CHAPTER I. ASCENDI.

Produced by David Widger

A MODERN CHRONICLE

By Winston Churchill

CONTENTS

BOOK I.

Volume 1.

I. WHAT'S IN HEREDITY?

II. PERDITA RECALLED

III. CONCERNING PROVIDENCE

IV. OF TEMPERAMENT

V. IN WHICH PROVIDENCE BEEPS FAITH

VI. HONORA HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD

Volume 2.

VII. THE OLYMPIAN ORDER

VIII. A CHAPTER OF CONQUESTS

IX. IN WHICH THE VICOMTE CONTINUES HIS STUDIES

X. IN WHICH HONORA WIDENS HER HORIZON

XI. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

XII. WHICH CONTAINS A SURPRISE FOR MRS. HOLT

BOOK II. Volume 3.

I. SO LONG AS YE BOTH SHALL LIVE

II. “STAFFORD PARK”

III. THE GREAT UNATTACHED

IV. THE NEW DOCTRINE

V. QUICKSANDS

VI. GAD AND MENI. Volume 4.

VII. OF CERTAIN DELICATE MATTERS

VIII. OF MENTAL PROCESSES-FEMININE AND INSOLUBLE

IX. INTRODUCING A REVOLUTIONIZING VEHICLE

X. ON THE ART OF LION TAMING

XI. CONTAINING SOME REVELATIONS

BOOK III. Volume 5.

I. ASCENDI

II. THE PATH OF PHILANTHROPY

III. VINELAND

IV. THE VIKING

V. THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

Volume 6.

VI. CLIO, OR THALIA?

VII “LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS”

VIII. IN WHICH THE LAW BETRAYS A HEART

IX. WYLIE STREET

X. THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

Volume 7.

XI. IN WHICH IT IS ALL DONE OVER AGAIN

XII. THE ENTRANCE INTO EDEN

XIII. OF THE WORLD BEYOND THE GATES.

XIV. CONTAINING PHILOSOPHY FROM MR. GRAINGER

XV. THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY

Volume 8.

XVI. IN WHICH A MIRROR IS HELD UP

XVII. THE RENEWAL OF AN ANCIENT HOSPITALITY

XVIII. IN WHICH MR. ERWIN SEES PARIS

A MODERN CHRONICLE

CHAPTER I. WHAT'S IN HEREDITY

Honora Leffingwell is the original name of our heroine. She was born in

the last quarter of the Nineteenth Century, at Nice, in France, and she

spent the early years of her life in St. Louis, a somewhat conservative

old city on the banks of the Mississippi River. Her father was Randolph

Leffingwell, and he died in the early flower of his manhood, while

filling with a grace that many remember the post of United States Consul

at Nice. As a linguist he was a phenomenon, and his photograph in the

tortoise-shell frame proves indubitably, to anyone acquainted with the

fashions of 1870, that he was a master of that subtlest of all arts,

dress. He had gentle blood in his veins, which came from Virginia

through Kentucky in a coach and six, and he was the equal in appearance

and manners of any duke who lingered beside classic seas.

Honora has often pictured to herself a gay villa set high above the

curving shore, the amethyst depths shading into emerald, laced with

milk-white foam, the vivid colours of the town, the gay costumes; the

excursions, the dinner-parties presided over by the immaculate young

consul in three languages, and the guests chosen from the haute noblesse

of Europe. Such was the vision in her youthful mind, added to by degrees

as she grew into young-ladyhood and surreptitiously became familiar

with the writings of Ouida and the Duchess, and other literature of an

educating cosmopolitan nature.

Honora's biography should undoubtedly contain a sketch of Mrs. Randolph

Leffingwell. Beauty and dash and a knowledge of how to seat a table seem

to have been the lady's chief characteristics; the only daughter of

a carefully dressed and carefully, preserved widower, likewise a

linguist,--whose super-refined tastes and the limited straits to which

he, the remaining scion of an old Southern family, had been reduced by a

gentlemanly contempt for money, led him 'to choose Paris rather than

New York as a place of residence. One of the occasional and carefully

planned trips to the Riviera proved fatal to the beautiful but reckless

Myrtle Allison. She, who might have chosen counts or dukes from the

Tagus to the Danube, or even crossed the Channel; took the dashing

but impecunious American consul, with a faith in his future that was

sublime. Without going over too carefully the upward path which led to

the post of their country's representative at the court of St. James,

neither had the slightest doubt that Randolph Leffingwell would tread

it.

It is needless to dwell upon the chagrin of Honora's maternal

grandfather, Howard Allison Esquire, over this turn of affairs, this

unexpected bouleversement, as he spoke of it in private to his friends

in his Parisian club. For many years he had watched the personal

attractions of his daughter grow, and a brougham and certain other

delights not to be mentioned had gradually become, in his mind,

synonymous with old age. The brougham would have on its panels the

Allison crest, and his distinguished (and titled) son-in-law would drop

in occasionally at the little apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann.

Alas, for visions, for legitimate hopes shattered forever! On the day

that Randolph Leffingwell led Miss Allison down the aisle of the English

church the vision of the brougham and the other delights faded. Howard

Allison went back to his club.

Three years later, while on an excursion with Sir Nicholas Baker and a

merry party on the Italian aide, the horses behind which Mr. and Mrs.

Leffingwell were driving with their host ran away, and in the flight

managed to precipitate the vehicle, and themselves, down the side of one

of the numerous deep valleys of the streams seeking the Mediterranean.

Thus, by a singular caprice of destiny Honors was deprived of both her

parents at a period which--some chose to believe--was the height of

their combined glories. Randolph Leffingwell lived long enough to be

taken back to Nice, and to consign his infant daughter and sundry other

unsolved problems to his brother Tom.

Brother Tom--or Uncle Tom, as we must call him with Honora--cheerfully

accepted the charge. For his legacies in life had been chiefly

blessings in disguise. He was paying teller of the Prairie Bank, and the

thermometer registered something above 90 deg. Fahrenheit on the July

morning when he stood behind his wicket reading a letter from Howard

Allison, Esquire, relative to his niece. Mr. Leffingwell was at this

period of his life forty-eight, but the habit he had acquired of

assuming responsibilities and burdens seemed to have had the effect of

making his age indefinite. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, his

mustache and hair already turning; his eyebrows were a trifle bushy, and

his eyes reminded men of one eternal and highly prized quality--honesty.

