 14. In all the endless folklore 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 Serbiton reflected on his position, the old rhyme ran through his head. He 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 plowing their way through deep, wide sand. The sound of the bells was muffled as it came up, and the scraping of the Irishman's having spades on the pavement before the hotel, followed by the regular fall or 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 Linkside custom-house man in New York, and then sat down with a sigh before a 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 awareness such as only an Englishman can put on when he's 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 elster overcoat, and went out. Joe was sitting alone in the drama room, curled up in an old-fashioned armchair by the fire, with a book in her lap which he was not reading. She had asked her aunt for something about politics, and Mrs. Connectidy had given her the life of Rufus Coat 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 Laura's 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'm 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've been reading the life and writings of Rufus Coat. I'm 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're going to be a regular blue stocking, the idea of spending your time and reading such stuff. Why, it would be almost better to read the parliamentary reports and 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's 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 snowstorm, 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, we told Joe. But there is nothing for a fellow to do on a day like this, said Ronald Soakley. 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're nice and good tempered, said Joe. But when you're bored, you're simply, well, you're 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've done nothing but find fault since you came. Have you heard from home? No, there's 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 don't 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, Sibyl 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 Brandon's would not make any difference. Really? said Joe, smiling. You are a dear good boy, Ronald, when you're 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 colour came to her cheeks, and she looked annoyed. She had hoped that the matter was settled for ever, 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've said all there is to say, I'm sure. But I have not, he answered, insisting. Please, Joe, dearest, think about it seriously. Think what a cruel thing it is you're 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'd 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 pitchlessly. 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 recommend existence altogether. You don't know what you're doing, because you have no heart, not the least bit of one. Do not say that. Please do not, Joe untreated, looking at him with imploring eyes, for his words hurt her. Then suddenly the tears came in a quick hot gush, and she hit 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 petrified motion, and the tears trickled through her small white hands and fell upon her dark dress and on the life of Ruth's coat. 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'm 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 pretence of arranging the knickknacks on the mantle. Of course you cannot help it, Joe, dear, as if you had not a perfect right to cry, if you like. I'm 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 their 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 Sibyl, and she will see I've 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 Sibyl 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 colour in her face, and she took Ronald's hand cordially. He blushed to the eyes and stammered. Miss Thornis, she—indeed, she will be back in a moment. How do you do? Dreadful weather is not it. Oh, it's only a snowstorm, said Sibyl, brushing a few flakes from her furs as she came near the fire. We did 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 Sibyl 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 Sibyl 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 a 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've come yourself, said Sibyl, laughing a little. You told me last night that you did not come here every day. Oh, I told my cousin I'd come because I was so lonely at the hotel. It is amazingly dull to sit all day in a closed 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's not much for a man to do unless he's in business. Everyone here isn't some kind of business, you know, so they're never bored. Ronald wished he could say the right thing to re-establish the half-intimacy it felt when talking to Sibyl the night before, but it was not easy to get back to the same point. There was an interval of hours between yesterday and today, and there was Joe. I read novels to pass the time, he said, and because they're sometimes so like one's own life, but when they're not, they bore me. Sibyl 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 Sibyl 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 Sibyl'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 Serbeton, with the decision of a man past loving or being loved. How dreadfully gloomy! One would think you're done with life, Mr. Serbeton, said Sibyl, 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'm sure something disagreeable has happened to you today, Mr. Serbeton, said Sibyl, 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'm sorry, said Sibyl, 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 you had thought over this speech some minutes later that he realized that in a few words he had told Sibyl 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 Sibyl was silent and thoughtful. Love is such an uncertain thing, she began after a pause, and a chance that at that very moment Joe opened the door and entered the room. She caught the sentence. So you're instructing my cousin, she said to Sibyl, laughing. I approve of the way you spent your time, my children. No one would have believed that, 20 minutes earlier, Joe had been in tears. She was as fresh and gay as ever, and Ronald said to himself that she most certainly had no heart, but that Sibyl had a great deal. He was sure of it from the tone of her voice. What is the news about the election, Sibyl? she asked. Of course, you know all about it at the Wyndham's. My dear, the family politics are in a state of confusion that is simply too delightful, said Sibyl. You know it is said that Iris C Kelvin 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 code, put in Ronald, who perceived that the conversation was to be about Harrington. It does make a difference, said Sibyl, not noticing Ronald's remark, because Jobbins is much more popular than Kelvin, and they say he is a friend of Patrick Ballamolloy, who will win the election for either side he favours. Who is this Irishman? inquired Ronald. He is the chief Irishman, said Sibyl, laughing, and I cannot describe him any better. He is twenty votes with him, and as things stand he always carries whichever point he favours. 