An American Politician

F >> F. Marion Crawford >> An American Politician

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Tiffany Vergon, Marvin A. Hodges, Curtis A. Weyant, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team

AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN

_A Novel_

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD

AUTHOR OF "MR. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS,"
"A ROMAN SINGER," "TO LEEWARD,"
ETC.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND,
ELIZABETH CHRISTOPHERS HOBSON,
IN GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION, I DEDICATE THIS STORY.

CONSTANTINOPLE, _October 7,1884._

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. Sam Wyndham was generally at home after five o'clock. The established
custom whereby the ladies who live in Beacon Street all receive their
friends on Monday afternoon did not seem to her satisfactory. She was
willing to conform to the practice, but she reserved the right of seeing
people on other days as well.

Mrs. Sam Wyndham was never very popular. That is to say, she was not one
of those women who are seemingly never spoken ill of, and are invited as a
matter of course, or rather as an element of success, to every dinner,
musical party, and dance in the season.

Women did not all regard her with envy, all young men did not think she
was capital fun, nor did all old men come and confide to her the
weaknesses of their approaching second childhood. She was not invariably
quoted as the standard authority on dress, classical music, and Boston
literature, and it was not an unpardonable heresy to say that some other
women might be, had been, or could be, more amusing in ordinary
conversation. Nevertheless, Mrs. Sam Wyndham held a position in Boston
which Boston acknowledged, and which Boston insisted that foreigners such
as New Yorkers, Philadelphians and the like, should acknowledge also in
that spirit of reverence which is justly due to a descent on both sides
from several signers of the Declaration of Independence, and to the wife
of one of the ruling financial spirits of the aristocratic part of Boston
business.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Wyndham was about forty years of age, as all her
friends of course knew; for it is as easy for a Bostonian to conceal a
question of age as for a crowned head. In a place where one half of
society calls the other half cousin, and went to school with it, every one
knows and accurately remembers just how old everybody else is. But Mrs.
Wyndham might have passed for younger than she was among the world at
large, for she was fresh to look at, and of good figure and complexion.
Her black hair showed no signs of turning gray, and her dark eyes were
bright and penetrating still. There were lines in her face, those
microscopic lines that come so abundantly to American women in middle age,
speaking of a certain restless nervousness that belongs to them
especially; but on the whole Mrs. Sam Wyndham was fair to see, having a
dignity of carriage and a grace of ease about her that at once gave the
impression of a woman thoroughly equal to the part she had to play in the
world, and not by any means incapable of enjoying it.

For the rest, Mrs. Sam led a life very much like the lives of many rich
Americans. She went abroad frequently, wandered about the continent with
her husband, went to Egypt and Algiers, stayed in England, where she had a
good many friends, avoided her countrymen and countrywomen when away from
home, and did her duty in the social state to which she was called in
Boston.

She read the books of the period, and generally pronounced them
ridiculous; she believed in her husband's politics, and aristocratically
approved the way in which he abstained from putting theory into practice,
from voting, and in a general way from dirtying his fingers with anything
so corrupt as government, or so despicable as elections; she understood
Boston business to some extent, and called it finance, but she despised
the New York Stock Market and denounced its doings as gambling. She made
fine distinctions, but she was a woman of sense, and was generally more
likely to be right than wrong when she had a definite opinion, or
expressed a definite dislike. Her religious views were simple and
unobtrusive, and never changed.

Her custom of being at home after five o'clock was perhaps the only
deviation she allowed herself from the established manners of her native
city, and since two or three other ladies had followed her example, it had
come to be regarded as a perfectly harmless idiosyncrasy for which she
could not properly be blamed. The people who came to see her were chiefly
men, except, of course, on the inevitable Monday.

A day or two before Christmas, then, Mrs. Sam Wyndham was at home in the
afternoon. The snow lay thick and hard outside, and the sleigh bells
tinkled unceasingly as the sleighs slipped by the window, gleaming and
glittering in the deep red glow of the sunset. The track was well beaten
for miles away, down Beacon Street and across the Milldam to the country,
and the pavements were strewn with ashes to give a foothold for
pedestrians.

For the frost was sharp and lasting. But within, Mrs. Wyndham sat by the
fire with a small table before her, and one companion by her side, for
whom she was pouring tea.

"Tell me all about your summer, Mr. Vancouver," said she, teasing the
flame of the spirit-lamp into better shape with a small silver instrument.

