An American Politician

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

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So it is that our loves are always with us, and though we search ourselves
diligently to find them and rebuke them, we find them not; but if we give
up searching they come upon us unawares, and speak very soft words. Love
also is a gentle thing, full of sweetness and peace, when he comes to us
so; and though the maiden blushes at his speaking, she would not stop the
ears of her heart against him for all the world; and although the boy
trembles and turn pale, and forgets to be boyish when, the fit is on him,
nevertheless he goes near and worships, and loses his heart in learning a
new language. So kind and soft is love, so tender and sweet-spoken, that
you would think he would not so much as ruffle the leaf of a rose, nor
breathe too sharply on a violet, lest he should hurt the flower-soul
within; and if you treat him hospitably he is kind to the last, so that
when he is gone there is still a sweet savor of him left. But if you would
drive him roughly away with scorn and rude language, he will stand at your
door and will not leave you. Then his wings drop from him, and he grows
strong and fierce, and deadly and beautiful, as the fallen archangel of
heaven, crying aloud bitter things to you by day and night; till at the
last he will break down bolt and bar and panel, and enter your chamber,
and drag you out with him to your death in the wild darkness.

But Josephine blushed deeply there in the old-fashioned drawing-room at
midnight, and as she turned away she wondered at herself, for she could
not believe nor understand what was happening.

Poor girl! She had talked of love so often as an abstract thing, she had
seen so many love-makings of others, and so many men had tried to make
love to her in her short brilliant life, and she had always thought it
could not come near her, because, of course, she really loved Ronald. She
had marveled, indeed, at what people were willing to do, and at what they
were ready to sacrifice, for a feeling that seemed to her of such little
importance as that. It had been an illusion, and the waking had come at
last very suddenly. Whoever it might be whom she was destined to take, it
was not Ronald. It was madness to think she could be bound forever to him,
however much she might admire him and desire him as a friend.

When the clock struck she was thinking of John, and the words he had said
that night to his great audience were ringing again in her ears. She
blushed indeed at the idea that she was thinking so much of him, but it
was not that she believed she loved him. If as yet she really did, she was
herself most honestly unconscious of it; and so the blush was not
accounted for in the reckoning she made.

She lay awake long, trying to determine what was best to be done, but she
could not. One thing she must do; she must explain to Ronald, when he
came, that she could never, never marry him.

If only she had a sister, or some one! Dear Aunt Zoruiah was so horrid
about such things that it was impossible to talk to her!

CHAPTER VI.

"Do you know how to skate?" Sybil Brandon asked of Joe as the two young
girls, clad in heavy furs, walked down the sunny side of Beacon Street two
days later. They were going from Miss Schenectady's to a "lunch party"--
one of those social institutions of Boston which had most surprised Joe on
her first arrival.

"Of course," answered Joe. "I do not know anything, but I can do
everything."

"How nice!" said Sybil. "Then you can go with us to-night. That will be
too lovely!"

"What is it?"

"We are all going skating on Jamaica Pond. Nobody has skated for so long
here that it is a novelty. I used to be so fond of it."

"We always skate at home, when there is ice," said Joe. "It will be
enchanting though, with the full moon and all. What time?"

"Mrs. Sam Wyndham will arrange that," said Sybil. "She is going to
matronize us."

"How dreadful, to have to be chaperoned!" ejaculated Joe. "But Mrs.
Wyndham is very jolly after all, so it does not much matter."

"I believe they used to have Germans here without any mothers," remarked
Sybil, "but they never do now."

"Poor little things, how awfully lonely for them!" laughed Joe.

"Who?"

"The Germans--without their mothers. Oh, I forgot the German was the
cotillon. You mean cotillons, without tapestry, as we say."

"Yes, exactly. But about the skating party. It will be very select, you
know; just ourselves. You know I never go out," Sybil added rather sadly,
"but I do love skating so."

"Who are 'ourselves'--exactly?"

"Why, you and I, and the Sam Wyndhams, and the Aitchison girls, and Mr.
Topeka, and Mr. Harrington, and Mr. Vancouver--let me see--and Miss St.
Joseph, and young Hannibal. He is very nice, and is very attentive to Miss
St. Joseph."

"Is it nice, like that, skating about in couples?" asked Joe.

"No; that is the disagreeable part; but the skating is delicious."

