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<h1>Chapter XII.</h1> The idea Joe had formed about Vancouver was just, in the main, and she was not far wrong in disliking him and thinking him dangerous. Nevertheless John Harrington understood the man better. Vancouver was so constituted that his fine intellect and quick perception were unsupported by any strong principle of individuality. He was not capable of hatred–he could only be spiteful; he could not love, he could only give a woman what he could spare of himself. He would at all times rather avoid an open encounter, but he rarely neglected an opportunity of dealing a thrust at any one he disliked, when he could do so safely. He was the very opposite of John, who never said of any one what he would not say to themselves, and granted to every man the broadest right of judgment and freedom of opinion. Nevertheless there was not enough real strength in anything Vancouver felt to make him very dangerous as an opponent, nor valuable as a friend. Had it not been for the important position he had attained by his clever subtlety in affairs, and by the assistance of great railroad magnates who found in him a character and intelligence precisely suited to their ends, Pocock Vancouver would have been a neutral figure in the world, lacking both the enterprise to create an idea and the courage to follow it out. It was most characteristic of his inherent smallness, that in spite of his wealth and the very large operations that must be constantly occupying his thoughts, he could demean himself to write anonymous articles in a daily paper, in the hope of injuring a man he disliked. It is true that his feeling against Harrington was as strong as anything in his nature. He detested John’s strength because he had once made him a confidence and John had done him a favor. He disliked him also because he knew that wherever they chanced to be together John received an amount of consideration and even of respect which he himself could not obtain with all his money and all his cleverness. His mind, too, delighted in detail and revolted against John’s sweeping generalities. For these several reasons Vancouver had taken great delight in writing and printing sundry vicious criticisms upon John in the absolute certainty of not being found out. The editor of the paper did not know Vancouver’s name, for the articles came through the post with a modest request that they might be inserted if they were of any use; and they were generally so pungent and to the point that the editor was glad to get them, especially as no remuneration was demanded. As for the confidence Vancouver had once made to John, it was another instance of his littleness. At the time when Vancouver was anxious to marry Sybil Brandon, John Harrington was very intimate at the house, and was, in Vancouver’s opinion, a dangerous rival; at all events he felt that the contest was not an agreeable one, nor altogether to his own advantage. Accordingly he tried every means to clear the coast, as he expressed it; but although John probably had no intention of marrying Sybil, and Sybil certainly had never thought of marrying John, the latter was fond of her society, and of her mother’s, and came to the cottage on the Newport cliff with a regularity that drove Vancouver to the verge of despair. Pocock at last could bear it no longer and asked John to dinner. Over a bottle of Pommery Sec he confided his passion, and hinted that John was the obstacle to his wooing. Harrington raised his eyebrows, smiled, wished Vancouver all success, and left Newport the next day. If Vancouver had not disgusted Sybil by his inquiries concerning her fortune, he would have married her, and his feelings towards John would have been different. But to know that Harrington had done him the favor of going away, knowing that he was about to offer himself to Miss Brandon, and then to have failed in his suit was more than the vanity of Mr. Pocock Vancouver could bear with any sort of calmness, and the consequence was that he disliked John as much as he disliked anybody or anything in the world. There is no resentment like the resentment of wounded vanity, nor any self-reproach like that of a man who has shown his weakness. When Mrs. Wyndham told John the story of Vancouver’s failure he could have told her the rest, had he chosen, and she would certainly have been very much amused. But John was not a man to betray a confidence, even that of a man who had injured him, and so he merely laughed and kept his own counsel. He would have scorned to speak to Vancouver about the articles, or to make any change in his manner towards him. As he had said to Josephine, he had expected nothing from the man, and now he was not disappointed. Meanwhile Vancouver, who was weakly but frequently susceptible to the charms of woman, had made up his mind that if Josephine had enough pin-money she would make him an admirable wife, and he accordingly began to make love to her in his own fashion, as has been seen. A day or two earlier Joe would have laughed at him, and it would perhaps have amused her to hear what he had to say, as it amuses most young women to listen to pretty speeches. But Joe was between two fires, so to speak; she was under the two influences that were strongest with her. She loved John Harrington with all her heart, and she hated Vancouver with all her strength. It is true that her hatred was the only acknowledged passion, for her maidenly nature was not able yet to comprehend her love; and the mere thought that she cared for a man who did not care for her brought the hot blush to her cheek. But the love was in her heart all the same, strong and enduring, so that Vancouver found the fortress doubly guarded. He could not entirely explain to himself her conduct at the party. She had always seemed rather willing to accept his attentions and to listen to his conversation, but on this particular evening, just when he wished to make a most favorable impression, she