 CHAPTER V Why can't you get in, Mr. Vancouver?" There was no reason why Mr. Vancouver should not get in, and with the word of thanks he did so. Ten minutes later the three were seated round the fire in Missionectity's drawing-room. It was very fine, was it not, Miss Thorn? said Vancouver. Yes, said Joe, staring at the fire. There are some people, said Missionectity. It does not seem to make much difference what they say, but it is always fine. Is that ironical? asked Vancouver. Why goodness gracious, no! Of course not! I am John Harrington's very best friend. I only mean to say, what aunt Zoe, inquired Joe, not yet altogether accustomed to the peculiar implications of her aunt's language. Why, what I said, of course, it sounds very fine. Then you do not believe at all, asked Vancouver. I don't understand politics, said the old lady. You might ring the bell, Joe, and ask Sarah for some tea. Nobody understands politics, said Vancouver. When people do, there will be an end of them. Politics consists in one half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throats of the other half. Joe laughed a little. I do not know anything about politics here, she said, though I do at home, of course. I must say, though, Mr. Harrington did not seem so very paradoxical. Oh, no! answered Vancouver, blindly. I did not mean in this case. Harrington is very much an earnest. But it is like war, you see. When everyone understands it thoroughly, it will stop by universal consent. Did you ever read Bulwer's Coming Race? Yes, said Joe. I always read those books. Frill, and that sort of thing, you mean. Oh, yes. Approximately, answered Vancouver, it was an allegory, you know. A hundred years hence people will write a book to explain what Bulwer meant. Frill stands for the cumulative power of potential science, of course. I think Bulwer's words shorter, and a good deal easier to understand, said Joe, laughing. It is a great thing to be great, remarked Miss Shenectady. Sarah, I think you might bring us some tea, please, and ask John if he couldn't stir the furnace a little. And then, to have people explain you, Goethe must be a good deal amused, I expect, when people write books to prove the Byron was euphorian. Miss Shenectady was fond of German literature, and the extent of her reading was a constant surprise to her niece. What a lot of things you know, Aunt Zo, said Joe, but what had Bulwer to do with war, Mr. Vancouver? Oh, in the book, the coming race, you know, they abolished war because they could kill each other so easily. How nice that would be, exclaimed Joe, looking at him. Why, you perfectly shock me, Joe, cried Miss Shenectady. I mean, to have no war, returned Joe, sweetly. Oh, I belong to the peace-conference myself, said her aunt, immediately pacified. Well, yes, perhaps you could bring us a little cake, Sarah. War is a terrible thing, my dear, as Mr. Vancouver will tell you. Vancouver, however, was silent. He probably did not care to have it remembered, that he was old enough to carry a musket in the rebellion. Joe understood, and asked no questions about it, and Vancouver was grateful for her tact. She rose and began to pour out some tea. You began talking about Mr. Harrington's speech, said she presently, but we got away from the subject. Is it all true? That is scarcely a fair question, Miss Thorn, answered Vancouver. You see, I belong to the opposite party in politics. But Mr. Harrington said he wanted both parties to combine. Besides, you do not take any active part in it all. I have very strong opinions, nevertheless, replied Pocock. Strong opinions and activity ought to go together, said Joe. Not always. But if you have strong opinions and disagree with Mr. Harrington, persisted Miss Thorn, then you have a strong opinion against your two parties acting together for the common good. Not exactly that, said Vancouver, embarrassed between the directness of Joe's question and a very strong impression that he had better not say anything against John Harrington. Then what do you believe? Will you please give this cup to Miss Sinectity? Vancouver rose quickly to escape. Cream and sugar, Miss Sinectity? He said. Ah, Miss Thorn has already put them in. It is such celebrated tea of yours. Do you know I always look forward to a cup of it as one of the greatest pleasures in life. When you have quite done praising the tea, will you please tell me what you believe about Mr. Harrington's speech, said the inexorable Joe, drowning her aunts, replied to Vancouver's polite remark. Thus cornered, Vancouver faced the difficulty. I believe it was a very good speech, he said mildly. Do you believe what he said was true? A great deal of it was true, but I assure you that Harrington is very enthusiastic. Much of it was extremely imaginative. I dare say all that about making a civil service, I suppose. Well, not exactly. I think all good Republicans hope to have a regular civil service some day. It is necessary, or will be so, before long. But then it is what he said about the ridiculous navigation act that you object to, pursued Joe, without mercy. Really, I think it would be an advantage to repeal it. It is only kept up for the sake of a few builders who have influence. Ah, I see, exclaimed Joe triumphantly. You think the hope he expressed that bribery and that sort of thing might be suppressed was altogether imaginary. I hope not, Miss Thorn, but I am sure there is not nearly so much of it as he made out. It was a very great exaggeration. Was there? Really, he only used the word once in the most general way. I remember very well, at the end, he said, when bribery, corruption, and all extortion are crushed forever, anybody might say that. You make out a wonderfully good case, Miss Thorn," said Vancouver, who was not altogether pleased. Was the speech printed before Harrington