"Why can't you get in, Mr. Vancouver?" inquired Miss Schenectady, when she
and Joe were at last packed into the deep booby. It was simply a form of
invitation. There was no reason why Mr. Vancouver should not get in, and
with a word of thanks he did so. Ten minutes later the three were seated
round the fire in Miss Schenectady's drawing-room.
"It was very fine, was it not, Miss Thorn?" said Vancouver.
"Yes," said Joe, staring at the fire.
"There are some people," said Miss Schenectady, "it does not seem to make
much difference what they say, but it is always fine."
"Is that ironical?" asked Vancouver.
"Why, goodness gracious no! Of course not! I am John Harrington's very
best friend. I only mean to say."
"What, Aunt Zoë?" inquired Joe, not yet altogether accustomed to the
peculiar implications of her aunt's language.
"Why, what I said, of course; it sounds very fine."
"Then you do not believe it all?" asked Vancouver.
"I don't understand politics," said the old lady. "You might ring the
bell, Joe, and ask Sarah for some tea."
"Nobody understands politics," said Vancouver. "When people do, there will
be an end of them. Politics consist in one half of the world trying to
drive paradoxes down the throats of the other half."
Joe laughed a little.
"I do not know anything about politics here," she said, "though I do at
home, of course. I must say, though, Mr. Harrington did not seem so very
paradoxical."
"Oh no," answered Vancouver, blandly, "I did not mean in this case.
Harrington is very much in earnest. But it is like war, you see. When
every one understands it thoroughly, it will stop by universal consent.
Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Coming Race'?"
"Yes," said Joe. "I always read those books. _Vril_, and that sort of
thing, you mean? Oh yes."
"Approximately," answered Vancouver. "It was an allegory, you know. A
hundred years hence people will write a book to explain what Bulwer meant.
_Vril_ stands for the cumulative power of potential science, of
course."
"I think Bulwer's word shorter, and a good deal easier to understand,"
said Joe, laughing.
"It is a great thing to be great," remarked Miss Schenectady. "Sarah, I
think you might bring us some tea, please, and ask John if he couldn't
stir the furnace a little. And then to have people explain you. Goethe
must be a good deal amused, I expect, when people write books to prove
that Byron was Euphorion." Miss Schenectady was fond of German literature,
and the extent of her reading was a constant surprise to her niece.
"What a lot of things you know, Aunt Zoë!" said Joe. "But what had Bulwer
to do with war, Mr. Vancouver?"
"Oh, in the book--the 'Coming Race,' you know--they abolished war because
they could kill each other so easily."
"How nice that would be!" exclaimed Joe, looking at him.
"Why, you perfectly shock me, Joe," cried Miss Schenectady.
"I mean, to have no war," returned Joe, sweetly.
"Oh; I belonged to the Peace Conference myself," said her aunt,
immediately pacified. "Well, yes. Perhaps you could bring us a little
cake, Sarah? War is a terrible thing, my dear, as Mr. Vancouver will tell
you."
Vancouver, however, was silent. He probably did not care to have it
remembered that he was old enough to carry a musket in the Rebellion. Joe
understood and asked no Questions about it, and Vancouver was grateful for
her tact. She rose and began to pour out some tea.
"You began talking about Mr. Harrington's speech," said she presently,
"but we got away from the subject. Is it all true?"
"That is scarcely a fair question, Miss Thorn," answered Vancouver. "You
see, I belong to the opposite party in politics."
"But Mr. Harrington said he wanted both parties to combine. Besides, you
do not take any active part in it all."
"I have very strong opinions, nevertheless," replied Pocock.
"Strong opinions and activity ought to go together," said Joe.
"Not always."
"But if you have strong opinions and disagree with Mr. Harrington,"
persisted Miss Thorn, "then you have a strong opinion against your two
parties acting together for the common good."
"Not exactly that," said Vancouver, embarrassed between the directness of
Joe's question and a very strong impression that he had better not say
anything against John Harrington.
"Then what do you believe? Will you please give this cup to Miss
Schenectady?"
Vancouver rose quickly to escape.