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'm sure, but when is the election to come off? They say it is to begin today, said Sibyl. We shall never hear anything unless we go to Mrs Wyndham's, said Joe. Aunt Zoe is awfully clever in 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 Serbitin, said Sibyl, you would get into the State House and hear the earliest news. I will do anything in the world to oblige you, said Ronald Ravley, 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 Wyndham's, and hear all about it by telephone. Very well, said Joe. One moment while I get my things. She left the room. Ronald and Sibyl 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 Sibyl, standing before the mirror above the mantelpiece, and touching her head first on one side and then on the other? Yes, answered Ronald, watching her. Do you know, I've often thought so too. Yes? I think it would be something different if it were quite sudden. Perhaps it would be something much less interesting, but much better. I think you're a little confused, Mr Serbitin, said Sibyl, and as she smiled, Ronald could see her face reflected in the mirror. I, yes, that is, I daresay I am, said he, hesitatingly. But I know exactly what I mean. But do you know exactly what you want? She asked with love. Yes, indeed, said he, confidently. But I do not believe I shall ever get it. Then that is a disagreeable and painful thing you refer to, as having happened this morning, I suppose, remarked Sibyl 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 Sibyl. Thanks. Do you know that you've been making confidences to me, Mr Serbitin? She asked, turning and facing him, with a half-amused, half-serious look in her blue eyes. I'm afraid I have, he answered, after a short pause. You must think I'm 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-slay rocking and leaping and plowing in the heavy dry snow. Reading by Colm Dragon An American Politician by F. Marion Crawford Chapter 15 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 a polished German silver handle of the doorbell. 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 am 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 Balamalloy. He received Vancouver in a study, which was handsomely furnished with bright green wallpaper, 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 Balamalloy 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 was 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. Balamalloy's shoulders, and supported the head more remarkable for the immense cavity of the mouth, and for a quantity of highly pomade sandy hair than for any intellectuality of the brows or hybrid finesse of the nose. Mr. Balamalloy'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 red and 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. Balamalloy was clad in a beautiful suit of shiny black broadcloth, and the front of his coat was irregularly but richly adorned with profusion of grease spots of all sizes. A delicate suggestive, mesotint 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 hose 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. Balamalloy 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. Balamalloy, 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. Balamalloy, especially since the change last night, I remember what a good friend you have always been to Mr. Jobbins. Well, as you say, Mr. Balamalloy, 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. But it's the soul of him that I like, answered Mr. Balamalloy 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 interest 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. Balamalloy. 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. Balamalloy? 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 everyone has not principles like you, Mr. Balamalloy. I'm speaking the truth now. According to Mr. Patrick Balamalloy'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. Balamalloy, 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 in Dead Man's Valley you'll be speaking of, Mr. Vancouver, said the Irishman, with sudden and cheerful interest. Really, Mr. Balamalloy, 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 I have heard it mentioned—and that's the plain truth, Mr. Vancouver—and it will take a great deal of real, too. And that's another thing. And where do you think of getting the iron from, Mr. Vancouver? Well, I had hoped, Mr. Balamalloy, 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. Balamalloy nodded, with something very like a wink of a one-blood-shot 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. But you see, Mr. Balamalloy, it may be that in a year's time these new fangled ideas about free trade may be law. And it may be 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. Balamalloy, 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 everyone had such principles as yourself. And I'm telling you no lie when I say it again. Verily, Mr. Balamalloy was a truthful person. Very well. Now, do not you think, Mr. Balamalloy, 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 I am, 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. Exclaim, Balamalloy, in great admiration. It's your principles are beautiful, just. Very good, sir. Now, of course, you are going to vote for Mr. Harrington today, or tomorrow, or whenever the election is to be. Don't you think you 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's the wisest plan, said Vancouver, rising to go. And we will speak about the contract next week, when all the selection business is over. Ah, and indeed, I hope it will be soon, sir, said Balamalloy. 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 Balamalloy. 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 Balamalloy. 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 jobbans 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. Balamalloy's proposal would rouse the honest wrath of the man he detested. Half an hour later, Mr. Balamalloy 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. Balamalloy answer 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, do not believe that I could go to the house and vote against my own party? Surely. Well, you know, said Patrick, but there was a tinge of irony in his soft tones. He knew that Vancouver could make him a 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's 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. Balamalloy, said John gravely, without advocating myself as in any way fit for the honours of the Senate. I can say that it is of 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 are in the Senate, sir? I am afraid I cannot tell you anything that I did not tell you yesterday, Mr. Balamalloy. 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's 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 oppression. That is fair. Is not it? I dare say you may think so, Mr. Harrington, said Balamalloy, knocking the ashes from a 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 Reformation of the Tariff, iron would be one of the things most carefully provided for. Oh, I know all that, said Balamalloy, 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 have 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 in the least little bit. And for me, I would rather there were not to be any reforming at all, except for the Chinaman. And I don't care much for them, neither. And that's a fact. Very good, Mr. Balamalloy. 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 interest 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 the facts. Always stick to the facts, Mr. Harrington. You will find the truth a very important thing, indeed, and good principles too, in dealing with the plain-spoken men like myself, sir. Stick to the truth, Mr. Harrington, forever and ever. I propose to Mr. Balamalloy answer John, internally amused at the solid matter 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 a 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. Balamalloy, after your exposition of the importance of truth. I am surprised that you should expect me to oblige 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 Balamalloy incredulously. And he grew, if possible, a redder in the face than nature and the action of alcohol it 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 around and eat you up unless you reform us too. And that just means the ruin of us. Come now, Mr. Balamalloy. That is, exaggeration, said John. If you'll listen to me for a moment. I haven't got the time, sir, and that's all about it. If you'll protect our interest and promise to do it, you'll be senator. The election is coming on, Mr. Harrington, and I'm sorry to see you thrown out. Mr. Balamalloy, I'd sincerely hope 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 interest, because it's 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 deny everything that I have said and written on a subject. Then that is your last word of all, Mr. Harrington, said Balamalloy, heaving his heavy body out of the easy chair. But his voice, which had sounded somewhat irate during the discussion, again rolled out in milliphalous tones. Yes, Mr. Balamalloy, that is all I have to say. And indeed it is 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. Balamalloy? 