A change has come over Boston in four months, since John Harrington and
Josephine Thorn parted. The breath of the spring has been busy everywhere,
and the haze of the hot summer is ripening the buds that the spring has
brought out. The trees on the Common are thick and heavy with foliage, the
Public Garden is a carpet of bright flowers, and on the walls of Beacon
Street the great creepers have burst into blossom and are stretching long
shoots over the brown stone and the iron balconies. There is a smell of
violets and flowers in the warm air, and down on the little pond the swan-shaped boats are paddling about with their cargoes of merry children and
calico nursery-maids, while the Irish boys look on from the banks and
throw pebbles when the policemen are not looking, wishing they had the
spare coin necessary to embark for a ten minutes' voyage on the mimic sea.
Unfamiliar figures wander through the streets of the West End, and more
than half the houses show by the boarded windows and doors that the owners
are out of town.
The migration of the "tax-dodgers" took place on the last day of April;
they will return on the second day of December, having spent just six
months and one day in their country places, whereby they have shifted the
paying of a large proportion of their taxes to more economical regions. It
is a very equitable arrangement, for it is only the rich man who can save
money in this way, while his poorer neighbor, who has no country-seat to
which he may escape, must pay to the uttermost farthing. The system
stimulates the impecunious to become wealthy and helps the rich to become
richer. It is, therefore, perfectly good and just.
But Boston is more beautiful in the absence of the "tax-dodger" than at
any other season. There is a stillness and a peace over the fair city that
one may long for in vain during the winter. Business indeed goes on
without interruption, but the habitation of the great men of business
knows them not. They come up from their cool bowers by the sea, in special
trains, in steamers, and in yachts, every morning, and early in the
afternoon they go back, so that all day long the broad streets at the west
are quiet and deserted, and seem to be basking in the sunshine to recover
from the combined strain of the bitter winter and the unceasing gayety
that accompanies it.
In the warm June weather Miss Schenectady and Joe still linger in town.
The old lady has no new-fangled notions about taxes, and though she is
rich and has a pretty place near Newport, she will not go there until she
is ready, no, not for all the tax-gatherers in Massachusetts. As for Joe,
she does not want to go away. Urgent letters come by every mail entreating
her to return to England in time for a taste of the season in London, but
they lie unanswered on her table, and often she does not read more than
half of what they contain. The books and the letters accumulate in her
room, and she takes no thought whether she reads them or not, for the time
is weary on her hands and she only wishes it gone, no matter how.
Nevertheless she will not go home, and she even begs her aunt not to leave
Boston yet.
She is paler than she was and her face looks thin. She says she is well
and as strong as ever, but the elasticity is gone from her step, and the
light has faded in her brown eyes, so that one might meet her in the
street and hardly know her. As she sits by the window, behind the closed
blinds, the softened light falls on her face, and it is sad and weary.
It was not until John Harrington was gone that she realized all. He had
received the message he expected early on the morning after that memorable
parting, and before mid-day he was on his way. Since then she had heard no
word of tidings concerning him, save that she knew he had arrived in
England. For anything she knew he might even now be in America again, but
she would not believe it. If he had come back he would surely have come to
see her, she thought. There were times when she would have given all the
world to look on his face again, but for the most part she said to herself
it was far better that she should never see him. Where was the use?
Joe was not of the women who have intimate confidants and can get rid of
much sorrow by much talking about it. She was too proud and too strong to
ask for help or sympathy in any real distress. She had gone to Sybil
Brandon when she was about to tell Ronald of her decision, because she
thought that Sybil would be kind to him and help him to forget the past;
but where she herself was alone concerned, she would rather have died many
deaths than confess what was in her heart.
She had gone bravely through the remainder of the season, until all was
over, and no one had guessed her disappointment. Such perfect physical
strength as hers was not to be broken down by the effort of a few weeks,
and still she smiled and talked and danced and kept her secret. But as the
long months crawled out their tale of dreary days, the passion in her soul
spread out great roots and grew fiercely against the will that strove to
break it down. It was a love against which there was no appeal, which had
taken possession silently and stealthily, with no outward show of wooing
or sweet words; and then, safe within the fortress of her maidenly soul,
it had grown up to a towering strength, feeding upon her whole life, and
ruthlessly dealing with her as it would. But this love sought no
confidence, nor help, nor assistance, being of itself utterly without
hope, strong and despairing.