They were blue grey. Ordinarily they shed a light which sent people

away from his window the happier without knowing why; but they had been

known, on rare occasions, to flash on dishonesty and fraud like the

lightnings of the Lord. Mr. Isham, the president of the bank, coined a

phrase about him. He said that Thomas Leffingwell was constitutionally

honest.

Although he had not risen above the position of paying teller, Thomas

Leffingwell had a unique place in the city of his birth; and the esteem

in which he was held by capitalists and clerks proves that character

counts for something. On his father's failure and death he had entered

the Prairie Bank, at eighteen, and never left it. If he had owned it,

he could not have been treated by the customers with more respect. The

city, save for a few notable exceptions, like Mr. Isham, called him Mr.

Leffingwell, but behind his back often spoke of him as Tom.

On the particular hot morning in question, as he stood in his seersucker

coat reading the unquestionably pompous letter of Mr. Allison announcing

that his niece was on the high seas, he returned the greetings of his

friends with his usual kindness and cheer. In an adjoining compartment a

long-legged boy of fourteen was busily stamping letters.

“Peter,” said Mr. Leffingwell, “go ask Mr. Isham if I may see him.”

It is advisable to remember the boy's name. It was Peter Erwin, and

he was a favourite in the bank, where he had been introduced by Mr.

Leffingwell himself. He was an orphan and lived with his grandmother,

an impoverished old lady with good blood in her veins who boarded in

Graham's Row, on Olive Street. Suffice it to add, at this time, that he

worshipped Mr. Leffingwell, and that he was back in a twinkling with the

information that Mr. Isham was awaiting him.

The president was seated at his desk. In spite of the thermometer

he gave no appearance of discomfort in his frock-coat. He had scant,

sandy-grey whiskers, a tightly closed and smooth-shaven upper lip, a

nose with-a decided ridge, and rather small but penetrating eyes in

which the blue pigment had been used sparingly. His habitual mode of

speech was both brief and sharp, but people remarked that he modified it

a little for Tom Leffingwell.

“Come in, Tom,” he said. “Anything the matter?”

“Mr. Isham, I want a week off, to go to New York.”

The request, from Tom Leffingwell, took Mr. Isham's breath. One of the

bank president's characteristics was an extreme interest in the private

affairs of those who came within his zone of influence and especially

when these affairs evinced any irregularity.

“Randolph again?” he asked quickly.

Tom walked to the window, and stood looking out into the street. His

voice shook as he answered:

“Ten days ago I learned that my brother was dead, Mr. Isham.”

The president glanced at the broad back of his teller. Mr. Isham's voice

was firm, his face certainly betrayed no feeling, but a flitting gleam

of satisfaction might have been seen in his eye.

“Of course, Tom, you may go,” he answered.

Thus came to pass an event in the lives of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, that

journey to New York (their first) of two nights and two days to fetch

Honora. We need not dwell upon all that befell them. The first view of

the Hudson, the first whiff of the salt air on this unwonted holiday,

the sights of this crowded city of wealth,--all were tempered by the

thought of the child coming into their lives. They were standing on

the pier when the windows were crimson in the early light, and at

nine o'clock on that summer's morning the Albania was docked, and the

passengers came crowding down the gang-plank. Prosperous tourists, most

of them, with servants and stewards carrying bags of English design and

checked steamer rugs; and at last a ruddy-faced bonne with streamers

and a bundle of ribbons and laces--Honora--Honora, aged eighteen months,

gazing at a subjugated world.

“What a beautiful child! exclaimed a woman on the pier.”

Was it instinct or premonition that led them to accost the bonne?

“Oui, Leffingwell!” she cried, gazing at them in some perplexity. Three

children of various sizes clung to her skirts, and a younger nurse

carried a golden-haired little girl of Honora's age. A lady and

gentleman followed. The lady was beginning to look matronly, and no

second glance was required to perceive that she was a person of opinion

and character. Mr. Holt was smaller than his wife, neat in dress and

unobtrusive in appearance. In the rich Mrs. Holt, the friend of the

Randolph Leffingwells, Aunt Mary was prepared to find a more vapidly

fashionable personage, and had schooled herself forthwith.

“You are Mrs. Thomas Leffingwell?” she asked. “Well, I am relieved.” The

lady's eyes, travelling rapidly over Aunt Mary's sober bonnet and brooch

and gown, made it appear that these features in Honora's future guardian

gave her the relief in question. “Honora, this is your aunt.”

Honora smiled from amidst the laces, and Aunt Mary, only too ready to

capitulate, surrendered. She held out her arms. Tears welled up in the

Frenchwoman's eyes as she abandoned her charge.

“Pauvre mignonne!” she cried.

But Mrs. Holt rebuked the nurse sharply, in French,--a language with

which neither Aunt Mary nor Uncle Tom was familiar. Fortunately,

perhaps. Mrs. Holt's remark was to the effect that Honora was going to a

sensible home.

“Hortense loves her better than my own children,” said that lady.

Honora seemed quite content in the arms of Aunt Mary, who was gazing

so earnestly into the child's face that she did not at first hear Mrs.

Holt's invitation to take breakfast with them on Madison Avenue, and

then she declined politely. While grossing on the steamer, Mrs. Holt had

decided quite clearly in her mind just what she was going to say to the

child's future guardian, but there was something in Aunt Mary's voice

and manner which made these remarks seem unnecessary--although Mrs. Holt

was secretly disappointed not to deliver them.

“It was fortunate that we happened to, be in Nice at the time,” she said

with the evident feeling that some explanation was due. “I did not

know poor Mrs. Randolph Leffingwell very--very intimately, or Mr.

Leffingwell. It was such a sudden--such a terrible affair. But Mr. Holt

and I were only too glad to do what we could.”

“We feel very grateful to you,” said Aunt Mary, quietly.

Mrs. Holt looked at her with a still more distinct approval, being

tolerably sure that Mrs. Thomas Leffingwell understood. She had cleared

her skirts of any possible implication of intimacy with the late Mrs.

