Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Joe, dear”–Ronald began again. And then, in great uncertainty of mind, he went and looked out of the window. Presently he came back and stood before her once more.

  “I am awfully sorry I said it, Joe. Please forgive me. You don’t often cry, you know, and so”–He hesitated.

  Joe looked up at him with a smile through her tears, beautiful as a rose just wet with a summer shower.

  “And so–you did not think I could,” she said. She dried her eyes quickly and rose to her feet. “It is very silly of me, I know, but I cannot help it in the least,” said she, turning from him in pretense of arranging the knickknacks on the mantel.

  “Of course you cannot help it, Joe, dear; as if you had not a perfect right to cry, if you like! I am such a brute–I know.”

  “Come and look at the snow,” said Joe, taking his hand and leading him to the window. Enormous Irishmen in pilot coats, comforters, and india-rubber boots, armed with broad wooden spades, were struggling to keep the drifts from the pavement. Joe and Ronald stood and watched them idly, absorbed in their own thoughts.

  Presently a booby sleigh drawn by a pair of strong black horses floundered up the hill and stopped at the door.

  “Oh, Ronald, there is Sybil, and she will see I have been crying. You must amuse her, and I will come back in a few minutes.” She turned and fled, leaving Ronald at the window.

  A footman sprang to the ground, and nearly lost his footing in the snow as he opened a large umbrella and rang the bell. In a moment Sybil was out of the sleigh and at the door of the house; she could not sit still till it was opened, although the flakes were falling as thickly as ever.

  “Oh”–she exclaimed, as she entered the room and was met by Ronald, “I thought Joe was here.” There was color in her face, and she took Ronald’s hand cordially. He blushed to the eyes, and stammered.

  “Miss Thorn is–she–indeed, she will be back in a moment. How do you do? Dreadful weather, is not it?”

  “Oh, it is only a snowstorm,” said Sybil, brushing a few flakes from her furs as she came near the fire. “We do not mind it at all here. But of course you never have snow in England.”

  “Not like this, certainly,” said Ronald. “Let me help you,” he added, as Sybil began to remove her cloak.

  It was a very sudden change of company for Ronald; five minutes ago he was trying, very clumsily and hopelessly, to console Joe Thorn in her tears, feeling angry enough with himself all the while for having caused them. Now he was face to face with Sybil Brandon, the most beautiful woman he remembered to have seen, and she smiled at him as he took her heavy cloak from her shoulders, and the touch of the fur sent a thrill to his heart, and the blood to his cheeks.

  “I must say,” he remarked, depositing the things on a sofa, “you are very courageous to come out, even though you are used to it.”

  “You have come yourself,” said Sybil, laughing a little. “You told me last night that you did not come here every day.”

  “Oh–I told my cousin I had come because I was so lonely at the hotel. It is amazingly dull to sit all day in a close room, reading stupid novels.”

  “I should think it would be. Have you nothing else to do?”

  “Nothing in the wide world,” said Ronald with a smile. “What should I do here, in a strange place, where I know so few people?”

  “I suppose there is not much for a man to do, unless he is in business. Every one here is in some kind of business, you know, so they are never bored.”

  Ronald wished he could say the right thing to reestablish the half-intimacy he had felt when talking to Sybil the night before. But it was not easy to get back to the same point. There was an interval of hours between yesterday and to-day–and there was Joe.

  “I read novels to pass the time,” he said, “and because they are sometimes so like one’s own life. But when they are not, they bore me.”

  Sybil was fond of reading, and she was especially fond of fiction, not because she cared for sensational interests, but because she was naturally contemplative, and it interested her to read about the human nature of the present, rather than to learn what any individual historian thought of the human nature of the past.

  “What kind of novels do you like best?” she asked, sitting down to pass the time with Ronald until Josephine should make her appearance.

  “I like love stories best,” said Ronald.

  “Oh, of course,” said Sybil gravely, “so do I. But what kind do you like best? The sad ones, or those that end well?”

  “I like them to end well,” said Ronald, “because the best ones never do, you know.”