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. Balamalloy drained the whiskey to the last drop. You were not really thinking I would vote for Mr. Jobbins, were you now, Mr. Harrington? He said with a sly look on his red face. I always hoped that men of my party were to be lied upon. Mr. Balamalloy 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 Balamalloy was driven to the house of Republican candidate Mr. Jobbins. End of Chapter 15 Civil was right when she said the family politics at the Windoms were a disturbed. Indeed, the disturbance was so great that Mrs. Windom was dressed in downstairs before twelve o'clock, which had never before occurred in the memory of the oldest servant. It is too perfectly exciting, my dear, as she exclaimed as Joe and Sybil entered the room, followed at a respectable distance by Ronald. I can't stand it one minute longer. How do you do, Mr. Serbeton? What is the latest news? asked Sybil. I have not heard anything for ever so long. Sam has gone round to sea. Perhaps he will be back soon. I do wish we had tickers here in the house, as they do in New York. It is such 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 anyone 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 Bolly Molloyne has been intended to prolong the struggle for their own ends, remained to be seen. Meanwhile, Mrs. Windham walked about her drawing room, discounting 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 lunch until he does. The three agreed, nothing to loathe to enjoying one another's company. There is nothing like a day spent together and waiting for an event to bring out the characteristics of individuals. Mrs. Windham 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, exclaim Mrs. Windham 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. Windham paid little attention to it, though her practical ears could have heard it all, if need be, while she herself was profoundly occupied with someone 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. Windham led Joe and Sybil away to look at the 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 Windham entered the room, his face wet with snowflakes and red with excitement. Hello, he exclaimed, seeing Ronald comfortably and constant 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 anyway, 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 interest 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 is my belief he has been sold, said Sam. But as I am a Republican myself and a friend of Jobin's, 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, Jobin's a 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 and 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's lost the election, cried Mrs. Wyndham? Yes, he's lost it. Jobin's a senator. Sam, you are perfectly horrid, exclaimed his spouse in deepest vexation. Josephine Thorne 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, and I think all those people ought to be locked up for bribery. I'm 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, maybe that fellow Bolly Malloy has made something of it. He's a pretty bad sort of a scamp, anyway, I expect. Sorry or so put out about it, but Jobin's 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 around 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, and 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-fixed 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 swapping the Senate and 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 Senate meet together next day to formally declare 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 Senate did not agree the General Court met next day and elected the 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's been elected by the General Court. But the majority forum 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 tomorrow is a dead-sure thing. And Jobbins is just as much Senator as if you 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 Comley. 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 has 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 that 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, commendable to the effects of Eau de Cologne. She made her lie upon the great gratone 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 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, and 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 anyone, 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, and 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, feverently, and 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 that 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 defectionately 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 misconnected these 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 a suffering, while his broad hands convulsely grasped the heavy oaken arms of his chair. It may be that the 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 king 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 appendities 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 accordingly to my pleasure. If I become enamored of the body and its ways, and out 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 am, 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 in forever, whereas the body is a thing of today that vanishes into dust tomorrow, but the two together are the living man, and thus it is that God has 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 pulpable 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 reconstitution, is the immortal truth to attain a knowledge and understanding of which it is to be saved from the endless shifting of the material and illusionary universe. John Harrington laid 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 a 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, and 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 subvert 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 less of substance than a juggler 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 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. Someone 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, excuse it me, Mr. Harrington. I thought you without there. There is two of them notes for you. John roused himself and took the letters without a word. They were both addressed in a 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 sympathized 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 am I 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, very sorry. 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 them will live to regret it, and that you will win in the end. Don't think it foolish of me to write, because I am so angry that I can't in the least help it, and I think everybody ought to. Yours in sincerity. Chapter 17 John read Joe's note many times over before he quite realized what it contained. It seemed at first a singular thing that she should have written to him, and he did not understand it. He knew her as an enthusiastic and capricious girl who had sometimes laughed at him, and sometimes treated him coldly, but who again had sometimes talked with him as though he were an old friend. He called to mind the interest she had taken in his doings of late, and how she had denounced Vancouver as his enemy, and he thought of the long conversation he had had with her on the ice under the cold moonlight. He thought of many a sympathetic glance she had given when he spoke of his aims and intentions, of many gentle words spoken in praise of him, and which at the time he had taken merely as so much small good-natured flattery, such as agreeable people deal out to each other in society without any thought of evil nor any special meaning of good. All these things came back to him, and he read the little note again. It was a kindly word, nothing more, penned by a wild, good-hearted girl in the scorn of consequence or social propriety. It was nothing but that. And yet there was something