"Cream and sugar, Miss Schenectady?" he said. "Ah, Miss Thorn has already
put them in. It is such celebrated tea of yours! Do you know, I always
look forward to a cup of it as one of the greatest pleasures in life!"
"When you have quite done praising the tea, will you please tell me what
you believe about Mr. Harrington's speech?" said the inexorable Joe,
drowning her aunt's reply to Vancouver's polite remark.
Thus cornered, Vancouver faced the difficulty.
"I believe it was a very good speech," he said mildly.
"Do you believe what he said was true?"
"A great deal of it was true, but I assure you that Harrington is very
enthusiastic. Much of it was extremely imaginative."
"I dare say; all that about making a Civil Service, I suppose?"
"Well, not exactly. I think all good Republicans hope to have a regular
Civil Service some day. It is necessary, or will be so before long."
"But then it is what he said about that ridiculous Navigation Act that you
object to?" pursued Joe, without mercy.
"Really, I think it would be an advantage to repeal it. It is only kept up
for the sake of a few builders who have influence."
"Ah, I see," exclaimed Joe triumphantly, "you think the hope he expressed
that bribery and that sort of thing might be suppressed was altogether
imaginary?"
"I hope not, Miss Thorn. But I am sure there is not nearly so much of it
as he made out. It was a very great exaggeration."
"Was there? Really, he only used the word once in the most general way. I
remember very well, at the end; he said, 'when bribery, corruption, and
all extortion are crushed forever;' anybody might say that!"
"You make out a wonderfully good case, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, who
was not altogether pleased; "was the speech printed before Harrington
spoke it this evening?"
"No!" exclaimed Joe. "I have a very good memory, in that way, just to
remember what I hear. I could repeat word for word everything he said, and
everything you have said since during the evening."
"What a terrible person you are!" said Vancouver, smiling pleasantly.
"Well, then, now that you have proved every word of Harrington's speech
out of an opponent's evidence, I will tell you frankly how it is that I do
not agree with him. He is a Democrat, I am a Republican. That is the whole
story. I do not believe, nor shall I ever believe, that any large number
of the two parties can work together. I cannot help my belief in the
least; it is a matter of conscience. Nevertheless, I have a very great
respect for Harrington, and as I take no active part whatever in any
political contest, my opinion of his politics will never interfere with my
personal feeling for him."
Frankness seemed to be Mr. Vancouver's strong point. Joe was obliged to
admit that he spoke clearly, even if she did not greatly respect his
logic. During all this time, Miss Schenectady had been sipping her tea in
silence.
"Joe," she said at last, "you are a perfect Socrates for questions. You
ought to have been a lawyer."
"I wish I were," said Joe, laughing, "or Socrates himself."
"Yes, you ought to have been. Here you know nothing at all about this
thing, and you have been talking like anything for half an hour. I think
Socrates was perfectly horrid."
"So do I," said Vancouver, laughing aloud.
"Why?" Joe asked, turning to her aunt.
"To be always stopping people in the street, and button-holing them with
his questions. Of course it was very clever, as Plato makes it out; but I
do wish he could have met me--when I was young, my dear. I would have
answered him once and for all!"
"Try me, Aunt Zoë, for practice," said Joe, "until you meet him."
"Really, I expect you would do almost as well. Look at Mr. Vancouver, he
is quite used up."
The case was not so serious with Mr. Vancouver as the old lady made it out
to be. He was silent and to all intents vanquished for the present, but it
was not long before he turned the conversation to other things, and
succeeded in making himself very agreeable. He admired Josephine very
much, and though she occasionally made him feel very uncomfortable, he
always returned to the charge with renewed intelligence and sweetness. Joe
liked him too, in spite of an unfounded suspicion she felt that he was
dangerous. He was always ready when she needed anything at a party; he
never bored her, but whenever he saw she was wearied by any one else he
came up and saved her, clearing a place for himself at her side with an
ease that bespoke long and constant experience of the world. Women,
especially young women, always like men of that description; they are
flattered at the attention of a man who is so evidently able to choose,
and they enjoy the immunity from all annoyance and weariness that such men
are able to carry with them.
