A NEW FRIEND.
The day after this episode, Peter had the very unusual experience of a
note by his morning’s mail. Except for his mother’s weekly letter, it
was the first he had received since Watts had sailed, two years before.
For the moment he thought that it must be from him, and the color came
into his face at the mere thought that he would have news of—of—Watts.
But a moment’s glance at the writing showed him he was wrong, and he
tore the envelope with little interest in his face. Indeed after he had
opened it, he looked at his wall for a moment before he fixed his mind
on it.
It contained a brief note, to this effect:
“A recent trial indicates that Mr. Stirling needs neither praise not
reward as incentives for the doing of noble deeds.
“But one who prefers to remain unknown cannot restrain her grateful
thanks to Mr. Stirling for what he did; and being debarred from such
acts herself, asks that at least she may be permitted to aid him in
them by enclosing a counsel fee for ‘the case of the tenement children
of New York against the inhumanity of men’s greed.’
“September third.”
Peter looked at the enclosure, and found it was a check for five
hundred dollars. He laid it on his desk, and read the note over again.
It was beyond question written by a lady. Every earmark showed that,
from the delicate scent of the paper, to the fine, even handwriting.
Peter wanted to know who she was. He looked at the check to see by whom
it was signed; to find that it was drawn by the cashier of the bank at
which it was payable.
Half an hour later, a rapid walk had brought him to the bank the name
of which was on the check. It was an uptown one, which made a specialty
of family and women’s accounts. Peter asked for the cashier.
“I’ve called about this check,” he said, when that official
materialized, handing the slip of paper to him.
“Yes,” said the cashier kindly, though with a touch of the resigned
sorrow in his voice which cashiers of “family’s” and women’s banks
acquire. “You must sign your name on the back, on the left-hand end,
and present it to the paying-teller, over at that window. You’ll have
to be identified if the paying-teller doesn’t know you.”
“I don’t want the money,” said Peter, “I want to know who sent the
check to me?”
The cashier looked at it more carefully. “Oh!” he said. Then he looked
up quickly at Peter? with considerable interest, “Are you Mr.
Stirling?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I filled this up by order of the president, and you’ll have to
see him about it, if you want more than the money.”
“Can I see him?”
“Come this way.”
They went into a small office at the end of the bank.
“Mr. Dyer,” said the cashier, “this is Mr. Stirling, and he’s come to
see about that check.”
“Glad to see you, Mr. Stirling. Sit down.”
“I wish to learn who sent the check.”
“Very sorry we can’t oblige you. We had positive instructions from the
person for whom we drew it, that no name was to be given.”
“Can you receive a letter?”
“That was forbidden too.”
“A message?”
“Nothing was said about that.”
“Then will you do me the favor to say to the lady that the check will
not be cashed till Mr. Stirling has been able to explain something to
her.”
“Certainly. She can’t object to that.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.” The president rose and escorted him to the door. “That
was a splendid speech of yours, Mr. Stirling,” he added. “I’m not a bit
ashamed to say that it put salt water in my old eyes.”
“I think,” said Peter, “it was the deaths of the poor little children,
more than anything I said, that made people feel it.”
The next morning’s mail brought Peter a second note, in the same
handwriting as that of the day before. It read:
“Miss De Voe has received Mr. Stirling’s message and will be pleased to
see him in regard to the check, at half after eleven to-day (Wednesday)
if he will call upon her.
“Miss De Voe regrets the necessity of giving Mr. Stirling such brief
notice, but she leaves New York on Thursday.”
As Peter walked up town that morning, he was a little surprised that he
was so cool over his intended call. In a few minutes he would be in the
presence of a lady, the firmness of whose handwriting indicated that
she was not yet decrepit. Three years ago such a prospect would have
been replete with terror to him. Down to that—that week at the
Pierce’s, he had never gone to a place where he expected to “encounter”
(for that was the word he formerly used) women without dread. Since
that week—except for the twenty-four hours of the wedding, he had not
“encountered” a lady. Yet here he was, going to meet an entire stranger
without any conscious embarrassment or suffering. He was even in a
sense curious. Peter was not given to self-analysis, but the change was
too marked a one for him to be unconscious of it. Was it merely the
poise of added years? Was it that he had ceased to care what women
thought of him? Or was it that his discovery that a girl was lovable
had made the sex less terrible to him? Such were the questions he asked
himself as he walked, and he had not answered them when he rang the
bell of the old-fashioned, double house on Second Avenue.
