In all the endless folk-lore of proverbs, there is perhaps no adage more true than that which warns young people to beware of a new love until they have done with the old, and as Ronald Surbiton reflected on his position, the old rhyme ran through his head. Ho was strongly attracted by Sybil Brandon, but, at the same time, he still felt that he ought to make an effort to win Joe back. It seemed so unmanly to relinquish her without a struggle, just because she said she did not love him. It could not be true, for they had loved each other so long.
When Ronald looked out of the window of his room in the hotel, on the morning after Mrs. Wyndham’s dinner, the snow was falling as it can only fall in Boston. The great houses opposite were almost hidden from view by the soft, fluttering flakes, and below, in the broad street, the horse-cars moved slowly along like immense white turtles ploughing their way through deep white sand. The sound of the bells was muffled as it came up, and the scraping of the Irishmen’s heavy spades on the pavement before the hotel followed by the regular fall of the great shovels full on the heap, as they stacked the snow, sounded like the digging of a gigantic grave.
Ronald felt that his spirits were depressed. He watched the drifting storm for a few minutes, and then turned away and looked for a novel in his bag, and filled a pipe with some English tobacco he had jealously guarded from the lynx-eyed custom-house men in New York, and then sat down with a sigh before his small coal fire, and prepared to pass the morning, in solitude.
But Ronald was not fond of reading, and at the end of half an hour he threw his book and his pipe aside, and stretched his long limbs. Then he rose and went to the window again with an expression of utter weariness such as only an Englishman can put on when he is thoroughly bored. The snow was falling as thickly as ever, and the turtle-backed horse-cars crawled by through the drifts, more and more slowly. Ronald turned away with an impatient ejaculation, and made up his mind that he would go and see Joe at once. He wrapped himself carefully in a huge ulster overcoat and went out.
Joe was sitting alone in the drawing-room, curled up in an old-fashioned arm-chair by the fire, with a book in her lap which she was not reading. She had asked her aunt for something about politics, and Miss Schenectady had given her the “Life of Rufus Choate,” in two large black volumes. The book was interesting, but in Joe’s mind it was but a step from the speeches and doings of the great and brilliant lawyer-senator to the speeches and doings of John Harrington. And so after a while the book dropped upon her knee and she leaned far back in the chair, her great brown eyes staring dreamily at the glowing coals.
“I was so awfully lonely,” said Ronald, sitting down beside her, “that I came here. You do not mind, Joe, do you?”
“Mind? No! I am very glad. It must be dreadfully lonely for you at the hotel. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh–trying to read. And then, I was thinking about you.”
“That is not much of an occupation. See how industrious I am. I have been reading the ‘Life and Writings of Rufus Choate.’ I am getting to be a complete Bostonian.”
“Have you read it all? I never heard of him. Who was he?”
“He was an extremely clever man. He must have been very nice, and his speeches are splendid. You ought to read them.”
“Joe, you are going to be a regular blue-stocking! The idea of spending your time in reading such stuff. Why, it would be almost better to read the parliamentary reports in the ‘Times!’ Just fancy!” Ronald laughed at the idea of any human being descending to such drudgery.
“Don’t be silly, Ronald. You do not know anything about it,” said Joe.
“Oh, it is of no use discussing the question,” answered Ronald. “You young women are growing altogether too clever, with your politics, and your philosophy, and your culture. I hate America!”
“If you really knew anything about it, you would like it very much. Besides, you have no right to say you hate it. The people here have been very good to you already. You ought not to abuse them.”
“No–not the people. But just look at that snow-storm, Joe, and tell me whether America is a place for human beings to live in.”
“It is much prettier than a Scotch mist, and ever so much clearer than a fog in London,” retorted Joe.
“But there is nothing for a fellow to do on a day like this,” said Ronald sulkily.
“Nothing, but to come and see his cousin, and abuse everything to her, and try to make her as discontented as himself,” said Joe, mimicking his tone.
“If I thought you liked me to come and see you”–began Ronald.
“Well?”
“It would be different, you know.”
“I like you when you are nice and good-tempered,” said Joe. “But when you are bored you are simply–well, you are dreadful.” Joe raised her eyebrows and tapped with her fingers on the arm of the chair.
“Do you think I can ever be bored when I come to see you, Joe?” asked Ronald, changing his tone.
“You act as if you were, precisely. You know people who are bored are generally bores themselves.”
“Thanks,” said Ronald. “How kind you are!”
“Do say something nice, Ronald. You have done nothing but find fault since you came. Have you heard from home?”
“No. There has not been time yet. Why do you ask?”
“Because I thought you might say something less disagreeable about home than you seem able to say about things here,” said Joe tartly.
“You do not want me this morning. I will go away again,” said Ronald with a gloomy frown. He rose to his feet, as though about to take his leave.
“Oh, don’t go, Ronald.” He paused. “Besides,” added Joe, “Sybil will be here in a little while.”
“You need not offer me Miss Brandon as an inducement to stay with you, Joe, if you really want me. Twenty Miss Brandons would not make any difference!”
“Really?” said Joe smiling. “You are a dear good boy, Ronald, when you are nice,” she added presently. “Sit down again.”
Ronald went back to his seat beside her, and they were both silent for a while. Joe repented a little, for she thought she had been teasing him, and she reflected that she ought to be doing her best to make him happy.
“Joe–do not you think it would be very pleasant to be always like this?” said Ronald after a time.
“How–like this?”
“Together,” said Ronald softly, and a gentle look came into his handsome face, as he looked up at his cousin. “Together–only in our own home.”
Joe did not answer, but the color came to her cheeks, and she looked annoyed. She had hoped that the matter was settled forever, for it seemed so easy for her. Ronald misinterpreted the blush. For the moment the old conviction came back to him that she was to be his wife, and if it was not exactly love that he felt, it was a satisfaction almost great enough to take its place.
“Would it not?” said he presently.
“Please do not talk about it, Ronald. What is the use? I have said all there is to say, I am sure.”
“But I have not,” he answered, insisting. “Please, Joe dearest, think about it seriously. Think what a cruel thing it is you are doing.” His voice was very tender, but he was perfectly calm; there was not the slightest vibration of passion in the tones. Joe did not wholly understand; she only knew that he was not satisfied with the first explanation she had given him, and that she felt sorry for him, but was incapable of changing her decision.
