“Sometimes people passed, far down below, in sledges, and she almost would have asked some one of them to take her out of the valley. But once, when she came near the track, a man came by and saw her, and he was so dreadfully frightened that he almost fell out of the sled.
“Sometimes, too, the little angels, who were young and curious, would fly down into the cold valley and look at her and speak to her.
“‘Pretty angel,’ they would say, ‘why do you stay all alone in this dreary place?’
“‘They forgot me here,’ she used to answer, ‘and now I cannot fly until the sun is over the hill. But I am very happy. It will soon come.’
“It was too cold for the little angels, and so they soon flew away and left her; and they began to call her the Snow Angel among themselves, and some of them said she was not real, but the other ones said she must be, because she was so beautiful. She was not unhappy, because angels never can be, you know; only it seemed a long time to wait for the sun to come.
“But at last the sun heard of her, and the little angels who had seen her told him it was a shame that he should not rise high enough to warm her and help her to fly. So, as he is big and good-natured and strong, he said he would try, and would do his best; and on midsummer’s day he determined to make a great effort. He shook himself, and pushed and struggled very hard, and got hotter than he had ever been in his whole life with his exertions, but at last, with a great brave leap, he found himself so high that he could see right down into the valley, and he saw the Snow Angel standing there, and she was so beautiful that he almost cried with joy. And then, as he looked, he saw a very wonderful sight.
“The Snow Angel, all white and glistening, looked up into the sun’s face and stretched her arms towards him and trembled all over; and as she felt that he was come at last and had begun to warm her, she thrust out her delicate long wings, and they gleamed and shone and struck the cold clear air. Then the least possible tinge of exquisite color came into her face, and she opened her lips and sang for joy; and presently, as she was singing, she rose straight upward with a rushing sound, like a lark in the sunlight, the whitest and purest and most beautiful angel that ever flew in the sky. And her voice was so grand and clear and ringing, that all the other angels stopped in their songs to listen, and then sang with her in joy because the Snow Angel was free at last.
“That is the story mamma used to tell me, long ago, and when I first saw you I thought of it, because you were so cold and beautiful that you seemed all made of snow. But now the sun is over the hill, Sybil dear, is it not?”
“Dear Joe,” said Sybil, winding her arm round her friend’s neck and laying her face close to hers, “you are so nice.”
The sun sank suddenly behind them, and all the eastern water caught the purple glow. It was dark when the two girls walked slowly back to the old house.
Joe stayed many days with Sybil at Sherwood, and the days ran into weeks and the weeks to months as the summer sped by. Ronald came and went daily, spending long hours with Sybil in the garden, and growing more manly and quiet in his happiness, while Sybil grew ever fairer in the gradual perfecting of her beauty. It was comforting to Joe to see them together, knowing what honest hearts they were. She occupied herself as she could with books and a few letters, but she would often sit for hours in a deep chair under the overhanging porch, where the untrimmed honeysuckle waved in the summer breeze like a living curtain, and the birds would come and swing themselves upon its tendrils. But Joe’s cheek was always pale, and her heart weary with longing and with fighting against the poor imprisoned love that no one must ever guess.
Chapter XXI.
THE WEDDING-DAY WAS fixed for the middle of August, and the ceremony was to take place in Newport. It is not an easy matter to arrange the marriage of two young people neither of whom has father or mother, though their subsequent happiness is not likely to suffer much by the bereavement. It was agreed, however, that Mrs. Wyndham, who was Sybil’s oldest friend, should come and stay at Sherwood until everything was finished; and she answered the invitation by saying she was “perfectly wild to come,”–and she came at once. Uncle Tom Sherwood was a little confused at the notion of having his house full of people; but Sybil had been amusing herself by reorganizing the place for some time back, and there is nothing easier than to render a great old-fashioned country mansion habitable for a few days in the summer, when carpets are useless and smoking chimneys are not a necessity.
Mrs. Wyndham said that Sam would come down for the wedding and stay over the day, but that she expected he was pretty busy just now.
“By the way,” she remarked, “you know John Harrington has come home. We must send him an invitation.”
The three ladies were walking in the garden after breakfast, hatless and armed with parasols. Joe started slightly, but no one noticed it.
“When did he come–where has he been all this time?” asked Sybil.
“Oh, I do not know. He came down to see Sam the other day at our place. He seems to have taken to business. They talked about the Monroe doctrine and the Panama canal, and all kinds of things. Sam says somebody has died and left him money. Anyway, he seems a good deal interested in the canal.”
Mrs. Wyndham chatted on, planning with Sybil the details of the wedding. The breakfast was to be at Sherwood, and there were not to be many people. Indeed, the distance would keep many away, a fact for which no one of those principally concerned was at all sorry. John Harrington, sweltering in the heat of New York, and busier than he had ever been in his life, received an engraved card to the effect that Mr. Thomas Sherwood requested the pleasure of Mr. Harrington’s company at the marriage of his grandniece, Miss Sybil Brandon, to Mr. Ronald Surbiton, at Sherwood, on the 15th of August. There was also a note from Mrs. Wyndham, saying that she was staying at Sherwood, and that she hoped John would be able to come.