"Let us stay together all the time," said Joe spontaneously, "it will be
ever so much pleasanter. I would not exactly like to be paired off with
any of those men, you know."

Sybil looked at Joe, opening her wide blue eyes in some astonishment. She
did not think Joe was exactly one of those young women who object to a
moonlight _tete-a-tete_, if properly chaperoned.

"Yes, if you like, dear," she said. "I would like it much better myself,
of course."

"Do you know, Sybil," said Joe, looking up at her taller companion, "I
should not think you would care for skating and that sort of thing."

"Why?" asked Sybil.

"You do not look strong enough. You are not a bit like me, brought up on
horseback."

"Oh, I am very strong," answered Sybil, "only I am naturally pale, you
see, and people think I am delicate."

But the north wind kissed her fair face and the faint color came beneath
the white and through it, so that Joe looked at her and thought she was
the fairest woman in the world that day.

"When I was a little girl," said Joe, "mamma used to tell me a story about
the beautiful Snow Angel: she must have been just like you, dear."

"What is the story?" asked Sybil, the delicate color in her cheek
deepening a little.

"I will tell you to-night when we are skating, we have not time now. Here
we are." And the two girls went up the steps of the house where they were
going to lunch.

On the other side of the street Pocock Vancouver and John Harrington met,
and stopped to speak just as Joe and Sybil had rung the bell, and stood
waiting at the head of the steps.

"Don't let us look at each other so long as we can look at them," said
Vancouver, shaking hands with John, but looking across the street at the
two girls. John looked too, and both men bowed.

"They are pretty enough for anything, are they not?" continued Vancouver.

"Yes," said John, "they are very pretty."

With a nod and a smile Joe and Sybil disappeared into the house.

"Why don't you marry her?" asked Vancouver.

"Which? The English girl?"

"No; Sybil Brandon."

"Thank you, I am not thinking of being married," said John, a half-comic,
half-contemptuous look in his strong face. "Miss Brandon could do better
than marry a penniless politician, and besides, even if I wanted it, I
care too much for Miss Brandon's friendship to risk losing it by asking
her to marry me."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," said Vancouver, "she would accept you straight
off. So would the other."

"You ought to know," said John, eyeing his companion calmly.

Vancouver looked away; it was generally believed that he had been refused
by Miss Brandon more than a year previous.

"Well, you can take my word for it, you could not do better," he answered,
ambiguously. "There is no knowing how the moonlight effects on Jamaica
Pond may strike you this evening. I say, though, you were pretty lucky in
having such warm weather the night before last."

"Yes," said John. "The house was full. Were you there?"

"Of course. If I were not a Republican I would congratulate you on your
success. It is a long time since any one has made a Boston audience listen
to those opinions. You did it surprisingly well; that sentence about
protection was a masterpiece. I wish you were one of us."

"It is of no use arguing with you," said John. "If it were, I could make a
Democrat of you in an afternoon."

"I make a pretty good thing of arguing, though," answered the other. "It's
my trade, you see, and it is not yours. You lay down the law; it is my
business to make a living out of it."

"I wish I _could_ lay it down, as you say, and lay it down according
to my own ideas," said John. "I would have something to say to you
railroad men."

"As for that, I should not care. Railroad law is stronger than iron and
more flexible than india-rubber, and the shape of it is of no importance
whatever. So long as there is enough of it to work with, you can twist it
and untwist it as much as you please."

John laughed.

"It would simplify matters to untwist it and cut it up into lengths," he
said. "But then your occupation would be gone."

"I think my occupation will last my life-time," answered Vancouver,
laughing in his turn.

"Not if I can help it," returned John. "But we can provide you with
another. Good-by. I am going to Cambridge."

They shook hands cordially, and John Harrington turned down Charles
Street, while Vancouver pursued his way up the hill. He had been going in
the opposite direction when he met Harrington, but he seemed to have
changed his mind. He was not seen again that day until he went to dine
with Mrs. Sam Wyndham.

There was no one there but Mr. Topeka and young John C. Hannibal, well-
dressed men of five-and-thirty and five-and-twenty respectively, belonging
to good families of immense fortune, and educated regardless of expense.
No homely Boston phrase defiled their anglicized lips, their great collars
stood up under their chins in an ecstasy of stiffness, and their shirt-
fronts bore two buttons, avoiding the antiquity of three and the vulgarity
of one. Well-bred Anglo-maniacs both, but gentlemen withal, and courteous
to the ladies. Mr. Topeka was a widower, John C. Hannibal was understood
to be looking for a wife.

