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

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"The journey?" queried Watts.

"You mean Newport, don't you?" said Leonore helpfully, when Peter said
nothing. Leonore was looking out from under her lashes--at things in
general, of course.

Peter said nothing. Peter was not going to lie about what he had meant,
and Leonore liked him all the better for not using the deceiving
loophole she had opened.

Watts said, "Oh, of course. It improves every year. But wasn't the
journey hot, old man?"

"I didn't notice," said Peter.

"Didn't notice! And this one of the hottest days of the year."

"I had something else to think about," explained Peter.

"Politics?" asked Watts.

"Oh, Peter," said Leonore, "we've been so interested in all the talk. It
was just as maddening as could be, how hard it was to get New York
papers way out west. I'm awfully in the dark about some things. I've
asked a lot of people here about it, but nobody seems to know anything.
Or if they do, they laugh at me. I met Congressman Pell yesterday at the
Tennis Tournament, and thought he would tell me all about it. But he was
horrid! His whole manner said: 'I can't waste real talk on a girl.' I
told him I was a great friend of yours, and that you would tell me when
you came, but he only laughed and said, he had no doubt you would, for
you were famous for your indiscretion. I hate men who laugh at women the
moment they try to talk as men do."

"I think," said Peter, "we'll have to turn Pell down. A Congressman who
laughs at one of my friends won't do."

"I really wish you would. That would teach him," said Leonore,
vindictively. "A man who laughs at women can't be a good Congressman."

"I tell you what we'll do," said Peter. "I don't want to retire him,
because--because I like his mother. But I will tell you something for
you to tell him, that will astonish him very much, and make him want to
know who told you, and so you can tease him endlessly."

"Oh, Peter!" said Leonore. "You are the nicest man."

"What's that?" asked Watts.

"It's a great secret," said Peter. "I shall only tell it to Miss
D'Alloi, so that if it leaks beyond Pell, I shall know whom to blame for
it."

"Goody!" cried Leonore, giving a little bounce for joy.

"Is it about that famous dinner?" inquired Watts.

"No."

"Peter, I'm so curious about that. Will you tell me what you did?"

"I ate a dinner," said Peter smiling.

"Now don't be like Mr. Pell," said Leonore, reprovingly, "or I'll take
back what I just said."

"Did you roar, and did the tiger put its tail between its legs?" asked
Watts.

"That is the last thing our friends, the enemies, have found," said
Peter.

"You will tell me about it, won't you, Peter?" said Leonore,
ingratiatingly.

"Have you a mount for me, Watts, for to-morrow? Mutineer comes by boat
to-night, but won't be here till noon."

"Yes. I've one chap up to your weight, I think."

"I don't like dodgers," said Leonore, the corners of her mouth drawn
down.

"I was not dodging," said Peter. "I only was asking a preliminary
question. If you will get up, before breakfast, and ride with me, I will
tell you everything that actually occurred at that dinner. You will be
the only person, I think, who wasn't there, who knows." It was shameful
and open bribery, but bosses are shameful and open in their doings, so
Peter was only living up to his role.

The temptation was too strong to be resisted, Leonore said, "Of coarse I
will," and the corners of her mouth reversed their position. But she
said to herself: "I shall have to snub you in something else to make up
for it." Peter was in for a bad quarter of an hour somewhere.

Leonore had decided just how she was going to treat Peter. To begin
with, she intended to accentuate that "five years" in various ways. Then
she would be very frank and friendly, just as long as he, too, would
keep within those limits, but if Peter even verged on anything more, she
intended to leave him to himself, just long enough to show him that such
remarks as his "not caring to be friends," brought instant and dire
punishment. "And I shan't let him speak," Leonore decided, "no matter if
he wants to. For if he does, I'll have to say 'no,' and then he'll go
back to New York and sulk, and perhaps never come near me again, since
he's so obstinate, while I want to siay friends." Many such campaigns
have been planned by the party of the first part. But the trouble is
that, usually, the party of the second part also has a plan, which
entirely disconcerts the first. As the darkey remarked: "Yissah. My dog
he wud a beat, if it hadn't bin foh de udder dog."

Peter found as much contrast in his evening, as compared with his
morning, as there was in his own years. After dinner. Leonore said:

"I always play billiards with papa. Will you play too?"

"I don't know how," said Peter.

"Then it's time you learned. I'll take you on my side, because papa
always beats me. I'll teach you."

