A DREAM.
Something in Peter’s face seemed to reassure the girl, for though she
looked down after the glance, she ceased leaning against the horse, and
said, “I behaved very foolishly, of course. Now I will do whatever you
think best.”
Before Peter had recovered enough from his thrill to put what he
thought into speech, a policeman came riding towards them, leading the
roan mare. “Any harm done?” he called.
“None, fortunately. Where can we get a cab? Or can you bring one here?”
“I’m afraid there’ll be none nearer than Fifty-ninth Street. They leave
the other entrances before it’s as dark as this.”
“Never mind the cab,” said the girl. “If you’ll help me to mount, I’ll
ride home.”
“That’s the pluck!” said the policeman.
“Do you think you had better?” asked Peter.
“Yes. I’m not a bit afraid. If you’ll just tighten the girth.”
It seemed to Peter he had never encountered such a marvellously
fascinating combination as was indicated by the clinging position of a
minute ago and the erect one of the present moment. He tightened the
girth with a pull that made the roan mare wonder if a steam-winch had
hold of the end, and then had the pleasure of the little foot being
placed in his hand for a moment, as he lifted the girl into the saddle.
“I shall ride with you,” he said, mounting instantly.
“Beg pardon,” said the policeman. “I must take your names. We are
required to report all such things to headquarters.”
“Why, Williams, don’t you know me?” asked Peter.
Williams looked at Peter, now for the first time on a level with him.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stirling. It was so dark, and you are so seldom
here afternoons that I didn’t know you.”
“Tell the chief that this needn’t go on record, nor be given to the
reporters.”
“Very well, Mr. Stirling.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the girl in a frank yet shy way, “but will
you tell me your first name?”
Peter was rather astonished, but he said “Peter.”
“Oh!” cried the girl, looking Peter in the face. “I understand it now.
I didn’t think I could behave so to a stranger! I must have felt it was
you.” She was smiling joyfully, and she did not drop her eyes from his.
On the contrary she held out her hand to him.
Of course Peter took it. He did not stop to ask if it was right or
wrong to hold a young girl’s hand. If it was wrong, it was certainly a
very small one, judging from the size of the hand.
“I was so mortified! But if it’s you it’s all right.”
Peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and
complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its
general friendliness. His manner may have suggested this, for suddenly
the girl said:
“But of course, you do not know who I am? How foolish of me! I am
Leonore D’Alloi.”
It was Peter’s turn to gasp. “Not—?” he began and then stopped.
“Yes,” said the girl joyfully, as if Peter’s “not” had had something
delightful in it.
“But—she’s a child.”
“I’ll be eighteen next week,” said Leonore, with all the readiness of
that number of years to proclaim its age.
Peter concluded that he must accept the fact. Watts could have a child
that old. Having reached this conclusion, he said, “I ought to have
known you by your likeness to your mother.” Which was an unintentional
lie. Her mother’s eyes she had, as well as the long lashes; and she had
her mother’s pretty figure, though she was taller. But otherwise she
was far more like Watts. Her curly hair, her curvy mouth, the dimple,
and the contour of the face were his. Leonore D’Alloi was a far greater
beauty than her mother had ever been. But to Peter, it was merely a
renewal of his dream.
Just at this point the groom rode up. “Beg pardon, Miss D’Alloi,” he
said, touching his cap. “My ’orse went down on a bit of hice.”
“You are not hurt, Belden?” said Miss D’Alloi.
Peter thought the anxious tone heavenly. He rather wished he had broken
something himself.
“No. Nor the ’orse.”
“Then it’s all right. Mr. Stirling, we need not interrupt your ride.
Belden will see me home.”
Belden see her home! Peter would see him do it! That was what Peter
thought. He said, “I shall ride with you, of course.” So they started
their horses, the groom dropping behind.
“Do you want to try it again?” asked Mutineer of the roan.
“No,” said the mare. “You are too big and strong.”
Leonore was just saying: “I could hear the pound of a horse’s feet
behind me, but I thought it was the groom, and knew he could never
overtake Fly-away. So when I felt the saddle begin to slip, I thought I
was—was going to be dragged—as I once saw a woman in England—Oh!—and
then suddenly I saw a horse’s head, and then I felt some one take hold
of me so firmly that I didn’t have to hold myself at all, and I knew I
was safe. Oh, how nice it is to be big and strong!”
Peter thought so too.
So it is the world over. Peter and Mutineer felt happy and proud in
their strength, and Leonore and Fly-away glorified them for it. Yet in
spite of this, as Peter looked down at the curly head, from his own and
Mutineers altitude, he felt no superiority, and knew that the slightest
wish expressed by that small mouth, would be as strong with him as if a
European army obeyed its commands.
“What a tremendous horse you have?” said Leonore. “Isn’t he?” assented
Peter. “He’s got a bad temper, I’m sorry to say, but I’m very fond of
him. He was given me by my regiment, and was the choice of a very dear
friend now dead.”
