Fate, the artist, mixes her own colors. She grinds them with a pestle in
the fashion of the old masters, and out of the most strange pigments she
produces often only soft neutral tints for background and shadow, kneading
a vast deal of bright colors away among the grays and browns; but now and
then she takes a palette loaded with strong paint, and a great brush, and
splashes a startling full length portrait upon the canvas, without much
regard for drawing or general composition, but with very startling effect.
To paint well needs life-long study; to paint so as merely to attract
attention needs courage and a heart hardened against artistic
sensitiveness.
John Harrington was a high light against the mezzotint of his
surroundings. He was a constant source of interest, and not infrequently
of terror, to the good town of Boston. True, he was a Bostonian himself, a
chip of the old block, whose progenitors had lived in Salem, and whose
very name breathed Pilgrim memories. He even had a teapot that had come
over in the Mayflower. This was greatly venerated, and whenever John
Harrington said anything more than usually modern, his friends brandished
the teapot, morally speaking, in his defense, and put it in the clouds as
a kind of rainbow--a promise that Puritan blood could not go wrong.
Nevertheless, John Harrington continued to startle his fellow-townsmen by
his writings and sayings, so that many of the grave sort shook their heads
and swore that he sympathized with the Irish and believed in Chinese
labor.
As a matter-of-fact, he did not mince matters. Endowed with unbounded
courage and an extraordinary command of language, when he got upon his
feet he spoke his mind in a way that was good to hear. Moreover, he had
the strong oratorical temperament that forces attention and commands men
in a body. He said that things were wrong and should be put right; and
when he had said so for half an hour to a couple of thousand people, most
of them were ready to follow him out of the hall and go and put things
right on the spot, with their own hands. As yet the opportunity had not
offered for proceeding in so simple a manner, but the aforesaid Bostonians
of the graver sort said that John Harrington would some day be seen
heading a desperate mob of socialists in an assault upon the State House.
What he had to do with socialism, or to what end he should thus fiercely
invade the headquarters of all earthly respectability, was not exactly
apparent, but the picture thus evoked in the minds of the solemn burghers
satisfactorily defined for them the personality of the man, and they said
it and said it again.
It was somewhat remarkable that he had never been called clever. At first
he was regarded as a fool by most of his own class, though he always had
friends who believed in him. By and by, as it came to be seen that he had
a purpose and would be listened to while he stated it, Boston said there
was something in him; but he was never said to be clever or "bright"--he
was John Harrington, neither more nor less. He was never even called
"Jack."
He was a friend of Mrs. Wyndham's; her keen instincts had long ago
recognized the true metal in the man, and of all who came and went in her
house there was none more welcome than he. Sam Wyndham utterly disagreed
with him in politics, but always defended him in private, saying that he
would "calm down a lot when he got older," and that meanwhile he was "a
very good fellow if you did not stir him up."
He was therefore very intimate at the Sam Wyndham establishment; in fact,
at the very hour when Pocock Vancouver was drinking Mrs. Sam's tea, John
had intended to be enjoying the same privilege. Unfortunately for his
intention he was caught elsewhere and could not get away. He was drinking
tea, it is true, but the position in which he found himself was not
entirely to his taste.
Old Miss Schenectady, whose niece, Miss Josephine Thorn, had lately come
over from England to pass the winter, had asked John Harrington to call
that afternoon. The old lady believed in John on account of the Mayflower
teapot, and consequently thought him a desirable acquaintance for her
niece. Accordingly, John went to the house, and met Miss Sybil Brandon
just as she was leaving it; which he regretted, suspecting that her
society would have been more interesting than that of Miss Thorn. As it
turned out, he was right, for his first impression of the young English
girl was not altogether agreeable; and he found himself obliged to stay
and talk to her until an ancient lady, who had come to gossip with Miss
Schenectady, and was fully carrying out her intentions, should go away and
make it possible for him to take his leave without absolutely abandoning
Miss Thorn in the corner of the room she had selected for the _tête-à-tête_.
"All that, of course, you know," said Miss Thorn, in answer to some remark
of John's, "but what sort of things do you really care for?"
"People," answered John without hesitation.
"Of course," returned his companion, "everybody likes people. It is not
very original. One could not live without lots of society, could one?"
"That depends on the meaning of society."
"Oh, I am not in the least learned about meanings," answered Miss Thorn.
"I mean what one means by society, you know. Heaps of men and women, and
tea-parties, and staying in the country, and that."
"That is a sketch indeed," said John, laughing. "But then it is rather
different here. We do not relapse into the country as you do in England,
and then come back to town like lions refreshed with sleep."
"Why not?"
