A GUARDIAN ANGEL.
Peter had as glorious an afternoon as he had had a bad morning. First
he danced a little. Then the two sat at the big desk in the deserted
library and worked together over those very complex dispatches till
they had them translated. Then they had to discuss their import.
Finally they had to draft answers and translate them into cipher. All
this with their heads very close together, and an utter forgetfulness
on the part of a certain personage that snubbing rather than politics
was her “plan of campaign.” But Leonore began to feel that she was a
political power herself, and so forgot her other schemes. When they had
the answering dispatches fairly transcribed, she looked up at Peter and
said:
“I think we’ve done that very well,” in the most approving voice. “Do
you think they’ll do as we tell them?”
Peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly
and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was
noble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. Several times that
afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from
leaning over and taking one. He even went so far now as to speculate on
exactly what Leonore would do if he did. Fortunately his face was not
given to expressing his thoughts. Leonore never dreamed how narrow an
escape she had. “If only she wouldn’t be so friendly and confiding,”
groaned Peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. “I can’t do it,
when she trusts me so.”
“Well,” said Leonore, “perhaps when you’ve done staring at me, you’ll
answer my question.”
“I think they’ll do as we tell them,” smiled Peter. “But we’ll get word
to-morrow about Dutchess and Steuben. Then we shall know better how the
land lies, and can talk plainer.”
“Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?”
“Yes.” To himself Peter said, “I must write Green and the rest to
telegraph me every day.”
“Now we’ll have a cup of tea,” said Leonore. “I like politics.”
“Then you would like Albany,” said Peter, putting a chair for her by
the little tea-table.
“I wouldn’t live in Albany for the whole world,” said Leonore, resuming
her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger
with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty
vanished in a wail. “Oh!” she cried. “How it hurts.”
“Let me see,” said Peter sympathetically.
The little hand was held up. “It does hurt,” said Leonore, who saw that
there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter
would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered.
But Peter treated it very seriously. “I’m sure it does,” he said,
taking possession of the hand. “And I know how it hurts.” He leaned
over and kissed the little thumb. Then he didn’t care a scrap whether
Leonore liked Albany or not.
“I won’t snub you this time,” said Leonore to herself, “because you
didn’t laugh at me for it.”
Peter’s evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from
dinner that she was going to a dance. “We have permission to take you.
Do you care to go?”
“Yes. If you’ll give me some dances.”
“I’ve told you once that I’ll only give you the ones not taken by
better dancers. If you choose to stay round I’ll take you for those.”
“Do you ever have a dance over?” asked Peter, marvelling at such a
possibility.
“I’ve only been to one dance. I didn’t have at that.”
“Well,” said Peter, growling a little, “I’ll go.”
“Oh,” said Leonore, calmly, “don’t put yourself out on my account.”
“I’m not,” growled Peter. “I’m doing it to please myself.” Then he
laughed, so Leonore laughed too.
After a game of billiards they all went to the dance. As they entered
the hall, Peter heard his name called in a peculiar voice behind. He
turned and saw Dorothy.
Dorothy merely said, “Peter!” again. But Peter understood that
explanations were in order. He made no attempt to dodge.
“Dorothy,” he said softly, giving a glance at Leonore, to see that she
was out of hearing, “when you spent that summer with Miss De Voe, did
Ray come down every week?”
“Yes.”
“Would he have come if you had been travelling out west?”
“Oh, Peter,” cried Dorothy, below her breath, “I’m so glad it’s come at
last!”
We hope our readers can grasp the continuity of Dorothy’s mental
processes, for her verbal ones were rather inconsequent.
“She’s lovely,” continued the verbal process. “And I’m sure I can help
you.”
“I need it,” groaned Peter. “She doesn’t care in the least for me, and
I can’t get her to. And she says she isn’t going to marry for—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Dorothy, contemptuously, and sailed into the
ladies’ dressing-room.
Peter gazed after her. “I wonder what’s nonsense?” he thought.
Dorothy set about her self-imposed task with all the ardor for
matchmaking, possessed by a perfectly happy married woman. But Dorothy
evidently intended that Leonore should not marry Peter, if one can
judge from the tenor of her remarks to Leonore in the dressing-room.
Peter liked Dorothy, and would probably not have believed her capable
of treachery, but it is left to masculine mind to draw any other
inference from the dialogue which took place between the two, as they
prinked before a cheval glass.
“I’m so glad to have Peter here for this particular evening,” said
Dorothy.
“Why?” asked Leonore, calmly, in the most uninterested of tones.
“Because Miss Biddle is to be here. For two years I’ve been trying to
bring those two together, so that they might make a match of it. They
are made for each other.”
