John read Joe's note many times over before he quite realized what it
contained. It seemed at first a singular thing that she should have
written to him, and he did not understand it. He knew her as an
enthusiastic and capricious girl who had sometimes laughed at him, and
sometimes treated him coldly; but who, again, had sometimes talked with
him as though he were an old friend. He called to mind the interest she
had taken in his doings of late, and how she had denounced Vancouver as
his enemy, and he thought of the long conversation he had had with her on
the ice under the cold moonlight. He thought of many a sympathetic glance
she had given when he spoke of his aims and intentions, of many a gentle
word spoken in praise of him, and which at the time he had taken merely as
so much small, good-natured flattery, such as agreeable people deal out to
each other in society without any thought of evil nor any especial meaning
of good. All these things came back to him, and he read the little note
again. It was a kindly word, nothing more, penned by a wild, good-hearted
girl, in the scorn of consequence or social propriety. It was nothing but
that.
And yet, there was something more in it all--something not expressed in
the abbreviated words and hurriedly-composed sentences, but something that
seemed to struggle for expression. John's experience of womankind was
limited, for he was no lady's man, and had led a life singularly lacking
in woman's love or sentiment, though singularly dependent on the
friendship of some woman. Nevertheless he knew that Joe's note breathed
the essence of a sympathy wider than that of mere every-day acquaintance,
and deeper, perhaps, than that of any friendship he had known. He could
not have explained the feeling, nor reasoned upon it, but he knew well
enough that when he next met Joe it would be on new terms. She had
declared herself his friend in a way no longer mistakable, for she must
have followed her first impulse in writing such a note, and the impulse
must have been a strong one.
For a while he debated whether to answer the note or not, almost
forgetting his troubles in the tumult of new thoughts it had suggested to
him. A note, thought he, required an answer, on general principles--but
such a note as this would be better answered in person than by any pen and
paper. He would call and see Joe, and thank her for it. But, again, he
knew he could not see her until the next day, and that seemed a long time
to wait. It would not have been long under ordinary circumstances, but in
this case it seemed to him an unreasonable delay. He sat down and took a
pen in his fingers.
"Dear Miss Thorn"--he began, and stopped. In America it is more formal to
begin without the preliminary "my;" in England the "my" is indispensable,
unless people are on familiar terms. John knew this, and reflected that
Joe was English. While he was reflecting his eye fell upon a heap of
telegraph blanks, and he remembered that he had not given notice of his
defeat to the council. He pushed aside the note paper and took a form for
a cable dispatch. In a moment Joe was forgotten in the sudden shock that
brought his thoughts back to his position. He wrote out a simple message
addressed to Z, who was the only one of the three whom he officially knew.
But when he had done that, he fell to thinking about Joe again, and
resolved to write the note.
"MY DEAR MISS THORN,--I cannot allow your very friendly words to remain
unanswered until tomorrow. It is kind of you to be sorry for the defeat I
have suffered, it is kinder still to express your sympathy so directly and
so soon. Concerning the circumstances which brought the contest to such a
result, I have nothing to say. It is the privilege of elective bodies to
choose as they please, and indeed, that is the object of their existence.
No one has any right to complain of not being elected, for a man who is a
candidate knows from the first what he is undertaking, and what manner of
men he has to deal with. Personally, I am a man who has fought a fight and
has lost it, and however firmly I still believe in the cause which led me
to the struggle, I confess that I am disappointed and disheartened at
being vanquished. You are good enough to say you believe I shall win in
the end; I can only answer that I thank you very heartily indeed for
saying so, though I do not think it is likely that any efforts of mine
will be attended with success for a long time.
"Believe me, with great gratitude,
"Very sincerely yours,
"JOHN HARRINGTON."
It was a longer note than he had meant to write, in fact it was almost a
letter; but he read it over and was convinced he had said what he meant to
say, which was always the principal consideration in such matters.
Accordingly the missive was dispatched to its destination. As for Mrs.
Wyndham, John determined to accept her invitation, and to answer it in
person by appearing at the dinner-hour. He would not let any one think he
was so broken-hearted as to be unable to show himself. He was too strong
for that, and he had too much pride in his strength.
He was right in going to Mrs. Wyndham's, for she and her husband were his
oldest friends, and he understood well enough what true hearts and what
honest loyalty lie sometimes concealed in the bosoms of those brisk,
peculiar people, who seem unable to speak seriously for long about the
most serious subjects, and whose quaint turns of language seem often so
unfit to express any deep feeling. But while he talked with his hosts his
own thoughts strayed again and again to Joe, and he wondered what kind of
woman she really was. He intended to visit her the next day.