Randolph, and done so with a master touch.

In the meantime Honora had passed to Uncle Tom. After securing the

little trunk, and settling certain matters with Mr. Holt, they said

good-by to her late kind protectors, and started off for the nearest

street-cars, Honora pulling Uncle Tom's mustache. More than one

pedestrian paused to look back at the tall man carrying the beautiful

child, bedecked like a young princess, and more than one passenger in

the street cars smiled at them both.

CHAPTER II. PERDITA RECALLED

Saint Louis, or that part of it which is called by dealers in real

estate the choice residence section, grew westward. And Uncle Tom might

be said to have been in the vanguard of the movement. In the days before

Honora was born he had built his little house on what had been a farm on

the Olive Street Road, at the crest of the second ridge from the river.

Up this ridge, with clanking traces, toiled the horse-cars that carried

Uncle Tom downtown to the bank and Aunt Mary to market.

Fleeing westward, likewise, from the smoke, friends of Uncle Tom's and

Aunt Mary's gradually surrounded them--building, as a rule, the high

Victorian mansions in favour at that period, which were placed in the

centre of commodious yards. For the friends of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary

were for the most part rich, and belonged, as did they, to the older

families of the city. Mr. Dwyer's house, with its picture gallery, was

across the street.

In the midst of such imposing company the little dwelling which became

the home of our heroine sat well back in a plot that might almost be

called a garden. In summer its white wooden front was nearly hidden by

the quivering leaves of two tall pear trees. On the other side of the

brick walk, and near the iron fence, was an elm and a flower bed that

was Uncle Tom's pride and the admiration of the neighbourhood. Honora

has but to shut her eyes to see it aflame with tulips at Eastertide. The

eastern wall of the house was a mass of Virginia creeper, and beneath

that another flower bed, and still another in the back-yard behind

the lattice fence covered with cucumber vine. There were, besides, two

maples and two apricot trees, relics of the farm, and of blessed memory.

Such apricots! Visions of hot summer evenings come back, with Uncle Tom,

in his seersucker coat, with his green watering-pot, bending over the

beds, and Aunt Mary seated upright in her chair, looking up from her

knitting with a loving eye.

Behind the lattice, on these summer evenings, stands the militant figure

of that old retainer, Bridget the cook, her stout arms akimbo, ready to

engage in vigorous banter should Honora deign to approach.

“Whisht, 'Nora darlint, it's a young lady yell be soon, and the beaux

a-comin' 'round!” she would cry, and throw back her head and laugh until

the tears were in her eyes.

And the princess, a slim figure in an immaculate linen frock with red

ribbons which Aunt Mary had copied from Longstreth's London catalogue,

would reply with dignity:

“Bridget, I wish you would try to remember that my name is Honora.”

Another spasm of laughter from Bridget.

“Listen to that now!” she would cry to another ancient retainer, Mary

Ann, the housemaid, whose kitchen chair was tilted up against the side

of the woodshed. “It'll be Miss Honora next, and George Hanbury here

to-day with his eye through a knothole in the fence, out of his head for

a sight of ye.”

George Hanbury was Honora's cousin, and she did not deem his admiration

a subject fit for discussion with Bridget.

“Sure,” declared Mary Ann, “it's the air of a princess the child has.”

That she should be thought a princess did not appear at all remarkable

to Honora at twelve years of age. Perdita may have had such dreams.

She had been born, she knew, in some wondrous land by the shores of the

summer seas, not at all like St. Louis, and friends and relatives

had not hesitated to remark in her hearing that she resembled--her

father,--that handsome father who surely must have been a prince, whose

before-mentioned photograph in the tortoise-shell frame was on the

bureau in her little room. So far as Randolph Leffingwell was concerned,

photography had not been invented for nothing. Other records of him

remained which Honora had likewise seen: one end of a rose-covered

villa--which Honora thought was a wing of his palace; a coach and

four he was driving, and which had chanced to belong to an Englishman,

although the photograph gave no evidence of this ownership. Neither

Aunt Mary nor Uncle Tom had ever sought--for reasons perhaps obvious--to

correct the child's impression of an extraordinary paternity.

Aunt Mary was a Puritan of Southern ancestry, and her father had been a

Presbyterian minister, Uncle Tom was a member of the vestry of a church

still under Puritan influences. As a consequence for Honora, there were

Sunday afternoons--periods when the imaginative faculty, in which she

was by no means lacking, was given full play. She would sit by the

hour in the swing Uncle Tom had hung for her under the maple near the

lattice, while castles rose on distant heights against blue skies. There

was her real home, in a balconied chamber that overlooked mile upon mile

of rustling forest in the valley; and when the wind blew, the sound of

it was like the sea. Honora did not remember the sea, but its music was

often in her ears.

She would be aroused from these dreams of greatness by the appearance of

old Catherine, her nurse, on the side porch, reminding her that it

was time to wash for supper. No princess could have had a more humble

tiring-woman than Catherine.

Honora cannot be unduly blamed. When she reached the “little house

under the hill” (as Catherine called the chamber beneath the eaves), she

beheld reflected in the mirror an image like a tall, white flower that

might indeed have belonged to a princess. Her hair, the colour of

burnt sienna, fell evenly to her shoulders; her features even then had

regularity and hauteur; her legs, in their black silk stockings, were

straight; and the simple white lawn frock made the best of a slender

figure. Those frocks of Honora's were a continual source of wonder and

sometimes of envy--to Aunt Mary's friends; who returned from the seaside

in the autumn, after a week among the fashions in Boston or New York,

to find Honora in the latest models, and better dressed than their own

children. Aunt Mary made no secret of the methods by which these seeming

miracles were performed, and showed Cousin Eleanor Hanbury the fashion

plates in the English periodicals. Cousin Eleanor sighed.

“Mary, you are wonderful,” she would say. “Honora's clothes are

better-looking than those I buy in the East, at such fabulous prices,

from Cavendish.”

