Chapter 52

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

Peter had his ride the next morning, and had a very interested listener to his account of that dinner. The listener, speaking from vast political knowledge, told him at the end. “You did just right. I thoroughly approve of you.”

“That takes a great worry off my mind,” said Peter soberly. “I was afraid, since we were to be such friends, and you wanted my help in the whirligig this winter, that you might not like my possibly having to live in Albany.”

“Can’t you live in New York?” said Leonore, looking horrified.

“No.”

“Then I don’t like it at all,” said Leonore. “It’s no good having friends if they don’t live near one.”

“That’s what I think,” said Peter. “I suppose I couldn’t tempt you to come and keep house for me?”

“Now I must snub him,” thought Leonore. “No,” she said, “It will be bad enough to do that five years from now, for the man I love.” She looked out from under her eyelashes to see if her blow had been fatal, and concluded from the glumness in Peter’s face, that she really had been too cruel. So she added: “But you may give me a ball, and we’ll all come up and stay a week with you.”

Peter relaxed a little, but he said dolefully, “I don’t know what I shall do. I shall be in such need of your advice in politics and housekeeping.”

“Well,” said Leonore, “if you really find that you can’t get on without help, we’ll make it two weeks. But you must get up toboggan parties, and other nice things.”

“I wonder what the papers will say,” thought Peter, “if a governor gives toboggan parties?”

After the late breakfast, Peter was taken down to see the tournament. He thought he would not mind it, since he was allowed to sit next Leonore. But he did. First he wished that she wouldn’t pay so much attention to the score. Then that the men who fluttered round her would have had the good taste to keep away. It enraged Peter to see how perfectly willing she was to talk and chat about things of which he knew nothing, and how more than willing the men were. And then she laughed at what they said!

“That’s fifteen-love, isn’t it?” Leonore asked him presently.

“He doesn’t look over fifteen,” actually growled Peter. “I don’t know whether he’s in love or not. I suppose he thinks he is. Boys fifteen years old always do.”

Leonore forgot the score, even, in her surprise. “Why,” she said, “you growl just like Bêtise (the mastiff). Now I know what the papers mean when they say you roar.”

“Well,” said Peter, “it makes me cross to see a lot of boys doing nothing but hit a small ball, and a lot more looking at them and thinking that it’s worth doing.” Which was a misstatement. It was not that which made Peter mad.

“Haven’t you ever played tennis?”

“Never. I don’t even know how to score.”

“Dear me,” said Leonore, “You’re dreadfully illiterate.”

“I know it,” growled Peter, “I don’t belong here, and have no business to come. I’m a ward boss, and my place is in saloons. Don’t hesitate to say it.”

All this was very foolish, but it was real to Peter for the moment, and he looked straight ahead with lines on his face which Leonore had never seen before. He ought to have been ordered to go off by himself till he should be in better mood.

Instead Leonore turned from the tennis, and said: “Please don’t talk that way, Peter. You know I don’t think that.” Leonore had understood the misery which lay back of the growl. “Poor fellow,” she thought, “I must cheer him up.” So she stopped looking at the tennis. “See,” she said, “there are Miss Winthrop and Mr. Pell. Do take me over to them and let me spring my surprise. You talk to Miss Winthrop.”

“Why, Peter!” said Pell. “When did you come?”

“Last night. How do you do, Miss Winthrop?” Then for two minutes Peter talked, or rather listened, to that young lady, though sighing internally. Then, _Laus Deo!_ up came the poor little chap, whom Peter had libelled in age and affections, only ten minutes before, and set Peter free. He turned to see how Leonore’s petard was progressing, to find her and Pell deep in tennis. But just as he was going to expose his ignorance on that game, Leonore said:

“Mr. Pell, what do you think of the political outlook?”

Pell sighed internally, “You can read it in the papers,” he said.

“No. I want your opinion. Especially about the great departure the Democratic Convention is going to make.”

“You mean in endorsing Maguire?”

