The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him Part 64

"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."

"G.o.d 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 impa.s.sive, 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 t.i.tle, and t.i.tles 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 n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstance 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 roue. 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: