Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear,” she had said to Sybil the day previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room, reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten o’clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past.

  It was not quite ten o’clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time in his life.

  “Miss Schenectady?” said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly. He pronounced her name Schenectady, with a strong accent on the penultimate syllable.

  “Schenectady,” corrected his hostess. “I expect you are Mr. Surbiton.”

  “A–exactly so,” said Ronald, in some embarrassment.

  “Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton.” Miss Schenectady resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his hand.

  “Put your hat down,” said the old lady. “What sort of a journey did you have?”

  “Very fair, thanks,” said Ronald, depositing his hat on the floor beside him, “in fact I believe we came over uncommonly quick for the time of year. How is”–

  “What steamer did you come by?” interrupted Miss Schenectady.

  “The Gallia. She is one of the Cunarders. But as I was going to ask”–

  “Yes, an old boat, I expect. So you came on right away from New York without stopping?”

  “Exactly,” answered Ronald. “I took the first train. The fact is, I was so anxious–so very anxious to”–

  “What hotel are you at here?” inquired Miss Schenectady, without letting him finish.

  “Brunswick. How is Miss Thorn?” Ronald succeeded at last in putting the question he so greatly longed to ask–the only one, he supposed, which would cause a message to be sent to Joe announcing his arrival.

  “Joe? She is pretty well. I expect she will be down in a minute. Are you going to stay some while, Mr. Surbiton?”

  Ronald thought Miss Schenectady the most pitiless old woman he had ever met. In reality she had not the most remote intention of being anything but hospitable. But her idea of hospitality at a first meeting seemed to consist chiefly in exhibiting a great and inquisitive interest in the individual she wished to welcome. Besides, Joe would probably come down when she was ready, and so it was necessary to talk in the mean time. At last Ronald succeeded in asking another question.

  “Excuse the anxiety I show,” he said simply, “but may I ask whether Miss Thorn is at home?”

  “Perhaps if you rang the bell I could send for her,” remarked the old lady in problematic answer.

  “Oh, certainly!” exclaimed Ronald, springing to his feet, and searching madly round the room for the bell. Miss Schenectady watched him calmly.

  “I think if you went to the further side of the fire-place you would find it–back of the screen,” she suggested.

  “Thanks; here it is,” cried Ronald, discovering the handle in the wall.

  “Yes, you have found it now,” said Miss Schenectady with much indifference. “Perhaps you find it cold here?” she continued, observing that Ronald lingered near the fire-place.

  “Oh dear, no, thanks, quite the contrary,” he answered.

  “Because if it is you might–Sarah, I think you could tell Miss Josephine that Mr. Surbiton is in the parlor, could not you?”

  “Oh, if it is any inconvenience”–Ronald began, misunderstanding the form of address Miss Schenectady used to her handmaiden.

  “Why?” asked Miss Schenectady, in some astonishment.

  “Nothing,” said Ronald, looking rather confused; “I did not quite catch what you said.”

  There was a silence, and the old lady and the young man looked at each other.

  Ronald was a very handsome man, as Joe knew. He was tall and straight and deep-chested. His complexion was like a child’s, and his fine moustache like silk. His thick fair hair was parted accurately in the middle, and his smooth, white forehead betrayed no sign of care or thought. His eyes were blue and very bright, and looked fearlessly at every one and everything, and his hands were broad and clean-looking. He was perfectly well dressed, but in a fashion far less extreme than that affected by Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal. There was less collar and more shoulder to him, and his legs were longer and straighter than theirs. Nevertheless, had he stood beside John Harrington, no one would have hesitated an instant in deciding which was the stronger man. With all his beauty and grace, Ronald Surbiton was but one of a class of handsome and graceful men. John Harrington bore on his square brow and in the singular compactness of his active frame the peculiar sign-manual of an especial purpose. He would have been an exception in any class and in any age. It was no wonder Joe had wished to compare the two.

  In a few moments the door opened, and Joe entered the drawing-room. She was pale, and her great brown eyes had a serious expression in them that was unusual. There was something prim in the close dark dress she wore, and the military collar of most modern cut met severely about her throat. If Ronald had expected a very affectionate welcome he was destined to disappointment; Joe had determined not to be affectionate until all was over. To prepare him in some measure for what was in store, she had planned that he should be left alone for a time with Miss Schenectady, who, she thought, would chill any suitor to the bone.

  “My dear Ronald,” said Joe, holding out her hand, “I am so glad to see you.” Her voice was even and gentle, but there was no gladness in it.

  “Not half so glad as I am to see you,” said Ronald, holding her hand in his, his face beaming with delight. “It seems such an age since you left!”

  “It is only two months, though,” said Joe, with a faint smile. “I ought to apologize, but I suppose you have introduced yourself to Aunt Zoë.” She could not call her Aunt Zoruiah, even for the sake of frightening Ronald.

  “What did you think when you got my telegram?” asked the latter.

