CHAPTER LIV.
OBSTINACY.
The next morning Peter found that his prayer for a rainy day had beenanswered, and came down to breakfast in the pleasantest of humors.
"See how joyful his future Excellency looks already," said Watts,promptly recalling Peter to the serious part of life. And fortunatelytoo, for from that moment, the time which he had hoped to have alone (if_two_ ever can be alone), began to be pilfered from him. Hardly werethey seated at breakfast when Pell dropped in to congratulate him, andfrom that moment, despite the rain, every friend in Newport seemed tofeel it a bounden duty to do the same, and to stay the longer because ofthe rain. Peter wished he had set the time for the Convention two daysearlier or two days later.
"I hope you won't ask any of these people to luncheon," Peter said in anaside to Mrs. D'Alloi.
"Why?" he was asked.
Peter looked puzzled, and finally said weakly, "I--I have a good deal todo."
And then as proper punishment for his misdemeanor, the footmanannounced Dorothy and Miss Biddle, Ray and Ogden. Dorothy sailed intothe room with the announcement:
"We've all come to luncheon if we are asked."
"Oh, Peter," said Ray, when they were seated at the table. "Have youseen this morning's 'Voice of Labor?' No? Good gracious, they've rakedup that old verse in Watts's class-song and print it as proof that youwere a drunkard in your college days. Here it is. Set to music andheaded 'Saloon Pete.'"
"Look here, Ray, we must write to the 'Voice' and tell them the truth,"said Watts.
"Never write to the paper that tells the lie," said Peter, laughing."Always write to the one that doesn't. Then it will go for the otherpaper. But I wouldn't take the trouble in this case. The oppositionwould merely say that: 'Of course Mr. Stirling's intimate friends arebound to give such a construction to the song, and the attempt does themcredit.'"
"But why don't you deny it, Peter?" asked Leonore anxiously. "It's awfulto think of people saying you are a drunkard!"
"If I denied the untruths told of me I should have my hands full. Nobodybelieves such things, except the people who are ready to believe them.They wouldn't believe otherwise, no matter what I said. If you think aman is a scoundrel, you are not going to believe his word."
"But, Peter," said Mrs. D'Alloi, "you ought to deny them for the future.After you and your friends are dead, people will go back to thenewspapers, and see what they said about you, and then will misjudgeyou."
"I am not afraid of that. I shall hardly be of enough account to figurein history, or if I become so, such attacks will not hurt me. Why,Washington was charged by the papers of his day, with being a murderer,a traitor, and a tyrant. And Lincoln was vilified to an extent whichseems impossible now. The greater the man, the greater the abuse."
"Why do the papers call you 'Pete'?" asked Leonore, anxiously. "I ratherlike Peter, but Pete is dreadful!"
"To prove that I am unfit to be governor."
"Are you serious?" asked Miss Biddle.
"Yes. From their point of view, the dropping of the 'r' ought toconvince voters that I am nothing but a tough and heeler."
"But it won't!" declared Leonore, speaking from vast experience.
"I don't think it will. Though if they keep at it, and really convincethe voters who can be convinced by such arguments, that I am what theycall me, they'll elect me."
"How?" asked Mrs. D'Alloi.
"Because intelligent people are not led astray but outraged by sucharguments, and ignorant people, who can be made to believe all that issaid of me, by such means, will think I am just the man for whom theywant to vote."
"How is it possible that the papers can treat you so?" said Watts. "Theeditors know you?"
"Oh, yes. I have met nearly every man connected with the New Yorkpress."
"They must know better?"
"Yes. But for partisan purposes they must say what they do."
"Then they are deliberately lying to deceive the people?" asked MissBiddle.
"It's rather a puzzling matter in ethics," said Peter. "I don't thinkthat the newspaper fraternity have any lower standard of morals, thanmen in other professions. In the main they stand for everything that isadmirable, so long as it's non-partisan, and some of the men who to-dayare now writing me down, have aided me in the past more than I can say,and are at this moment my personal friends."
"How dishonest!"
