“Trivial!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, trivial,” John repeated. “Remember that it is the policy of that paper to abuse me, and that if Vancouver had not written the article, the editor could have found some one else easily enough who would have done it.”
“But it is such a dastardly thing!” said Joe. “He always says to every one that he has the greatest respect for you, and then he does a thing like this. If I were you I would kill him–I am sure I would.”
“That would not be the way to win an election nowadays,” said John, laughing.
“Oh, I would not care about that,” said Joe, hotly. “But I dare say it is very silly of me,” she added. “You do not seem to mind it at all.”
“It is not worth while to lose one’s temper or one’s soul for the iniquities of Mr. Pocock Vancouver,” said John. “The man may do me harm, but as I never expected his friendship or help, he neither falls nor rises in my estimation on that account. Blessed are they who expect nothing!”
“Blessed indeed,” said Joe. “But one cannot help expecting men who have the reputation of being gentlemen to behave decently.”
“Vancouver has a right to his political opinions, and a perfect right to express them in any way he sees fit,” said John.
“Oh, of course,” said Joe, impatiently. “This is a free country, and that sort of thing. But if he means to express political opinions he should not cry aloud at every tea-party in town that he is neutral and takes no active part in politics. I think that writing violent articles in a newspaper is a very active part indeed. And he should not go about saying that he has the highest reverence for a man, and then call him a lunatic and a charlatan in print, unless he is willing to sign his name to it, and take the consequences. Should he? I think it is vile, and horrid, and abominable, and nasty, and I hate him.”
“With the exception of the peroration to that speech,” said John, who was very much amused, “I am afraid I must agree with you. A man certainly ought not to do any of those things.”
“Then why do you defend him?” asked Joe, with flashing eyes.
“Because, on general principles, I do not think a man is so much worse than his fellows because he does things they would very likely do in his place. There are things done every day, all over the world, quite as bad as that, and no one takes much notice of them. Almost every businessman is trying to get the better of some other business man by fair means or foul.”
“You do not seem to have a very exalted idea of humanity,” said Joe.
“A large part of humanity is sick,” said John, “and it is as well to be prepared for the worst in any illness.”
“I wish you were not so tremendously calm, you know,” said Joe, looking thoughtfully into John’s face. “I am afraid it will injure you.”
“Why in the world should it injure me?” asked John, much astonished at the remark.
“I have a presentiment”–she checked herself suddenly. “I do not like to tell you,” she added.
“I would like to hear what you think, if you will tell me,” said John, gravely.
“Well, do not be angry. I have a presentiment that you will not be made senator. Are you angry?”
“No indeed. But why?”
“Just for that very reason; you are too calm. You are not enough of a partisan. Every one is a partisan here.”
John was silent, and his face was grave and thoughtful. The remark was profound in its way, and showed a far deeper insight into political matters than he imagined Joe possessed. He had long regarded Mrs. Wyndham as a woman of fine sense and judgment, and had often asked her opinion on important questions. But in all his experience she had never said anything that seemed to strike so deeply at the root of things as this simple remark of Josephine’s.
“I am afraid you are angry,” said Joe, seeing that he was grave and silent.
“You have set me thinking, Miss Thorn,” he answered.
“You think I may be right?” she said.
“The idea is quite new to me, I think it is perhaps the best definition of the fact that I ever heard. But it is not what ought to be.”
“Of course not,” Joe answered. “Nothing is just what it ought to be. But one has to take things as they are.”
“And make them what they should be,” added John, and the look of strong determination came into his face.
“Ah, yes,” said Joe, softly. “Make things what they should be. That is the best thing a man can live for.”
“Perhaps we might go home, Joe,” said Miss Schenectady, who had been conversing for a couple of hours with another old lady of literary tastes.
“Yes, Aunt Zoë,” said Joe, rousing herself, “I think we might.”
“Shall I see you to-morrow night at Mrs. Wyndham’s dinner?” asked John, as they parted.
“No, I refused. Good-night.”
As Joe sat by her aunt’s side in the deep dark carriage on the way home, her hands were cold and she trembled from head to foot. And when at last she laid her head upon her pillow there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.
“Is it possible that I can be so heartless?” she murmured to herself.
Chapter XI.
RONALD WENT TO see Sybil Brandon at five o’clock, and as it chanced he found her alone. Mrs. Wyndham, she said, had gone out, or rather she had not yet come home; but if Ronald would wait, she would certainly be in.
Ronald waited, and talked to Miss Brandon in the mean while. He had a bereaved air when he arrived, which was calculated to excite sympathy, and his conversation was subdued in tone, and grave in subject. But Sybil did her best to cheer him, and in the fullness of her sympathy did perhaps more than was absolutely necessary. Ronald’s wound was not deep, but he had a firm conviction that it ought to be.