Indeed, no woman was ever farther removed from personal vanity than Aunt

Mary. She looked like a little Quakeress. Her silvered hair was parted

in the middle and had, in spite of palpable efforts towards tightness

and repression, a perceptible ripple in it. Grey was her only concession

to colour, and her gowns and bonnets were of a primness which belonged

to the past. Repression, or perhaps compression, was her note, for the

energy confined within her little body was a thing to have astounded

scientists: And Honora grew to womanhood and reflection before she had.

guessed or considered that her aunt was possessed of intense emotions

which had no outlet. Her features were regular, her shy eye had the

clearness of a forest pool. She believed in predestination, which is

to say that she was a fatalist; and while she steadfastly continued to

regard this world as a place of sorrow and trials, she concerned herself

very little about her participation in a future life. Old Dr. Ewing, the

rector of St. Anne's, while conceding that no better or more charitable

woman existed, found it so exceedingly difficult to talk to her, on the

subject of religion that he had never tried it but once.

Such was Aunt Mary. The true student of human nature should not find it

surprising that she spoiled Honora and strove--at what secret expense,

care, and self-denial to Uncle Tom and herself, none will ever know--to

adorn the child that she might appear creditably among companions whose

parents were more fortunate in this world's goods; that she denied

herself to educate Honora as these other children were educated. Nor is

it astonishing that she should not have understood the highly complex

organism of the young lady we have chosen for our heroine, who was

shaken, at the age of thirteen, by unfulfilled longings.

Very early in life Honora learned to dread the summer, when one by one

the families of her friends departed until the city itself seemed a

remote and distant place from what it had been in the spring and

winter. The great houses were closed and blinded, and in the evening the

servants who had been left behind chattered on the front steps. Honora

could not bear the sound of the trains that drifted across the night,

and the sight of the trunks piled in the Hanburys' hall, in Wayland

Square, always filled her with a sickening longing. Would the day ever

come when she, too, would depart for the bright places of the earth?

Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she was filled with a fierce

belief in a destiny to sit in the high seats, to receive homage and

dispense bounties, to discourse with great intellects, to know London

and Paris and the marts and centres of the world as her father had. To

escape--only to escape from the prison walls of a humdrum existence, and

to soar!

Let us, if we can, reconstruct an August day when all (or nearly all)

of Honora's small friends were gone eastward to the mountains or the

seaside. In “the little house under the hill,” the surface of which was

a hot slate roof, Honora would awake about seven o'clock to find old

Catherine bending over her in a dun-coloured calico dress, with the

light fiercely beating against the closed shutters that braved it so

unflinchingly throughout the day.

“The birds are before ye, Miss Honora, honey, and your uncle waterin'

his roses this half-hour.”

Uncle Tom was indeed an early riser. As Honora dressed (Catherine

assisting as at a ceremony), she could see him, in his seersucker coat,

bending tenderly over his beds; he lived enveloped in a peace which has

since struck wonder to Honora's soul. She lingered in her dressing, even

in those days, falling into reveries from which Catherine gently and

deferentially aroused her; and Uncle Tom would be carving the beefsteak

and Aunt Mary pouring the coffee when she finally arrived in the dining

room to nibble at one of Bridget's unforgettable rolls or hot biscuits.

Uncle Tom had his joke, and at quarter-past eight precisely he would

kiss Aunt Mary and walk to the corner to wait for the ambling horse-car

that was to take him to the bank. Sometimes Honora went to the corner

with him, and he waved her good-by from the platform as he felt in his

pocket for the nickel that was to pay his fare.

When Honora returned, Aunt Mary had donned her apron, and was

industriously aiding Mary Ann to wash the dishes and maintain the

customary high polish on her husband's share of the Leffingwell silver

which, standing on the side table, shot hither and thither rays of green

light that filtered through the shutters into the darkened room. The

child partook of Aunt Mary's pride in that silver, made for a Kentucky

great-grandfather Leffingwell by a famous Philadelphia silversmith

three-quarters of a century before. Honora sighed.

“What's the matter, Honora?” asked Aunt Mary, without pausing in her

vigorous rubbing.

“The Leffingwells used to be great once upon a time, didn't they, Aunt

Mary?”

“Your Uncle Tom,” answered Aunt Mary, quietly, “is the greatest man I

know, child.”

“And my father must have been a great man, too,” cried Honora, “to have

been a consul and drive coaches.”

Aunt Mary was silent. She was not a person who spoke easily on difficult

subjects.

“Why don't you ever talk to me about my father, Aunt Mary? Uncle Tom

does.”

“I didn't know your father, Honora.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, dipping her cloth into the whiting; “I saw him at

my wedding. But he was very, young.”

“What was he like?” Honora demanded. “He was very handsome, wasn't he?”

“Yes, child.”

“And he had ambition, didn't he, Aunt Mary?”

Aunt Mary paused. Her eyes were troubled as she looked at Honora, whose

head was thrown back.

“What kind of ambition do you mean, Honora?”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “to be great and rich and powerful, and to be

somebody.”

“Who has been putting such things in your head, my dear?”

“No one, Aunt Mary. Only, if I were a man, I shouldn't rest until I

became great.”

Alas, that Aunt Mary, with all her will, should have such limited powers

of expression! She resumed her scrubbing of the silver before she spoke.

“To do one's duty, to accept cheerfully and like a Christian the

responsibilities and burdens of life, is the highest form of greatness,

my child. Your Uncle Tom has had many things to trouble him; he has

always worked for others, and not for himself. And he is respected and

loved by all who know him.”

“Yes, I know, Aunt Mary. But--”

“But what, Honora?”

“Then why isn't he rich, as my father was?”

“Your father wasn't rich, my dear,” said Aunt Mary, sadly.

“Why, Aunt Mary!” Honora exclaimed, “he lived in a beautiful house, and

owned horses. Isn't that being rich?”

Poor Aunt Mary!

“Honora,” she answered, “there are some things you are too young to

understand. But try to remember, my dear, that happiness doesn't consist

in being rich.”

“But I have often heard you say that you wished you were rich, Aunt

Mary, and had nice things, and a picture gallery like Mr. Dwyer.”

“I should like to have beautiful pictures, Honora.”

“I don't like Mr. Dwyer,” declared Honora, abruptly.

“You mustn't say that, Honora,” was Aunt Mary's reproof. “Mr. Dwyer

is an upright, public-spirited man, and he thinks a great deal of your

Uncle Tom.”

