Joe had been mistaken in thinking that Ronald would be less well received
than herself. There was of course the usual amount of gossip concerning
him, but as he refrained from eccentricities of dress when asked to
dinner, and did not bet that he would ride his horse into the smoking-room
of the Somerset Club, the gossip soon lost ground against the list of his
good qualities. Moreover, he was extremely good-looking, and his manner
was modesty itself. He admired everything he saw, partly because it was
new to him, and partly because there was a good deal to admire.
For a day or two after the final scene with Joe he had avoided seeing her.
He had not been able to resist the temptation to go back on the same day,
and he had spent some hours in considering that human affairs are
extremely mutable. But the scenes about him were too new, and very many of
the faces he saw were too attractive, to allow of his brooding for long
over his misfortune. His first impulse had been to go away again on the
very evening of his arrival. He had gone to see Joe, arriving during
luncheon, in the expectation of seeing her alone again. There would be a
scene of solemn farewell, in which he would bid her be happy in her own
way, in a tone of semi-paternal benevolence, after which he would give her
his blessing, and bid farewell to the pomps and vanities of society. He
would naturally retire gloomily from the gay world, and end his miserable
existence in the approved Guy Livingstone fashion of life, between
cavendish tobacco, deep drinking, and high play. Joe would then repent of
the ruin she had caused, and that would be a great satisfaction. There was
once a little boy in Boston whose hands were very cold as he went to
school. But he blew on them savagely, saying, "I am glad of it! It serves
my father right for not buying me my gloves." That was Ronald's state of
mind. He had led the most sober of lives, and the wildest dissipation he
remembered was the Lord Mayor's supper to the Oxford and Cambridge crews,
when he himself had been one of the winners. But surely, for a
disappointed lover there could be no course so proper as a speedy death by
dissipation--which would serve Joe right. Therefore, on his return to his
hotel, he ordered whiskey, in a sepulchral tone of voice. He tasted it,
and thought it detestable.
On reflection, he would put off the commencement of his wild career until
the evening after he had seen Joe again. The ravages of drink would not be
perceptible so soon, after all. He changed his tie for one of a darker
hue, ate sparingly of a beefsteak, and went back to bid Joe a last
farewell.
Sybil Brandon and Miss Schenectady were elements in the solemn leave-taking which Ronald had not anticipated. Sybil, moreover, made a great
effort, for she was anxious to help Joe as much as possible in her
difficulties. She talked to Ronald with a vivacity that was unusual, and
Joe herself was astonished at the brilliance of her conversation. She had
always thought Sybil very reserved, if not somewhat shy.
Perhaps Sybil pitied Ronald a little. He was very quiet in his manner,
though after the first few minutes he found himself talking much as usual.
True, he often looked at Joe, and then was silent; but then again he
looked at Sybil, and his tongue was unloosed. He was grateful after a
time, and he was also flattered. Besides, he could not help noticing that
his new acquaintance was extremely beautiful. His conscience smote him as
he realized that he was thinking of her appearance, and he immediately
quieted the qualm by saying that it was but natural admiration for an
artistic object. Ronald did not know much about artists and that sort of
people, but the expression formed itself conveniently in his mind.
The consequence was that he accepted an invitation to drive with the two
girls after luncheon, and when they left him at his hotel, a proceeding
against which he vehemently protested on the score of propriety, he
reluctantly acknowledged to himself that he had enjoyed the afternoon very
much.
"Come and see us after five o'clock," said Sybil. "I will present you to
Mrs. Wyndham. Nine hundred and thirty-six, Beacon Street," she added,
laughing.
"With great pleasure--thanks," said Ronald.
"Good-by, Ronald dear," said Joe pleasantly.
"Good-by," he answered in a doubtful tone of voice, as he raised his hat;
and the two girls drove away.
Sybil was apparently in very good spirits.
"Do not be frightened, Joe dearest," she said. "We will manage it very
well. He is not hurt in the least."
"Really, I do not believe he is--so very much, you know," Joe answered.
But she was thoughtful, and did not speak again for some time.
It was on the morning after this that Joe read the article on John's
speech, and met him by the Common. Ronald did not call during the day, and
in the evening Joe went to her party as she had intended; but neither
Sybil nor John Harrington were there. Sybil did not go to parties, and
John probably had too much to do. But at supper Joe chanced to be standing
near Mrs. Sam Wyndham.
"Oh, I so much wanted to see you, Miss Thorn," said the latter. "I wanted
to tell you how much we like your cousin, Mr. Surbiton. He came today, and
I have asked him to dinner to-morrow."
