Eight days after the skating party, Ronald Surbiton telegraphed from New
York that he would reach Boston the next morning, and Josephine Thorn knew
that the hour had come. She was not afraid of the scene that must take
place, but she wished with all her heart that it were over.
As Sybil Brandon had told her, there had been time to think of what she
should say, and although she had answered recklessly that she would "trust
to luck," she knew when the day was come that she had in reality thought
intensely of the very words which must be spoken. To Miss Schenectady she
had said nothing, but on the other hand she had become very intimate with
Sybil, and to tell the truth, she hoped inwardly for the support and
sympathy of her beautiful friend.
Meanwhile, since her long evening with John Harrington on the ice, she had
made every effort to avoid his society. Like many very young women with a
vivid love of enjoyment and a fairly wide experience, she was something of
a fatalist. That is to say, she believed that her evil destiny might
spring upon her unawares at any moment, and she felt something when she
was with Harrington that warned her. For the first time in her life she
knew what it was to have moods of melancholy; she caught herself asking
what was really the end and object of her gay life, whether it amounted to
anything worthy in comparison with the trouble one had to take to amuse
one's self, whether it would not be far better in the end to live like
Miss Schenectady, reading and studying and caring nothing for the world.
Not that Josephine admired Miss Schenectady, or thought that she herself
could ever be like her. The old lady was a type of her class; intelligent
and well versed in many subjects--even learned she might have been called
by some. But to Joe's view, essentially European by nature and education,
it seemed as though her aunt, like many Bostonians, judged everything--literature, music, art of all kinds, history and the doings of great men--by one invariable standard. Her comments on what she heard and read were
uniformly delivered from the same point of view, in the same tone of
practical judgment, and with the same assumption of original superiority.
It was the everlasting "Carthago delenda" of the Roman orator. Whatever
the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained
unshaken in Miss Schenectady's mind that Beacon Street was better than
those things, and that of all speeches and languages known and spoken in
the world's history, the familiar dialect of Boston was the one best
calculated by Providence and nature to express and formulate all manner of
wisdom.
It is a strange thing that where criticism is on the whole so fair, and
cultivation of the best faculties so general, the manner of expressing a
judgment and of exhibiting acquired knowledge should be such as to jar
unpleasantly on the sensibilities of Europeans. Where is the real
difference? It probably lies in some subtle point of proportion in the
psychic chemistry of the Boston mind, but the analyst who shall express
the formula is not yet born; though there be those who can cast the
spectrum of Boston existence and thought upon their printed screens with
matchless accuracy.
Joe judged but did not analyze. She said Miss Schenectady was always
right, but that the way she was right was "horrid." Consequently she did
not look to her aunt for sympathy or assistance, and though they had more
than once talked of Ronald Surbiton since receiving his cable from
England, Joe had not said anything of her intentions regarding him. When
the second telegram arrived from New York, saying that he would be in
Boston on the following morning, Joe begged that Miss Schenectady would be
at home to receive him when he came.
"Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to," said Miss
Schenectady. She did not see why her niece should require her presence at
the interview; young men may call on young ladies in Boston without
encountering the inevitable chaperon, or being obliged to do their talking
in the hearing of a police of papas, mammas, and aunts. But as Joe
"insisted upon it," as the old lady said, she "expected there were no two
ways about it." Her expectations were correct, for Joe would have refused
absolutely to receive Ronald alone.
"I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear," she had said to Sybil the day
previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in
the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room,
reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to
lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten
o'clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and
then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past.
It was not quite ten o'clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was
turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time
in his life.
"Miss Schenectady?" said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and
then bowing slightly. He pronounced her name Schenectady, with a strong
accent on the penultimate syllable.
"Sche_nec_tady," corrected his hostess. "I expect you are Mr.
Surbiton."
"A--exactly so," said Ronald, in some embarrassment.
"Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton." Miss Schenectady
resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his
hand.
"Put your hat down," said the old lady. "What sort of a journey did you
have?"
"Very fair, thanks," said Ronald, depositing his hat on the floor beside
him, "in fact I believe we came over uncommonly quick for the time of
year. How is"--
"What steamer did you come by?" interrupted Miss Schenectady.
