And now his strength, his aspirations, his vanity, and his intellect were roused together to the highest activity of which they were capable, the hour having come for which he had longed through half his lifetime, and though it was but the first trial, in which he might fail, it had for him all the importance of the supreme crisis of his existence. No wonder that his face was pale and his lips set as he walked back to his lodgings from the telegraph office. As he walked down the hill by the railings of the Common he came upon Josephine Thorn, standing at the entrance of one of the boarded walks, as though hesitating whether to go in. He was close to her as he bowed, and something in her face made him stop.
“Good morning, Miss Thorn,” he said. She nodded gravely and hesitated. He was about to go on, thinking she was in one of those moods which he called capricious. But she stopped him.
“Mr. Harrington, I want to speak to you,” she said quickly, seeing that her opportunity was on the point of slipping away.
“Yes?” said John, smiling faintly.
“Mr. Harrington–did you read that article about you, the day after the skating party?”
“Yes,” said John. “It was not complimentary, if I remember.”
“It was vile,” said Joe, the angry color rising to her temples again. “It was abominable. It was written by Mr. Vancouver.”
John started slightly.
“I think you must be mistaken,” he said.
“No, I am not mistaken. There were things in it, word for word as he said them to me just after the speech. I am perfectly sure.”
John looked very gravely at Joe, as though to be sure of her honesty. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.
“Miss Thorn,” John said, “Vancouver may have said those very things to some one else, who wrote them and printed them. But in any case, I am exceedingly obliged to you for the information”–
“You are not angry?” Joe began, already repenting.
“No–how could I be? It may be important. The junior senator for Massachusetts died this morning, and there may be an election at any moment. I have not told any one else, but it will be known everywhere in an hour’s time. Good-by, and many thanks.”
“You will be senator, of course?” said Joe, in great excitement.
“I cannot tell,” John answered. “Are you going down the hill?”
“No–thanks–I am going home,” said Joe. “Good-by.”
Chapter X.
JOE HAD BEEN mistaken in thinking that Ronald would be less well received than herself. There was of course the usual amount of gossip concerning him, but as he refrained from eccentricities of dress when asked to dinner, and did not bet that he would ride his horse into the smoking-room of the Somerset Club, the gossip soon lost ground against the list of his good qualities. Moreover, he was extremely good-looking, and his manner was modesty itself. He admired everything he saw, partly because it was new to him, and partly because there was a good deal to admire.
For a day or two after the final scene with Joe he had avoided seeing her. He had not been able to resist the temptation to go back on the same day, and he had spent some hours in considering that human affairs are extremely mutable. But the scenes about him were too new, and very many of the faces he saw were too attractive, to allow of his brooding for long over his misfortune. His first impulse had been to go away again on the very evening of his arrival. He had gone to see Joe, arriving during luncheon, in the expectation of seeing her alone again. There would be a scene of solemn farewell, in which he would bid her be happy in her own way, in a tone of semi-paternal benevolence, after which he would give her his blessing, and bid farewell to the pomps and vanities of society. He would naturally retire gloomily from the gay world, and end his miserable existence in the approved Guy Livingstone fashion of life, between cavendish tobacco, deep drinking, and high play. Joe would then repent of the ruin she had caused, and that would be a great satisfaction. There was once a little boy in Boston whose hands were very cold as he went to school. But he blew on them savagely, saying, “I am glad of it! It serves my father right for not buying me my gloves.” That was Ronald’s state of mind. He had led the most sober of lives, and the wildest dissipation he remembered was the Lord Mayor’s supper to the Oxford and Cambridge crews, when he himself had been one of the winners. But surely, for a disappointed lover there could be no course so proper as a speedy death by dissipation–which would serve Joe right. Therefore, on his return to his hotel, he ordered whiskey, in a sepulchral tone of voice. He tasted it, and thought it detestable.
On reflection, he would put off the commencement of his wild career until the evening after he had seen Joe again. The ravages of drink would not be perceptible so soon, after all. He changed his tie for one of a darker hue, ate sparingly of a beefsteak, and went back to bid Joe a last farewell.
Sybil Brandon and Miss Schenectady were elements in the solemn leave-taking which Ronald had not anticipated. Sybil, moreover, made a great effort, for she was anxious to help Joe as much as possible in her difficulties. She talked to Ronald with a vivacity that was unusual, and Joe herself was astonished at the brilliance of her conversation. She had always thought Sybil very reserved, if not somewhat shy.
Perhaps Sybil pitied Ronald a little. He was very quiet in his manner, though after the first few minutes he found himself talking much as usual. True, he often looked at Joe, and then was silent; but then again he looked at Sybil, and his tongue was unloosed. He was grateful after a time, and he was also flattered. Besides, he could not help noticing that his new acquaintance was extremely beautiful. His conscience smote him as he realized that he was thinking of her appearance, and he immediately quieted the qualm by saying that it was but natural admiration for an artistic object. Ronald did not know much about artists and that sort of people, but the expression formed itself conveniently in his mind.
The consequence was that he accepted an invitation to drive with the two girls after luncheon, and when they left him at his hotel, a proceeding against which he vehemently protested on the score of propriety, he reluctantly acknowledged to himself that he had enjoyed the afternoon very much.