"I cannot quite call it that. When the greatest and most honorablestatesmen of Europe and America will lie and cheat each other to theirutmost extent, under cover of the term 'diplomacy,' and get rewarded andpraised by their respective countries for their knavery, provided it issuccessful, I think 'dishonest' is a strong word for a merely partisanpress. Certain it is, that the partisan press would end to-morrow, butfor the narrowness and meanness of readers."
"Which they cause," said Ogden.
"Just as much," said Peter, "as the saloon makes a drunkard, food causeshunger, and books make readers."
"But, at least, you must acknowledge they've got you, when they say youare the saloon-keepers' friend," laughed Watts.
"Yes. I am that--but only for votes, you understand."
"Mr. Stirling, why do you like saloons?" asked Miss Biddle.
"I don't like saloons. My wish is to see the day come, when such a grossform of physical enjoyment as tippling shall cease entirely. But tillthat day comes, till humanity has taught itself and raised itself, Iwant to see fair play."
"What do you mean?"
"The rich man can lay in a stock of wine, or go to a hotel or club, andget what he wants at any time and all times. It is not fair, because aman's pockets are filled with nickels instead of eagles, that he shallnot have the same right. For that reason, I have always spoken for thesaloon, and even for Sunday openings. You know what I think myself ofthat day. You know what I think of wine. But if I claim the right tospend Sunday in my way and not to drink, I must concede an equal rightto others to do as they please. If a man wants to drink at any time,what right have I to say he shall not?"
"But the poor man goes and makes a beast of himself," said Watts.
"There is as much champagne drunkenness as whisky drunkenness, inproportion to the number of drinkers of each. But a man who drinkschampagne, is sent home in a cab, and is put to bed, while the man whocan't afford that kind of drink, and is made mad by poisoned anddoctored whisky, doctored and poisoned because of our heavy tax on it,must take his chance of arrest. That is the shameful thing about all ourso-called temperance legislation. It's based on an unfair interferencewith personal liberty, and always discriminates in favor of the man withmoney. If the rich man has his club, let the poor man have his saloon."
"How much better, though," said Mrs. D'Alloi, "to stop the sale of wineeverywhere."
"That is neither possible nor right. You can't strengthen humanity bytying its hands. It must be left free to become strong. I have thoughtmuch about the problem, and I see only one fair and practical means ofbettering our present condition. But boss as the papers say I am, I amnot strong enough to force it."
"What is that, Peter?" asked Dorothy.
"So long as a man drinks in such a way as not to interfere with anotherperson's liberty we have no right to check him. But the moment he does,the public has a right to protect itself and his family, by restraininghim, as it does thieves, or murderers, or wife-beaters. My idea is, thata license, something perhaps like our dog-license, shall be given toevery one who applies for it. That before a man can have a drink, thislicense must be shown. Then if a man is before the police court a secondtime, for drunkenness, or if his family petition for it, his licenseshall be cancelled, and a heavy fine incurred by any one who gives orsells that man a drink thereafter."
"Oh," laughed Watts, "you are heavenly! Just imagine a host saying tohis dinner-party, 'Friends, before this wine is passed, will you pleaseshow me your drink licenses.'"
"You may laugh, Watts," said Peter, "but such a request would have savedmany a young fellow fr
om ruin, and society from an occasional terribleoccurrence which even my little social experience has shown me. And itwould soon be so much a matter of course, that it would be no more thanshowing your ticket, to prove yourself entitled to a ride. It solves theproblem of drunkenness. And that is all we can hope to do, till humanityis--" Then Peter, who had been looking at Leonore, smiled.
"Is what?" asked Leonore.
"The rest is in cipher," said Peter, but if he had finished hissentence, it would have been, "half as perfect as you are."
After this last relay of callers had departed, it began to pour so noblythat Peter became hopeful once more. He wandered about, making aroom-to-room canvass, in search of happiness, and to his surprise sawhappiness descending the broad stair incased in an English shooting-cap,and a mackintosh.