John had, of course, heard of the engagement, but he had not suspected that the wedding would take place so soon. In spite of his business, however, he determined to be present. A great change had come over his life since he had bid Joe good-by six months earlier. He had been called to London as he had expected, and had arrived there to find that Z was dead, and that he was to take his place in the council. The fiery old man had died very suddenly, having worked almost to his last hour, in spite of desperate illness; but when it was suspected that his case was hopeless, John Harrington was warned that he must be ready to join the survivors at once.
In the great excitement, and amidst the constant labor of his new position, the past seemed to sink away to utter insignificance. His previous exertions, the short sharp struggle for the senatorship ending in defeat, the hopes and fears of ten years of a most active life, were forgotten and despised in the realization of what he had so long and so ardently desired, and now at last he saw that his dreams were no impossibility, and that his theories were not myths. But he knew also that, with all his strength and devotion and energy, he was as yet no match for the two men with whom he had to do. Their vast experience of men and things threw his own knowledge into the shade, and cool as he was in emergencies, he recognized that the magnitude of the matters they handled astonished and even startled him more than he could have believed possible. Years must elapse before he understood what seemed as plain as the day to them, and he must fight many desperate battles before he was their equal. But the determination to devote his life wholly and honestly to the one object for which a man should live had grown stronger than ever. In his exalted view the ideal republic assumed grand and noble proportions, and already overshadowed the whole earth with the glory of honor and peace and perfect justice. Before the advancing tide of a spotless civilization, all poverty, all corruption and filthiness, all crime, all war and corroding seeds of discord were swept utterly away and washed from the world, to leave only forever and ever the magnificent harmony of nations and peoples, wherein none of those vile, base, and wicked things should even be dreamed of, or so much as remembered.
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br /> He thought of Joe sometimes, wondering rather vaguely why she had acted as she had, and whether any other motive than pure sympathy with his work had made her resent so violently Vancouver’s position towards him. It was odd, he thought, that an English girl should find such extreme interest in American political doings, and then the scene in the dim sitting-room during the ball came vividly back to his memory. It was not in his nature to fancy that every woman who was taken with a fit of coughing was in love with him, but the conviction formed itself in his mind that he might possibly have fallen in love with Joe if things had been different. As it was, he had put away such childish things, and meant to live out his years of work, with their failure or success, without love and without a wife. He would always be grateful to Joe, but that would be all, and he would be glad to see her whenever an opportunity offered, just as he would be glad to see any other friend. In this frame of mind he arrived in Newport on the morning of the wedding, and reached the little church among the trees just in time to witness the ceremony.
It was not different from other weddings, excepting perhaps that the place where the High Church portion of Newport elects to worship is probably smaller than any other consecrated building in the world. Every seat was crowded, and it was with difficulty that John could find standing room just within the door. The heat was intense, and the horses that stood waiting in the avenue, sweated in the sun as they fought the flies, and pawed the hard road in an agony of impatience.
Sybil was exquisitely lovely as she went by on old Mr. Sherwood’s arm. The old gentleman had consented to assume a civilized garb for once in his life, and looked pleased with his aged self, as well he might be, seeing that the engagement had been made under his roof. Then Ronald passed, paler than usual, but certainly the handsomest man present, carrying himself with a new dignity, as though he knew himself a better man than ever in being found worthy of his beautiful bride. It was soon over, and the crowd streamed out after the bride and bridegroom.
“Hallo, Harrington, how are you?” said Vancouver, overtaking John as he turned into the road. “You had better get in with me and drive out. I have not seen you for an age.”
John stood still and surveyed Vancouver with a curiously calm air of absolute superiority.
“Thank you very much,” he answered civilly. “I have hired a carriage to take me there. I dare say we shall meet. Good-morning.”
John had been to Sherwood some years before, but he was surprised at the change that had been wrought in honor of the marriage. The place looked inhabited, the windows were all open, and the paths had been weeded, though Sybil had not allowed the wild shrubbery to be pruned nor the box hedges to be trimmed. She loved the pathless confusion of the old grounds, and most of all she loved the dilapidated summer-house.
John shook hands with many people that he knew. Mrs. Wyndham led him aside a little way.
“Is it not just perfectly splendid?” she exclaimed. “They are so exactly suited to each other. I feel as if I had done it all. You are not at all enthusiastic.”
“On the contrary,” said John, “I am very enthusiastic. It is the best thing that could possibly have happened.”
“Then go and do likewise,” returned Mrs. Sam, laughing. Then she changed her tone. “There is a young lady here who will be very glad to see you. Go and try and cheer her up a little, can’t you?”
“Who is that?”
“A young lady over there–close to Sybil-dressed in white with roses. Don’t you see? How stupid you are! There–the second on the left.”
“Do you mean to say that is Miss Thorn?” exclaimed John in much surprise, and looking where Mrs. Sam directed him. “Good Heavens! How she has changed!”