So there was the jolliest of hours spent in this way, all of them
laughing at Peter's shots, and at Leonore's attempts to show him how.
"Every woman ought to play billiards," Peter thought, when it was ended.
"It's the most graceful sight I've seen in years."

Leonore said, "You get the ideas very nicely, but you hit much too hard.
You can't hit a ball too softly. You pound it as if you were trying to
smash it."

"It's something I really must learn," said Peter, who had refused over
and over again in the past.

"I'll teach you, while you are here," said Leonore.

Peter did not refuse this time.

Nor did he refuse another lesson. When they had drifted into the
drawing-room, Leonore asked: "Have you been learning how to valse?"

Peter smiled at so good an American using so European a word, but said
seriously, "No. I've been too busy."

"That's a shame," said Leonore, "because there are to be two dances this
week, and mamma has written to get you cards."

"Is it very hard?" asked Peter.

"No," said Leonore. "It's as easy as breathing, and much nicer."

"Couldn't you teach me that, also?"

"Easily. Mamma, will you play a valse? Now see." Leonore drew her skirts
back with one hand, so as to show the little feet, and said: "one, two,
three, so. One, two, three, so. Now do that."

Peter had hoped that the way to learn dancing was to take the girl in
one's arms. But he recognized that this would follow. So he set to work
manfully to imitate that dainty little glide. It seemed easy as she did
it. But it was not so easy when he tried it.

"Oh, you clumsy," said Leonore laughing. "See. One, two, three, so. One,
two, three, so."

Peter forgot to notice the step, in his admiration of the little feet
and the pretty figure.

"Well," said Leonore after a pause, "are you going to do that?"

So Peter tried again, and again, and again. Peter would have done it all
night, with absolute contentment, so long as Leonore, after every
failure, would show him the right way in her own person.

Finally she said, "Now take my hands. No. Way apart, so that I can see
your feet. Now. We'll try it together. One, two, change. One, two,
change."

Peter thought this much better, and was ready to go on till strength
failed. But after a time, Leonore said, "Now. We'll try it the true way.
Take my hand so and put your arm so. That's the way. Only never hold a
girl too close. We hate it. Yes. That's it. Now, mamma. Again. One, two,
three. One, two, three."

This was heavenly, Peter thought, and could have wept over the
shortness, as it seemed to him, of this part of the lesson.

But it ended, and Leonore said: "If you'll practice that in your room,
with a bolster, you'll get on very fast."

"I always make haste slowly," said Peter, not taking to the bolster idea
at all kindly. "Probably you can find time to-morrow for another lesson,
and I'll learn much quicker with you."

"I'll see."

"And will you give me some waltzes at the dances?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Leonore. "You shall have the dances
the other men don't ask of me. But you don't dance well enough, in case
I can get a better partner. I love valsing too much to waste one with a
poor dancer."

A moment before Peter thought waltzing the most exquisite pleasure the
world contained. But he suddenly changed his mind, and concluded it was
odious.

"Nevertheless," he decided, "I will learn how."

CHAPTER LI.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

Peter had his ride the next morning, and had a very interested listener
to his account of that dinner. The listener, speaking from vast
political knowledge, told him at the end. "You did just right. I
thoroughly approve of you."

"That takes a great worry off my mind," said Peter soberly. "I was
afraid, since we were to be such friends, and you wanted my help in the
whirligig this winter, that you might not like my possibly having to
live in Albany."

"Can't you live in New York?" said Leonore, looking horrified.

"No."

"Then I don't like it at all," said Leonore. "It's no good having
friends if they don't live near one."

"That's what I think," said Peter. "I suppose I couldn't tempt you to
come and keep house for me?"

"Now I must snub him," thought Leonore. "No," she said, "It will be bad
enough to do that five years from now, for the man I love." She looked
out from under her eyelashes to see if her blow had been fatal, and
concluded from the glumness in Peter's face, that she really had been
too cruel. So she added: "But you may give me a ball, and we'll all come
up and stay a week with you."

Peter relaxed a little, but he said dolefully, "I don't know what I
shall do. I shall be in such need of your advice in politics and
housekeeping."

"Well," said Leonore, "if you really find that you can't get on without
help, we'll make it two weeks. But you must get up toboggan parties, and
other nice things."

"I wonder what the papers will say," thought Peter, "if a governor gives
toboggan parties?"