"You are not going out in such weather?" demanded Peter.
"Yes. I've had no exercise to-day, and I'm going for a walk."
"It's pouring torrents," expostulated Peter.
"I know it."
"But you'll get wet through."
"I hope so. I like to walk in the rain."
Peter put his hand on the front door-handle, to which this conversationhad carried them, "You mustn't go out," he said.
"I'm going," said Leonore, made all the more eager now that it wasforbidden.
"Please don't," said Peter weakening.
"Let me pass," said Leonore decisively.
"Does your father know?"
"Of course not."
"Then you should ask him. It's no weather for you to walk in."
"I shan't ask him."
"Then I shall," and Peter went hurriedly to the library.
"Watts," he said, "it's raining torrents and Leonore insists on going towalk. Please say she is not to go."
"All right," said Watts, not looking up from his book.
That was enough. Peter sped back to the hall. It was empty. He put hishead into the two rooms. Empty. He looked out of the front door. Therein the distance, was that prettiest of figures, distinguishable evenwhen buried in a mackintosh. Peter caught up a cap from the hall rack,and set out in pursuit. Leonore was walking rapidly, but it did not takePeter many seconds to come up with her.
"Your father says you are not to go out."
"I can't help it, since I am out," said Leonore, sensibly.
"But you should come back at once."
"I don't care to," said Leonore.
"Aren't you going to obey him?"
"He never would have cared if you hadn't interfered. It's your orders,not his. So I intend to have my walk."
"You are to come back," said Peter.
Leonore stopped and faced him. "This is getting interesting," shethought. "We'll see who can be the most obstinate." Aloud she said, "Whosays so?"
"I do."
"And I say I shan't."
Peter felt his helplessness. "Please come back."
Leonore laughed internally. "I don't choose to."
"Then I shall have to make you."
"How?" asked Leonore.
That was a conundrum, indeed. If it had been a knotty law point, Peterwould have been less nonplussed by it.
Leonore felt her advantage, and used it shamefully. She knew that Peterwas helpless, and she said, "How?" again, laughing at him.
Peter groped blindly. "I shall make you," he said again, for lack ofanything better.
"Perhaps," said Leonore, helping him out, though with a most insultinglaugh in her voice and face, "you will get a string and lead me?"
Peter looked the picture of helplessness.
"Or you might run over to the Goelets', and borrow their baby'sperambulator," continued that segment of the Spanish Inquisition. Ifever an irritating, aggravating, crazing, exasperating, provokingfretting enraging, "I dare you," was uttered, it was in Leonore's manneras she said this.
Peter looked about hopelessly.
"Please hurry up and say how," Leonore continued, "for I want to getdown to the cliff walk. It's very wet here on the grass. Perhaps youwill carry me back? You evidently think me a baby in arms." "He's suchfun to tease," was her thought, "and you can say just what you pleasewithout being afraid of his doing anything ungentlemanly." Many a womandares to torture a man for just the same reason.
She was quite right as to Peter. He had recognized that he waspowerless; that he could not use force. He looked the picture of utterindecision. But as Leonore spoke, a sudden change came over his face andfigure. "Leonore had said it was wet on the grass! Leonore would wet herfeet! Leonore would take cold! Leonore would have pneumonia! Leonorewould die!" It was a shameful chain of argument for a light of the bar,logic unworthy of a school-boy. But it was fearfully real to Peter forthe moment, and he said to himself: "I must do it, even if she neverforgives me." Then the indecision left his face, and he took a stepforward.
Leonore caught her breath with a gasp. The "dare-you" look, suddenlychanged to a very frightened one, and turning, she sped across the lawn,at her utmost speed. She had read something in Peter's face, and feltthat she must fly, however ignominious such retreat might be.
Peter followed, but though he could have caught her in ten seconds, hedid not. As on a former occasion, he thought: "I'll let her get out ofbreath. Then she will not be so angry. At least she won't be able totalk. How gracefully she runs!"
Presently, as soon as Leonore became convinced that Peter did not intendto catch her, she slowed down to a walk. Peter at once joined her.