Any man would have thought the same in his place. Certainly, few people would have understood what they felt in such a position. He had grown up believing he was to marry a young and charming woman of whom he was really exceedingly fond, and now he was suddenly told that the whole thing was a mistake. It was enough to break a man’s heart, and yet Ronald’s heart was not broken, and to his great surprise beat nearly as regularly the day after his disaster as it had done during the whole two-and-twenty years of his life. He could not understand his own calmness, and he was sure that he ought to be profoundly grieved over the whole affair, so that his face was drawn into an expression of solemnity somewhat out of keeping with its singular youthful freshness of color and outline.
The idea of devoting himself to the infernal gods as a sacrifice to the blighted passion had passed away in the course of the drive on the previous afternoon. He had felt no inclination to drown his cares in drink during the evening, but on the contrary he had gone for a brisk walk in Beacon Street, and had ascertained by actual observation, and the assistance of a box of matches, the precise position of No. 936. This had occupied some time, as it is a peculiarity of Boston to put the number of the houses on the back instead of the front, so that the only certain course to follow in searching for a friend, is to reach the rear of his house by a circuitous route through side streets and back alleys, and then, having fixed the exact position of his residence by astronomical observation, to return to the front and inquire for him. It is true that even then one is frequently mistaken, but there is nothing else to be done.
It was perhaps not extraordinary that Ronald should be at some pains to find out where Mrs. Wyndham lived, for Sybil was the only person besides Joe and Miss Schenectady whom he had yet met, and he wanted company, for he hated and dreaded solitude with his whole heart. Having traveled all the night previous, he went home and slept a sounder sleep than falls to the lot of most jilted lovers.
The next day he rose early and “did” Boston. It did not take him long, and he said to himself that half of it was very jolly, and half of it was too utterly beastly for anything. The Common, and the Gardens, and Commonwealth Avenue, you know, were rather pretty, and must have cost a deuce of a l
ot of money in this country; but as for the State House, and Paul Revere’s Church, and the Old South, and the city generally, why, it was simply disgusting, all that, you know. And in the afternoon he went to see Sybil Brandon, and began talking about what he had seen.
She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and as she looked at him, and held out her hand with a friendly greeting, Ronald felt himself actually blushing, and Sybil saw it and blushed too, a very little. Then they sat down by the window where there were plants, and they looked out at the snow and the people passing. Sybil asked Ronald what he had been doing.
“I have been doing Boston,” he said. “Of course it was the proper thing. But I am afraid I do not know much about it.”
“But do you like it?” she asked. “It is much more important, I think, to know whether you like things or dislike them, than to know everything about them. Do not you think so?”
“Oh, of course,” said Ronald. “But I like Boston very much; I mean the part where you live. All this, you know–Commonwealth Place, and the Public Park, you know, and Beacon Avenue, of course, very much. But the city “–
“You do not like the city?” suggested Sybil, seeing he hesitated, and smiling at his strange confusion of names.
“No,” said Ronald. “I think it is so cramped and ugly, and all little narrow streets. But then, of course, it is such a little place. You get into the country the moment you walk anywhere.”
“It seems very big to the Bostonians,” said Sybil, laughing.
“Oh, of course. You have lived here all your life, and so it is quite different.”
“I? Dear me no! I am not a Bostonian at all.”
“Oh,” said Ronald, “I thought you were. That was the reason I was not sure of abusing the city to you. But it is not a bad place, I should think, when you know lots of people, and that was such a pretty drive we went yesterday.”
“Yes, it must seem very new to you. Everything must, I should think, most of all this casual way we have of receiving people. But there really is a Mrs. Wyndham, with whom I am staying, and she will be in before long.”
“Oh–don’t–don’t mention her,” said Ronald, hastily, “I mean it–it is of no importance whatever, you know.” He blushed violently.
Sybil laughed, and Ronald blushed again, but in all his embarrassment lie could not help thinking what a silvery ring there was in her voice.
“I am afraid Mrs. Wyndham would not like it, if she heard you telling me she was not to be mentioned, and was not of any importance whatever. But she is a very charming woman, and I am very fond of her.”
“She is your aunt, I presume, Miss Brandon?” said Ronald.
“My aunt?” repeated Sybil. “Oh no, not at all–only a friend.”
“Oh, I thought all unattached young ladies lived with aunts here, like Miss Schenectady.” Ronald smiled grimly at the recollections of the previous day.
“Not quite that,” said Sybil, laughing. “Mrs. Wyndham is not the least like Miss Schenectady. She is less clever and more human.”
“Really, I am so glad,” said Ronald. “And she talks so oddly–Joe’s–Miss Thorn’s aunt. Could you tell me, if it is not a rude question, why so many people here are never certain of anything? It strikes me as so absurdly ridiculous, you know. She said yesterday that ‘perhaps, if I rang the bell, she could send a message.’ And the man at the hotel this morning had no postage stamps, and said that perhaps if I went to the General Post Office I might be able to get some there.”
“Yes,” said Sybil, “it is absurd, and one catches it so easily.”
“But would it not be ridiculous if the guard called out at a station, ‘Perhaps this is Boston!’ or ‘Perhaps this is New York?’ It would be too utterly funny.”
“I am afraid that if you begin to make a list of our peculiarities yon will find funnier things than that,” said Sybil, laughing. “But then we always laugh at you in England, so that it is quite fair.”
