Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I?” asked Sybil. Then she laughed. “No, indeed! I would not marry him if he asked me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, I would never marry a celebrity like that. He is splendid, and noble, and honest; but everything in him is devoted to his career. There is no room for a woman at all.”

  “I think the amount of solid knowledge about men that you dear, sweet, lovely, beautiful, innocent little girls possess is something just too perfectly amazing!” said Mrs. Wyndham, slowly, and with great emphasis.

  “If we do,” said Sybil, “it is not surprising. I am sure I do not wonder at girls knowing a great deal about the world. Everything is discussed before them, and marriage and men are the usual topics of conversation. The wonder is that girls still make so many mistakes in their choice, after listening to the combined experience of all the married women of their acquaintance for several years. It shows that no one is infallible.”

  “What a funny girl you are, Sybil!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. “I think you turn the tables on me altogether.”

  “Yes? Well, I have experiences of my own now,” said Sybil, leaning back against an enormous cushion.

  Mrs. Wyndham came and sat upon the arm of the easy-chair, and put one arm round Sybil’s neck and kissed her.

  “Sybil, dear,” she said affectionately, and then stopped.

  They sat in silence for some time, looking at the great logs burning in the deep fire-place.

  “Sybil, dear,” Mrs. Wyndham began again, presently, “why did you refuse Vancouver? You do not mind telling me, do you?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Sybil. “It makes no difference now.”

  “No, perhaps not. Only I always thought it strange. He must have done something you did not like, of course.”

  “Yes, that was it. He did something I did not like. Mr. Harrington would have said he had a perfect right to do as he pleased. But I could not marry him after that.”

  “Was it anything so very bad?” asked Mrs. Wyndham, affectionately, smoothing Sybil’s thick fair hair.

  “It was not as deep as a well, nor as broad as a house,” said Sybil, with a faint, scornful laugh; “but it was enough. It would do.”

  “I wish you would tell me, dear,” persisted Mrs. Wyndham. “I have a particular reason for wanting to know.”

  “Well, I would not have told before this other affair came out,” said Sybil. “I would not marry him because he tried to find out from poor mamma’s man of business whether we were rich. And the day after he got the information that I was rich enough to suit him, he proposed. But mamma knew all about what had gone on and told me, and so I refused him. She said I was wrong, and would not have told me if she had known it would make any difference. And now you say I was right. I am sure I was; it was only a fancy I had for him, because he was so clever and well-bred. Besides, he is much too old.”

  “He is old enough to be your father, my dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “but I think you were a little hard on him. Almost any man would do the same. We here in Boston, of course, always know about each other. It was a little mean of him, no doubt, but it was not a mortal crime.”

  “I think it was low,” said Sybil, decisively. “To think of a man as rich as that caring for a paltry twenty or thirty thousand a year.”

  “I know, my dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “it is mean; but they all do it, and life is uncertain, and so is business I suppose, and twenty or thirty thousand a year does make a difference to most people, I expect.”

  Mrs. Wyndham looked at the fire reflectively, as though not absolutely certain of the truth of the proposition. Sam Wyndham was commonly reputed to be worth a dozen millions or so. He would have been very well off even in New York, and in Boston he was rich.

  “It would make a great difference to me,” said Sybil, laughing, “for it is all I have in the world. But I am glad I refused Vancouver on that ground, all the same. If it had not been for that I should have married him–just imagine!”

  “Yes, just imagine!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. “And to have had him turn out such an abominable blackguard!”

  “There is no mistaking what you think of him now, at all events,” said Sybil.

  “No, my dear. And now we have talked so long that it is time to dress for dinner.”

  How Mrs. Wyndham went to the party and met Joe Thorn has already been told. It was no wonder that Mrs. Sam treated Vancouver so coldly, and she repulsed him again more than once during the evening. When Joe was gone, John Harrington went up to her.

  “I came very late,” he said, “and at first I could not find you, and then I had to say something to Miss Thorn. But I wanted to see you especially.”