“Must I go over it all again?” she asked piteously. “Did I not make it clear to you, Ronald? Oh–don’t talk about it!”
“You have no heart, Joe,” said Ronald hotly. “You don’t know what you make me suffer. You don’t know that this sort of thing is enough to wreck a man’s existence altogether. You don’t know what you are doing, because you have no heart–not the least bit of one.”
“Do not say that–please do not,” Joe entreated, looking at him with imploring eyes, for his words hurt her. Then suddenly the tears came in a quick hot gush, and she hid her face in her hands. “Oh, Ronald, Ronald–it is you who do not know,” she sobbed.
Ronald did not quite know what to do; he never did when Joe cried, but fortunately that disaster had not occurred often since he was very small. He was angry with himself for having disturbed and hurt her, but he did not know what to do, most probably because he did not really love her.
“Joe,” he said, looking at her in some embarrassment, “don’t!” Then he rose and rather timidly laid a hand on her shoulder. But she shrank from him with a petulant motion, and the tears trickled through her small white hands and fell upon her dark dress and on the “Life of Rufus Choate.”
“Joe, dear”–Ronald began again. And then, in great uncertainty of mind, he went and looked out of the window. Presently he came back and stood before her once more.
“I am awfully sorry I said it, Joe. Please forgive me. You don’t often cry, you know, and so”–He hesitated.
Joe looked up at him with a smile through her tears, beautiful as a rose just wet with a summer shower.
“And so–you did not think I could,” she said. She dried her eyes quickly and rose to her feet. “It is very silly of me, I know, but I cannot help it in the least,” said she, turning from him in pretense of arranging the knickknacks on the mantel.
“Of course you cannot help it, Joe, dear; as if you had not a perfect right to cry, if you like! I am such a brute–I know.”
“Come and look at the snow,” said Joe, taking his hand and leading him to the window. Enormous Irishmen in pilot coats, comforters, and india-rubber boots, armed with broad wooden spades, were struggling to keep the drifts from the pavement. Joe and Ronald stood and watched them idly, absorbed in their own thoughts.
Presently a booby sleigh drawn by a pair of strong black horses floundered up the hill and stopped at the door.
“Oh, Ronald, there is Sybil, and she will see I have been crying. You must amuse her, and I will come back in a few minutes.” She turned and fled, leaving Ronald at the window.
A footman sprang to the ground, and nearly lost his footing in the snow as he opened a large umbrella and rang the bell. In a moment Sybil was out of the sleigh and at the door of the house; she could not sit still till it was opened, although the flakes were falling as thickly as ever.
“Oh”–she exclaimed, as she entered the room and was met by Ronald, “I thought Joe was here.” There was color in her face, and she took Ronald’s hand cordially. He blushed to the eyes, and stammered.
“Miss Thorn is–she–indeed, she will be back in a moment. How do you do? Dreadful weather, is not it?”
“Oh, it is only a snowstorm,” said Sybil, brushing a few flakes from her furs as she came near the fire. “We do not mind it at all here. But of course you never have snow in England.”
“Not like this, certainly,” said Ronald. “Let me help you,” he added, as Sybil began to remove her cloak.
It was a very sudden change of company for Ronald; five minutes ago he was trying, very clumsily and hopelessly, to console Joe Thorn in her tears, feeling angry enough with himself all the while for having caused them. Now he was face to face with Sybil Brandon, the most beautiful woman he remembered to have seen, and she smiled at him as he took her heavy cloak from her shoulders, and the touch of the fur sent a thrill to his heart, and the blood to his cheeks.
“I must say,” he remarked, depositing the things on a sofa, “you are very courageous to come out, even though you are used to it.”
“You have come yourself,” said Sybil, laughing a little. “You told me last night that you did not come here every day.”
“Oh–I told my cousin I had come because I was so lonely at the hotel. It is amazingly dull to sit all day in a close room, reading stupid novels.”
“I should think it would be. Have you nothing else to do?”
“Nothing in the wide world,” said Ronald with a smile. “What should I do here, in a strange place, where I know so few people?”
“I suppose there is not much for a man to do, unless he is in business. Every one here is in some kind of business, you know, so they are never bored.”
Ronald wished he could say the right thing to reestablish the half-intimacy he had felt when talking to Sybil the night before. But it was not easy to get back to the same point. There was an interval of hours between yesterday and to-day–and there was Joe.
“I read novels to pass the time,” he said, “and because they are sometimes so like one’s own life. But when they are not, they bore me.”
Sybil was fond of reading, and she was especially fond of fiction, not because she cared for sensational interests, but because she was naturally contemplative, and it interested her to read about the human nature of the present, rather than to learn what any individual historian thought of the human nature of the past.
“What kind of novels do you like best?” she asked, sitting down to pass the time with Ronald until Josephine should make her appearance.
“I like love stories best,” said Ronald.
“Oh, of course,” said Sybil gravely, “so do I. But what kind do you like best? The sad ones, or those that end well?”
“I like them to end well,” said Ronald, “because the best ones never do, you know.”
“Never?” There was something in Sybil’s tone that made Ronald look quickly at her. She said the word as though she, too, had something to regret.
“Not in my experience,” answered Surbiton, with the decision of a man past loving or being loved.
“How dreadfully gloomy! One would think you had done with life, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, laughing.
“Sometimes I think so, Miss Brandon,” answered Ronald in solemn tones.
“I suppose we all think it would be nice to die, sometimes. But then the next morning things look so much brighter.”
“I think they often look much brighter in the evening,” said Ronald, thinking of the night before.
“I am sure something disagreeable has happened to you to-day, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, looking at him. Ronald looked into her eyes as though to see if there were any sympathy there.
“Yes, something disagreeable has happened to me,” he answered slowly. “Something very disagreeable and painful.”
“I am sorry,” said Sybil simply. But her voice sounded very kind and comforting.
“That is why I say that love stories always end badly in real life,” said Ronald. “But I suppose I ought not to complain.” It was not until he had thought over this speech, some minutes later, that he realized that in a few words he had told Sybil the main part of his troubles. He never guessed that she was so far in Joe’s confidence as to have heard the whole story before. But Sybil was silent and thoughtful.
