Ronald went to see Sybil Brandon at five o'clock, and as it chanced he
found her alone. Mrs. Wyndham, she said, had gone out, or rather she had
not yet come home; but if Ronald would wait, she would certainly be in.
Ronald waited, and talked to Miss Brandon in the mean while. He had a
bereaved air when he arrived, which was calculated to excite sympathy, and
his conversation was subdued in tone, and grave in subject. But Sybil did
her best to cheer him, and in the fullness of her sympathy did perhaps
more than was absolutely necessary. Ronald's wound was not deep, but he
had a firm conviction that it ought to be.
Any man would have thought the same in his place. Certainly, few people
would have understood what they felt in such a position. He had grown up
believing he was to marry a young and charming woman of whom he was really
exceedingly fond, and now he was suddenly told that the whole thing was a
mistake. It was enough to break a man's heart, and yet Ronald's heart was
not broken, and to his great surprise beat nearly as regularly the day
after his disaster as it had done during the whole two-and-twenty years of
his life. He could not understand his own calmness, and he was sure that
he ought to be profoundly grieved over the whole affair, so that his face
was drawn into an expression of solemnity somewhat out of keeping with its
singular youthful freshness of color and outline.
The idea of devoting himself to the infernal gods as a sacrifice to the
blighted passion had passed away in the course of the drive on the
previous afternoon. He had felt no inclination to drown his cares in drink
during the evening, but on the contrary he had gone for a brisk walk in
Beacon Street, and had ascertained by actual observation, and the
assistance of a box of matches, the precise position of No. 936. This had
occupied some time, as it is a peculiarity of Boston to put the number of
the houses on the back instead of the front, so that the only certain
course to follow in searching for a friend, is to reach the rear of his
house by a circuitous route through side streets and back alleys, and
then, having fixed the exact position of his residence by astronomical
observation, to return to the front and inquire for him. It is true that
even then one is frequently mistaken, but there is nothing else to be
done.
It was perhaps not extraordinary that Ronald should be at some pains to
find out where Mrs. Wyndham lived, for Sybil was the only person besides
Joe and Miss Schenectady whom he had yet met, and he wanted company, for
he hated and dreaded solitude with his whole heart. Having traveled all
the night previous, he went home and slept a sounder sleep than falls to
the lot of most jilted lovers.
The next day he rose early and "did" Boston. It did not take him long, and
he said to himself that half of it was very jolly, and half of it was too
utterly beastly for anything. The Common, and the Gardens, and
Commonwealth Avenue, you know, were rather pretty, and must have cost a
deuce of a lot of money in this country; but as for the State House, and
Paul Revere's Church, and the Old South, and the city generally, why, it
was simply disgusting, all that, you know. And in the afternoon he went to
see Sybil Brandon, and began talking about what he had seen.
She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and as she looked at him,
and held out her hand with a friendly greeting, Ronald felt himself
actually blushing, and Sybil saw it and blushed too, a very little. Then
they sat down by the window where there were plants, and they looked out
at the snow and the people passing. Sybil asked Ronald what he had been
doing.
"I have been doing Boston," he said. "Of course it was the proper thing.
But I am afraid I do not know much about it."
"But do you like it?" she asked. "It is much more important, I think, to
know whether you like things or dislike them, than to know everything
about them. Do not you think so?"
"Oh, of course," said Ronald. "But I like Boston very much; I mean the
part where you live. All this, you know--Commonwealth Place, and the
Public Park, you know, and Beacon Avenue, of course, very much. But the
city"--
"You do not like the city?" suggested Sybil, seeing he hesitated, and
smiling at his strange confusion of names.
"No," said Ronald. "I think it is so cramped and ugly, and all little
narrow streets. But then, of course, it is such a little place. You get
into the country the moment you walk anywhere."
"It seems very big to the Bostonians," said Sybil, laughing.
"Oh, of course. You have lived here all your life, and so it is quite
different."
"I? Dear me no! I am not a Bostonian at all."
"Oh," said Ronald, "I thought you were. That was the reason I was not sure
of abusing the city to you. But it is not a bad place, I should think,
when you know lots of people, and that was such a pretty drive we went
yesterday."