Mr. Pocock Vancouver leaned back in his corner of the sofa and looked at
the fire, then at the window, and finally at his hostess, before he
answered. He was a pale man and slight of figure, with dark eyes, and his
carefully brushed hair, turning gray at the temples and over his forehead,
threw his delicate, intelligent face into relief.

"I have not done much," he answered, rather absently, as though trying to
find something interesting in his reminiscences; and he watched Mrs.
Wyndham as she filled a cup. He was not the least anxious to talk, it
seemed, and he had an air of being thoroughly at home.

"You were in England most of the time, were you not?"

"Yes--I believe I was. Oh, by the bye, I met Harrington in Paris; I
thought he meant to stay at home."

"He often goes abroad," said Mrs. Wyndham indifferently. "One lump of
sugar?"

"Two, if you please--no cream--thanks. Does he go to Paris to convert the
French, or to glean materials for converting other people?" inquired Mr.
Vancouver languidly.

"I am sure I cannot tell you," answered the lady, still indifferently.
"What do you go to Paris for?"

"Principally to renew my acquaintance with civilized institutions and
humanizing influences. What does anybody go abroad for?"

"You always talk like that when you come home, Mr. Vancouver," said Mrs.
Wyndham. "But nevertheless you come back and seem to find Boston bearable.
It is not such a bad place after all, is it?"

"If it were not for half a dozen people here, I would never come back at
all," said Mr. Vancouver. "But then, I am not originally one of you, and I
suppose that makes a difference."

"And pray, who are the half dozen people who procure us the honor of your
presence?"

"You are one of them, Mrs. Wyndham," he answered, looking at her.

"I am much obliged," she replied, demurely. "Any one else?"

"Oh--John Harrington," said Vancouver with a little laugh.

"Really?" said Mrs. Wyndham, innocently; "I did not know you were such
good friends."

Mr. Vancouver sipped his tea in silence for a moment and stared at the
fire.

"I have a great respect for Harrington," he said at last. "He interests me
very much, and I like to meet him." He spoke seriously, as though
thoroughly in earnest. The faintest look of amusement came to Mrs.
Wyndham's face for a moment.

"I am glad of that," she said; "Mr. Harrington is a very good friend of
mine. Do you mind lighting those candles? The days are dreadfully short."

Pocock Vancouver rose with alacrity and performed the service required.

"By the way," said Mrs. Wyndham, watching him, "I have a surprise for
you."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, an immense surprise. Do you remember Sybil Brandon?"

"Charlie Brandon's daughter? Very well--saw her at Newport some time ago.
Lily-white style--all eyes and hair."

"You ought to remember her. You used to rave about her, and you nearly
ruined yourself in roses. You will have another chance; she is going to
spend the winter with me."

"Not really?" ejaculated Mr. Vancouver, in some surprise, as he again sat
down upon the sofa.

"Yes; you know she is all alone in the world now."

"What? Is her mother dead too?"

"She died last spring, in Paris. I thought you knew."

"No," said Vancouver, thoughtfully. "How awfully sad!"

"Poor girl," said Mrs. Wyndham; "I thought it would do her good to be
among live people, even if she does not go out."

"When is she coming?" There was a show of interest about the question.
"She is here now," answered Mrs. Sam.

"Dear me!" said Vancouver. "May I have another cup?" His hostess began the
usual series of operations necessary to produce a second cup of tea.

"Mrs. Wyndham," began Vancouver again after a pause, "I have an idea--do
not laugh, it is a very good one, I am sure."

"I am not laughing."

"Why not marry Sibyl Brandon to John Harrington?"

Mrs. Wyndham stared for a moment.

"How perfectly ridiculous!" she cried at last.

"Why?"

"They would starve, to begin with."

"I doubt it," said Vancouver.

"Why, I am sure Mr. Harrington never had more than five thousand a year in
his life. You could not marry on that, you know--possibly."

"No; but Miss Brandon is very well off--rich, in fact."

"I thought she had nothing."

"She must have thirty or forty thousand a year from her mother, at the
least. You know Charlie never did anything in his life; he lived on his
wife's money, and Miss Brandon must have it all."

Mrs. Wyndham did not appear surprised at the information; she hardly
seemed to think it of any importance.

"I knew she had something," she repeated; "but I am glad if you are right.
But that does not make it any more feasible to marry her to Mr.
Harrington."

