Chapter 60

“GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY.”

If Peter had roamed about the hall that evening, he was still more restless the next morning. He was down early, though for no apparent reason, and did nothing but pass from hall to room, and room to hall, spending most of his time in the latter, however.

How Leonore could have got from her room into the garden without Peter’s seeing her was a question which puzzled him not a little, when, by a chance glance out of a window, he saw that personage clipping roses off the bushes. He did not have time to spare, however, to reason out an explanation. He merely stopped roaming, and went out to—to the roses.

“Good-morning,” said Leonore pleasantly, though not looking at Peter, as she continued her clipping.

Peter did not say anything for a moment. Then he asked, “Is that all?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Leonore, innocently. “Besides, someone might be looking out of a window.”

Peter calmly took hold of the basket to help Leonore sustain its enormous weight. “Let me help you carry it,” he said.

“Very well,” said Leonore. “But there’s no occasion to carry my hand too. I’m not decrepit.”

“I hoped I was helping you,” said Peter.

“You are not. But you may carry the basket, since you want to hold something.”

“Very well,” said Peter meekly.

“Do you know,” said Leonore, as she snipped, and dropped roses into the basket, “you are not as obstinate as people say you are.”

“Don’t deceive yourself on that score,” said Peter.

“Well! I mean you are not absolutely determined to have your own way.”

“I never give up my own views,” said Peter, “unless I can see more to be gained by so doing. To that extent I am not at all obstinate.”

“Suppose,” said Leonore, “that you go and cut the roses on those furthest bushes while I go in and arrange these?”

“Suppose,” said Peter calmly, and with an evident lack of enthusiasm.

“Well. Will you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The motion to adjourn,” said Peter, “is never debatable.”

“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that you are beginning very badly?”

“That is what I have thought ever since I joined you.”

“Then why don’t you go away?”

“Why make bad, worse?”

“There,” said Leonore, “Your talking has made me cut my finger, almost.”

“Let me see,” said Peter, reaching out for her hand.

“I’m too busy,” said Leonore.

“Do you know,” said Peter, “that if you cut many more buds, you won’t have any more roses for a week. You’ve cut twice as many roses as you usually do.”

“Then I’ll go in and arrange them. I wish you would give Bêtise a run across the lawn.”

“I never run before breakfast,” said Peter. “Doctors say it’s very bad.”

So he followed her in. Leonore became tremendously occupied in arranging the flowers, Peter became tremendously occupied in watching her.

“You want to save one of those for me,” he said, presently.

“Take one,” said Leonore.

“My legal rule has been that I never take what I can get given me. You can’t do less than pin it in my button-hole, considering that it is my birthday.”

“If I have a duty to do, I always get through with it at once,” said Leonore. She picked out a rose, arranged the leaves as only womankind can, and, turning to Peter, pinned it in his button-hole. But when she went to take her hands away, she found them held against the spot so firmly that she could feel the heart-beats underneath.

“Oh, please,” was all she said, appealingly, while Peter’s rose seemed to reflect some of its color on her cheeks.

“I don’t want you to give it to me if you don’t wish,” said Peter, simply. “But last night I sat up late thinking about it. All night I dreamed about it. When I waked up this morning, I was thinking about it. And I’ve thought about it ever since. I can wait, but I’ve waited so long!”

Then Leonore, with very red cheeks, and a very timid manner, held her lips up to Peter.

“Still,” Leonore said presently, when again arranging of the roses, “since you’ve waited so long, you needn’t have been so slow about it when you did get it.”

“I’m sorry I did it so badly,” said Peter, contritely. “I always was slow! Let me try again?”

“No.”

“Then show me how?”

“No.”

“Now who’s obstinate?” inquired Peter.

“You,” said Leonore, promptly. “And I don’t like it.”

“Oh, Leonore,” said Peter. “If you only knew how happy I am!”

Leonore forgot all about her charge of obstinacy. “So am I,” she said. “And I won’t be obstinate any more.”

“Was that better?” Peter asked, presently.

