Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The next day came, however, and yet John did not turn his steps up the hill towards Miss Schenectady’s house. It was a cloudless morning after the heavy storm, and the great drifts of snow flashed like heaps of diamonds in the sun. All the air was clear and cold, and the red brick pavements were spotted here and there with white patches left from the shovels of the Irishmen. Sleighs of all sizes were ploughing their way hither and thither, breaking out a track in the heavy mass that encumbered the streets. Every one was wrapped in furs, and every one’s face was red with the smarting cold.

  Joe stayed at home until mid-day, when she went to a luncheon-party of young girls. As usual, they had been sewing for the poor, but Joe thought that she was not depriving the poor people of any very material assistance by staying away from the more industrious part of the entertainment. The sewing they all did together in a morning did not produce results whereby even the very smallest baby could have been clothed, and the part effected by each separate damsel in this whole was consequently somewhat insignificant. Joe would have stayed at home outright had the weather not been so magnificent, and possibly she thought that she might meet John Harrington on her way to the house of her friend in Dartmouth Street.

  Fate, however, was against her, for she had not walked thirty yards down the hill before she was overtaken by Pocock Vancouver. He had been standing in one of the semi-circular bay windows of the Somerset Club, and seeing Joe coming down the steep incline, had hurriedly taken his coat and hat and gone out in pursuit of her. Had he suspected in the least how Joe felt toward him, he would have fled to the end of the world rather than meet her.

  “Good morning, Miss Thorn,” he said, walking rapidly by her side and taking off his hat, “how very early you are to-day.”

  “It is not early,” said Joe, looking at him coldly, “it is nearly one o’clock.”

  “It would be called early for most people,” said Vancouver; “for Mrs. Wyndham, for instance.”

  “I am not Mrs. Wyndham,” said Joe.

  “I am going to see Harrington,” remarked Vancouver, who perceived that Joe was not in a good humor. “I am afraid he must be dreadfully cut up about this business.”

  “So you are going to condole with him? I do not believe he is in the least disturbed. He has far too much sense.”

  “I fancy the most sensible man in the world would be a trifle annoyed at being defeated in an election, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver blandly. “I am afraid you are not very sorry for him. He is an old friend of mine, and though I differ from him in politics, very passively, I cannot do less than go and see him, and tell him how much I regret, personally, that he should be defeated.”

  Joe’s lip curled in scorn, and she flushed angrily. She could have struck Vancouver’s pale face with infinite pleasure and satisfaction, but she said nothing in immediate answer.

  “Do you not think I am right?” asked Vancouver. “I am sure you do; you have such a good heart.” They passed Charles Street as he was speaking, and yet he gave no sign of leaving her.

  “I am not sure that I have a good heart, and I am quite sure that you are utterly wrong, Mr. Vancouver,” said Joe, in calm tones.

  “Really? Why, you quite surprise me, Miss Thorn. Any man in my place ought”–

  “Most men in your place would avoid Mr. Harrington,” interrupted Joe, turning her clear brown eyes full upon him. Had she been less angry she would have been more cautious. But her blood was up, and she took no thought, but said what she meant, boldly.

  “Indeed, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver, stiffly, “I do not understand you in the least. I think what you say is very extraordinary. John Harrington has always been a friend of mine.”

  “That may be, Mr. Vancouver, but you are certainly no friend of his,” said Joe, with a scornful laugh.

  “You astonish me beyond measure,” rejoined Pocock, maintaining his air of injured virtue, although he inwardly felt that he was in some imminent danger. “How can you possibly say such a thing?”

  Joe could bear it no longer. She was very imprudent, but her honest anger boiled over. She stopped in her walk, her back against the iron railings, and she faced Vancouver with a look that frightened him. He was forced to stop also, and he could not do less than return her glance.

  “Do you dare to stand there and tell me that you are Mr. Harrington’s friend?” she asked in low distinct tones. “You, the writer of articles in the ‘Daily Standard,’ calling him a fool and a charlatan? You, who have done your very best to defeat him in this election? Indeed, it is too absurd!” She laughed aloud in utter scorn, and then turned to continue her way.

  Vancouver turned a shade paler than was natural with him, and looked down. He was very much frightened, for he was a coward.

  “Miss Thorn,” he said, “I am sorry you should believe such calumnies. I give you my word of honor that I have never either written or spoken against Mr. Harrington. He is one of my best friends.”

  Joe did not answer; she did not even look at him, but walked on in silence. He did not dare to speak again, and as they reached the corner of the Public Garden he lifted his hat.

  “I am quite sure that you will find you have misjudged me, Miss Thorn,” he said, with a grieved look. “In the mean while I wish you a very good morning.”

  “Good-morning,” said Joe, without looking at him; and she passed on, full of indignation and wrath.

  To tell the truth, she was so much delighted at having spoken her mind for once, that she had not a thought of any possible consequences. The delight of having dealt Vancouver such a buffet was very great, and she felt her heart beat fast with a triumphant pleasure.