Leonore began to visibly swell in importance. “Of course not,” she said, contemptuously. “Every one knows that that was decided against at the Manhattan dinner. I mean the unusual resolution about the next senator.”

Pell ceased to sigh. “I don’t know what you mean?” he said.

“Not really?” said Leonore incredulously, her nose cocking a little more airily. “I thought of course you would know about it. I’m so surprised!”

Pell looked at her half quizzingly, and half questioningly. “What is the resolution?”

“Naming a candidate for the vacancy for the Senate.”

“Nonsense,” said Pell, laughing. “The convention has nothing to do with the senators. The Legislature elects them.” He thought, “Why can’t women, if they will talk politics, at least learn the ABC.”

“Yes,” said Leonore, “but this is a new idea. The Senate has behaved so badly, that the party leaders think it will be better to make it a more popular body by having the New York convention nominate a man, and then they intend to make the legislature elect him. If the other states will only follow New York’s lead, it may make the Senate respectable and open to public opinion.”

Pell sniffed obviously. “In what fool paper did you read that?”

“I didn’t read it,” said Leonore, her eyes dancing with delight. “The papers are always behind the times. But I didn’t think that you would be, since you are to be named in the resolution.”

Pell looked at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you know that the Convention will pass a resolution, naming you for next senator?” said Leonore, with both wonder and pity in her face and voice.

“Who told you that?” said Pell, with an amount of interest blended with doubt that was a decided contrast to a moment ago.

“That’s telling,” said Leonore. “You know, Mr. Pell, that one mustn’t tell people who are outside the party councils everything.”

“I believe you are trying to stuff me,” said Pell, “If it is so, or anything like it, you wouldn’t know.”

“Oh,” said Leonore, tantalizingly, “I could tell you a great deal more than that. But of course you don’t care to talk politics with a girl.”

Pell weakened. “Tell me who told you about it?”

“I think we must go home to lunch,” said Leonore, turning to Peter, who had enjoyed Leonore’s triumph almost as much as she had.

“Peter,” said Pell, “have you heard what Miss D’Alloi has been saying?”

“Part of it.”

“Where can she have picked it up?

“I met Miss D’Alloi at a lunch at the White House, last June,” said Peter seriously, “and she, and the President, and I, talked politics. Politically, Miss D’Alloi is rather a knowing person. I hope you haven’t been saying anything indiscreet, Miss D’Alloi?”

“I’m afraid I have,” laughed Leonore, triumphantly, adding, “but I won’t tell anything more.”

Pell looked after them as they went towards the carriage. “How extraordinary!” he said. “She couldn’t have it from Peter. He tells nothing. Where the deuce did she get it, and is it so?” Then he said: “Senator Van Brunt Pell,” with a roll on all the r’s. “That sounds well. I wonder if there’s anything in it?”

“I think,” said Leonore to Peter, triumphantly “that he would like to have talked politics. But he’ll get nothing but torture from me if he tries.”

It began to dawn on Peter that Leonore did not, despite her frank manner, mean all she said. He turned to her, and asked:

“Are you really in earnest in saying that you’ll refuse every man who asks you to marry him within five years?”

Leonore’s triumph scattered to the four winds. “What an awfully impudent question,” she thought, “after my saying it so often. What shall I answer?” She looked Peter in the eye with severity. “I shan’t refuse,” she said, “because I shan’t even let him speak. If any man dares to attempt it, I’ll tell him frankly I don’t care to listen.”

“She really means it,” sighed Peter internally. “Why is it, that the best girls don’t care to marry?” Peter became very cross, and, what is worse, looked it.

Nor was Leonore much better, “There,” she said, “I knew just how it would be. He’s getting sulky already. He isn’t nice any more. The best thing will be to let him speak, for then he’ll go back to New York, and won’t bother me.” The corners of her mouth drew away down, and life became very gray.

So “the best of friends” rode home from the Casino, without so much as looking at each other, much less speaking. Clearly Peter was right. There was no good in trying to be friends any longer.