“I can't help it, Aunt Mary,” said Honora. “I think he enjoys

being--well, being able to do things for a man like Uncle Tom.”

Neither Aunt Mary nor Honora guessed what a subtle criticism this was

of Mr. Dwyer. Aunt Mary was troubled and puzzled; and she began to

speculate (not for the first time) why the Lord had given a person with

so little imagination a child like Honora to bring up in the straight

and narrow path.

“When I go on Sunday afternoons with Uncle Tom to see Mr. Dwyer's

pictures,” Honora persisted, “I always feel that he is so glad to have

what other people haven't or he wouldn't have any one to show them to.”

Aunt Mary shook her head. Once she had given her loyal friendship, such

faults as this became as nothing.

“And when” said Honora, “when Mrs. Dwyer has dinner-parties for

celebrated people who come here, why does she invite you in to see the

table?”

“Out of kindness, Honora. Mrs. Dwyer knows that I enjoy looking at

beautiful things.”

“Why doesn't she invite you to the dinners?” asked Honora, hotly. “Our

family is just as good as Mrs. Dwyer's.”

The extent of Aunt Mary's distress was not apparent.

“You are talking nonsense, my child,” she said. “All my friends know

that I am not a person who can entertain distinguished people, and that

I do not go out, and that I haven't the money to buy evening dresses.

And even if I had,” she added, “I haven't a pretty neck, so it's just as

well.”

A philosophy distinctly Aunt Mary's.

Uncle Tom, after he had listened without comment that evening to her

account of this conversation, was of the opinion that to take Honora

to task for her fancies would be waste of breath; that they would right

themselves as she grew up.

“I'm afraid it's inheritance, Tom,” said Aunt Mary, at last. “And if

so, it ought to be counteracted. We've seen other signs of it. You

know Honora has little or no idea of the value of money--or of its

ownership.”

“She sees little enough of it,” Uncle Tom remarked with a smile.

“Tom.”

“Well.”

“Sometimes I think I've done wrong not to dress her more simply. I'm

afraid it's given the child a taste for--for self-adornment.”

“I once had a fond belief that all women possessed such a taste,” said

Uncle Tom, with a quizzical look at his own exception. “To tell you the

truth, I never classed it as a fault.”

“Then I don't see why you married me,” said Aunt Mary--a periodical

remark of hers. “But, Tom, I do wish her to appear as well as the other

children, and (Aunt Mary actually blushed) the child has good looks.”

“Why don't you go as far as old Catherine, and call her a princess?” he

asked.

“Do you want me to ruin her utterly?” exclaimed Aunt Mary.

Uncle Tom put his hands on his wife's shoulders and looked down into her

face, and smiled again. Although she held herself very straight, the top

of her head was very little above the level of his chin.

“It strikes me that you are entitled to some little indulgence in life,

Mary,” he said.

One of the curious contradictions of Aunt Mary's character was a never

dying interest, which held no taint of envy, in the doings of people

more fortunate than herself. In the long summer days, after her silver

was cleaned and her housekeeping and marketing finished, she read in the

book-club periodicals of royal marriages, embassy balls, of great town

and country houses and their owners at home and abroad. And she knew,

by means of a correspondence with Cousin Eleanor Hanbury and other

intimates, the kind of cottages in which her friends sojourned at the

seashore or in the mountains; how many rooms they had, and how many

servants, and very often who the servants were; she was likewise

informed on the climate, and the ease with which it was possible to

obtain fresh vegetables. And to all of this information Uncle Tom would

listen, smiling but genuinely interested, while he carved at dinner.

One evening, when Uncle Tom had gone to play piquet with Mr. Isham, who

was ill, Honora further surprised her aunt by exclaiming: “How can you

talk of things other people have and not want them, Aunt Mary?”

“Why should I desire what I cannot have, my dear? I take such pleasure

out of my friends' possessions as I can.”

“But you want to go to the seashore, I know you do. I've heard you say

so,” Honora protested.

“I should like to see the open ocean before I die,” admitted Aunt Mary,

unexpectedly. “I saw New York harbour once, when we went to meet you.

And I know how the salt water smells--which is as much, perhaps, as I

have the right to hope for. But I have often thought it would be nice to

sit for a whole summer by the sea and listen to the waves dashing upon

the beach, like those in the Chase picture in Mr. Dwyer's gallery.”

Aunt Mary little guessed the unspeakable rebellion aroused in Honora by

this acknowledgment of being fatally circumscribed. Wouldn't Uncle Tom

ever be rich?

Aunt Mary shook her head--she saw no prospect of it.

But other men, who were not half so good as Uncle Tom, got rich.

Uncle Tom was not the kind of man who cared for riches. He was content

to do his duty in that sphere where God had placed him.

Poor Aunt Mary. Honora never asked her uncle such questions: to do so

never occurred to her. At peace with all men, he gave of his best to

children, and Honora remained a child. Next to his flowers, walking was

Uncle Tom's chief recreation, and from the time she could be guided by

the hand she went with him. His very presence had the gift of dispelling

longings, even in the young; the gift of compelling delight in simple

things. Of a Sunday afternoon, if the heat were not too great, he would

take Honora to the wild park that stretches westward of the city, and

something of the depth and intensity of his pleasure in the birds,

the forest, and the wild flowers would communicate itself to her. She

learned all unconsciously (by suggestion, as it were) to take delight in

them; a delight that was to last her lifetime, a never failing resource

to which she was to turn again and again. In winter, they went to the

botanical gardens or the Zoo. Uncle Tom had a passion for animals, and

Mr. Isham, who was a director, gave him a pass through the gates. The

keepers knew him, and spoke to him with kindly respect. Nay, it seemed

to Honora that the very animals knew him, and offered themselves

ingratiatingly to be stroked by one whom they recognized as friend.

Jaded horses in the street lifted their noses; stray, homeless cats

rubbed against his legs, and vagrant dogs looked up at him trustfully

with wagging tails.

Yet his goodness, as Emerson would have said, had some edge to it.

Honora had seen the light of anger in his blue eye--a divine ray. Once

he had chastised her for telling Aunt Mary a lie (she could not have

lied to him) and Honora had never forgotten it. The anger of such a man

had indeed some element in it of the divine; terrible, not in volume,

but in righteous intensity. And when it had passed there was no occasion

for future warning. The memory of it lingered.