"I thought that starvation was your objection," said Vancouver.

"Oh, no; not that only. Besides, he would not marry her."

"He would be very foolish not to, if he had the chance," remarked
Vancouver.

"Perhaps he might not even have the chance--perhaps she would not marry
him," said Mrs. Wyndham, thoughtfully. "Besides, I do not think John
Harrington ought to marry yet; he has other things to do."

Mr. Vancouver seemed about to say something in answer, but he checked
himself; possibly he did not speak because he saw some one enter the room
at that moment, and was willing to leave the discussion of John Harrington
to a future time.

In fact, the person who entered the room should have been the very last to
hear the conversation that was taking place, for it was Miss Brandon
herself, though Mr. Vancouver had not recognized her at once.

There were greetings and hand-shakings, and then Miss Brandon sat down by
the fire and spread out her hands as though to warm them. She looked white
and cold.

There are women in the world, both young and old, who seem to move among
us like visions from another world, a world that is purer and fairer, and
more heavenly than this one in which the rest of us move. It is hard to
say what such women have that marks them so distinctly; sometimes it is
beauty, sometimes only a manner, often it is both. It is very certain that
we know and feel their influence, and that many men fear it as something
strange and contrary to the common order of things, a living reproach and
protest against all that is base and earthly and badly human.

Most people would have said first of Sybil Brandon that she was cold, and
many would have added that she was beautiful. Ill-natured people sometimes
said she was deathly. No one ever said she was pretty. Vancouver's
description--lily-white, all eyes and hair--certainly struck the principal
facts of her appearance, for her skin was whiter than is commonly natural,
her eyes were very deep and large and blue, and her soft brown hair seemed
to be almost a burden to her from its great quantity. She was dressed
entirely in black, and being rather tall and very slight of figure, the
dress somewhat exaggerated the ethereal look that was natural to her. She
seemed cold, and spread out her delicate hands to the bright flame of the
blazing wood-fire. Mrs. Wyndham and Pocock Vancouver looked at her in
silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Wyndham rose with a cup of tea in her
hand, and crossed to the other side of the fireplace where Sybil was
sitting and offered it to her.

"Poor Sybil, you are so cold. Drink some tea." The elder woman sat down by
the young girl, and lightly kissed her cheek. "You must not be sad,
darling," she whispered sympathetically.

"I am not sad at all, really," answered Miss Brandon aloud, quite
naturally, but pressing Mrs. Wyndham's hand a little, as though in
acknowledgment of her sympathy.

"No one can be sad in Boston," said Vancouver, putting in a word. "Our
city is altogether too wildly gay." He laughed a little.

"You must not make fun of us to visitors, Mr. Vancouver," answered Mrs.
Wyndham, still holding Sybil's hand.

"It is Mr. Vancouver's ruling passion, though he never acknowledges it,"
said Miss Brandon, calmly. "I remember it of old."

"I am flattered at being remembered," said Mr. Vancouver, whose delicate
features betrayed neither pleasure nor interest, however. "But," he
continued, "I am not particularly flattered at being called a scoffer at
my own people--"

"I did not say that," interrupted Miss Brandon.

"Well, you said my ruling passion was making fun of Boston to visitors; at
least, you and Mrs. Wyndham said it between you. I really never do that,
unless I give the other side of the question as well."

"What other side?" asked Mrs. Sam, who wanted to make conversation.

"Boston," said Vancouver with some solemnity. "It is not more often
ridiculous than other great institutions."

"You simply take one's breath away, Mr. Vancouver," said Mrs. Wyndham,
with a good deal of emphasis. "The idea of calling Boston 'an
institution!'"

"Why, certainly. The United States are only an institution after all. You
could not soberly call us a nation. Even you could not reasonably be moved
to fine patriotic phrases about your native country, if your ancestors had
signed twenty Declarations of Independence. We live in a great
institution, and we have every right to flatter ourselves on the success
of its management; but in the long run this thing will not do for a
nation."

Miss Brandon looked at Vancouver with a sort of calm incredulity. Mrs.
Wyndham always quarreled with him on points like the one now raised, and
accordingly took up the cudgels.

"I do not see how you can congratulate yourself on the management of your
institution, as you call it, when you know very well you would rather die
than have anything to do with it."

"Very true. But then, you always say that gentlemen should not touch
anything so dirty as politics, Mrs. Wyndham," retorted Vancouver.