  “Give me your arm,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “and we will go into the conservatory. I have something especial to say to you, too.” Once out of the thick of the party, they sat down. “I have discovered something more about our amiable friend,” she continued. “It is a side-light on his character–something he did a year and a half ago. Do you remember his flirtation with Sybil Brandon at Saratoga and then at Newport?”

  “Yes, I was in Newport most of the summer.”

  “You don’t know why she refused him, though. It’s perfectly rich!” Mrs. Sam laughed dryly.

  “No; I only know she did, and every one seemed very much astonished,” answered John. “She refused him because he had been trying to find out how much she was worth. It speaks volumes for the characters of both of them, does it not?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said John. “What a Jew that man is! He is as rich as Croesus.”

  “Oh, well, as I told her, most men would do it.”

  “I suppose so,” John answered, laughing a little. “A man the other night told me he was going to make inquiries concerning the fortunes of his beloved one. He said he had no idea of buying a pig in a poke. That was graceful, was it not?”

  Mrs. Wyndham laughed aloud. “He was honest, at all events. By the bye, do you know you have a fanatic admirer in Sybil Brandon?”

  “No, really? I like her very much, too: and I am very glad if she likes me.”

  “She said she would not marry you if you asked her, though,” said Mrs. Sam, laughing again. “You see you must not flatter yourself too much.”

  “I do not. I should not think of asking her to marry me. Did she give any especial reason why she would inevitably refuse me?”

  “Yes, indeed; she said you were lion-like, and, oh, the most delightful things! But she said she would not marry you if you asked her, because you are a celebrity and devoted to your career, so that there is no room for a woman in your life. Is that true?”

  “I am not so sure,” said John, thoughtfully. “Perhaps she is right in the way she means. I never thought much about it.”

  Chapter XII.

  THE IDEA JOE had formed about Vancouver was just, in the main, and she was not far wrong in disliking him and thinking him dangerous. Nevertheless John Harrington understood the man better. Vancouver was so constituted that his fine intellect and quick perception were unsupported by any strong principle of individuality. He was not capable of hatred–he could only be spiteful; he could not love, he could only give a woman what he could spare of himself. He would at all times rather avoid an open encounter, but he rarely neglected an opportunity of dealing a thrust at any one he disliked, when he could do so safely. He was the very opposite of John, who never said of any one what he would not say to themselves, and granted to every man the broadest right of judgment and freedom of opinion. Nevertheless there was not enough real strength in anything Vancouver felt to make him very dangerous as an opponent, nor valuable as a friend. Had it not been for the important position he had attained by his clever subtlety in affairs, and by the assistance of great railroad magnates who found in him a character and intelligence precisely suited to their ends, Pocock Vancouver would have been a neutral figure in the world, lacking both the enterprise to create an idea and the courage to follow it out. It was most characteristic of his inherent sm
allness, that in spite of his wealth and the very large operations that must be constantly occupying his thoughts, he could demean himself to write anonymous articles in a daily paper, in the hope of injuring a man he disliked.

  It is true that his feeling against Harrington was as strong as anything in his nature. He detested John’s strength because he had once made him a confidence and John had done him a favor. He disliked him also because he knew that wherever they chanced to be together John received an amount of consideration and even of respect which he himself could not obtain with all his money and all his cleverness. His mind, too, delighted in detail and revolted against John’s sweeping generalities. For these several reasons Vancouver had taken great delight in writing and printing sundry vicious criticisms upon John in the absolute certainty of not being found out. The editor of the paper did not know Vancouver’s name, for the articles came through the post with a modest request that they might be inserted if they were of any use; and they were generally so pungent and to the point that the editor was glad to get them, especially as no remuneration was demanded.