After the late breakfast, Peter was taken down to see the tournament. He
thought he would not mind it, since he was allowed to sit next Leonore.
But he did. First he wished that she wouldn't pay so much attention to
the score. Then that the men who fluttered round her would have had the
good taste to keep away. It enraged Peter to see how perfectly willing
she was to talk and chat about things of which he knew nothing, and how
more than willing the men were. And then she laughed at what they said!

"That's fifteen-love, isn't it?" Leonore asked him presently.

"He doesn't look over fifteen," actually growled Peter. "I don't know
whether he's in love or not. I suppose he thinks he is. Boys fifteen
years old always do."

Leonore forgot the score, even, in her surprise. "Why," she said, "you
growl just like Betise (the mastiff). Now I know what the papers mean
when they say you roar."

"Well," said Peter, "it makes me cross to see a lot of boys doing
nothing but hit a small ball, and a lot more looking at them and
thinking that it's worth doing." Which was a misstatement. It was not
that which made Peter mad.

"Haven't you ever played tennis?"

"Never. I don't even know how to score."

"Dear me," said Leonore, "You're dreadfully illiterate."

"I know it," growled Peter, "I don't belong here, and have no business
to come. I'm a ward boss, and my place is in saloons. Don't hesitate to
say it."

All this was very foolish, but it was real to Peter for the moment, and
he looked straight ahead with lines on his face which Leonore had never
seen before. He ought to have been ordered to go off by himself till he
should be in better mood.

Instead Leonore turned from the tennis, and said: "Please don't talk
that way, Peter. You know I don't think that." Leonore had understood
the misery which lay back of the growl. "Poor fellow," she thought, "I
must cheer him up." So she stopped looking at the tennis. "See," she
said, "there are Miss Winthrop and Mr. Pell. Do take me over to them and
let me spring my surprise. You talk to Miss Winthrop."

"Why, Peter!" said Pell. "When did you come?"

"Last night. How do you do, Miss Winthrop?" Then for two minutes Peter
talked, or rather listened, to that young lady, though sighing
internally. Then, _Laus Deo!_ up came the poor little chap, whom Peter
had libelled in age and affections, only ten minutes before, and set
Peter free. He turned to see how Leonore's petard was progressing, to
find her and Pell deep in tennis. But just as he was going to expose his
ignorance on that game, Leonore said:

"Mr. Pell, what do you think of the political outlook?"

Pell sighed internally, "You can read it in the papers," he said.

"No. I want your opinion. Especially about the great departure the
Democratic Convention is going to make."

"You mean in endorsing Maguire?"

Leonore began to visibly swell in importance. "Of course not," she said,
contemptuously. "Every one knows that that was decided against at the
Manhattan dinner. I mean the unusual resolution about the next senator."

Pell ceased to sigh. "I don't know what you mean?" he said.

"Not really?" said Leonore incredulously, her nose cocking a little more
airily. "I thought of course you would know about it. I'm so surprised!"

Pell looked at her half quizzingly, and half questioningly. "What is the
resolution?"

"Naming a candidate for the vacancy for the Senate."

"Nonsense," said Pell, laughing. "The convention has nothing to do with
the senators. The Legislature elects them." He thought, "Why can't
women, if they will talk politics, at least learn the ABC."

"Yes," said Leonore, "but this is a new idea. The Senate has behaved so
badly, that the party leaders think it will be better to make it a more
popular body by having the New York convention nominate a man, and then
they intend to make the legislature elect him. If the other states will
only follow New York's lead, it may make the Senate respectable and open
to public opinion."

Pell sniffed obviously. "In what fool paper did you read that?"

"I didn't read it," said Leonore, her eyes dancing with delight. "The
papers are always behind the times. But I didn't think that you would
be, since you are to be named in the resolution."

Pell looked at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't you know that the Convention will pass a resolution, naming you
for next senator?" said Leonore, with both wonder and pity in her face
and voice.

"Who told you that?" said Pell, with an amount of interest blended with
doubt that was a decided contrast to a moment ago.

"That's telling," said Leonore. "You know, Mr. Pell, that one mustn't
tell people who are outside the party councils everything."

"I believe you are trying to stuff me," said Pell, "If it is so, or
anything like it, you wouldn't know."

"Oh," said Leonore, tantalizingly, "I could tell you a great deal more
than that. But of course you don't care to talk politics with a girl."

Pell weakened. "Tell me who told you about it?"