“Come and see us after five o’clock,” said Sybil. “I will present you to Mrs. Wyndham. Nine hundred and thirty-six, Beacon Street,” she added, laughing.
“With great pleasure–thanks,” said Ronald.
“Good-by, Ronald dear,” said Joe pleasantly.
“Good-by,” he answered in a doubtful tone of voice, as he raised his hat; and the two girls drove away.
Sybil was apparently in very good spirits.
“Do not be frightened, Joe dearest,” she said. “We will manage it very well. He is not hurt in the least.”
“Really, I do not believe he is–so very much, you know,” Joe answered. But she was thoughtful, and did not speak again for some time.
It was on the morning after this that Joe read the article on John’s speech, and met him by the Common. Ronald did not call during the day, and in the evening Joe went to her party as she had intended; but neither Sybil nor John Harrington were there. Sybil did not go to parties, and John probably had too much to do. But at supper Joe chanced to be standing near Mrs. Sam Wyndham.
“Oh, I so much wanted to see you, Miss Thorn,” said the latter. “I wanted to tell you how much we like your cousin, Mr. Surbiton. He came today, and I have asked him to dinner to-morrow.”
“Yes?” said Joe, turning a shade paler. “I am so glad you like him. He is a very nice boy.”
“He is perfectly lovely,” said Mrs. Sam, enthusiastically. “And he is so natural, you would not know he was English at all.”
“Really?” said Joe, raising her eyebrows a little, but laughing at the same time.
“Oh my dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “I always forget you are not one of us. Besides, you are, you see.”
Mrs. Wyndham rarely said a tactless thing, but this evening she was in such good spirits that she said what came uppermost in her thoughts. Jo
e was not offended; she was only bored.
“Will you not come and dine too, to-morrow night?” asked Mrs. Wyndham, who was anxious to atone.
“Thanks, awfully,” said Joe, “but I have to dine with the Aitchisons.”
Pocock Vancouver, pale and exquisite as ever, came up to the two ladies.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Wyndham?” he inquired, after a double bow.
“No, thank you. Johnny Hannibal is taking care of me,” answered Mrs. Sam, coldly.
“Miss Thorn, what can I get you?” he asked, turning to Joe.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Joe, “Mr. Biggielow is getting me something.” She did not look at Vancouver as she answered, and the angry color began to rise to her temples. Vancouver, who was not used to repulses such as these, and was too old a soldier to give up a situation so easily, stood a moment playing with his coat tails. A sudden thought passed through Joe’s mind. It struck her that, considering the situation of affairs, it would be unwise to break off her acquaintance with Vancouver at the present time. Her first honest impulse was to cut him and never speak to him again. But it was better to act with more deliberation. In the first place, there might be more to be learnt which might be of service to John; secondly, people would talk about it if she cut him, and would invent some story to the effect that he had proposed to marry her, or that she had proposed to marry him. It was contrary to her nature to pretend anything she did not feel, but it would nevertheless be a mistake to quarrel openly with Vancouver.
“On second thoughts–if you would get me a glass of water”–she said, speaking to him. He instantly disappeared; but even in the moment before he departed to execute her command he had time to express by his look a sense of injury forgiven, which did not escape Joe.
“What a hypocrite the man is!” she thought.
Vancouver on his part could form no conception of the cause of the coldness the two ladies had shown him. He could not know that Joe had discovered in him the writer of the article, still less could he have guessed that Joe had told John, and that John had told Mrs. Sam. He could only suppose that the two had been talking of something, and were annoyed at being interrupted.
When he came back with the glass of water Mr. Biggielow had just brought Joe some salad. The usual struggle began between the two men. Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was a little poet.
“I ought to thank you, Miss Thorn, instead of you thanking me,” said Vancouver, in a seductive voice, on one side of Joe.
“Is it not the most crowded supper you ever saw?” remarked Mr. Biggielow on the other side.
“Why?” said Joe, eating her salad and looking straight before her.
“I thought you were going to send me away. I was so glad when you condescended to make use of me,” answered Vancouver.
Mr. Biggielow also answered Joe’s interrogation.
“Well,” he said, “I mean it is thronged with people. There is a decided ‘sound of revelry by night’.”
“Youth and beauty? That sort of thing?” said Joe to Biggielow. Then turning to Vancouver, she added, “Why should I send you away?”
“I hope there is no reason,” he said gravely. “In fact, I am sure there is none, except that you would of course always do exactly as you pleased about that and everything else.”
“Yes, indeed,” Joe answered, and her lip curled a little proudly, “you are quite right about that. But then, you know, I did not send you away.”
“Thanks, again,” said Vancouver.
“Do let me get you something more, Miss Thorn,” suggested Mr. Biggielow. “No? There is any amount of pâtés. You always like”–
“Of course you have heard about Harrington?” said Vancouver in a low voice close to Josephine’s ear.
“No, really,” she answered. “Will you take my plate? And the glass– thanks.” Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was obliged to retire. “You mean about the senatorship?” asked Joe.
