“FRIENDS.”
At first blush, judging from Peter’s behavior, the girl was not going
to bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom,
went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening
papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had
reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead
of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire,
put on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock’s, and lighting
one, settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many
cigars he smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make
people skeptical of the narrative.
Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not
fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the
sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from
him for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his
face. He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but
he did not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what
he called a “revolting experience,” but it is doubtful if he was
thinking of that. Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different
look on his face than that which it used to wear while he studied blank
walls.
When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the
next morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, “Dear sir,” upon it.
Then he tore it up. He took another and wrote, “My dear Mr. D’Alloi.”
He tore that up. Another he began, “Dear Watts.” A moment later it was
in the paper basket. “My dear friend,” served to bring a similar fate
to the fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly.
Finally he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms,
and, opening a door, put his head in.
“You hypocritical scoundrel,” he said. “You swore to me that you would
never tell a living soul.”
“Well?” came a very guilty voice back.
“And Dorothy’s known all this time.”
Dead silence.
“And you’ve both been as innocent as—as you were guilty.”
“Look here, Peter, I can’t make you understand, because you’ve—you’ve
never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your
generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn’t bring a tenth of
the business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn’t told her, I
should have simply—bust. She swore she’d never tell. And now she’s told
you!”
“No, but she told some one else.”
“Never!”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s broken her word. She—”
“The Pot called the Kettle black.”
“But to tell one’s own wife is different. I thought she could keep a
secret.”
“How can you expect a person to keep a secret when you can’t keep it
yourself?” Peter and Ray were both laughing.
Ray said to himself, “Peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and
is resting the brain tissue for a moment.” Ray had noticed, when Peter
interrupted him during office hours, on matters not relating to
business, that he had a big or complex question in hand.
Peter closed the door and went back to his room. Then he took a fifth
sheet of paper, and wrote:
“WATTS: A day’s thought has brought a change of feeling on my part.
Neither can be the better for alienation or unkind thoughts. I regret
already my attitude of yesterday. Let us cancel all that has happened
since our college days, and put aside as if it had never occurred.
“PETER”
Just as he had finished this, his door opened softly. ‘Peter did not
hear it, but took the letter up and read it slowly.
“Boo!”
Peter did not jump at the Boo. He looked up very calmly, but the moment
he looked up, jump he did. He jumped so that he was shaking hands
before the impetus was lost.
“This is the nicest kind of a surprise,” he said.
“Bother you, you phlegmatic old cow,” cried a merry voice. “Here we
have spent ten minutes palavering your boy, in order to make him let us
surprise you, and then when we spring it on you, you don’t budge.
Wasn’t it shabby treatment, Dot?”
“You’ve disappointed us awfully, Mr. Stirling.”
Peter was shaking hands more deliberately with Leonore than he had with
Watts. He had been rather clever in shaking hands with him first, so
that he need not hurry himself over the second. So he had a very nice
moment—all too short—while Leonore’s hand lay in his. He said, in order
to prolong the moment, without making it too marked, “It will take
something more frightful than you, Miss D’Alloi, to make me jump.” Then
Peter was sorry he had said it, for Leonore dropped her eyes.
“Now, old man, give an account of yourself.” Watts was speaking
jauntily, but not quite as easily as he usually did. “Here Leonore and
I waited all last evening, and you never came. So she insisted that we
come this morning.”
“I don’t understand?” Peter was looking at Leonore as if she had made
the remark. Leonore was calmly examining Peter’s room.
“Why, even a stranger would have called last night to inquire about
Dot’s health, after such an accident. But for you not to do it, was
criminal. If you have aught to say why sentence should not now be
passed on you, speak now or forever—no—that’s the wedding ceremony,
isn’t it? Not criminal sentence—though, on second thought, there’s not
much difference.”
“Did you expect me, Miss D’Alloi?”
Miss D’Alloi was looking at a shelf of law books with her back to
Peter, and was pretending great interest in them. She did not turn, but
said “Yes.”
