Meanwhile, since her long evening with John Harrington on the ice, she had made every effort to avoid his society. Like many very young women with a vivid love of enjoyment and a fairly wide experience, she was something of a fatalist. That is to say, she believed that her evil destiny might spring upon her unawares at any moment, and she felt something when she was with Harrington that warned her. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to have moods of melancholy; she caught herself asking what was really the end and object of her gay life, whether it amounted to anything worthy in comparison with the trouble one had to take to amuse one's self, whether it would not be far better in the end to live like Miss Schenectady, reading and studying and caring nothing for the world.

Not that Josephine admired Miss Schenectady, or thought that she herself could ever be like her. The old lady was a type of her cla.s.s; intelligent and well versed in many subjects--even learned she might have been called by some. But to Joe's view, essentially European by nature and education, it seemed as though her aunt, like many Bostonians, judged everything--literature, music, art of all kinds, history and the doings of great men--by one invariable standard. Her comments on what she heard and read were uniformly delivered from the same point of view, in the same tone of practical judgment, and with the same a.s.sumption of original superiority.

It was the everlasting "Carthago delenda" of the Roman orator. Whatever the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained unshaken in Miss Schenectady's mind that Beacon Street was better than those things, and that of all speeches and languages known and spoken in the world's history, the familiar dialect of Boston was the one best calculated by Providence and nature to express and formulate all manner of wisdom.

It is a strange thing that where criticism is on the whole so fair, and cultivation of the best faculties so general, the manner of expressing a judgment and of exhibiting acquired knowledge should be such as to jar unpleasantly on the sensibilities of Europeans. Where is the real difference? It probably lies in some subtle point of proportion in the psychic chemistry of the Boston mind, but the a.n.a.lyst who shall express the formula is not yet born; though there be those who can cast the spectrum of Boston existence and thought upon their printed screens with matchless accuracy.

Joe judged but did not a.n.a.lyze. She said Miss Schenectady was always right, but that the way she was right was "horrid." Consequently she did not look to her aunt for sympathy or a.s.sistance, and though they had more than once talked of Ronald Surbiton since receiving his cable from England, Joe had not said anything of her intentions regarding him. When the second telegram arrived from New York, saying that he would be in Boston on the following morning, Joe begged that Miss Schenectady would be at home to receive him when he came.

"Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to," said Miss Schenectady. She did not see why her niece should require her presence at the interview; young men may call on young ladies in Boston without encountering the inevitable chaperon, or being obliged to do their talking in the hearing of a police of papas, mammas, and aunts. But as Joe "insisted upon it," as the old lady said, she "expected there were no two ways about it." Her expectations were correct, for Joe would have refused absolutely to receive Ronald alone.

"I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear," she had said to Sybil the day previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room, reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten o'clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past.

It was not quite ten o'clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time in his life.

"Miss Schenectady?" said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly. He p.r.o.nounced her name Schenectady, with a strong accent on the penultimate syllable.

"Sche_nec_tady," corrected his hostess. "I expect you are Mr.

Surbiton."

"A--exactly so," said Ronald, in some embarra.s.sment.

"Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton." Miss Schenectady resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his hand.

"Put your hat down," said the old lady. "What sort of a journey did you have?"

"Very fair, thanks," said Ronald, depositing his hat on the floor beside him, "in fact I believe we came over uncommonly quick for the time of year. How is"--

"What steamer did you come by?" interrupted Miss Schenectady.

"The Gallia. She is one of the Cunarders. But as I was going to ask"--

"Yes, an old boat, I expect. So you came on right away from New York without stopping?"

"Exactly," answered Ronald. "I took the first train. The fact is, I was so anxious--so very anxious to"--

"What hotel are you at here?" inquired Miss Schenectady, without letting him finish.

"Brunswick. How is Miss Thorn?" Ronald succeeded at last in putting the question he so greatly longed to ask--the only one, he supposed, which would cause a message to be sent to Joe announcing his arrival.

"Joe? She is pretty well. I expect she will be down in a minute. Are you going to stay some while, Mr. Surbiton?"

Ronald thought Miss Schenectady the most pitiless old woman he had ever met. In reality she had not the most remote intention of being anything but hospitable. But her idea of hospitality at a first meeting seemed to consist chiefly in exhibiting a great and inquisitive interest in the individual she wished to welcome. Besides, Joe would probably come down when she was ready, and so it was necessary to talk in the mean time. At last Ronald succeeded in asking another question.