  As for the confidence Vancouver had once made to John, it was another instance of his littleness. At the time when Vancouver was anxious to marry Sybil Brandon, John Harrington was very intimate at the house, and was, in Vancouver’s opinion, a dangerous rival; at all events he felt that the contest was not an agreeable one, nor altogether to his own advantage. Accordingly he tried every means to clear the coast, as he expressed it; but although John probably had no intention of marrying Sybil, and Sybil certainly had never thought of marrying John, the latter was fond of her society, and of her mother’s, and came to the cottage on the Newport cliff with a regularity that drove Vancouver to the verge of despair. Pocock at last could bear it no longer and asked John to dinner. Over a bottle of Pommery Sec he confided his passion, and hinted that John was the obstacle to his wooing. Harrington raised his eyebrows, smiled, wished Vancouver all success, and left Newport the next day. If Vancouver had not disgusted Sybil by his inquiries concerning her fortune, he would have married her, and his feelings towards John would have been different. But to know that Harrington had done him the favor of going away, knowing that he was about to offer himself to Miss Brandon, and then to have failed in his suit was more than the vanity of Mr. Pocock Vancouver could bear with any sort of calmness, and the consequence was that he disliked John as much as he disliked anybody or anything in the world. There is no resentment like the resentment of wounded vanity, nor any self-reproach like that of a man who has shown his weakness.

  When Mrs. Wyndham told John the story of Vancouver’s failure he could have told her the rest, had he chosen, and she would certainly have been very much amused. But John was not a man to betray a confidence, even that of a man who had injured him, and so he merely laughed and kept his own counsel. He would have scorned to speak to Vancouver about the articles, or to make any change in his manner towards him. As he had said to Josephine, he had expected nothing from the man, and now he was not disappointed.

  Meanwhile Vancouver, who was weakly but frequently susceptible to the charms of woman, had made up his mind that if Josephine had enough pin-money she would make him an admirable wife, and he accordingly began to make love to her in his own fashion, as has been seen. A day or two earlier Joe would have laughed at him, and it would perhaps have amused her to hear what he had to say, as it amuses most young women to listen to pretty speeches. But Joe was between two fires, so to speak; she was under the two influences that were strongest with her. She loved John Harrington with all her heart, and she hated Vancouver with all her strength. It is true that her hatred was the only acknowledged passion, for her maidenly nature was not able yet to comprehend her love; and the mere thought that she cared for a man who did not care for her brought the hot blush to her cheek. But the love was in her heart all the same, strong and enduring, so that Vancouver found the fortress doubly guarded.

  He could not entirely explain to himself her conduct at the party. She had always seemed rather willing to accept his attentions and to listen to his conversation, but on this particular evening, just when he wished to make a most favorable impression, she had treated him with surprising coldness. There was a supreme superiority in the way she had at first declined his services, and had then told him he might be permitted to get her a glass of water. The subsequent satisfaction of having ousted Mr. Bonamy Biggielow, the little poet, from his position at her side was small enough, and was more than counterbalanced and destroyed by her returning to her chaperon at the first soft-tongued insinuation of a desire to flirt, which Vancouver ventured to speak. Moreover, when Harrington almost pushed him aside and sat down by Josephine, Vancouver could bear it no longer, but turned on his heel and went away, with black thoughts in his heart. It seemed as though John was to be always in his way.

  It would be hard to say what he would have felt had he known that Josephine Thorn, John Harrington, and Mrs. Sam Wyndham all knew of his journalistic doings. And yet it was nearly certain that no one of the three would ever speak to him on the subject. Joe would not, because she knew John would not like it; John himself despised the whole business too much to condescend to reproach Vancouver; and, finally, Mrs. Wyndham was too much a woman of the world to be willing to cause a scandal when it could possibly be avoided. She liked Vancouver too, and regretted what he had done. Her liking only extended to his conversation and agreeable manners, for she was beginning to despise his character; but he had so long been an habitué about the house that she could not make up her mind to turn him out. But for all that, she could not help being cold to him at first.