more in it all, something not expressed in the abbreviated words and hurriedly composed sentences, but something that seemed to struggle for expression. John's experience of womankind was limited, for he was no lady's man, and had led a life singularly lacking in woman's love or sentiment, though singularly dependent on the friendship of some woman. Nevertheless he knew that Joe's note breathed the essence of a sympathy wider than that of mere everyday acquaintance, and deeper perhaps than that of any friendship he had known. He could not have explained the feeling nor reasoned upon it, but he knew well enough that when he next met Joe it would be on new terms. She had declared herself his friend in a way no longer mistakeable, for she must have followed her first impulse in writing such a note, and the impulse must have been a strong one. For a while he debated whether to answer the note or not, almost forgetting his troubles in the tumult of new thoughts it had suggested to him. A note thought he required an answer on general principles, but such a note as this would be better answered in person than by any pen and paper. He would call and see Joe and thank her for it. But again he knew he could not see her until the next day, and that seemed a long time to wait. It would not have been long under ordinary circumstances, but in this case it seemed to him an unreasonable delay. He sat down and took a pen in his fingers. Dear Miss Thorn, he began and stopped. In America it is more formal to begin without the preliminary May. In England May is indispensable unless people are on familiar terms. John knew this and reflected that Joe was English. While he was reflecting his eye fell upon a heap of telegraph blanks, and he remembered that he had not given notice of his defeat to the council. He pushed aside the note paper and took a form for a cable dispatch. In a moment Joe was forgotten in the sudden shock that brought his thoughts back to his position. He wrote out a simple message addressed to Zee, who was the only one of the three whom he officially knew. But when he had done that he felt a thinking about Joe again, and resolved to write the note. My dear Miss Thorn, I cannot allow your very friendly words to remain unanswered until tomorrow. It is kind of you to be sorry for the defeat I have suffered. It is kinder still to express your sympathy so directly and so soon. Concerning the circumstances which brought the contest to such a result, I have nothing to say. It is the privilege of elective bodies to choose as they please, and indeed that is the object of their existence. No one has any right to complain of not being elected, for a man who is a candidate knows from the first what he is undertaking, and what manner of men he has to deal with. Personally, I am a man who has fought a fight and has lost it, and however firmly I still believe in the cause which led me to the struggle, I confess that I am disappointed and disheartened at being vanquished. You are good enough to say you believe I shall win in the end. I can only answer that I thank you very heartily indeed for saying so, though I do not think it is likely that any efforts of mine will be attended with such success for a long time. Believe me, with great gratitude, very sincerely yours, John Harrington. It was a longer note than he had meant to write. In fact, it was almost a letter. But he had read it over and was convinced he had said what he meant to say, which was always the principal consideration in such matters. Accordingly, the missive was dispatched to its destination. As for Mrs. Winom, John determined to accept her invitation, and to answer it in person by appearing at the dinner-hour. He would not let anyone think he was so broken-hearted as to be unable to show himself. He was too strong for that, and he had too much pride in his strength. He was right in going to Mrs. Winom's, for she and her husband were his oldest friends, and he understood well enough what true hearts and what honest loyalty lie sometimes concealed in the bosoms of those brisk, peculiar people who seemed unable to speak seriously for long about the most serious subjects, and whose quaint turns of language seem often so unfit to express any deep feeling. But while he talked with his hosts his own thoughts strayed again and again to Joe, and he wondered what kind of woman she really was, he intended to visit her the next day. The next day came, however, and yet John did not turn his steps up the hill towards Mission Actity's house. It was a cloudless morning after the heavy storm, and the great drifts of snow flashed like heaps of diamonds in the sun. All the air was clear and cold, and the red brick pavements were spotted here and there with white patches left from the shovels of the Irishmen. Slays of all sizes were plowing their way hither and tither, breaking out a track in the heavy mass that encumbered the streets. Everyone was wrapped in furs, and everyone's face red with smarting cold. Joe stayed at home until midday when she went to a luncheon party of young girls. As usual they had been sewing for the poor, but Joe thought that she was not depriving the poor people of any very material assistance by staying away from the more industrious part of the entertainment. The sewing they all did together in a morning did not produce results whereby even the very smallest baby could have been clothed, and the part affected by each separate damsel in this hole was consequently somewhat insignificant. Joe would have stayed at home outright had the weather not been so magnificent, and possibly she thought that she might meet John Harrington on her way to the house of her friend in Dartmouth Street. Fate, however, was against her, for she had not walked thirty yards down the hill before she was overtaken by Polcock Vancouver. He had been standing in one of the semicircular bay windows of the Somerset Club, and seeing Joe coming down the steep incline, had hurriedly taken his coat and hat and gone out in pursuit of her. Had he suspected in the least how Joe felt toward him, he would have fled to the end of the world rather than meet her. Good morning, Miss Thorn, he said, walking rapidly by her side and taking off his hat. How very early you are today! It is not early, said Joe, looking at him coldly. It is nearly one o'clock. It would be called early for most people, said Vancouver, for Mrs. Winem, for instance. I am not, Mrs. Winem, said Joe. I am going to see Harrington, remarked Vancouver, who perceived that Joe was not in a good humour. I am afraid he must be dreadfully cut up about this business. So you are going to condole with him? I do not believe he is in the least disturbed. He has far too much sense. I fancy the most sensible men in the world would be a trifle annoyed at being defeated in an election, Miss Thorn, said Vancouver, blandly. I am afraid you are not very sorry for him. He is an old friend of mine, and though I differ from him in politics, very passively, I cannot do less than go and see him, and tell him how much I regret, personally, that he should be defeated. Joe slipped curled and scorn, and she flushed angrily. She could have struck Vancouver's pale face with infinite pleasure and satisfaction, but she said nothing in immediate answer. Do you not think I am right? asked Vancouver. I am sure you do. You have such a good heart. They passed Charles Street, as he was speaking, and yet he gave no sign of leaving her. I am not sure that I have a good heart, and I am quite sure that you are utterly wrong, Mr. Vancouver, said Joe, in calm tones. Really? Why, you quite surprise me, Miss Thorn? Any man in my place ought— Most men in your place would avoid Mr. Harrington, interrupted Joe, turning her clear brown eyes full upon him. Had she been less angry, she would have been more cautious. But her blood was up, and she took no thought, but said what she meant boldly. Indeed, Miss Thorn, said Vancouver, stiffly, I do not understand you in the least. I think what you say is very extraordinary. John Harrington has always been a friend of mine. That may be, Mr. Vancouver, but you are certainly no friend of his, said Joe, with the scornful