“Do you know how to skate?” Sybil Brandon asked of Joe as the two young girls, clad in heavy furs, walked down the sunny side of Beacon Street two days later. They were going from Miss Schenectady’s to a “lunch party”– one of those social institutions of Boston which had most surprised Joe on her first arrival.
“Of course,” answered Joe. “I do not know anything, but I can do everything.”
“How nice!” said Sybil. “Then you can go with us to-night. That will be too lovely!”
“What is it?”
“We are all going skating on Jamaica Pond. Nobody has skated for so long here that it is a novelty. I used to be so fond of it.”
“We always skate at home, when there is ice,” said Joe. “It will be enchanting though, with the full moon and all. What time?”
“Mrs. Sam Wyndham will arrange that,” said Sybil. “She is going to matronize us.”
“How dreadful, to have to be chaperoned!” ejaculated Joe. “But Mrs. Wyndham is very jolly after all, so it does not much matter.”
“I believe they used to have Germans here without any mothers,” remarked Sybil, “but they never do now.”
“Poor little things, how awfully lonely for them!” laughed Joe.
“Who?”
“The Germans–without their mothers. Oh, I forgot the German was the cotillon. You mean cotillons, without tapestry, as we say.”
“Yes, exactly. But about the skating party. It will be very select, you know; just ourselves. You know I never go out,” Sybil added rather sadly, “but I do love skating so.”
“Who are ’ourselves’–exactly?”
“Why, you and I, and the Sam Wyndhams, and the Aitchison girls, and Mr.Topeka, and Mr. Harrington, and Mr. Vancouver–let me see–and Miss St.Joseph, and young Hannibal. He is very nice, and is very attentive to MissSt. Joseph.”
“Is it nice, like that, skating about in couples?” asked Joe.
“No; that is the disagreeable part; but the skating is delicious.”
“Let us stay together all the time,” said Joe spontaneously, “it will be ever so much pleasanter. I would not exactly like to be paired off with any of those men, you know.”
Sybil looked at Joe, opening her wide blue eyes in some astonishment. She did not think Joe was exactly one of those young women who object to a moonlighttête-à-tête, if properly chaperoned.
“Yes, if you like, dear,” she said. “I would like it much better myself, of course.”
“Do you know, Sybil,” said Joe, looking up at her taller companion, “I should not think you would care for skating and that sort of thing.”
“Why?” asked Sybil.
“You do not look strong enough. You are not a bit like me, brought up on horseback.”
“Oh, I am very strong,” answered Sybil, “only I am naturally pale, you see, and people think I am delicate.”
But the north wind kissed her fair face and the faint color came beneath the white and through it, so that Joe looked at her and thought she was the fairest woman in the world that day.
“When I was a little girl,” said Joe, “mamma used to tell me a story about the beautiful Snow Angel: she must have been just like you, dear.”
“What is the story?” asked Sybil, the delicate color in her cheek deepening a little.
“I will tell you to-night when we are skating, we have not time now. Here we are.” And the two girls went up the steps of the house where they were going to lunch.
On the other side of the street Pocock Vancouver and John Harrington met, and stopped to speak just as Joe and Sybil had rung the bell, and stood waiting at the head of the steps.
“Don’t let us look at each other so long as we can look at them,” said Vancouver, shaking hands with John, but looking across the street at the two girls. John looked too, and both men bowed.
“They are pretty enough for anything, are they not?” continued Vancouver.
“Yes,” said John, “they are very pretty.”
With a nod and a smile Joe and Sybil disappeared into the house.
“Why don’t you marry her?” asked Vancouver.
“Which? The English girl?”
“No; Sybil Brandon.”
“Thank you, I am not thinking of being married,” said John, a half-comic, half-contemptuous look in his strong face. “Miss Brandon could do better than marry a penniless politician, and besides, even if I wanted it, I care too much for Miss Brandon’s friendship to risk losing it by asking her to marry me.”
“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Vancouver, “she would accept you straight off. So would the other.”
“You ought to know,” said John, eyeing his companion calmly.
Vancouver looked away; it was generally believed that he had been refused by Miss Brandon more than a year previous.
“Well, you can take my word for it, you could not do better,” he answered, ambiguously. “There is no knowing how the moonlight effects on Jamaica Pond may strike you this evening. I say, though, you were pretty lucky in having such warm weather the night before last.”
“Yes,” said John. “The house was full. Were you there?”
“Of course. If I were not a Republican I would congratulate you on your success. It is a long time since any one has made a Boston audience listen to those opinions. You did it surprisingly well; that sentence about protection was a masterpiece. I wish you were one of us.”
“It is of no use arguing with you,” said John. “If it were, I could make a Democrat of you in an afternoon.”
“I make a pretty good thing of arguing, though,” answered the other. “It’s my trade, you see, and it is not yours. You lay down the law; it is my business to make a living out of it.”
“I wish Icouldlay it down, as you say, and lay it down according to my own ideas,” said John. “I would have something to say to you railroad men.”
“As for that, I should not care. Railroad law is stronger than iron and more flexible than india-rubber, and the shape of it is of no importance whatever. So long as there is enough of it to work with, you can twist it and untwist it as much as you please.”