  John himself was too busy with important matters to bestow much thought on Vancouver or his doings. His day had been spent in interviews and letter-writing; fifty people had been to see him at his rooms, and he had dispatched more than that number of letters. At five o’clock he had slipped out with the intention of dining at his club before any one else was there, but he had met Mrs. Wyndham in the street, and had spent his dinner-hour with her. At half-past six he had another appointment in his rooms, and it was not till nearly eleven that he was able to get away and look in upon the party, when he met Joe. For a week this kind of life would probably last, and then all would be over, in one way or another, but meanwhile the excitement was intense.

  On the next day Ronald came to see Joe before ten o’clock. The time hung heavily on his hands, and he found it impossible to occupy himself with his troubles. There were moments when the first impression of disappointment returned upon him very strongly, but he was conscious of a curious duplicity about his feelings, and he knew well enough in his inmost heart that he was only evoking a fictitious regret out of respect for what he thought he ought to feel.

  “Tell me all about the people here, Joe,” said he, sitting down beside her almost as though nothing had happened. “Who is Mrs. Wyndham, to begin with?”

  “Mrs. Wyndham–she is Sam Wyndham’s wife. Just that,” said Joe.

  “And Sam Wyndham?”

  “Oh–he is one of the prevalent profession. He is a millionaire. In fact he is one of the real ones.”

  “When do they get to be real?” asked Ronald.

  “Oh, when they have more than ten millions. The other ones do not count much. It is much more the thing to be poor, unless you have ten millions.”

  “That is something in my favor, at all events,” said Ronald.

  “Very much. You have been to see Mrs. Wyndham, then?”

  “Oh yes, I went yesterday, and she has asked me to dinner to-night. It is awfully good of her, I must say.”

  “You will like her very much, and Sybil Brandon too,” said Joe. “Sybil is an adorable creature.”

  “She is most decidedly good-looking, certainly. There is no doubt about it.” Ronald pulled his delicate moustache a little. “Though she is quite different style from you, Joe,” he added presently, as though he had discovered a curious fact in natural history.

  “Of
course. Sybil is a great beauty, and I am only pretty,” answered Joe in perfectly good faith.

  “I think you are a great beauty too,” said Ronald critically. “I am sure most people think so, and I have heard lots of men say so. Besides, you are much more striking-looking than she is.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Ronald!”

  “Joe–who is Mr. Vancouver?”

  “Vancouver! Why do you ask especially?”

  “It is very natural, I am sure,” said Ronald in a somewhat injured tone. “You wrote about him. He was the only person you mentioned in your letter-that is, he and a man called Harrington.”

  “Mr. Vancouver–Mr. Pocock Vancouver–is a middle-aged man of various accomplishments,” said Joe, “more especially distinguished by the fact that Sybil Brandon refused to marry him some time ago. He is an enemy of Mr. Harrington’s, and they are both friends of Mrs. Wyndham’s.”

  “Ah!” ejaculated Ronald, “and who is Harrington?”

  “Mr. John Harrington is a very clever person who has to do with politics,” said Joe, without hesitation, but as she continued she blushed a little. “He is always being talked about because he wants to reform everything. He is a great friend of ours.”

  “Oh–I thought so,” said Ronald. “What sort of a fellow is he?”

  “I suppose he is five-and-thirty years old; he is neither tall nor short, and he has red hair,” said Joe.

  “What a beauty!” laughed Ronald.

  “He is not at all ugly, you know,” said Joe, still blushing.

  “Shall I ever see him?”

  “You will see him to-night at Mrs. Wyndham’s; he told me he was going.”

  “Oh–are you going too, Joe?”

  “No. I have another dinner-party. You will have to do without me.”

  “I suppose I shall always have to do without you, now.” said Ronald disconsolately.

  “Don’t be silly, Ronald!”

  “Silly!” repeated Surbiton in injured tones. “You call it silly to be cut up when one is treated as you have treated me! It is too bad, Joe!”