"Yes?" said Joe, turning a shade paler. "I am so glad you like him. He is
a very nice boy."
"He is perfectly lovely," said Mrs. Sam, enthusiastically. "And he is so
natural, you would not know he was English at all."
"Really?" said Joe, raising her eyebrows a little, but laughing at the
same time.
"Oh my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, "I always forget you are not one of us.
Besides, you are, you see."
Mrs. Wyndham rarely said a tactless thing, but this evening she was in
such good spirits that she said what came uppermost in her thoughts. Joe
was not offended; she was only bored.
"Will you not come and dine too, to-morrow night?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, who
was anxious to atone.
"Thanks, awfully," said Joe, "but I have to dine with the Aitchisons."
Pocock Vancouver, pale and exquisite as ever, came up to the two ladies.
"Can I get you anything, Mrs. Wyndham?" he inquired, after a double bow.
"No, thank you. Johnny Hannibal is taking care of me," answered Mrs. Sam,
coldly.
"Miss Thorn, what can I get you?" he asked, turning to Joe.
"Nothing, thanks," said Joe, "Mr. Biggielow is getting me something." She
did not look at Vancouver as she answered, and the angry color began to
rise to her temples. Vancouver, who was not used to repulses such as
these, and was too old a soldier to give up a situation so easily, stood a
moment playing with his coat tails. A sudden thought passed through Joe's
mind. It struck her that, considering the situation of affairs, it would
be unwise to break off her acquaintance with Vancouver at the present
time. Her first honest impulse was to cut him and never speak to him
again. But it was better to act with more deliberation. In the first
place, there might be more to be learnt which might be of service to John;
secondly, people would talk about it if she cut him, and would invent some
story to the effect that he had proposed to marry her, or that she had
proposed to marry him. It was contrary to her nature to pretend anything
she did not feel, but it would nevertheless be a mistake to quarrel openly
with Vancouver.
"On second thoughts--if you would get me a glass of water"--she said,
speaking to him. He instantly disappeared; but even in the moment before
he departed to execute her command he had time to express by his look a
sense of injury forgiven, which did not escape Joe.
"What a hypocrite the man is!" she thought.
Vancouver on his part could form no conception of the cause of the
coldness the two ladies had shown him. He could not know that Joe had
discovered in him the writer of the article, still less could he have
guessed that Joe had told John, and that John had told Mrs. Sam. He could
only suppose that the two had been talking of something, and were annoyed
at being interrupted.
When he came back with the glass of water Mr. Biggielow had just brought
Joe some salad. The usual struggle began between the two men. Mr. Bonamy
Biggielow was a little poet.
"I ought to thank you, Miss Thorn, instead of you thanking me," said
Vancouver, in a seductive voice, on one side of Joe.
"Is it not the most crowded supper you ever saw?" remarked Mr. Biggielow
on the other side.
"Why?" said Joe, eating her salad and looking straight before her.
"I thought you were going to send me away. I was so glad when you
condescended to make use of me," answered Vancouver.
Mr. Biggielow also answered Joe's interrogation.
"Well," he said, "I mean it is thronged with people. There is a decided
'sound of revelry by night'."
"Youth and beauty? That sort of thing?" said Joe to Biggielow. Then
turning to Vancouver, she added, "Why should I send you away?"
"I hope there is no reason," he said gravely. "In fact, I am sure there is
none, except that you would of course always do exactly as you pleased
about that and everything else."
"Yes, indeed," Joe answered, and her lip curled a little proudly, "you are
quite right about that. But then, you know, I did not send you away."
"Thanks, again," said Vancouver.
"Do let me get you something more, Miss Thorn," suggested Mr. Biggielow.
"No? There is any amount of _pâtés_. You always like"--
"Of course you have heard about Harrington?" said Vancouver in a low voice
close to Josephine's ear.
"No, really," she answered. "Will you take my plate? And the glass--thanks." Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was obliged to retire. "You mean about the
senatorship?" asked Joe.
"Yes. The senator died this morning. Harrington will make a fight for it.
He has many friends."
"Among whom you count yourself, doubtless," remarked Joe.
"Not politically, of course. I take no active part"--
"Yes, I know." Joe knew the remainder of the sentence by heart. "Then you
will have a glorious opportunity for maintaining an armed neutrality."
"Oh, if it comes to that," said Vancouver mildly, "I would rather see
Harrington senator than some of our own men. At all events, he is honest."