"Because once in society here one is always in it. At least, most people
are. As soon as heat begins Boston goes to New York; and by-and-by New
York goes to Saratoga, and takes Boston with it; and then all three go to
Newport, and the thing begins again, until there is a general rush to
Lenox, to see the glories of the autumn; and by the time the glories are
getting a little thin it is time to be in Beacon Street again."
"But when do people shoot and ride?--do they ever hunt?" asked Miss Thorn,
opening her wide brown eyes in some astonishment at John Harrington's
description of society life in America.
"Oh yes, they hunt at Newport with a drag and a bagged fox. They do it in
July and August, when it is as hot as it can be, and the farmers turn out
with pitchforks and stones to warn them off the growing crops."
"How ridiculous!" exclaimed Miss Josephine.
"It is absurd, of course," said Harrington, "and cruel. But I must say
they ride as though there were no hereafter, and it is a stiff country."
"They must, I should think; no one who believed in a hereafter would hunt
in summer."
"I will wager that if you go to Newport this summer you will hunt, just
like everybody else," said John boldly.
Josephine Thorn knew in her heart that it was true, but she did not like
the tone in which John said it. There was an air of certainty about his
way of talking that roused her opposition.
"I would do nothing so foolish," said she. "You do not know me. And do you
mean to tell me that you like these people who rush madly about the
country and hunt in summer, and those sort of things?"
"No," said John, "not always."
"But you said you liked people. How awfully inconsistent you are!"
"Excuse me, I think not. I meant that I liked people and having to do with
them--with men and women--better than I like things."
"What are 'things'?" inquired Josephine, sarcastically. "You are not very
clear in your way of expressing yourself."
"I will be as clear as you please," answered John, looking across the room
at Miss Schenectady and her ancient friend, and devoutly wishing he could
get away. "I mean by 'things' the study of the inanimate part of creation,
of such sciences as are not directly connected with man's thoughts and
actions, and such pursuits as hunting, shooting, and sporting of all
kinds, which lead only to the amusement of the individual. I mean also the
production of literature for literature's sake, and of works of art for
the mere sake of themselves. When I say I like 'people,' I mean men and
women, their opinions and their relations to each other."
"I should think you would get very tired of them," said Miss Thorn
scornfully. "They are all dreadfully alike."
She never forgot the look Harrington turned upon her as he answered. His
calm, deep-set gray eyes gazed steadily at her, and his square features
assumed an air of gravity that almost startled her.
"I am never tired of men and women," he said. "Has it ever struck you,
Miss Thorn, that the study of men and women means the study of government,
and that a knowledge of men and women may give the power to influence the
destiny of mankind?"
"I never thought of it like that," said Josephine, very quietly. She was
surprised at his manner, and she suddenly felt that he was no ordinary
man.
To tell the truth, her aunt had informed her that John Harrington was
coming that afternoon, and had told her he was an exceedingly able man, a
statement which at once roused Josephine's opposition to its fiercest
pitch. She thoroughly hated to be warned about people, to be primed as it
were with a dose of their superiority beforehand. It always prepared her
to dislike the admirable individual when he appeared. It seemed as though
it were taken for granted that she herself had not enough intelligence to
discover wit in others, and needed to be told of it with great
circumstance in order to be upon her good behavior. Consequently Josephine
began by disliking John. She thought he was a Philistine; his hair was too
straight, and besides, it was red; he shaved all his face, whereas the men
she liked always had beards; she liked men with black eyes, or blue--John's were gray and hard; he spoke quietly, without expression, and she
liked men who were enthusiastic. After all, too, the things he said were
not very clever; anybody could have said them.
She meant to show her Boston aunt that she had no intention of accepting
Boston genius on faith. It was not her way; she liked to find out for
herself whether people were able or not, without being told, and if she
ascertained that John Harrington enjoyed a fictitious reputation for
genius it would amuse her to destroy it--or at all events to write a long
letter home to a friend, expressing her supreme opinion on that and other
matters.
John, on his part, did not very much care what impression he produced. He
never did on such occasions, and just now he was rendered doubly
indifferent by the fact that he was wishing himself somewhere else. True,
there was a certain novelty in being asked point-blank questions about his
tastes. Boston people knew what he liked, and generally only asked him
about what he did. Perhaps, if he had met Josephine by daylight, instead
of in the dim shadows of Miss Schenectady's front drawing-room, he might
have been struck by her appearance and interested by her manner. As it
was, he was merely endeavoring to get through his visit with a proper
amount of civility, in the hope that he might get away in time to see Mrs.
Sam Wyndham before dinner.