“Love is such an uncertain thing,” she began, after a pause; and it chanced that at that very moment Joe opened the door and entered the room. She caught the sentence.
“So you are instructing my cousin,” she said to Sybil, laughing. “I approve of the way you spend your time, my children!” No one would have believed that, twenty minutes earlier, Joe had been in tears. She was as fresh and as gay as ever, and Ronald said to himself that she most certainly had no heart, but that Sybil had a great deal,–he was sure of it from the tone of her voice.
“What is the news about the election, Sybil?” she asked. “Of course you know all about it at the Wyndhams’.”
“My dear, the family politics are in a state of confusion that is simply too delightful,” said Sybil.
“You know it is said that Ira C. Calvin has refused to be a candidate, and the Republicans mean to put in Mr. Jobbins in his place, who is such a popular man, and so good and benevolent-quite a philanthropist.”
“Does it make very much difference?” asked Joe anxiously. “I wish I understood all about it, but the local names are so hard to learn.”
“I thought you had been learning them all the morning in Choate,” put in Ronald, who perceived that the conversation was to be about Harrington.
“It does make a difference,” said Sybil, not noticing Ronald’s remark, “because Jobbins is much more popular than Calvin, and they say he is a friend of Patrick Ballymolloy, who will win the election for either side he favors.”
“Who is this Irishman?” inquired Ronald.
“He is the chief Irishman,” said Sybil laughing, “and I cannot describe him any better. He has twenty votes with him, and as things stand he always carries whichever point he favors. But Mr. Wyndham says he is glad he is not in the Legislature, because it would drive him out of his mind to decide on which side to vote–though he is a good Republican, you know.”
“Of course he could vote for Mr. Harrington in spite of that,” said Joe, confidently. “Anybody would, who knows him, I am sure. But when is the election to come off?”
“They say it is to begin to-day,” said Sybil.
“We shall never hear anything unless we go to Mrs. Wyndham’s,” said Joe. “Aunt Zoë is awfully clever, and that, but she never knows in the least what is going on. She says she does not understand politics.”
“If you were a Bostonian, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, “you would get into the State House and hear the earliest news.”
“I will do anything in the world to oblige you,” said Ronald gravely, “if you will only explain a little”–
“Oh no! It is quite impossible. Come with me, both of you, and we will get some lunch at the Wyndhams’ and hear all about it by telephone.”
“Very well,” said Joe. “One moment, while I get my things.” She left the room. Ronald and Sybil were again alone together.
“You were saying when my cousin came in, that love was a very uncertain thing,” suggested Ronald, rather timidly.
“Was I?” said Sybil, standing before the mirror above the mantelpiece, and touching her hat first on one side and then on the other.
“Yes,” answered Ronald, watching her. “Do you know, I have often thought so too.”
“Yes?”
“I think it would be something different if it were quite certain. Perhaps it would be something much less interesting, but much better.”
“I think you are a little confused, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, and as she smiled, Ronald could see her face reflected in the mirror.
“I–yes–that is–I dare say I am,” said he, hesitatingly. “But I know exactly what I mean.”
“But do you know exactly what you want?” she asked with a laugh.
“Yes indeed,” said he confidently. “But I do not believe I shall ever get it.”
“Then that is the ‘disagreeable and painful thing’ you referred to, as having happened this morning, I suppose,” remarked Sybil, calmly, as she turned to take up her cloak which lay on the sofa. Ronald blushed scarlet.
“Well–yes,” he said, forgetting in his embarrassment to help her.
“It is so heavy,” said Sybil. “Thanks. Do you know that you have been making confidences to me, Mr. Surbiton?” she asked, turning and facing him, with a half-amused, half-serious look in her blue eyes.
“I am afraid I have,” he answered, after a short pause. “You must think I am very foolish.”
“Never mind,” she said gravely. “They are safe with me.”
“Thanks,” said Ronald in a low voice.
Josephine entered the room, clad in many furs, and a few minutes later all three were on their way to Mrs. Wyndham’s, the big booby sleigh rocking and leaping and ploughing in the heavy dry snow.
Pocock Vancouver was also abroad in the snowstorm. He would not in any case have stayed at home on account of the weather, but on this particular morning he had very urgent business with a gentleman who, like Lamb, rose with the lark, though he did not go to bed with the chickens. There are no larks in Boston, but the scream of the locomotives answers nearly as well.
Vancouver accordingly had himself driven at an early hour to a certain house not situated in the West End, but of stone quite as brown, and having a bay window as prominent as any sixteen-foot-front on Beacon Street; those advantages, however, did not prevent Mr. Vancouver from wearing an expression of fastidious scorn as he mounted the steps and pulled the polished German silver handle of the door-bell. The curl on his lip gave way to a smile of joyous cordiality as he was ushered into the presence of the owner of the house.
“Indeed, I’m glad to see you, Mr. Vancouver,” said his host, whose extremely Celtic appearance was not belied by unctuous modulation of his voice, and the pleasant roll of his softly aspirated consonants.
This great man was no other than Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. He received Vancouver in his study, which was handsomely furnished with bright green wall-paper, a sideboard on which stood a number of decanters and glasses, several leather easy-chairs, and a green china spittoon.
In personal appearance, Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was vastly more striking than attractive. He was both corpulent and truculent, and his hands and feet were of a size and thickness calculated to crush a paving-stone at a step, or to fell an ox at a blow. The nails of his fingers were of a hue which is made artificially fashionable in eastern countries, but which excites prejudice in western civilization from an undue display of real estate. A neck which the Minotaur might have justly envied surmounted the thickness and roundness of Mr. Ballymolloy’s shoulders, and supported a head more remarkable for the immense cavity of the mouth, and for a quantity of highly pomaded sandy hair, than for any intellectuality of the brows or high-bred fineness of the nose. Mr. Ballymolloy’s nose was nevertheless an astonishing feature, and at a distance called vividly to mind the effect of one of those great glass bottles of reddened water, behind which apothecaries of all degrees put a lamp at dusk in order that their light may the better shine in the darkness. It was one of the most surprising feats of nature’s alchemy that a liquid so brown as that contained in the decanters on Patrick’s sideboard should be able to produce and maintain anything so supernaturally red as Patrick’s nose.