“No,” said Leonore. “That wouldn’t have been possible. But you do take so long! I shan’t be able to give you more than one a day. It takes so much time.”

“But then I shall have to be much slower about it.”

“Then I’ll only give you one every other day.”

“Then I shall be so much the longer.”

“Yes,” sighed Leonore. “You are obstinate, after all!”

So they went on till breakfast was announced. Perhaps it was foolish. But they were happy in their foolishness, if such it was. It is not profitable to write what they said. It is idle to write of the week that followed. To all others what they said and did could only be the sayings and doings of two very intolerable people. But to them it was what can never be told in words—and to them we will leave it.

It was Leonore who put an end to this week. Each day that Peter lingered brought letter and telegraphic appeals to him from the party-leaders, over which Peter only laughed, and which he not infrequently failed even to answer. But Mr. Pell told Leonore something one day which made her say to Peter later:

“Is it true that you promised to speak in New York on the fifteenth?”

“Yes. But I wrote Green last night saying I shan’t.”

“And were you to have made a week of speeches through the State?”

“Yes. But I can’t spare the time.”

“Yes, you can. You must leave to-morrow and make them.”

“I can’t,” groaned Peter.

“You must.”

“Who says so?”

“I do. Please, Peter? I so want to see you win. I shall never forgive myself if I defeat you.”

“But a whole week,” groaned Peter.

“We shall break up here on the eighteenth, and of course you would have to leave a day sooner. So you’ll not be any better off.”

“Well,” sighed Peter, “If I do as you want, will you give me the seven I shall lose before I go.”

“Dear me, Peter,” sighed Leonore, “you oughtn’t to ask them, since it’s for your own sake. I can’t keep you contented. You do nothing but encroach.”

“I should get them if I was here,” said Peter, “And one a day is little enough! I think, if I oblige you by going away, I shouldn’t be made to suffer more than is necessary.”

“I’m going to call you Growley,” said Leonore, patting him on the cheek. Then she put her own against it. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “It’s just as hard for me.”

So Peter buckled on his armor and descended into the arena. Whether he spoke well or ill, we leave it to those to say who care to turn back to the files of the papers of that campaign. Perhaps, however, it may be well to add that an entirely unbiassed person, after reading his opening speeches, delivered in the Cooper Union and the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York City, wrote him: “It is libel to call you Taciturnity. They are splendid! How I wish I could hear you—and see you, dear. I’m very lonely, and so are Bêtise and Tawney-eye. We do nothing but wander round the house all day, waiting for your letter, and the papers.” Three thousand people in the Brooklyn Rink were kept waiting for nearly ten minutes by Peter’s perusal of that letter. But when he had finished it, and had reached the Rink, he out-Stirlinged Stirling. A speaker nowadays speaks far more to the people absent than to the people present. Peter did this that evening. He spoke, it is true, to only one person that night, but it was the best speech of the campaign.

A week later, Peter rang the bell of the Fifty-seventh Street house. He was in riding costume, although he had not been riding.

“Mr. and Mrs. D’Alloi are at breakfast,” he was informed.

Peter rather hurriedly laid his hat and crop on the hall-table, and went through the hall, but his hurry suddenly came to an end, when a young lady, carrying her napkin, added herself to the vista. “I knew it must be you,” she said, offering her hand very properly—(on what grounds Leonore surmised that a ring at the door-bell at nine o’clock meant Peter, history does not state)—“I wondered if you knew enough to come to breakfast. Mamma sent me out to say that you are to come right in.”

Peter was rather longer over the handshake than convention demands, but he asked very politely, “How are your father and—?” But just then the footman closed a door behind him, and Peter’s interest in parents suddenly ceased.

“How could you be so late?” said some one presently. “I watched out of the window for nearly an hour.”

“My train was late. The time-table on that road is simply a satire!” said Peter. Yet it is the best managed road in the country, and this particular train was only seven minutes overdue.

“You have been to ride, though,” said Leonore.