Josephine thought John dull, probably well informed, and utterly without
interest in anything. She felt inclined to do something desperate--to
throw the cushions at him, to do anything, in short, to rouse him from his
calmness. Then he made that remark about government, and his voice
deepened, and his gray eyes shone, and she was aware that he had a great
and absorbing interest in life, and that he could be roused in one
direction at least. To do her justice, she had quick perceptions, and the
impression on her mind was instantaneous.
"I never thought of it like that," she said. "Do you know?" she added in a
moment, "I should not have thought you took much interest in anything at
all."
John laughed. He was amused at the idea that he, who knew himself to be
one of the most enthusiastic of mortals, should be thought indifferent;
and he was amused at the outspoken frankness of the girl's remark.
"You know that is just like me," continued Miss Thorn quickly. "I always
say what I think, you know. I cannot help it a bit."
"What a pity all the world is not like you!" said John. "It would save a
great deal of trouble, I am sure."
"The frump is going at last," said Josephine, in an undertone, as the
ancient friend rose and showed signs of taking leave of Miss Schenectady.
"There is certainly no mistake about the frankness of that speech," said
John, rising to his feet and laughing again.
"There is no mistaking its truth," answered Josephine. "She is the real
thing--the real old-fashioned frump--we have lots of them at home."
"You remind me of Heine," said John. "He said he called a spade a spade,
and Herr Schmidt an ass."
Miss Thorn laughed. "Exactly," she answered, "that is the knowledge of men
which you say leads to power."
She rose also, and there was a little stir as the old lady departed.
Josephine watched John as he bowed and opened the door of the room to let
the visitor out. She wondered vaguely whether she would like him, whether
he might not really be a remarkable man--a fact she doubted in proportion
as her aunt assured her of its truth; she liked his looks and tried to
determine whether he was handsome or not, and she watched closely for any
awkwardness or shyness of manner, that being the fault in a man which she
never pardoned.
He was very different from the men she had generally known, and most
completely different from those she had known as her admirers. In fact she
had never admired her admirers at all,--except dear Ronald, of course.
They competed with her on her own ground, and she knew well enough she was
more than a match for any of them. Ronald was different; she had known him
all her life. But all those other men! They could ride--but she rode as
well, or better. They could shoot, but so could she, and allowing for the
disadvantages of a woman in field sports, she was as good a shot as they.
She knew she could do anything they could do, and understood most things
they understood. All in all, she did not care for the average young
Englishman. He was great fun in his own way, but there were probably more
interesting things in the world than pheasants and fences. Politics would
be interesting, she thought; she had known three or four men who were
young and already prominent in Parliament, and they were undeniably
interesting; but they were generally either ugly or clumsy,--the
unpardonable sin,--or perhaps they were vain. Josephine could not bear
vain men. John Harrington probably had some one or more of these defects.
He was certainly no "beauty man," to begin with, nevertheless, she
wondered whether he might not be called handsome by stretching a point.
She rather hoped, inwardly and unconsciously, that her ultimate judgment
would decide in favor of his good looks. She always judged; it was the
first thing she did, and she was surprised, on the present occasion, to
find her judgment so slow. People who pride themselves on being critical
are often annoyed when they find themselves uncertain of their own
opinion. As for his accomplishments, they were doubtful, to say the least.
Miss Thorn was not used to considering American men as manly. She had read
a great many books which made game of them, and showed how unused they
were to all those good things which make up the life of an English country
gentleman; she had met one or two Americans who turned up their noses in
impotent scorn of all field sports except horse-racing, which they
regarded from a financial point of view. Probably John Harrington had
never killed a pheasant in his life. Lastly, he might be vain. A man with
such a reputation for ability would most likely be conceited.
And yet, despite probability, she could not help thinking John
interesting. That one speech of his about government had meant something.
He was a man with a strong personality, with a great interest in the world
led by a dominant aspiration of some sort; and Josephine, in her heart,
loved power and admired those who possessed it. Political power especially
had that charm for her which it has for most English people of the upper
class. There is some quality in the English race which breeds an
inordinate admiration for all kinds of superiority: it is certain that if
one class of English society can be justly accused of an over-great
veneration for rank, the class which is rank itself is not behindhand in
doing homage to the political stars of the day. In favor of this
peculiarity of English people it may fairly be said that they love to
associate with persons of rank and power from a disinterested love of
those things themselves, whereas in most other countries the society of
noble and influential persons is chiefly sought from the most cynical
motives of personal advantage.