laugh. You astonish me beyond measure! rejoined Pocock, maintaining his air of injured virtue, although he inwardly felt that he was in some imminent danger. How can you possibly say such a thing? Joe could bear it no longer. She was very imprudent, but her honest anger boiled over. She stopped in her walk, her back against the iron railings, and she faced Vancouver with the look that frightened him. He was forced to stop also, and he could not do less than return her glance. Do you dare to stand there and tell me that you are Mr. Harrington's friend? She asked in low, distinct tones. You, the writer of the articles in the daily standard, calling him a fool and a charlatan? You, who have done your very best to defeat him in this election? Indeed, it is too absurd! She laughed aloud and utter scorn, and then turned to continue her way. Vancouver turned a shade paler than was natural with him, and looked down. He was very much frightened, for he was a coward. Miss Thorn, he said, I am sorry you should believe such calamities. I give you my word of honour that I have never either written or spoken against Mr. Harrington. He is one of my best friends. Joe did not answer. She did not even look at him, but walked on in silence. He did not dare to speak again, and as they reached the corner of the public garden, he lifted his hat. I am quite sure that you will find you have misjudged me, Miss Thorn, he said, with the grieved look. In the meanwhile, I wish you a very good morning. Good morning! said Joe without looking at him, and she passed on, full of indignation and wrath. To tell the truth, she was so much delighted at having spoken her mind for once, that she had not a thought of any possible consequences. The delight of having dealt Vancouver such a buffet was very great, and she felt her heart beat fast with the triumphant pleasure. But Vancouver turned and went away with a very unpleasant sensation in him. He wished, with all his might, that he had not left the comfortable bay window of the Somerset Club that morning, and more than all, he wished he could ascertain how Joe had come to know of his journalistic doings. As a matter of fact, what she had said concerning Pocock's efforts against John in the election had been meant in a most general way, but Vancouver thought she was referring to his interview with Bally Malloy, and that she understood the whole matter. Of course, there was nothing to be done but to deny the accusations from beginning to end, but they nevertheless had struck deep, and he was thoroughly alarmed. When he left the club, he had no intention of going to see Harrington. The idea had formed itself while talking with her, but now again he felt that he could not go. He had not the courage to face the man he had injured, principally because he strongly suspected that if Joe knew what he had done, John Harrington most likely knew it too. He was doubly hit. He would have been less completely confused and frightened if the attack had come from Sybil Brandon, but he had had vague ideas of trying to marry Joe, and he guessed that any such plan was now hopelessly out of the question. He turned his steps homeward, uncertain what to do, and hoping to find counsel in solitude. He took up the letters and papers that lay on his study-table, brought by the midday post. One letter in particular attracted his attention, and he singled it out and opened it. It was dated from London, and had been twelve days on its way. My dear Vancouver, enclosed, please find Bank of England post-note for your usual quarterly honorarium one thousand two hundred and fifty pounds. My firm will address you upon the use to be made of the proxies lately sent to you for the ensuing election of officers of the Pocahontas and Deadman's Valley Railroad, touching your possession of which I beg to reiterate the importance of a more than masonic discretion. I apprehend that unless the scattered shares should have been quickly absorbed for the purpose of obtaining a majority, these proxies will enable you to control the election of the proper ticket. If not, and if the leviathan should decline the overtures that will be made to him during his summer visit to London, I should like your estimate of five thousand shares more to be picked up in the next three months, which will assure our friends the control. Should the prospective figure be too high, we may elect to sell out after rigging the market for a boom. In either event, there will be lots of pickings in the rise and fall of the shares for the old joint account, which has been so profitable because you have so skillfully covered up your tracks. Yours faithfully, saunders-grabbles. PS. The expectations of the young lady about whom you inquire are involved in such a tangle of conditions as could only have occurred to the excited fancy of an old Anglo-Indian. He left about twenty lakhs of rupees in various bonds, G.I.P. and others, to his nephew Ronald Serbaton and to his niece jointly, provided that they marry each other. If they do not, one quarter of the estate is to go to the one who marries first, and the remaining three quarters to the other. The estate is in the hands of trustees who pay an allowance to the heirs. In case they marry each other, the said heirs have power to dispose by will of the inheritance. Otherwise, the whole of it reverts to the last survivor, and at his or her death it is to be devoted to founding a home for superannuated governesses. Vancouver read the letter through with care, and held it in a moment in his hand. Then he crushed it angrily together, and tossed it into the fire. It seemed as though everything went wrong with him to-day. Not only was no information concerning Joe of any use now, it would be a hard thing to disabuse her of the idea that he had written those articles. After all, though, as he thought the matter over, it could be only guesswork. The manuscripts had always gone through the post, signed with the faint name, and it was utterly impossible that the editor himself could know who had written them. It would be still more impossible, therefore, for anyone else to do more than make a guess. It is easy to deny any statement, however correct, when founded on such a basis. But there was the other thing. Joe had accused him of having opposed John's election to the best of his ability. No one could prove that, either. He had even advised Bally Malloy to vote for John in so many words. On the whole his conscience was clear now. Vancouver's conscience was represented by all those things which could by any possibility be found out. The things that no one could ever know gave him no anxiety. In the present case, the first thing to be done was plainly to put the whole blame of the articles on the shoulders of someone else. A person of violent political views and very great vanity, who would be greatly flattered at being thought the author of anything so clever. That would not be a difficult task. He would broach the subject to Mrs. Winom, telling her that the man, whoever he should be, had told him in strictest confidence that he was the writer. Vancouver would, of course, tell it to Mrs. Winom as a state secret, and she would tell someone else. It would soon be public property, and Joe would hear of it. It would be easy enough to pitch upon some individual who would not deny the imputation, or who would deny it in such a way as to leave the impression on the public mind unchanged, more especially as the articles had accomplished the desired result. The prime cause of all this, John Harrington himself, sat in his room unconscious for the time of Vancouver's existence. He was in a state of great depression and uncertainty, for he had not yet rallied from the blow of the defeat. Moreover, he was thinking of Joe, and her letter lay open on the table beside him. His whole heart went out to her in thanks for her ready sympathy, and he had almost made up his mind to go and see her, as he had at first determined to do. He would have laughed very heartily at the idea of being in love, for he had never thought of himself in such a position. But he realized that he was fond of Josephine Thorn, that he was thinking of her a great deal, and