"At all events!" Joe repeated. "You think, perhaps, that some man of your
own party may be elected who will not turn out to be honest?"
"Well, the thing is possible. You see, politics are such a dirty
business--all kinds of men get in."
Joe laughed in a way that made Vancouver nervous. He was beginning to know
her, and he could tell when some sharp thrust was coming by the way she
laughed. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by her.
"It is not long since you told me that Mr. Harrington's very mild remark
about extinguishing bribery and corruption was a piece of gross
exaggeration," said Joe. "Why do you say politics are dirty work?"
"There is a great difference," answered Vancouver.
"What difference? Between what?"
"Between saying that the business of politics is not clean, and saying
that all public officers are liars, like the Cretans."
"Who is exaggerating now?" asked Joe scornfully.
"Of course it is I," answered Vancouver, submissively. "If it is not a
rude question, did not that dress come from Egypt?"
"Yes." The garment in question was made of a kind of soft white, fluted
material over a rose-colored silk ground. The raised flutings followed the
exquisite lines of Joe's figure, and had the double merit of accentuating
its symmetry, and of so leading the eye as to make her height seem greater
than it really was. Cut square at the neck, it showed her dazzling throat
at its best advantage, and a knot of pink lilies at the waist harmonized
delicately with the color of the whole.
"It is just like you," said Vancouver, "to have something different from
everybody else. I admire Eastern things so much, and one gets so tired of
the everlasting round of French dresses."
"I am glad you like it," said Joe, indifferently.
"I am so anxious to meet your cousin, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, trying
a new subject. "I hear there is to be a dinner for him to-morrow night at
Mrs. Sam Wyndham's. But of course I am not asked."
"Why 'of course'?" inquired Joe quickly.
"I believe Mrs. Wyndham thinks I dislike Englishmen," said Vancouver at
random. "But she is really very much mistaken."
"Really?"
"Yes--I should be willing to like any number of Englishmen for the sake of
being liked by one Englishwoman." He looked at Joe expressively as he
spoke.
"Really?"
"Indeed, yes. Do you not believe me?"
"Oh, yes," said Joe. "Why should I not believe you?" Her voice was calm,
but that same angry flush that had of late so often shown itself began to
rise slowly at her temples. Vancouver saw it, and thought she was blushing
at what he said.
"I trust you will," said Vancouver. "I trust that some day you will let me
tell you who that Englishwoman is."
It was horrible; he was making love to her, this wretch, whom she
despised. She turned her head away to hide the angry look in her eyes.
"Thanks--no, if you do not mind," said she. "I do not care to receive
confidences,--I always forget to forget them." It was not in order that
Pocock Vancouver might make love to her that she had sent away Bonamy
Biggielow, the harmless little poet. She wished him back again, but he was
embarked in an enterprise to dispute with Johnny Hannibal a place near
Miss St. Joseph. Mrs. Wyndham had long since disappeared.
"Will you please take me back to my aunt?" said Joe. As they passed from
the supper-room they suddenly came upon John Harrington, who was wandering
about in an unattached fashion, apparently looking for some one. He bowed
and stared a little at seeing Joe on Vancouver's arm, but she gave him a
look of such earnest entreaty that he turned and followed her at a
distance to see what would happen. Seeing her sit down by her aunt, he
came up and spoke to her, almost thrusting Vancouver aside with his broad
shoulders. Vancouver, however, did not dispute the position, but turned on
his heel and went away.
"Oh, I am so glad," said Joe, with a sigh of relief. "I thought I should
never get away from him!"
It is amazing what a difference the common knowledge of a secret will make
in the intimacy of two people.
"I was rather taken aback at seeing you with him," said John. "Not that it
can make any difference to you," he added quickly, "only you seemed so
angry at him this morning."
"But it does"--Joe began, impulsively. "That is, I began by meaning to cut
him, and then I thought it would be a mistake to make a scandal."
"Yes," said John, "it would be a great mistake. Besides, I would not for
all the world have you take a part in this thing. It would do no good, and
it might do harm."
"I think I have taken a part already," said Joe, somewhat hurt.
"Yes, I know. I am very grateful, but I hope you will not think any more
about it, nor allow it to influence you in any way."
"But what is the use of friends if they do not take a part in one's
quarrels?" asked Joe.
John looked at her earnestly for a few seconds, and saw that she was
perfectly sincere. He had grown to like Josephine of late, and he was
grateful to her for her friendship. Her manner that morning, when she told
him of her discovery, had made a deep impression on him.