spoke it this evening? No, exclaimed Joe. I have a very good memory in that way, just to remember what I hear. I could repeat word for word everything he said, and everything you have said since during the evening. What a terrible person you are, said Vancouver, smiling pleasantly. Well then, now that you have proved every word of Harrington's speech out of an opponent's evidence, I will tell you frankly how it is that I do not agree with him. He is a Democrat. I am a Republican. That is the whole story. I do not believe, nor shall I ever believe, that any large number of the two parties can work together. I cannot help my belief in the least. It is a matter of conscience. Nevertheless I have a very great respect for Harrington, and as I take no active part whatever in any political contest, my opinion of his politics will never interfere with my personal feeling for him. Frankness seemed to be Mr. Vancouver's strong point. Joe was obliged to admit that he spoke clearly even if she did not greatly respect his logic. During all this time Miss Sinectity had been sipping her tea in silence. Joe, she said at last, you are a perfect Socrates for questions. You ought to have been a lawyer. I wish I were, said Joe, laughing, or Socrates himself. Yes, you ought to have been. Here you know nothing at all about this thing, and you have been talking like anything for half an hour. I think Socrates was perfectly horrid. So do I, said Vancouver, laughing aloud. Why, Joe asked, turning to her aunt. To be always stopping people in the street and buttonholing them with his questions. Of course it was very clever, as Plato makes it out. But I do wish he could have met me when I was young, my dear. I would have answered him once and for all. Try me on, Joe, for practice, said Joe, until you meet him. Really, I expect you would do almost as well. Look at Mr. Vancouver, he is quite used up. The case was not so serious with Mr. Vancouver as the old lady made it out to be. He was silent and to all intents vanquished for the present, but it was not long before he turned the conversation to other things, and succeeded in making himself very agreeable. He admired Josephine very much, and though she occasionally made him feel very uncomfortable, he always returned to the charge with renewed intelligence and sweetness. Joe liked him too, in spite of an unfounded suspicion, she felt, that he was dangerous. He was always ready when she needed anything at a party. He never bored her, but whenever he saw she was worried by anyone else, he came up and saved her, clearing a place for himself at her side with an ease that bespoke long and constant experience of the world. Women, especially young women, always like men of that description. They are flattered at the attention of a man who is so evidently able to choose, and they enjoy the immunity from all annoyance and weariness that such men are able to carry with them. Consequently, Joe accepted the attentions of Polcock Vancouver with a certain amount of satisfaction, and she had not been displeased that he should come to Miss Sinectady's house for tea. The evening passed quickly, and Vancouver took his leave. As he opened the front door to let himself out, he nearly fell over a small telegraph messenger. "'Thorne here,' inquired the boy, leconically. "'Yes, I'll take it in,' said Vancouver quickly. He went back with the telegram, and the boy stood inside the door, waiting for the receipt. He noticed the stamp of the cable office on the envelope. "'Miss Thorn,' said Vancouver, entering the drawing-room again, hat in hand. "'I just met this telegram on the step, so I brought it in. It may need an answer, you know.' "'Thanks so much,' said Joe, tearing open the pale yellow cover. She was startled not being accustomed to receive telegrams. Her brow contracted as she read the contents, and she tapped her small foot on the carpet impatiently. "'Thorne, care-sinectity, beacon, Boston, sail to day, Ronald.' Josephine crushed the paper in her hand, and signed the receipt with the pencil Vancouver offered her. "'Thanks so much,' she said again, but in a different tone of voice. "'Any answer?' suggested Vancouver. "'Thanks, no,' answered Joe. "'Good night again.' "'Good night.' And Vancouver departed, wondering what the message could have been. Miss Sinectity had looked on calmly throughout the little scene, and nodded to Pocock as he left the room. Her peculiarities were chiefly those of diction. She was a well-bred old lady, not without wisdom. "'Nothing wrong, Joe,' she inquired, when alone with her niece. "'I hardly know,' answered Joe. "'Ronald has just sailed from England. I suppose he will be here in ten days.' "'Business here?' asked Miss Sinectity. "'Oh, dear, no, he knows nothing about business. I wish he would stay at home. What a bore!' It was evident that Joe had changed her mind since she had written to Ronald a fortnight before. It seemed to her now, when she looked forward to serbitance coming, that he would not find his place in Boston society so easily as she had done. Of course, he would expect to see her every day, and to spend all his leisure hours at Miss Sinectity's house. Whatever she happened to be doing, it would always be necessary to take Ronald into consideration, and the prospect did not please her at all. Ronald was a dear good fellow, of course, and she meant to marry him in the end—at least, she probably would—but then she intended to marry him at a more convenient season, some time in the future. She knew him well, and she was certain that when he saw her surrounded by her Boston acquaintances, his British nature would assert itself, and he would claim her, or try to claim her, and persuade her to go away. She bid Miss Sinectity good night, and went to her room, and presently, when she was sure everyone was in