Mr. Ballymolloy was clad in a beautiful suit of shiny black broadcloth, and the front of his coat was irregularly but richly adorned with a profusion of grease-spots of all sizes. A delicate suggestive mezzotint shaded the edges of his collar and cuffs, and from his heavy gold watch-chain depended a malachite seal of unusual greenness and brilliancy.
Vancouver took the gigantic outstretched hand of his host in his delicate fingers, with an air of cordiality which, if not genuine, was very well assumed.
“I’m glad to see you, sir,” said the Irishman again.
“Thanks,” said Vancouver, “and I am fortunate in finding you at home.”
Mr. Ballymolloy smiled, and pushed one of his leather easy-chairs towards the fire. Both men sat down.
“I suppose you are pretty busy over this election, Mr. Ballymolloy,” said Vancouver; blandly.
“Now, that’s just it, Mr. Vancouver,” replied the Irishman. “That’s just exactly what’s the matter with me, for indeed I am very busy, and that’s the truth.”
“Just so, Mr. Ballymolloy. Especially since the change last night. I remember what a good friend you have always been to Mr. Jobbins.”
“Well, as you say, Mr. Vancouver, I have been thinking that I and Mr. Jobbins are pretty good friends, and that’s just about what it is, I think.”
“Yes, I remember that on more than one occasion you and he have acted together in the affairs of the state,” said Vancouver, thoughtfully.
’"Ah, but it’s the soul of him that I like,” answered Mr. Ballymolloy very sweetly. “He has such a beautiful soul, Mr. Jobbins; it does me good, and indeed it does, Mr. Vancouver.”
“As you say, sir, a man full of broad human sympathies. Nevertheless I feel sure that on the present occasion your political interests will lead you to follow the promptings of duty, and to vote in favor of the Democratic candidate. I wish you and I did not differ in politics, Mr. Ballymolloy.”
“And, indeed, there is not so very much difference, if it comes to that, Mr. Vancouver,” replied Patrick in conciliating tones. “But it’s just what I have been thinking, that I will vote for Mr. Harrington. It’s a matter of principle with me, Mr. Vancouver, and that’s it exactly.”
“And where should we all be without principles, Mr. Ballymolloy? Indeed I may say that the importance of principles in political matters is very great.”
“And it’s just the greatest pity in the world that every one has not principles like you, Mr. Vancouver. I’m speaking the truth now.” According to Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy’s view of destiny, it was the truth and nothing but the truth. He knew Vancouver of old, and Vancouver knew him.
“You flatter me, sir,” said Pocock, affecting a pleased smile. “To tell the truth, there is a little matter I wanted to speak to you about, if you can spare me half an hour.”.
“Indeed, I’m most entirely delighted to be at your service, Mr. Vancouver, and I’m glad you came so early in the morning.”
“The fact is, Mr. Ballymolloy, we are thinking of making an extension on one of our lines; a small matter, but of importance to us.”
“I guess it must be the branch of the Pocahontas and Dead Man’s Valley you’ll be speaking of, Mr. Vancouver,” said the Irishman, with sudden and cheerful interest.
“Really, Mr. Ballymolloy, you are a man of the most surprising quickness. It is a real pleasure to talk with you on such matters. I have no doubt you understand the whole question thoroughly.”
“Well, it’s of no use at all to say I know nothing about it, because Ihaveheard it mentioned, and that’s the plain truth, Mr. Vancouver. And it will take a deal of rail, too, and that’s another thing. And where do you think of getting the iron from, Mr. Vancouver?”
“Well, I had hoped, Mr. Ballmolly,” said Vancouver, with some affected hesitation, “that as an old friend, we might be able to manage matters with you. But, of course, this is entirely unofficial, and between ourselves.”
Mr. Ballymolloy nodded with something very like a wink of one bloodshot eye. He knew what he was about.
“And when will you be thinking of beginning the work, Mr. Vancouver?” he inquired, after a short pause.
“That is just the question, or rather, perhaps, I should say the difficulty. We do not expect to begin work for a year or so.”
“And surely that makes no difference, then, at all,” returned Patrick. “For the longer the time, the easier it will be for me to accommodate you.”
“Ah–but you see, Mr. Ballymolloy, it may be that in a year’s time these new-fangled ideas about free trade may be law, and it may be much cheaper for us to get our rails from England, as Mr. Vanderbilt did three or four years ago, when he was in such a hurry, you remember.”
“And, indeed, I remember it very well, Mr. Vancouver.”
“Just so. Now you see, Mr. Ballymolloy, I am speaking to you entirely as a friend, though I hope I may before long bring about an official agreement. But you see the difficulty of making a contract a year ahead, when a party of Democratic senators and Congressmen may by that time have upset the duty on steel rails, don’t you?”
“And indeed, I see it as plain as day, Mr. Vancouver. And that’s why I was saying I wished every one had such principles as yourself, and I’m telling you no lie when I say it again.” Verily Mr. Ballymolloy was a truthful person!
“Very well. Now, do not you think, Mr. Ballymolloy, that all this talk about free trade is great nonsense?”
“And, surely, it will be the ruin of the whole country, Mr. Vancouver.”
“Besides, free trade has nothing to do with Democratic principles, has it? You see here am I, the best Republican in Massachusetts, and here are you, the best Democrat in the country, and we both agree in saying that it is great nonsense to leave iron unprotected.”
“Ah, it’s the principle of you I like, Mr. Vancouver!” exclaimed Ballymolloy in great admiration. “It’s your principles are beautiful, just!”
“Very good, sir. Now of course you are going to vote for Mr. Harrington to-day, or to-morrow, or whenever the election is to be. Don’t you think yon might say something to him that would be of some use? I believe he is very uncertain about protection, you see. I think you could persuade him, somehow.”
“Well, now, Mr. Vancouver, it’s the truth when I tell you I was just thinking of speaking to him about it, just a little, before I went up to the State House. And indeed I’ll be going to him immediately.”
“I think it is the wisest plan,” said Vancouver, rising to go, “and we will speak about the contract next week, when all this election business is over.”
“Ah, and indeed, I hope it will be soon, sir,” said Ballymolloy. “But you’ll not think of going out again in the snow without taking a drop of something, will you, Mr. Vancouver?” He went to the sideboard and poured out two stiff doses of the amber liquid.
