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

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Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a
fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he
was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the
summer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks,
another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the
fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. They
all looked at Peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though the
greetings were civil enough, Peter's ready-made travelling suit, bought
in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of
jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great
consideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely
from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable
acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in the
way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. Under
his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show"
talk. Much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. It was made the
worse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before the
newcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to him. To
make Peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various questions.

"Do you like--?" a popular soubrette of the day.

"What, never seen her? Where on earth have you been living?"

"Oh? Well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a little
place."

They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared to
seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing
interest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in.

"I haven't got to work yet," answered Peter

"Looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could not
conceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage.
So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When time
had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a
man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goods
clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He could not,
however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the manly
high-minded, cultivated Harvard classmates, every moment of their
society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor asked
them to his. Peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found reading
or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way of
passing his evenings.

The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on his
friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Watts
had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr.
Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan.

"Do you know any New York people," he asked, "who will be likely to give
you cases?"

"No," said Peter.

"Then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said Mr.
Converse. "Get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before you
think of starting by yourself. You'll otherwise never get a client."

Peter shook his head. "I've thought it out," he added, as if that
settled it.

Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to
explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said,
"If that's so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between the
Battery and Canal Street." Later in the day, when he had time, he shook
his head, and said, "Poor devil! Like all the rest."

Anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street represented a fairly large
range of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and for the
next three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting rooms
and dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office,
far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it fitted with
a desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) and
a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his
Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday,
when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at
seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the sign
of:

PETER STIRLING

ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding
place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours
were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do with
himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then he
rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little
spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing
thereby. After that he took down a book--somebody "On Torts,"--and dug
into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this
book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he took
paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of
what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returning
the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his
memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter sat
down at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself.
He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and
furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours a
day, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of the
time? What could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking?
He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and
the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressed
his lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mind
wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot
July morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stood
in the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, to
make sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced about
the hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the two
flights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look of
summer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more at
his desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen and
began to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then
with pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became
straggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded
from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid
his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.

There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Most
of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for
years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was
in Peter's case. It was waiting--waiting--for what? If clients came, if
fame came, if every form of success came,--for what?

There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.
About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and
health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that
Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from
noon one day till daylight of the next.

CHAPTER IX.

HAPPINESS BY PROXY.

The window of Peter's office faced east, and the rays of the morning sun
shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness of
things mundane. He rose, and went downstairs, to find the night
watch-man just opening the building. Fortunately he had already met the
man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a
pleasant "good-morning," Peter passed into the street. It was a good
morning indeed, with all that freshness and coolness which even a great
city cannot take from a summer dawn. For some reason Peter felt more
encouraged. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his
loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. Perhaps it was only
the natural spring of twenty years. At all events, he felt dimly, that
miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet;
that he was going to fight on, come what might.

He turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a passing cart
for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned
north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper
and had reached the new avenue or "drive," which, by the liberality of
Mr. Tweed with other people's money, was then just approaching
completion. After walking the length of it, he turned back to his
boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight
the future to any extent.

As a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast The
presider over the box-office had ascertained that Peter had spent the
night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. He
failed, however, to carry out his intention. It was not the first time
that both he and his companions had decided to "roast" Peter, absent,
but had done other wise with Peter, present. He had also decided to say
to Peter, "Who's your dandy letter-writer?" But he also failed to do
that. This last intention referred to a letter that lay at Peters place,
and which was examined by each of the four in turn. That letter had an
air about it. It was written on linen paper of a grade which, if now
common enough, was not so common at that time. Then it was postmarked
from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the country.
Finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the wax bore the
impression of a crest. They were all rather disappointed when Peter put
that letter in his pocket, without opening it.

Peter read the letter at his office that morning. It was as follows:

GREY-COURT, July 21st.

DEAR. OLD MAN--

Like a fool I overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not
get my talk with you. You know I never get up early, and never
can, so you have only your refusal to let me in that night to
blame for our not having a last chat. If I had had the news to
tell you that I now have, I should not have let you keep me out,
even if you had forced me to break my way in.

Chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me,
and we are both as happy as happy can be, I know you will not be
in a moment's doubt as to who she is, I have only run down here to
break it to my family, and shall go back to the Shrubberies early
next week--to talk to Mr. Pierce, you understand!

My governor has decided that a couple of years' travel will keep
me out of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as
the prospect is not unpleasant, I am not going to let my new
plans interfere with it, merely making my journeyings a _solitude
a deux_, instead of solus. So we shall be married in September, at
the Shrubberies, and sail for Europe almost immediately.