bed in the house, she stole down to the drawing-room again, and sat alone by the remains of the coal fire, thinking what she should do. Josephine Thorn was young, and more full of life and activity than most girls of her age. She enjoyed what came in her way to enjoy with the passionate zest, and she had the reputation of being somewhat capricious and changeable. But she was honest in all her thoughts, and very clear-sighted. People often said she spoke her mind too freely, and was not enough in awe of the veiled deity known in society as the thing—how she hated it—how many times she had been told that what she said and did was not quite the thing. She knew now what Ronald would say when he came, if he found her worshipped on all sides by Bocac Vancouver and his younger and less accomplished compiers. Ronald would say it was rather rough, you know. She sat by the fire and thought the matter over, and when she came to formulating in her mind the exact words that Ronald would say, she paused to think of him and how he would look. He was handsome, far handsomer than Vancouver or John Harrington. He was very nice, much nicer than Vancouver. John Harrington was different. Nice did not describe him. But Ronald was nicer than all the other men she knew. He would make a charming husband. At the thought, Joe started. My husband, she repeated, allowed to herself in the silence. Then she rose quickly to her feet and leaned against the smooth white marble mantelpiece, and buried her face in her small white hands for an instant. Oh, no, no, no, no! She cried aloud. It is impossible. Oh, no, never! I never really meant it, did I? She stared at herself in the glass for a few seconds, and her face was very pale. Then she bent over her hands again, and the tears came and wetted them a little, and at last she sat down as she had sat before and stared vacantly at the fire. It would be very wrong to break Ronald's heart, she thought. He would come to her so full of hope and gladness. How could she tell him she did not love him? But how was it possible that in all these years she had never before understood that she could not marry him? It had always seemed so natural to marry Ronald, and yet she must have always really felt just as she did to-night. Only she had never realized it, never at all. I had had come over her so suddenly, too. It would have been so much better if she could have seen the truth at home, before she parted from him. For it would be so hard for him to bear it now, after coming across the ocean to see her, so cruelly hard. Dear Ronald! And yet he must be told. Yes, there was no doubt about it. The very first meeting must explain it to him. He would say, what would he say? He would tell her she liked someone else better. Someone else. Someone who had stolen away her heart. Of course he would say that. But he would be wrong, for there was no one else. Not one of all these men she had seen, who had so much as breathed a word of love to her. None whom she liked nearly so much as Ronald. No, not one. For a long time she sat very quietly, following a train of thought that was half unconscious. Her lips moved now and then, as though she were repeating something to herself, and gradually the pained and anxious expression of her face melted away into a look of peace. The old gilt clock upon the chimney-piece struck twelve in its shrill steel tones. Josephine started at the sound, and passed one hand over her eyes as though to rouse herself, and at the same time a deep blush spread over her delicate cheek. For with the voice of midnight there was also the voice of a man ringing in her ears, and she heard the two together, so that it seemed as though all the world must hear them also, and her gentle maiden soul was shamed at the thought. So it is that our loves are always with us, and though we search ourselves diligently to find them, and rebuke them, we find them not. But if we give up searching, they come upon us unawares, and speak very soft words. Love also is a gentle thing, full of sweetness and peace, when he comes to us so. And though the maiden blushes at his speaking, she would not stop the ears of her heart against him for all the world. And although the boy trembles and turn pale, and forgets to be boyish when the fit is on him, nevertheless he goes near and worships, and loses his heart in learning a new language. So kind and soft is love, so tender and sweet-spoken, that you would think he would not so much as ruffled the leaf of a rose, nor breathe too sharply on a violet, lest he should hurt the flower soul within. And if you treat him hospitably, he is kind to the last, so that when he is gone there is still a sweet savor of him left. But if you would drive him roughly away with scorn and rude language, he will stand at your door and will not leave you. Then his wings drop from him, and he grows strong and fierce, and deadly and beautiful as the fallen archangel of heaven, crying aloud bitter things to you by day and night, till at the last he will break down bolt and bar and panel, and enter your chamber and drag you out with him to your death in the wild darkness. But Josephine blushed deeply there in the old-fashioned drawing-room at midnight, and as she turned away she wondered at herself, for she could not believe nor understand what was happening. Poor girl, she had talked of love so often as an abstract thing. She had seen so many love-makings of others, and so many men had tried to make love to her in her short, brilliant life, and she had always thought it could not come near her, because, of course, she really loved Ronald. She had marveled, indeed, at what people were willing to do, and at what they were ready to sacrifice, for a feeling that seemed to her of such little importance as that. It had been an illusion, and the waking had