John laughed.
“It would simplify matters to untwist it and cut it up into lengths,” he said. “But then your occupation would be gone.”
“I think my occupation will last my life-time,” answered Vancouver, laughing in his turn.
“Not if I can help it,” returned John. “But we can provide you with another. Good-by. I am going to Cambridge.”
They shook hands cordially, and John Harrington turned down Charles Street, while Vancouver pursued his way up the hill. He had been going in the opposite direction when he met Harrington, but he seemed to have changed his mind. He was not seen again that day until he went to dine with Mrs. Sam Wyndham.
There was no one there but Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal, well-dressed men of five-and-thirty and five-and-twenty respectively, belonging to good families of immense fortune, and educated regardless of expense. No homely Boston phrase defiled their anglicized lips, their great collars stood up under their chins in an ecstasy of stiffness, and their shirt-fronts bore two buttons, avoiding the antiquity of three and the vulgarity of one. Well-bred Anglo-maniacs both, but gentlemen withal, and courteous to the ladies. Mr. Topeka was a widower, John C. Hannibal was understood to be looking for a wife.
They came, they dined, and they retired to Sam Wyndham’s rooms to don their boots and skating clothes. At nine o’clock the remaining ladies arrived, and then the whole party got into a great sleigh and were driven rapidly out of town over the smooth snow to Jamaica Pond. John Harrington had not come, and only three persons missed him–Joe Thorn, Mrs. Sam, and Pocock Vancouver.
The ice had been cut away in great quantities for storing and the thaw had kept the pond open for a day or two. Then came the sharpest frost of the winter, and in a few hours the water was covered with a broad sheet of black ice that would bear any weight. It was a rare piece of good fortune, but the fashion of skating had become so antiquated that no one took advantage of the opportunity; and as the party got out of the sleigh and made their way down the bank, they saw that there was but one skater before them, sweeping in vast solitary circles out in the middle of the pond, under the cold moonlight. The party sat on the bank in the shadow of some tall pine trees, preparing for the amusement, piling spare coats and shawls on the shoulders of a patient groom, and screwing and buckling their skates on their feet.
“What beautiful ice!” exclaimed Joe, when Vancouver had done his duty by the straps and fastenings. She tapped the steel blade twice or thrice on the hard black surface, still leaning on Vancouver’s arm, and then, without a word of warning, shot away in a long sweeping roll. The glorious vitality in her was all alive, and her blood thrilled and beat wildly in utter enjoyment. She did not go far at first, but seeing the others were long in their preparations, she turned and faced them, skating away backwards, leaning far over to right and left on each changing stroke, and listening with intense pleasure to the musical ring of the clanging steel on the clean ice. Some pride she felt, too, at showing the little knot of Bostonians how thoroughly at home she was in a sport they seemed to consider essentially American.
Joe had not noticed the solitary skater, and thought herself alone, but in a few moments she was aware of a man in an overcoat bowing before her as he slackened his speed. She turned quickly to one side and stopped herself, for the man was John Harrington.
“Why, where did you come from, Mr. Harrington?” she asked in some astonishment. “You were not hidden under the seats of the sleigh, were you?”
“Not exactly,” said John, looking about for the rest of the party. “I was belated in Cambridge this afternoon, so I borrowed a pair of skates and walked over. Splendid ice, is it not?”
“I am so glad you came,” said Joe. She was in such high spirits and was so genuinely pleased at meeting John that she forgot to be cold to him. “It would have been a dreadful pity to have missed this.”
“It would indeed,” said John, skating slowly by her side.
For down by the pine trees two or three figures began to move on the ice.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Harrington,” said Joe.
“What for, Miss Thorn?” he asked.
“For the pleasure you gave me the other night,” she answered. “I have not seen you since to speak to. It was splendid!”
“Thanks,” said John. “I saw you there, in the gallery on my left.”
“Yes; but how could you have time to look about and recognize people? You must have splendid eyes.”
“It is all a habit,” said John. “When one has been before an audience a few times one does not feel nervous, and so one has time to look about. Do you care for that sort of thing, Miss Thorn?”
“Oh, ever so much. But I was frightened once, when they began to grumble.”
“There was nothing to fear,” said John, laughing. “Audiences of that kind do not punctuate one’s speeches with cabbages and rotten eggs.”
“They do sometimes in England,” said Joe. “But here come the others!”
Two and two, in a certain grace of order, the little party came out from the shore into the moonlight. The women’s faces looked white and waxen against their rich furs, and the moonbeams sparkled on their ornaments. A very pretty sight is a moonlight skating party, and Pocock Vancouver knew what he was saying when he hinted at the mysterious and romantic influences that are likely to be abroad on such occasions. Indeed, it was not long before young Hannibal was sliding away hand in hand with Miss St. Joseph at a pace that did not invite competition. And Mr. Topeka decided which of the Aitchison girls he preferred, and gave her his arm, so that the other fell to the lot of Sam Wyndham, while Mrs. Sam and Sybil Brandon came out escorted by Vancouver, who noticed with some dismay that the party was “a man short.” The moment he saw Joe talking to the solitary skater, he knew that the latter must be Harrington, who had gone to Cambridge and come across. John bowed to every one and shook hands with Mrs. Wyndham. Joe eluded Vancouver and put her arm through Sybil’s, as though to take possession of her.
