Josephine Thorn never read newspapers, partly because she did not care for the style of literature known as journalistic, and partly, too, because the papers always came at such exceedingly inconvenient hours. If she had possessed and practiced the estimable habit of “keeping up with the times,” she would have observed an article which appeared on the morning after the skating party, and which dealt with the speech John Harrington had made in the Music Hall two days previous. Miss Schenectady had read it, but she did not mention it to Joe, because she believed in John Harrington, and wished Joe to do likewise, wherefore she avoided the subject; for the article treated him roughly. Nevertheless, some unknown person sent Joe a copy of the paper through the post some days later, with a bright red pencil mark at the place, and Joe, seeing what the subject was, read it with avidity. As she read, her cheek flushed, her small mouth closed like a vise, and she stamped her little foot upon the floor.
It was evident that the writer was greatly incensed at the views expressed by John, and he wrote with an ease and a virulence which proclaimed a practiced hand. “The spectacle of an accomplished Democrat,” said the paper, “is always sufficiently unusual to attract attention: but to find so rare a bird among ourselves is indeed a novel delight. The orator who alternately enthralled and insulted a considerable audience at the Music Hall, two nights ago, laid a decided claim both to accomplishment and to democracy. He himself informed his hearers that he was a Democrat; and, indeed, it was necessary that he should state his position, for it would have been impossible to decide from the tone and quality of his opinions whether he were a socialist, a reformer, a conservative, or an Irishman. Perchance he has discovered the talisman by which it is possible for a man to be all four, and yet to be a man, Furthermore, he claims to be an orator. No one could listen to the manifold intonations of his voice, or witness the declamatory evolutions of his body, without feeling an inward conviction that the gentleman on the platform intended to present himself to us as an orator.
“Lest we be accused of partiality and prejudice, we will at once state that we believe it possible for a man to be singular in his manner and quaint in his mode of phrasing, and yet to utter an opinion in some one direction which, if neither novel nor interesting, nor even tenable, shall yet have the one redeeming merit of representing a conceivable point of view. But when a man begins by stating that he belongs to the Democrats and then claims as his own the views of his political opponents, winding up by demanding the sympathy and support of a third party, the obvious conclusion is that he is either a lunatic, a charlatan, or both. A man cannot serve God and Mammon, neither can any man serve both the Irish and Chinese.
“Mr. John Harrington has made a great discovery. He has discovered that we require a Civil Service. This is apparently the ground on which he states himself to be a Democrat. If we remember rightly, the Civil Service Convention, which sat in discussion of the subject in the summer of 1881, was presided over by a prominent member of the Republican party. As some time has elapsed since then, and the gentlemen connected with the movement are as active and as much interested in it as ever, our orator will pardon us for questioning his right of discovery on the one hand, and his claim to be considered a Democrat on the strength of it, on the other. A Civil Service is doubtless a good thing, even a very good thing, and in due time we shall certainly have it; but that the Constitution of the United States is on the verge of dissolution at the hands of our corrupt public officers, that our finance is only another name for imminent bankruptcy, or that the new millennium of Washington morals will be organized by Mr. John Harrington–these things we denyin toto, from beginning to end. So wide and deep is our skepticism, that we even doubt whether ’war, famine, revolution, or all three together’ would have instantly ensued if Mr. John Harrington had not delivered his speech on Wednesday evening.
“In illustration–or rather, in the futile attempt to illustrate–Mr. Harrington put forth a series of similes that should make any dead orator turn in his grave. The nation was successively held up to our admiration in the guise of a sick man, a cripple, a banker, a theatrical company, and a peddler of tape and buttons. We were bankrupt, diseased; and our bones, like those of the Psalmist, were all out of joint; and if our hearts did not become like melting wax in the midst of our bodies, it was not the fault of Mr. John Harrington, but rather was it due to the hardening of those organs against the voice of the charmer.
“The Navigation Act called down the choicest of the orator’s vessels of wrath. Fools had made it, worse than fools submitted to it, and the reason why the Salem docks were no longer crowded with the shipping of the Peabody family was that there were ferry-boats in Boston harbor, a train of reasoning that must be clear to the mind of the merest schoolboy. Mr. Harrington further stated that these same ferry-boats–not to mention certain articles he terms ‘mudscows,’ with which we have no acquaintance– are built of old timber, copper, and nails, obtained by breaking tip the fleets of the Peabody family, which is manifestly a fraud on the nation. As far as the ferry-boats are concerned, we believe we are in a position to state that they are not built of old material; as regards the aforesaid ‘mudscows’ we can give no opinion, not having before heard of the article, which we presume is not common in commerce, and may therefore be regarded as an exception to the universal rule that things in general should not be made of old timber, copper, and rusty nails.