  But Vancouver turned and went away with a very unpleasant sensation in, him. He wished with all his might that he had not left the comfortable bay window of the Somerset Club that morning, and more than all he wished he could ascertain how Joe had come to know of his journalistic doings. As a matter of fact, what she had said concerning Pocock’s efforts against John in the election had been meant in a most general way. But Vancouver thought she was referring to his interview with Ballymolloy, and that she understood the whole matter. Of course, there was nothing to be done but to deny the accusations from beginning to end; but they nevertheless had struck deep, and he was thoroughly alarmed. When he left the club he had had no intention of going to see Harrington; the idea had formed itself while talking with her. But now, again, he felt that he could not go. He had not the courage to face the man he had injured, principally because he strongly suspected that if Joe knew what he had done, John Harrington most likely knew it too.

  He was doubly hit. He would have been less completely confused and frightened if the attack had come from Sybil Brandon; but he had had vague ideas of trying to marry Joe, and he guessed that any such plan was now hopelessly out of the question. He turned his steps homeward, uncertain what to do, and hoping to find counsel in solitude.

  He took up the letters and papers that lay on his study table, brought by the mid-day post. One letter in particular attracted his attention, and he singled it out and opened it. It was dated from London, and had been twelve days on its way.

  “MY DEAR VANCOUVER,

  “Enclosed please find Bank of England Post Note for your usual quarterly honorarium, £1250. My firm will address you upon the use to be made of the Proxies lately sent you for the ensuing election of officers of the Pocahontas and Dead Man’s Valley R. R., touching your possession of which I beg to reiterate the importance of a more than Masonic discretion. I apprehend that unless the scattered shares should have been quickly absorbed for the purpose of obtaining a majority, these Proxies will enable you to control the election of the proper ticket. If not, and if the Leviathan should decline the overtures that will be made to him during his summer visit to London, I should like your estimate of five thousand shares more, to be picked up in the next three months, which will assure our friends the control. Should the prospective figure be too high, we may elect to sell out, after riggin
g the market for a boom.

  “In either event there will be lots of pickings in the rise and fall of the shares for the old joint account, which has been so profitable because you have so skillfully covered up your tracks.

  “Yours faithfully,”

  “SAUNDERS GRABBLES.”

  “P. S. The expectations of the young lady about whom you inquire are involved in such a tangle of conditions as could only have occurred to the excited fancy of an old Anglo-Indian. He left about twenty lacs of rupees in various bonds–G. I. P. and others–to his nephew, Ronald Surbiton, and to his niece jointly, provided that they marry each other. If they do not, one quarter of the estate is to go to the one who marries first, and the remaining three quarters to the other. The estate is in the hands of trustees, who pay an allowance to the heirs. In case they marry each other, the said heirs have power to dispose by will of the inheritance. Otherwise the whole of it reverts to the last survivor, and at his or her death it is to be devoted to founding a home for superannuated governesses.”

  Vancouver read the letter through with care, and held it a moment in his hand. Then he crushed it angrily together and tossed it into the fire. It seemed as though everything went wrong with him to-day. Not only was no information concerning Joe of any use now. It would be a hard thing to disabuse her of the idea that he had written those articles. After all, though, as he thought the matter over, it could be only guess-work. The manuscripts had always gone through the post, signed with a feigned name, and it was utterly impossible that the editor himself could know who had written them. It would be still more impossible, therefore, for any one else to do more than make a guess. It is easy to deny any statement, however correct, when founded on such a basis. But there was the other thing: Joe had accused him of having opposed John’s election to the best of his ability. No one could prove that either. He had even advised Ballymolloy to vote for John, in so many words. On the whole, his conscience was clear enough. Vancouver’s conscience was represented by all those things which could by any possibility be found out; the things that no one could ever know gave him no anxiety. In the present case the first thing to be done was plainly to put the whole blame of the articles on the shoulders of some one else, a person of violent political views and very great vanity, who would be greatly flattered at being thought the author of anything so clever. That would not be a difficult task. He would broach the subject to Mrs. Wyndham, telling her that the man, whoever he should be, had told him in strictest confidence that he was the writer. Vancouver would of course tell it to Mrs. Wyndham as a state secret, and she would tell some one else–it would soon be public property, and Joe would hear of it. It would be easy enough to pitch upon some individual who would not deny the imputation, or who would deny it in such a way as to leave the impression on the public mind unchanged, more especially as the articles had accomplished the desired result.

  The prime cause of all this, John Harrington himself, sat in his room, unconscious, for the time, of Vancouver’s existence. He was in a state of great depression and uncertainty, for he had not yet rallied from the blow of the defeat. Moreover he was thinking of Joe, and her letter lay open on the table beside him. His whole heart went out to her in thanks for her ready sympathy, and he had almost made up his mind to go and see her, as he had at first determined to do.