Joe would have been well enough pleased at first to have been left with John, but the sight of Vancouver somehow reminded her of the compact she had made in the morning with Sybil, and in a few moments the two girls were away together, talking so persistently to each other that Vancouver, who at first followed them and tried to join their conversation, was fain to understand that he was not wanted, so that he returned to Mrs. Wyndham.
“I want so much to talk to you,” Joe began, when they were alone.
“Yes, dear?” said Sybil half interrogatively, as they moved along. “We can talk here charmingly, unless Mr. Vancouver comes after us again. But you do skate beautifully, you know. I had no idea you could.”
“Oh, I told you I could do everything,” said Joe, with some pride. “Wheredidyou get that beautiful fur, my dear? It is magnificent. You are just like the Snow Angel now.”
“In Russia. Everybody wears white fur there, you know. We were in St. Petersburg some time.”
“I know. We cannot get it in England. If one could I would have told Ronald to bring me some when he comes.”
“Who is Ronald?” asked Sybil innocently.
“Oh, he is the dearest boy,” said Joe, with a little sigh, “but I do so wish he were not coming!”
“Because he has not got the white fur?” suggested Sybil.
“Oh no! But because”–Joe lowered her voice and spoke demurely, at the same time linking her arm more closely in Sybil’s. “You see, dear, he wants to marry me, and I am afraid he is coming to say so.”
“And you do not want to marry him? Is that it?”
Joe’s small mouth closed tightly, and she merely nodded her head gravely, looking straight before her. Sybil pressed her arm sympathetically and was silent, expecting more.
“It was such a long time ago, you see,” said Joe, after a while. “I was not out when it was arranged, and it seemed so natural. But now–it is quite different.”
“But of course, if you do not love him, you must not think of marrying him,” said Sybil, simply.
“I won’t,” answered Joe, with sudden emphasis. “But I shall have to tell him, you know,” she added despondently.
“It is very hard to say those things,” said Sybil, in a tone of reflection. “But of course it must be done–if you were really engaged, that is.”
“Yes, almost really,” said Joe.
“Not quite?” suggested Sybil.
“I think not quite; but I know he thinks it is quite quite, you know.”
“Well, but perhaps he is not so certain, after all. Do you know, I do not think men really care so much; do you?”
“Oh, of course not,” said Joe scornfully. “But it does not seem quite honest to let a man think you are going to marry him if you do not mean to.”
“But you did mean to, dear, until you found out you did not care for him enough. And just think how dreadful it would be to be married if you did not care enough!”
“Yes, that is true,” answered Joe. “It would be dreadful for him too.”
“When is he coming?” asked Sybil.
“I think next week. He sailed the day before yesterday.”
“Then there is plenty of time to settle on what you want to say,” said Sybil. “If you make up your mind just how to put it, you know, it will be ever so much easier.”
“Oh no!” cried Joe. “I will trust to luck. I always do; it is much easier.”
“Excuse me, Miss Brandon,” said the voice of Vancouver, who came up behind them at a great pace, and holding his feet together let himself slide rapidly along beside the two girls,–“excuse me, but do you not think you are very unsociable, going off in this way?”
“May I give you my arm, Miss Thorn?” asked Harrington, coming up on the other side.
Without leaving each other Joe and Sybil took the proffered arms of the two men, and the four skated smoothly out into the middle of the ice, that rang again in the frosty air under their joint weight. Mrs. Wyndham had insisted that Vancouver and Harrington should leave her and follow the young girls, and they had obeyed in mutual understanding.
“Which do you like better, Miss Brandon, boating in Newport or skating on Jamaica Pond?” asked Vancouver.
“This is better than the Music Hall, is it not?” remarked John to Miss Thorn.
“Oh, Jamaica Pond, by far,” Sybil answered, and her hold on Joe’s arm relaxed a very little.
“Oh no! I would a thousand times rather be in the Music Hall!” exclaimed Joe, and her hand slipped away from Sybil’s white fur. And so the four were separated into couples, and went their ways swiftly under the glorious moonlight. As they parted Sybil turned her head and looked after Joe, but Joe did not see her.
“I would rather be here,” said John quietly.
“Why?” asked Joe.
“There is enough fighting in life to make peace a very desirable thing sometimes,” John answered.
“A man cannot be always swinging his battle-axe.” There was a very slight shade of despondency in the tone of his voice. Joe noticed it at once.
Women do not all worship success, however much they may wish their champion to win when they are watching him fight. In the brilliant, unfailing, all-conquering man, the woman who loves him feels pride; if she be vain and ambitious, she feels wholly satisfied, for the time. But woman’s best part is her gentle sympathy, and where there is no room at all for that, there is very often little room for love. In the changing hopes and fears of uncertain struggles, a woman’s love well given and truly kept may turn the scale for a man, and it is at such times, perhaps, that her heart is given best, and most loyally held by him who has it.
“I wish I could do anything to help him to succeed,” thought Joe, in the innocent generosity of her half-conscious devotion.