CHAPTER III. CONCERNING PROVIDENCE

What quality was it in Honora that compelled Bridget to stop her ironing

on Tuesdays in order to make hot waffles for a young woman who was late

to breakfast? Bridget, who would have filled the kitchen with righteous

wrath if Aunt Mary had transgressed the rules of the house, which were

like the laws of the Medes and Persians! And in Honora's early youth

Mary Ann, the housemaid, spent more than one painful evening writing

home for cockle shells and other articles to propitiate our princess,

who rewarded her with a winning smile and a kiss, which invariably

melted the honest girl into tears. The Queen of Scots never had a more

devoted chamber woman than old Catherine,--who would have gone to the

stake with a smile to save her little lady a single childish ill, and

who spent her savings, until severely taken to task by Aunt Mary,

upon objects for which a casual wish had been expressed. The saints

themselves must at times have been aweary from hearing Honora's name.

Not to speak of Christmas! Christmas in the little house was one wild

delirium of joy. The night before the festival was, to all outward

appearances, an ordinary evening, when Uncle Tom sat by the fire in his

slippers, as usual, scouting the idea that there would be any Christmas

at all. Aunt Mary sewed, and talked with maddening calmness of the news

of the day; but for Honora the air was charged with coming events of

the first magnitude. The very furniture of the little sitting-room had

a different air, the room itself wore a mysterious aspect, and the

cannel-coal fire seemed to give forth a special quality of unearthly

light.

“Is to-morrow Christmas?” Uncle Tom would exclaim. “Bless me! Honora, I

am so glad you reminded me.”

“Now, Uncle Tom, you knew it was Christmas all the time!”

“Kiss your uncle good night, Honora, and go right to sleep, dear,”--from

Aunt Mary.

The unconscious irony in that command of Aunt Mary's!--to go right to

sleep! Many times was a head lifted from a small pillow, straining after

the meaning of the squeaky noises that came up from below! Not Santa

Claus. Honora's belief in him had merged into a blind faith in a larger

and even more benevolent, if material providence: the kind of providence

which Mr. Meredith depicts, and which was to say to Beauchamp: “Here's

your marquise;” a particular providence which, at the proper time, gave

Uncle Tom money, and commanded, with a smile, “Buy this for Honora--she

wants it.” All-sufficient reason! Soul-satisfying philosophy, to which

Honora was to cling for many years of life. It is amazing how much

can be wrung from a reluctant world by the mere belief in this kind of

providence.

Sleep came at last, in the darkest of the hours. And still in the

dark hours a stirring, a delicious sensation preceding reason, and the

consciousness of a figure stealing about the room. Honora sat up in bed,

shivering with cold and delight.

“Is it awake ye are, darlint, and it but four o'clock the morn!”

“What are you doing, Cathy?”

“Musha, it's to Mass I'm going, to ask the Mother of God to give ye many

happy Christmases the like of this, Miss Honora.” And Catherine's arms

were about her.

“Oh, it's Christmas, Cathy, isn't it? How could I have forgotten it!”

“Now go to sleep, honey. Your aunt and uncle wouldn't like it at all at

all if ye was to make noise in the middle of the night--and it's little

better it is.”

Sleep! A despised waste of time in childhood. Catherine went to Mass,

and after an eternity, the grey December light began to sift through

the shutters, and human endurance had reached its limit. Honora, still

shivering, seized a fleecy wrapper (the handiwork of Aunt Mary)

and crept, a diminutive ghost, down the creaking stairway to the

sitting-room. A sitting-room which now was not a sitting-room, but

for to-day a place of magic. As though by a prearranged salute of the

gods,--at Honora's entrance the fire burst through the thick blanket

of fine coal which Uncle Tom had laid before going to bed, and with a

little gasp of joy that was almost pain, she paused on the threshold.

That one flash, like Pizarro's first sunrise over Peru, gilded the edge

of infinite possibilities.

Needless to enumerate them. The whole world, as we know, was in a

conspiracy to spoil Honora. The Dwyers, the Cartwrights, the Haydens,

the Brices, the Ishams, and I know not how many others had sent their

tributes, and Honora's second cousins, the Hanburys, from the family

mansion behind the stately elms of Wayland Square--of which something

anon. A miniature mahogany desk, a prayer-book and hymnal which the

Dwyers had brought home from New York, endless volumes of a more secular

and (to Honora) entrancing nature; roller skates; skates for real ice,

when it should appear in the form of sleet on the sidewalks; a sled;

humbler gifts from Bridget, Mary Ann, and Catherine, and a wonderful

coat, with hat to match, of a certain dark green velvet. When Aunt Mary

appeared, an hour or so later, Honora was surveying her magnificence in

the glass.

“Oh, Aunt Mary!” she cried, with her arms tightly locked around her

aunt's neck, “how lovely! Did you send all the way to New York for it?”

“No, Honora,” said her aunt, “it didn't come from New York.” Aunt Mary

did not explain that this coat had been her one engrossing occupation

for six weeks, at such times when Honora was out or tucked away safely

in bed.

Perhaps Honora's face fell a little. Aunt Mary scanned it rather

anxiously.

“Does that cause you to like it any less, Honora?” she asked.

“Aunt Mary!” exclaimed Honora, in a tone of reproval. And added after a

little, “I suppose Mademoiselle made it.”

“Does it make any difference who made it, Honora?”

“Oh, no indeed, Aunt Mary. May I wear it to Cousin Eleanor's to-day?”

“I gave it to you to wear, Honora.”

Not in Honora's memory was there a Christmas breakfast during which

Peter Erwin did not appear, bringing gifts. Peter Erwin, of whom we

caught a glimpse doing an errand for Uncle Tom in the bank. With the

complacency of the sun Honora was wont to regard this most constant of

her satellites. Her awakening powers of observation had discovered

him in bondage, and in bondage he had been ever since: for their

acquaintance had begun on the first Sunday afternoon after Honora's

arrival in St. Louis at the age of eighteen months. It will be

remembered that Honora was even then a coquette, and as she sat in her

new baby-carriage under the pear tree, flirted outrageously with Peter,

who stood on one foot from embarrassment.