"The Gallia. She is one of the Cunarders. But as I was going to ask"--
"Yes, an old boat, I expect. So you came on right away from New York
without stopping?"
"Exactly," answered Ronald. "I took the first train. The fact is, I was so
anxious--so very anxious to"--
"What hotel are you at here?" inquired Miss Schenectady, without letting
him finish.
"Brunswick. How is Miss Thorn?" Ronald succeeded at last in putting the
question he so greatly longed to ask--the only one, he supposed, which
would cause a message to be sent to Joe announcing his arrival.
"Joe? She is pretty well. I expect she will be down in a minute. Are you
going to stay some while, Mr. Surbiton?"
Ronald thought Miss Schenectady the most pitiless old woman he had ever
met. In reality she had not the most remote intention of being anything
but hospitable. But her idea of hospitality at a first meeting seemed to
consist chiefly in exhibiting a great and inquisitive interest in the
individual she wished to welcome. Besides, Joe would probably come down
when she was ready, and so it was necessary to talk in the mean time. At
last Ronald succeeded in asking another question.
"Excuse the anxiety I show," he said simply, "but may I ask whether Miss
Thorn is at home?"
"Perhaps if you rang the bell I could send for her," remarked the old lady
in problematic answer.
"Oh, certainly!" exclaimed Ronald, springing to his feet, and searching
madly round the room for the bell. Miss Schenectady watched him calmly.
"I think if you went to the further side of the fire-place you would find
it--back of the screen," she suggested.
"Thanks; here it is," cried Ronald, discovering the handle in the wall.
"Yes, you have found it now," said Miss Schenectady with much
indifference. "Perhaps you find it cold here?" she continued, observing
that Ronald lingered near the fire-place.
"Oh dear, no, thanks, quite the contrary," he answered.
"Because if it is you might--Sarah, I think you could tell Miss Josephine
that Mr. Surbiton is in the parlor, could not you?"
"Oh, if it is any inconvenience"--Ronald began, misunderstanding the form
of address Miss Schenectady used to her handmaiden.
"Why?" asked Miss Schenectady, in some astonishment.
"Nothing," said Ronald, looking rather confused; "I did not quite catch
what you said."
There was a silence, and the old lady and the young man looked at each
other.
Ronald was a very handsome man, as Joe knew. He was tall and straight and
deep-chested. His complexion was like a child's, and his fine moustache
like silk. His thick fair hair was parted accurately in the middle, and
his smooth, white forehead betrayed no sign of care or thought. His eyes
were blue and very bright, and looked fearlessly at every one and
everything, and his hands were broad and clean-looking. He was perfectly
well dressed, but in a fashion far less extreme than that affected by Mr.
Topeka and young John C. Hannibal. There was less collar and more shoulder
to him, and his legs were longer and straighter than theirs. Nevertheless,
had he stood beside John Harrington, no one would have hesitated an
instant in deciding which was the stronger man. With all his beauty and
grace, Ronald Surbiton was but one of a class of handsome and graceful
men. John Harrington bore on his square brow and in the singular
compactness of his active frame the peculiar sign-manual of an especial
purpose. He would have been an exception in any class and in any age. It
was no wonder Joe had wished to compare the two.
In a few moments the door opened, and Joe entered the drawing-room. She
was pale, and her great brown eyes had a serious expression in them that
was unusual. There was something prim in the close dark dress she wore,
and the military collar of most modern cut met severely about her throat.
If Ronald had expected a very affectionate welcome he was destined to
disappointment; Joe had determined not to be affectionate until all was
over. To prepare him in some measure for what was in store, she had
planned that he should be left alone for a time with Miss Schenectady,
who, she thought, would chill any suitor to the bone.
"My dear Ronald," said Joe, holding out her hand, "I am so glad to see
you." Her voice was even and gentle, but there was no gladness in it.
"Not half so glad as I am to see you," said Ronald, holding her hand in
his, his face beaming with delight. "It seems such an age since you left!"
"It is only two months, though," said Joe, with a faint smile. "I ought to
apologize, but I suppose you have introduced yourself to Aunt Zoë." She
could not call her Aunt Zoruiah, even for the sake of frightening Ronald.