"Yes, it must seem very new to you. Everything must, I should think, most
of all this casual way we have of receiving people. But there really is a
Mrs. Wyndham, with whom I am staying, and she will be in before long."
"Oh--don't--don't mention her," said Ronald, hastily, "I mean it--it is of
no importance whatever, you know." He blushed violently.
Sybil laughed, and Ronald blushed again, but in all his embarrassment lie
could not help thinking what a silvery ring there was in her voice.
"I am afraid Mrs. Wyndham would not like it, if she heard you telling me
she was not to be mentioned, and was not of any importance whatever. But
she is a very charming woman, and I am very fond of her."
"She is your aunt, I presume, Miss Brandon?" said Ronald.
"My aunt?" repeated Sybil. "Oh no, not at all--only a friend."
"Oh, I thought all unattached young ladies lived with aunts here, like
Miss Schenectady." Ronald smiled grimly at the recollections of the
previous day.
"Not quite that," said Sybil, laughing. "Mrs. Wyndham is not the least
like Miss Schenectady. She is less clever and more human."
"Really, I am so glad," said Ronald. "And she talks so oddly--Joe's--Miss
Thorn's aunt. Could you tell me, if it is not a rude question, why so many
people here are never certain of anything? It strikes me as so absurdly
ridiculous, you know. She said yesterday that 'perhaps, if I rang the
bell, she could send a message.' And the man at the hotel this morning had
no postage stamps, and said that perhaps if I went to the General Post
Office I might be able to get some there."
"Yes," said Sybil, "it is absurd, and one catches it so easily."
"But would it not be ridiculous if the guard called out at a station,
'Perhaps this is Boston!' or 'Perhaps this is New York?' It would be too
utterly funny."
"I am afraid that if you begin to make a list of our peculiarities yon
will find funnier things than that," said Sybil, laughing. "But then we
always laugh at you in England, so that it is quite fair."
"Oh, we are very absurd, I know," said Ronald, "but I think we are much
more comfortable. For instance, we do not have niggers about who call us
'Mister.'"
"You must not use such words in Boston, Mr. Surbiton," said Sybil.
"Seriously, there are people who would be very much offended. You must
speak of 'waiters of color,' or 'the colored help;' you must be very
careful."
"I will," said Ronald. "Thanks. Is everything rechristened in that way? I
am afraid I shall always be in hot water."
"Oh yes, there are no men and women here. They are all ladies and
gentlemen, or 'the gurls,' and 'the fellows.' But it is very soon learnt."
"Yes, I can imagine," said Ronald, very much amused. "But--by the bye,
this is the season here, is not it?"
So they chattered together for nearly an hour about the merest nothings,
not saying anything particularly witty, but never seeming to each other in
the least dull. Ronald had gone to Sybil for consolation, and he was so
well consoled that he was annoyed when Mrs. Wyndham came in and
interrupted his _tête-à-tête_. Sybil introduced Ronald, and when he
rose to go, after a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Wyndham asked him to dinner
on the following day.
That night, when Ronald was alone in his room at the hotel, he took
Josephine's photograph from a case in his bag and set it before him on the
table. He would think about her for a while, and reflect on his situation;
and he sat down for that purpose, his chin resting on his folded hands.
Dear Joe--he loved her so dearly, and she was so cruel not to marry him!
But, somehow, as he looked, he seemed to see through the photograph, and
another face came and smiled on him. Again and again he called his
attention back, and tried to realize that the future would be very blank
and dreary without Joe; but do what he would, it did not seem so blank and
dreary after all; there was somebody else there.
"Joe is quite right," he said aloud. "I am a brute." And he went to bed,
trying hard to be disgusted with himself. But his dreams were sweet, for
he dreamed he was sitting among the ferns at Mrs. Wyndham's house, talking
to Sybil Brandon.
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, when Ronald was gone, "he is perfectly
charming. We have positively found a new man."
"Yes," said Sybil. "I am so glad you asked him to dinner. I do not think
he is very clever, but he talks easily, and says funny things."
"I suppose he has come over to marry his cousin--has not he?" inquired
Mrs. Wyndham.
"No," replied Sybil, "he is not going to marry Joe Thorn," she answered
absently; for she was thinking of something, and her tone indicated such
absolute certainty in the matter that Mrs. Wyndham looked quickly at her.