They came, they dined, and they retired to Sam Wyndham's rooms to don
their boots and skating clothes. At nine o'clock the remaining ladies
arrived, and then the whole party got into a great sleigh and were driven
rapidly out of town over the smooth snow to Jamaica Pond. John Harrington
had not come, and only three persons missed him--Joe Thorn, Mrs. Sam, and
Pocock Vancouver.

The ice had been cut away in great quantities for storing and the thaw had
kept the pond open for a day or two. Then came the sharpest frost of the
winter, and in a few hours the water was covered with a broad sheet of
black ice that would bear any weight. It was a rare piece of good fortune,
but the fashion of skating had become so antiquated that no one took
advantage of the opportunity; and as the party got out of the sleigh and
made their way down the bank, they saw that there was but one skater
before them, sweeping in vast solitary circles out in the middle of the
pond, under the cold moonlight. The party sat on the bank in the shadow of
some tall pine trees, preparing for the amusement, piling spare coats and
shawls on the shoulders of a patient groom, and screwing and buckling
their skates on their feet.

"What beautiful ice!" exclaimed Joe, when Vancouver had done his duty by
the straps and fastenings. She tapped the steel blade twice or thrice on
the hard black surface, still leaning on Vancouver's arm, and then,
without a word of warning, shot away in a long sweeping roll. The glorious
vitality in her was all alive, and her blood thrilled and beat wildly in
utter enjoyment. She did not go far at first, but seeing the others were
long in their preparations, she turned and faced them, skating away
backwards, leaning far over to right and left on each changing stroke, and
listening with intense pleasure to the musical ring of the clanging steel
on the clean ice. Some pride she felt, too, at showing the little knot of
Bostonians how thoroughly at home she was in a sport they seemed to
consider essentially American.

Joe had not noticed the solitary skater, and thought herself alone, but in
a few moments she was aware of a man in an overcoat bowing before her as
he slackened his speed. She turned quickly to one side and stopped
herself, for the man was John Harrington.

"Why, where did you come from, Mr. Harrington?" she asked in some
astonishment. "You were not hidden under the seats of the sleigh, were
you?"

"Not exactly," said John, looking about for the rest of the party. "I was
belated in Cambridge this afternoon, so I borrowed a pair of skates and
walked over. Splendid ice, is it not?"

"I am so glad you came," said Joe. She was in such high spirits and was so
genuinely pleased at meeting John that she forgot to be cold to him. "It
would have been a dreadful pity to have missed this."

"It would indeed," said John, skating slowly by her side.

For down by the pine trees two or three figures began to move on the ice.

"I want to thank you, Mr. Harrington," said Joe.

"What for, Miss Thorn?" he asked.

"For the pleasure you gave me the other night," she answered. "I have not
seen you since to speak to. It was splendid!"

"Thanks," said John. "I saw you there, in the gallery on my left."

"Yes; but how could you have time to look about and recognize people? You
must have splendid eyes."

"It is all a habit," said John. "When one has been before an audience a
few times one does not feel nervous, and so one has time to look about. Do
you care for that sort of thing, Miss Thorn?"

"Oh, ever so much. But I was frightened once, when they began to grumble."

"There was nothing to fear," said John, laughing. "Audiences of that kind
do not punctuate one's speeches with cabbages and rotten eggs."

"They do sometimes in England," said Joe. "But here come the others!"

Two and two, in a certain grace of order, the little party came out from
the shore into the moonlight. The women's faces looked white and waxen
against their rich furs, and the moonbeams sparkled on their ornaments. A
very pretty sight is a moonlight skating party, and Pocock Vancouver knew
what he was saying when be hinted at the mysterious and romantic
influences that are likely to be abroad on such occasions. Indeed, it was
not long before young Hannibal was sliding away hand in hand with Miss St.
Joseph at a pace that did not invite competition. And Mr. Topeka decided
which of the Aitchison girls he preferred, and gave her his arm, so that
the other fell to the lot of Sam Wyndham, while Mrs. Sam and Sybil Brandon
came out escorted by Vancouver, who noticed with some dismay that the
party was "a man short." The moment he saw Joe talking to the solitary
skater, he knew that the latter must be Harrington, who had gone to
Cambridge and come across. John bowed to every one and shook hands with
Mrs. Wyndham. Joe eluded Vancouver and put her arm through Sybil's, as
though to take possession of her.