“No. I have an engagement to ride with a disagreeable girl after breakfast, so I dressed for it.”

“Suppose the disagreeable girl should break her engagement—or declare there never was one?”

“She won’t,” said Peter. “It may not have been put in the contract, but the common law settles it beyond question.”

Leonore laughed a happy laugh. Then she asked: “For whom are those violets?”

“I had to go to four places before I could get any at this season,” said Peter. “Ugly girls are just troublesome enough to have preferences. What will you give me for them?”

“Some of them,” said Leonore, and obtained the bunch. Who dares to say after that that women have no business ability nor shrewdness? It is true that she kissed the fraction returned before putting it in Peter’s button-hole, which raises the question which had the best of the bargain.

“I’m behind the curtain, so I can’t see anything,” said a voice from a doorway, “and therefore you needn’t jump; but I wish to inquire if you two want any breakfast?”

A few days later Peter again went up the steps of the Fifty-seventh Street house. This practice was becoming habitual with Peter; in fact, so habitual that his cabby had said to him this very day, “The old place, sir?” Where Peter got the time it is difficult to understand, considering that his law practice was said to be large, and his political occupations just at present not small. But that is immaterial. The simple fact that Peter went up the steps is the essential truth.

From the steps, he passed into a door; from the door he passed into a hall; from a hall he passed into a room; from a room he passed into a pair of arms.

“Thank the Lord, you’ve come,” Watts remarked. “Leonore has up and down refused to make the tea till you arrived.”

“I was at headquarters, and they would talk, talk, talk,” said Peter. “I get out of patience with them. One would think the destinies of the human race depended on this campaign!”

“So the Growley should have his tea,” said a vision, now seated on the lounge at the tea-table. “Then Growley will feel better.”

“I’m doing that already,” said Growley, sitting down on the delightfully short lounge—now such a fashionable and deservedly popular drawing-room article. “May I tell you how you can make me absolutely contented?”

“I suppose that will mean some favor from me,” said Leonore. “I don’t like children who want to be bribed out of their bad temper. Nice little boys are never bad-tempered.”

“I was only bad-tempered,” whispered Peter, “because I was kept from being with you. That’s cause enough to make the best-tempered man in the universe murderous.”

“Well?” said Leonore, mollifying, “what is it this time?”

“I want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. I’ve received warning that I’m to be serenaded about nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to hear it.”

“What fun,” cried Leonore. “Of course we’ll go. Shall you speak?”

“No. We’ll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen.”

“How many will there be?”

“It depends on the paper you read. The ‘World’ will probably say ten thousand, the ‘Tribune’ three thousand, and the ‘Voice of Labor’ ‘a handful.’ Oh! by the way, I brought you a ‘Voice’.” He handed Leonore a paper, which he took from his pocket.

Now this was simply shameful of him! Peter had found, whenever the papers really abused him, that Leonore was doubly tender to him, the more, if he pretended that the attacks and abuse pained him. So he brought her regularly now that organ of the Labor party which was most vituperative of him, and looked sad over it just as long as was possible, considering that Leonore was trying to comfort him.

“Oh, dear!” said Leonore. “That dreadful paper. I can’t bear to read it. Is it very bad to-day?”

“I haven’t read it,” said Peter, smiling. “I never read—” then Peter coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued—“the parts that do not speak of me.” “That isn’t a lie,” he told himself, “I don’t read them.” But he felt guilty. Clearly Peter was losing his old-time straightforwardness.

“After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, I don’t believe they can say anything worse,” said Leonore, putting two lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. Then she stirred the tea, and tasted it. Then she touched the edge of the cup with her lips. “Is that right?” she asked, as she passed it to Peter.

“Absolutely,” said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. But then he remembered that this wasn’t his rôle, so he looked sad and said: “That hurt me, I confess. It is so unkind.”

“Poor dear,” whispered a voice. “You shall have an extra one to-day, and you shall take just as long as you want!”

Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspaper, with that prospect in view? It is true that “one” is a very indefinite thing. Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea. Whatever she meant, Peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry. She rose, and as she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash.