The next day came, however, and yet John did not turn his steps up the
hill towards Miss Schenectady's house. It was a cloudless morning after
the heavy storm, and the great drifts of snow flashed like heaps of
diamonds in the sun. All the air was clear and cold, and the red brick
pavements were spotted here and there with white patches left from the
shovels of the Irishmen. Sleighs of all sizes were ploughing their way
hither and thither, breaking out a track in the heavy mass that encumbered
the streets. Every one was wrapped in furs, and every one's face was red
with the smarting cold.
Joe stayed at home until mid-day, when she went to a luncheon-party of
young girls. As usual, they had been sewing for the poor, but Joe thought
that she was not depriving the poor people of any very material assistance
by staying away from the more industrious part of the entertainment. The
sewing they all did together in a morning did not produce results whereby
even the very smallest baby could have been clothed, and the part effected
by each separate damsel in this whole was consequently somewhat
insignificant. Joe would have stayed at home outright had the weather not
been so magnificent, and possibly she thought that she might meet John
Harrington on her way to the house of her friend in Dartmouth Street.
Fate, however, was against her, for she had not walked thirty yards down
the hill before she was overtaken by Pocock Vancouver. He had been
standing in one of the semi-circular bay windows of the Somerset Club, and
seeing Joe coming down the steep incline, had hurriedly taken his coat and
hat and gone out in pursuit of her. Had he suspected in the least how Joe
felt toward him, he would have fled to the end of the world rather than
meet her.
"Good morning, Miss Thorn," he said, walking rapidly by her side and
taking off his hat, "how very early you are to-day."
"It is not early," said Joe, looking at him coldly, "it is nearly one
o'clock."
"It would be called early for most people," said Vancouver; "for Mrs.
Wyndham, for instance."
"I am not Mrs. Wyndham," said Joe.
"I am going to see Harrington," remarked Vancouver, who perceived that Joe
was not in a good humor. "I am afraid he must be dreadfully cut up about
this business."
"So you are going to condole with him? I do not believe he is in the least
disturbed. He has far too much sense."
"I fancy the most sensible man in the world would be a trifle annoyed at
being defeated in an election, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver blandly. "I am
afraid you are not very sorry for him. He is an old friend of mine, and
though I differ from him in politics, very passively, I cannot do less
than go and see him, and tell him how much I regret, personally, that he
should be defeated."
Joe's lip curled in scorn, and she flushed angrily. She could have struck
Vancouver's pale face with infinite pleasure and satisfaction, but she
said nothing in immediate answer.
"Do you not think I am right?" asked Vancouver. "I am sure you do; you
have such a good heart." They passed Charles Street as he was speaking,
and yet he gave no sign of leaving her.
"I am not sure that I have a good heart, and I am quite sure that you are
utterly wrong, Mr. Vancouver," said Joe, in calm tones.
"Really? Why, you quite surprise me, Miss Thorn. Any man in my place
ought"--
"Most men in your place would avoid Mr. Harrington," interrupted Joe,
turning her clear brown eyes full upon him. Had she been less angry she
would have been more cautious. But her blood was up, and she took no
thought, but said what she meant, boldly.
"Indeed, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, stiffly, "I do not understand you in
the least. I think what you say is very extraordinary. John Harrington has
always been a friend of mine."
"That may be, Mr. Vancouver, but you are certainly no friend of his," said
Joe, with a scornful laugh.
"You astonish me beyond measure," rejoined Pocock, maintaining his air of
injured virtue, although he inwardly felt that he was in some imminent
danger. "How can you possibly say such a thing?"
Joe could bear it no longer. She was very imprudent, but her honest anger
boiled over. She stopped in her walk, her back against the iron railings,
and she faced Vancouver with a look that frightened him. He was forced to
stop also, and he could not do less than return her glance.
"Do you dare to stand there and tell me that you are Mr. Harrington's
friend?" she asked in low distinct tones. "You, the writer of articles in
the 'Daily Standard,' calling him a fool and a charlatan? You, who have
done your very best to defeat him in this election? Indeed, it is too
absurd!" She laughed aloud in utter scorn, and then turned to continue her
way.
Vancouver turned a shade paler than was natural with him, and looked down.
He was very much frightened, for he was a coward.