"My dear Miss Thorn," he said earnestly, in a low voice, "you are too good
and kind, and I thank you very heartily for your friendship. But I think
you were very wise not to cut Vancouver, and I hope you will not quarrel
with anybody for any matter so trivial." The color came to Joe's face, but
not for anger this time.
"Trivial!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, trivial," John repeated. "Remember that it is the policy of that
paper to abuse me, and that if Vancouver had not written the article, the
editor could have found some one else easily enough who would have done
it."
"But it is such a dastardly thing!" said Joe. "He always says to every one
that he has the greatest respect for you, and then he does a thing like
this. If I were you I would kill him--I am sure I would."
"That would not be the way to win an election nowadays," said John,
laughing.
"Oh, I would not care about that," said Joe, hotly. "But I dare say it is
very silly of me," she added. "You do not seem to mind it at all."
"It is not worth while to lose one's temper or one's soul for the
iniquities of Mr. Pocock Vancouver," said John. "The man may do me harm,
but as I never expected his friendship or help, he neither falls nor rises
in my estimation on that account. Blessed are they who expect nothing!"
"Blessed indeed," said Joe. "But one cannot help expecting men who have
the reputation of being gentlemen to behave decently."
"Vancouver has a right to his political opinions, and a perfect right to
express them in any way he sees fit," said John.
"Oh, of course," said Joe, impatiently. "This is a free country, and that
sort of thing. But if he means to express political opinions he should not
cry aloud at every tea-party in town that he is neutral and takes no
active part in politics. I think that writing violent articles in a
newspaper is a very active part indeed. And he should not go about saying
that he has the highest reverence for a man, and then call him a lunatic
and a charlatan in print, unless he is willing to sign his name to it, and
take the consequences. Should he? I think it is vile, and horrid, and
abominable, and nasty, and I hate him."
"With the exception of the peroration to that speech," said John, who was
very much amused, "I am afraid I must agree with you. A man certainly
ought not to do any of those things."
"Then why do you defend him?" asked Joe, with flashing eyes.
"Because, on general principles, I do not think a man is so much worse
than his fellows because he does things they would very likely do in his
place. There are things done every day, all over the world, quite as bad
as that, and no one takes much notice of them. Almost every businessman is
trying to get the better of some other business man by fair means or
foul."
"You do not seem to have a very exalted idea of humanity," said Joe.
"A large part of humanity is sick," said John, "and it is as well to be
prepared for the worst in any illness."
"I wish you were not so tremendously calm, you know," said Joe, looking
thoughtfully into John's face. "I am afraid it will injure you."
"Why in the world should it injure me?" asked John, much astonished at the
remark.
"I have a presentiment"--she checked herself suddenly. "I do not like to
tell you," she added.
"I would like to hear what you think, if you will tell me," said John,
gravely.
"Well, do not be angry. I have a presentiment that you will not be made
senator. Are you angry?"
"No indeed. But why?"
"Just for that very reason; you are too calm. You are not enough of a
partisan. Every one is a partisan here."
John was silent, and his face was grave and thoughtful. The remark was
profound in its way, and showed a far deeper insight into political
matters than he imagined Joe possessed. He had long regarded Mrs. Wyndham
as a woman of fine sense and judgment, and had often asked her opinion on
important questions. But in all his experience she had never said anything
that seemed to strike so deeply at the root of things as this simple
remark of Josephine's.
"I am afraid you are angry," said Joe, seeing that he was grave and
silent.
"You have set me thinking, Miss Thorn," he answered.
"You think I may be right?" she said.
"The idea is quite new to me, I think it is perhaps the best definition of
the fact that I ever heard. But it is not what ought to be."
"Of course not," Joe answered. "Nothing is just what it ought to be. But
one has to take things as they are."
"And make them what they should be," added John, and the look of strong
determination came into his face.
"Ah, yes," said Joe, softly. "Make things what they should be. That is the
best thing a man can live for."
"Perhaps we might go home, Joe," said Miss Schenectady, who had been
conversing for a couple of hours with another old lady of literary tastes.
"Yes, Aunt Zoë," said Joe, rousing herself, "I think we might."
"Shall I see you to-morrow night at Mrs. Wyndham's dinner?" asked John, as
they parted.
"No, I refused. Good-night."
As Joe sat by her aunt's side in the deep dark carriage on the way home,
her hands were cold and she trembled from head to foot. And when at last
she laid her head upon her pillow there were tears in her eyes and on her
cheeks.
"Is it possible that I can be so heartless?" she murmured to herself.