“Leonore!” cried Peter. “What—”

“Peter!” cried Leonore. “Say it isn’t so?” It was terrible to see the suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice.

“My darling,” cried the mother, “what is the matter?”

“It can’t be,” cried Leonore. “Mamma! Papa! Say it isn’t so?”

“What, my darling?” said Peter, supporting the swaying figure.

“This,” said Leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper.

Mrs. D’Alloi snatched it. One glance she gave it. “Oh, my poor darling!” she cried. “I ought not to have allowed it. Peter! Peter! Was not the stain great enough, but you must make my poor child suffer for it?” She shoved Peter away, and clasped Leonore wildly in her arms.

“Mamma!” cried Leonore. “Don’t talk so! Don’t! I know he didn’t! He couldn’t!”

Peter caught up the paper. There in big head-lines was:

SPEAK UP, STIRLING!

WHO IS THIS BOY?

DETECTIVE PELTER FINDS A WARD UNKNOWN TO THE COURTS, AND EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER FROM

PURITY STIRLING.

The rest of the article it is needless to quote. What it said was so worded as to convey everything vile by innuendo and inference, yet in truth saying nothing.

“Oh, my darling!” continued Mrs. D’Alloi. “You have a right to kill me for letting him come here after he had confessed it to me. But I—Oh, don’t tremble so. Oh, Watts! We have killed her.”

Peter held the paper for a moment. Then he handed it to Watts. He only said “Watts?” but it was a cry for help and mercy as terrible as Leonore’s had been the moment before.

“Of course, chum,” cried Watts. “Leonore, dear, it’s all right. You mustn’t mind. Peter’s a good man. Better than most of us. You mustn’t mind.”

“Don’t,” cried Leonore. “Let me speak. Mamma, did Peter tell you it was so?”

All were silent.

“Mamma! Say something? Papa! Peter! Will nobody speak?”

“Leonore,” said Peter, “do not doubt me. Trust me and I will—”

“Tell me,” cried Leonore interrupting, “was this why you didn’t come to see us? Oh! I see it all! This is what mamma knew. This is what pained you. And I thought it was your love for—!” Leonore screamed.

“My darling,” cried Peter wildly, “don’t look so. Don’t speak—”

“Don’t touch me,” cried Leonore. “Don’t. Only go away.” Leonore threw herself upon the rug weeping. It was fearful the way those sobs shook her.

“It can’t be,” said Peter. “Watts! She is killing herself.”

But Watts had disappeared from the room.

“Only go away,” cried Leonore. “That’s all you can do now. There’s nothing to be done.”

Peter leaned over and picked up the prostrate figure, and laid it tenderly on the sofa. Then he kissed the edge of her skirt. “Yes. That’s all I can do,” he said quietly. “Good-bye, sweetheart. I’ll go away.” He looked about as if bewildered, then passed from the room to the hall, from the hall to the door, from the door to the steps. He went down them, staggering a little as if dizzy, and tried to walk towards the Avenue. Presently he ran into something. “Clumsy,” said a lady’s voice. “I beg your pardon,” said Peter mechanically. A moment later he ran into something again. “I beg your pardon,” said Peter, and two well-dressed girls laughed to see a bareheaded man apologize to a lamp-post. He walked on once more, but had not gone ten paces when a hand was rested on his shoulder.

“Now then, my beauty,” said a voice. “You want to get a cab, or I shall have to run you in. Where do you want to go?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter.

“Come,” said the policeman shaking him, “where do you belong? My God! It’s Mr. Stirling. Why, sir. What’s the matter?”

“I think I’ve killed her,” said Peter.

