty horse Miss Winthrop has?" said Leonore. And she never
obtained an answer to her question, nor answered Peter's.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

A MUTINEER.


After Peter's return from Washington, there was a settled gloom about
him positively appalling. He could not be wooed, on any plea, by his
closest friends, to journey up-town into the social world. He failed
entirely to avail himself of the room in the Rivington's Newport villa,
though Dorothy wrote appealingly, and cited his own words to him. Even
to his partners he became almost silent, except on law matters. Jenifer
found that no delicacy, however rare or however well cooked and served,
seemed to be noticed any more than if it was mess-pork. The only moments
that this atmosphere seemed to yield at all was when Peter took a very
miscellaneous collection of rubbish out of a little sachet, meant for
handkerchiefs, which he now carried in his breast-pocket, and touched
the various articles to his lips. Then for a time he would look a little
less suicidal.

But it was astonishing the amount of work he did, the amount of reading
he got through, the amount of politics he bossed, and the cigars he
smoked, between the first of June, and the middle of August The
party-leaders had come to the conclusion that Peter did not intend to
take a hand in this campaign, but, after his return from Washington,
they decided otherwise. "The President must have asked him to
interfere," was their whispered conclusion, "but it's too late now. It's
all cut and dried."

Peter found, as this remark suggested, that his two months' devotion to
the dearest of eyes and sweetest of lips, had had serious results. As
with Mutineer once, he had dropped his bridle, but there was no use in
uttering, as he had, then, the trisyllable which had reduced the horse
to order. He had a very different kind of a creature with which to deal,
than a Kentucky gentleman of lengthy lineage, a creature called
sometimes a "tiger." Yet curiously enough, the same firm voice, and the
same firm manner, and a "mutineer," though this time a man instead of a
horse, was effective here. All New York knew that something had been
done, and wanted to know what There was not a newspaper in the city that
would have refused to give five thousand dollars for an authentic
stenographic report of what actually was said in a space of time not
longer than three hours in all. Indeed, so intensely were people
interested, that several papers felt called upon to fabricate and print
most absurd versions of what did occur, all the accounts reaching
conclusions as absolutely different as the press portraits of
celebrities. From three of them it is a temptation to quote the display
headlines or "scare-heads," which ushered these reports to the world.
The first read:

"THE BOSSES AT WAR!"

* * * * *

"HOT WORDS AND LOOKS."

* * * * *

"BUT THEY'LL CRAWL LATER."

"There's beauty in the bellow of the blast,
There's grandeur in the growling of the gale;
But there's eloquence-appalling, when Stirling is aroaring,
And the Tiger's getting modest with his tail"

That was a Republican account. The second was:

"MAGUIRE ON TOP!"

* * * * *

"The Old Man is Friendly. A Peace-making Dinner at the Manhattan
Club. Friends in Council. Labor and Democracy Shoulder to
Shoulder. A United Front to the Enemy."

The third, printed in an insignificant little penny paper, never read
and almost unknown by reading people, yet which had more city
advertising than all the other papers put together, and a circulation to
match the largest, announced:

"TACITURNITY JUNIOR'S"

* * * * *

"ONCE MORE AT THE BAT!"

* * * * *

"NO MORE NONSENSE."

* * * * *

"HE PUTS MAGUIRE OUT ON THIRD BASE."

* * * * *

"NOW PLAY BALL!"

And unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth
to suggest inspiration. But there is no need to reprint the article that
followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what
actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work
to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest
class of all books, that of the historical novel.

The facts are, that Peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the
middle of July, and went into the Manhattan Club. He exchanged greetings
with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in while he
was reading the evening papers. A man came up to him while he still
read, and said:

"Well, Stirling. Reading about your own iniquity?"

"No," said Peter, rising and shaking hands. "I gave up reading about
that ten years ago. Life is too short."

"Pelton and Webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room,
as I came up. I suppose they are in the cafe."

Peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. Peter
shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round
one of the little tables. A good many men who saw that group, nudged
each other, and whispered remarks.

"A reporter from the _Sun_ is in the strangers' room. Mr. Stirling, and
asks to see you," said a servant.

"I cannot see him," said Peter, quietly. "But say to him that I may
possibly have something to tell him about eleven o'clock."

The four men at the table exchanged glances.

"I can't imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, Stirling,"
laughed one of them a little nervously.

Peter smiled. "Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can't imagine
any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may
some day."

A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by
the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang a
bell.

"What shall it be?" he asked.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then one said. "Order for us.
You're host. Just what you like."

Peter smiled. "Thomas," he said, "bring us eight Apollinaris cocktails."

The men all laughed, and Thomas said, "Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?" in a
bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never
heard of that cocktail.

"Well, Thomas," said Peter, "if you don't have that in stock, make it
seven Blackthorns."

Then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a
moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. For an
hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were
nothing more than a social dinner. But the moment the servant had passed
the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a
silence came for a moment Then a man said:

"It's a pity it can't please all, but the majority's got to rule."

"Yes," promptly said another, "this is really a Maguire ratification
meeting."

"There's nothing else to do," affirmed a third.

But a fourth said: "Then what are we here for?"

No one seemed to find an answer. After a moment's silence, the original
speaker said:

"It's the only way we can be sure of winning."

"He gives us every pledge," echoed the second.

"And we've agreed, anyways, so we are bound," continued the first
speaker.

Peter took his cigar out of his mouth. "Who are bound?" he asked,
quietly.

"Why, the organization is--the party," said Number Two, with a
"deny-it-if-you-dare" in his voice.

"I don't see how we can back out now, Stirling," said Number One.

"Who wants to?" said another. "The Labor party promises to support us on
our local nominations, and Maguire is not merely a Democrat, but he
gives us every pledge."

"There's no good of talking of anything else anyhow," said Number One,
"for there will be a clean majority for Maguire in the convention."

"And no other candidate can poll fifty votes on the first ballot," said
Number Two.

Then they all looked at Peter, and became silent. Peter puffed his cigar
thoughtfully.

"What do you say?" said Number One.

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