Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You are a dear, silly old thing,” said his cousin affectionately, “and I will say it as much as I please. It is ever so much better, because we can always be like brother and sister now, and we shall not marry and quarrel over everything till we hate each other.”

  “I think you are very heartless, all the same,” said Ronald.

  “Listen to me, Ronald” —

  “You will go and marry one of these middle-aged people with red hair”–

  “Be quiet,” said Joe, stamping her little foot. “Listen to me. I will not marry you because I like you and I do not love you, and I never mean to marry any middle-aged person. I shall not marry at all, most probably. Will you please to imagine what life would have been like if we had married first, and found out afterwards that we had made a mistake.”

  “Of course that would have been awful,” said Ronald. “But then it would not be a mistake, because I love you–like anything, Joe!”

  “Oh, nonsense! You are quite mistaken, my dear boy, because some day you will fall desperately in love with some one else, and you will like me just as much as ever”–

  “Of course I should,” said Ronald indignantly. “Nothing would ever make any difference at all!”

  “But, Ronald,” retorted Joe laughing, “if you were desperately in love with some one else, how could you still be just as fond of me?”

  “I don’t know, but I should,” said Ronald. “Besides, it is absurd, for I shall never love any one else.”

  “We shall see; but of course if you never do, we shall always be just the same as we are now.”

  “Well–that would not be so bad, you know,” said Ronald with a certain air of resignation.

  After this conversation Ronald became reconciled to the situation. Joe’s remark that he would be able to love some one else very much without being–any the less fond of herself made him reflect, and he came to the conclusion that the case was conceivable after all. He therefore agreed within himself that he would think no more about the matter for the present, but would take what came in his way, and trust that Joe would ultimately change her mind. But he went to Mrs. Wyndham’s that evening with a firm determination to dislike John Harrington to the best of his ability.

  A middle-aged man with red hair! Five-and-thirty was undoubtedly middle-age. Short, too. But Joe had blushed, and there was no doubt about it; this was the man who had won her affections. Ronald would hate him cordially.

  But John refused to be hated. His manner was easy and courteous, but not gentle. He was evidently no lady’s man. He talked to the men more than to the women, and he was utterly without affectation. Indeed, he was not in the least like what Ronald had expected.

  Moreover, Ronald was seated next to Sybil Brandon at dinner, and drove every one away who tried to disturb the tête-à-tête he succeeded in procuring with her afterwards. He was surprised at his own conduct, but he somehow connected it in his mind with his desire to hate Harrington. It was not very clear to himself, and it certainly would have been incomprehensible to any one else, but the presence of Harrington stimulated him in his efforts to amuse Miss Brandon.

  Sybil, too, in her quiet way, was very willing to be amused, and she found in Ronald Surbiton an absolute freshness of ideas that gave her a new sense of pleasure. Her affair with Vancouver had made a deep impression on her mind, and her mother’s death soon afterwards had had the effect of withdrawing her entirely from the world. It was no wonder, therefore, that she liked this young Englishman, so different from most of the men she knew best. It was natural, too, that he should want to talk to her, for she was the only young girl present. At last, as Ronald began to feel that intimacy which sometimes grows out of a simple conversation between two sympathetic people, he turned to the subject he had most in mind, if not most in his heart.

  “You and my cousin are very intimate, Miss Brandon, I believe?” he said.

  “Yes–I have grown very fond of her in a few weeks.” Sybil wondered whether Ronald was going to make confidences. It seemed to her rather early in the acquaintance.

  “Yes, she told me,” said Ronald. “She is very fond of you, too; I went to see her this morning.”

  “I suppose you go every day,” said Sybil, smiling.

  “No–not every day,” answered Ronald. “But this morning I was asking her about some of the people here. She seems to know every one.”

  “Yes indeed, she is immensely popular. Whom did she tell you about?”