that the thought was a comfort to him in his distress. He knew very well that he would find a great rest and refreshment in talking to her at present, and yet he could not decide to go to her. John was a man of calm manner and with plenty of hard practical sense, in spite of the great enthusiasm that burned like a fire within him, and that was the main string of his existence. But like all orators and men much accustomed to dealing with the passions of others, he was full of quick intuitions and instincts which rarely betrayed him. Something warned him not to seek her society, and though he said to himself that he was very far from being in love, the thought that he might someday find that he wished to marry her presented itself continually to his mind, and since John had elected to devote himself to celibacy and politics, there was nothing more repugnant to his whole life than the idea of marriage. At this juncture, while he was revolving in his mind what was best to be done, a telegram was brought to him. It was from Zee, and in briefest terms of authority, commanded John to hold himself ready to start for London at a moment's notice. It must have been dispatched within a few hours after receiving his own message of the night before, and considering the difference of time, must have been sent from London early in the afternoon. It was clearly an urgent case, and the Supreme Three had worked for John to do, even though he had not been made Senator. The order was a great relief. It solved all his uncertainty and scattered all his doubts to the wind. It gave him new courage and stimulated his curiosity. Zee had only sent for him twice before, and then only to call him from Boston or New York to Washington. It was clear that something of very great importance was likely to occur. His energy returned in full, with the anticipation of work to do, and of a journey to be made, and before night he was fully prepared to leave on receipt of his orders. His box was packed, and he had drawn the money necessary to take him to London. As for Joe, he could go and see her now if he pleased. In twenty-four hours he might be gone, never to see her again. But it was too late on that day he would go on the following morning. It was still the height of the Boston season, which is short but merry while it lasts. John had a dinner party, a musical evening, and a ball on his list for the evening, and he resolved that he would go to all three, and show himself bravely to the world. He was full of new courage and strength since he had received Zee's message, and he was determined that no one should know what he had suffered. The dinner passed pleasantly enough, and by ten o'clock he was at the musical party. There he found the Winoms and many other friends, but he looked in vain for Joe. She was not there. Before midnight he was at the dance, pushing his way through crowds of acquaintances, stumbling over loving couples ensconced on the landings of the stairs, and running against forlorn old ladies, whose mouths were full of ice-cream and their hearts of bitterness against the younger generation. And so, at last, he reached the ballroom, where everything that was youngest and most fresh was assembled, swaying and gliding, and backing and turning in the easy, graceful half-walk half-slide of the Boston steppe. As John stood looking on, Joe passed him, leaving the room on Mr. Topeka's arm. There was a little open space before her in the crowd, and Polcock Vancouver darted out with the evident intention of speaking to her. But as she caught sight of him, she turned suddenly away, pulling Mr. Topeka round by his arm. It was an extremely marked thing to do. As she turned, she unexpectedly came face to face with John, who had watched the manoeuvre. The color came quickly to her face, and she was slightly embarrassed. Nevertheless, she held out her hand and greeted John cordially. CHAPTER 18 I'm so glad to have found you, said John to Josephine, when the latter had disposed of Mr. Topeka. They had chosen a quiet corner in a dimly-lighted room away from the dancers. But I suppose it is useless to ask you for a dance. No, said Joe, looking at her card. I always leave two dances free in the middle of the evening, in case I am tired. We will set them out. Thank you, said John, looking at her. She looked pale and a little tired, but wonderfully lovely. Thank you, he repeated, and thank you also for your most kind note. I wish I could tell you better how very sorry I am, said Joe, impulsively. It is bad enough to look on and see such things done, but I should think you must be nearly distracted. I think I was at first, said John simply, but one soon grows used to it. Man is a vain animal, and I suppose no one could lose a fight as I have without being disappointed. If you were not disappointed it would be a sign you did not really care, answered Joe. And, of course, you must care—a great, great deal. It is a loss to your cause, as well as a loss to yourself. But you cannot possibly give up. You will win next time. Yes, said John, I hope I shall win some day. But his voice sounded uncertain. It lacked that determined ring that Joe loved so well. She felt, as she sat beside him, that he was deeply hurt, and needed fresh encouragement and strength to restore him to his old self. She longed to help him, and to rouse him once more to the consciousness of power and the hope of victory. It is my experience, said she, with an air of superiority that would have been amusing if she had spoken less earnestly. It is my experience that one should never think of anything in which one has come to grief. I know when one is going at a big thing—a double post in rails with the ditch, or anything like that, you know—it would never do to remember that you have come off at the same thing or at something else before. When a man is always remembering his last tumble, he has lost his nerve, and had better give up hunting altogether. Thinking that you may get an ugly fall will not help you over anything. No, said John, that is very true. You must forget all about it and begin again. You have missed one bird, but you are a good shot, and you will not miss the next. You are a most encouraging person, Miss Thorn, said John, with the faint smile. But you know the only test of a good shot is that one hits the mark. I have missed at the first trial, and that is no reason why I should not miss at the second, too. You are disappointed and unhappy now, said Joe gently. It is very natural indeed. Anybody would feel like that. But you must not believe in yourself any less than your friends believe in you. I fancy my friends do not all think alike, answered John, but I am grateful to you for what you say. He was indeed grateful, and the soothing sound of her gentle voice was the best refreshment for his troubled spirit. He thought for a moment how brave a man could be with such a woman by his side, and the thought pleased him, the more because he knew that it could not be realized. They sat in silence for a while, contented to be together, and in sympathy. But before long the anxiety for the future and the sense of his peculiar position came over John again. Do you know, he said, there are times when I regret it all very much. I never told anyone so before. Perhaps I was never so sure of it as I have been since this affair. What is it that you regret so much? asked Joe softly. It is a noble life. It is indeed, if only a man knows how to live it, answered John. But sometimes I think I do not. You once said a very true thing to me about it all. Do you remember? No, what was it? You said I should not succeed, because I am not enough of a partisan, and because everyone is a partisan here. Did I? Yes, I remember saying it. Answered Joe, secretly pleased, that he should not have forgotten it. I do not think it is so very true, after all. It is true today, but it is for men like you to set things right, to make partisanship a thing of the past. Men ought to make laws because they are just and necessary, not in order that they may profit by them at the expense of the rest of the world, and to have such good laws men ought to choose good men to represent them. There is no denying