come at last, very suddenly, whoever it might be whom she was destined to take, it was not Ronald. It was madness to think she could be bound forever to him, however much she might admire him, and desire him as a friend. When the clock struck she was thinking of John, and the words he had said that night to his great audience were ringing again in her ears. She blushed, indeed, at the idea that she was thinking so much of him. But it was not that she believed she loved him. If as yet she really did, she was herself most honestly unconscious of it, and so the blush was not accounted for in the reckoning she made. She lay awake long, trying to determine what was best to be done, but she could not. One thing she must do, she must explain to Ronald, when he came, that she could never, never marry him. If only she had a sister, or someone. Dear Aunt Zaria was so horrid about such things, that it was impossible to talk to her. CHAPTER VI Do you know how to skate? Sibyl 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 misconnected to a lunch party, one of those social institutions of Boston which most surprised Joe on her first arrival. Of course, answered Joe, I do not know anything, but I can do everything. How nice, said Sibyl, then you can go with us tonight. That will be too lovely. What is it? We are all going skating on Jamaica Pond. Zaria has skated for so long here, that it is a novelty. I used to be so fond of it. We always skated home, when there is ice, said Joe. It will be enchanting, though, with the full moon and all. What time? Mrs. Sam Windham will arrange that, said Sibyl. She is going to matronize us. How dreadful to have to be chaperoned, ejaculated Joe. But Mrs. Windham is very jolly, after all. So it does not much matter. I believe they used to have Germans here without any mothers, remarked Sibyl, 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 Cotillion. You mean Cotillions, 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, Sibyl added, rather sadly. But I do love skating so. We are ourselves, exactly? By you and I, and the Sam Windhams, and the Atchison 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 he is very attentive to Miss St. 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? Sibyl 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 moonlight tete-a-tete, if properly chaperoned. Yes, if you like, dear, she said, I would like it much better myself, of course. Do you know, Sibyl, said Joe, looking up at her toller companion, I should not think you would care for skating in that sort of thing. Why, asked Sibyl, you do not look strong enough. You are not a bit like me, brought up on horseback. Oh, I am very strong, answered Sibyl. 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, Mama used to tell me a story about the beautiful snow angel. She must have been just like you, dear. What is the story, asked Sibyl, the delicate color in her cheek, deepening a little. I will tell you tonight 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 Sibyl had wrung 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 Sibyl disappeared into the house. Why don't you marry her? asked Vancouver. Which? The English girl? No, Sibyl Brandon. Thank you. I am not thinking of being married, said John, a half-comic, half-contemptuous look on 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 anyone 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 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 I could lay down the law, 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 lifetime, answered Vancouver, laughing in his turn. Not if I can help it, returned John, but we can provide you with another. Goodbye. I'm 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 anglomaniacs both, but gentlemen with all, 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 subtall 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 a steel blade twice, or thrice, on the hard black surface, still leaning on Vancouver's arm, and then, without a word, 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. Ah, there was nothing to fear, said John, laughing. Audiences of that kind do not punctuate one's speech 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 waxing 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 Atchinson girls he preferred and gave her his arm, so 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 everyone 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 feigned to understand that he was not wanted. So 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. Where did you get that beautiful firm idea? 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 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? Leaving each other, Joe and Sybil took the preferred 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 musical. 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 musical, 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 always be 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 any 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 succeed, thought Joe in the innocent generosity of her half-conscious devotion. Has anything gone wrong? She asked aloud. Chapter 7 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 oneself to any extent. But I should not have thought you were that sort of person. You always seemed 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 as 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. The 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 leconically, 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 the 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, Ms. Thorne? About Americans. They talk better than Englishmen as a rule. But I am comparing Americans with the whole mass of Europeans, which 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 someone 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 the tremulous musical sound in the still bright night. You must be very cold yourself, Mr. Harrington. Joe began 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 in 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'm 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 must 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 daresay 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. 