"Well, that just shows that it is not an institution at all, and that you
are quite wrong, and that we are a great nation supported and carried on
by real patriotism."

"And the Irish and German votes," added Vancouver, with that scorn which
only the true son of freedom can exhibit in speaking of his fellow-
citizens.

"Oh, the Irish vote! That is always the last word in the argument,"
answered Mrs. Sam.

"I do not see exactly what the Irish have to do with it," remarked Miss
Brandon, innocently. She did not understand politics.

Vancouver glanced at the clock and took his hat.

"It is very simple," he said, rising to go. "It is the bull in the china
shop--the Irish bull amongst the American china--dangerous, you know. Good
evening, Mrs. Wyndham; good evening, Miss Brandon." And he took his leave.
Miss Brandon watched his slim figure disappear through the heavy curtains
of the door.

"He has not changed much since I knew him," she said, turning again to the
fire. "I used to think he was clever."

"And have you changed your mind?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, laughing.

"Not quite, but I begin to doubt. He has very good manners, and looks
altogether like a gentleman."

"Of course," said Mrs. "Wyndham." His mother was a Shaw, although his
father came from South Carolina. But he is really very bright; Sam always
says he is one of the ablest men in Boston."

"In what way?" inquired Sybil.

"Oh, he is a lawyer, don't you know?--great railroad man."

"Oh," ejaculated Miss Brandon, and relapsed into silence.

Mrs. Wyndham rose and stood before the fire, and pushed a log back with
her small foot. Miss Brandon watched her, half wondering whether the
flames would not catch her dress.

"I have been to see that Miss Thorn," said Sybil presently.

"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Sam, with sudden interest, "tell me all about her
this minute, dear. Is not she the most extraordinary creature?"

"I rather like her," answered Miss Brandon. "She is very pretty."

"What style? Dark?"

"No; not exactly. Brown hair, and lots of eyebrows. She is a little thing,
but very much alive, you know."

"Awfully English, of course," suggested Mrs. Sam.

"Well--yes, I suppose so. She is wild about horses, and says she shoots.
But I like her--I am sure I shall like her very much. She does not seem
very pleased with her aunt."

"I do not wonder," said Mrs. Sam. "Poor little thing--she has nobody else
belonging to her, has she?"

"Oh, yes," answered Sybil, with a little tremor in her voice; "she has a
mother in England."

"I want to see her ever so much," said Mrs. Sam. "Bring her to luncheon."

"You will see her to-night, I think; she said she was going to that
party."

"I hate to leave you alone," said Mrs. Wyndham. "I really think I had
better not go."

"Dear Mrs. Wyndham," said Sybil, rising, and laying her hands on her
hostess's shoulders, half affectionately, half in protest, "this idea must
be stopped from the first, and I mean to stop it. You are not to give up
any party, or any society, or anything at all for me. If you do I will go
away again. Promise me, will you not?"

"Very well, dear. But you know you are the dearest girl in the world." And
so they kissed, and agreed that Mrs. Wyndham should go out, and that Sybil
should stay at home.

Mrs. Wyndham was really a very kind-hearted woman and a loving friend.
That might be the reason why she was never popular. Popularity is a
curious combination of friendliness and indifference, but very popular
people rarely have devoted friends, and still more rarely suffer great
passions. Everybody's friend is far too apt to be nobody's, for it is
impossible to rely on the support of a person whose devotion is liable to
be called upon a hundred times a day, from a hundred different quarters.
The friendships that mean anything mean sacrifice for friendship's sake;
and a man or a woman really ready to make sacrifices for a considerable
number of people is likely to be asked to do it very often, and to be soon
spent in the effort to be true to every one.

But popularity makes no great demands. The popular man is known to be so
busy in being popular that his offenses of omission are readily pardoned.
His engagements are legion, his obligations are innumerable, and far more
than he can fulfill. But, meet him when you will, his smile is as bright,
his greeting as cordial, and his sayings as universally good-natured and
satisfactory as ever. He has acquired the habit of pleasing, and it is
almost impossible for him to displease. He enjoys it all, is agreeable to
every one, and is never expected to catch cold in attending a friend's
funeral, or otherwise to sacrifice his comfort, because he is quite
certain to have important engagements elsewhere, in which the world always
believes. There is probably no individual more absolutely free and
untrammeled than the thoroughly popular man.

CHAPTER II.