“Since you are so kind,” said Vancouver, graciously taking the proffered glass. He knew better than to refuse to drink over a bargain.
“Well, here goes,” he said.
“And luck to yourself, Mr. Vancouver,” said Ballymolloy.
“I think you can persuade him, somehow,” said Vancouver, as his host opened the street-door for him to go out.
“And, indeed, I think so too,” said Ballymolloy. Then he went back to his study and poured out a second glass of whiskey. “And if I cannot persuade him,” he continued in soliloquy, “why, then, it will just be old Jobbins who will be senator, and that’s the plain truth.”
Vancouver went away with a light heart, and the frank smile on his delicate features was most pleasant to see. He knew John Harrington well, and he was certain that Mr. Ballymolloy’s proposal would rouse the honest wrath of the man he detested.
Half an hour later Mr. Ballymolloy entered Harrington’s room in Charles Street. John was seated at the table, fully dressed, and writing letters. He offered his visitor a seat.
“So the election is coming on right away, Mr. Harrington,” began Patrick, making himself comfortable, and lighting one of John’s cigars.
“So I hear, Mr. Ballymolloy,” answered John with a pleasant smile. “I hope I may count on you, in spite of what you said yesterday. These are the times when men must keep together.”
“Now Mr. Harrington, you’ll not believe that I could go to the House and vote against my own party, surely, will you now?” said Patrick. But there was a tinge of irony in his soft tones. He knew that Vancouver could make him great and advantageous business transactions, and he treated him accordingly. John Harrington was, on the other hand, a mere candidate for his twenty votes; he could make John senator if he chose, or defeat him, if he preferred it, and he accordingly behaved to John with an air of benevolent superiority. “I trust you would do no such thing, Mr. Ballymolloy,” said John gravely. “Without advocating myself as in any way fit for the honors of the Senate, I can say that it is of the utmost importance that we should have as many Democrats in Congress as possible, in the Senate as well as in the House.”
“Surely you don’t think I doubt that, Mr. Harrington? And indeed the Senate is pretty well Democratic as it is.”
“Yes,” said John, smiling, “but the more the better, I should think. It is a very different matter from the local legislature, where changes may often do good.”
“Indeed and it is, Mr. Harrington. And will you please to tell me what you will do about free trade, when you’re in the Senate, sir?”
“I am afraid I cannot tell you anything that I did not tell you yesterday, Mr. Ballymolloy. I am a tariff reform man. It is a great Democratic movement, and I should be bound to support it, even if I were not myself so thorough a believer in it as I am.”
“Now see here, Mr. Harrington, it’s the gospel truth I’m telling you, when I say you’re mistaken. Here are plenty of us Democrats who don’t want the least little bit of free trade. I’m in the iron business, Mr. Harrington, and you won’t be after thinking me such an all-powerful galoot as to cut my own nose off, will you?”
“Well, not exactly,” said John, who was used to many peculiarities of language in his visitors. “But, of course, iron will be the thing last on the tariff. I am of opinion that it is necessary to put enough tax on iron to protect home-producers at the time of greatest depression. That is fair, is not it?”
“I dare say you may think so, Mr. Harrington,” said Ballymolloy, knocking the ashes from his cigar. “But you are not an iron man, now, are you?”
“Certainly not,” said John. “But I have studied the question, and I know its importance. In a reformation of the tariff, iron would be one of the things most carefully provided for.”
“Oh, I know all that,” said Ballymolloy, somewhat roughly, “and there’s not much you can tell me about tariff reform that I don’t know, neither. And when you have reformed other things, you’ll be for reforming iron, too, just to keep your hands in. And, indeed, I’ve no objection whatever to your reforming everything you like, so long as you don’t interfere with me and mine. But I don’t trust the principles of the thing, sir; I don’t trust them the least little bit, and for me I would rather there were not to be any reforming at all, except for the Chinamen, and I don’t care much for them, neither, and that’s a fact.”
“Very good, Mr. Ballymolloy. Every man has a right to his free opinion. But we stand on the reform platform, for there is no country in the world where reform is more needed than it is here. I can only repeat that the interests of the iron trade stand high with the Democratic party, and that it is highly improbable that any law will interfere with iron for many years. I cannot say more than that and yet stick to facts.”
“Always stick to facts, Mr. Harrington. You will find the truth a very important thing indeed, and good principles too, in dealing with plain-spoken men like myself, sir. Stick to the truth, Mr. Harrington, forever and ever.”
“I propose to, Mr. Ballymolloy,” answered John, internally amused at the solemn manner of his interlocutor.
“And then I will put the matter to you, Mr. Harrington, and indeed it’s a plain matter, too, and not the least taste of dishonesty in it, at all. I’ve been thinking I’d make you senator if you’ll agree to go against free trade, and that’s just what I’ll do, and no more.”
“It is impossible for me to make such a bargain, Mr. Ballymolloy. After your exposition of the importance of truth I am surprised that you should expect me to belie my whole political life. As I have told you, I am prepared to support laws to protect iron as much as is necessary. Free trade nowadays does not mean cutting away all duties; it means a proper adjustment of them to the requirements of our commerce. A proper adjustment of duties could not possibly be interpreted to mean any injury to the iron trade. You may rely upon that, at all events.”
“Oh, and I’m sure I can,” said Ballymolloy incredulously, and he grew, if possible, redder in the face than nature and the action of alcohol had made him. “And I’m not only sure of it, but I’ll swear it’s gospel truth. But then, you know, I’m of opinion that by the time you’ve done reforming the other things, the reformed gentlemen won’t like it, and then they’ll just turn round and eat you up unless you reform us too, and that just means the ruin of us.”
“Come now, Mr. Ballymolloy, that is exaggeration,” said John. “If you will listen to me for a moment”–
“I haven’t got the time, sir, and that’s all about it. If you’ll protect our interests and promise to do it, you’ll be senator. The election is coming on, Mr. Harrington, and I’d be sorry to see you thrown out.”
“Mr. Ballymolloy, I had sincerely hoped that you would support me in this matter, but I must tell you once more that I think you are unreasonable. I vouch for the sufficient protection of your interests, because it is the belief of our party that they need protection. But it is not necessary for you to have an anti-reform senator for that purpose, in the first place; and secondly, the offer of a seat in the Senate would never induce me to change my mind, nor to turn round and deny everything that I have said and written on the subject.”