“He’s awfully screwed,” ejaculated the policeman. “And him of all men! Nobody shall know.” He hailed a passing cab, and put Peter into it. Then he gave Peter’s office address, and also got in. He was fined the next day for being off his beat “without adequate reasons,” but he never told where he had been. When they reached the building, he helped Peter into the elevator. From there he helped him to his door. He rang the bell, but no answer came. It was past office-hours, and Jenifer having been told that Peter would dine up-town, had departed on his own leave of absence. The policeman had already gone through Peter’s pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, taking possession of Peter’s keys. He opened the door and, putting him into a deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on Peter’s desk, writing on a scrap of paper with much difficulty: “mr. stirling $2.50 I took to pay the carriage. John Motty policeman 22 precinct,” he laid it beside the keys and purse. Then he went back to his beat.

And what was Peter doing all this time? Just what he now did. He tried to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it. Presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept stumbling over the desk and chairs. As he stumbled he thought, sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud: “If I could only think! I can’t see. What was it Dr. Pilcere said about her eyes? Or was it my eyes? Did he give me some medicine? I can’t remember. And it wouldn’t help her. Why can’t I think? What is this pain in her head and eyes? Why does everything look so dark, except when those pains go through her head? They feel like flashes of lightning, and then I can see. Why can’t I think? Her eyes get in the way. He gave me something to put on them. But I can’t give it to her. She told me to go away. To stop this agony! How she suffers. It’s getting worse every moment. I can’t remember about the medicine. There it comes again. Now I know. It’s not lightning. It’s the petroleum! Be quick, boys. Can’t you hear my darling scream? It’s terrible. If I could only think. What was it the French doctor said to do, if it came back? No. We want to get some rails.” Peter dashed himself against a window. “Once more, men, together. Can’t you hear her scream? Break down the door!” Peter caught up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass shattered and fell to the floor and street “If I could see. But it’s all dark. Are those lights? No. It’s too late. I can’t save her from it.”

So he wandered physically and mentally. Wandered till sounds of martial music came up through the broken window. “Fall in,” cried Peter. “The Anarchists are after her. It’s dynamite, not lightning. Podds, Don’t let them hurt her. Save her. Oh! save her I Why can’t I get to her? Don’t try to hold me,” he cried, as he came in contact with a chair. He caught it up and hurled it across the room, so that it crashed into the picture-frames, smashing chair and frames into fragments. “I can’t be the one to throw it,” he cried, in an agonized voice. “She’s all I have. For years I’ve been so lonely. Don’t I can’t throw it. It kills me to see her suffer. It wouldn’t be so horrible if I hadn’t done it myself. If I didn’t love her so. But to blow her up myself. I can’t. Men, will you stand by me, and help me to save her?”

The band of music stopped. A moment’s silence fell and then up from the street, came the air of: “Marching through Georgia,” five thousand voices singing:

“Rally round our party, boys; Rally to the blue, And battle for our candidate, So sterling and so true, Fight for honest government, boys, And down the vicious crew; Voting for freedom and Stirling.

“Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, brave and strong. Hurrah, hurrah, for Stirling, never wrong. And roll the voters up in line, Two hundred thousand strong; Voting for freedom and Stirling.”

“I can’t fight so many. Two hundred thousand! I have no sword. I didn’t shoot them. No! I only gave the order. It hurt me, but I didn’t mean to hurt her. She’s all I have. Do you think I intended to kill her? No! No sacrifice would be too great. And you can talk to me of votes! Two hundred thousand votes! I did my best for her. I didn’t mean to hurt her. And I went to see the families. I went to see them all. If I only could think. But she is suffering too much. I can’t think as long as she lies on the rug, and trembles so. See the flashes of lightning pass through her head. Don’t bury your face in the rug. No wonder it’s all dark. Try to think, and then it will be all right.”

Up from the street came the air of: “There were three crows,” and the words:

“Steven Maguire has schemed to be elected November fourth, Steven Maguire has schemed to be elected November fourth. Steven Maguire has schemed and schemed, But all his schemes will end in froth! And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah. And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah.

“For Peter Stirling elected will be upon November fourth, For Peter Stirling elected will be upon November fourth, For Peter Stirling elected will be And Steven Maguire will be in broth, And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah, And the people will all shout, Hurrah, rah, rah, rah.”