“Has anything gone wrong?” she asked aloud.
“Has anything gone wrong?” There was so much of interest and sympathy in her tone, as Joe put the simple question, that John turned and looked into her face. The magic of moonlight softens the hardest features, makes interest look like friendship, and friendship like love; but it can harden too at times, and make a human face look like carved stone.
“No, there is nothing wrong,” John answered presently; “what made you think so?”
“You spoke a little regretfully,” answered Joe.
“Did I? I did not mean to. Perhaps one is less gay and less hopeful at some times than at others. It has nothing to do with success or failure.”
“I know,” answered Joe. “One can be dreadfully depressed when one is enjoying one’s self to any extent. But I should not have thought you were that sort of person. You seem always the same.”
“I try to be. That is the great difference between people who live to work and people who live to amuse and be amused.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean,” said John, “that people who work, especially people who have to do with large ideas and great movements, need to be more or less monotonous. The men who succeed are the men of one idea or at least they are the men who only have one idea at a time.”
“Whereas people who live to amuse and be amused must have as many ideas as possible.”
“Yes, to play with,” said John, completing the sentence. “Their life is play, their ideas are their playthings, and so soon as they have spoiled one toy they must have another. The people who supply ideas to an idle public are very valuable, and may have great power.”
“Novel-writers, and that sort of people,” suggested Joe.
“All producers of light literature and second-rate poetry, and a very great variety of other people besides. A man who amuses others may often be a worker himself. He raises a laugh or excites a momentary interest by getting rid of his superfluous ideas and imaginations, reserving to himself all the time the one idea in which he believes.”
“Not at all a bad theory,” said Joe.
“There are more men of that sort with you in Europe than with us. You need more amusement, and you will generally give more for it. You English, who are uncommonly fond of doing nothing, give yourselves vast trouble in the pursuit of pleasure. We Americans, who are ill when we are idle, are content to surround ourselves with the paraphernalia of pleasure when office hours are over; but we make very little use of our opportunities for amusement, being tired out at the end of the day with other things which we think more important. The result is that we have no such thing as what you denominate ‘Society,’ because we lack the prime element of aristocratic social intercourse, the ingrained determination to be idle.”
“You are very hard on us,” remarked Joe.
“Excuse me,” returned John, “you are compensated by having what we have not. Europeans are the most agreeable people in the world, wherever mutual and daily conversation and intercourse are to be considered. The majority of you, of polite European society, are not troubled with any very large ideas, but you have an immense number of very charming and attractive small ones. In America there are only two ideas that practically affect society, but they are very big ones indeed.”
“What?” asked Joe laconically, growing interested in John’s queer lecture.
“Money and political influence,” answered John Harrington. “They are the two great motors of our machine. All men who are respected among us are in pursuit of one or the other, or have attained to one or the other by their own efforts. The result is, that European society is amusing and agreeable; whereas Americans of the same class are more interesting, less polished, better acquainted with the general laws that govern the development of nations.” “Really, Mr. Harrington,” said Joe, “you are making us out to be very insignificant. And I think it would be very dull if we all had to understand ever so many general laws. Besides, I do not agree with you.”
“About what, Miss Thorn?”
“About Americans. They talk better than Englishmen, as a rule.”
“But I am comparing Americans with the whole mass of Europeans,” John objected. “The English are a rather silent race, I should say.”
“Cold, you think?” suggested Joe.
“No, not cold. Perhaps less cold than we are; but less demonstrative.”
“I like that,” answered Joe. “I like people to feel more than they show.”
“Why?” asked John. “Why should not people be perfectly natural, and show when they feel anything, or be cold when they do not?” “I think when you know some one feels a great deal and hides it, that gives one the idea of reserved strength.”
They had reached a distant part of the ice, and were slowly skating round the limits of a little bay, where the slanting moonbeams fell through tall old trees upon the glinting black surface. They were quite alone, only in the distance they could hear the long-drawn clang and ring of the other skaters, echoing all along the lake with a tremulous musical sound in the still bright night. “You must be very cold yourself, Mr. Harrington,” Joe began again after a pause, stopping and looking at him.
John laughed a little.
“I?” he cried. “No, indeed, I am the most enthusiastic man alive.”
“You are when you are speaking in public,” said Joe. “But that may be all comedy, you know. Orators always study their speeches, with all the gestures and that, before a glass, don’t they?”
“I do not know,” said John. “Of course I know by heart what I am going to say, when I make a speech like that of the other evening, but I often insert a great deal on the spur of the moment. It is not comedy. I grow very much excited when I am speaking.”
“Never at any other time?” asked Joe.
“Seldom; why should I? I do not feel other things or situations so strongly.”
“In other words,” replied Joe, “it is just as I said; you are generally very cold.”
“I suppose so,” John acquiesced, “since you will not allow the occasions when I am not cold to be counted.”
Joe looked down as she stood, and moved her skates slowly on the ice; the shadows hid her face.
“Do you know,” she said presently, “you lose a great deal; you must, you cannot help it. You only like people in a body, so as to see what you can do with them. You only care for things on a tremendously big scale, so that you may try to influence them. When you have not a crowd to talk to, or a huge scheme to argue about, you are bored to extinction.”