“Oh, we are very absurd, I know,” said Ronald, “but I think we are much more comfortable. For instance, we do not have niggers about who call us ‘Mister.’”
“You must not use such words in Boston, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil. “Seriously, there are people who would be very much offended. You must speak of ‘waiters of color,’ or ‘the colored help;’ you must be very careful.”
“I will,” said Ronald. “Thanks. Is everything rechristened in that way? I am afraid I shall always be in hot water.”
“Oh yes, there are no men and women here. They are all ladies and gentlemen, or ‘the gurls,’ and ‘the fellows.’ But it is very soon learnt.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” said Ronald, very much amused. “But–by the bye, this is the season here, is not it?”
So they chattered together for nearly an hour about the merest nothings, not saying anything particularly witty, but never seeming to each other in the least dull. Ronald had gone to Sybil for consolation, and he was so well consoled that he was annoyed when Mrs. Wyndham came in and interrupted his tête-à-tête. Sybil introduced Ronald, and when he rose to go, after a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Wyndham asked him to dinner on the following day.
That night, when Ronald was alone in his room at the hotel, he took Josephine’s photograph from a case in his bag and set it before him on the table. He would think about her for a while, and reflect on his situation; and he sat down for that purpose, his chin resting on his folded hands. Dear Joe–he loved her so dearly, and she was so cruel not to marry him! But, somehow, as he looked, he seemed to see through the photograph, and another face came and smiled on him. Again and again he called his attention back, and tried to realize that the future would be very blank and dreary without Joe; but do what he would, it did not seem so blank and dreary after all; there was somebody else there.
“Joe is quite right,” he said aloud. “I am a brute.” And he went to bed, trying hard to be disgusted with himself. But his dreams were sweet, for he dreamed he was sitting among the ferns at Mrs. Wyndham’s house, talking to Sybil Brandon.
“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, when Ronald was gone, “he is perfectly charming. We have positively found a new man.”
“Yes,” said Sybil. “I am so glad you asked him to dinner. I do not think he is very clever, but he talks easily, and says funny things.”
“I suppose he has come over to marry his cousin–has not he?” inquired Mrs. Wyndham.
“No,” replied Sybil, “he is not going to marry Joe Thorn,” she answered absently; for she was thinking of something, and her tone indicated such absolute certainty in the matter that Mrs. Wyndham looked quickly at her.
“Well, you seem quite certain about it, any way,” she said.
“I? Oh–well, yes. I think it is extremely unlikely that he will marry her.”
“I almost wish I had offered to take him to the party to-night,” said Mrs. Wyndham, evidently unsatisfied. “However, as he is coming to-morrow, that will do quite as well. Sybil, dear, you look tired. Why don’t you go and lie down before dinner?”
“Oh, because–I am not tired, really. I am always pale, you know.”
“Well, I am tired to death myself, my dear, and as there is no one here I will say I am not at home, and rest till dinner.”
Mrs. Wyndham had been as much startled as any one by news of the senator’s death that morning, and though she always professed to agree with her husband she was delighted at the prospect of John Harrington’s election. She had been a good friend to him, and he to her, for years, and she cared much more for his success than for the turn of events. She had met him in the street that afternoon, and they had perambulated the pavement of Beacon Street for more than an hour in the discussion of the future. John had also told her that he was now certain that Vancouver was the writer of the offensive articles that had so long puzzled him; at all events that the especial one which had appeared the morning after the skating-party was undoubtedly from his pen. Mrs. Wyndham, who had long suspected as much, was v
ery angry when she found that her suspicions had been so just, and she proposed to deal summarily with Vancouver. John, however, begged her to temporize, and she promised to be prudent.
“By the way,” she said to Sybil, as she was about to leave the room, “it was a special providence that you did not marry Vancouver. He has turned out badly.”
Sybil started slightly and looked up. Her experience with Pocock Vancouver was a thing she rarely referred to. She had undoubtedly given him great encouragement, and had then mercilessly refused him, to the great surprise of every one. But as that had occurred a year and a half ago, it was quite natural that she should treat him like any one else, now, just as though nothing had happened. She looked up at Mrs. Wyndham in some surprise.
“What has he done?” she asked.
“You know how he always talks about John Harrington?”
“He always says he respects him immensely.”
“Very well. It is he who has been writing those scurrilous articles that we have talked about so much.”
“How disgraceful!” exclaimed Sybil. “How perfectly detestable! Are you quite sure?”
“There is not the least doubt about it. John Harrington told me himself.”
“Oh, then of course it is true,” said Sybil. “How dreadful!”
“Harrington takes it in the calmest way, as though he had expected it all his life. He says they were never friends, and that Vancouver has a perfect right to his political opinions. I never saw anybody so cool in my life.”
“What a splendid fellow he is!” exclaimed Sybil. “There is something lion-like about him. He would forgive an enemy a thousand times a day, and say the man who injured him had a perfect right to his opinions.”
“Why gracious goodness, Sybil, how you talk!” cried Mrs. Wyndham; “you are not in love with the man yourself, are you, my dear?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 122