"Now," he said, "will you come back?"
Leonore was trying to conceal her panting. She was not going toacknowledge that she was out of breath since Peter wasn't. So she madeno reply.
"You are walking in the wrong direction," said Peter, laying his hand onher arm. Then, since she made no reply, his hand encircled the arm, andhe stopped. Leonore took two more steps. Then she too, curiously enough,halted.
"Stop holding me," she said, not entirely without betraying herbreathlessness.
"You are to come back," said Peter.
He got an awful look from those eyes. They were perfectly blazing withindignation.
"Stop holding me," she repeated.
It was a fearful moment to Peter. But he said, with an appeal in hisvoice, "You know I suffer in offending you. I did not believe that Icould touch you without your consent. But your health is dearer to methan your anger is terrible. You must come home."
So Leonore, realizing that helplessness in a man exists only by his ownvolition, turned, and began walking towards the now distant house. Peterat once released her arm, and walked beside her. Not a glimpse did heget of those dear eyes. Leonore was looking directly before her, and agrenadier could not have held himself straighter. If insulted dignitywas to be acted in pantomime, the actor could have obtained somevaluable points from that walk.
Peter walked along, feeling semi-criminal, yet semi-happy. He had savedLeonore from an early grave, and that was worth while doing. Then, too,he could look at her, and that was worth while doing. The run had madeLeonore's cheeks blaze, as Peter's touch had made her eyes. The rain hadcondensed in little diamonds on her stray curls, and on those longlashes. It seemed to Peter that he had never seen her lovelier. Thelonging to take her in his arms was so strong, that he almost wished shehad refused to return. But then Peter knew that she was deeply offended,and that unless he could make his peace, he was out of favor for a dayat least. That meant a very terrible thing to him. A whole day ofneglect; a whole day with no glimpse of these eyes; a whole day withouta smile from those lips!
Peter had too much sense to say anything at once. He did not speak tillthey were back in the hall. Leonore had planned to go straight to herroom, but Peter was rather clever, since she preceded him, in getting tothe foot of the staircase so rapidly that he was there first.
This secured him his moment for speech. He said simply: "Miss D'Alloi, Iask your forgiveness for offending you."
Leonore had her choice of standing silent, of pushing passed Peter, orof speakin
g. If she had done the first, or the second, her position wasabsolutely impregnable. But a woman's instinct is to seek defence orattack in words rather than actions. So she said: "You had no right, andyou were very rude." She did not look at Peter.
"It pained me far more than it could pain you."
Leonore liked Peter's tone of voice, but she saw that her position wasweakening. She said, "Let me by, please."
Peter with reluctance gave her just room to pass. He felt that he hadnot said half of what he wished, but he did not dare to offend again.
As it turned out, it was the best thing he could do, for the momentLeonore had passed him, she exclaimed, "Why! Your coat's wringing wet."
"That's nothing," said Peter, turning to the voice.
He found those big dark eyes at last looking at him, and looking at himwithout anger. Leonore had stopped on the step above him.
"That shows how foolish you were to go out in the rain," said Leonore.
"Yes," said Peter, venturing on the smallest smiles.
Leonore promptly explained the charge in Peter's "yes." "It's verydifferent," he was told. "I put on tips and a mackintosh. You didn't puton anything. And it was pouring torrents."
"But I'm tough," said Peter, "A wetting won't hurt me."
"So am I," said Leonore. "I've tramped for hours in the Orkneys, andSweden and Norway, when it was raining. But then I was dressed for it.Go and put on dry clothes at once."
That was what Peter had intended to do, but he saw his advantage. "Itisn't worth while," he said.
"I never heard of such obstinacy," said Leonore. "I pity your wife, ifyou ever get one. She'll have an awful time of it."
Peter did not like that view at all. But he did not forego at once hishope of getting some compensation out of Leonore's wish. So he said:"It's too much trouble to change my clothes, but a cup of your tea maykeep me from taking cold." It was nearly five, o'clock, and Peter waslonging for that customary half-hour at the tea-table.