Consequently Joe accepted the attentions of Pocock Vancouver with a
certain amount of satisfaction, and she had not been displeased that he
should come to Miss Schenectady's house for tea. The evening passed
quickly, and Vancouver took his leave. As he opened the front door to let
himself out he nearly fell over a small telegraph messenger.
"Thorn here?" inquired the boy, laconically.
"Yes, I'll take it in," said Vancouver quickly. He went back with the
telegram, and the boy stood inside the door waiting for the receipt. He
noticed the stamp of the Cable Office on the envelope.
"Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, entering the drawing-room again, hat in
hand, "I just met this telegram on the steps, so I brought it in. It may
need an answer, you know."
"Thanks, so much," said Joe, tearing open the pale yellow cover. She was
startled, not being accustomed to receive telegrams. Her brow contracted
as she read the contents, and she tapped her small foot on the carpet
impatiently.
THORN, care Schenectady,
Beacon, Boston.
Sailed to-day.
RONALD.
Josephine crushed the paper in her hand and signed the receipt with the
pencil Vancouver offered her.
"Thanks, so much," she said again, but in a different tone of voice.
"Any answer?" suggested Vancouver.
"Thanks, no," answered Joe. "Good-night again."
"Good-night." And Vancouver departed, wondering what the message could
have been.
Miss Schenectady had looked on calmly throughout the little scene, and
nodded to Pocock as he left the room; her peculiarities were chiefly those
of diction; she was a well-bred old lady, not without wisdom.
"Nothing wrong, Joe?" she inquired, when alone with her niece.
"I hardly know," answered Joe. "Ronald has just sailed from England. I
suppose he will be here in ten days."
"Business here?" asked Miss Schenectady.
"Oh dear, no! He knows nothing about business. I wish he would stay at
home. What a bore!"
It was evident that Joe had changed her mind since she had written to
Ronald a fortnight before. It seemed to her now, when she looked forward
to Surbiton's coming, that he would not find his place in Boston society
so easily as she had done. Of course he would expect to see her every day,
and to spend all his leisure hours at Miss Schenectady's house. Whatever
she happened to be doing, it would always be necessary to take Ronald into
consideration, and the prospect did not please her at all.
Ronald was a dear good fellow, of course, and she meant to marry him in
the end--at least, she probably would. But then, she intended to marry him
at a more convenient season, some time in the future. She knew him well,
and she was certain that when he saw her surrounded by her Boston
acquaintances, his British nature would assert itself, and he would claim
her, or try to claim her, and persuade her to go away. She bid Miss
Schenectady good night, and went to her room; and presently, when she was
sure every one was in bed in the house, she stole down to the drawing-room
again, and sat alone by the remains of the coal-fire, thinking what she
should do.
Josephine Thorn was young and more full of life and activity than most
girls of her age. She enjoyed what came in her way to enjoy with a
passionate zest, and she had the reputation of being somewhat capricious
and changeable. But she was honest in all her thoughts, and very clear-sighted. People often said she spoke her mind too freely, and was not
enough in awe of the veiled deity known in society as "The Thing." How
she hated it! How many times she had been told that what she said and did
was not quite "The Thing." She knew now what Ronald would say when he
came, if he found her worshiped on all sides by Pocock Vancouver and his
younger and less accomplished compeers. Ronald would say "it was rather
rough, you know."
She sat by the fire and thought the matter over, and when she came to
formulating in her mind the exact words that Ronald would say, she paused
to think of him and how he would look. He was handsome--far handsomer than
Vancouver or--or John Harrington. He was very nice; much nicer than
Vancouver. John Harrington was different, "nice" did not describe him; but
Ronald was nicer than all the other men she knew. He would make a charming
husband. At the thought Joe started.
"My husband!" she repeated aloud to herself in the silence. Then she rose
quickly to her feet and leaned against the smooth white marble
mantelpiece, and buried her face in her small white hands for an instant.
"Oh no, no, no, no!" she cried aloud. "It is impossible; oh no! never! I
never really meant it; did I?" She stared at herself in the glass for a
few seconds, and her face was very pale. Then she bent over her hands
again, and the tears came and wetted them a little, and at last she sat
down as she had sat before, and stared vacantly at the fire.