“Who was that?”
“No one you know. A Mr. Costell.”
“Oh, yes I do. I’ve heard all about him.”
“What do you know of Mr. Costell?”
“What Miss De Voe told me.”
“Miss De Voe?”
“Yes. We saw her both times in Europe. Once at Nice, and once in—in
1882—at Maggiore. The first time, I was only six, but she used to tell
me stories about you and the little children in the angle. The last
time she told me all she could remember about you. We used to drift
about the lake moonlight nights, and talk about you.”
“What made that worth doing to you?”
“Oh from the very beginning, that I can remember, papa was always
talking about ‘dear old Peter’”—the talker said the last three words in
such a tone, shot such a look up at Peter, half laughing and half
timid, that in combination they nearly made Peter reel in his
saddle—“and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak
of, so I became very curious about you as a little girl, and then Miss
De Voe made me more interested, so that I began questioning Americans,
because I was really anxious to learn things concerning you. Nearly
every one did know something, so I found out a great deal about you.”
Peter was realizing for the first time in his life, how champagne made
one feel.
“Tell me whom you found who knew anything about me?”
“Oh, nearly everybody knew something. That is, every one we’ve met in
the last five years. Before that, there was Miss De Voe, and grandpapa,
of course, when he came over in 1879—”
“But,” interrupted Peter, “I don’t think I had met him once before that
time, except at the Shrubberies.”
“No, he hadn’t seen you. But he knew a lot about you, from Mr. Lapharn
and Mr. Avery, and some other men who had met you.”
“Who else?”
“Miss Leroy, mamma’s bridesmaid, who spent two weeks at our villa near
Florence, and Dr. Purple, your clergyman, who was in the same house
with us at Ober-Ammergau, and—and—oh the best were Mr. and Mrs.
Rivington. They were in Jersey, having their honeymoon. They told me
more than all the rest put together.”
“I feel quite safe in their hands. Dorothy and I formed a mutual
admiration society a good many years ago.”
“She and Mr. Rivington couldn’t say enough good of you.”
“You must make allowance for the fact that they were on their wedding
journey, and probably saw everything rose-colored.”
“That was it. Dorothy told me about your giving Mr. Rivington a full
partnership, in order that Mr. Ogden should give his consent.”
Peter laughed.
“Ray swore that he wouldn’t tell. And Dorothy has always appeared
ignorant. And yet she knew it on her wedding trip.”
“She couldn’t help it. She said she must tell some one, she was so
happy. So she told mamma and me. She showed us your photograph. Papa
and mamma said it was like you, but I don’t think it is.”
Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had
the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did
not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the
man’s remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that
Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not
intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of
this dialogue, Peter had had only “come-and-go” glimpses of those eyes.
He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face
up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair,
and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes.
For the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that “life isn’t all
beer and skittles.”
“I’ve been so anxious to meet you. I’ve begged papa ever since we
landed to take me to see you. And he’s promised me, over and over
again, to do it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very
strange and—and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt
that I really knew you, and wouldn’t have to begin new as I do with
other people. I do so dread next winter when I’m to go into society. I
don’t know what I shall do, I’ll not know any one.”
“You’ll know me.”
“But you don’t go into society.”
“Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next
winter. I’ve shut myself up too much.” This was a discovery of Peter’s
made in the last ten seconds.
“How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of
attention?”
“You’ll probably want very little. I don’t dance.” Peter suddenly
became conscious that Mr. Weller was right.
“But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing.”
Peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with Leonore. Was
it possible life had such richness in it? Then he said with a bitter
note in his voice very unusual to him:
“I’m afraid I’m too old to learn.”
“Not a bit,” said Leonore. “You don’t look any older than lots of men
I’ve seen valsing. Young men I mean. And I’ve seen men seventy years
old dancing in Europe.”
Whether Peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned.
But fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a
stable.
“Why,” said Leonore, “here we are already! What a short ride it has
been.”
Peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. But then he
suddenly remembered that Leonore was to be lifted from her horse. He
became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to
her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a
military training. He put his hands up, and for a moment had—well,
Peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment
into words. And it was not merely that Leonore had been in his arms for
a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes.
“I wish you would take my horse round to the Riding Club,” he told the
groom. “I wish to see Miss D’Alloi home.”
“Thank you very much, but my maid is here in the brougham, so I need
not trouble you. Good-bye, and thank you. Oh, thank you so much!” She
stood very close to Peter, and looked up into his eyes with her own.
“There’s no one I would rather have had save me.”
She stepped into the brougham, and Peter closed the door. He mounted
his horse again, and straightening himself up, rode away.
“Hi thought,” remarked the groom to the stableman, “that ’e didn’t know
’ow to sit ’is ’orse, but ’e’s all right, arter all. ’E rides like ha
’orse guards capting, w’en ’e don’t ’ave a girl to bother ’im.”
Would that girl bother him?