A GOOD DAY.
The next day it was raining torrents, but despite this, and to the
utter neglect of his law business, Peter drove up-town immediately
after lunch, to the house in Fifty-seventh Street. He asked for Watts,
but while he was waiting for the return of the servant, he heard a
light foot-step, and turning, he found Leonore fussing over some
flowers. At the same moment she became conscious of his presence.
“Good-day,” said Peter.
“It isn’t a good day at all,” said Leonore, in a disconsolate voice,
holding out her hand nevertheless.
“Why not?”
“It’s a horrid day, and I’m in disgrace.”
“For what?”
“For misbehaving last night. Both mamma and madame say I did very
wrong. I never thought I couldn’t be real friends with you.” The little
lips were trembling slightly.
Peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. “Why can’t the
women let such an innocent child alone?” he thought to himself. Aloud
he said, “If any wrong was done, which I don’t think, it was my fault.
Can I do anything?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her
voice. “They say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will
allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won’t permit it for a
moment.”
Peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head
against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: “I am so
sorry they blame you. If I could only save you from it.” He evidently
said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle.
“You see,” said Leonore, “I’ve always been very particular with men,
but with you it seemed different. Yet they both say I stayed too long
upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. They said
I ought to treat you like other men. Don’t you think you are
different?”
Yes. Peter thought he was very different.
“Mr. D’Alloi will see you in the library,” announced the footman at
this point.
Peter turned to go, but in leaving he said: “Is there any pleasure or
service I can do, to make up for the trouble I’ve caused you?”
Leonore put her head on one side, and looked a little less
grief-stricken. “May I save that up?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A moment later Peter was shaking hands with Watts.
“This is nice of you. Quite like old times. Will you smoke?”
“No. But please yourself. I’ve something to talk about.”
“Fire away.”
“Watts, I want to try and win the love of your little girl.”
“Dear old man,” cried Watts, “there isn’t any one in God’s earth whom I
would rather see her choose, or to whom I would sooner trust her.”
“Thank you, Watts,” said Peter, gratefully. “Watts is weak, but he is a
good fellow,” was his mental remark. Peter entirely forgot his opinion
of two weeks ago. It is marvellous what a change a different point of
view makes in most people.
“But if I give you my little Dot, you must promise me one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That you will never tell her? Ah! Peter, if you knew how I love the
little woman, and how she loves me. From no other man can she learn
what will alter that love. Don’t make my consent bring us both
suffering?”
“Watts, I give my word she shall never know the truth from me.”
“God bless you, Peter. True as ever. Then that is settled. You shall
have a clear field and every chance.”
“I fear not. There’s something more. Mrs. D’Alloi won’t pardon that
incident—nor do I blame her. I can’t force my presence here if she does
not give her consent. It would be too cruel, even if I could hope to
succeed in spite of her. I want to see her this morning. You can tell
better than I whether you had best speak to her first, or whether I
shall tell her.”
“H’m. That is a corker, isn’t it? Don’t you think you had better let
things drift?”
“No. I’m not going to try and win a girl’s love behind the mother’s
back. Remember, Watts, the mother is the only one to whom a girl can go
at such a time. We mustn’t try to take advantage of either.”
“Well, I’ll speak to her, and do my best. Then I’ll send her to you.
Help yourself to the tobacco if you get tired of waiting _tout seul_.”
Watts went upstairs and knocked at a door. “Yes,” said a voice. Watts
put his head in. “Is my Rosebud so busy that she can’t spare her lover
a few moments?”
“Watts, you know I live for you.”
Watts dropped down on the lounge. “Come here, then, like a loving
little wife, and let me say my little say.”
No woman nearing forty can resist a little tenderness in her husband,
and Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled up to Watts in the pleasantest frame of mind.
Watts leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled some
more.
“Now, I want to talk with you seriously, dear,” he said. “Who do you
think is downstairs?”
“Who?”
“Dear old Peter. And what do you think he’s come for!”
“What?”
“Dot.”
“For what?”
“He wants our consent, dear, to pay his addresses to Leonore.”
“Oh, Watts!” Mrs. D’Alloi ceased to snuggle, and turned a horrified
face to her husband.
“I’ve thought she attracted him, but he’s such an impassive, cool old
chap, that I wasn’t sure.”
“That’s what I’ve been so afraid of. I’ve worried so over it.”
“You dear, foolish little woman. What was there to worry over?”
“Watts! You won’t give your consent?”