“We will not weary our readers with any further attempt at unraveling the opinions, illustrations, and rhetoric of Mr. John Harrington, Democrat and orator. The possession of an abundant vocabulary without any especial use for it in the shape of an idea will not revolutionize modern government, whatever may be the opinion of the individual so richly gifted; nor will any accomplished Democrat find a true key to success in following a course of politics which consists in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throat of the other half. It will not do, and Mr. Harrington will find it out. He will find out also that the differences which exist between the Republican and the Democratic parties are far deeper and wider than he suspects, and do not consist in such things as the existence or non-existence of a Civil Service, free trade, or mudscows; and when these things are forever crushed out of his imagination it will be time enough to give him a name, seeing he is neither Republican nor Democrat, nor Tammany, nor even a Stalwart, nor a three-hundred-and-sixer–seeing, in fact, that he is not an astronomical point in any political heaven with which the world is acquainted, but only the most nebulous of nebulae which have yet come within our observation.”
Joe read the article rapidly, and then read the last paragraph again and threw the paper aside. She sat by the fire after breakfast, and Miss Schenectady had come into the room several times and had gone out again, busied with much housekeeping. For Miss Schenectady belonged to the elder school of Boston women, who “see to things” themselves in the intervals of literature, gossip, and transcendental philosophy. But Joe sat still for nearly half an hour after she had done reading and nursed her wrath, while she toasted her little feet at the fire. At last she made up her mind and rose.
“I am going to see Sybil, Aunt Zoë,” she said, meeting the old lady at the door.
“Well, if she is up at this time of day,” answered Miss Schenectady.
“Oh, I fancy so,” said Joe.
Mrs. Sam Wyndham’s establishment was of the modern kind, and nobody was expected to attend an early breakfast of fish, beefsteaks, buckwheat cakes, hot rolls, tea, coffee, and chocolate at eight o’clock in the morning. Visitors did as they pleased, and so did Mrs. Sam, and they met at luncheon, a meal which Sam Wyndham himself was of course unable to attend. Joe knew this, and knew she was certain to find Sybil alone. It was Sybil she wanted to see, and not Mrs. Wyndham. But as she walked down Beacon Street the aspect of affairs changed in her mind.
Joe had not exaggerated when she said to Vancouver that she had a very good memory, and it would have been better for him if he had remembered the fact. Joe had not forgotten the conversation with him in the evening after Harrington’s speech, and in reading the article that had been sent to her she instantly recognized a phrase, word for word as Vancouver had uttered it. In speaking to her he had said that politics “consisted in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throat of the other half.” It was true that in the article John Harrington was warned that he would discover the fallacy of this proposition, but in Joe’s judgment this did not constitute an objection. Vancouver had written the article, and none other; Vancouver, who professed a boundless respect for John, and who constantly asserted that he took no active part whatever in politics. It was inconceivable that the coincidence of language should be an accident. Vancouver had made the phrase when making conversation, and had used it in his article; Joe was absolutely certain of that, and being full of her discovery and of wrath, she was determined to consult with her dearest friend as to the best way of revenging the offense on its author.
But as she walked down Beacon Street she reflected on the situation. She was sure Sybil would not understand why she cared so much, and Sybil would form hasty ideas as to the interest Joe took in Harrington. That would never do. It would be better to speak to Mrs. Sam Wyndham, who was herself so fond of John that she would seize with avidity on the information, from whatever source it came. But then Mrs. Wyndham was fond of Vancouver also. No, she was not. When Joe thought of it she was sure that though Vancouver was devoted to Mrs. Sam, Mrs. Sam did not care for him excepting as an agreeable person of even temper, who was useful in society. But for Harrington she had a real friendship. If it came to the doing of a service, Mrs. Wyndham would do it. Joe’s perceptions were wonderfully clear and just.
But when she reached the house she was still uncertain, and she passed on, intending to turn back and go in as soon as she had made up her mind. In spite of all that she could argue to herself it seemed unsafe–unwise, at least. Sybil might laugh at her, after all; Mrs. Wyndham might possibly tell Vancouver instead of telling John. It would be better to tell John herself; she remembered having once spoken to him about Vancouver, and she could easily remind him of the conversation. She would probably see him that evening at a party she was going to; and yet it was so hard to have to keep it all to herself for so many hours, instead of telling. Nevertheless she would go and see Sybil, taking care, of course, to say nothing about the article.