“Then that is your last word of all, Mr. Harrington?” said Ballymolloy, heaving his heavy body out of the easy-chair. But his voice, which had sounded somewhat irate during the discussion, again rolled out in mellifluous tones.
“Yes, Mr. Ballymolloy, that is all I have to say.”
“And indeed it’s not so very bad at all,” said Patrick. “You see I just wanted to see how far you were likely to go, because, though I’m a good Democrat, sir, I’m against free trade in the main points, and that’s just the truth. But if you say you will stand up for iron right through, and use your best judgment, why, I guess you’ll have to be senator after all. It’s a great position, Mr. Harrington, and I hope you’ll do honor to it.”
“I hope so, indeed,” said John. “Can I offer you a glass of wine, or anything else, Mr. Ballymolloy?”
“Indeed, and it’s dirty weather, too,” said Patrick. “Thank you, I’ll take a little whiskey.”
John poured out a glass.
“You won’t let me drink alone, Mr. Harrington?” inquired Patrick, holding his tumbler in his hand. To oblige him, after the manner of the country, John poured out a small glass of sherry, and put his lips to it. Ballymolloy drained the whiskey to the last drop.
“You were not really thinking I would vote for Mr. Jobbins, were you now, Mr. Harrington?” he asked, with a sly look on his red face.
“I always hope that the men of my party are to be relied upon, Mr. Ballymolloy,” said John, smiling politely.
“Very well, they are to be relied upon, sir. We are, every man of us, to the last drop of Christian blood in our blessed bodies,” said Patrick, with a gush of patriotic enthusiasm, at the same time holding out his heavy hand. Then he took his leave.
“You had better have said ’to the last drop of Bourbon whiskey in the blessed bottle!’” said John to himself when his visitor was gone. Then he sat down for a while to think over the situation.
“That man will vote against me yet,” he thought.
He was astonished to find himself nervous and excited for the first time in his life. With characteristic determination he went back to his desk, and continued the letter which the visit of the Irish elector had interrupted.
Meanwhile Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was driven to the house of the Republican candidate, Mr. Jobbing.
Sybil was right when she said the family politics at the Wyndhams’ were disturbed. Indeed the disturbance was so great that Mrs. Wyndham was dressed and down-stairs before twelve o’clock, which had never before occurred in the memory of the oldest servant.
“It is too perfectly exciting, my dears,” she exclaimed as Joe and Sybil entered the room, followed–at a respectful distance by Ronald. “I can’t stand it one minute longer! How do you do, Mr. Surbiton?”
“What is the latest news?” asked Sybil.
“I have not heard anything for ever so long. Sam has gone round to see– perhaps he will be back soon. I do wish we had ‘tickers’ here in the house, as they do in New York; itissuch fun watching when anything is going on.”
She walked about the room as she talked, touching a book on one table and a photograph on another, in a state of great excitement. Ronald watched her in some surprise; it seemed odd to him that any one should take so much interest in a mere election. Joe and Sybil, who knew her better, made themselves at home.
It appeared that although Sam had gone to make inquiries, it was very improbable that anything would be known until late in the afternoon. There was to be a contest of some sort, but whether it would end in a single day, or whether Ballymolloy and his men intended to prolong the struggle for their own ends, remained to be seen.
Meanwhile Mrs. Wyndham walked about her drawing-room descanting upon the iniquities of political life, with an animation that delighted Joe and amused Ronald.
“Well, there is nothing for it, you see,” she said at last. “Sam evidently does not mean to come home, and you must just stay here and have some lunch until he does.”
The three agreed, nothing loath to enjoying one another’s company. There is nothing like a day spent together in waiting for an event, to bring out the characteristics of individuals. Mrs. Wyndham fretted and talked, and fretted again. Joe grew silent, pale, and anxious as the morning passed, while Sybil and Ronald seemed to enjoy themselves extremely, and talked without ceasing. Outside the snow fell thick and fast as ever, and the drifts rose higher and higher.
“I do wish Sam would come back,” exclaimed Mrs. Wyndham at last, as she threw herself into an easy-chair, and looked at the clock.
But Sam did not come, nevertheless, and Joe sat quietly by the fire, wishing she were alone, and yet unwilling to leave the house where she hoped to have the earliest information.
The two who seemed rapidly growing indifferent to the issue of the election were Sybil and Ronald, who sat together with a huge portfolio of photographs and sketches between them, laughing and talking pleasantly enough. Joe did not hear a word of their conversation, and Mrs. Wyndham paid little attention to it, though her practiced ears could have heard it all if need be, while she herself was profoundly occupied with some one else.
The four had a somewhat dreary meal together, and Ronald was told to go into Sam’s study and smoke if he liked, while Mrs. Wyndham led Joe and Sybil away to look at a quantity of new things that had just come from Paris. Ronald did as he was bid and settled himself for an hour, with a plentiful supply of newspapers and railroad literature.
It was past three o’clock when Sam Wyndham entered the room, his face wet with the snowflakes and red with excitement.
“Hollo!” he exclaimed, seeing Ronald comfortably ensconced in his favorite easy-chair. “How are you?”
“Excuse me,” said Ronald, rising quickly. “They told me to come in here after lunch, and so I was waiting until I was sent for, or told to come out.”
“Very glad to see you, any way,” said Sam cordially. “Well, I have been to hear about an election–a friend of ours got put up for senator. But I don’t expect that interests you much?”
“On the contrary,” said Ronald, “I have heard it so much talked of that I am as much interested as anybody. Is it all over?”
“Oh yes, and a pretty queer business it was. Well, our friend is not elected, anyway”–
“Has Mr. Harrington been defeated?” asked Ronald quickly.
“It’s my belief he has been sold,” said Sam. “But as I am a Republican myself and a friend of Jobbins, more or less, I don’t suppose I feel so very bad about it, after all. But I don’t know how my wife will take it, I’m sure,” said Sam presently. “I expect we had better go and tell her, right off.”
“Then he has really lost the election?” inquired Ronald, who was not altogether sorry to hear it.
“Why, yes–as I say, Jobbins is senator now. I should not wonder if Harrington were a good deal cut up. Come along with me, now, and we will tell the ladies.”