  “I thought it was very foolish of you to run away just when the hunting was so good,” answered Joe with decision.

  “But you are glad, are you not?” he asked, lowering his voice, and looking affectionately at her. Miss Schenectady was again absorbed in the life of Mr. Ticknor.

  “Yes,” said Joe, gravely. “It is as well that you have come, because I have something to say to you, and I should have had to write it. Let us go out. Would you like to go for a walk?”

  Ronald was delighted to do anything that would give him a chance of escaping from Aunt Zoruiah and being alone with Joe.

  “I think you had best be back to lunch,” remarked Miss Schenectady as they left the room.

  “Of course, Aunt Zoë,” answered Joe. “Besides, Sybil is coming, you know.” So they sallied forth.

  It was a warm day; the snow had melted from the brick pavement, and the great icicles on the gutters and on the trees were running water in the mid-day sun. Joe thought a scene would be better to get over in the publicity of the street than in private. Ronald, all unsuspecting of her intention, walked calmly by her side, looking at her occasionally with a certain pride, mixed with a good deal of sentimental benevolence.

  “Do you know,” Joe began presently, “when your cable came I felt very guilty at having written to you that you might come?”

  “Why?” asked Ronald, innocently. “You know I would come from the end of the world to see you. I have, in fact.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Joe wearily, wishing she knew exactly how to say what she was so thoroughly determined should be said.

  “What is the matter, Joe?” asked Ronald, suddenly. He smiled rather nervously, but his smooth brow was a little contracted. He anticipated mischief.

  “There i
s something the matter, Ronald,” she said at last, resolved to make short work of the revelation of her feelings. “There is something very much the matter.”

  “Well?” said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed.

  “You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought–honestly, I know you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me.”

  “Yes,” said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. “I have always thought so; I think so now.”

  “It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear,” said Joe, turning very pale. “I have thought of it too–thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot.” Her voice trembled violently. However firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say; she was so fond of him.

  “What?” asked Ronald hoarsely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than sorrow or deep pain.

  “Do not make me say it again,” said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly.

  “Do you mean to say,” said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then dropping his voice as he remembered the passers-by,–”do you mean to tell me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun of me.”

  “No, Ronald,” Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in the face of Surbiton’s wrath, “I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you.”

  Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing.

  “It is much better to be honest about it,” said Joe, still very pale; and when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ronald, who was serious by this time; “it is much better to be honest, now that you have brought me three thousand miles to hear what you have to say–much better. By all means.”

  “I am very sorry, Ronald,” Joe answered. “I really did not mean you to come, and I am very sorry,–oh, more sorry than I can tell you,–but I cannot do it, you know.”

  “If you won’t, of course you can’t,” he said. “Will you please tell me who he is?”

  “Who?–what?” asked Joe, coldly. She was offended at the tone.

  “The fellow you have pitched upon in my place,” he said roughly.

  Joe looked up into his face with an expression that frightened him. Her dark eyes flashed with an honest fire, He stared angrily at her as they walked slowly along.

  “I made a mistake,” she said slowly. “I am not sorry. I am glad. I would be ashamed to marry a man who could speak like that to any woman. I am sorry for you, but I am glad for myself.” She looked straight into his eyes, until he turned away. For some minutes they went on in silence.

  “I beg your pardon, Joe,” said Ronald presently, in a subdued tone.

  “Never mind, Ronald dear, I was angry,” Joe answered. But her eyes were full of tears, and her lips quivered.

  Again they went on in silence, but for a longer time than before. Joe felt that the blow was struck, and there was nothing to be done but to wait the result. It had been much harder than she had expected, because Ronald was so angry; she had expected he would be pained. He, poor fellow, was really startled out of all self-control. The idea that Joe could ever ultimately hesitate about marrying him had never seemed to exist, even among the remotest possibilities. But he was a gentleman in his way, and so he begged her pardon, and chewed the cud of his wrath in silence for some time.

  “Joe,” he said at last, with something of his usual calm, though he was still red, “of course you are really perfectly serious? I mean, you have thought about it?”

  “Yes,” said Joe; “I am quite sure.”

  “Then perhaps it is better we should go home,” he continued.

  “Perhaps so,” said Joe. “Indeed, it would be better.”

  “I would like to see you again, Joe,” he said in a somewhat broken fashion. “I mean, by and by, when I am not angry, you know.”

  Joe smiled at the simple honesty of the proposition.

  “Yes, Ronald dear, whenever you like. You are very good, Ronald,” she added.

  “No, I am not good at all,” said Ronald sharply, and they did not speak again until he left her at Miss Schenectady’s door. Then she gave him her hand.

  “I shall be at home until three o’clock,” said she.

  “Thanks,” he answered; so they parted.