the truth of that, said John. That is the way to construct the ideal Republic. It would be the way to do a great many ideal things. You need only persuade humanity to do the right, and humanity will do it. Verily it is an easy task. He laughed a little bitterly. It is not like you to laugh in that way, said Joe gravely. No, to tell the truth, I am not over much inclined to laugh at anything today, accepting myself, and I dare say there are plenty of people who will do that for me without the asking. They will have no chance when I am gone. Joe started slightly. Gone, she repeated, are you going away? It is very likely, said John. A friend of mine has warned me to be ready to start at a moment's notice on a very important business. But it is uncertain, then, asked Joe quickly. She had turned very white in an instant, and she looked straight across the little room and pulled nervously at her fan. She would not have dared to let her eyes meet John's at that moment. Yes, rather uncertain, answered John, but he would not have sent me such a warning, unless it were very likely that he would really want me. Joe was silent. She could not speak. So you see, continued Harrington, I may leave tomorrow, and I cannot tell when I may come back. That is the reason I was glad to find you here. I would have called today if it had been possible after I got the message. He spoke calmly, not dreaming of the storm of fear and passion he was rousing in the heart of the fair girl beside him. Where—where are you going? asked Joe in a low voice. Probably to England, said John. Before the words were out of his mouth he turned and looked at her, suddenly realizing the change in her tones. But she had turned away from him. He could see the quiver of her lips and the beating throb of her beautiful throat. As he watched the outline of her cheek a tear stole slowly over the delicate skin and trembled and fell upon her white neck. But still she looked away. Ah, John Harrington, what have you done? You have taken the most precious and pure thing in this world, the thing men as brave as you have given their hearts best blood to win, and have perished for failing, the thing which angels guard and heaven has in its keeping, the love of a good and noble woman. It has come into your hands and you do not want it. You hardly know it is yours, and if you fully knew it you would not know what to do. You are innocent indeed. You have done nothing, spoken no word, given no look that in your opinion your cold and different opinion could attract a woman's love. But the harm is done nevertheless, and a great harm too. When you are old and sensible you will look back to this day as one of sorrow and evil, and you will know then that all greatness and power and glory of realized ambition are nothing unless a man have a woman's love. You will know that a man who cannot love is blind to half the world he seeks to conquer, and that a man who cannot love truly is no true man, for he who is not true to one cannot be true to many. That is the sum and reckoning of what love is worth. But John knew of nothing beyond friendship, and he could not conceive how friendship could turn into anything else. When he saw the tear on Josephine Thorne's cheek he was greatly disturbed, and vaguely wondered what in the world he should do. The idea that any woman could care enough for him to shed a tear when he left her had never crossed his mind. Even now, with the actual fact before his eyes, he doubted whether it were possible. She was ill perhaps, and suffering pain. Shaw it was absurd. It could not be that she cared so much for him. Seeing she did not move he sat quite still for a while. His usual tact had deserted him in the extremity of the situation. He revolved in his mind what was best to say. It was safest to suppose that Joe was ill, but he would say something indifferent in order to see whether she recovered before he suggested that he might be of assistance. It is cold here, he remarked, trying to speak as naturally as possible. Would you not like to take a turn, Miss Thorne? Joe moved a little. She was deadly pale, and in the effort she made to control her feelings she was unconscious of the tears in her eyes. Oh, no thanks! she faltered. I will not dance just now. She could not say more. John made up his mind. You are ill, Miss Thorne, he said anxiously. I am sure you are very far from well. Let me get you something, or call your aunt, shall I? Oh, no, don't. That is—please, I think so. I will go home. John rose quickly, but before he reached the door she called him back. Mr. Harrington, it is nothing. Please sit down. John came back and did as he was bid, more and more surprised and confused. I was afraid it was something serious, he said nervously, for he was greatly disturbed. Joe laughed, a bitter, harsh little laugh that was bad to hear. She was making a great effort, but she was strong and bravely forced back her bursting tears. Oh, no, I was only choking, she said. I often do. Go on, please, with what you were saying. Why are you going away so suddenly? Indeed, answered John, I do not know what the business is. I am going if I am required, simply because my friend wants me. Do you mean to say, as Joe speaking more calmly, that you will pack up your belongings and go to the end of the world whenever a friend asks you to? It is most tremendously obliging, you know. Not for any friend, John replied, but I would most certainly do it for this particular one. You must be very fond of him to do that, said Joe. I am under great obligations to him, too. He is certainly the most important man with whom I have any relations. We can trust each other. It would not do to endanger the certainty of good faith that exists between us. He must be a wonderful person, said Joe, who had grown quite calm by this time. I should like to know him. Very possibly you may meet him some day. He is a very wonderful person indeed, as you say. He has devoted fifty years of his life and strength to the unremitting pursuit of the best aim that any man can set before him. In other words, said Joe, he is your ideal. He is what you hope to be at his age. He must be very old. Yes, he is old. And for his representing my ideal, I think he approaches more nearly to it than any man alive. But you would probably not like him. Why? He belongs to a class of men whom old world people especially dislike, answered John. He does not believe in any monarchy, aristocracy, or distinction of birth. He looks upon titles as a decaying institution of barbarous ages. And he confidently asserts that in two or three generations the Republic will be the only form of social contract known amongst the inhabitants of the civilized world. John was watching Joe while he spoke. He was merely talking because it seemed necessary, and he saw that in spite of her assumed calm she was still greatly agitated. She seemed anxious, however, to continue the conversation. It is absurd, said she, to say that all men are born equal. Everything depends on what you mean by the word equal. I mean by it, that all men are born with an equal claim to a share in all the essential rights of free citizenship. When a man demands more than that, he is infringing on the rights of others. When he is content with less, he is allowing himself to be robbed. But who is to decide just how much belongs to each man? asked Joe, leaning back wearily against the cushions. She wished now that she had allowed him to call her aunt. It was a fearful strain on her faculties to continue talking upon general subjects and listening to John Harrington's calm, almost indifferent tones. The majority decides that, said John. But a majority has just decided that you are not to be senator, said Joe. According to you they were right, were they not? It is necessary that the majority should be free, said John, and that they should judge of themselves, each man according to his honest belief. Majorities with us are very frequently produced by a handful of dishonest men who can turn the scale on either side to suit their private ends. It is the aim we set before us to protect the freedom of majorities. That is the true doctrine of a republic. And for that aim, said