"What did you think when you got my telegram?" asked the latter.
"I thought it was very foolish of you to run away just when the hunting
was so good," answered Joe with decision.
"But you are glad, are you not?" he asked, lowering his voice, and looking
affectionately at her. Miss Schenectady was again absorbed in the life of
Mr. Ticknor.
"Yes," said Joe, gravely. "It is as well that you have come, because I
have something to say to you, and I should have had to write it. Let us go
out. Would you like to go for a walk?"
Ronald was delighted to do anything that would give him a chance of
escaping from Aunt Zoruiah and being alone with Joe.
"I think you had best be back to lunch," remarked Miss Schenectady as they
left the room.
"Of course, Aunt Zoë," answered Joe. "Besides, Sybil is coming, you know."
So they sallied forth.
It was a warm day; the snow had melted from the brick pavement, and the
great icicles on the gutters and on the trees were running water in the
mid-day sun. Joe thought a scene would be better to get over in the
publicity of the street than in private. Ronald, all unsuspecting of her
intention, walked calmly by her side, looking at her occasionally with a
certain pride, mixed with a good deal of sentimental benevolence.
"Do you know," Joe began presently, "when your cable came I felt very
guilty at having written to you that you might come?"
"Why?" asked Ronald, innocently. "You know I would come from the end of
the world to see you. I have, in fact."
"Yes, I know," said Joe wearily, wishing she knew exactly how to say what
she was so thoroughly determined should be said.
"What is the matter, Joe?" asked Ronald, suddenly. He smiled rather
nervously, but his smooth brow was a little contracted. He anticipated
mischief.
"There is something the matter, Ronald," she said at last, resolved to
make short work of the revelation of her feelings. "There is something
very much the matter."
"Well?" said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed.
"You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought--honestly, I know
you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me."
"Yes," said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. "I have
always thought so; I think so now."
"It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear," said Joe, turning very pale.
"I have thought of it too--thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry
you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot." Her voice trembled violently. However
firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say;
she was so fond of him.
"What?" asked Ronald hoarsely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was
rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than
sorrow or deep pain.
"Do not make me say it again," said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to
entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly.
"Do you mean to say," said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then
dropping his voice as he remembered the passers-by,--"do you mean to tell
me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told
me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun
of me."
"No, Ronald," Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in
the face of Surbiton's wrath, "I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of
you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you."
Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the
pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing.
"It is much better to be honest about it," said Joe, still very pale; and
when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly.
"Oh, yes," said Ronald, who was serious by this time; "it is much better
to be honest, now that you have brought me three thousand miles to hear
what you have to say--much better. By all means."
"I am very sorry, Ronald," Joe answered. "I really did not mean you to
come, and I am very sorry,--oh, more sorry than I can tell you,--but I
cannot do it, you know."
"If you won't, of course you can't," he said. "Will you please tell me who
he is?"
"Who?--what?" asked Joe, coldly. She was offended at the tone.
"The fellow you have pitched upon in my place," he said roughly.
Joe looked up into his face with an expression that frightened him. Her
dark eyes flashed with an honest fire, He stared angrily at her as they
walked slowly along.
"I made a mistake," she said slowly. "I am not sorry. I am glad. I would
be ashamed to marry a man who could speak like that to any woman. I am
sorry for you, but I am glad for myself." She looked straight into his
eyes, until he turned away. For some minutes they went on in silence.
"I beg your pardon, Joe," said Ronald presently, in a subdued tone.
"Never mind, Ronald dear, I was angry," Joe answered. But her eyes were
full of tears, and her lips quivered.
Again they went on in silence, but for a longer time than before. Joe felt
that the blow was struck, and there was nothing to be done but to wait the
result. It had been much harder than she had expected, because Ronald was
so angry; she had expected he would be pained. He, poor fellow, was really
startled out of all self-control. The idea that Joe could ever ultimately
hesitate about marrying him had never seemed to exist, even among the
remotest possibilities. But he was a gentleman in his way, and so he
begged her pardon, and chewed the cud of his wrath in silence for some
time.