Joe would have been well enough pleased at first to have been left with
John, but the sight of Vancouver somehow reminded her of the compact she
had made in the morning with Sybil, and in a few moments the two girls
were away together, talking so persistently to each other that Vancouver,
who at first followed them and tried to join their conversation, was fain
to understand that he was not wanted, so that he returned to Mrs. Wyndham.

"I want so much to talk to you," Joe began, when they were alone.

"Yes, dear?" said Sybil half interrogatively, as they moved along. "We can
talk here charmingly, unless Mr. Vancouver comes after us again. But you
do skate beautifully, you know. I had no idea you could."

"Oh, I told you I could do everything," said Joe, with some pride. "Where
_did_ you get that beautiful fur, my dear? It is magnificent. You are
just like the Snow Angel now."

"In Russia. Everybody wears white fur there, you know. We were in St.
Petersburg some time."

"I know. We cannot get it in England. If one could I would have told
Ronald to bring me some when he comes."

"Who is Ronald?" asked Sybil innocently.

"Oh, he is the dearest boy," said Joe, with a little sigh, "but I do so
wish he were not coming!"

"Because he has not got the white fur?" suggested Sybil.

"Oh no! But because"--Joe lowered her voice and spoke demurely, at the
same time linking her arm more closely in Sybil's. "You see, dear, he
wants to marry me, and I am afraid he is coming to say so."

"And you do not want to marry him? Is that it?"

Joe's small mouth closed tightly, and she merely nodded her head gravely,
looking straight before her. Sybil pressed her arm sympathetically and was
silent, expecting more.

"It was such a long time ago, you see," said Joe, after a while. "I was
not out when it was arranged, and it seemed so natural. But now--it is
quite different."

"But of course, if you do not love him, you must not think of marrying
him," said Sybil, simply.

"I won't," answered Joe, with sudden emphasis. "But I shall have to tell
him, you know," she added despondently.

"It is very hard to say those things," said Sybil, in a tone of
reflection. "But of course it must be done--if you were really engaged,
that is."

"Yes, almost really," said Joe.

"Not quite?" suggested Sybil.

"I think not quite; but I know he thinks it is quite quite, you know."

"Well, but perhaps he is not so certain, after all. Do you know, I do not
think men really care so much; do you?"

"Oh, of course not," said Joe scornfully. "But it does not seem quite
honest to let a man think you are going to marry him if you do not mean
to."

"But you did mean to, dear, until you found out you did not care for him
enough. And just think how dreadful it would be to be married if you did
not care enough!"

"Yes, that is true," answered Joe. "It would be dreadful for him too."

"When is he coming?" asked Sybil.

"I think next week. He sailed the day before yesterday."

"Then there is plenty of time to settle on what you want to say," said
Sybil. "If you make up your mind just how to put it, you know, it will be
ever so much easier."

"Oh no!" cried Joe. "I will trust to luck. I always do; it is much
easier."

"Excuse me, Miss Brandon," said the voice of Vancouver, who came up behind
them at a great pace, and holding his feet together let himself slide
rapidly along beside the two girls,--"excuse me, but do you not think you
are very unsociable, going off in this way?"

"May I give you my arm, Miss Thorn?" asked Harrington, coming up on the
other side.

Without leaving each other Joe and Sybil took the proffered arms of the
two men, and the four skated smoothly out into the middle of the ice, that
rang again in the frosty air under their joint weight. Mrs. Wyndham had
insisted that Vancouver and Harrington should leave her and follow the
young girls, and they had obeyed in mutual understanding.

"Which do you like better, Miss Brandon, boating in Newport or skating on
Jamaica Pond?" asked Vancouver.

"This is better than the Music Hall, is it not?" remarked John to Miss
Thorn.

"Oh, Jamaica Pond, by far," Sybil answered, and her hold on Joe's arm
relaxed a very little.

"Oh no! I would a thousand times rather be in the Music Hall!" exclaimed
Joe, and her hand slipped away from Sybil's white fur. And so the four
were separated into couples, and went their ways swiftly under the
glorious moonlight. As they parted Sybil turned her head and looked after
Joe, but Joe did not see her.

"I would rather be here," said John quietly.

"Why?" asked Joe.

"There is enough fighting in life to make peace a very desirable thing
sometimes," John answered.