  He would have laughed very heartily at the idea of being in love, for he had never thought of himself in such a position. But he realized that he was fond of Josephine Thorn, that he was thinking of her a great deal, and that the thought was a comfort to him in his distress. He knew very well that he would find a great rest and refreshment in talking to her at present, and yet he could not decide to go to her. John was a man of calm manner and with plenty of hard, practical sense, in spite of the great enthusiasm that burned like a fire within him, and that was the mainspring of his existence. But like all orators and men much accustomed to dealing with the passions of others, he was full of quick intuitions and instincts which rarely betrayed him. Something warned him not to seek her society, and though he said to himself that he was very far from being in love, the thought that he might some day find that he wished to marry her presented itself continually to his mind; and since John had elected to devote himself to celibacy and politics, there was nothing more repugnant to his whole life than the idea of marriage.

  At this juncture, while he was revolving in his mind what was best to be done, a telegram was brought to him. It was from Z, and in briefest terms of authority commanded John to hold himself ready to start for London at a moment’s notice. It must have been dispatched within a few hours after receiving his own message of the night before, and considering the difference of time, must have been sent from London early in the afternoon. It was clearly an urgent case, and the supreme three had work for John to do, even though he had not been made senator.

  The order was a great relief. It solved all his uncertainty and scattered all his doubts to the wind. It gave him new courage and stimulated his curiosity. Z had only sent for him twice before, and then only to call him from Boston or New York to Washington. It was clear that something of very great importance was likely to occur. His energy returned in full, with the anticipation of work to do and of a journey to be made, and before night he was fully prepared to leave on receipt of his orders. His box was packed, and he had drawn the money necessary to take him to London.

  As for Joe, he could go and see her now if he pleased. In twenty-four hours he might be gone, never to see her again. But it was too late on that day–he would go on the following morning.

  It was still the height of the Boston season, which is short, but merry while it lasts. John had a dinner-party, a musical evening, and a ball on his list for the evening, and he resolved that he would go to all three, and show himself bravely to the world. He was full of new courage and strength since he had received Z’s message, and he was determined that no one should know what he had suffered.

  The dinner passed pleasantly enough, and by ten o’clock he was at the musical party. There he found the Wyndhams and many other friends, but he looked in vain for Joe; she was not there. Before midnight he was at the dance, pushing his way through crowds of acquaintances, stumbling over loving couples ensconced on the landings of the stairs, and running against forlorn old ladies, whose mouths were full of ice-cream and their hearts of bitterness against the younger generation; and so, at last, he reached the ball-room, where everything that was youngest and most fresh was assembled, swaying and gliding, and backing and turning in the easy, graceful half-walk, half-slide of the Boston step.

  As John stood looking on, Joe passed him, leaving the room on Mr. Topeka’s arm. There was a little open space before her in the crowd, and Pocock Vancouver darted out with the evident intention of speaking to her. But as she caught sight of him she turned suddenly away, pulling Mr. Topeka round by his arm. It was an extremely “marked thing to do.” As she turned she unexpectedly came face to face with John, who had watched the maneuver. The color came quickly to her face, and she was slightly embarrassed; nevertheless she held out her hand and greeted John cordially.

  Chapter XVIII.

  “I AM SO glad to have found you,” said John to Josephine, when the latter had disposed of Mr. Topeka. They had chosen a quiet corner in a dimly-lighted room away from the dancers. “But I suppose it is useless to ask you for a dance?”

  “No,” said Joe, looking at her card; “I always leave two dances free in the middle of the evening in case I am tired. We will sit them out.”

  “Thank you,” said John, looking at her. She looked pale and a little tired, but wonderfully lovely. “Thank you,” he repeated, “and thank you also for your most kind note.”

  “I wish I could tell you better how very sorry I am,” said Joe, impulsively. “It is bad enough to look on and see such things done, but I should think you must be nearly distracted.”

  “I think I was at first,” said John, simply. “But one soon grows used to it
. Man is a vain animal, and I suppose no one could lose a fight as I have without being disappointed.”

  “If you were not disappointed it would be a sign you did not really care,” answered Joe. “And of course you must care–a great, great deal. It is a loss to your cause, as well as a loss to yourself. But you cannot possibly give it up; you will win next time.”

  “Yes,” said John, “I hope I shall win some day.” But his voice sounded uncertain; it lacked that determined ring that Joe loved so well. She felt as she sat beside him that he was deeply hurt and needed fresh encouragement and strength to restore him to his old self. She longed to help him and to rouse him once more to the consciousness of power and the hope of victory.

  “It is my experience,” said she with an air of superiority that would have been amusing if she had spoken less earnestly–”it is my experience that one should never think of anything in which one has come to grief. I know, when one is going at a big thing–a double post and rails with a ditch, or anything like that, you know–it would never do to remember that you have come off at the same thing or at something else before. When a man is always remembering his last tumble he has lost his nerve, and had better give up hunting altogether. Thinking that you may get an ugly fall will not help you over anything.”

  “No,” said John, “that is very true.”

  “You must forget all about it and begin again. You have missed one bird, but you are a good shot, and you will not miss the next.”

  “You are a most encouraging person, Miss Thorn,” said John with a faint smile. “But you know the only test of a good shot is that one hits the mark. I have missed at the first trial, and that is no reason why I should not miss at the second, too.”