Joe slowly, you would sacrifice everything? Yes, indeed we would, said John gravely. For that end we will sacrifice all that we have to give, the care for personal satisfaction, the hope of personal distinction, the peace of a home, and the love of a wife. We seek neither distinction nor satisfaction, and we renounce all ties that could hamper our strength or interfere with the persevering and undivided attention we try to give to our work. That is a magnificent program, said Joe, somewhat incredulously. Do you not think it is possible sometimes to aim too high? You say we seek, we try, as though there were several of you, or at least someone besides yourself. Do you believe that such ideas as you tell me of are really and seriously held by anybody of men? Nothing had seemed too high to Josephine an hour earlier, nothing too exalted, nothing so noble but that John Harrington might do it then and there. But a sudden change had come over her, the deadly cold phase of half melancholy unbelief that often follows close upon an unexpected disappointment, so that she looked with distaste on anything that seemed so full of the enthusiasm she had lost. The tears that had risen so passionately to her dimmed eyes were suddenly frozen, and seemed to flow back with chilling force to her heart. She coldly asked herself whether she were mad that she could have suffered thus for such a man, even ever so briefly. He was a man, she said, who loved an unattainable, fanatic idea in the first place, and who dearly loved himself as well for his own fanaticism's sake. He was a man in whom the heart was crushed, even annihilated by his intellect, which he valued far too highly, and by his vanity which he dignified into a philosophy of self-sacrifice. He was aiming at what no man can reach, and though he knew his object to be beyond human grasp, he desired all possible credit for having madly dreamed of anything so high. In the sudden revulsion of her strong passion she almost hated him, she almost felt the power to refute his theories, to destroy his edifice of fantastic morality, and finally to show him that he was a fool among men, and doubly a fool, because he was not even happy in his own folly. Joe vaguely felt all this, and with it she felt a sense of shame at having so nearly broken down at the news that he was going away. He had thought she was ill, most assuredly he could not have guessed the cause of what he had seen, but nevertheless she had suffered a keen pain, and the tears had come to her eyes. She did not understand it. He might leave her now, if he pleased, and she would not care. Indeed, it would be rather a relief if he would go. She no longer asked what she was to him. She simply reflected that, after all was said, he was nothing to her. She felt a quick antagonism to his ideas, to his words, and to himself, and she was willing to show it. She asked him incredulously whether his ideas were really held by others. It makes little difference, answered John, whether they are many or few who think as I do, and I cannot tell how many there may be. The truth is not made truth because many people believe it. The world went round, as Galileo knew, although he alone stood up and said it, in the face of mankind who scoffed at him for his pains. In other words, you occupy the position of Galileo, suggested Joe calmly. Not I, said John, but there are men, and there have been men, in our country who know truths as great as any he discovered, and who have spent their lives in proclaiming them. I know that they are right, and that I am right, and that, however we may fail, others will succeed at last. I know that, come what may, honor and truth and justice will win the day in the end. His gray eyes glittered as he spoke, and his broad white hands clasped nervously together in his enthusiasm. He was depressed and heartsick at his failure, but it needed only one word of opposition to rouse the strong main thought of his life into the most active expression. But Joe sat coldly by, her whole nature seemingly changed in the few minutes that had passed. And all this will be brought about by the measures you advocated the other day, said she with a little laugh, a civil service, a little tariff reform, that is enough to inaugurate the reign of honor, truth and justice. John turned his keen eyes upon hers. He had begun talking, because she had required it of him, and he had been roused by the subject. He remembered the sympathy she had given him, and he was annoyed at her caprice. Such things are the mere passing needs of a time, he said. The truth, justice and honor at which you are pleased to be amused, would ensure the execution at all times of what is right and needful. Without a foundation composed of the said truth, justice and honor, to get what is right and needful is often a matter so stupendous that the half of a nation's blood is drained in accomplishing the task. If even it is accomplished after all, I see nothing to laugh at. Indeed, Joe was only smiling faintly, but John was so deeply impressed and penetrated by the absolute truth of what he was saying, that he had altogether ceased to make any allowances for Joe's caprice of mood, or for the disturbance in her manner that he had so lately witnessed. He was beginning to be angry, and she had never seen him in such a mood. The world would be a very nice tiresome place to live in. She said, if everyone always did exactly what is absolutely right, I should not like to live among people who would be always so entirely padded and lined with goodness as they must be in your ideal republic. It is a favorite and characteristic notion of modern society to associate goodness with dullness, and consequently, I suppose, to connect badness with all that is gay, interesting, and diverting. There is nothing more perverted, absurd, and contemptible than that notion in the whole history of the world. John was not gentle with an idea when he despised it, and the adjectives fell in his clear utterance, like the blows of a sledgehammer. But as the idea he was abusing had been suggested by Joe, she resented the strong language. I am flattered that you should call anything I say by such bad names, she said. I am not good at arguing, and that sort of thing. If I were, I think I could answer you very easily. Will you please take me back to my aunt?" She rose in a somewhat stately fashion. John was suddenly aware that he had talked too much and too strongly, and he was very sorry to have displeased her. She had always let him talk, as he pleased, especially of late, and she had almost invariably agreed with him in everything he said, so that he had acquired too much confidence. At all events, that was the way he explained to himself the present difficulty. Please forgive me, Miss Thorn, he said humbly, as he gave her his arm to leave the room. I am a very sanguine person, and I often talk great nonsense. Please do not be angry. Joe paused, just as they reached the door. Angry? I am not angry, she said with sudden gentleness. Besides, you know, this is—you are really going away? I think so, said John. Then if you do—she said with some hesitation—if you do, this is good-bye, is it not? Yes, I am afraid it is, said John, but not for long. Not for long, perhaps, she answered, but I would not like you to think I was angry the very last time I saw you. No, indeed, I should be very sorry if you were, but you are not? No. Well, then—she held out her hand. Goodbye, then. She had almost hated him a few minutes ago. Half an hour earlier she had loved him. Now her voice faltered a little, but her face was calm. John took the proffered hand and grasped it warmly. With all her caprice, and despite the strange changes of her manner toward him, she had been a good friend in a bad time during the last days, and he was more sorry to leave her than he would himself have believed. Goodbye, he said, and thank you once more with all my heart for your friendship and kindness. Their hands remained clasped for a moment. Then she took his arm again, and he let her out of the dimly-lighted sitting-room, back among the brilliant dancers, and the noise and the music and the whirling crowd. End of Chapter 18