An American Politician

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

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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 mid-day 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, L1250. My firm will address you upon the use to be made of the
Proxies lately sent you for the ensuing election of officers of the
Pocahontas and Dead Man's Valley R. R., 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,"

"SAUNDEKS GRABBLES."

"P. S. 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 lacs of rupees
in various bonds--G. I. P. and others--to his nephew, Ronald Surbiton, 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 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 guess-work. The
manuscripts had always gone through the post, signed with a feigned name,
and it was utterly impossible that the editor himself could know who had
written them. It would be still more impossible, therefore, for any one
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
Ballymolloy to vote for John, in so many words. On the whole, his
conscience was clear enough. 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 some one 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. Wyndham, 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. Wyndham as a state secret, and she would
tell some one 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 mainspring
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 some day 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 Z, 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 work
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. Z 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 Z'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 Wyndhams 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 ball-room, 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 step.

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 Pocock
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 maneuver.
The color came quickly to her face, and she was slightly embarrassed;
nevertheless she held out her hand and greeted John cordially.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"I am 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 sit 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 it 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 and rails with a 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 a 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 any one 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 every one 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 to-day; 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 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 overmuch inclined to laugh at anything
to-day, excepting 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 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 to-morrow, and I cannot
tell when I may come back. That is the reason I was glad to find you here.
I would have called to-day, 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; and 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 heart's 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 indifferent 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 Thorn'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. Pshaw! 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 Thorn?"

Joe moved a little. She was deadly pale, and in the effort she had 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 Thorn," 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," asked 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 very 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. As 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 programme," 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, some one
besides yourself. Do you believe that such ideas as you tell me of are
really and seriously held by any body 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 bad 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.

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