"A man cannot be always swinging his battle-axe." There was a very slight
shade of despondency in the tone of his voice. Joe noticed it at once.

Women do not all worship success, however much they may wish their
champion to win when they are watching him fight. In the brilliant,
unfailing, all-conquering man, the woman who loves him feels pride; if she
be vain and ambitious, she feels wholly satisfied, for the time. But
woman's best part is her gentle sympathy, and where there is no room at
all for that, there is very often little room for love. In the changing
hopes and fears of uncertain struggles, a woman's love well given and
truly kept may turn the scale for a man, and it is at such times, perhaps,
that her heart is given best, and most loyally held by him who has it.

"I wish I could do anything to help him to succeed," thought Joe, in the
innocent generosity of her half-conscious devotion.

"Has anything gone wrong?" she asked aloud.

CHAPTER VII.

"Has anything gone wrong?" There was so much of interest and sympathy in
her tone, as Joe put the simple question, that John turned and looked into
her face. The magic of moonlight softens the hardest features, makes
interest look like friendship, and friendship like love; but it can harden
too at times, and make a human face look like carved stone.

"No, there is nothing wrong," John answered presently; "what made you
think so?"

"You spoke a little regretfully," answered Joe.

"Did I? I did not mean to. Perhaps one is less gay and less hopeful at
some times than at others. It has nothing to do with success or failure."

"I know," answered Joe. "One can be dreadfully depressed when one is
enjoying one's self to any extent. But I should not have thought you were
that sort of person. You seem always the same."

"I try to be. That is the great difference between people who live to work
and people who live to amuse and be amused."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean," said John, "that people who work, especially people who have to
do with large ideas and great movements, need to be more or less
monotonous. The men who succeed are the men of one idea or at least they
are the men who only have one idea at a time."

"Whereas people who live to amuse and be amused must have as many ideas as
possible."

"Yes, to play with," said John, completing the sentence. "Their life is
play, their ideas are their playthings, and so soon as they have spoiled
one toy they must have another. The people who supply ideas to an idle
public are very valuable, and may have great power."

"Novel-writers, and that sort of people," suggested Joe.

"All producers of light literature and second-rate poetry, and a very
great variety of other people besides. A man who amuses others may often
be a worker himself. He raises a laugh or excites a momentary interest by
getting rid of his superfluous ideas and imaginations, reserving to
himself all the time the one idea in which he believes."

"Not at all a bad theory," said Joe.

"There are more men of that sort with you in Europe than with us. You need
more amusement, and you will generally give more for it. You English, who
are uncommonly fond of doing nothing, give yourselves vast trouble in the
pursuit of pleasure. We Americans, who are ill when we are idle, are
content to surround ourselves with the paraphernalia of pleasure when
office hours are over; but we make very little use of our opportunities
for amusement, being tired out at the end of the day with other things
which we think more important. The result is that we have no such thing as
what you denominate 'Society,' because we lack the prime element of
aristocratic social intercourse, the ingrained determination to be idle."

"You are very hard on us," remarked Joe.

"Excuse me," returned John, "you are compensated by having what we have
not. Europeans are the most agreeable people in the world, wherever mutual
and daily conversation and intercourse are to be considered. The majority
of you, of polite European society, are not troubled with any very large
ideas, but you have an immense number of very charming and attractive
small ones. In America there are only two ideas that practically affect
society, but they are very big ones indeed."

"What?" asked Joe laconically, growing interested in John's queer lecture.

"Money and political influence," answered John Harrington. "They are the
two great motors of our machine. All men who are respected among us are in
pursuit of one or the other, or have attained to one or the other by their
own efforts. The result is, that European society is amusing and
agreeable; whereas Americans of the same class are more interesting, less
polished, better acquainted with the general laws that govern the
development of nations." "Really, Mr. Harrington," said Joe, "you are
making us out to be very insignificant. And I think it would be very dull
if we all had to understand ever so many general laws. Besides, I do not
agree with you."

"About what, Miss Thorn?"

"About Americans. They talk better than Englishmen, as a rule."

"But I am comparing Americans with the whole mass of Europeans," John
objected. "The English are a rather silent race, I should say."

"Cold, you think?" suggested Joe.

"No, not cold. Perhaps less cold than we are; but less demonstrative."

"I like that," answered Joe. "I like people to feel more than they show."

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