"Joe," he said at last, with something of his usual calm, though he was
still red, "of course you are really perfectly serious? I mean, you have
thought about it?"
"Yes," said Joe; "I am quite sure."
"Then perhaps it is better we should go home," he continued.
"Perhaps so," said Joe. "Indeed, it would be better."
"I would like to see you again, Joe," he said in a somewhat broken
fashion. "I mean, by and by, when I am not angry, you know."
Joe smiled at the simple honesty of the proposition.
"Yes, Ronald dear, whenever you like. You are very good, Ronald," she
added.
"No, I am not good at all," said Ronald sharply, and they did not speak
again until he left her at Miss Schenectady's door. Then she gave him her
hand.
"I shall be at home until three o'clock," said she.
"Thanks," he answered; so they parted.
Joe had accomplished her object, but she was very far from happy. The
consciousness of having done right did not outweigh the pain she felt for
Ronald, who was, after all, her very dear friend. They had grown up
together from earliest childhood, and so it had been settled; for Ronald
was left an orphan when almost a baby, and had been brought up with his
cousin as a matter of expediency. Therefore, as Joe said, it had always
seemed so very natural. They had plighted vows when still in pinafores
with a ring of grass, and later they had spoken more serious things, which
it hurt Joe to remember, and now they were suffering the consequence of it
all, and the putting off childish illusions was bitter.
It was not long before Sybil Brandon came in answer to Joe's invitation.
She knew what trouble her friend was likely to be in, and was ready to do
anything in the world to make matters easier for her. Besides, though
Sybil was so white and fair, and seemingly cold, she had a warm heart, and
had conceived a very real affection for the impulsive English girl. Miss
Schenectady had retired to put on another green ribbon, leaving the life
of Mr. Ticknor open on the table, and the two girls met in the drawing-room. Joe was still pale, and the tears seemed ready to start from her
eyes.
"Dear Sybil--it is so good of you to come," said she.
Sybil kissed her affectionately and put her arm round her waist. They
stood thus for a moment before the fire.
"You have seen him?" Sybil asked presently. Joe had let her head rest
wearily against her friend's shoulder, and nodded silently in answer.
Sybil bent down and kissed her soft hair, and whispered gently in her
ear,--"Was it very hard, dear?"
"Oh, yes--indeed it was!" cried Joe, hiding her face on Sybil's breast.
Then, as though ashamed of seeming weak, she stood up boldly, turning
slightly away as she spoke. "It was dreadfully hard," she continued; "but
it is all over, and it is very much better--very, very much, you know."
"I am so glad," said Sybil, looking thoughtfully at the fire. "And now we
will go out into the country and forget all about it--all about the
disagreeable part of it."
"Perhaps," said Joe, who had recovered her equanimity, "Ronald may come
too. You see he is so used to me that after a while it will not seem to
make so very much difference after all."
"Of course, if he would," said Sybil, "it would be very nice. He will have
to get used to the idea, and if he does not begin at once, perhaps he
never may."
"He will be just the same as ever when he gets over his wrath," answered
Joe confidently.
"Was he very angry?"
"Oh, dreadfully! I never saw him so angry."
"It is better when men are angry than when they are sorry," said Sybil.
"Something like this once happened to me, and he got over it very well. I
think it was much more my fault, too," she added thoughtfully.
"Oh, I am sure you never did anything bad in your life," said Joe
affectionately. "Nothing half so bad as this--my dear Snow Angel!" And so
they kissed again and went to lunch.
"I suppose you went to walk," remarked Miss Schenectady, when they met at
table.
"Yes," said Joe, "we walked a little."
"Well, all Englishmen walk, of course," continued her aunt.
"Most of them can," said Joe, smiling.
"I mean, it is a great deal the right thing there. Perhaps you might pass
me the pepper."
Before they had finished their meal the door opened, and Ronald Surbiton
entered the room.
"Oh--excuse me," he began, "I did not know"--
"Oh, I am so glad you have come, Ronald," cried Joe, rising to greet him,
and taking his hand. "Sybil, let me introduce Mr. Surbiton--Miss Brandon."
Sybil smiled and bent her head slightly. Ronald bowed and sat down between
Sybil and Miss Schenectady.