“Why, Peter,” Uncle Tom had said slyly, “why don't you kiss her?”

That kiss had been Peter's seal of service. And he became, on Sunday

afternoons, a sort of understudy for Catherine. He took an amazing

delight in wheeling Honora up and down the yard, and up and down the

sidewalk. Brunhilde or Queen Elizabeth never wielded a power more

absolute, nor had an adorer more satisfactory; and of all his remarkable

talents, none were more conspicuous than his abilities to tell a story

and to choose a present. Emancipated from the perambulator, Honora

would watch for him at the window, and toddle to the gate to meet him, a

gentleman-in-waiting whose zeal, however arduous, never flagged.

On this particular Christmas morning, when she heard the gate slam,

Honora sprang up from the table to don her green velvet coat. Poor

Peter! As though his subjugation could be more complete!

“It's the postman,” suggested Uncle Tom, wickedly.

“It's Peter!” cried Honora, triumphantly, from the hall as she flunk

open the door, letting in a breath of cold Christmas air out of the

sunlight.

It was Peter, but a Peter who has changed some since perambulator

days,--just as Honora has changed some. A Peter who, instead of

fourteen, is six and twenty; a full-fledged lawyer, in the office of

that most celebrated of St. Louis practitioners, Judge Stephen Brice.

For the Peter Erwins of this world are queer creatures, and move rapidly

without appearing to the Honoras to move at all. A great many things

have happened to Peter since he had been a messenger boy in the bank.

Needless to say, Uncle Tom had taken an interest in him. And, according

to Peter, this fact accounted for all the good fortune which had

followed. Shortly before the news came of his brother's death, Uncle Tom

had discovered that the boy who did his errands so willingly was going

to night school, and was the grandson of a gentleman who had fought with

credit in the Mexican War, and died in misfortune: the grandmother

was Peter's only living relative. Through Uncle Tom, Mr. Isham became

interested, and Judge Brice. There was a certain scholarship in the

Washington University which Peter obtained, and he worked his way

through the law school afterwards.

A simple story, of which many a duplicate could be found in this country

of ours. In the course of the dozen years or so of its unravelling the

grandmother had died, and Peter had become, to all intents and purposes,

a member of Uncle Tom's family. A place was set for him at Sunday

dinner; and, if he did not appear, at Sunday tea. Sometimes at both. And

here he was, as usual, on Christmas morning, his arms so full that he

had had to push open the gate with his foot.

“Well, well, well, well!” he said, stopping short on the doorstep and

surveying our velvet-clad princess, “I've come to the wrong house.”

The princess stuck her finger into her cheek.

“Don't be silly, Peter!” she said; “and Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” he replied, edging sidewise in at the door and

depositing his parcels on the mahogany horsehair sofa. He chose one, and

seized the princess--velvet coat and all!--in his arms and kissed her.

When he released her, there remained in her hand a morocco-bound diary,

marked with her monogram, and destined to contain high matters.

“How could you know what I wanted, Peter?” she exclaimed, after she had

divested it of the tissue paper, holly, and red ribbon in which he had

so carefully wrapped it. For it is a royal trait to thank with the same

graciousness and warmth the donors of the humblest and the greatest

offerings.

There was a paper-knife for Uncle Tom, and a workbasket for Aunt Mary,

and a dress apiece for Catherine, Bridget, and Mary Ann, none of whom

Peter ever forgot. Although the smoke was even at that period beginning

to creep westward, the sun poured through the lace curtains into the

little dining-room and danced on the silver coffeepot as Aunt Mary

poured out Peter's cup, and the blue china breakfast plates were bluer

than ever because it was Christmas. The humblest of familiar articles

took on the air of a present. And after breakfast, while Aunt Mary

occupied herself with that immemorial institution,--which was to

lure hitherwards so many prominent citizens of St. Louis during the

day,--eggnogg, Peter surveyed the offerings which transformed the

sitting-room. The table had been pushed back against the bookcases,

the chairs knew not their time-honoured places, and white paper and red

ribbon littered the floor. Uncle Tom, relegated to a corner, pretended

to read his newspaper, while Honora flitted from Peter's knees to

his, or sat cross-legged on the hearth-rug investigating a bottomless

stocking.

“What in the world are we going to do with all these things?” said

Peter.

“We?” cried Honora.

“When we get married, I mean,” said Peter, smiling at Uncle Tom. “Let's

see!” and he began counting on his fingers, which were long but very

strong--so strong that Honora could never loosen even one of them when

they gripped her. “One--two--three--eight Christmases before you are

twenty-one. We'll have enough things to set us up in housekeeping. Or

perhaps you'd rather get married when you are eighteen?”

“I've always told you I wasn't going to marry you, Peter,” said Honora,

with decision.

“Why by not?” He always asked that question.

Honora sighed.

“I'll make a good husband,” said Peter; “I'll promise. Ugly men are

always good husbands.”

“I didn't say you were ugly,” declared the ever considerate Honora.

“Only my nose is too big,” he quoted; “and I am too long one way and not

wide enough.”

“You have a certain air of distinction in spite of it,” said Honora.

Uncle Tom's newspaper began to shake, and he read more industriously

than ever.

“You've been reading--novels!” said Peter, in a terrible judicial voice.

Honora flushed guiltily, and resumed her inspection of the stocking.

Miss Rossiter, a maiden lady of somewhat romantic tendencies, was

librarian of the Book Club that year. And as a result a book called

“Harold's Quest,” by an author who shall be nameless, had come to the

house. And it was Harold who had had “a certain air of distinction.”

“It isn't very kind of you to make fun of me when I pay you a

compliment,” replied Honora, with dignity.

“I was naturally put out,” he declared gravely, “because you said you

wouldn't marry me. But I don't intend to give up. No man who is worth

his salt ever gives up.”

“You are old enough to get married now,” said Honora, still considerate.

“But I am not rich enough,” said Peter; “and besides, I want you.”

One of the first entries in the morocco diary--which had a lock and key

to it--was a description of Honora's future husband. We cannot violate

the lock, nor steal the key from under her pillow. But this much, alas,

may be said with discretion, that he bore no resemblance to Peter Erwin.