“No,” said John; “I am not bored at present, by any means.”
“Because you are talking about big things. Most men in your place would be talking about the moonlight, and quoting Shelley.”
“To oblige you, Miss Thorn, I could quote a little now and then,” said John, laughing. “Would it please you? I dare say you have seen elephants stand upon their hind legs and their heads alternately. I should feel very much like one; but I will do anything to oblige you.”
“That is frivolous,” said Joe, who did not smile.
“Of course it is. I am heavy by nature. You may teach me all sorts of tricks, but they will not be at all pretty.”
“No, you are very interesting as you are,” said Joe quietly. “But I do not think you will be happy.”
“It is not a question of happiness.”
“What is it then?”
“Usefulness,” said John.
“You do not care to be happy, you only care to be useful?” Joe asked.
“Yes. But my ideas of usefulness include many things. Some of the people who listen to me would be very much astonished if they knew what I dream.”
“Nothing would astonish me,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “Of course you must think of everything in a large way–it is your nature. You will be a great man.”
John looked at his companion. She had struck the main chord of his nature in her words, and he felt suddenly that thrill of pleasure which comes from the flattery of our pride and our hopes. John was not a vain man, but he was capable of being intoxicated by the grandeur of a scheme when the possibility of its realization was suddenly thrust before him. Like all men of exceptional gifts who are constantly before the public, he could estimate very justly the extent of the results he could produce on any given occasion, but his enthusiastic belief in his ideas could see no limit to the multiplication of those results. His strong will and natural modesty about himself constantly repressed any desire he might have to speak over-confidently of ultimate success, so that the prediction of ultimate success by some one else was doubly sweet to him. We Americans have said of ourselves that we are the only nation who accomplish what we have boasted of. Rash speech and rash action are our national characteristics, and lead us into all manner of trouble, but in so far as such qualifications or defects imply a positive conviction of success, they contribute largely to the realization of great schemes. No one can succeed who does not believe in himself, nor can any scheme be realized which has not gained the support of a sufficient number of men who believe in it and in themselves.
John was gratified by Miss Thorn’s speech, for he saw that it was spontaneous.
“I will try to be great,” he said, “for the sake of what I think is great.”
There was a short pause, and the pair by common consent skated slowly out of the shadow into the broad moonlight.
“Not that I believe you will be happy if you think of nothing else,” said Joe presently.
“In order to do anything well, one must think of nothing else,” answered John.
“Many great men find time to be great and to do many other things,” said Joe. “Look at Mr. Gladstone; he has an immense private correspondence about things that interest him, quite apart from the big things he is always doing.”
“When a man has reached that point he may find plenty of time to spare,” answered Harrington. “But until he has accomplished the main object of his life he must not let anything take him from his pursuit. He must form no ties, he must have no interests, that do not conduce to his success. I think a man who enters on a political career must devote himself to it as exclusively as a missionary Jesuit attacks the conversion of unbelievers, as wholly as a Buddhist ascetic gives himself to the work of uniting his individual intelligence with the immortal spirit that gives it life.”
“I do not agree with you,” said Joe decisively, and in her womanly intelligence of life she understood the mistake John made. “I cannot agree with you. You are mixing up political activity, which deals with the government of men, with spiritual ideas and immortality, and that sort of thing.”
“How so?” asked John, in some surprise.
“I am quite sure,” said Joe, “that to govern man a man must be human, and the imaginary politician you tell me of is not human at all.”
“And yet I aspire to be that imaginary politician,” said John.
“Do not think me too dreadfully conceited,” Joe answered, “in talking about such things. Of course I do not pretend to understand them, but I am quite sure people must be like other people–I mean in good ways–or other people will not believe in them, you know. You are not vexed, are you?” She looked up into John’s face with a little timid smile that might have done wonders to persuade a less prejudiced person than Harrington.
“No indeed! why should I be vexed? But perhaps some day you will believe that I am right.”
“Oh no, never!” exclaimed Joe, in a tone of profound conviction. “You will never persuade me that people are meant to shut themselves from their fellow-creatures, and not be human, and that.”
“And yet you were so good as to say that you thought I might attain greatness,” said John, smiling.
“Yes, I think you will. But you will change your mind about a great many things before you do.”
John’s strong face grew thoughtful, and the white moonlight made his features seem harder and sterner than ever. Slowly the pair glided over the polished black ice, now marked here and there with clean white curves from the skates, and in a few minutes they were once more within hail of the remainder of their party.
Eight days after the skating party, Ronald Surbiton telegraphed from New York that he would reach Boston the next morning, and Josephine Thorn knew that the hour had come. She was not afraid of the scene that must take place, but she wished with all her heart that it were over.
As Sybil Brandon had told her, there had been time to think of what she should say, and although she had answered recklessly that she would “trust to luck,” she knew when the day was come that she had in reality thought intensely of the very words which must be spoken. To Miss Schenectady she had said nothing, but on the other hand she had become very intimate with Sybil, and to tell the truth, she hoped inwardly for the support and sympathy of her beautiful friend.