  “Never?” There was something in Sybil’s tone that made Ronald look quickly at her. She said the word as though she, too, had something to regret.

  “Not in my experience,” answered Surbiton, with the decision of a man past loving or being loved.

  “How dreadfully gloomy! One would think you had done with life, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, laughing.

  “Sometimes I think so, Miss Brandon,” answered Ronald in solemn tones.

  “I suppose we all think it would be nice to die, sometimes. But then the next morning things look so much brighter.”

  “I think they often look much brighter in the evening,” said Ronald, thinking of the night before.

  “I am sure something disagreeable has happened to you to-day, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, looking at him. Ronald looked into her eyes as though to see if there were any sympathy there.

  “Yes, something disagreeable has happened to me,” he answered slowly. “Something very disagreeable and painful.”

  “I am sorry,” said Sybil simply. But her voice sounded very kind and comforting.

  “That is why I say that love stories always end badly in real life,” said Ronald. “But I suppose I ought not to complain.” It was not until he had thought over this speech, some minutes later, that he realized that in a few words he had told Sybil the main part of his troubles. He never guessed that she was so far in Joe’s confidence as to have heard the whole story before. But Sybil was silent and thoughtful.

  “Love is such an uncertain thing,” she began, after a pause; and it chanced that at that very moment Joe opened the door and entered the room. She caught the sentence.

  “So you are instructing my cousin,” she said to Sybil, laughing. “I approve of the way you spend your time, my children!” No one would have believed that, twenty minutes earlier, Joe had been in tears. She was as fresh and as gay as ever, and Ronald said to himself that she most certainly had no heart, but that Sybil had a great deal,–he was sure of it from the tone of her voice.

  “What is the news about the election, Sybil?” she asked. “Of course you know all about it at the Wyndhams’.”

  “My dear, the family politics are in a state of confusion that is simply too delightful,” said Sybil.

  “You know it is said that Ira C. Calvin has refused to be a candidate, and the Republicans mean to put in Mr. Jobbins in his place, who is such a popular man, and so good and benevolent-quite a philanthropist.”

  “Does it make very much difference?” asked Joe anxiously. “I wish I understood all about it, but the local names are so hard to learn.”

  “I thought you had been learning them all the morning in Choate,” put in Ronald, who perceived that the conversation was to be about Harrington.

  “It does make a difference,” said Sybil, not noticing Ronald’s remark, “because Jobbins is much more popular than Calvin, and they say he is a friend of Patrick Ballymolloy, who will win the election for either side he favors.”

  “Who is this Irishman?” inquired Ronald.

  “He is the chief Irishman,” said Sybil laughing, “and I cannot describe him any better. He has twenty votes with him, and as things stand he always carries whichever point he favors. But Mr. Wyndham says he is glad he is not in the Legislature, because it would drive him out of his mind to decide on which side to vote–though he is a good Republican, you k
now.”

  “Of course he could vote for Mr. Harrington in spite of that,” said Joe, confidently. “Anybody would, who knows him, I am sure. But when is the election to come off?”

  “They say it is to begin to-day,” said Sybil.

  “We shall never hear anything unless we go to Mrs. Wyndham’s,” said Joe. “Aunt Zoë is awfully clever, and that, but she never knows in the least what is going on. She says she does not understand politics.”

  “If you were a Bostonian, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, “you would get into the State House and hear the earliest news.”

  “I will do anything in the world to oblige you,” said Ronald gravely, “if you will only explain a little”–

  “Oh no! It is quite impossible. Come with me, both of you, and we will get some lunch at the Wyndhams’ and hear all about it by telephone.”

  “Very well,” said Joe. “One moment, while I get my things.” She left the room. Ronald and Sybil were again alone together.

  “You were saying when my cousin came in, that love was a very uncertain thing,” suggested Ronald, rather timidly.

  “Was I?” said Sybil, standing before the mirror above the mantelpiece, and touching her hat first on one side and then on the other.