He was shown into a large drawing-room, the fittings of which were
still shrouded in summer coverings, preventing Peter from inferring
much, even if he had had time to do so. But the butler had scarcely
left him when, with a well-bred promptness from which Peter might have
drawn an inference, the rustle of a woman’s draperies was heard.
Rising, Peter found himself facing a tall, rather slender woman of
between thirty-five and forty. It did not need a second glance from
even Peter’s untrained eye, to realize the suggestion of breeding in
the whole atmosphere about her. The gown was of the simplest summer
material, but its very simplicity, and a certain lack of “latest
fashion” rather than “old-fashionedness” gave it a quality of
respectability. Every line of the face, the set of the head, and even
more the carriage of the figure, conveyed the “look of race.”
“I must thank you, Mr. Stirling,” she said, speaking deliberately, in a
low, mellow voice, by no means so common then as our women’s imitation
of the English tone and inflexion has since made it, “for suiting your
time to mine on such short notice.”
“You were very kind,” said Peter, “to comply with my request. Any time
was convenient to me.”
“I am glad it suited you.”
Peter had expected to be asked to sit down, but, nothing being said,
began his explanation.
“I am very grateful, Miss De Voe, for your note, and for the check. I
thank you for both. But I think you probably sent me the latter through
a mistake, and so I did not feel justified in accepting it.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes. The papers made many errors in their statements. I’m not a ‘poor
young lawyer’ as they said. My mother is comfortably off, and gives me
an ample allowance.”
“Yes?”
“And what is more,” continued Peter, “while they were right in saying
that I paid some of the expenses of the case, yet I was more than
repaid by my fees in some civil suits I brought for the relatives of
the children, which we settled very advantageously.”
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Stirling?” said Miss De Voe. “I should like to
hear about the cases.”
Peter began a very simple narrative of the matter. But Miss De Voe
interjected questions or suppositions here and there, which led to
other explanations, and before Peter had finished, he had told not
merely the history of the cases, but much else. His mention of the two
Dooley children had brought out the fact of their visit to his mother,
and this had explained incidentally her position in the world. The
settlement of the cases involved the story of the visit to the brewer’s
home, and Peter, to justify his action, added his interview with his
pastor, Peter’s connection with the case compelled him to speak of his
evenings in the “angle,” and the solitary life that had sent him there.
Afterwards, Peter was rather surprised at how much he had told. He did
not realize that a woman with tact and experience can, without making
it evident, lead a man to tell nearly anything and everything he knows,
if she is so minded. If women ever really take to the bar seriously,
may Providence protect the average being in trousers, when on the
witness stand.
As Peter talked, a clock struck. Stopping short, he rose. “I must ask
your pardon,” he said. “I had no idea I had taken so much of your
time.” Then putting his hand in his pocket, he produced the check. “You
see that I have made a very good thing out of the whole matter and do
not need this.”
“One moment, Mr. Stirling,” said the lady, still sitting. “Can you
spare the time to lunch with me? We will sit down at once, and you
shall be free to go whenever you wish.”
Peter hesitated. He knew that he had the time, and it did not seem easy
to refuse without giving an excuse, which he did not have. Yet he did
not feel that he had the right to accept an invitation which he had
perhaps necessitated by his long call.
“Thank you,” said his hostess, before he had been able to frame an
answer. “May I trouble you to pull that bell?”
Peter pulled the bell, and coming back, tendered the check rather
awkwardly to Miss De Voe. She, however, was looking towards a doorway,
which the next moment was darkened by the butler.
“Morden,” she said, “you may serve luncheon at once.”
“Luncheon is served, madam,” said Morden.
Miss De Voe rose. “Mr. Stirling, I do not think your explanation has
really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check. You
acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and
received no fees for trying it. As I wrote you, I merely was giving a
retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, I still
wish to do it. I cannot do such things myself, but I am weal—I—I can
well afford to aid others to do them, and I hope you will let me have
the happiness of feeling that I have done my little in this matter.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I was quite willing to take the money, but I
was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception.”
Miss De Voe smiled at Peter with a very nice look in her face. “I am
the one to say ‘thank you,’ and I am most grateful. But we will
consider that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place.”
Peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the
beauty of the table service. The meal itself was the simplest of summer
luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never
seen before.
“What wine will you have with your luncheon, Mr. Stirling?” he was
asked by his hostess.
“I don’t—none for me,” replied Peter.
“You don’t approve of wine?” asked his hostess.
“Personally I have no feeling about it.”
“But?” And there was a very big question mark in Miss De Voe’s voice.