Meanwhile, since her long evening with John Harrington on the ice, she had made every effort to avoid his society. Like many very young women with a vivid love of enjoyment and a fairly wide experience, she was something of a fatalist. That is to say, she believed that her evil destiny might spring upon her unawares at any moment, and she felt something when she was with Harrington that warned her. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to have moods of melancholy; she caught herself asking what was really the end and object of her gay life, whether it amounted to anything worthy in comparison with the trouble one had to take to amuse one’s self, whether it would not be far better in the end to live like Miss Schenectady, reading and studying and caring nothing for the world.
Not that Josephine admired Miss Schenectady, or thought that she herself could ever be like her. The old lady was a type of her class; intelligent and well versed in many subjects–even learned she might have been called by some. But to Joe’s view, essentially European by nature and education, it seemed as though her aunt, like many Bostonians, judged everything–literature, music, art of all kinds, history and the doings of great men– by one invariable standard. Her comments on what she heard and read were uniformly delivered from the same point of view, in the same tone of practical judgment, and with the same assumption of original superiority. It was the everlasting “Carthago delenda” of the Roman orator. Whatever the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained unshaken in Miss Schenectady’s mind that Beacon Street was better than those things, and that of all speeches and languages known and spoken in the world’s history, the familiar dialect of Boston was the one best calculated by Providence and nature to express and formulate all manner of wisdom.
It is a strange thing that where criticism is on the whole so fair, and cultivation of the best faculties so general, the manner of expressing a judgment and of exhibiting acquired knowledge should be such as to jar unpleasantly on the sensibilities of Europeans. Where is the real difference? It probably lies in some subtle point of proportion in the psychic chemistry of the Boston mind, but the analyst who shall express the formula is not yet born; though there be those who can cast the spectrum of Boston existence and thought upon their printed screens with matchless accuracy.
Joe judged but did not analyze. She said Miss Schenectady was always right, but that the way she was right was “horrid.” Consequently she did not look to her aunt for sympathy or assistance, and though they had more than once talked of Ronald Surbiton since receiving his cable from England, Joe had not said anything of her intentions regarding him. When the second telegram arrived from New York, saying that he would be in Boston on the following morning, Joe begged that Miss Schenectady would be at home to receive him when he came.
“Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to,” said Miss Schenectady. She did not see why her niece should require her presence at the interview; young men may call on young ladies in Boston without encountering the inevitable chaperon, or being obliged to do their talking in the hearing of a police of papas, mammas, and aunts. But as Joe “insisted upon it,” as the old lady said, she “expected there were no two ways about it.” Her expectations were correct, for Joe would have refused absolutely to receive Ronald alone.
“I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear,” she had said to Sybil the day previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room, reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten o’clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past.
It was not quite ten o’clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time in his life.
“Miss Schenectady?” said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly. He pronounced her name Schenectady, with a strong accent on the penultimate syllable.
“Schenectady,” corrected his hostess. “I expect you are Mr. Surbiton.”
“A–exactly so,” said Ronald, in some embarrassment.
“Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton.” Miss Schenectady resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his hand.
“Put your hat down,” said the old lady. “What sort of a journey did you have?”
“Very fair, thanks,” said Ronald, depositing his hat on the floor beside him, “in fact I believe we came over uncommonly quick for the time of year. How is”–
“What steamer did you come by?” interrupted Miss Schenectady.
“The Gallia. She is one of the Cunarders. But as I was going to ask”–
“Yes, an old boat, I expect. So you came on right away from New York without stopping?”
“Exactly,” answered Ronald. “I took the first train. The fact is, I was so anxious–so very anxious to”–
“What hotel are you at here?” inquired Miss Schenectady, without letting him finish.
“Brunswick. How is Miss Thorn?” Ronald succeeded at last in putting the question he so greatly longed to ask–the only one, he supposed, which would cause a message to be sent to Joe announcing his arrival.
“Joe? She is pretty well. I expect she will be down in a minute. Are you going to stay some while, Mr. Surbiton?”
Ronald thought Miss Schenectady the most pitiless old woman he had ever met. In reality she had not the most remote intention of being anything but hospitable. But her idea of hospitality at a first meeting seemed to consist chiefly in exhibiting a great and inquisitive interest in the individual she wished to welcome. Besides, Joe would probably come down when she was ready, and so it was necessary to talk in the mean time. At last Ronald succeeded in asking another question.
“Excuse the anxiety I show,” he said simply, “but may I ask whether Miss Thorn is at home?”
“Perhaps if you rang the bell I could send for her,” remarked the old lady in problematic answer.
“Oh, certainly!” exclaimed Ronald, springing to his feet, and searching madly round the room for the bell. Miss Schenectady watched him calmly.
“I think if you went to the further side of the fire-place you would find it–back of the screen,” she suggested.
“Thanks; here it is,” cried Ronald, discovering the handle in the wall.
“Yes, you have found it now,” said Miss Schenectady with much indifference. “Perhaps you find it cold here?” she continued, observing that Ronald lingered near the fire-place.
“Oh dear, no, thanks, quite the contrary,” he answered.
“Because if it is you might–Sarah, I think you could tell Miss Josephine that Mr. Surbiton is in the parlor, could not you?”
