A RENEWAL.
If the American people had anglicized themselves as thoroughly into
liking three-volume stories, as they have in other things, it would be
a pleasure to trace the next ten years of Peter’s life; for his growing
reputation makes this period a far easier matter to chronicle than the
more obscure beginnings already recorded. If his own life did not
supply enough material we could multiply our characters, as did
Dickens, or journey sideways, into little essays, as did Thackeray. His
life and his biographer’s pen might fail to give interest to such
devices, but the plea is now for “realism,” which most writers take to
mean microscopical examination of minutia. If the physical and
psychical emotions of a heroine as she drinks a glass of water can
properly be elaborated so as to fill two printed pages, Peter’s life
could be extended endlessly. There were big cases, political fights,
globe trottings, and new friends, all of which have unlimited
potentialities for numerous chapters. But Americans are peculiar
people, and do not buy a pound of sugar any the quicker because its
bulk has been raised by a skilful admixture of moisture and sand. So it
seems best partly to take the advice of the Bellman, in the “Hunting of
the Snark,” to skip sundry years. In resuming, it is to find Peter at
his desk, reading a letter. He has a very curious look on his face, due
to the letter, the contents of which are as follows:
MARCH 22.
DEAR OLD CHUM—
Here is the wretched old sixpence, just as bad as ever—if not
worse—come back after all these years.
And as of yore, the sixpence is in a dreadful pickle, and appeals to
the old chum, who always used to pull him out of his scrapes, to do it
once more. Please come and see me as quickly as possible, for every
moment is important. You see I feel sure that I do not appeal in vain.
“Changeless as the pyramids” ought to be your motto.
Helen and our dear little girl will be delighted to see you, as will
Yours affectionately,
WATTS.
Peter opened a drawer and put the letter into it. Then he examined his
diary calendar. After this he went to a door, and, opening it, said:
“I am going uptown for the afternoon. If Mr. Murtha comes, Mr. Ogden
will see him.”.
Peter went down and took a cab, giving the driver a number in Grammercy
Park.
The footman hesitated on Peter’s inquiry. “Mr. D’Alloi is in, sir, but
is having his afternoon nap, and we have orders he’s not to be
disturbed.”
“Take him my card. He will see me.”
The footman showed Peter into the drawing-room, and disappeared. Peter
heard low voices for a moment, then the curtains of the back room were
quickly parted, and with hands extended to meet him, Helen appeared.
“This is nice of you—and so unexpected!”
Peter took the hand, but said nothing. They sat down, and Mrs. D’Alloi
continued:
“Watts is asleep, and I have given word that he is not to be disturbed.
I want to see you for a moment myself. You have plenty of time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very nice. I don’t want you to be formal with us. Do say that
you can stay to dinner?”
“I would, if I were not already engaged.”
“Then we’ll merely postpone it. It’s very good of you to come to see
us. I’ve tried to get Watts to look you up, but he is so lazy! It’s
just as well since you’ve found us out. Only you should have asked for
both of us.”
“I came on business,” said Peter.
Mrs. D’Alloi laughed. “Watts is the poorest man in the world for that,
but he’ll do anything he can to help you, I know. He has the warmest
feeling for you.”
Peter gathered from this that Mrs. D’Alloi did not know of the
“scrape,” whatever it was, and with a lawyer’s caution, he did not
attempt to disabuse her of the impression that he had called about his
own affairs.
“How you have changed!” Mrs. D’Alloi continued. “If I had not known who
it was from the card, I am not sure that I should have recognized you.”
It was just what Peter had been saying to himself of Mrs. D’Alloi. Was
it her long ill-health, or was it the mere lapse of years, which had
wrought such changes in her? Except for the eyes, everything had
altered. The cheeks had lost their roundness and color; the hair had
thinned noticeably; lines of years and pain had taken away the sweet
expression that formerly had counted for so much; the pretty roundness
of the figure was gone, and what charm it now had was due to the
modiste’s skill. Peter felt puzzled. Was this the woman for whom he had
so suffered? Was it this memory that had kept him, at thirty-eight,
still a bachelor? Like many another man, he found that he had been
loving an ideal—a creation of his own mind. He had, on a boyish fancy,
built a dream of a woman with every beauty and attraction, and had been
loving it for many years, to the exclusion of all other womankind. Now
he saw the original of his dream, with the freshness and glamour gone,
not merely from the dream, but from his own eyes. Peter had met many
pretty girls, and many sweet ones since that week at the Pierces. He
had gained a very different point of view of women from that callow
time.