“My mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so I do not take it. It
is really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to
her if I drank.”
This started the conversation on Peter’s mother and his early years,
and before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much
more about his origin and his New York life. The clock finally cut him
short again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was
finished, though Miss De Voe made the pretence of eating a grape
occasionally. When three o’clock struck, Peter, without the least
simulating any other cause for going, rose hastily.
“I have used up your whole afternoon,” he said, apologetically.
“I think,” smiled Miss De Voe, “that we are equal culprits in that. I
leave town to-morrow, Mr. Stirling, but return to the city late in
October, and if your work and inclination favor it, I hope you will
come to see me again?”
Peter looked at the silver and the china. Then he looked at Miss De
Voe, so obviously an aristocrat.
“I shall be happy to,” he said, “if, when you return, you will send me
word that you wish to see me.”
Miss De Voe had slightly caught her breath while Peter hesitated. “I
believe he is going to refuse!” she thought to herself, a sort of
stunned amazement seizing her. She was scarcely less surprised at his
reply.
“I never ask a man twice to call on me, Mr. Stirling,” she said, with a
slight hauteur in her voice.
“I’m sorry for that,” said Peter quietly.
Miss De Voe caught her breath again. “Good-afternoon,” she said,
holding out her hand. “I shall hope to see you.”
“Good-bye,” said Peter, and the next moment was walking towards his
office.
Miss De Voe stood for a moment thinking. “That was curious,” she
thought, “I wonder if he intends to come?”
The next evening she was dining with relatives in one of the
fashionable summering places, and was telling them about her call “from
Mr. Stirling, the lawyer who made that splendid speech.”
“I thought,” she said, “when I received the message, that I was going
to be buried under a bathos of thanks, or else have my gift declined
with the expectation that I would gush over the disinterestedness of
the refusal. Since I couldn’t well avoid seeing him, I was quite
prepared to snub him, or to take back the money without a word. But he
wasn’t a bit that kind of creature. He isn’t self-assured nor
tonguey—rather the reverse. I liked him so, that I forced him to stay
to luncheon, and made him tell me a good deal about himself, without
his knowing I was doing so. He leads a very unusual life, without
seeming conscious that he does, and he tells about it very well. Uses
just the right word every time, so that you know exactly what he means,
without taxing your own brain to fill up blanks. He has such a nice
voice too. One that makes you certain of the absolute truth underneath.
No. He isn’t good looking, though he has fine eyes, and hair. His face
and figure are both too heavy.”
“Is he a gentleman, cousin Anneke?” asked one of the party.
“He is a little awkward, and over-blunt at moments, but nothing to
which one would give a second thought. I was so pleased with him that I
asked him to call on me.”
“It seems to me,” said another, “that you are over-paying him.”
“That was the most curious part,” replied Miss De Voe. “I’m not at all
sure that he means to come. It was really refreshing not to be truckled
to, but it is rather startling to meet the first man who does not want
to win his way to my visiting list. I don’t think he even knows who
Miss De Voe is.”
“He will find out quick enough,” laughed a girl, “and then he will do
what they all do.”
“No,” said Miss De Voe. “I suspect it will make no difference. He isn’t
that kind, I think. I really am curious to see if I have to ask him a
second time. It will be the only case I can remember. I’m afraid, my
dears, your cousin is getting to be an old woman.”
Peter, had in truth, met, and spent over four hours in the company of a
woman whom every one wished to know. A woman equally famous for her
lineage, her social position, her wealth and her philanthropy. It would
not have made any difference, probably, had he known it, though it
might have increased his awkwardness a little. That he was not quite as
unconscious as Miss De Voe seemed to think, is shown by a passage in a
letter he wrote to his mother:
“She was very much interested in the case, and asked a good many
questions about it, and about myself. Some which I would rather not
have answered, but since she asked them I could not bring myself to
dodge them. She asked me to come and see her again. It is probably
nothing but a passing interest, such as this class feel for the
moment.”—[Then Peter carefully inked out “such as this class feel for
the moment,” and reproved himself that his bitterness at—at—at one
experience, should make him condemn a whole class]—“but if she asks me
again I shall go, for there is something very sweet and noble about
her. I think she is probably some great personage.”
Later on in the letter he wrote:
“If you do not disapprove, I will put this money in the savings bank,
in a special or trustee account, and use it for any good that I can do
for the people about here. I gave the case my service, and do not think
I am entitled to take pay when the money can be so much better employed
for the benefit of the people I tried to help.”