"I think we must go home to lunch," said Leonore, turning to Peter, who
had enjoyed Leonore's triumph almost as much as she had.

"Peter," said Pell, "have you heard what Miss D'Alloi has been saying?"

"Part of it."

"Where can she have picked it up?

"I met Miss D'Alloi at a lunch at the White House, last June," said
Peter seriously, "and she, and the President, and I, talked politics.
Politically, Miss D'Alloi is rather a knowing person. I hope you haven't
been saying anything indiscreet, Miss D'Alloi?"

"I'm afraid I have," laughed Leonore, triumphantly, adding, "but I won't
tell anything more."

Pell looked after them as they went towards the carriage. "How
extraordinary!" he said. "She couldn't have it from Peter. He tells
nothing. Where the deuce did she get it, and is it so?" Then he said:
"Senator Van Brunt Pell," with a roll on all the r's. "That sounds well.
I wonder if there's anything in it?"

"I think," said Leonore to Peter, triumphantly "that he would like to
have talked politics. But he'll get nothing but torture from me if he
tries."

It began to dawn on Peter that Leonore did not, despite her frank
manner, mean all she said. He turned to her, and asked:

"Are you really in earnest in saying that you'll refuse every man who
asks you to marry him within five years?"

Leonore's triumph scattered to the four winds. "What an awfully impudent
question," she thought, "after my saying it so often. What shall I
answer?" She looked Peter in the eye with severity. "I shan't refuse,"
she said, "because I shan't even let him speak. If any man dares to
attempt it, I'll tell him frankly I don't care to listen."

"She really means it," sighed Peter internally. "Why is it, that the
best girls don't care to marry?" Peter became very cross, and, what is
worse, looked it.

Nor was Leonore much better, "There," she said, "I knew just how it
would be. He's getting sulky already. He isn't nice any more. The best
thing will be to let him speak, for then he'll go back to New York, and
won't bother me." The corners of her mouth drew away down, and life
became very gray.

So "the best of friends" rode home from the Casino, without so much as
looking at each other, much less speaking. Clearly Peter was right.
There was no good in trying to be friends any longer.

Precedent or habit, however, was too strong to sustain this condition
long. First Leonore had to be helped out of the carriage. This was
rather pleasant, for she had to give Peter her hand, and so life became
less unworth living to Peter. Then the footman at the door gave Peter
two telegraphic envelopes of the bulkiest kind, and Leonore too began to
take an interest in life again.

"What are they about?" she asked.

"The Convention. I came off so suddenly that some details were left
unarranged."

"Read them out loud," she said calmly, as Peter broke the first open.

Peter smiled at her, and said: "If I do, will you give me another
waltzing lesson after lunch?"

"Don't bargain," said Leonore, disapprovingly.

"Very well," said Peter, putting the telegrams in his pocket, and
turning towards the stairs.

Leonore let him go up to the first landing. But as soon as she became
convinced that he was really going to his room, she said, "Peter."

Peter turned and looked down at the pretty figure at the foot of the
stairs. He came down again. When he had reached the bottom he said,
"Well?"

Leonore was half angry, and half laughing. "You ought to want to read
them to me," she said, "since we are such friends."

"I do," said Peter, "And you ought to want to teach me to waltz, since
we are such friends."

"But I don't like the spirit," said Leonore.

Peter laughed. "Nor I," he said. "Still, I'll prove I'm the better, by
reading them to you."

"Now I will teach him," said Leonore to herself.

Peter unfolded the many sheets. "This is very secret, of course," he
said.

"Yes." Leonore looked round the hall as if she was a conspirator. "Come
to the window-seat upstairs," she whispered, and led the way. When they
had ensconced themselves there, and drawn the curtains, she said, "Now."

"You had better sit nearer me," said Peter, "so that I can whisper it."

"No," said Leonore. "No one can hear us." She thought, "I'd snub you for
that, if I wasn't afraid you wouldn't read it."

"You understand that you are not to repeat this to anyone." Peter was
smiling over something.

Leonore said, "Yes," half crossly and half eagerly.

So Peter read:

"Use Hudson knowledge counties past not belief local twenty imbecility
certified of yet till yesterday noon whose Malta could accurately it at
seventeen. Potomac give throw Haymarket estimated Moselle thirty-three
to into fortify through jurist arrived down right--"

"I won't be treated so!" interrupted Leonore, indignantly.