"Excuse the anxiety I show," he said simply, "but may I ask whether Miss Thorn is at home?"

"Perhaps if you rang the bell I could send for her," remarked the old lady in problematic answer.

"Oh, certainly!" exclaimed Ronald, springing to his feet, and searching madly round the room for the bell. Miss Schenectady watched him calmly.

"I think if you went to the further side of the fire-place you would find it--back of the screen," she suggested.

"Thanks; here it is," cried Ronald, discovering the handle in the wall.

"Yes, you have found it now," said Miss Schenectady with much indifference. "Perhaps you find it cold here?" she continued, observing that Ronald lingered near the fire-place.

"Oh dear, no, thanks, quite the contrary," he answered.

"Because if it is you might--Sarah, I think you could tell Miss Josephine that Mr. Surbiton is in the parlor, could not you?"

"Oh, if it is any inconvenience"--Ronald began, misunderstanding the form of address Miss Schenectady used to her handmaiden.

"Why?" asked Miss Schenectady, in some astonishment.

"Nothing," said Ronald, looking rather confused; "I did not quite catch what you said."

There was a silence, and the old lady and the young man looked at each other.

Ronald was a very handsome man, as Joe knew. He was tall and straight and deep-chested. His complexion was like a child's, and his fine moustache like silk. His thick fair hair was parted accurately in the middle, and his smooth, white forehead betrayed no sign of care or thought. His eyes were blue and very bright, and looked fearlessly at every one and everything, and his hands were broad and clean-looking. He was perfectly well dressed, but in a fashion far less extreme than that affected by Mr.

Topeka and young John C. Hannibal. There was less collar and more shoulder to him, and his legs were longer and straighter than theirs. Nevertheless, had he stood beside John Harrington, no one would have hesitated an instant in deciding which was the stronger man. With all his beauty and grace, Ronald Surbiton was but one of a cla.s.s of handsome and graceful men. John Harrington bore on his square brow and in the singular compactness of his active frame the peculiar sign-manual of an especial purpose. He would have been an exception in any cla.s.s and in any age. It was no wonder Joe had wished to compare the two.

In a few moments the door opened, and Joe entered the drawing-room. She was pale, and her great brown eyes had a serious expression in them that was unusual. There was something prim in the close dark dress she wore, and the military collar of most modern cut met severely about her throat.

If Ronald had expected a very affectionate welcome he was destined to disappointment; Joe had determined not to be affectionate until all was over. To prepare him in some measure for what was in store, she had planned that he should be left alone for a time with Miss Schenectady, who, she thought, would chill any suitor to the bone.

"My dear Ronald," said Joe, holding out her hand, "I am so glad to see you." Her voice was even and gentle, but there was no gladness in it.

"Not half so glad as I am to see you," said Ronald, holding her hand in his, his face beaming with delight. "It seems such an age since you left!"

"It is only two months, though," said Joe, with a faint smile. "I ought to apologize, but I suppose you have introduced yourself to Aunt Zoe." She could not call her Aunt Zoruiah, even for the sake of frightening Ronald.

"What did you think when you got my telegram?" asked the latter.

"I thought it was very foolish of you to run away just when the hunting was so good," answered Joe with decision.

"But you are glad, are you not?" he asked, lowering his voice, and looking affectionately at her. Miss Schenectady was again absorbed in the life of Mr. Ticknor.

"Yes," said Joe, gravely. "It is as well that you have come, because I have something to say to you, and I should have had to write it. Let us go out. Would you like to go for a walk?"

Ronald was delighted to do anything that would give him a chance of escaping from Aunt Zoruiah and being alone with Joe.

"I think you had best be back to lunch," remarked Miss Schenectady as they left the room.

"Of course, Aunt Zoe," answered Joe. "Besides, Sybil is coming, you know."

So they sallied forth.

It was a warm day; the snow had melted from the brick pavement, and the great icicles on the gutters and on the trees were running water in the mid-day sun. Joe thought a scene would be better to get over in the publicity of the street than in private. Ronald, all unsuspecting of her intention, walked calmly by her side, looking at her occasionally with a certain pride, mixed with a good deal of sentimental benevolence.

"Do you know," Joe began presently, "when your cable came I felt very guilty at having written to you that you might come?"