"Well, you seem quite certain about it, any way," she said.
"I? Oh--well, yes. I think it is extremely unlikely that he will marry
her."
"I almost wish I had offered to take him to the party to-night," said Mrs.
Wyndham, evidently unsatisfied. "However, as he is coming to-morrow, that
will do quite as well. Sybil, dear, you look tired. Why don't you go and
lie down before dinner?"
"Oh, because--I am not tired, really. I am always pale, you know."
"Well, I am tired to death myself, my dear, and as there is no one here I
will say I am not at home, and rest till dinner."
Mrs. Wyndham had been as much startled as any one by news of the senator's
death that morning, and though she always professed to agree with her
husband she was delighted at the prospect of John Harrington's election.
She had been a good friend to him, and he to her, for years, and she cared
much more for his success than for the turn of events. She had met him in
the street that afternoon, and they had perambulated the pavement of
Beacon Street for more than an hour in the discussion of the future. John
had also told her that he was now certain that Vancouver was the writer of
the offensive articles that had so long puzzled him; at all events that
the especial one which had appeared the morning after the skating-party
was undoubtedly from his pen. Mrs. Wyndham, who had long suspected as
much, was very angry when she found that her suspicions had been so just,
and she proposed to deal summarily with Vancouver. John, however, begged
her to temporize, and she promised to be prudent.
"By the way," she said to Sybil, as she was about to leave the room, "it
was a special providence that you did not marry Vancouver. He has turned
out badly."
Sybil started slightly and looked up. Her experience with Pocock Vancouver
was a thing she rarely referred to. She had undoubtedly given him great
encouragement, and had then mercilessly refused him, to the great surprise
of every one. But as that had occurred a year and a half ago, it was quite
natural that she should treat him like any one else, now, just as though
nothing had happened. She looked up at Mrs. Wyndham in some surprise.
"What has he done?" she asked.
"You know how he always talks about John Harrington?"
"He always says he respects him immensely."
"Very well. It is he who has been writing those scurrilous articles that
we have talked about so much."
"How disgraceful!" exclaimed Sybil. "How perfectly detestable! Are you
quite sure?"
"There is not the least doubt about it. John Harrington told me himself."
"Oh, then of course it is true," said Sybil. "How dreadful!"
"Harrington takes it in the calmest way, as though he had expected it all
his life. He says they were never friends, and that Vancouver has a
perfect right to his political opinions. I never saw anybody so cool in my
life."
"What a splendid fellow he is!" exclaimed Sybil. "There is something lion-like about him. He would forgive an enemy a thousand times a day, and say
the man who injured him had a perfect right to his opinions."
"Why gracious goodness, Sybil, how you talk!" cried Mrs. Wyndham; "you are
not in love with the man yourself, are you, my dear?"
"I?" asked Sybil. Then she laughed. "No, indeed! I would not marry him if
he asked me."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I would never marry a celebrity like that. He is splendid, and noble,
and honest; but everything in him is devoted to his career. There is no
room for a woman at all."
"I think the amount of solid knowledge about men that you dear, sweet,
lovely, beautiful, innocent little girls possess is something just too
perfectly amazing!" said Mrs. Wyndham, slowly, and with great emphasis.
"If we do," said Sybil, "it is not surprising. I am sure I do not wonder
at girls knowing a great deal about the world. Everything is discussed
before them, and marriage and men are the usual topics of conversation.
The wonder is that girls still make so many mistakes in their choice,
after listening to the combined experience of all the married women of
their acquaintance for several years. It shows that no one is infallible."
"What a funny girl you are, Sybil!" exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. "I think you
turn the tables on me altogether."
"Yes? Well, I have experiences of my own now," said Sybil, leaning back
against an enormous cushion.
Mrs. Wyndham came and sat upon the arm of the easy-chair, and put one arm
round Sybil's neck and kissed her.
"Sybil, dear," she said affectionately, and then stopped.
They sat in silence for some time, looking at the great logs burning in
the deep fire-place.
"Sybil, dear," Mrs. Wyndham began again, presently, "why did you refuse
Vancouver? You do not mind telling me, do you?"
"Why do you ask?" said Sybil. "It makes no difference now."
"No, perhaps not. Only I always thought it strange. He must have done
something you did not like, of course."