Leonore said in the kindness of her heart, "When you've changed yourclothes, I'll make you a cup." Then she went upstairs. When she hadreached the second floor, she turned, and leaning over the balustrade ofthe gallery, said, "Peter."
"Yes," said Peter, surveying her from below, and thinking how lovely shewas.
Leonore was smiling saucily. She said in triumph: "I had my way. I didget my walk." Then she went to her room, her head having a veryvictorious carriage.
Peter went to his room, smiling. "It's a good lawyer," he told hismirror, "who compromises just enough to make both sides think they'vewon." Peter changed his clothes with the utmost despatch, and hurrieddownstairs to the tea-table. She was not there! Peter waited nearly fiveminutes quietly, with a patience almost colossal. Then he began to getrestless. He wandered about the room for another two minutes. Then hebecame woe-begone. "I thought she had forgiven me," he remarked.
"What?" said the loveliest of visions from the doorway. Most women wouldhave told one that the beauty lay in the Parisian tea-gown. Peter knewbetter. Still, he was almost willing to forgive Leonore the delay causedby the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory. "And itwill take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway," he thought.
"Hadn't I better put some rum into it to-day?" he was asked, presently.
"You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs," said Peter, takingpossession of that article.
"But then I can't put any sugar in."
"Fingers were made before forks," suggested Peter. "You don't want togive me anything bitter, do you?"
"You deserve it," said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers,and dropped them in the cup.
"I can't wait five years!" thought Peter, "I can't wait fivemonths--weeks--days--hours--minutes--sec----"
Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here. "Hello! Here you are.How cosy you look. I tried to find you both a few minutes ago, butthought you must have gone to walk after all. Here, Peter. Here's aspecial delivery letter, for which I receipted a while ago. Give me acup, Dot."
Peter said, "Excuse me," and, after a glance at the envelope, opened theletter with a sinking sensation. He read it quickly, and then reachedover and rang the bell. When the footman came, Peter rose and saidsomething in a low voice to him. Then he came back to his tea.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," asked Watts.
"Yes. At least I am called back to New York," said Peter gloomily.
"Bother," said Watts. "When?"
"I shall leave by the night express."
"Nonsense. If it was so important as that, they'd have wired you."
"It isn't a matter which could be telegraphed."
"What is it, Peter?" said Leonore, putting her finger in.
"It's confidential."
So Leonore did not ask again. But when the tea was finished, and all hadstarted upstairs, Leonore said, "Peter," on the landing. When Peterstopped, she whispered, "Why are you going to New York?"
"I can't tell you," said Peter.
"Yes, you can, now that papa isn't here."
"No."
"Yes. I know it's politics, and you are to tell me."
"It isn't politics."
"Then what is it?"
"You really want to know?"
"Of course."
"It's something really confidential."
Leonore gave Peter one look of insulted dignity, and went upstairs toher room. "He's different," she said. "He isn't a bit afraid ofdispleasing me any more. I don't know what to do with him."
Peter found Jenifer waiting. "Only pack the grip," he said. "I hope tocome back in a few days." But he looked very glum, and the glumnessstuck to him even after he had dressed and had descended to dinner.
"I am leaving my traps," he told Mrs. D'Alloi. "For I hope to be backnext week."
"Next week!" cried Watts. "What has been sprung on you that will takeyou that long?"
"It doesn't depend on me, unfortunately," said Peter, "or I wouldn'tgo."
When the carriage was announced later, Peter shook hands with Watts andMrs. D'Alloi, and then held out his hand to Leonore. "Good-bye," hesaid.
"Are you going to tell me why you are going?" said that young lady, withher hands behind her, in the prettiest of poses.
"No."
"Then I shan't say good-bye."
"I cannot tell you," said Peter, quietly; "please say good-bye."
"No."
That refusal caused Peter gloom all the way to the station. But ifLeonore could have looked into the future she would have seen in herrefusal the bitterest sorrow she had ever known.
The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him Page 54
