Part 3 (1/2)
Josephine Thorn knew in her heart that it was true, but she did not like the tone in which John said it. There was an air of certainty about his way of talking that roused her opposition.
”I would do nothing so foolish,” said she. ”You do not know me. And do you mean to tell me that you like these people who rush madly about the country and hunt in summer, and those sort of things?”
”No,” said John, ”not always.”
”But you said you liked people. How awfully inconsistent you are!”
”Excuse me, I think not. I meant that I liked people and having to do with them--with men and women--better than I like things.”
”What are 'things'?” inquired Josephine, sarcastically. ”You are not very clear in your way of expressing yourself.”
”I will be as clear as you please,” answered John, looking across the room at Miss Schenectady and her ancient friend, and devoutly wis.h.i.+ng he could get away. ”I mean by 'things' the study of the inanimate part of creation, of such sciences as are not directly connected with man's thoughts and actions, and such pursuits as hunting, shooting, and sporting of all kinds, which lead only to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the individual. I mean also the production of literature for literature's sake, and of works of art for the mere sake of themselves. When I say I like 'people,' I mean men and women, their opinions and their relations to each other.”
”I should think you would get very tired of them,” said Miss Thorn scornfully. ”They are all dreadfully alike.”
She never forgot the look Harrington turned upon her as he answered. His calm, deep-set gray eyes gazed steadily at her, and his square features a.s.sumed an air of gravity that almost startled her.
”I am never tired of men and women,” he said. ”Has it ever struck you, Miss Thorn, that the study of men and women means the study of government, and that a knowledge of men and women may give the power to influence the destiny of mankind?”
”I never thought of it like that,” said Josephine, very quietly. She was surprised at his manner, and she suddenly felt that he was no ordinary man.
To tell the truth, her aunt had informed her that John Harrington was coming that afternoon, and had told her he was an exceedingly able man, a statement which at once roused Josephine's opposition to its fiercest pitch. She thoroughly hated to be warned about people, to be primed as it were with a dose of their superiority beforehand. It always prepared her to dislike the admirable individual when he appeared. It seemed as though it were taken for granted that she herself had not enough intelligence to discover wit in others, and needed to be told of it with great circ.u.mstance in order to be upon her good behavior. Consequently Josephine began by disliking John. She thought he was a Philistine; his hair was too straight, and besides, it was red; he shaved all his face, whereas the men she liked always had beards; she liked men with black eyes, or blue--John's were gray and hard; he spoke quietly, without expression, and she liked men who were enthusiastic. After all, too, the things he said were not very clever; anybody could have said them.
She meant to show her Boston aunt that she had no intention of accepting Boston genius on faith. It was not her way; she liked to find out for herself whether people were able or not, without being told, and if she ascertained that John Harrington enjoyed a fict.i.tious reputation for genius it would amuse her to destroy it--or at all events to write a long letter home to a friend, expressing her supreme opinion on that and other matters.
John, on his part, did not very much care what impression he produced. He never did on such occasions, and just now he was rendered doubly indifferent by the fact that he was wis.h.i.+ng himself somewhere else. True, there was a certain novelty in being asked point-blank questions about his tastes. Boston people knew what he liked, and generally only asked him about what he did. Perhaps, if he had met Josephine by daylight, instead of in the dim shadows of Miss Schenectady's front drawing-room, he might have been struck by her appearance and interested by her manner. As it was, he was merely endeavoring to get through his visit with a proper amount of civility, in the hope that he might get away in time to see Mrs.
Sam Wyndham before dinner.
Josephine thought John dull, probably well informed, and utterly without interest in anything. She felt inclined to do something desperate--to throw the cus.h.i.+ons at him, to do anything, in short, to rouse him from his calmness. Then he made that remark about government, and his voice deepened, and his gray eyes shone, and she was aware that he had a great and absorbing interest in life, and that he could be roused in one direction at least. To do her justice, she had quick perceptions, and the impression on her mind was instantaneous.
”I never thought of it like that,” she said. ”Do you know?” she added in a moment, ”I should not have thought you took much interest in anything at all.”
John laughed. He was amused at the idea that he, who knew himself to be one of the most enthusiastic of mortals, should be thought indifferent; and he was amused at the outspoken frankness of the girl's remark.
”You know that is just like me,” continued Miss Thorn quickly. ”I always say what I think, you know. I cannot help it a bit.”
”What a pity all the world is not like you!” said John. ”It would save a great deal of trouble, I am sure.”
”The frump is going at last,” said Josephine, in an undertone, as the ancient friend rose and showed signs of taking leave of Miss Schenectady.
”There is certainly no mistake about the frankness of that speech,” said John, rising to his feet and laughing again.
”There is no mistaking its truth,” answered Josephine. ”She is the real thing--the real old-fas.h.i.+oned frump--we have lots of them at home.”
”You remind me of Heine,” said John. ”He said he called a spade a spade, and Herr Schmidt an a.s.s.”
Miss Thorn laughed. ”Exactly,” she answered, ”that is the knowledge of men which you say leads to power.”
She rose also, and there was a little stir as the old lady departed.
Josephine watched John as he bowed and opened the door of the room to let the visitor out. She wondered vaguely whether she would like him, whether he might not really be a remarkable man--a fact she doubted in proportion as her aunt a.s.sured her of its truth; she liked his looks and tried to determine whether he was handsome or not, and she watched closely for any awkwardness or shyness of manner, that being the fault in a man which she never pardoned.
He was very different from the men she had generally known, and most completely different from those she had known as her admirers. In fact she had never admired her admirers at all,--except dear Ronald, of course.