One satisfaction only she had daily. She rejoiced that she had broken away
from the old ties, from Ronald and from her English life. To have found
herself positively loving one man while she was betrothed to another would
have driven her to terrible extremity; the mere idea of going back to her
mother and to the old life at home with this wild thought forever gnawing
at her heart was intolerable. She might bear it to the end, whatever the
end might be, and in silence, so long as none of her former associations
made the contrast between past and present too strong. Old Miss
Schenectady, with her books and her odd conversation, was as good a
companion as any one, since she could not live alone. Sybil Brandon would
have wearied her by her sympathy, gentle and loving as it would have been;
and besides, Sybil was away from Boston and very happy; it would be
unkind, as well as foolish, to disturb her serenity with useless
confidences. And so the days went by and the hot summer was come, and yet
Joe lingered in Boston, suffering silently and sometimes wondering how it
would all end.
Sybil was staying near Newport with her only surviving relation, an uncle
of her mother. He was an old man, upward of eighty years of age, and he
lived in a strange old place six or seven miles from the town. But Ronald
had been there more than once, and he was always enthusiastic in his
description of what he had seen, and he seemed particularly anxious that
Joe should know how very happy Sybil was in her country surroundings.
Ronald had traveled during the spring, making short journeys in every
direction, and constantly talking of going out to see the West, a feat
which he never accomplished. He would go away for a week at a time and
then suddenly appear again, and at last had gravitated to Newport. Thence
he came to town occasionally and visited Joe, never remaining more than a
day, and sometimes only a few hours. Joe was indifferent to his comings
and goings, but always welcomed him in a friendly way. She saw that he was
amusing himself, and was more glad than ever that the relations formerly
existing between them had been so opportunely broken off. He had never
referred to the past since the final interview when Joe had answered him
by bursting into tears, and he talked about the present cheerfully enough.
One morning he arrived without warning, as usual, to make one of his short
visits. Joe was sitting by the window dressed all in white, and the
uniform absence of color in her dress rather exaggerated the pallor of her
face than masked it. She was reading, apparently with some interest, in a
book of which the dark-lined binding sufficiently declared the sober
contents. As she read, her brows bent in the effort of understanding,
while the warm breeze that blew through the blinds fanned her tired face
and gently stirred the small stray ringlets of her soft brown hair. Ronald
opened the door and entered.
"Oh, Ronald!" exclaimed Joe, starting a little nervously, "have you come
up? You look like the sunshine. Come in, and shut the door." He did as he
was bidden, and came and sat beside her.
"Yes, I nave come up for the day. How are you, Joe dear? You look pale. It
is this beastly heat--you ought to come down to Newport for a month. It is
utterly idiotic, you know, staying in town in this weather."
"I like it," said Joe. "I like the heat so much that I think I should be
cold in Newport. Tell me all about what you have been doing."
"Oh, I hardly know," said Ronald. "Lots of things."
"Tell me what you do in one day--yesterday, for instance. I want to be
amused this morning."
"It is not so very amusing, you know, but it is very jolly," answered
Ronald. "To begin with, I get up at unholy hours and go and bathe in the
surf at the second beach. There are no end of a a lot of people there even
at that hour."
"Yes, I dare say. And then?"
"Oh, then I go home and dress: and later, if I do not ride, I go to the
club--casino, I beg its pardon!--and play tennis. They play very decently,
some of those fellows."
"Are there any nice rides?"
"Just along the roads, you know. But when you get out to Sherwood there
are meadows and things--with a brook. That is very fair."
"Do you still go to Sherwood often? How is Sybil?"
"Yes," said Ronald, and a blush rose quickly to his face, "I often go
there. It is such a queer old place, you know, full of trees and old
summer-houses and graveyards--awfully funny."
"Tell me, Ronald," said Joe, insisting a little, "how is Sybil?"
"She looks very well, so I suppose she is. But she never goes to anything
in Newport; she has not been in the town at all yet, since she went to
stay with her uncle."
"But of course lots of people go out to see her, do they not?"
"Oh, well, not many. In fact I do not remember to have met any one there,"
answered Ronald, as though he were trying to recall some face besides Miss
Brandon's. "Her uncle is such an odd bird, you have no idea."
"I do not imagine you see very much of him when you go out there," said
Joe, with a faint laugh.
"Oh, I always see him, of course," said Ronald, blushing again. "He is
about a hundred years old, and wears all kinds of clothes, and wanders
about the garden perpetually. But I do not talk to him unless I am driven
to it"--
"Which does not occur often," interrupted Joe.