“Oh, if it is any inconvenience”–Ronald began, misunderstanding the form of address Miss Schenectady used to her handmaiden.
“Why?” asked Miss Schenectady, in some astonishment.
“Nothing,” said Ronald, looking rather confused; “I did not quite catch what you said.”
There was a silence, and the old lady and the young man looked at each other.
Ronald was a very handsome man, as Joe knew. He was tall and straight and deep-chested. His complexion was like a child’s, and his fine moustache like silk. His thick fair hair was parted accurately in the middle, and his smooth, white forehead betrayed no sign of care or thought. His eyes were blue and very bright, and looked fearlessly at every one and everything, and his hands were broad and clean-looking. He was perfectly well dressed, but in a fashion far less extreme than that affected by Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal. There was less collar and more shoulder to him, and his legs were longer and straighter than theirs. Nevertheless, had he stood beside John Harrington, no one would have hesitated an instant in deciding which was the stronger man. With all his beauty and grace, Ronald Surbiton was but one of a class of handsome and graceful men. John Harrington bore on his square brow and in the singular compactness of his active frame the peculiar sign-manual of an especial purpose. He would have been an exception in any class and in any age. It was no wonder Joe had wished to compare the two.
In a few moments the door opened, and Joe entered the drawing-room. She was pale, and her great brown eyes had a serious expression in them that was unusual. There was something prim in the close dark dress she wore, and the military collar of most modern cut met severely about her throat. If Ronald had expected a very affectionate welcome he was destined to disappointment; Joe had determined not to be affectionate until all was over. To prepare him in some measure for what was in store, she had planned that he should be left alone for a time with Miss Schenectady, who, she thought, would chill any suitor to the bone.
“My dear Ronald,” said Joe, holding out her hand, “I am so glad to see you.” Her voice was even and gentle, but there was no gladness in it.
“Not half so glad as I am to see you,” said Ronald, holding her hand in his, his face beaming with delight. “It seems such an age since you left!”
“It is only two months, though,” said Joe, with a faint smile. “I ought to apologize, but I suppose you have introduced yourself to Aunt Zoë.” She could not call her Aunt Zoruiah, even for the sake of frightening Ronald.
“What did you think when you got my telegram?” asked the latter.
“I thought it was very foolish of you to run away just when the hunting was so good,” answered Joe with decision.
“But you are glad, are you not?” he asked, lowering his voice, and looking affectionately at her. Miss Schenectady was again absorbed in the life of Mr. Ticknor.
“Yes,” said Joe, gravely. “It is as well that you have come, because I have something to say to you, and I should have had to write it. Let us go out. Would you like to go for a walk?”
Ronald was delighted to do anything that would give him a chance of escaping from Aunt Zoruiah and being alone with Joe.
“I think you had best be back to lunch,” remarked Miss Schenectady as they left the room.
“Of course, Aunt Zoë,” answered Joe. “Besides, Sybil is coming, you know.” So they sallied forth.
It was a warm day; the snow had melted from the brick pavement, and the great icicles on the gutters and on the trees were running water in the mid-day sun. Joe thought a scene would be better to get over in the publicity of the street than in private. Ronald, all unsuspecting of her intention, walked calmly by her side, looking at her occasionally with a certain pride, mixed with a good deal of sentimental benevolence.
“Do you know,” Joe began presently, “when your cable came I felt very guilty at having written to you that you might come?”
“Why?” asked Ronald, innocently. “You know I would come from the end of the world to see you. I have, in fact.”
“Yes, I know,” said Joe wearily, wishing she knew exactly how to say what she was so thoroughly determined should be said.
“What is the matter, Joe?” asked Ronald, suddenly. He smiled rather nervously, but his smooth brow was a little contracted. He anticipated mischief.
“There is something the matter, Ronald,” she said at last, resolved to make short work of the revelation of her feelings. “There is something very much the matter.”
“Well?” said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed.
“You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought–honestly, I know you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me.”
“Yes,” said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. “I have always thought so; I think so now.”
“It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear,” said Joe, turning very pale. “I have thought of it too–thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot.” Her voice trembled violently. However firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say; she was so fond of him.
“What?” asked Ronald hoarsely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than sorrow or deep pain.
“Do not make me say it again,” said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly.
“Do you mean to say,” said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then dropping his voice as he remembered the passers-by,–“do you mean to tell me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun of me.”
“No, Ronald,” Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in the face of Surbiton’s wrath, “I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you.”
Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing.
“It is much better to be honest about it,” said Joe, still very pale; and when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly.
“Oh, yes,” said Ronald, who was serious by this time; “it is much better to be honest, now that you have brought me three thousand miles to hear what you have to say–much better. By all means.”
“I am very sorry, Ronald,” Joe answered. “I really did not mean you to come, and I am very sorry,–oh, more sorry than I can tell you,–but I cannot do it, you know.”
“If you won’t, of course you can’t,” he said. “Will you please tell me who he is?”
“Who?–what?” asked Joe, coldly. She was offended at the tone.
“The fellow you have pitched upon in my place,” he said roughly.