“Yes, she has changed a good deal,” said Mrs. Wyndham, looking at John’s face.
“I hardly think I should have known her,” said John. “She must have been very ill; what has been the matter?”
“The matter? Well, perhaps if you will go and speak to her, you will see what the matter is,” answered Mrs. Sam, enigmatically.
“What do you mean?” John looked at his companion in astonishment.
“I mean just exactly what I say. Go and talk to her, and cheer her up a little.” She dropped her voice, and spoke close to Harrington’s ear–”No one else in the world can,” she added.
John’s impulse was to answer Mrs. Wyndham sharply. What possible right could she have to say such things? It was extremely bad taste, if it was nothing worse, even with an old friend like John. But he checked the words on his lips and spoke coldly.
“It is not fair to say things like that about any girl,” he answered. “I will certainly go and speak to her at once, and if you will be good enough to watch, you will see that I am the most indifferent of persons in her eyes.”
“Very well, I will watch,” said Mrs. Wyndham, not in the least disconcerted. “Only take care.”
John smiled quietly, and made his way through the crowd of gaily-dressed, laughing people to here Joe was standing. She had not yet caught sight of him, but she knew he was in the room, and she felt very nervous. She intended to treat him with friendly coolness, as a protest against her conduct in former days.
Poor Joe! she was very miserable, but she had made a brave effort. Her pale cheeks and darkened eyes contrasted painfully with the roses she wore, and her short nervous remarks to those who spoke to her sounded very unlike her former self.
“How do you do, Miss Thorn?” John said, very quietly. “It is a long time since we met.”
Joe put her small cold hand in his, and it trembled so much that John noticed it. She turned her head a little away from him, frightened now that he was at last come.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice, “it is a long time.” She felt herself turn red and then pale, and as she looked away from John she met Mrs. Wyndham’s black eyes turned full upon her in an inquiring way. She started as though she had been caught in some wrong thing; but she was naturally brave, and after the first shock she spoke to John more naturally.
“We seem destined for festivities, Mr. Harrington,” she said, trying to laugh. “We parted at a ball, and we meet again at a wedding.”
“It is always more gay to meet than to part,” answered John. “I think this is altogether one of the gayest things I ever saw. What a splendid fellow your cousin is. It does one good to see men like that.”
“Yes, Ronald is very good-looking,” said Joe. “I am so very glad, you do not know; and he is so happy.”
“Any man ought to be who marries such a woman,” said John. “By the bye,” he added with a smile, “Vancouver takes it all very comfortably, does he not? I would like to know what he really feels.”
“I am sure that whatever it is, it is something bad,” said Joe.
“How you hate him!” exclaimed John with a laugh.
“I–I do not hate him. But you ought to, Mr. Harrington. I simply despise him, that is all.”
“No, I do not hate him either,” answered John. “I would not disturb my peace of mind for the sake of hating any one. It is not worth while.”
Some one came and spoke to Joe, and John moved away in the crowd, more disturbed in mind than he cared to acknowledge. He had gone to Joe’s side in the firm conviction that Mrs. Wyndham was only making an untimely jest, and that Joe would greet him indifferently. Instead she had blushed, turned paler, hesitated in her speech, and had shown every sign of confusion and embarrassment. He knew that Mrs. Wyndham was right, after all, and he avoided her, not wishing to give a fresh opportunity for making remarks upon Joe’s manner.
The breakfast progressed, and the people wandered out into the garden from the hot rooms, seeking some coolness in the shady walks. By some chain of circumstances which John could not explain, he found himself left alone with Joe an hour after he had first met her in the house. A little knot of acquaintances had gone out to the end of one of the walks, where there was a shady old bower, and presently they had paired off and moved away in var
ious directions, leaving John and Joe together. The excitement had brought the faint color to the girl’s face at last, and she was more than usually inclined to talk, partly from nervous embarrassment, and partly from the enlivening effect of so many faces she had not seen for so long.
“Tell me,” she said, pulling a leaf from the creepers and twisting it in her fingers–”tell me, how long was it before you forgot your disappointment about the election? Or did you think it was not worth while to disturb your peace of mind for anything so trivial?”
“I suppose I could not help it,” said John. “I was dreadfully depressed at first. I told you so, do you remember?”
“Of course you were, and I was very sorry for you. I told you you would lose it, long before, but you do not seem to care in the least now. I do not understand you at all.”
“I soon got over it,” said John. “I left Boston on the day after I saw you, and went straight to London. And then I found that a friend of mine was dead, and I had so much to do that I forgot everything that had gone before.”
Joe gave a little sigh, short and sharp, and quickly checked.
“You have a great many friends, have you not?” she said.
“Yes, very many. A man cannot have too many of the right sort.”
“I do not think you and I mean the same thing by friendship,” said Joe. “I should say one cannot have too few.”
“I mean friends who will help you at the right moment, that is, when you ask help. Surely it must be good to have many.”
“Everything that you do and say always turns to one and the same end,” said Joe, a little impatiently. “The one thing you live for is power and the hope of power. Is there nothing in the world worth while save that?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 133