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 à 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.