Joe looked up into his face with an expression that frightened him. Her dark eyes flashed with an honest fire, He stared angrily at her as they walked slowly along.
“I made a mistake,” she said slowly. “I am not sorry. I am glad. I would be ashamed to marry a man who could speak like that to any woman. I am sorry for you, but I am glad for myself.” She looked straight into his eyes, until he turned away. For some minutes they went on in silence.
“I beg your pardon, Joe,” said Ronald presently, in a subdued tone.
“Never mind, Ronald dear, I was angry,” Joe answered. But her eyes were full of tears, and her lips quivered.
Again they went on in silence, but for a longer time than before. Joe felt that the blow was struck, and there was nothing to be done but to wait the result. It had been much harder than she had expected, because Ronald was so angry; she had expected he would be pained. He, poor fellow, was really startled out of all self-control. The idea that Joe could ever ultimately hesitate about marrying him had never seemed to exist, even among the remotest possibilities. But he was a gentleman in his way, and so he begged her pardon, and chewed the cud of his wrath in silence for some time.
“Joe,” he said at last, with something of his usual calm, though he was still red, “of course you are really perfectly serious? I mean, you have thought about it?”
“Yes,” said Joe; “I am quite sure.”
“Then perhaps it is better we should go home,” he continued.
“Perhaps so,” said Joe. “Indeed, it would be better.”
“I would like to see you again, Joe,” he said in a somewhat broken fashion. “I mean, by and by, when I am not angry, you know.”
Joe smiled at the simple honesty of the proposition.
“Yes, Ronald dear, whenever you like. You are very good, Ronald,” she added.
“No, I am not good at all,” said Ronald sharply, and they did not speak again until he left her at Miss Schenectady’s door. Then she gave him her hand.
“I shall be at home until three o’clock,” said she.
“Thanks,” he answered; so they parted.
Joe had accomplished her object, but she was very far from happy. The consciousness of having done right did not outweigh the pain she felt for Ronald, who was, after all, her very dear friend. They had grown up together from earliest childhood, and so it had been settled; for Ronald was left an orphan when almost a baby, and had been brought up with his cousin as a matter of expediency. Therefore, as Joe said, it had always seemed so very natural. They had plighted vows when still in pinafores with a ring of grass, and later they had spoken more serious things, which it hurt Joe to remember, and now they were suffering the consequence of it all, and the putting off childish illusions was bitter.
It was not long before Sybil Brandon came in answer to Joe’s invitation. She knew what trouble her friend was likely to be in, and was ready to do anything in the world to make matters easier for her. Besides, though Sybil was so white and fair, and seemingly cold, she had a warm heart, and had conceived a very real affection for the impulsive English girl. Miss Schenectady had retired to put on another green ribbon, leaving the life of Mr. Ticknor open on the table, and the two girls met in the drawing-room. Joe was still pale, and the tears seemed ready to start from her eyes.
“Dear Sybil–it is so good of you to come,” said she.
Sybil kissed her affectionately and put her arm round her waist. They stood thus for a moment before the fire.
“You have seen him?” Sybil asked presently. Joe had let her head rest wearily against her friend’s shoulder, and nodded silently in answer. Sybil bent down and kissed her soft hair, and whispered gently in her ear,–“Was it very hard, dear?”
“Oh, yes–indeed it was!” cried Joe, hiding her face on Sybil’s breast. Then, as though ashamed of seeming weak, she stood up boldly, turning slightly away as she spoke. “It was dreadfully hard,” she continued; “but it is all over, and it is very much better–very, very much, you know.”
“I am so glad,” said Sybil, looking thoughtfully at the fire. “And now we will go out into the country and forget all about it–all about the disagreeable part of it.”
“Perhaps,” said Joe, who had recovered her equanimity, “Ronald may come too. You see he is so used to me that after a while it will not seem to make so very much difference after all.”
“Of course, if he would,” said Sybil, “it would be very nice. He will have to get used to the idea, and if he does not begin at once, perhaps he never may.”
“He will be just the same as ever when he gets over his wrath,” answered Joe confidently.
“Was he very angry?”
“Oh, dreadfully! I never saw him so angry.”
“It is better when men are angry than when they are sorry,” said Sybil. “Something like this once happened to me, and he got over it very well. I think it was much more my fault, too,” she added thoughtfully.
“Oh, I am sure you never did anything bad in your life,” said Joe affectionately. “Nothing half so bad as this–my dear Snow Angel!” And so they kissed again and went to lunch.
“I suppose you went to walk,” remarked Miss Schenectady, when they met at table.
“Yes,” said Joe, “we walked a little.”
“Well, all Englishmen walk, of course,” continued her aunt.
“Most of them can,” said Joe, smiling.
“I mean, it is a great deal the right thing there. Perhaps you might pass me the pepper.”
Before they had finished their meal the door opened, and Ronald Surbiton entered the room.
“Oh–excuse me,” he began, “I did not know”–
“Oh, I am so glad you have come, Ronald,” cried Joe, rising to greet him, and taking his hand. “Sybil, let me introduce Mr. Surbiton–Miss Brandon.”
Sybil smiled and bent her head slightly. Ronald bowed and sat down between Sybil and Miss Schenectady.