  “Oh–Mrs. Wyndham, and Mr. Wyndham, and Mr. Vancouver, and Mr. Harrington. He is immensely clever, she says,” added Ronald, with a touch of irony in his voice. “What do you think about him, Miss Brandon?”

  “I cannot judge very well,” said Sybil. “He is a great friend of mine, and I do not care in the least whether my friends are clever or not.”

  “Joe does,” said Ronald. “She hates stupid people. She is very clever too, you know, and so I suppose she is right about Harrington.”

  “Oh yes; I was only speaking of myself,” answered Sybil. “He is probably the strongest man in this part of the world.”

  “He looks strong,” said Ronald, who was a judge of athletes.

  “I mean in the way of brains,” said Sybil. “But he is more than that, for he is so splendidly honest.”

  “But lots of people are honest,” said Ronald, who did not want to concede too much to the man he meant to dislike.

  “Perhaps, but not so much as he is. I do not believe John Harrington ever in his life said anything that could possibly convey a false impression, or ever betrayed a confidence.” Sybil looked calmly across the room at John, who was talking earnestly to Sam Wyndham.

  “But has he no defects at all? What a model of faultlessness!” exclaimed Ronald.

  “People say he is self-centred, whatever that may mean. He is certainly a very ambitious man, but his ambitions are large, and he makes no secret of them. He will make a great stir in the world some day.”

  Ronald would have liked to ask about Vancouver also, but he fortunately remembered what Joe had told him that morning, and did not ask his questions of Sybil. But he went home that night wondering what manner of man this Harrington might be, concerning whom such great things were said. He was conscious also that he had not been very wise in what he had asked of Sybil, and he was dissatisfied at not having heard anything about the friendship that existed between Harrington and Joe. But on the whole he had enjoyed the evening very much–almost too much, when he remembered the things Joe had said to him in the morning. It ought not to be possible, he thought, for a jilted lover to look so pleasantly on life.

  “Well,” said Sam Wyndham to his wife when everybody was gone, and he had lit a big cigar; “well, it was a pleasant kind of an evening, was not it?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Sam, sitting down in a low easy-chair for a chat with her husband. “What a nice boy that young Englishman is.”

  “I was just going to say so,” said Sam. “He made himself pretty comfortable with Sybil, did he not? I could not help thinking they looked a very pretty pair as they sat in that corner. What is he?”

  “He is Miss Thorn’s cousin. Sam, you really must not drop your ashes on the carpet. There are no end of saucers and things about.”

  “Oh, bother the carpet, my dear,” said Sam good-naturedly; “tell me about that young fellow–what is his name?–Surbiton, is not it?”

  “Yes–well, there is not very much to tell. He is here traveling for amusement, just like any other young Englishman. For my part I expected he had come here to marry his cousin, because Englishmen always marry their cousins. But Sybil says it is not true.”

  “How does she come to know?” inquired Sam, rolling his cigar in his mouth and looking at the ceiling.

  “I suppose Miss Thorn told her. She ought to know, any way.”

  “Well, one would think so. By the way, this election is going to turn out a queer sort of a business, I expect. John says the only thing that is doubtful is that fellow Pa
trick Ballymolloy and his men. Now is not that just about the queerest thing you ever heard of? A set of Irishmen in the Legislature who are not sure they can manage to vote for a Democratic senator?”

  “Yes, that is something altogether new,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “But it seems so funny that John should come telling you all about his election, when you are such a Republican, and would go straight against him if you had anything to say about it.”

  “Oh, he knows I don’t vote or anything,” said Sam.

  “Of course you don’t vote, because you are not in the Legislature. But if you did, you would go against him, would not you?”

  “Well, I am not sure,” answered Sam in a drawl of uncertainty. “I tell you what it is, my dear, John Harrington is not such a bad Republican after all, though he is a Democrat. And it is my belief he could call himself a Republican, and could profess to believe just the same things as he does now, if he only took a little care.”