Now, I want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other
things, and help me through. I want you, in short, to be my "best
man" as you have been my Best friend. "Best man," I should inform
you, is an English wedding institution, which our swell people
have suddenly discovered is a necessity to make a marriage
ceremony legal. He doesn't do much. Holding his principal's hat, I
believe, is the most serious duty that falls to him, though
perhaps not stepping on the bridal dresses is more difficult.

My Mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in
our next.

Aff.,

W.

Peter did not read law that morning. But after sitting in his chair for
a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something
quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face,
wrote two letters, as follows:

DEAR WATTS:

You hardly surprised me by your letter. I had suspected, both from
your frequent visits to the Shrubberies, and from a way in which
you occasionally spoke of Miss Pierce, that you loved her. After
seeing her, I felt that it was not possible you did not. So I was
quite prepared for your news. You have indeed been fortunate in
winning such a girl. That I wish you every joy and happiness I
need not say.

I think you could have found some other of the fellows better
suited to stand with you, but if you think otherwise, I shall not
fail you.

You will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. Perhaps you
can suggest a gift that will do? I remember Miss Pierce saying she
was very fond of pearls. Would it be right to give something of
that kind?

Faithfully yours,

PETER.

DEAR MISS PIERCE:

A letter from Watts this morning tells me of his good fortune.
Fearing lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, I write
to say that your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life,
and nothing which increases it can be other than good news to me.
If I can ever serve you in any way, you will be doing me a great
favor by telling me how.

Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, and believe me,

Yours ever sincerely,

PETER STIRLING.

After these letters were written, Peter studied the wall again for a
time. Studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched.
The wall had three cracks in it which approximated to an outline of
Italy, but though Peter gazed at this particular wall a good many hours
in the next few weeks, he did not discover this interesting fact till
long after this time of wall-gazing.

In the early morning and after dinner, in spite of the summer heat, he
took long walks. During the day he sat in his office doing nothing, with
the exception of an occasional letter to his mother, and one or two to
Watts in respect to the coming wedding. Two visits to the tailor's, and
another to Tiffany's, which resulted in a pearl pin rather out of
proportion to his purse, were almost the sole variations of this
routine. It was really a relief to this terrible inactivity, when he
found himself actually at the Shrubberies, the afternoon before the
wedding.

Peter was rather surprised at the ease with which he went through the
next twenty-four hours. It is true that the house was too full, and each
person too busy, to trouble the silent groomsman with attention, so he
might have done pretty much what he wished, without being noticed. He
arrived late, thus having no chance for greetings till after a hurried
dressing for dinner, when they were made in the presence of the whole
party, who had waited his coming to go to the meal. He went through the
ordeal well, even that with Miss Pierce, actually showing less
embarrassment than she did. What was more astonishing, he calmly offered
his arm to the bridesmaid who fell to his lot, and, after seating her,
chatted without thinking that he was talking. Indeed, he hardly heeded
what he did say, but spoke mechanically, as a kind of refuge from
thought and feeling.

"I didn't find him a bit so," the girl said to Miss Pierce, later in the
evening, with an indefiniteness which, if not merely feminine, must
presuppose a previous conversation. "He isn't exactly talkative, but he
is perfectly easy to get on with. I tried him on New York, and found he
had gone into a good many odd places and can tell about them. He
describes things very well, so that one sees them."

"It must be your tact, then, Miss Leroy," said Mrs. Pierce, "for we
could get nothing out of him before."

"No? I had nothing to do with it, and, between ourselves, I think he
disapproved of me. If Helen hadn't told me about him, I should have been
very cool to him, his manner was so objectionable. He clearly talked to
me because he felt it a duty, and not a pleasure."

"That's only that unfortunate manner of his," said Helen. "I really
think at heart he's dreadfully afraid of us. At least that's what Watts
says. But he only behaves as if--as if--well, you know what I mean,
Alice!"

"Exactly," said Alice. "You can't describe it. He's so cool, and stolid,
and silent, that you feel shoddy and cheap, and any simple little remark
doesn't seem enough to say. You try to talk up to him, and yet feel
small all the time."

"Not at all," said Helen. "You talk down to him, as if he
were--were--your old grandfather, or some one else you admired, but
thought very dull and old-fashioned."

"But the worst is the way he looks at you. So gravely, even when you try
to joke. Now I really think I'm passably pretty, but Mr. Stirling said
as plainly as could be: 'I look at you occasionally because that's the
proper thing to do, when one talks, but I much prefer looking at that
picture over your head.' I don't believe he noticed how my hair was
dressed, or the color of my eyes. Such men are absolutely maddening.
When they've finished their smoke, I'm going to make him notice me."