“It’s Steven Maguire. He never could be honest. If I had him here!” Peter came in contact with a chair. “Who’s that? Ah! It’s you. You’ve killed her. Now!” And another chair went flying across the room with such force, that the door to the hall flew off its hinges, and fell with a crash. “I’ve killed him” screamed Peter. “I’ve—No, I’ve killed my darling. All I have in the world!”

And so he raved, and roamed, and stumbled, and fell; and rose, and roamed, and raved, and stumbled, and fell, while the great torchlight procession sang and cheered him from below.

He was wildly fighting his pain still when two persons, who, after ringing and ringing, had finally been let in by Jenifer’s key, stood where the door had been.

“My God,” cried one, in terror. “He’s crazy! Come away!”

But the other, without a word or sign of fear, went up to that wild-looking figure, and put her hand in his.

Peter stopped his crazed stride.

“I can’t think, I tell you. I can’t think as long as you lie there on the rug. And your eyes blaze so. They feel just like balls of fire.”

“Please sit down, Peter. Please? For my sake. Here. Here is the chair. Please sit down.”

Peter sank back in the chair. “I tell you I can’t think. They do nothing but burn. It’s the petroleum!” He started forward, but a slender arm arrested his attempt to rise, and he sank back again as if it had some power over him.

“Hyah, miss. Foh de lub ub heaben, put some ub dis yar on he eyes,” said Jenifer, who had appeared with a bottle, and was blubbering enough to supply a whole whaling fleet. “De doctor he done give dis yar foh de Aspic nerve.” Which is a dish that Jenifer must have invented himself, for it is not discoverable even on the fullest of menus.

Leonore knelt in front of Peter, and, drenching her fingers with the wash, began rubbing it softly over his eyes. It has always been a problem whether it was the remedy or the ends of those fingers which took those lines of suffering out of Peter’s face and made him sit quietly in that chain Those having little faith in medicines, and much faith in a woman’s hands, will opine the latter. Doctors will not.

Sufficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which Peter’s face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to one which denoted eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he finally put out his hands and took Leonore’s.

“You have come to me,” he said, “Has he told you?”

“Who? What?” asked Leonore.

“You still think I could?” cried Peter. “Then why are you here?” He opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, only Leonore was kneeling in front of the chair still.

“Don’t excite yourself, Peter,” begged Leonore. “We’ll not talk of that now. Not till you are better.”

“What are you here for?” cried Peter. “Why did you come—?”

“Oh, please, Peter, be quiet.”

“Tell me, I will have it.” Peter was exciting himself, more from Leonore’s look than by what she said.

“Oh, Peter. I made papa bring me—because—Oh! I wanted to ask you to do something. For my sake!”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask you,” sobbed Leonore, “to marry her. Then I shall always think you were what I—I—have been loving, and not—” Leonore laid her head down on his knee, and sobbed bitterly.

Peter raised Leonore in his arms, and laid the little head on his shoulder.

“Dear one,” he said, “do you love me?”

“Yes,” sobbed Leonore.

“And do you think I love you?”

“Yes.”

“Now look into your heart. Could you tell me a lie?”

“No.”

“Nor can I you. I am not the father of that boy, and I never wronged his mother.”

“But you told—” sobbed Leonore.

“I lied to your mother, dear.”

“For what?” Leonore had lifted her head, and there was a look of hope in her eyes, as well as of doubt.

“Because it was better at that time than the truth. But Watts will tell you that I lied.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, Dot. Dear old Peter speaks the truth.”

“But if you lied to her, why not to me?”

“I can’t lie to you, Leonore. I am telling you the truth. Won’t you believe me?”

“I do,” cried Leonore. “I know you speak the truth. It’s in your face and voice.” And the next moment her arms were about Peter’s neck, and her lips were on his.

Just then some one in the “torchlight” shouted:

“What’s the matter wid Stirling?”

And a thousand voices joyfully yelled;

“He’s all right.”

And so was the crowd.