Politics--that is, the outward and appreciable manifestations of political
life--must always furnish abundant food for the curiosity of the many and
the intelligent criticism of the few. There is no exception to that rule,
be the state great or small. But politics in England and politics in
America, so far as the main points are concerned, are as different as it
is possible for any two social functions to be. Roughly, Government and
the doings of Government are centripetal in England, and centrifugal in
America. In England the will of the people assists the workings of
Providence, whereas in America devout persons pray that Providence may on
occasion modify the will of the people. In England men believe in the
Queen, the Royal Family, the Established Church, and Belgravia first, and
in themselves afterwards. Americans believe in themselves devoutly, and a
man who could "establish" upon them a church, a royalty, or a peerage,
would be a very clever fellow.
Josephine Thorn and John Harrington were fair examples of their
nationalities. Josephine believed in England and the English; John
Harrington believed in America and the Americans. How far England and
America are ever likely to believe in each other, however, is a question
of future history and not of past experience, and any reasonable amount of
doubt may be cast upon the possibility of such mutual confidence.
But as Josephine stood watching John Harrington while he opened the
drawing-room door for the visitor to go out, she thought of none of these
things. She certainly did not consider herself a type of her nation--a
distinction to which few English people aspire--and she as certainly would
have denied that the man before her was a type of the modern American.
John remained standing when the lady was gone.
"Do sit down," said Miss Schenectady, settling herself once more in her
corner.
"Thank you, I think I must be going now," answered John. "It is late." As
he spoke he turned toward Miss Thorn, and for the first time saw her under
the bright light of the old-fashioned gas chandelier.
The young girl was perhaps not what is called a great beauty, but she was
undeniably handsome, and she possessed that quality which often goes with
quick perceptions and great activity, and which is commonly defined by the
expression "striking." Short, rather than tall, she was yet so
proportioned between strength and fineness as to be very graceful, and her
head sat proudly on her shoulders--too proudly sometimes, for she could
command and she could be angry. Her wide brown eyes were bright and
fearless and honest. The faint color came and went under the clear skin as
freely as the heart could send it, and though her hair was brown and soft,
there were ruddy tints among the coils, that flashed out unexpectedly here
and there like threads of red gold twined in a mass of fine silk.
John looked at her in some astonishment, for in his anxiety to be gone and
in the dimness of the corner where they had sat, he had not realized that
Josephine was any more remarkable in her appearance than most of the
extremely young women who annually make their entrance into society, with
the average stock of pink and white prettiness. They call them "buds" in
Boston--an abbreviation for rosebuds.
Fresh young roses of each opening year, fresh with the dew of heaven and
the blush of innocence, coming up in this wild garden of a world, what
would the gardener do without you? Where would all beauty and sweetness be
found among the thorny bushes and the withering old shrubs and the rotting
weeds, were it not for you? Maidens with clean hands and pure hearts, in
whose touch there is something that heals the ills and soothes the pains
of mortality, roses whose petals are yet unspotted by dust and rain, and
whose divine perfume the hot south wind has not scorched, nor the east
wind nipped and frozen--you are the protest, set every year among us,
against the rottenness of the world's doings, the protest of the angelic
life against the earthly, of the eternal good against the eternal bad.
John Harrington looked at Miss Thorn, and looked at her with pleasure, for
he saw that she was fair--but in spite of her newly discovered beauty he
resisted Miss Schenectady's invitation to sit down again, and departed.
Any other man would have stayed, under the circumstances.
"Well, Josephine," said Miss Schenectady, when he was gone, "now you have
seen John Harrington."
Josephine looked at her aunt and laughed a little; it seemed to her a very
self-evident fact, since John had just gone.
"Exactly," said she. "Won't you call me Joe, aunt Zoruiah? They all do at
home--even Ronald."
"Joe? Boy's name. Well, if you insist upon it. As I was saying, you have
seen John Harrington, now."
"Exactly," repeated Joe.
"But I mean, how does he strike you?"
"Clever I should think," answered the young lady. "Clever, you know--that
sort of thing. Not bad looking, either."
"I told you so," said Miss Schenectady.
"Yes--but I expected ever so much more from what you said," returned Joe,
kneeling on the rug before the fire and poking the coals with the tongs.
Miss Schenectady looked somewhat offended at the slight cast upon her late
guest.
"You are very _difficile_, Josephi--I mean Joe, I forgot."
"Ye--es, very diffyseal--that sort of thing," repeated Josephine,
mimicking her aunt's pronunciation of the foreign word, "I know I am, I
can't possibly help it, you know." A dashing thrust with the tongs finally
destroyed the equilibrium of the fire, and the coals came tumbling down
upon the hearth.
"Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed the old lady in great anxiety, "you will
have the house on fire in no time! Give me the tongs right away, my dear.
You do not understand American fires!"