Leonore tucked a rebellious curl in behind the drawn-back lock. Then
she said, “What a pretty pin you have.”
“Isn’t it? Ray gave it to me,” said Dorothy, giving Leonore all the
line she wanted.
“I’ve never met Miss Biddle,” said Leonore.
“She’s a great beauty, and rich. And then she has that nice
Philadelphia manner. Peter can’t abide the young-girl manner. He hates
giggling and talking girls. It’s funny too, because, though he doesn’t
dance or talk, they like him. But Miss Biddle is an older girl, and can
talk on subjects which please him. She is very much interested in
politics and philanthropy.”
“I thought,” said Leonore, fluffing the lace on her gown, “that Peter
never talked politics.”
“He doesn’t,” said Dorothy. “But she has studied political economy.
He’s willing to talk abstract subjects. She’s just the girl for a
statesman’s wife. Beauty, tact, very clever, and yet very discreet. I’m
doubly glad they’ll meet here, for she has given up dancing, so she can
entertain Peter, who would otherwise have a dull time of it.”
“If she wants to,” said Leonore.
“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I’m not a bit afraid about that. Peter’s the kind
of man with whom every woman’s ready to fall in love. Why, my dear,
he’s had chance after chance, if he had only cared to try. But, of
course, he doesn’t care for such women as you and me, who can’t enter
into his thoughts or sympathize with his ambitions. To him we are
nothing but dancing, dressing, prattling flutter-birds.” Then Dorothy
put her head on one side, and seemed far more interested in the effect
of her own frock than in Peter’s fate.
“He talks politics to me,” Leonore could not help saying. Leonore did
not like Dorothy’s last speech.
“Oh, Peter’s such a gentleman that he always talks seriously even to
us; but it’s only his politeness. I’ve seen him talk to girls like you,
and he is delightfully courteous, and one would think he liked it. But,
from little things Ray has told me, I know he looks down on society
girls.”
“Are you ready, Leonore?” inquired Mrs. D’Alloi.
Leonore was very ready. Watts and Peter were ready also; had been ready
during the whole of this dialogue. Watts was cross; Peter wasn’t. Peter
would willingly have waited an hour longer, impatient only for the
moment of meeting, not to get downstairs. That is the difference
between a husband and a lover.
“Peter,” said Leonore, the moment they were on the stairs, “do you ever
tell other girls political secrets?”
Dorothy was coming just behind, and she poked Peter in the back with
her fan. Then, when Peter turned, she said with her lips as plainly as
one can without speaking: “Say yes.”
Peter looked surprised. Then he turned to Leonore and said, “No. You
are the only person, man or woman, with whom I like to talk politics.”
“Oh!” shrieked Dorothy to herself. “You great, big, foolish old stupid!
Just as I had fixed it so nicely!” What Dorothy meant is quite
inscrutable. Peter had told the truth.
But, after the greetings were over, Dorothy helped Peter greatly. She
said to him, “Give me your arm, Peter. There is a girl here whom I want
you to meet.”
“Peter’s going to dance this valse with me,” said Leonore. And Peter
had two minutes of bliss, amateur though he was. Then Leonore said
cruelly, “That’s enough; you do it very badly!”
When Peter had seated her by her mother, he said: “Excuse me for a
moment. I want to speak to Dorothy.”
“I knew you would be philandering after the young married women. Men of
your age always do,” said Leonore, with an absolutely incomprehensible
cruelty.
So Peter did not speak to Dorothy. He sat down by Leonore and talked,
till a scoundrelly, wretched, villainous, dastardly, low-born, but very
good-looking fellow carried off his treasure. Then he wended his way to
Dorothy.
“Why did you tell me to say ‘yes’?” he asked.
Dorothy sighed. “I thought you couldn’t have understood me,” she said;
“but you are even worse than I supposed. Never mind, it’s done now.
Peter, will you do me a great favor?”
“I should like to,” said Peter.
“Miss Biddle, of Philadelphia, is here. She doesn’t know many of the
men, and she doesn’t dance. Now, if I introduce you, won’t you try to
make her have a good time?”
“Certainly,” said Peter, gloomily.
“And don’t go and desert her, just because another man comes up. It
makes a girl think you are in a hurry to get away, and Miss Biddle is
very sensitive. I know you don’t want to hurt her feelings.” All this
had been said as they crossed the room. Then: “Miss Biddle, let me
introduce Mr. Stirling.”
Peter sat down to his duty. “I mustn’t look at Leonore,” he thought,
“or I shan’t be attentive.” So he turned his face away from the room
heroically. As for Dorothy, she walked away with a smile of
contentment. “There, miss,” she remarked, “we’ll see if you can trample
on dear old Peter!”
“Who’s that girl to whom Mr. Stirling is talking?” asked Leonore of her
partner.