It would be very wrong to break Ronald's heart, she thought. He would come
to her so full of hope and gladness; how could she tell him she did not
love him?
But how was it possible that in all these years she had never before
understood that she could not marry him? It had always seemed so natural
to marry Ronald. And yet she must have always really felt just as she did
to-night; only she had never realized it, never at all. Why had it come
over her so suddenly too? It would have been so much better if she could
have seen the truth at home, before she parted from him; for it would be
so hard for him to bear it now, after coming across the ocean to see
her--so cruelly hard. Dear Ronald; and yet he must be told.
Yes, there was no doubt about it, the very first meeting must explain it
to him. He would say--what would he say? He would tell her she liked some
one else better.
Some one else! Some one who had stolen away her heart; of course he would
say that. But he would be wrong, for there was no one else, not one of all
these men she had seen, who had so much as breathed a word of love to her.
None whom she liked nearly so much as Ronald, no, not one.
For a long time she sat very quietly, following a train of thought that
was half unconscious. Her lips moved now and then, as though she were
repeating something to herself, and gradually the pained and anxious
expression of her face melted away into a look of peace.
The old gilt clock upon the chimney-piece struck twelve in its shrill
steel tones. Josephine started at the sound, and passed one hand over her
eyes as though to rouse herself, and at the same time a deep blush spread
over her delicate cheek. For with the voice of midnight there was also the
voice of a man ringing in her ears, and she heard the two together, so
that it seemed as though all the world must hear them also, and her gentle
maiden's soul was shamed at the thought.
So it is that our loves are always with us, and though we search ourselves
diligently to find them and rebuke them, we find them not; but if we give
up searching they come upon us unawares, and speak very soft words. Love
also is a gentle thing, full of sweetness and peace, when he comes to us
so; and though the maiden blushes at his speaking, she would not stop the
ears of her heart against him for all the world; and although the boy
trembles and turn pale, and forgets to be boyish when, the fit is on him,
nevertheless he goes near and worships, and loses his heart in learning a
new language. So kind and soft is love, so tender and sweet-spoken, that
you would think he would not so much as ruffle the leaf of a rose, nor
breathe too sharply on a violet, lest he should hurt the flower-soul
within; and if you treat him hospitably he is kind to the last, so that
when he is gone there is still a sweet savor of him left. But if you would
drive him roughly away with scorn and rude language, he will stand at your
door and will not leave you. Then his wings drop from him, and he grows
strong and fierce, and deadly and beautiful, as the fallen archangel of
heaven, crying aloud bitter things to you by day and night; till at the
last he will break down bolt and bar and panel, and enter your chamber,
and drag you out with him to your death in the wild darkness.
But Josephine blushed deeply there in the old-fashioned drawing-room at
midnight, and as she turned away she wondered at herself, for she could
not believe nor understand what was happening.
Poor girl! She had talked of love so often as an abstract thing, she had
seen so many love-makings of others, and so many men had tried to make
love to her in her short brilliant life, and she had always thought it
could not come near her, because, of course, she really loved Ronald. She
had marveled, indeed, at what people were willing to do, and at what they
were ready to sacrifice, for a feeling that seemed to her of such little
importance as that. It had been an illusion, and the waking had come at
last very suddenly. Whoever it might be whom she was destined to take, it
was not Ronald. It was madness to think she could be bound forever to him,
however much she might admire him and desire him as a friend.
When the clock struck she was thinking of John, and the words he had said
that night to his great audience were ringing again in her ears. She
blushed indeed at the idea that she was thinking so much of him, but it
was not that she believed she loved him. If as yet she really did, she was
herself most honestly unconscious of it; and so the blush was not
accounted for in the reckoning she made.
She lay awake long, trying to determine what was best to be done, but she
could not. One thing she must do; she must explain to Ronald, when he
came, that she could never, never marry him.
If only she had a sister, or some one! Dear Aunt Zoruiah was so horrid
about such things that it was impossible to talk to her!