"Miss Thorn," he said, "I am sorry you should believe such calumnies. I
give you my word of honor that I have never either written or spoken
against Mr. Harrington. He is one of my best friends."
Joe did not answer; she did not even look at him, but walked on in
silence. He did not dare to speak again, and as they reached the corner of
the Public Garden he lifted his hat.
"I am quite sure that you will find you have misjudged me, Miss Thorn," he
said, with a grieved look. "In the mean while I wish you a very good
morning."
"Good-morning," said Joe, without looking at him; and she passed on, full
of indignation and wrath.
To tell the truth, she was so much delighted at having spoken her mind for
once, that she had not a thought of any possible consequences. The delight
of having dealt Vancouver such a buffet was very great, and she felt her
heart beat fast with a triumphant pleasure.
But Vancouver turned and went away with a very unpleasant sensation in,
him. He wished with all his might that he had not left the comfortable bay
window of the Somerset Club that morning, and more than all he wished he
could ascertain how Joe had come to know of his journalistic doings. As a
matter of fact, what she had said concerning Pocock's efforts against John
in the election had been meant in a most general way. But Vancouver
thought she was referring to his interview with Ballymolloy, and that she
understood the whole matter. Of course, there was nothing to be done but
to deny the accusations from beginning to end; but they nevertheless had
struck deep, and he was thoroughly alarmed. When he left the club he had
had no intention of going to see Harrington; the idea had formed itself
while talking with her. But now, again, he felt that he could not go. He
had not the courage to face the man he had injured, principally because he
strongly suspected that if Joe knew what he had done, John Harrington most
likely knew it too.
He was doubly hit. He would have been less completely confused and
frightened if the attack had come from Sybil Brandon; but he had had vague
ideas of trying to marry Joe, and he guessed that any such plan was now
hopelessly out of the question. He turned his steps homeward, uncertain
what to do, and hoping to find counsel in solitude.
He took up the letters and papers that lay on his study table, brought by
the mid-day post. One letter in particular attracted his attention, and he
singled it out and opened it. It was dated from London, and had been
twelve days on its way.
"MY DEAR VANCOUVER,
"Enclosed please find Bank of England Post Note for your usual quarterly
honorarium, £1250. My firm will address you upon the use to be made of the
Proxies lately sent you for the ensuing election of officers of the
Pocahontas and Dead Man's Valley R. R., touching your possession of which
I beg to reiterate the importance of a more than Masonic discretion. I
apprehend that unless the scattered shares should have been quickly
absorbed for the purpose of obtaining a majority, these Proxies will
enable you to control the election of the proper ticket. If not, and if
the Leviathan should decline the overtures that will be made to him during
his summer visit to London, I should like your estimate of five thousand
shares more, to be picked up in the next three months, which will assure
our friends the control. Should the prospective figure be too high, we may
elect to sell out, after rigging the market for a boom.
"In either event there will be lots of pickings in the rise and fall of
the shares for the old joint account, which has been so profitable because
you have so skillfully covered up your tracks.
"Yours faithfully,"
"SAUNDERS GRABBLES."
"P. S. The expectations of the young lady about whom you inquire are
involved in such a tangle of conditions as could only have occurred to the
excited fancy of an old Anglo-Indian. He left about twenty lacs of rupees
in various bonds--G. I. P. and others--to his nephew, Ronald Surbiton, and
to his niece jointly, provided that they marry each other. If they do not,
one quarter of the estate is to go to the one who marries first, and the
remaining three quarters to the other. The estate is in the hands of
trustees, who pay an allowance to the heirs. In case they marry each
other, the said heirs have power to dispose by will of the inheritance.
Otherwise the whole of it reverts to the last survivor, and at his or her
death it is to be devoted to founding a home for superannuated
governesses."
Vancouver read the letter through with care, and held it a moment in his
hand. Then he crushed it angrily together and tossed it into the fire. It
seemed as though everything went wrong with him to-day. Not only was no
information concerning Joe of any use now. It would be a hard thing to
disabuse her of the idea that he had written those articles. After all,
though, as he thought the matter over, it could be only guess-work. The
manuscripts had always gone through the post, signed with a feigned name,
and it was utterly impossible that the editor himself could know who had
written them. It would be still more impossible, therefore, for any one
else to do more than make a guess. It is easy to deny any statement,
however correct, when founded on such a basis. But there was the other
thing: Joe had accused him of having opposed John's election to the best
of his ability. No one could prove that either. He had even advised
Ballymolloy to vote for John, in so many words. On the whole, his
conscience was clear enough. Vancouver's conscience was represented by all
those things which could by any possibility be found out; the things that
no one could ever know gave him no anxiety. In the present case the first
thing to be done was plainly to put the whole blame of the articles on the
shoulders of some one else, a person of violent political views and very
great vanity, who would be greatly flattered at being thought the author
of anything so clever. That would not be a difficult task. He would broach
the subject to Mrs. Wyndham, telling her that the man, whoever he should
be, had told him in strictest confidence that he was the writer. Vancouver
would of course tell it to Mrs. Wyndham as a state secret, and she would
tell some one else--it would soon be public property, and Joe would hear
of it. It would be easy enough to pitch upon some individual who would not
deny the imputation, or who would deny it in such a way as to leave the
impression on the public mind unchanged, more especially as the articles
had accomplished the desired result.