  “Yes,” answered Ronald, watching her. “Do you know, I have often thought so too.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it would be something different if it were quite certain. Perhaps it would be something much less interesting, but much better.”

  “I think you are a little confused, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, and as she smiled, Ronald could see her face reflected in the mirror.

  “I–yes–that is–I dare say I am,” said he, hesitatingly. “But I know exactly what I mean.”

  “But do you know exactly what you want?” she asked with a laugh.

  “Yes indeed,” said he confidently. “But I do not believe I shall ever get it.”

  “Then that is the ‘disagreeable and painful thing’ you referred to, as having happened this morning, I suppose,” remarked Sybil, calmly, as she turned to take up her cloak which lay on the sofa. Ronald blushed scarlet.

  “Well–yes,” he said, forgetting in his embarrassment to help her.

  “It is so heavy,” said Sybil. “Thanks. Do you know that you have been making confidences to me, Mr. Surbiton?” she asked, turning and facing him, with a half-amused, half-serious look in her blue eyes.

  “I am afraid I have,” he answered, after a short pause. “You must think I am very foolish.”

  “Never mind,” she said gravely. “They are safe with me.”

  “Thanks,” said Ronald in a low voice.

  Josephine entered the room, clad in many furs, and a few minutes later all three were on their way to Mrs. Wyndham’s, the big booby sleigh rocking and leaping and ploughing in the heavy dry snow.

  Chapter XV.

  POCOCK VANCOUVER WAS also abroad in the snowstorm. He would not in any case have stayed at home on account of the weather, but on this particular morning he had very urgent business with a gentleman who, like Lamb, rose with the lark, though he did not go to bed with the chickens. There are no larks in Boston, but the scream of the locomotives answers nearly as well.

  Vancouver accordingly had himself driven at an early hour to a certain house not situated in the West End, but of stone quite as brown, and having a bay window as prominent as any sixteen-foot-front on Beacon Street; those advantages, however, did not prevent Mr. Vancouver from wearing an expression of fastidious scorn as he mounted the steps and pulled the polished German silver handle of the door-bell. The curl on his lip gave way to a smile of joyous cordiality as he was ushered into the presence of the owner of the house.

  “Indeed, I’m glad to see you, Mr. Vancouver,” said his host, whose extremely Celtic appearance was not belied by unctuous modulation of his voice, and the pleasant roll of his softly aspirated consonants.

  This great man was no other than Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. He received Vancouver in his study, which was handsomely furnished with bright green wall-paper, a sideboard on which stood a number of decanters and glasses, several leather easy-chairs, and a green china spittoon.

  In personal appearance, Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was vastly more striking than attractive. He was both corpulent and truculent, and his hands and feet were of a size and thickness calculated to crush a paving-stone at a step, or to fell an ox at a blow. The nails of his fingers were of a hue which is made artificially fashionable in eastern countries, but which excites prejudice in western civilization from an undue display of real estate. A neck which the Minotaur might have justly envied surmounted the thickness and roundness of Mr. Ballymolloy’s shoulders, and supported a head more remarkable for the immense cavity of the mouth, and for a quantity of highly pomaded sandy hair, than for any intellectuality of the brows or high-bred fineness of the nose. Mr. Ballymolloy’s nose was nevertheless an astonishing feature, and at a distance called vividly to mind the effect of one of those great glass bottles of reddened water, behind which apothecaries of all degrees put a lamp at dusk in order that their light may the better shine in the darkness. It was one of the most surprising feats of nature’s alchemy that a liquid so brown as that contained in the decanters on Patrick’s sideboard should be able to produce and maintain anything so supernaturally red as Patrick’s nose.

  Mr. Ballymolloy was clad in a beautiful suit of shiny black broadcloth, and the front of his coat was irregularly but richly adorned with a profusion of grease-spots of all sizes. A delicate suggestive mezzotint shaded the edges of his collar and cuffs, and from his heavy gold watch-chain depended a malachite seal of unusual greenness and brilliancy.

  Vancouver took the gigantic outstretched hand of his host in his delicate fingers, with an air of cordiality which, if not genuine, was very well assumed.