"Oh, well, I suppose not very often. Why should it?"
Ronald was visibly embarrassed. Joe watched him with a look of amusement
on her face; but affectionately, too, as though what he said pleased her
as well as amused her. There was a short pause, during which Ronald rubbed
his hat slowly and gently. Then he looked up suddenly and met Joe's eyes;
but he turned away again instantly, blushing redder than ever.
"Ronald," Joe said presently, "I am so glad."
"Glad? Why? About what?"
"I am glad that you like her, and that she likes you. I think you like her
very much, Ronald."
"Oh yes, very much," repeated Ronald, trying to seem indifferent.
"Do you not feel as though we were much more like brother and sister now?"
asked Joe, after a little while.
"Oh, much!" assented Ronald. "I suppose it is better, too, though I did
not think so at first."
"It is far better," said Joe, laying her small, thin hand across her
cousin's strong fingers and pressing them a little. "You are free now, and
you will probably be very happy before long. Do you not think so?" she
asked, looking affectionately into his eyes.
"I hope so," said Ronald, with a last attempt at indifference. Then
suddenly his face softened, and he added in a gentler tone, "Indeed, Joe,
I think I shall be very happy soon."
"I am so glad," said Joe again, still holding his hand, but leaning her
head back wearily in the deep chair. "There is only one thing that
troubles me."
"What is that?"
"That horrid will," said Joe. "I am sure we could get it altered in some
way."
"We never thought about it before, Joe. Why should we think about it now?
It seems to me it is a very good will as things have turned out."
"But, my dear boy," said Joe, "if you are married to Sybil Brandon, you
will need ever so much money."
Ronald blushed again.
"I have not asked her to marry me," he said quickly.
"That makes no difference at all," replied Joe. "As I was saying, when you
have married her you will need money."
"What an idea!" exclaimed Ronald, indignantly. "As if any one wanted to be
rich in order to be happy. Besides, between what I have of my own, and my
share of the money, there is nearly four thousand a year; and then there
is the place in Lanarkshire for us to live in. As if that were not
enough!"
"It is not so very much, though," said Joe, reflecting. "I do not think
Sybil has anything at all. You will be as poor as two little church mice;
but I will come and stay with you sometimes," Joe added, laughing, "and
help you about the bills."
"The bills would take care of themselves," said Ronald, gravely. "They
always do. But whatever happens, Joe, my home is always yours. You will
always remember that, will you not?"
"Dear Ronald," answered his cousin affectionately, "you are as good as it
is possible to be--you really are."
"Ronald," said Joe, after a pause, "I have an idea."
He looked at her inquiringly, but said nothing.
"I might," she continued, smiling at the thought--"I may go and marry
first, you know, after all, and spoil it."
"But you will not, will you? Promise me you will not."
"I wish I could," said Joe, "and then you could have the money"--
"But I would not let you," interrupted Ronald. "I would go off and get
married by license, and that sort of thing."
"Without asking Miss Brandon?" suggested Joe.
"Nonsense!" ejaculated Ronald, coloring for the twentieth time.
"I think we are talking nonsense altogether," said Joe, seriously. "I do
not think, indeed I am quite sure, I shall never marry."
"How absurd!" cried Ronald. "The idea of your not marrying. It is
perfectly ridiculous."
The name of John Harrington was on his lips, but he checked himself. John
was gone abroad, and with more than usual tact, Ronald reflected that, if
Joe had really cared for the man, an allusion to him would be unkind. But
Joe only shook her head, and let her cousin's words pass unanswered.
She had long suspected, from Ronald's frequent allusions to Sybil, which
were generally accompanied by some change of manner, that he was either
already in love with the fair American girl, or that he soon would be, and
the acknowledgment she had now received from himself gave her infinite
pleasure. In her reflections upon her own conduct she had never blamed
herself, but she had more than once thought that he was greatly to be
pitied. To have married him six months ago, when she was fully conscious
that she did not love him, would have been very wrong; and to have gone
back at a later period, when she realized that her whole life was full of
her love for John Harrington, would have been a crime. But in spite of
that she was often very sorry for Ronald, and feared that she had hurt his
happiness past curing. Now, therefore, when she saw how much he loved
another, she was exceedingly glad, for she knew that the thing she had
done had been wholly good, both for him and for her.