  Joe had accomplished her object, but she was very far from happy. The consciousness of having done right did not outweigh the pain she felt for Ronald, who was, after all, her very dear friend. They had grown up together from earliest childhood, and so it had been settled; for Ronald was left an orphan when almost a baby, and had been brought up with his cousin as a matter of expediency. Therefore, as Joe said, it had always seemed so very natural. They had plighted vows when still in pinafores with a ring of grass, and later they had spoken more serious things, which it hurt Joe to remember, and now they were suffering the consequence of it all, and the putting off childish illusions was bitter.

  It was not long before Sybil Brandon came in answer to Joe’s invitation. She knew what trouble her friend was likely to be in, and was ready to do anything in the world to make matters easier for her. Besides, though Sybil was so white and fair, and seemingly cold, she had a warm heart, and had conceived a very real affection for the impulsive English girl. Miss Schenectady had retired to put on another green ribbon, leaving the life of Mr. Ticknor open on the table, and the two girls met in the drawing-room. Joe was still pale, and the tears seemed ready to start from her eyes.

  “Dear Sybil–it is so good of you to come,” said she.

  Sybil kissed her affectionately and put her arm round her waist. They stood thus for a moment before the fire.

  “You have seen him?” Sybil asked presently. Joe had let her head rest wearily against her friend’s shoulder, and nodded silently in answer. Sybil bent down and kissed her soft hair, and whispered gently in her ear,–”Was it very hard, dear?”

  “Oh, yes–indeed it was!” cried Joe, hiding her face on Sybil’s breast. Then, as though ashamed of seeming weak, she stood up boldly, turning slightly away as she spoke. “It was dreadfully hard,” she continued; “but it is all over, and it is very much better–very, very much, you know.”

  “I am so glad,” said Sybil, looking thoughtfully at the fire. “And now we will go out into the country and forget all about it–all about the disagreeable part of it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Joe, who had recovered her equanimity, “Ronald may come too. You see he is so used to me that after a while it will not seem to make so very much difference after all.”

  “Of course, if he would,” said Sybil, “it would be very nice. He will have to get used to the idea, and if he does not begin at once, perhaps he never may.”

  “He will be just the same as ever when he gets over his wrath,” answered Joe confidently.

  “Was he very angry?”

  “Oh, dreadfully! I never saw him so angry.”

  “It is better when men are angry than when they are sorry,” said Sybil. “Something like this once happened to me, and he got over it very well. I think it was much more my fault, too,” she added thoughtfully.

  “Oh, I am sure you never did anything bad in your life,” said Joe affectionately. “Nothing half so bad as this–my dear Snow Angel!” And so they kissed again and went to lunch.

  “I suppose you went to walk,” remarked Miss Schenectady, when they met at table.

  “Yes,” said Joe, “we walked a little.”

  “Well, all Englishmen walk, of course,” continued her aunt.

  “Most of them can,” said Joe, smiling.

  “I mean, it is a great deal the right thing there. Perhaps you might
pass me the pepper.”

  Before they had finished their meal the door opened, and Ronald Surbiton entered the room.

  “Oh–excuse me,” he began, “I did not know”–

  “Oh, I am so glad you have come, Ronald,” cried Joe, rising to greet him, and taking his hand. “Sybil, let me introduce Mr. Surbiton–Miss Brandon.”

  Sybil smiled and bent her head slightly. Ronald bowed and sat down between Sybil and Miss Schenectady.

  Chapter IX.

  JOSEPHINE THORN NEVER read newspapers, partly because she did not care for the style of literature known as journalistic, and partly, too, because the papers always came at such exceedingly inconvenient hours. If she had possessed and practiced the estimable habit of “keeping up with the times,” she would have observed an article which appeared on the morning after the skating party, and which dealt with the speech John Harrington had made in the Music Hall two days previous. Miss Schenectady had read it, but she did not mention it to Joe, because she believed in John Harrington, and wished Joe to do likewise, wherefore she avoided the subject; for the article treated him roughly. Nevertheless, some unknown person sent Joe a copy of the paper through the post some days later, with a bright red pencil mark at the place, and Joe, seeing what the subject was, read it with avidity. As she read, her cheek flushed, her small mouth closed like a vise, and she stamped her little foot upon the floor.

  It was evident that the writer was greatly incensed at the views expressed by John, and he wrote with an ease and a virulence which proclaimed a practiced hand. “The spectacle of an accomplished Democrat,” said the paper, “is always sufficiently unusual to attract attention: but to find so rare a bird among ourselves is indeed a novel delight. The orator who alternately enthralled and insulted a considerable audience at the Music Hall, two nights ago, laid a decided claim both to accomplishment and to democracy. He himself informed his hearers that he was a Democrat; and, indeed, it was necessary that he should state his position, for it would have been impossible to decide from the tone and quality of his opinions whether he were a socialist, a reformer, a conservative, or an Irishman. Perchance he has discovered the talisman by which it is possible for a man to be all four, and yet to be a man, Furthermore, he claims to be an orator. No one could listen to the manifold intonations of his voice, or witness the declamatory evolutions of his body, without feeling an inward conviction that the gentleman on the platform intended to present himself to us as an orator.