  “I’m glad to see you, sir,” said the Irishman again.

  “Thanks,” said Vancouver, “and I am fortunate in finding you at home.”

  Mr. Ballymolloy smiled, and pushed one of his leather easy-chairs towards the fire. Both men sat down.

  “I suppose you are pretty busy over this election, Mr. Ballymolloy,” said Vancouver; blandly.

  “Now, that’s just it, Mr. Vancouver,” replied the Irishman. “That’s just exactly what’s the matter with me, for indeed I am very busy, and that’s the truth.”

  “Just so, Mr. Ballymolloy. Especially since the change last night. I remember what a good friend you have always been to Mr. Jobbins.”

  “Well, as you say, Mr. Vancouver, I have been thinking that I and Mr. Jobbins are pretty good friends, and that’s just about what it is, I think.”

  “Yes, I remember that on more than one occasion you and he have acted together in the affairs of the state,” said Vancouver, thoughtfully.

  ‘”Ah, but it’s the soul of him that I like,” answered Mr. Ballymolloy very sweetly. “He has such a beautiful soul, Mr. Jobbins; it does me good, and indeed it does, Mr. Vancouver.”

  “As you say, sir, a man full of broad human sympathies. Nevertheless I feel sure that on the present occasion your political interests will lead you to follow the promptings of duty, and to vote in favor of the Democratic candidate. I wish you and I did not differ in politics, Mr. Ballymolloy.”

  “And, indeed, there is not so very much difference, if it comes to that, Mr. Vancouver,” replied Patrick in conciliating tones. “But it’s just what I have been thinking, that I will vote for Mr. Harrington. It’s a matter of principle with me, Mr. Vancouver, and that’s it exactly.”

  “And where should we all be without principles, Mr. Ballymolloy? Indeed I may say that the importance of principles in political matters is very great.”

  “And it’s just the greatest pity in the world that every one has not principles like you, Mr. Vancouver. I’m speaking the truth now.” According to Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy’s view of destiny, it was the truth and nothing but the truth. He knew Vancouver of old, and Vancouver
knew him.

  “You flatter me, sir,” said Pocock, affecting a pleased smile. “To tell the truth, there is a little matter I wanted to speak to you about, if you can spare me half an hour.”.

  “Indeed, I’m most entirely delighted to be at your service, Mr. Vancouver, and I’m glad you came so early in the morning.”

  “The fact is, Mr. Ballymolloy, we are thinking of making an extension on one of our lines; a small matter, but of importance to us.”

  “I guess it must be the branch of the Pocahontas and Dead Man’s Valley you’ll be speaking of, Mr. Vancouver,” said the Irishman, with sudden and cheerful interest.

  “Really, Mr. Ballymolloy, you are a man of the most surprising quickness. It is a real pleasure to talk with you on such matters. I have no doubt you understand the whole question thoroughly.”

  “Well, it’s of no use at all to say I know nothing about it, because I have heard it mentioned, and that’s the plain truth, Mr. Vancouver. And it will take a deal of rail, too, and that’s another thing. And where do you think of getting the iron from, Mr. Vancouver?”

  “Well, I had hoped, Mr. Ballmolly,” said Vancouver, with some affected hesitation, “that as an old friend, we might be able to manage matters with you. But, of course, this is entirely unofficial, and between ourselves.”

  Mr. Ballymolloy nodded with something very like a wink of one bloodshot eye. He knew what he was about.

  “And when will you be thinking of beginning the work, Mr. Vancouver?” he inquired, after a short pause.

  “That is just the question, or rather, perhaps, I should say the difficulty. We do not expect to begin work for a year or so.”

  “And surely that makes no difference, then, at all,” returned Patrick. “For the longer the time, the easier it will be for me to accommodate you.”

  “Ah–but you see, Mr. Ballymolloy, it may be that in a year’s time these new-fangled ideas about free trade may be law, and it may be much cheaper for us to get our rails from England, as Mr. Vanderbilt did three or four years ago, when he was in such a hurry, you remember.”