At the time Joe was walking up and down Beacon Street in the effort to come to a decision, John Harrington found himself face to face with a very much more formidable problem. He stood before the fire-place in his rooms in Charles Street, with an extinguished cigar between his teeth, his face paler than usual, and a look of uncertainty on his features that was oddly out of keeping with his usual mood. He wore an ancient shooting coat, and his feet were trust into a pair of dingy leather slippers; his hands were in his pockets, and he was staring vacantly at the clock.
On the oak writing-table that filled the middle of the room lay an open telegram. It was dated from Washington, and conveyed the simple information that Senator Caleb Jenkins had died at five o’clock that morning. It was signed by an abbreviation that meant nothing except to John himself. The name of the senator was itself fictitious, and stood for another which John knew.
The table was covered with Government reports, for when the message came John was busy studying a financial point of importance to him. The telegram had lain on the table for half an hour, and John still stood before the fire-place, staring at the clock.
The senator had not been expected to live, in fact it was remarkable that he should have lived so long. But when a man has been preparing for a struggle during many months, he is apt to feel that the actual moment of the battle is indefinitely far off. But now the senator was dead, and John meant to stand in his place. The battle was begun. No one who has not seen some of the inside workings of political life can have any idea of what a man feels who is about to stand as a candidate in an election for the first time in his life. For months, perhaps for years, he has been engaged with political matters; his opinions have been formed by himself or by others into a very definite shape; it may be that, like Harrington, he has frequently spoken to large audiences with more or less success; he may have written pamphlets and volumes upon questions of the day, and his writings may have roused the fiercest criticism and the most loyal support. All this he may have done, and done it well, but when the actual moment arrives for him to stand upon his feet and address his constituents, no longer for the purpose of making them believe in his opinions, but in order to make them believe in himself, he is more than mortal if he does not feel something very unpleasantly resembling fear.
It is one thing to express a truth, it is another to set one’s self upon a pedestal and declare that one represents it, and is in one’s own person the living truth itself. John was too honest and true a man not to feel a positive reluctance to singing his own praises, and yet that is what most electioneering consists in.
But to be elected a senator in Massachusetts is a complicated affair. A man who intends to succeed in such an enterprise must not let the grass grow under his feet. In a few hours the whole machinery of election must be at work, and before night he would have to receive all sorts and conditions of men and electioneering agents. The morning papers did not contain any notice of the senator’s death, as they had already gone to press when the news reached them, if indeed it was as yet public property. But other papers appeared at mid-day, and by that time the circumstances would undoubtedly be known. John struck a match and relit his cigar. The moment of hesitation was over, the last breathing-space before the fight, and all his activity returned. Half an hour later he went out with a number of written telegrams in his hand, and proceeded to the central telegraph office.
The case was urgent. In the first place the governor of the state would, according to law and custom, immediately appoint a senatorpro temporeto act until the legislature should elect the new senator in place of the one deceased. Secondly, the legislature, which meets once a year, was already in session, and the election would therefore take place immediately, unless some unusual delay were created, and this was improbable.
In spite of the article which had so outraged Josephine Thorn’s sense of justice, there were many who believed in John Harrington as the prophet of the new faith, as the senator of reform and the orator of the future, and his friends were numerous and powerful, both in the electing body and among the non-official mass of prominent persons who make up the aggregate of public opinion. It had long been known that John Harrington would be brought forward at the next vacancy, which, in the ordinary course of things, would have occurred in about a year’s time, at the expiration of the senior senator’s term of office, but which had now been suddenly caused by the death of his colleague. John was therefore aware that his success must depend almost immediately upon the present existing opinion of him that prevailed, and as he made his way through the crowded streets to the telegraph office, he realized that no effort of his own would be likely to make a change in that opinion at such short notice. At first it had seemed to him as though he were on a sudden brought face to face with a body of men whom he must persuade to elect him as their representative, and in spite of his great familiarity with political proceedings, the idea was extremely disagreeable to him. But on more mature reflection it was clear to him that he was in the hands of his friends, that he had said his say and had done all he would now be able to do in the way of public speaking or public writing, and that his only possible sphere of present action lay in exerting such personal influence as he possessed.
John Harrington was ambitious, or, to speak more accurately, he was wholly ruled by a dominant aspiration. He was convinced by his own study and observation, as well as by a considerable amount of personal experience, that great reforms were becoming necessary in the government of the country, and he was equally sure that a man was needed who should be willing to make any sacrifice for the sake of creating a party to inaugurate such changes. In his opinion the surest step towards obtaining influence in the affairs of the country was a seat in the senate, and with an unhesitating belief in the truth and honesty of the principles he desired to make known, he devoted every energy he possessed to the attainment of his object.
To him government seemed the most important function of society, the largest, the broadest, and the noblest; to help, if possible, to be a leader in the establishment of what was good for the country, and to be the very foremost in destroying that which was bad, were in his view the best objects and aims for a strong man to follow. And John Harrington knew himself to be strong, and believed himself to be right, and thus armed he was prepared for any struggle.