“I wish I had known that,” said Peter, with the sincerest regret in his
voice.
Miss D’Alloi’s interest in legal literature suddenly ceased. She turned
and Peter had a momentary glimpse of those wonderful eyes. Either his
words or tone had evidently pleased Miss D’Alloi. The corners of her
mouth were curving upwards. She made a deep courtesy to him and said:
“You will be glad to know, Mr. Stirling, that Miss D’Alloi has suffered
no serious shock from her runaway, and passed a good night. It seemed
to Miss D’Alloi that the least return she could make for Mr. Stirling’s
kindness, was to save him the trouble of coming to inquire about Miss
D’Alloi’s health, and so leave Mr. Stirling more time to his grimy old
law books.”
“There, sir, I hope you are properly crushed for your wrong-doing,”
cried Watts.
“I’m not going to apologize for not coming,” said Peter, “for that is
my loss; but I can say that I’m sorry.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Leonore. “I thought perhaps you didn’t want
to be friends. And as I like to have such things right out, I made papa
bring me down this morning so that I could see for myself.” She spoke
with a frankness that seemed to Peter heavenly, even while he grew cold
at the thought that she should for a moment question his desire to be
friends.
“Of course you and Peter will be friends,” said Watts.
“But mamma told me last night—after we went upstairs, that she was sure
Mr. Stirling would never call.”
“Never, Dot?” cried Watts.
“Yes. And when I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me at first, but at
last she said it was because he was so unsociable. I shan’t be friends
with any one who won’t come to see me.” Leonore was apparently looking
at the floor, but from under her lashes she was looking at something
else.
Whatever Peter may have felt, he looked perfectly cool. Too cool,
Leonore thought. “I’m not going to make any vows or protestations of
friendship,” he said, “I won’t even pledge myself to come and see you,
Miss D’Alloi. Remember, friendship comes from the word free. If we are
to be friends, we must each leave the other to act freely.”
“Well,” said Leonore, “that is, I suppose, a polite way of saying that
you don’t intend to come. Now I want to know why you won’t?”
“The reasons will take too long to explain to you now, so I’ll defer
the telling till the first time I call on you.” Peter was smiling down
at her.
Miss D’Alloi looked up at Peter, to see what meaning his face gave his
last remark. Then she held out her two hands. “Of course we are to be
the best of friends,” she said. Peter got a really good look down into
those eyes as they shook hands.
The moment this matter had been settled, Leonore’s manner changed. “So
this is the office of the great Peter Stirling?” she said, with the
nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to Peter.
“It doesn’t look it,” said Watts. “By George, with the business people
say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. It’s worse even
than our old Harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough.”
“There is a method in its plainness. If you want style, go into Ogden’s
and Rivington’s rooms.”
“Why do you have the plain office, Mr. Stirling?”
“I have a lot of plain people to deal with, and so I try to keep my
room simple, to put them at their ease. I’ve never heard of my losing a
client yet, because my room is as it is, while I should have frightened
away some if I had gone in for the same magnificence as my partners.”
“But I say, chum, I should think that is the sort you would want to
frighten away. There can’t be any money in their business?”
“We weren’t talking of money. We were talking of people. I am very glad
to say, that with my success, there has been no change in my relations
with my ward. They all come to me here, and feel perfectly at home,
whether they come as clients, as co-workers, or merely as friends.”
“Ho, ho,” laughed Watts. “You wily old fox! See the four bare walls.
The one shelf of law books. The one cheap cabinet of drawers. The four
simple chairs, and the plain desk. Behold the great politician! The man
of the people.”
Peter made no reply. But Leonore said to him, “I’m glad you help the
poor people still, Mr. Stirling,” and gave Peter another glimpse of
those eyes. Peter didn’t mind after that.
“Look here, Dot,” said Watts. “You mustn’t call chum Mr. Stirling. That
won’t do. Call him—um—call him Uncle Peter.”