had treated him with surprising coldness. There was a supreme superiority in the way she had at first declined his services, and had then told him he might be permitted to get her a glass of water. The subsequent satisfaction of having ousted Mr. Bonamy Biggielow, the little poet, from his position at her side was small enough, and was more than counterbalanced and destroyed by her returning to her chaperon at the first soft-tongued insinuation of a desire to flirt, which Vancouver ventured to speak. Moreover, when Harrington almost pushed him aside and sat down by Josephine, Vancouver could bear it no longer, but turned on his heel and went away, with black thoughts in his heart. It seemed as though John was to be always in his way. It would be hard to say what he would have felt had he known that Josephine Thorn, John Harrington, and Mrs. Sam Wyndham all knew of his journalistic doings. And yet it was nearly certain that no one of the three would ever speak to him on the subject. Joe would not, because she knew John would not like it; John himself despised the whole business too much to condescend to reproach Vancouver; and, finally, Mrs. Wyndham was too much a woman of the world to be willing to cause a scandal when it could possibly be avoided. She liked Vancouver too, and regretted what he had done. Her liking only extended to his conversation and agreeable manners, for she was beginning to despise his character; but he had so long been an habitué about the house that she could not make up her mind to turn him out. But for all that, she could not help being cold to him at first. John himself was too busy with important matters to bestow much thought on Vancouver or his doings. His day had been spent in interviews and letter-writing; fifty people had been to see him at his rooms, and he had dispatched more than that number of letters. At five o’clock he had slipped out with the intention of dining at his club before any one else was there, but he had met Mrs. Wyndham in the street, and had spent his dinner-hour with her. At half-past six he had another appointment in his rooms, and it was not till nearly eleven that he was able to get away and look in upon the party, when he met Joe. For a week this kind of life would probably last, and then all would be over, in one way or another, but meanwhile the excitement was intense. On the next day Ronald came to see Joe before ten o’clock. The time hung heavily on his hands, and he found it impossible to occupy himself with his troubles. There were moments when the first impression of disappointment returned upon him very strongly, but he was conscious of a curious duplicity about his feelings, and he knew well enough in his inmost heart that he was only evoking a fictitious regret out of respect for what he thought he ought to feel. “Tell me all about the people here, Joe,” said he, sitting down beside her almost as though nothing had happened. “Who is Mrs. Wyndham, to begin with?” “Mrs. Wyndham–she is Sam Wyndham’s wife. Just that,” said Joe. “And Sam Wyndham?” “Oh–he is one of the prevalent profession. He is a millionaire. In fact he is one of the real ones.” “When do they get to be real?” asked Ronald. “Oh, when they have more than ten millions. The other ones do not count much. It is much more the thing to be poor, unless you have ten millions.” “That is something in my favor, at all events,” said Ronald. “Very much. You have been to see Mrs. Wyndham, then?” “Oh yes, I went yesterday, and she has asked me to dinner to-night. It is awfully good of her, I must say.” “You will like her very much, and Sybil Brandon too,” said Joe. “Sybil is an adorable creature.” “She is most decidedly good-looking, certainly. There is no doubt about it.” Ronald pulled his delicate moustache a little. “Though she is quite different style from you, Joe,” he added presently, as though he had discovered a curious fact in natural history. “Of course. Sybil is a great beauty, and I am only pretty,” answered Joe in perfectly good faith. “I think you are a great beauty too,” said Ronald critically. “I am sure most people think so, and I have heard lots of men say so. Besides, you are much more striking-looking than she is.” “Oh, nonsense, Ronald!” “Joe–who is Mr. Vancouver?” “Vancouver! Why do you ask especially?” “It is very natural, I am sure,” said Ronald in a somewhat injured tone. “You wrote about him. He was the only person you mentioned in your letter-that is, he and a man called Harrington.” “Mr. Vancouver–Mr. Pocock Vancouver–is a middle-aged man of various accomplishments,” said Joe, “more especially distinguished by the fact that Sybil Brandon refused to marry him some time ago. He is an enemy of Mr. Harrington’s, and they are both friends of Mrs. Wyndham’s.” “Ah!” ejaculated Ronald, “and who is Harrington?” “Mr. John Harrington is a very clever person who has to do with politics,” said Joe, without hesitation, but as she continued she blushed a little. “He is always being talked about because he wants to reform everything. He is a great friend of ours.” “Oh–I thought so,” said Ronald. “What sort of a fellow is he?” “I suppose he is five-and-thirty years old; he is neither tall nor short, and he has red hair,” said Joe. “What a beauty!” laughed Ronald. “He is not at all ugly, you know,” said Joe, still blushing. “Shall I ever see him?” “You will see him to-night at Mrs. Wyndham’s; he told me he was going.” “Oh–are you going too, Joe?” “No. I have another dinner-party. You will have to do without me.” “I suppose I shall always have to do without you, now.” said Ronald disconsolately. “Don’t be silly, Ronald!” “Silly!” repeated Surbiton in injured tones. “You call it silly to be cut up when one is treated as you have treated me! It is too bad, Joe!” “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 Patrick 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.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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