CHAPTER XXVI.
AN EVENING CALL.
But Peter's social gadding did not end with these bread-and-buttercalls. One afternoon in March, he went into the shop of a famouspicture-dealer, to look over an exhibition then advertised, and hadnearly finished his patient examination of each picture, which alwaysinvolved quite as much mental gymnastics as aesthetic pleasure to Peter,when he heard a pleasant:
"How do you do, Mr. Stirling?"
Turning, he found Miss De Voe and a well-dressed man at his elbow.Peter's face lighted up in a way which made the lady say to herself: "Iwonder why he wouldn't buy another ticket?" Aloud she said, "I want youto know another of my cousins. Mr. Ogden, Mr. Stirling."
"Charmed," said Mr. Ogden genially. Any expression which Peter hadthought of using seemed so absolutely lame, beside this passiveparticiple, that he merely bowed.
"I did not know you cared for pictures," said Miss De Voe.
"I see most of the public exhibitions," Peter told her. "I try to likethem."
Miss De Voe looked puzzled.
"Don't," said Mr. Ogden. "I tried once, when I first began. But it'smuch easier to notice what women say, and answer 'yes' and 'no' at theright points."
Peter looked puzzled.
"Nonsense, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe. "He's really one of the bestconnoisseurs I know, Mr. Stirling."
"There," said Lispenard. "You see. Only agree with people, and theythink you know everything."
"I suppose you have seen the pictures, and so won't care to go roundwith us?" inquired Miss De Voe.
"I've looked at them, but I should like to go over again with you," saidPeter. Then he added, "if I shan't be in the way."
"Not a bit," said Lispenard heartily. "My cousin always wants alistener. It will be a charity to her tongue and my ears." Miss De Voemerely gave him a very pleasant smile. "I wonder why he wouldn't buy aticket?" she thought.
Peter was rather astonished at the way they looked at the pictures. Theywould pass by a dozen without giving them a second glance, and then stopat one, and chat about it for ten minutes. He found that Miss De Voe hadnot exaggerated her cousin's art knowledge. He talked familiarly andbrilliantly, though making constant fun of his own opinions, and oftenjeering at the faults of the picture. Miss De Voe also talked well, soPeter really did supply the ears for the party. He was very much pleasedwhen they both praised a certain picture.
"I liked that," he told them, making the first remark (not a question)which he had yet made. "It seemed to me the best here."
"Unquestionably," said Lispenard. "There is poetry and feeling in it."
Miss De Voe said: "That is not the one I should have thought of yourliking."
"That's womanly," said Lispenard, "they are always deciding what a manshould like."
"No," denied Miss De Voe. "But I should think with your liking forchildren, that you would have preferred that piece of Brown's, ratherthan this sad, desolate sand-dune."
"I cannot say why I like it, except, that I feel as if it had somethingto do with my own mood at times."
"Are you very lonely?" asked Miss De Voe, in a voice too low forLispenard to hear.
"Sometimes," said Peter, simply.
"I wish," said Miss De Voe, still speaking low, "that the next time youfeel so you would come and see me."
"I will," said Peter.
When they parted at the door, Peter thanked Lispenard: "I've reallylearned a good deal, thanks to Miss De Voe and you. I've seen thepictures with eyes that know much more about them than mine do."
"Well, we'll have to have another turn some day. We're always in searchof listeners."
"If you come and see me, Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, "you shall seemy pictures. Good-bye."
"So that is your Democratic heeler?" said Lispenard, eyeing Peter'sretreating figure through the carriage window.
"Don't call him that, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe, wincing.
Lispenard laughed, and leaned back into a comfortable attitude. "Thenthat's your protector of sick kittens?"
Miss De Voe made no reply. She was thinking of that dreary wintrystretch of sand and dune.
Thus it came to pass that a week later, when a north-easter had met asouth-wester overhead and both in combination had turned New Yorkstreets into a series of funnels, in and through which wind, sleet andsnow fought for possession, to the almost absolute dispossession ofhumanity and horses, that Peter ended a long stare at his blank wall byputting on his dress-suit, and plunging into the streets. He had, veryfoolishly, decided to omit dinner, a couple of hours before, rather thanface the storm, and a north-east wind and an empty stomach are enough toset any man staring at nothing, if that dangerous inclination is at allhabitual. Peter realized this, for the opium eater is always keenlyalive to the dangers of the drug. Usually he fought the tendencybravely, but this night he felt too tired to fight himself, andpreferred to battle with a little thing like a New York storm. So hestruggled through the deserted streets until he had reached hisobjective point in the broad Second Avenue house. Miss De Voe was athome, but was "still at dinner."
Peter vacillated, wondering what the correct thing was under thecircumstances. The footman, remembering him of old, and servants inthose simple days being still open to impressions, suggested that hewait. Peter gladly accepted the idea. But he did not wait, for hardlyhad the footman left him than that functionary returned, to tell Peterthat Miss De Voe would see him in the dining-room.
"I asked you to come in here, because I'm sure, after venturing out sucha night, you would like an extra cup of coffee," Miss De Voe explained."You need not sit at the table. Morden, put a chair by the fire."