“I won’t,” said Leonore, delighting Peter thereby. “Let me see. What
shall I call you?” she asked of Peter.
“Honey,” laughed Watts.
“What shall I call you?” Miss D’Alloi put her head on one side, and
looked at Peter out of the corners of her eyes.
“You must decide that, Miss D’Alloi.”
“I suppose I must. I—think—I—shall—call—you—Peter.” She spoke
hesitatingly till she said his name, but that went very smoothly. Peter
on the spot fell in love with the five letters as she pronounced them.
“Plain Peter?” inquired Watts.
“Now what will you call me?”
“Miss D’Alloi,” said Peter.
“No. You—are—to—call—me—call—me—”
“Miss D’Alloi,” re-affirmed Peter.
“Then I will call you Mr. Stirling, Peter.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you’d call me Peter.”
“But not if you won’t—”
“You made no condition at the time of promise. Shall I show you the
law?”
“No. And I shall not call you Peter, any more, Peter.”
“Then I shall prosecute you.”
“But I should win the case, for I should hire a friend of mine to
defend me. A man named Peter.” Leonore sat down in Peter’s chair. “I’m
going to write him at once about it.” She took one of his printed
letter sheets and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her
lips (Peter has that pen still), thought for a moment. Then she wrote:
DEAR PETER:
I am threatened with a prosecution. Will you defend me? Address your
reply to “Dear Leonore.”
LEONORE D’ALLOI.
“Now” she said to Peter, “you must write me a letter in reply. Then you
can have this note.” Leonore rose with the missive in her hand.
“I never answer letters till I’ve received them.” Peter took hold of
the slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. Then he sat down
at his desk and wrote on another sheet:
DEAR MISS D’ALLOI:
I will defend you faithfully and always.
PETER STIRLING
“That isn’t what I said,” remarked Miss D’Alloi. “But I suppose it will
have to do.”
“You forget one important thing.”
“What is that?”
“My retaining fee.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Leonore. “My allowance is nearly gone. Don’t you
ever do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?”
“Not if their poverty is pretence.”
“Oh, but mine isn’t. Really. See. Here is my purse. Look for yourself.
That’s all I shall have till the first of the month.”
She gave Peter her purse. He was still sitting at his desk, and he very
deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. He
handled each article. There was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the
last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. There
were two one-dollar bills. There was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters
and a dime. A gold German twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of
narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove button, completed the contents.
Peter returned the American money and the glove button to the purse and
handed it back to Miss D’Alloi.
“You’ve forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece,” said Leonore.
“You were never more mistaken in your life,” replied Peter, with
anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. He
folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat
pocket.
“Oh,” said Leonore, “I can’t let you have that That’s my luck-piece.”
“Is it?” Peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his
tone.
“Yes. You don’t want to take my good luck.”
“I will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later.
“Please!” Miss D’Alloi pleaded.
“That is just what I have succeeded in doing—for myself.”
“But I want my luck-piece. I found it in a crack of the rocks crossing
the Ghemi. And I must have the ribbon. I need it to match for a gown it
goes with.” Miss D’Alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she
really felt.
“I shall be glad to help you match it,” said Peter, “and any time you
send me word, I will go shopping with you. As for your luck, I shall
keep that for the present.”
“Now I know,” said Leonore crossly, “why lawyers have such a bad
reputation. They are perfect thieves!” She looked at Peter with the
corners of her mouth drawn down. He gazed at her with a very grave look
on his face. They eyed each other steadily for a moment, and then the
corners of Leonore’s mouth suddenly curled upwards. She tried hard for
a moment to keep serious. Then she gave up and laughed. Then they both
laughed.
Many people will only see an amusing side to the dialogue here so
carefully recorded. If so, look back to the time when everything that
he or she said was worth listening to. Or if there has never been a he
or a she, imitate Peter, and wait. It is worth waiting for.