But Miss Leroy failed in her plan, try as she would. Peter did not
notice girls any more. After worrying in his school and college days,
over what women thought of him and how they treated him, he had suddenly
ceased to trouble himself about them. It was as if a man, after long
striving for something, had suddenly discovered that he did not wish
it--that to him women's opinions had become worthless. Perhaps in this
case it was only the Fox and the Grapes over again. At all events, from
this time on Peter cared little what women did. Courteous he tried to
be, for he understood this to be a duty. But that was all. They might
laugh at him, snub him, avoid him. He cared not. He had struck women out
of his plan of life. And this disregard, as we have already suggested,
was sure to produce a strange change, not merely in Peter, but in
women's view and treatment of him. Peter trying to please them, by dull,
ordinary platitudes, was one thing. Peter avoiding them and talking to
them when needs must, with that distant, uninterested look and voice,
was quite another.

The next morning, Peter, after finding what a fifth wheel in a coach all
men are at weddings, finally stood up with his friend. He had not been
asked to stay on for another night, as had most of the bridal party, so
he slipped away as soon as his duty was done, and took a train that put
him into New York that evening. A week later he said good-bye to the
young couple, on the deck of a steamship.

"Don't forget us, Peter," shouted Watts, after the fasts were cast off
and the steamer was slowly moving into mid-stream.

Peter waved his hat, and turning, walked off the pier.

"Could he forget them?" was the question he asked himself.

CHAPTER X

WAITING.

"My friend," said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man, who
with all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer the
world quickly, "youth has many things to learn, but one of the most
important is never to let another man beat you at waiting."

Peter went back to his desk, and waited. He gave up looking at the wall
of his office, and took to somebody "On Torts" again. When that was
finished he went through the other law books of his collection. Those
done, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughness
and persistence. In one of his many walks, he stumbled upon the
Apprentices' Library. Going in, he inquired about its privileges, and
became a regular borrower of books. Peter had always been a reader, but
now he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his law
study. Although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read,
but really mastered was marvellous. Books which he liked, without much
regard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simple
life left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects within
moderation. He was particularly careful to read a classic occasionally
to keep up his Greek and Latin, and for the same reason he read French
and German books aloud to himself. Before the year was out, he was a
recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to
browse at will both among old and new books without interference or
suggestion from the "stock" clerks. "There isn't any good trying to sell
him anything," remarked one. "He makes up his mind for himself."

His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres
grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by
another recreation now become habitual with him. In his long tramps
about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat
with people--with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a
truckster. It mattered little who it was. Then he often entered
manufactories and "yards" and asked if he could go through them,
studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about the
trade. When he occasionally encountered some one who told him "your kind
ain't got no business here" he usually found the statement "my father
was a mill-overseer" a way to break down the barrier. He had to use it
seldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which seldom
failed to make them feel that he was one of them. After such inspection
and chat, he would get books from the library, and read up about the
business or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy works
otherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge of many
subjects. Just how interesting he found such books as "Our
Fire-Laddies," which he read from cover to cover, after an inspection
of, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; or
Latham's "The Sewage Difficulty," which the piping of uptown New York
induced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable.
Probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthier
than gazing at blank walls.

When the courts opened, Peter kept track of the calendars, and whenever
a case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the great
lights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. He tried to
write out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practice
induced him to give two evenings a week during the winter mastering
shorthand. It was really only a mental discipline, for any case of
importance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but Peter
was trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, and
employed this as one of the means.

When winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned to
other things. More from necessity than choice, he visited the art and
other exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays,
all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter were
the most seldom indulged in. Art and music did not come easy to him, but
he read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the reviews of
the daily press, and just because there was so much in both that he
failed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently.

One trait of his New England training remained to him. He had brought a
letter from his own Congregational church in his native town, to one of
the large churches of the same sect in New York, and when admitted,
hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning and
evening service. In time this produced a call from his new pastor. It
was the first new friend he had gained in New York. "He seems a quiet,
well-informed fellow," was the clergyman's comment; "I shall make a
point of seeing something of him." But he was pastor of a very large and
rich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man, so
his intention was not realized.

Peter spent Christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little over
his loss of flesh.

"You have been overworking," she said anxiously.

"Why mother, I haven't had a client yet," laughed Peter.

"Then you've worried over not getting on," said his mother, knowing
perfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. She had hoped that Peter
would be satisfied with his six months' trial, but did not mention her
wish. She marvelled to herself that New York had not yet discovered his
greatness.

When Peter returned to the city, he made a change in his living
arrangements. His boarding-place had filled up with the approach of
winter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. Even though
he met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him. When
a room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very cheap
price, he decided to use it as a bedroom. So he moved his few belongings
on his return from his visit to his mother's.

Although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders,
nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to speak
of his leaving. Two or three affected to be pleased, but
"Butter-and-cheese" said he "was a first-rate chap," and this seemed to
gain the assent of the table generally.

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