“Of course we will. Why, what more do you want? Money, reputation,
brains, health.” (That was the order in which Peter’s advantages ranged
themselves in Watts’s mind). “I don’t see what more you can ask, short
of a title, and titles not only never have all those qualities
combined, but they are really getting decidedly _nouveau richey_ and
not respectable enough for a Huguenot family, who’ve lived two hundred
and fifty years in New York. What a greedy mamma she is for her little
girl.”
“Oh, Watts! But think!”
“It’s hard work, dear, with your eyes to look at. But I will, if you’ll
tell me what to think about.”
“My husband! You cannot have forgotten? Oh, no! It is too horrible for
you to have forgotten that day.”
“You heavenly little Puritan! So you are going to refuse Peter as a
son-in-law, because he—ah—he’s not a Catholic monk. Why, Rosebud, if
you are going to apply that rule to all Dot’s lovers, you had better
post a sign: ‘Wanted, a husband. P.S. No man need apply.’”
“Watts! Don’t talk so.”
“Dear little woman. I’m only trying to show you that we can’t do better
than trust our little girl to Peter.”
“With that stain! Oh, Watts, give him our pure, innocent, spotless
child!”
“Oh, well. If you want a spotless wedding, let her marry the Church.
She’ll never find one elsewhere, my darling.”
“Watts! How can you talk so? And with yourself as an example. Oh,
husband! I want our child—our only child—to marry a man as noble and
true as her father. Surely there must be others like you?”
“Yes. I think there are a great many men as good as I, Rosebud! But I’m
no better than I should be, and it’s nothing but your love that makes
you think I am.”
“I won’t hear you say such things of yourself. You know you are the
best and purest man that ever lived. You know you are.”
“If there’s any good in me, it’s because I married you.”
“Watts, you couldn’t be bad if you tried.” And Mrs. D’Alloi put her
arms round Watts’s neck and kissed him.
Watts fondled her for a moment in true lover’s fashion. Then he said,
“Dear little wife, a pure woman can never quite know what this world
is. I love Dot next to you, and would not give her to a man whom I
believe would not be true to her, or make her happy. I know every
circumstance of Peter’s connection with that woman, and he is as
blameless as man ever was. Such as it was, it was ended years ago, and
can never give him more trouble. He is a strong man, and will be true
to Dot. She might get a man who would make her life one long torture.
She may be won by a man who only cares for her money, and will not even
give her the husks of love. But Peter loves her, and has outgrown his
mistakes. And don’t forget that but for him we might now have nothing
but some horribly mangled remains to remember of our little darling.
Dear, I love Dot twenty times more than I love Peter. For her sake, and
yours, I am trying to do my best for her.”
So presently Mrs. D’Alloi came into the library, where Peter sat. She
held out her hand to him, but Peter said:
“Let me say something first. Mrs. D’Alloi, I would not have had that
occurrence happen in your home or presence if I had been able to
prevent it. It grieves me more than I can tell you. I am not a roué. In
spite of appearances I have lived a clean life. I shall never live any
other in the future. I—I love Leonore. Love her very dearly. And if you
will give her to me, should I win her, I pledge you my word that I will
give her the love, and tenderness, and truth which she deserves. Now,
will you give me your hand?”
“He is speaking the truth,” thought Mrs. D’Alloi, as Peter spoke. She
held out her hand. “I will trust her to you if she chooses you.”
Half an hour later, Peter went back to the drawing-room, to find
Leonore reposing in an exceedingly undignified position before the fire
on a big tiger-skin, and stroking a Persian cat, who, in delight at
this enviable treatment, purred and dug its claws into the rug. Peter
stood for a time watching the pretty tableau, wishing he was a cat.
“Yes, Tawney-eye,” said Leonore, in heartrending tones, “it isn’t a
good day at all.”
“I’m going to quarrel with you on that,” said Peter. “It’s a glorious
day.”
Leonore rose from the skin. “Tawney-eye and I don’t think so.”
“But you will. In the first place I’ve explained about the monopoly and
the photographs to your mamma, and she says she did not understand it,
and that no one is to blame. Secondly, she says I’m to stay to dinner
and am to monopolize you till then. Thirdly, she says we may be just as
good friends as we please. Fourthly, she has asked me to come and stay
for a week at Grey-Court this summer. Now, what kind of a day is it?”
“Simply glorious! Isn’t it, Tawney-eye?” And the young lady again
forgot her “papas, proprieties, potatoes, prunes and prisms,” and
dropping down on the rug, buried her face in the cat’s long silky hair.
Then she reappeared long enough to say:
“You are such a comforting person! I’m so glad you were born.”