They soon began to talk of other things, but the conversation fell back to
the discussion of Newport, and Joe learned with some surprise that Pocock
Vancouver assiduously cultivated Ronald's acquaintance, and was always
ready to do anything in the world that Ronald desired. It appeared that
Vancouver lent Ronald his horses at all times, and was apparently
delighted when Ronald would take a mount and stay away all day. The young
Englishman, of course, was not loath to accept such offers, having a
radical and undisguised contempt for hired horseflesh, and as Sybil lived
several miles out of town, it was far the most pleasant plan to ride out
to her, and after spending the day there, to ride back in the evening,
more especially as it cost him nothing.
Joe was on the point of making some remark upon Vancouver, which would
very likely have had the effect of cooling the intimacy between him and
Ronald; but she thought better of it, and said nothing. Ronald had had no
part in all the questions connected with John's election, and knew nothing
of what Vancouver had done in the matter. It was better on many grounds
not to stir up fresh trouble, and so long as Vancouver's stables afforded
Ronald an easy and economical means of locomotion from Newport to the
house of the woman he loved, the friendship that had sprung up was a
positive gain. She could not understand the motives that prompted
Vancouver in the least. He had made more than one attempt to regain his
position with her after the direct cut he had sustained on the evening
when she parted with John; but Joe had resolutely set her face against
him. Possibly she thought Vancouver might hope to regain her good opinion
by a regular system of kindness to Ronald; but it hardly seemed to her as
though such a result would reward him for the pains of his diplomacy.
Meanwhile it would be foolish of her to interfere with any intimacy which
was of real use to Ronald in his suit.
As a matter of fact, Vancouver was carrying out a deliberate plan, and one
which was far from ill-conceived. He had not been so blind as not to
suspect Joe's secret attachment for John, when she was willing to go to
such lengths in her indignation against himself for being John's enemy.
But he had disposed of John, as he thought, by assisting, if not actually
causing, his defeat. He imagined that Harrington had gone abroad to
conceal the mortification he felt at having lost the election, and he
rightly argued that for some time Joe would not bestow a glance upon any
one else. In the mean time, however, he was in possession of certain
details concerning Joe's fortune which could be of use, and he accordingly
set about encouraging Ronald's affections in any direction they might
take, so long as they were not set upon his cousin. He was not surprised
that Ronald should fall in love with Sybil, though he almost wished the
choice could have fallen upon some one else, and accordingly he did
everything in his power to make life in Newport agreeable for the young
Englishman. It was convenient in some respects that the wooing should take
place at so central a resort; but had the case been different, Vancouver
would not have hesitated to go to Saratoga, Lenox, or Mount Desert, in the
prosecution of his immediate purpose, which was to help Ronald to marry
any living woman rather than let him return to England a bachelor.
When Ronald should be married, Joe would be in possession of three
quarters of her uncle's money--a very considerable fortune. If she was
human, thought Vancouver, she would be eternally grateful to him for
ridding her of her cousin, whom she evidently did not wish to marry, and
for helping her thereby to so much wealth. He reflected that he had been
unfortunate in the time when he had decided to be a candidate for her
hand; but whatever turn affairs took, no harm was done to his own
prospects by removing Ronald from the list of possible rivals. He was
delighted at the preference Surbiton showed for Sybil Brandon, and in case
Ronald hesitated, he reserved the knowledge he possessed of her private
fortune as a final stimulus to his flagging affections. Hitherto it had
not seemed necessary to acquaint his friend with the fact that Sybil had
an income of some thirty thousand dollars yearly--indeed, no one seemed to
know it, and she was supposed to be in rather straitened circumstances.
As for his own chances with Joe, he had carefully hidden the tracks of his
journalistic doings in the way he had at once proposed to himself when Joe
attacked him on the subject. A gentleman had been found upon whom he had
fastened the authorship of the articles in the public estimation, and the
gentleman would live and die with the reputation for writing he had thus
unexpectedly obtained. He had ascertained beyond a doubt that Joe knew
nothing of his interview with Ballymolloy, and he felt himself in a strong
position.
Pocock Vancouver had for years taken an infinite amount of pains in
planning and furthering his matrimonial schemes. He was fond of money; but
in a slightly less degree he was fond of all that is beautiful and
intelligent in woman; so that his efforts to obtain for himself what he
considered a perfect combination of wit, good looks, and money, although
ineffectual, had occupied a great deal of his spare time very agreeably.