Precedent or habit, however, was too strong to sustain this condition long. First Leonore had to be helped out of the carriage. This was rather pleasant, for she had to give Peter her hand, and so life became less unworth living to Peter. Then the footman at the door gave Peter two telegraphic envelopes of the bulkiest kind, and Leonore too began to take an interest in life again.

“What are they about?” she asked.

“The Convention. I came off so suddenly that some details were left unarranged.”

“Read them out loud,” she said calmly, as Peter broke the first open.

Peter smiled at her, and said: “If I do, will you give me another waltzing lesson after lunch?”

“Don’t bargain,” said Leonore, disapprovingly.

“Very well,” said Peter, putting the telegrams in his pocket, and turning towards the stairs.

Leonore let him go up to the first landing. But as soon as she became convinced that he was really going to his room, she said, “Peter.”

Peter turned and looked down at the pretty figure at the foot of the stairs. He came down again. When he had reached the bottom he said, “Well?”

Leonore was half angry, and half laughing. “You ought to want to read them to me,” she said, “since we are such friends.”

“I do,” said Peter, “And you ought to want to teach me to waltz, since we are such friends.”

“But I don’t like the spirit,” said Leonore.

Peter laughed. “Nor I,” he said. “Still, I’ll prove I’m the better, by reading them to you.”

“Now I will teach him,” said Leonore to herself.

Peter unfolded the many sheets. “This is very secret, of course,” he said.

“Yes.” Leonore looked round the hall as if she was a conspirator. “Come to the window-seat upstairs,” she whispered, and led the way. When they had ensconced themselves there, and drawn the curtains, she said, “Now.”

“You had better sit nearer me,” said Peter, “so that I can whisper it.”

“No,” said Leonore. “No one can hear us.” She thought, “I’d snub you for that, if I wasn’t afraid you wouldn’t read it.”

“You understand that you are not to repeat this to anyone.” Peter was smiling over something.

Leonore said, “Yes,” half crossly and half eagerly.

So Peter read:

“Use Hudson knowledge counties past not belief local twenty imbecility certified of yet till yesterday noon whose Malta could accurately it at seventeen. Potomac give throw Haymarket estimated Moselle thirty-three to into fortify through jurist arrived down right—”

“I won’t be treated so!” interrupted Leonore, indignantly.

“What do you mean,” said Peter, still smiling. “I’m reading it to you, as you asked.”

“No you are not. You are just making up.”

“No,” said Peter. “It’s all here.”

“Let me see it.” Leonore shifted her seat so as to overlook Peter.

“That’s only two pages,” said Peter, holding them so that Leonore had to sit very close to him to see. “There are eighteen more.”

Leonore looked at them. “Was it written by a lunatic?” she asked.

“No.” Peter looked at the end. “It’s from Green. Remember. You are not to repeat it to any one.”

“Luncheon is served, Miss D’Alloi,” said a footman.

“Bother luncheon,” thought Peter.

“Please tell me what it means?” said Leonore, rising.

“I can’t do that, till I get the key and decipher it.”

“Oh!” cried Leonore, clapping her hands in delight. “It’s a cipher. How tremendously interesting! We’ll go at it right after lunch and decipher it together, won’t we?”

“After the dancing lesson, you mean, don’t you?” suggested Peter.

“How did you know I was going to do it?” asked Leonore.

“You told me.”

“Never! I didn’t say a word.”

“You looked several,” said Peter.

Leonore regarded him very seriously. “You are not ‘Peter Simple’ a bit,” she said. “I don’t like deep men.” She turned and went to her room. “I really must be careful,” she told the enviable sponge as it passed over her face, “he’s a man who needs very special treatment. I ought to send him right back to New York. But I do so want to know about the politics. No. I’ll keep friends till the campaign’s finished. Then he’ll have to live in Albany, and that will make it all right. Let me see. He said the governor served three years. That isn’t five, but perhaps he’ll have become sensible before then.”

As for Peter, he actually whistled during his ablutions, which was something he had not done for many years. He could not quite say why, but it represented his mood better than did his earlier growl.