  Chapter XIII

  A COUNCIL OF three men sat in certain rooms, in Conduit Street, London. There was nothing whatever about the bachelor’s front room overlooking the thoroughfare to suggest secrecy, nor did any one of the three gentlemen who sat in easy-chairs, with cigars in their mouths, in any way resemble a conspirator. They were neither masked nor wrapped in cloaks, but wore the ordinary garb of fashionably civilized life. For the sake of clearness and convenience, they can be designated as X, Y, and Z. X was the president on the present occasion, but the office was not held permanently, devolving upon each of the three in succession at each successive meeting.

  X was a man sixty years of age, clean-shaved, with smooth iron-gray hair and bushy eyebrows, from beneath which shone a pair of preternaturally bright blue eyes. His face was of a strong, even, healthy red; he was stout, but rather thick and massive than corpulent; his hands were of the square type, with thick straight fingers and large nails, the great blue veins showing strongly through the white skin. He was dressed in black, as though in mourning, and his clothes fitted smoothly over his short heavy figure.

  Y was very tall and slight, and it was not easy to make a guess at his age, for his hair was sandy and thick, and his military moustache concealed the lines about his mouth. His forehead was high and broad, and the extreme prominence between his brows made his profile look as though the facial angles were reversed, as in certain busts of Greek philosophers. His fingers were well shaped, but extremely long and thin. He wore the high collar of the period, with a white tie fastened by a pin consisting of a single large pearl, and it was evident that the remainder of his dress was with him a subject of great attention. Y might be anywhere from forty to fifty years of age.

  Z was the eldest of the three, and in some respects the most remarkable in appearance. He was well proportioned, except that his head seemed large for his body. His face was perfectly colorless, and his thin hair was white and long and disorderly. A fringe of snowy beard encircled his throat like a scarf, but his lips and cheeks were clean-shaved. The dead waxen whiteness of his face was thrown into startling relief by his great black eyes, in which there was a depth and a fire when he was roused that contrasted strongly with his aged appearance. His dress was simple in the extreme, and of the darkest colors.

  The three sat in their easy-chairs round the coal fire. It was high noon in London, and the weather was moderately fine; that is to say, it was possible to read in the room without lighting the gas. X held a telegram in his hand.

  “This is a perfectly clear case against us,” he remarked in a quiet, business-like manner.

  “It has occurred at such an unfortunate time,” said Y, who spoke very slowly and distinctly, with an English accent.

  “We shall do it yet,” said Z, confidently.

  “Gentlemen,” said the president, “it will not do to hesitate. There is an individual in this case who will not let the grass grow under his feet. His name is Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. We all know about him, I expect?”

  “I know him very well indeed,” said old Z. “It was I who put him in the book.” He rose quickly and took a large volume from a shelf near by. It was a sort of ledger, with the letters of the alphabet printed on the cut edges of the leaves.

  “I don’t believe Y knows him,” said the president. “Please read him to us.” Z turned over the leaves quickly.

  “B–Bally–Ballymolloy-Patrick–Yes,” he said, finding the place. “Patrick Ballymolloy. Irish iron man. Boston, Mass. Drinks. Takes money from both sides. Voted generally Democratic ticket. P.S. 1882, opposed B. in election for Governor. Iron interest increased. P.S. 1883, owns twenty votes in House. Costs more than he did. That is all,” said Z, shutting up the book.

  “Quite enough,” said the president. “Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy and his twenty votes will bother us. What a pity J.H. made that speech!”

  “It appears that as Patrick has grown rich, Patrick has grown fond of protection, then,” remarked Y, crossing one long leg over the other.

  “Exactly,” said Z. “That is it. Now the question is, who owns Patrick? Anybody know?”

  “Whoever can pay for him, I expect,” said the president.

  “Now I have an idea,” said the old man suddenly, and again he dived into the book. “Did either of you ever know a man called Vancouver?”

  “Yes–I know all about him,” said Y, and a contemptuous smile hinted beforehand what he thought of the man.