Peter was not blunderer enough to tell Mrs. D’Alloi that he too, saw a
change. His years had brought tact, if they had not made him less
straightforward. So he merely said, “You think so?”
“Ever so much. You’ve really grown slender, in spite of your broad
shoulders—and your face is so—so different.”
There was no doubt about it. For his height and breadth of shoulder,
Peter was now by no means heavy. His face, too, had undergone a great
change. As the roundness had left it, the eyes and the forehead had
both become more prominent features, and both were good. The square,
firm jaw still remained, but the heaviness of the cheek and nose had
melted into lines which gave only strength and character, and destroyed
the dulness which people used to comment upon. The face would never be
called handsome, in the sense that regular features are supposed to
give beauty, but it was strong and speaking, with lines of thought and
feeling.
“You know,” laughed Mrs. D’Alloi, “you have actually become
good-looking, and I never dreamed that was possible!”
“How long have you been here?”
“A month. We are staying with papa, till the house in Fifty-seventh
Street can be put in order. It has been closed since Mrs. D’Alloi’s
death. But don’t let’s talk houses. Tell me about yourself.”
“There is little to tell. I have worked at my profession, with
success.”
“But I see your name in politics. And I’ve met many people in Europe
who have said you were getting very famous.”
“I spend a good deal of time in politics. I cannot say whether I have
made myself famous, or infamous. It seems to depend on which paper I
read.”
“Yes, I saw a paper on the steamer, that—” Mrs. D’Alloi hesitated,
remembering that it had charged Peter with about every known sin of
which man is capable. Then she continued, “But I knew it was wrong.”
Yet there was quite as much of question as of assertion in her remark.
In truth, Mrs. D’Alloi was by no means sure that Peter was all that was
desirable, for any charge made against a politician in this country has
a peculiar vitality and persistence. She had been told that Peter was
an open supporter of saloons, and that New York politics battened on
all forms of vice. So a favorite son could hardly have retained the
purity that women take as a standard of measurement. “Don’t you find
ward politics very hard?” she asked, dropping an experimental plummet,
to see what depths of iniquity there might be.
“I haven’t yet.”
“But that kind of politics must be very disagreeable to gentlemen. The
men must have such dirty hands!”
“It’s not the dirty hands which make American politics disagreeable.
It’s the dirty consciences.”
“Are—are politics so corrupt and immoral?”
“Politics are what the people make them.”
“Really?”
“I suppose your life has not been of a kind to make you very familiar
with it all. Tell me what these long years have brought you?”
“Perfect happiness! Oh, Mr. Stirling—may I call you Peter?—thank you.
Peter, I have the finest, noblest husband that ever lived! He is
everything that is good and kind!” Mrs. D’Alloi’s face lighted up with
happiness and tenderness.
“And your children?”
“We have only one. The sweetest, loveliest child you can imagine.”
“Fie, fie, Rosebud,” cried a voice from the doorway. “You shouldn’t
speak of yourself so, even if it is the truth. Leave that to me. How
are you, Peter, old fellow? I’d apologize for keeping you waiting, but
if you’ve had Helen, there’s no occasion. Isn’t it Boileau who said
that: ‘The best thing about many a man is his wife’?”
Mrs. D’Alloi beamed, but said, “It isn’t so, Peter. He’s much better
than I.”
Watts laughed. “You’ll have to excuse this, old man. Will happen
sometimes, even in the properest of families, if one marries an angel.”
“There, you see,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “He just spoils me, Peter.”
“And she thrives on it, doesn’t she, Peter?” said Watts. “Isn’t she
prettier even than she was in the old days?”
Mrs. D’Alloi colored with pleasure, even while saying: “Now, Watts
dear, I won’t swallow such palpable flattery. There’s one kiss for
it—Peter won’t mind—and now I know you two want to talk old times, so
I’ll leave you together. Good-bye, Peter—or rather _au revoir_—for you
must be a regular visitor now. Watts, arrange with Peter to dine with
us some day this week.”
Mrs. D’Alloi disappeared through the doorway. Peter’s pulse did not
change a beat.