The three ladies were in the drawing-room. Mrs. Wyndham and Joe sprang to their feet as Sam and Ronald entered, but Sybil remained seated and merely looked up inquiringly.
“Oh now, Sam,” cried Mrs. Wyndham, in great excitement, “tell us all about it right away. We are dying to know!”
Joe came close to Mrs. Wyndham, her face very pale and her teeth clenched in her great anxiety. Sam threw back the lapels of his coat, put his thumbs in the armholes of his broad waistcoat, and turned his head slightly on one side.
“Well,” he said slowly, “John’s wiped out.”
“Do you mean to say he has lost the election?” cried Mrs. Wyndham.
“Yes–he’s lost it. Jobbins is senator.”
“Sam, you are perfectly horrid!” exclaimed his spouse, in deepest vexation.
Josephine Thorn spoke no word, but turned away and went alone to the window. She was deathly pale, and she trembled from head to foot as she clutched the heavy curtain with her small white fingers.
“Poor Mr. Harrington!” said Sybil thoughtfully. “I am dreadfully sorry.”
Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham and Ronald moved toward the fire where Sybil was sitting. No one spoke for a few seconds. At last Mrs. Wyndham broke out:
“Sam, it’s a perfect shame!” she said. “I think all those people ought to be locked up for bribery. I am certain it was all done by some horrid stealing, or something, now, was not it?”
“I don’t know about that, my dear,” said Sam reflectively. “You see they generally vote fair enough in these things. Well, may be that fellow Ballymolloy has made something out of it. He’s a pretty bad sort of a scamp, any way, I expect. Sorry you are so put out about it, but Jobbins is not so very bad, after all.”
Sybil suddenly missed Joe from the group, and looked across to where she stood by the window. A glance told her that something was wrong, and she rose from her seat and went to her friend. The sight of Josephine’s pale face frightened her.
“Joe, dear,” she said affectionately, “you are ill–come to my room.” Sybil put one arm round her waist and quietly led her away. Ronald had watched the little scene from a distance, but Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham continued to discuss the result of the election.
“It is exactly like you, Sam, to be talking in that way, instead of telling me just how it happened,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “And then to say it is not so very bad after all!”
“Oh, I will tell you all about it right away, my dear, if you’ll only give me a little time. You’re always in such an immense fever about everything that it’s perfectly impossible to get along.”
“Are you going to begin?” said Mrs. Wyndham, half vexed with her husband’s deliberate indifference.
“Well, as near as I can make out it was generally thought at the start that John had a pretty good show. The Senate elected him right away by a majority of four, which was so much to the good, for of course his friends reckoned on getting him in, if the Senate hadn’t elected him, by the bigger majority of the House swamping the Senate in the General Court. But it’s gone just the other way.”
“Whatever is the General Court?” asked Ronald, much puzzled.
“Oh, the General Court is when the House and the Senate meet together next day to formally declare a senator elected, if they have both chosen the same man, or to elect one by a general majority if they haven’t.”
“Yes, that is it,” added Mrs. Wyndham to Ronald, and then addressing her husband, “Do go on, Sam; you’ve not told us anything yet.”
“Well, as I said, the Senate elected John Harrington by a majority of four. The House took a long time getting to work, and then there was some mistake about the first vote, so they had to take a second. And when that was done Jobbins actually had a majority of eighteen. So John’s beaten, and Jobbins will be senator anyhow, and you must just make the best you can out of it.”
“But I thought you said when the House and the Senate did not agree, the General Court met next day and elected a senator?” asked Ronald again; “and in that case Mr. Harrington is not really beaten yet.”
“Well, theoretically he’s not,” said Sam, “because of course Jobbins is not actually senator until he has been elected by the General Court, but the majority for him in the House was so surprisingly large, and the majority for John so small in the Senate, and the House is so much larger than the Senate, that the vote to-morrow is a dead sure thing, and Jobbins is just as much senator as if he were sitting in Washington.”
“I suppose you will expect me to have Mr. Jobbins to dinner, now. I think the whole business is perfectly mean!”
“Don’t blame me, my dear,” said Sam calmly. “I did not create the Massachusetts Legislature, and I did not found the State House, nor discover America, nor any of these things. And after all, Jobbins is a very respectable man and belongs to our own party, while Harrington does not. When I set up creating I’ll make a note of one or two points, and I’ll see that John is properly attended to.”
“You need not be silly, Sam,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “What has become of those girls?”
“They went out of the room some time ago,” said Ronald, who had been listening with much amusement to the description of the election. He was never quite sure whether people could be serious when they talked such peculiar language, and he observed with surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham talked to each other in phrases very different from those they used in addressing himself.
Sybil had led Joe away to her room. She did not guess the cause of Joe’s faintness, but supposed it to be a momentary indisposition, amenable to the effects of eau-de-cologne. She made her lie upon the great cretonne sofa, moistening her forehead, and giving her a bottle of salts to smell.
But Joe, who had never been ill in her life, recovered her strength in a few minutes, and regaining her feet began to walk about the room.
“What do you think it was, Joe, dear?” asked Sybil, watching her.
“Oh, it was nothing. Perhaps the room was hot, and I was tired.”
“I thought you looked tired all the morning,” said Sybil, “and just when I looked at you I thought you were going to faint. You were as pale as death, and you seemed holding yourself up by the curtains.”
“Did I?” said Joe, trying to laugh. “How silly of me! I felt faint for a moment–that was all. I think I will go home.”
“Yes, dear–but stay a few minutes longer and rest yourself. I will order a carriage–it is still snowing hard.” Sybil left the room.
Once alone, Joe threw herself upon the sofa again. She would rather have died than have told any one, even Sybil Brandon, that it was no sickness she felt, but only a great and overwhelming disappointment for the man she loved.
Her love was doubly hers–her very own–in that it was fast locked in her own heart, beyond the reach of any human being to know. Of all that came and went about her, and flattered her, and strove for her graces, not one suspected that she loved a man in their very midst, passionately, fervently, with all the strength she had. Ronald’s suspicions were too vague, and too much the result of a preconceived idea, to represent anything like a certainty to himself, and he had not mentioned them to her.