"What do you mean," said Peter, still smiling. "I'm reading it to you,
as you asked."

"No you are not. You are just making up."

"No," said Peter. "It's all here."

"Let me see it." Leonore shifted her seat so as to overlook Peter.

"That's only two pages," said Peter, holding them so that Leonore had to
sit very close to him to see. "There are eighteen more."

Leonore looked at them. "Was it written by a lunatic?" she asked.

"No." Peter looked at the end. "It's from Green. Remember. You are not
to repeat it to any one."

"Luncheon is served, Miss D'Alloi," said a footman.

"Bother luncheon," thought Peter.

"Please tell me what it means?" said Leonore, rising.

"I can't do that, till I get the key and decipher it."

"Oh!" cried Leonore, clapping her hands in delight. "It's a cipher. How
tremendously interesting! We'll go at it right after lunch and decipher
it together, won't we?"

"After the dancing lesson, you mean, don't you?" suggested Peter.

"How did you know I was going to do it?" asked Leonore.

"You told me."

"Never! I didn't say a word."

"You looked several," said Peter.

Leonore regarded him very seriously. "You are not 'Peter Simple' a bit,"
she said. "I don't like deep men." She turned and went to her room. "I
really must be careful," she told the enviable sponge as it passed over
her face, "he's a man who needs very special treatment. I ought to send
him right back to New York. But I do so want to know about the politics.
No. I'll keep friends till the campaign's finished. Then he'll have to
live in Albany, and that will make it all right. Let me see. He said the
governor served three years. That isn't five, but perhaps he'll have
become sensible before then."

As for Peter, he actually whistled during his ablutions, which was
something he had not done for many years. He could not quite say why,
but it represented his mood better than did his earlier growl.

CHAPTER LII.

A GUARDIAN ANGEL.

Peter had as glorious an afternoon as he had had a bad morning. First he
danced a little. Then the two sat at the big desk in the deserted
library and worked together over those very complex dispatches till they
had them translated. Then they had to discuss their import. Finally they
had to draft answers and translate them into cipher. All this with their
heads very close together, and an utter forgetfulness on the part of a
certain personage that snubbing rather than politics was her "plan of
campaign." But Leonore began to feel that she was a political power
herself, and so forgot her other schemes. When they had the answering
dispatches fairly transcribed, she looked up at Peter and said:

"I think we've done that very well," in the most approving voice. "Do
you think they'll do as we tell them?"

Peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly
and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was
noble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. Several times that
afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from
leaning over and taking one. He even went so far now as to speculate on
exactly what Leonore would do if he did. Fortunately his face was not
given to expressing his thoughts. Leonore never dreamed how narrow an
escape she had. "If only she wouldn't be so friendly and confiding,"
groaned Peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. "I can't do it,
when she trusts me so."

"Well," said Leonore, "perhaps when you've done staring at me, you'll
answer my question."

"I think they'll do as we tell them," smiled Peter. "But we'll get word
to-morrow about Dutchess and Steuben. Then we shall know better how the
land lies, and can talk plainer."

"Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?"

"Yes." To himself Peter said, "I must write Green and the rest to
telegraph me every day."

"Now we'll have a cup of tea," said Leonore. "I like politics."

"Then you would like Albany," said Peter, putting a chair for her by the
little tea-table.

"I wouldn't live in Albany for the whole world," said Leonore, resuming
her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger
with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty
vanished in a wail. "Oh!" she cried. "How it hurts."

"Let me see," said Peter sympathetically.

The little hand was held up. "It does hurt," said Leonore, who saw that
there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter
would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered.

But Peter treated it very seriously. "I'm sure it does," he said, taking
possession of the hand. "And I know how it hurts." He leaned over and
kissed the little thumb. Then he didn't care a scrap whether Leonore
liked Albany or not.

"I won't snub you this time," said Leonore to herself, "because you
didn't laugh at me for it."

Peter's evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from
dinner that she was going to a dance. "We have permission to take you.
Do you care to go?"

"Yes. If you'll give me some dances."

"I've told you once that I'll only give you the ones not taken by better
dancers. If you choose to stay round I'll take you for those."

"Do you ever have a dance over?" asked Peter, marvelling at such a
possibility.

"I've only been to one dance. I didn't have at that."

"Well," said Peter, growling a little, "I'll go."

"Oh," said Leonore, calmly, "don't put yourself out on my account."

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