So Peter found himself sitting in front of a big wood-fire, drinking acup of coffee decidedly better in quality than his home-brew. Blankwalls ceased to have any particular value for the time.
In a moment Miss De Voe joined him at the fire. A small table was movedup, and a plate of fruit, and a cup of coffee placed upon it.
"That is all, Morden," she said. "It is so nice of you to have come thisevening. I was promising myself a very solitary time, and was dawdlingover my dinner to kill some of it. Isn't it a dreadful night?"
"It's blowing hard. Two or three times I thought I should have to giveit up."
"You didn't walk?"
"Yes. I could have taken a solitary-car that passed, but the horses wereso done up that I thought I was better able to walk."
Miss De Voe touched the bell. "Another cup of coffee, Morden, and bringthe cognac," she said. "I am not going to let you please your motherto-night," she told Peter. "I am going to make you do what I wish." Soshe poured a liberal portion of the eau-de-vie into Peter's second cup,and he most dutifully drank it. "How funny that he should be soobstinate sometimes, and so obedient at others," thought Miss De Voe. "Idon't generally let men smoke, but I'm going to make an exceptionto-night in your case," she continued.
It was a sore temptation to Peter, but he answered quickly, "Thank youfor the thought, but I won't this evening."
"You have smoked after dinner already?"
"No. I tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew andsleeted too hard."
"Then you had better."
"Thank you, no."
Miss De Voe thought her former thought again.
"Where do you generally dine?" she asked.
"I have no regular place. Just where I happen to be."
"And to-night?"
Peter was not good at dodging. He was silent for a moment. Then he said,"I saw rather a curious thing, as I was walking up. Would you like tohear about it?"
Miss De Voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularlyinterested in what Peter had to tell her, in response to her "yes." Itconcerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness.
"I didn't think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen," Peterconcluded, "and I told the policeman it was a case for an ambulancerather than a station-house. He didn't agree, so I had to go with themboth to the p
recinct and speak to the superintendent."
"That was before your dinner?" asked Miss De Voe, calmly.
It was a very easily answered question, apparently, but Peter was silentagain.
"It was coming up here," he said finally.
"What is he trying to keep back?" asked Miss De Voe mentally. "I supposesome of the down-town places are not quite--but he wouldn't--" then shesaid out loud: "I wonder if you men do as women do, when they dinealone? Just live on slops. Now, what did you order to-night? Were you anascetic or a sybarite?"
"Usually," said Peter, "I eat a very simple dinner."
"And to-night?"
"Why do you want to know about to-day?"
"Because I wish to learn where you dined, and thought I could form someconclusion from your menu." Miss De Voe laughed, so as to make it appeara joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving.
"I didn't reply to your question," said Peter, "because I would havepreferred not. But if you really wish to know, I'll answer it."
"Yes. I should like to know." Miss De Voe still smiled.
"I haven't dined."
"Mr. Stirling! You are joking?" Miss De Voe's smile had ended, and shewas sitting up very straight in her chair. Women will do without eatingfor an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of ahungry man fills them with horror--unless they have the wherewithal tomitigate the consequent appetite. Hunger with woman, as regards herself,is "a theory." As regards a man it is "a condition."
"No," said Peter.
Miss De Voe touched the bell again, but quickly as Morden answered it,Peter was already speaking.
"You are not to trouble yourself on my account, Miss De Voe. I wish fornothing."
"You must have--"
Peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word "Nothing."
"But I shall not have a moment's pleasure in your call if I think of youas--"
Peter interrupted again. "If that is so," he said, rising, "I had bettergo."
"No," cried Miss De Voe. "Oh, won't you please? It's no trouble. I'llnot order much."
"Nothing, thank you," said Peter.
"Just a chop or--"
Peter held out his hand.
"No, no. Sit down. Of course you are to do as you please. But I shouldbe so happy if--?" and Miss De Voe looked at Peter appealingly.
"No. Thank you."
"Nothing, Morden." They sat down again. "Why didn't you dine?" askedMiss De Voe.
"I didn't care to face the storm."
"Yet you came out?"
"Yes. I got blue, and thought it foolish to stay indoors by myself."
"I'm very glad you came here. It's a great compliment to find an eveningwith me put above dinner. You know I had the feeling that you didn'tlike me."
"I'm sorry for that. It's not so."
"If not, why did you insist on my twice asking you to call on me?"
"I did not want to call on you without being sure that you really wishedto have me."
"Then why wouldn't you stay and dine at Saratoga?"
"Because my ticket wouldn't have been good."
"But a new ticket would only cost seven dollars."
"In my neighborhood, we don't say 'only seven dollars.'"
"But you don't need to think of seven dollars."
"I do. I never have spent seven dollars on a dinner in my life."
"But you should have, this time, after making seven hundred and fiftydollars in one month. I know men who would give that amount to dine withme." It was a foolish brag, but Miss De Voe felt that her usual means ofinspiring respect were not working,--not even realized.
"Very likely. But I can't afford such luxuries. I had spent more thanusual and had to be careful."
"Then it was economy?"
"Yes."