  “I made an entry about him the other day,” said the president. “You will find a good deal against his name.”

  “Here he is,” said Z again. “Pocock Vancouver. Railways. Rep. Boston, Mass. Was taxed in 1870 for nearly a million dollars. Weak character, very astute. Takes no money. Believed to be dissipated, but he cleverly conceals it. Never votes. Has extensive financial interests. 1880, taxed for nearly three millions. 1881, paid ten thousand dollars to Patrick Ballymolloy (D) for carrying a motion for the Monadminck Railroad (see Railroads). 1882, voted for Butler”–

  “Hollo!” exclaimed the president.

  “Wait,” said Z, “there is more. 1883, thought to be writer of articles against J.H. in Boston ‘Daily Standard.’ Subsequently confirmed by J.H. That is all.”

  “Yes,” said the president, “that last note is mine. Harrington wired it yesterday with other things. But I was hurried and did not read his old record. Things could not be much worse. You see Harrington has no book with him, or he would know all this, and be on the lookout.”

  “Has he figured it out?” inquired Y.

  “Yes, he has figured it out. He is a first-rate man, and he has the whole thing down cold. Ballymolloy and his twenty votes will carry the election, and if Vancouver cares he can buy Mr. Ballymolloy as he has done before. He does care, if he is going to take the trouble to write articles against J.H., depend upon it.”

  “Well, there is nothing for it,” said Z, who, in spite of his age, was the most impulsive of the three. “We must buy Ballymolloy ourselves, with his twenty men.”

  “I think that would be a mistake,” said the president.

  “Do you?” said Z. “What do you say?” he asked, turning to Y.

  “Nothing,” replied Y.

  “Then we will argue it, I suppose,” said Z.

  “Certainly,” said the president. “I will begin.” He settled himself in his chair and knocked the ashes from his cigar.

  “I will begin by stating the exact position,” he said. “In the first place this whole affair is accidental, resulting from the death of the junior senator. No one could foresee this event. We had arranged to put in John Harrington at the regular vacancy next year, and we are now very busy with a most important business here in London. If we were on the spot, as one of us could have been had we known that the senator would die, it would have been another matter. This thing will be settled by next Saturday at the latest, but probably earlier. I am opposed to buying Ballymolloy, because it is an uncertain purchase. He has taken money from both sides, and if he has the chance he will do it again. If we were pres
ent it would be different, for we could hold him to his bargain.

  “We do not like buying, and we only do it in very urgent cases, and when we are certain of the result. To buy without certainty is simply to begin a system of reckless bribery, which is exactly what we want to put down. Moreover, it is a bad plan to bribe a man who is interested in iron. The man in that business ought to be with us any way, without anything but a little talking to. When you have stated any reasons to the contrary I will tell you what I propose instead. That is all.”

  During the president’s little speech, Y and Z had listened attentively. When he had finished, Z turned in his chair and took his cigar from his lips.

  “I think,” said Z, “that the case is urgent. The question is just about coming to a head, and we want all the men we can get at any price. It will not do to let a chance slip. If we can put J.H. in the senate now, we may put another man in at the vacancy. That makes two men instead of one. I am aware that it would be an improbable thing to get two of our men in for Massachusetts; but I believe it can be done, and for that reason I think we ought to make an effort to get J.H. in now. It may cost something, but I do not believe it is uncertain. I expect Vancouver is not the sort of man to spend much just for the sake of spite. The question of buying as a rule is another matter. None of us want that; but if the case is urgent I think there is no question about its being right. Of course it is a great pity J.H. said anything about protection in that speech. He did not mean to, but he could not help it, and at all events he had no idea his election was so near. If we are not certain of the result, J.H. ought to withdraw, because it will injure his chance at the vacancy to have him defeated now. That is all I have to say.”

  “I am of opinion,” said the president, “that our best plan is to let John Harrington take his chance. You know who his opponent is, I suppose?”

  “Ira C. Calvin,” said Y and Z together.