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 listened 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 his 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 someone 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 Ms. Thorne'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 aesthetic 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 prejudice person than Harrington. No indeed, why should I be vexed? But perhaps someday 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 in 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 the hail of the remainder of their party. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of an American politician. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bob Sage. An American politician by F. Marion Crawford. Chapter eight. Eight days after the skating party, Ronald Serbaton telegraphed from New York that he would reach Boston the next morning, and Josephine Thorne 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 misconnected, 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 oneself. Whether it would not be far better in the end to live like misconnected, reading and studying and caring nothing for the world. Not that Josephine admired misconnected 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 and 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 cartago delenda of the Roman orator. Whatever the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained unshaken in misconnected'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 misconnected 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 Serbaton 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 misconnected would be at home to receive him when he came. Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to, said misconnected. 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 chaperone or being obliged to do their talking in the hearing of a police of papas, mamas, 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, misconnected sat in state in the front drawing room, reading the life of Mr. Tickner until Ronald should arrive. Joe was upstairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before 10 o'clock with any kind of propriety and they could have lunch in early and then go out after which the bitterness of death would be passed. It was not quite 10 o'clock when Ronald Serbiton 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 preferred hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly, he pronounced her name Schenectady with a strong accent on the penultimate Sybil. Schenectady, corrected his hostess, I expect you are Mr. Serbiton. Exactly so, said Ronald in some embarrassment. Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Serbiton. 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 galea. She is one of the canarders, 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. Serbeton? 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, an 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 meantime. 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, to mark the old lady in problematic answered. 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 fireplace, 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 fireplace. 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. Serbeton is in the parlor. Could it not you? Oh, if it is any inconvenience, Ronald began, misunderstanding the form of a dress 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 mustache 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 everyone 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 Serbaton 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 a special 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 misconnected, 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 Zoe. She could not call her Aunt, Aunt Zeruaia, 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. Tickner. Yes, said Joe gravely, it is as well that you should 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 Zeruaia 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 Zoe, answered Joe, besides, Sibyl 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 midday 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 said 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 Serbeton, 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 too, 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 Serbaton'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 3,000 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 quavered. 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? She 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 Connectedy'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 pineafores 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 and answered 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. Tickner 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 for 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'd 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 the 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 Serbaton 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. Sibyl, let me introduce Mr. Serbaton. Miss Brandon, Sibyl smiled and bent her head slightly. Ronald bowed and sat down between Sibyl and Miss Schenectady. End of chapter eight.