If anything can determine the passion of love in a woman, it is the great flood of sympathy that overflows her heart when the man she loves is hurt, or overcome in a great cause. When, for a little moment, that which she thinks strongest and bravest and most manly is struck down and wounded and brought low, her love rises up and is strong within her, and makes her more noble in the devotion of perfect gentleness than a man can ever be.
“Oh, if only he could have won!” Joe said again and again to herself. “If only he could have won, I would have given anything!”
Sybil came back in a few moments, and saw Joe lying down, still white and apparently far from well. She knelt upon the floor by her side and taking her hands, looked affectionately into her face.
“There is something the matter,” she said. “I know–you cannot deceive me –there is something serious the matter. Will you tell me, Joe? Can I do anything at all to help you?” Joe smiled faintly, grateful for the sympathy and for the gentle words of her friend.
“No, Sybil dear. It is nothing–there is nothing you can do. Thanks, dearest–I shall be very well in a little while. It is nothing, really. Is the carriage there?”
A few minutes later, Joe and Ronald were again at Miss Schenectady’s house. Joe recovered her self-control on the way, and asked Ronald to come in, an invitation which he cheerfully accepted.
John Harrington had spent the day in a state of anxiety which was new to him. Enthusiastic by nature, he was calm by habit, and he was surprised to find his hand unsteady and his brain not capable of the intense application he could usually command. Ten minutes after the results of the election were known at the State House, he received a note from a friend informing him with expressions of hearty sympathy how the day had gone.
The strong physical sense of pain which accompanies all great disappointments, took hold of him, and he fell back in his seat and closed his eyes, his teeth set and his face pale with the suffering, while his broad hands convulsively grasped the heavy oaken arms of his chair.
It may be that this same bodily agony, which is of itself but the gross reflection in our material selves of what the soul is bearing, is a wholesome provision that draws our finer senses away from looking at what might blind them altogether. There are times when a man would go mad if his mind were not detached from its sorrow by the quick, sharp beating of his bodily heart, and by the keen torture of the physical body, that is like the thrusting of a red-hot knife between breastbone and midriff.
The expression “self-control” is daily in the blatant mouths of preachers and moralists, the very cant of emptiness and folly. It means nothing, nor can any play of words or cunning twisting of conception ever give it meaning. For the “self” is the divine, imperishable portion of the eternal God which is in man. I may control my limbs and the strength that is in them, and I may force under the appetites and passions of this mortal body, but I cannot myself, for it is myself that controls, being of nature godlike and stronger than all which is material. And although, for an infinitely brief space of time, I myself may inhabit and give life to this handful of most changeable atoms, I have it in my supreme power and choice to make them act according to my pleasure. If I become enamored of the body and its ways, and of the subtleties of a fleeting bodily intelligence, I have forgotten to control those things; and having forgotten that I have free will given me from heaven to rule what is mine, I am no longer a man, but a beast. But while I, who am an immortal soul, command the perishable engine in which I dwell, I am in truth a man. For the soul is of God and forever, whereas the body is a thing of to-day that vanishes into dust to-morrow; but the two together are the living man. And thus it is that God is made man in us every day.
All that which we know by our senses is but an illusion. What is true of its own nature, we can neither see, nor hear, nor feel, nor taste. It is a matter of time, and nothing more, and whatever palpable thing a man can name will inevitably be dissolved into its constituent parts, that these may again agglomerate into a new illusion for future ages. But that which is subject to no change, nor disintegration, nor reconstruction, is the immortal truth, to attain to a knowledge and understanding of which is to be saved from the endless shifting of the material and illusory universe.
John Harrington lay in his chair alone in his rooms, while the snow whirled against the windows outside and made little drifts on the sills. The fire had gone out and the bitter storm beat against the casements and howled in the chimney, and the dusk of the night began to mingle with the thick white flakes, and brought upon the solitary man a great gloom and horror of loneliness. It seemed to him that his life was done, and his strength gone from him. He had labored in vain for years, for this end, and he had failed to attain it. It were better to have died than to suffer the ignominy of this defeat. It were better never to have lived at all than to have lived so utterly in vain. One by one the struggles of the past came up to him; each had seemed a triumph when he was in the glory of strength and hope. The splendid aims of a higher and nobler government, built by sheer truth and nobility of purpose upon the ashes and dust of present corruption, the magnificent purity of the ideal State of which he had loved to dream–all that he had thought of and striven after as most worthy of a true man to follow, dwindled now away into a hollow and mocking image, more false than hollowness itself, poorer and of less substance than a juggler’s show.
He clasped his hands over his forehead, and tried to think, but it was of no use. Everything was vague, broken, crushed, and shapeless. Faces seemed to rise to his disturbed sight, and he wondered whether he had ever known these people; a ghastly weariness as of death was upon him, and his arms fell heavily by his sides. He groaned aloud, and if in that bitter sigh he could have breathed away his existence he would have gladly done it.
Some one entered the room, struck a match, and lit the gas. It was his servant, or rather the joint servant of two or three of the bachelors who lived in the house, a huge, smooth-faced colored man.
“Oh, excutheme, Mister Harrington, I thought you wath out, Thir. There’s two o’ them notes for you.”
John roused himself, and took the letters without a word. They were both addressed in feminine handwriting. The one he knew, for it was from Mrs. Wyndham. The other he did not recognize. He opened Mrs. Wyndham’s first.
“DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,–Sam and I are very much put out about it, and sympathize most cordially. We think you might like to come and dine this evening, if you have no other invitation, so I write to say we will be all alone and very glad to see you. Cordially yours,
“JANE WYNDHAM.”
“P.S. Don’t trouble about the answer.”
John read the note through and laid it on the table. Then he turned the other missive over in his fingers, and finally tore open the envelope.
It ran as follows:–
“MY DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,–Please don’t be surprised at my writing to you in this way. I was at Mrs. Wyndham’s this afternoon and heard all about it, and I must write to tell you that I am very,verysorry. It is too horrible to think how bad and wicked and foolish people are, and how they invariably do the wrong thing. I cannot tell you how sorry we all are, because it is just such men as you who are most needed nowadays, though of course I know nothing about politics here. But I am quite sure that all of themwill live to regret it, and that you will win in the end. Don’t think it foolish of me to write, because I’m so angry that I can’t in the least help it, and I think everybody ought to.
“Yours in sincerity,”
“JOSEPHINE THORN.”