“Yes. The senator died this morning. Harrington will make a fight for it. He has many friends.”
“Among whom you count yourself, doubtless,” remarked Joe.
“Not politically, of course. I take no active part”–
“Yes, I know.” Joe knew the remainder of the sentence by heart. “Then you will have a glorious opportunity for maintaining an armed neutrality.”
“Oh, if it comes to that,” said Vancouver mildly, “I would rather see Harrington senator than some of our own men. At all events, he is honest.”
“At all events!” Joe repeated. “You think, perhaps, that some man of your own party may be elected who will not turn out to be honest?”
“Well, the thing is possible. You see, politics are such a dirty business –all kinds of men get in.”
Joe laughed in a way that made Vancouver nervous. He was beginning to know her, and he could tell when some sharp thrust was coming by the way she laughed. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by her.
“It is not long since you told me that Mr. Harrington’s very mild remark about extinguishing bribery and corruption was a piece of gross exaggeration,” said Joe. “Why do you say politics are dirty work?”
“There is a great difference,” answered Vancouver.
“What difference? Between what?”
“Between saying that the business of politics is not clean, and saying that all public officers are liars, like the Cretans.”
“Who is exaggerating now?” asked Joe scornfully.
“Of course it is I,” answered Vancouver, submissively. “If it is not a rude question, did not that dress come from Egypt?”
“Yes.” The garment in question was made of a kind of soft white, fluted material over a rose-colored silk ground. The raised flutings followed the exquisite lines of Joe’s figure, and had the double merit of accentuating its symmetry, and of so leading the eye as to make her height seem greater than it really was. Cut square at the neck, it showed her dazzling throat at its best advantage, and a knot of pink lilies at the waist harmonized delicately with the color of the whole.
“It is just like you,” said Vancouver, “to have something different from everybody else. I admire Eastern things so much, and one gets so tired of the everlasting round of French dresses.”
“I am glad you like it,” said Joe, indifferently.
“I am so anxious to meet your cousin, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver, trying a new subject. “I hear there is to be a dinner for him to-morrow night at Mrs. Sam Wyndham’s. But of course I am not asked.”
“Why ‘of course’?” inquired Joe quickly.
“I believe Mrs. Wyndham thinks I dislike Englishmen,” said Vancouver at random. “But she is really very much mistaken.”
“Really?”
“Yes–I should be willing to like any number of Englishmen for the sake of being liked by one Englishwoman.” He looked at Joe expressively as he spoke.
“Really?”
“Indeed, yes. Do you not believe me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe. “Why should I not believe you?” Her voice was calm, but that same angry flush that had of late so often shown itself began to rise slowly at her temples. Vancouver saw it, and thought she was blushing at what he said.
“I trust you will,” said Vancouver. “I trust that some day you will let me tell you who that Englishwoman is.”
It was horrible; he was making love to her, this wretch, whom she despised. She turned her head away to hide the angry look in her eyes.
“Thanks–no, if you do not mind,” said she. “I do not care to receive confidences,–I always forget to forget them.” It was not in order that Pocock Vancouver might make love to her that she had sent away Bonamy Biggielow, the harmless little poet. She wished him back again, but he was embarked in an enterprise to dispute with Johnny Hannibal a place near Miss St. Joseph. Mrs. Wyndham had long since disappeared.
“Will you please take me back to my aunt?” said Joe. As they passed from the supper-room they suddenly came upon John Harrington, who was wandering about in a
n unattached fashion, apparently looking for some one. He bowed and stared a little at seeing Joe on Vancouver’s arm, but she gave him a look of such earnest entreaty that he turned and followed her at a distance to see what would happen. Seeing her sit down by her aunt, he came up and spoke to her, almost thrusting Vancouver aside with his broad shoulders. Vancouver, however, did not dispute the position, but turned on his heel and went away.
“Oh, I am so glad,” said Joe, with a sigh of relief. “I thought I should never get away from him!”
It is amazing what a difference the common knowledge of a secret will make in the intimacy of two people.
“I was rather taken aback at seeing you with him,” said John. “Not that it can make any difference to you,” he added quickly, “only you seemed so angry at him this morning.”
“But it does”–Joe began, impulsively. “That is, I began by meaning to cut him, and then I thought it would be a mistake to make a scandal.”
“Yes,” said John, “it would be a great mistake. Besides, I would not for all the world have you take a part in this thing. It would do no good, and it might do harm.”
“I think I have taken a part already,” said Joe, somewhat hurt.
“Yes, I know. I am very grateful, but I hope you will not think any more about it, nor allow it to influence you in any way.”
“But what is the use of friends if they do not take a part in one’s quarrels?” asked Joe.
John looked at her earnestly for a few seconds, and saw that she was perfectly sincere. He had grown to like Josephine of late, and he was grateful to her for her friendship. Her manner that morning, when she told him of her discovery, had made a deep impression on him.
“My dear Miss Thorn,” he said earnestly, in a low voice, “you are too good and kind, and I thank you very heartily for your friendship. But I think you were very wise not to cut Vancouver, and I hope you will not quarrel with anybody for any matter so trivial.” The color came to Joe’s face, but not for anger this time.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 121