"I had no idea my dinner invitations would ever be held in so littlerespect that a man would decline one to save seven dollars." Miss De Voewas hurt. "I had given him five hundred dollars," she told herself, "andhe ought to have been willing to spend such a small amount of it toplease me." Then she said; "A great many people economize in foolishways."
"I suppose so," said Peter. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I reallydidn't think I ought to spend the money."
"Never mind," said Miss De Voe. "Were you pleased with the nominationand election of Catlin?"
"I was pleased at the election, but I should have preferred Porter."
"I thought you tried to prevent Porter's nomination?"
"That's what the papers said, but they didn't understand."
"I wasn't thinking of the papers. You know I heard your speech in theconvention."
"A great many people seem to have misunderstood me. I tried to make itclear."
"Did you intend that the convention should laugh?"
"No. That surprised and grieved me very much!"
Miss De Voe gathered from this and from what the papers had said that itmust be a mortifying subject to Peter, and knew that she ought todiscontinue it. But she could not help saying, "Why?"
"It's difficult to explain, I'm afraid. I had a feeling that a man wastrying to do wrong, but I hoped that I was mistaken. It seemed to methat circumstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, butI was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. Yet the moment I toldthem they laughed."
"Why?"
"Because they felt sure that the man had done wrong."
"Oh!" It was a small exclamation, but the expression Miss De Voe putinto it gave it a big meaning. "Then they were laughing at Maguire?"
"At the time they were. Really, though, they were laughing at humanweakness. Most people seem to find that amusing."
"And that is why you were grieved?"
"Yes."
"But why did the papers treat you so badly?"
"Mr. Costell tells me that I told too much truth for people tounderstand. I ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain rightout, for then they would have understood. A friend of--a fellow I usedto know, said I was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and I'mafraid it's true."
"Do you know Costell? I thought he was such a dishonest politician?"
"I know Mr. Costell. I haven't met the dishonest politician yet."
"You mean?"
"He hasn't shown me the side the papers talk about."
"And when he does?"
"I shall be very sorry, for I like him, and I like his wife." Then Petertold about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, andabout the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself fromputting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who hadtold about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. "He hadhis cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and he speaksof it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a child."
"Has he a great scar on his cheek?"
"Yes. Have you seen him?"
"Once. Just as we were coming out of the convention. He said somethingabout you to a group of men which called my attention to him." Miss DeVoe thought Peter would ask her what it was. "Would you like to knowwhat he said?" she asked, when Peter failed to do so.
"I think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it."
Miss De Voe's mind reverted to her criticism of Peter. "He is soabsolutely without our standards." Her chair suddenly ceased to becomfortable. She rose, saying, "Let us go to the library. I shall notshow you my pictures now. The gallery is too big to be pleasant such anight. You must come again for that. Won't you tell me about some of theother men you are meeting in politics?" she asked when they had sat downbefore another open fire. "It seems as if all the people I know are justalike--I suppose it's because we are all so conventional--and I am verymuch interested in hearing about other kinds."
So Peter told about Dennis and Blunkers, and the "b'ys" in the saloons;about Green and his fellow delegates; about the Honorable Mr., Mrs., andMiss Gallagher, and their dinner companions. He did not satirize in theleast. He merely told v
arious incidents and conversations, in a sober,serious way; but Miss De Voe was quietly amused by much of the narrativeand said to herself, "I think he has humor, but is too serious-minded toyield to it." She must have enjoyed his talk for she would not let Petergo early, and he was still too ignorant of social usages to know how toget away, whether a woman wished or no. Finally he insisted that he mustleave when the clock pointed dangerously near eleven.
"Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, in a doubtful, "won't-you-please"voice, such as few men had ever heard from her, "I want you to let mesend you home? It will only take a moment to have the carriage here."
"I wouldn't take a horse out in such weather," said Peter, in a verysettling kind of voice.
"He's obstinate," thought Miss De Voe. "And he makes his obstinacy sodreadfully--dreadfully pronounced!" Aloud she said: "You will comeagain?"
"If you will let me."
"Do. I am very much alone too, as perhaps you know?" Miss De Voe did notchoose to say that her rooms could be filled nightly and thateverywhere she was welcome.
"No. I really know nothing about you, except what you have told me, andwhat I have seen."
Miss De Voe laughed merrily at Peter's frankness. "I feel as if I knewall about you," she said.
"But you have asked questions," replied Peter.
Miss De Voe caught her breath again. Try as she would, she could not getaccustomed to Peter. All her social experience failed to bridge thechasm opened by his speech. "What did he mean by that plain statement,spoken in such a matter-of-fact voice?" she asked herself. Of course thepause could not continue indefinitely, and she finally said: "I havelived alone ever since my father's death. I have relatives, but preferto stay here. I am so much more independent. I suppose I shall have tomove some day. This part of the city is beginning to change so." Miss DeVoe was merely talking against time, and was not sorry when Peter shookhands, and left her alone.
"He's very different from most men," she said to the blazing logs. "Heis so uncomplimentary and outspoken! How can he succeed in politics?Still, after the conventional society man he is--he is--very refreshing.I think I must help him a little socially."