“Ah, that’s the rich Miss Biddle, of Philadelphia,” replied the
scoundrel, in very gentleman-like accents for one of his class. “They
say she’s never been able to find a man good enough for her, and so
she’s keeping herself on ice till she dies, in hopes that she’ll find
one in heaven. She’s a great catch.”
“She’s decidedly good-looking,” said Leonore.
“Think so? Some people do. I don’t. I don’t like blondes.”
When Leonore had progressed as far as her fourth partner, she asked:
“What sort of a girl is that Miss Biddle?”
“She’s really stunning,” she was told. “Fellows are all wild about her.
But she has an awfully snubbing way.”
“Is she clever?”
“Is she? That’s the trouble. She won’t have anything to do with a man
unless he’s clever. Look at her to-night! She got her big fish right
off, and she’s driven away every man who’s come near her ever since.
She’s the kind of a girl that, if she decides on anything, she does
it.”
“Who’s her big fish?” said Leonore, as if she had not noticed.
“That big fellow, who is so awfully exclusive—Stirling. He doesn’t
think any people good enough for him but the Pells, and Miss De Voe,
and the Ogdens. What they can see in him I can’t imagine. I sat
opposite him once at dinner, this spring, at the William Pells, and he
only said three things in the whole meal. And he was sitting next that
clever Miss Winthrop.”
After the fifth dance, Dorothy came up to Leonore. “It’s going
beautifully,” she said; “do you see how Peter has turned his back to
the room? And I heard a man say that Miss Biddle was freezing to every
man who tried to interrupt them. I must arrange some affairs this week
so that they shall have chances to see each other. You will help me?”
“I’m very much engaged for this week,” said Leonore.
“What a pity! Never mind; I’ll get Peter. Let me see. She rides
beautifully. Did Peter bring his horses?”
“One,” said Leonore, with a suggestion of reluctance in stating the
fact.
“I’ll go and arrange it at once,” said Dorothy, thinking that Peter
might be getting desperate.
“Mamma,” said Leonore, “how old Mrs. Rivington has grown!”
“I haven’t noticed it, dear,” said her mother.
Dorothy went up to the pair and said: “Peter, won’t you show Miss
Biddle the conservatories! You know,” she explained, “they are very
beautiful.”
Peter rose dutifully, but with a very passive look on his face.
“And, Peter,” said Dorothy, dolefully, “will you take me in to supper?
I haven’t found a man who’s had the grace to ask me.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll sit at the same table,” said Dorothy to Miss Biddle.
When Peter got into the carriage that evening he was very blue. “I had
only one waltz,” he told himself, “and did not really see anything else
of her the whole evening.”
“Is that Miss Biddle as clever as people say she is?” asked Mrs.
D’Alloi.
“She is a very unusual woman,” said Peter, “I rarely have known a
better informed one.” Peter’s tone of voice carried the inference that
he hated unusual and informed women, and as this is the case with most
men, his voice presumably reflected his true thoughts.
“I should say so,” said Watts. “At our little table she said the
brightest things, and told the best stories. That’s a girl as is a
girl. I tried to see her afterwards, but found that Peter was taking an
Italian lesson of her.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. D’Alloi.
“I have a chap who breakfasts with me three times a week, to talk
Italian, which I am trying to learn,” said Peter, “and Dorothy told
Mrs. Biddle, so she offered to talk in it. She has a beautiful accent
and it was very good of her to offer, for I knew very little as yet,
and don’t think she could have enjoyed it.”
“What do you want with Italian?” asked Mrs. D’Alloi.
“To catch the Italian vote,” said Peter.
“Oh, you sly-boots,” said Watts. Then he turned. “What makes my Dot so
silent?” he asked.
“Oh,” said Leonore in weary tones, “I’ve danced too much and I’m very,
very tired.”
“Well,” said Watts, “see that you sleep late.”
“I shall be all right to-morrow,” said Leonore, “and I’m going to have
an early horseback ride.”
“Peter and I will go too,” said Watts.
“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I’m to ride with Dorothy and Miss Biddle.”
“Ha, ha,” said Watts. “More Italian lessons, eh?”
Two people looked very cross that evening when they got to their rooms.
Leonore sighed to her maid: “Oh, Marie, I am so tired! Don’t let me be
disturbed till it’s nearly lunch.”
And Peter groaned to nobody in particular, “An evening and a ride gone!
I tried to make Dorothy understand. It’s too bad of her to be so
dense.”
So clearly Dorothy was to blame. Yet the cause of all this trouble fell
asleep peacefully, remarking to herself, just before she drifted into
dreamland, “Every man in love ought to have a guardian, and I’ll be
Peter’s.”