The quality of vanity exists in all men, not least in those whose chief profession is modesty; and seeing that it is a universal element, created and inherent in every one, it is impossible to say it is bad in itself. For it is impossible to conceive any human creature without it. A recent philosopher of reputation has taught that by vanity, by the desire to appear attractive to the other sex, man has changed his own person from the form of a beast to the image of God. Vanity is a mighty power and incentive, as great as hunger and thirst, and much more generally active in the affairs of civilized humanity. And yet its very name means hollowness. “The hollowness of hollowness, all things are hollowness,” said the preacher, and his translators have put the word vanity in his mouth, because it means the same thing. But in itself, being hollow, it is neither bad nor good; its badness or goodness lies in those things whereof a man makes choice to fill the void, the inexpressible and indefinable craving within his soul; as also hunger is only bad when it is satisfied by bad things, or not satisfied at all, so that in the one case it leads to disease, and in the other to the committing of crimes in the desire for satisfaction. Many a poor fellow was hung by the neck in old times for stealing a loaf to stop his hunger, and many a man of wit goes to the mad-house nowadays because the void of his vanity is unfilled.
But vanity is called by yet another name when its disagreeable side is hidden, and when its emptiness has come to crave for great things. It is pride, then honorable pride, then ambition, and perhaps at the last it is called heroic sacrifice. Vanity is an unsatisfied desire, hollow in itself, but capable of holding both bad and good. It is not identical with self-complacency, nor yet with conceit.
Probably John Harrington had originally possessed as much of this mysterious quality as most men who are conscious of strength and talent. It had never manifested itself in small things, and its very extent had made many things seem small which were of the highest importance to other men. He had worked as a boy at all manner of studies like other boys, but the idea of laboring in distasteful matters for the sake of being first among his companions seemed utterly absurd to him. From the time he had begun to think for himself–and he was young when he reached that stage– he had formed a rooted determination to be first in his country, to be a great reformer or a great patriot, and he cared to study nothing that was not connected with this idea. When his name was first heard in public life, it was as the author of a pamphlet advocating certain sweeping measures of which no one else had ventured to dream as yet. He would have smiled now had he taken the trouble to read again some of those earlier productions of his. It had seemed so easy to move the world then, and it seemed so hard now. But nevertheless he meant to move it, and as each year brought him increased strength and wider experience, it brought with it also the conviction of ultimate success. He had long forgotten to hope for the sudden and immediate power to stir the world, for he had discovered that it was a labor of years, the work of a lifetime; but if he had ever had any doubts as to the result of that work, he had forgotten them also.
And now his strength, his aspirations, his vanity, and his intellect were roused together to the highest activity of which they were capable, the hour having come for which he had longed through half his lifetime, and though it was but the first trial, in which he might fail, it had for him all the importance of the supreme crisis of his existence. No wonder that his face was pale and his lips set as he walked back to his lodgings from the telegraph office. As he walked down the hill by the railings of the Common he came upon Josephine Thorn, standing at the entrance of one of the boarded walks, as though hesitating whether to go in. He was close to her as he bowed, and something in her face made him stop.
“Good morning, Miss Thorn,” he said. She nodded gravely and hesitated. He was about to go on, thinking she was in one of those moods which he called capricious. But she stopped him.
“Mr. Harrington, I want to speak to you,” she said quickly, seeing that her opportunity was on the point of slipping away.
“Yes?” said John, smiling faintly.
“Mr. Harrington–did you read that article about you, the day after the skating party?”
“Yes,” said John. “It was not complimentary, if I remember.”
“It was vile,” said Joe, the angry color rising to her temples again. “It was abominable. It was written by Mr. Vancouver.”
John started slightly.
“I think you must be mistaken,” he said.
“No, I am not mistaken. There were things in it, word for word as he said them to me just after the speech. I am perfectly sure.”
John looked very gravely at Joe, as though to be sure of her honesty. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.
“Miss Thorn,” John said, “Vancouver may have said those very things to some one else, who wrote them and printed them. But in any case, I am exceedingly obliged to you for the information”–
“You are not angry?” Joe began, already repenting.
“No–how could I be? It may be important. The junior senator for Massachusetts died this morning, and there may be an election at any moment. I have not told any one else, but it will be known everywhere in an hour’s time. Good-by, and many thanks.”
“You will be senator, of course?” said Joe, in great excitement.
“I cannot tell,” John answered. “Are you going down the hill?”
“No–thanks–I am going home,” said Joe. “Good-by.”
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 ofpâtés. 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.