The prime cause of all this, John Harrington himself, sat in his room,
unconscious, for the time, of Vancouver's existence. He was in a state of
great depression and uncertainty, for he had not yet rallied from the blow
of the defeat. Moreover he was thinking of Joe, and her letter lay open on
the table beside him. His whole heart went out to her in thanks for her
ready sympathy, and he had almost made up his mind to go and see her, as
he had at first determined to do.
He would have laughed very heartily at the idea of being in love, for he
had never thought of himself in such a position. But he realized that he
was fond of Josephine Thorn, that he was thinking of her a great deal, and
that the thought was a comfort to him in his distress. He knew very well
that he would find a great rest and refreshment in talking to her at
present, and yet he could not decide to go to her. John was a man of calm
manner and with plenty of hard, practical sense, in spite of the great
enthusiasm that burned like a fire within him, and that was the mainspring
of his existence. But like all orators and men much accustomed to dealing
with the passions of others, he was full of quick intuitions and instincts
which rarely betrayed him. Something warned him not to seek her society,
and though he said to himself that he was very far from being in love, the
thought that he might some day find that he wished to marry her presented
itself continually to his mind; and since John had elected to devote
himself to celibacy and politics, there was nothing more repugnant to his
whole life than the idea of marriage.
At this juncture, while he was revolving in his mind what was best to be
done, a telegram was brought to him. It was from Z, and in briefest terms
of authority commanded John to hold himself ready to start for London at a
moment's notice. It must have been dispatched within a few hours after
receiving his own message of the night before, and considering the
difference of time, must have been sent from London early in the
afternoon. It was clearly an urgent case, and the supreme three had work
for John to do, even though he had not been made senator.
The order was a great relief. It solved all his uncertainty and scattered
all his doubts to the wind. It gave him new courage and stimulated his
curiosity. Z had only sent for him twice before, and then only to call him
from Boston or New York to Washington. It was clear that something of very
great importance was likely to occur. His energy returned in full, with
the anticipation of work to do and of a journey to be made, and before
night he was fully prepared to leave on receipt of his orders. His box was
packed, and he had drawn the money necessary to take him to London.
As for Joe, he could go and see her now if he pleased. In twenty-four
hours he might be gone, never to see her again. But it was too late on
that day--he would go on the following morning.
It was still the height of the Boston season, which is short, but merry
while it lasts. John had a dinner-party, a musical evening, and a ball on
his list for the evening, and he resolved that he would go to all three,
and show himself bravely to the world. He was full of new courage and
strength since he had received Z's message, and he was determined that no
one should know what he had suffered.
The dinner passed pleasantly enough, and by ten o'clock he was at the
musical party. There he found the Wyndhams and many other friends, but he
looked in vain for Joe; she was not there. Before midnight he was at the
dance, pushing his way through crowds of acquaintances, stumbling over
loving couples ensconced on the landings of the stairs, and running
against forlorn old ladies, whose mouths were full of ice-cream and their
hearts of bitterness against the younger generation; and so, at last, he
reached the ball-room, where everything that was youngest and most fresh
was assembled, swaying and gliding, and backing and turning in the easy,
graceful half-walk, half-slide of the Boston step.
As John stood looking on, Joe passed him, leaving the room on Mr. Topeka's
arm. There was a little open space before her in the crowd, and Pocock
Vancouver darted out with the evident intention of speaking to her. But as
she caught sight of him she turned suddenly away, pulling Mr. Topeka round
by his arm. It was an extremely "marked thing to do." As she turned she
unexpectedly came face to face with John, who had watched the maneuver.
The color came quickly to her face, and she was slightly embarrassed;
nevertheless she held out her hand and greeted John cordially.