Fate, the artist, mixes her own colors. She grinds them with a pestle in
the fashion of the old masters, and out of the most strange pigments she
produces often only soft neutral tints for background and shadow, kneading
a vast deal of bright colors away among the grays and browns; but now and
then she takes a palette loaded with strong paint, and a great brush, and
splashes a startling full length portrait upon the canvas, without much
regard for drawing or general composition, but with very startling effect.
To paint well needs life-long study; to paint so as merely to attract
attention needs courage and a heart hardened against artistic
sensitiveness.

John Harrington was a high light against the mezzotint of his
surroundings. He was a constant source of interest, and not infrequently
of terror, to the good town of Boston. True, he was a Bostonian himself, a
chip of the old block, whose progenitors had lived in Salem, and whose
very name breathed Pilgrim memories. He even had a teapot that had come
over in the Mayflower. This was greatly venerated, and whenever John
Harrington said anything more than usually modern, his friends brandished
the teapot, morally speaking, in his defense, and put it in the clouds as
a kind of rainbow--a promise that Puritan blood could not go wrong.
Nevertheless, John Harrington continued to startle his fellow-townsmen by
his writings and sayings, so that many of the grave sort shook their heads
and swore that he sympathized with the Irish and believed in Chinese
labor.

As a matter-of-fact, he did not mince matters. Endowed with unbounded
courage and an extraordinary command of language, when he got upon his
feet he spoke his mind in a way that was good to hear. Moreover, he had
the strong oratorical temperament that forces attention and commands men
in a body. He said that things were wrong and should be put right; and
when he had said so for half an hour to a couple of thousand people, most
of them were ready to follow him out of the hall and go and put things
right on the spot, with their own hands. As yet the opportunity had not
offered for proceeding in so simple a manner, but the aforesaid Bostonians
of the graver sort said that John Harrington would some day be seen
heading a desperate mob of socialists in an assault upon the State House.
What he had to do with socialism, or to what end he should thus fiercely
invade the headquarters of all earthly respectability, was not exactly
apparent, but the picture thus evoked in the minds of the solemn burghers
satisfactorily defined for them the personality of the man, and they said
it and said it again.

It was somewhat remarkable that he had never been called clever. At first
he was regarded as a fool by most of his own class, though he always had
friends who believed in him. By and by, as it came to be seen that he had
a purpose and would be listened to while he stated it, Boston said there
was something in him; but he was never said to be clever or "bright"--he
was John Harrington, neither more nor less. He was never even called
"Jack."

He was a friend of Mrs. Wyndham's; her keen instincts had long ago
recognized the true metal in the man, and of all who came and went in her
house there was none more welcome than he. Sam Wyndham utterly disagreed
with him in politics, but always defended him in private, saying that he
would "calm down a lot when he got older," and that meanwhile he was "a
very good fellow if you did not stir him up."

He was therefore very intimate at the Sam Wyndham establishment; in fact,
at the very hour when Pocock Vancouver was drinking Mrs. Sam's tea, John
had intended to be enjoying the same privilege. Unfortunately for his
intention he was caught elsewhere and could not get away. He was drinking
tea, it is true, but the position in which he found himself was not
entirely to his taste.

Old Miss Schenectady, whose niece, Miss Josephine Thorn, had lately come
over from England to pass the winter, had asked John Harrington to call
that afternoon. The old lady believed in John on account of the Mayflower
teapot, and consequently thought him a desirable acquaintance for her
niece. Accordingly, John went to the house, and met Miss Sybil Brandon
just as she was leaving it; which he regretted, suspecting that her
society would have been more interesting than that of Miss Thorn. As it
turned out, he was right, for his first impression of the young English
girl was not altogether agreeable; and he found himself obliged to stay
and talk to her until an ancient lady, who had come to gossip with Miss
Schenectady, and was fully carrying out her intentions, should go away and
make it possible for him to take his leave without absolutely abandoning
Miss Thorn in the corner of the room she had selected for the _tete-a-
tete_.

"All that, of course, you know," said Miss Thorn, in answer to some remark
of John's, "but what sort of things do you really care for?"

"People," answered John without hesitation.

"Of course," returned his companion, "everybody likes people. It is not
very original. One could not live without lots of society, could one?"

"That depends on the meaning of society."

"Oh, I am not in the least learned about meanings," answered Miss Thorn.
"I mean what one means by society, you know. Heaps of men and women, and
tea-parties, and staying in the country, and that."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19