"Yes, that was it. He did something I did not like. Mr. Harrington would
have said he had a perfect right to do as he pleased. But I could not
marry him after that."
"Was it anything so very bad?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, affectionately,
smoothing Sybil's thick fair hair.
"It was not as deep as a well, nor as broad as a house," said Sybil, with
a faint, scornful laugh; "but it was enough. It would do."
"I wish you would tell me, dear," persisted Mrs. Wyndham. "I have a
particular reason for wanting to know."
"Well, I would not have told before this other affair came out," said
Sybil. "I would not marry him because he tried to find out from poor
mamma's man of business whether we were rich. And the day after he got the
information that I was rich enough to suit him, he proposed. But mamma
knew all about what had gone on and told me, and so I refused him. She
said I was wrong, and would not have told me if she had known it would
make any difference. And now you say I was right. I am sure I was; it was
only a fancy I had for him, because he was so clever and well-bred.
Besides, he is much too old."
"He is old enough to be your father, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham; "but I
think you were a little hard on him. Almost any man would do the same. We
here in Boston, of course, always know about each other. It was a little
mean of him, no doubt, but it was not a mortal crime."
"I think it was low," said Sybil, decisively. "To think of a man as rich
as that caring for a paltry twenty or thirty thousand a year."
"I know, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, "it is mean; but they all do it, and
life is uncertain, and so is business I suppose, and twenty or thirty
thousand a year does make a difference to most people, I expect."
Mrs. Wyndham looked at the fire reflectively, as though not absolutely
certain of the truth of the proposition. Sam Wyndham was commonly reputed
to be worth a dozen millions or so. He would have been very well off even
in New York, and in Boston he was rich.
"It would make a great difference to me," said Sybil, laughing, "for it is
all I have in the world. But I am glad I refused Vancouver on that ground,
all the same. If it had not been for that I should have married him--just
imagine!"
"Yes, just imagine!" exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham. "And to have had him turn out
such an abominable blackguard!"
"There is no mistaking what you think of him now, at all events," said
Sybil.
"No, my dear. And now we have talked so long that it is time to dress for
dinner."
How Mrs. Wyndham went to the party and met Joe Thorn has already been
told. It was no wonder that Mrs. Sam treated Vancouver so coldly, and she
repulsed him again more than once during the evening. When Joe was gone,
John Harrington went up to her.
"I came very late," he said, "and at first I could not find you, and then
I had to say something to Miss Thorn. But I wanted to see you especially."
"Give me your arm," said Mrs. Wyndham, "and we will go into the
conservatory. I have something especial to say to you, too." Once out of
the thick of the party, they sat down. "I have discovered something more
about our amiable friend," she continued. "It is a side-light on his
character--something he did a year and a half ago. Do you remember his
flirtation with Sybil Brandon at Saratoga and then at Newport?"
"Yes, I was in Newport most of the summer."
"You don't know why she refused him, though. It's perfectly rich!" Mrs.
Sam laughed dryly.
"No; I only know she did, and every one seemed very much astonished,"
answered John. "She refused him because he had been trying to find out
how much she was worth. It speaks volumes for the characters of both of
them, does it not?"
"Yes, indeed," said John. "What a Jew that man is! He is as rich as
Croesus."
"Oh, well, as I told her, most men would do it."
"I suppose so," John answered, laughing a little. "A man the other night
told me he was going to make inquiries concerning the fortunes of his
beloved one. He said he had no idea of buying a pig in a poke. That was
graceful, was it not?"
Mrs. Wyndham laughed aloud. "He was honest, at all events. By the bye, do
you know you have a fanatic admirer in Sybil Brandon?"
"No, really? I like her very much, too: and I am very glad if she likes
me."
"She said she would not marry you if you asked her, though," said Mrs.
Sam, laughing again. "You see you must not flatter yourself too much."
"I do not. I should not think of asking her to marry me. Did she give any
especial reason why she would inevitably refuse me?"
"Yes, indeed; she said you were lion-like, and, oh, the most delightful
things! But she said she would not marry you if you asked her, because you
are a celebrity and devoted to your career, so that there is no room for a
woman in your life. Is that true?"
"I am not so sure," said John, thoughtfully. "Perhaps she is right in the
way she means. I never thought much about it."