It may be guessed, however, that he contained something of Harold, and

more of Randolph Leffingwell; and that he did not live in St. Louis.

An event of Christmas, after church, was the dinner of which Uncle Tom

and Aunt Mary and Honora partook with Cousin Eleanor Hanbury, who had

been a Leffingwell, and was a first cousin of Honora's father. Honora

loved the atmosphere of the massive, yellow stone house in Wayland

Square, with its tall polished mahogany doors and thick carpets, with

its deferential darky servants, some of whom had been the slaves of her

great uncle. To Honora, gifted with imagination, the house had an odour

all its own; a rich, clean odour significant, in later life, of wealth

and luxury and spotless housekeeping. And she knew it from top to

bottom. The spacious upper floor, which in ordinary dwellings would have

been an attic, was the realm of young George and his sisters, Edith and

Mary (Aunt Mary's namesake). Rainy Saturdays, all too brief, Honora had

passed there, when the big dolls' house in the playroom became the scene

of domestic dramas which Edith rehearsed after she went to bed, although

Mary took them more calmly. In his tenderer years, Honora even fired

George, and riots occurred which took the combined efforts of Cousin

Eleanor and Mammy Lucy to quell. It may be remarked, in passing, that

Cousin Eleanor looked with suspicion upon this imaginative gift of

Honora's, and had several serious conversations with Aunt Mary on the

subject.

It was true, in a measure, that Honora quickened to life everything she

touched, and her arrival in Wayland Square was invariably greeted

with shouts of joy. There was no doll on which she had not bestowed a

history, and by dint of her insistence their pasts clung to them with

all the reality of a fate not by any means to be lived down. If George

rode the huge rocking-horse, he was Paul Revere, or some equally

historic figure, and sometimes, to Edith's terror, he was compelled to

assume the role of Bluebeard, when Honora submitted to decapitation with

a fortitude amounting to stoicism. Hide and seek was altogether too tame

for her, a stake of life and death, or imprisonment or treasure, being

a necessity. And many times was Edith extracted from the recesses of the

cellar in a condition bordering on hysterics, the day ending tamely with

a Bible story or a selection from “Little Women” read by Cousin Eleanor.

In autumn, and again in spring and early summer before the annual

departure of the Hanbury family for the sea, the pleasant yard with its

wide shade trees and its shrubbery was a land of enchantment threatened

by a genie. Black Bias, the family coachman, polishing the fat carriage

horses in the stable yard, was the genie; and George the intrepid knight

who, spurred by Honora, would dash in and pinch Bias in a part of his

anatomy which the honest darky had never seen. An ideal genie, for he

could assume an astonishing fierceness at will.

“I'll git you yit, Marse George!”

Had it not been for Honora, her cousins would have found the paradise in

which they lived a commonplace spot, and indeed they never could

realize its tremendous possibilities in her absence. What would the

Mediterranean Sea and its adjoining countries be to us unless the

wanderings of Ulysses and AEneas had made them real? And what would

Cousin Eleanor's yard have been without Honora? Whatever there was of

romance and folklore in Uncle Tom's library Honora had extracted at an

early age, and with astonishing ease had avoided that which was dry and

uninteresting. The result was a nomenclature for Aunt Eleanor's yard, in

which there was even a terra incognita wherefrom venturesome travellers

never returned, but were transformed into wild beasts or monkeys.

Although they acknowledged her leadership, Edith and Mary were sorry for

Honora, for they knew that if her father had lived she would have had a

house and garden like theirs, only larger, and beside a blue sea where

it was warm always. Honora had told them so, and colour was lent to her

assertions by the fact that their mother, when they repeated this to

her, only smiled sadly, and brushed her eyes with her handkerchief. She

was even more beautiful when she did so, Edith told her,--a remark which

caused Mrs. Hanbury to scan her younger daughter closely; it smacked of

Honora.

“Was Cousin Randolph handsome?” Edith demanded. Mrs. Hanbury started, so

vividly there arose before her eyes a brave and dashing figure, clad in

grey English cloth, walking by her side on a sunny autumn morning in the

Rue de la Paix. Well she remembered that trip abroad with her mother,

Randolph's aunt, and how attentive he was, and showed them the best

restaurants in which to dine. He had only been in France a short time,

but his knowledge of restaurants and the world in general had been

amazing, and his acquaintances legion. He had a way, which there was no

resisting, of taking people by storm.

“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. Hanbury, absently, when the child repeated

the question, “he was very handsome.”

“Honora says he would have been President,” put in George. “Of course

I don't believe it. She said they lived in a palace by the sea in the

south of France, with gardens and fountains and a lot of things like

that, and princesses and princes and eunuchs--”

“And what!” exclaimed Mrs. Hanbury, aghast.

“I know,” said George, contemptuously, “she got that out of the Arabian

Nights.” But this suspicion did not prevent him, the next time Honora

regaled them with more adventures of the palace by the summer seas,

from listening with a rapt attention. No two tales were ever alike. His

admiration for Honora did not wane, but increased. It differed from that

of his sisters, however, in being a tribute to her creative faculties,

while Edith's breathless faith pictured her cousin as having passed

through as many adventures as Queen Esther. George paid her a

characteristic compliment, but chivalrously drew her aside to bestow it.

He was not one to mince matters.

“You're a wonder, Honora,” he said. “If I could lie like that, I

wouldn't want a pony.”

He was forced to draw back a little from the heat of the conflagration

he had kindled.

“George Hanbury,” she cried, “don't you ever speak to me again! Never!

Do you understand?”

It was thus that George, at some cost, had made a considerable discovery

which, for the moment, shook even his scepticism. Honora believed it all

herself.

Cousin Eleanor Hanbury was a person, or personage, who took a deep

and abiding interest in her fellow-beings, and the old clothes of the

Hanbury family went unerringly to the needy whose figures most

resembled those of the original owners. For Mrs. Hanbury had a wide but

comparatively unknown charity list. She was, secretly, one of the many

providence which Honora accepted collectively, although it is by no

means certain whether Honora, at this period, would have thanked her

cousin for tuition at Miss Farmer's school, and for her daily tasks at

French and music concerning which Aunt Mary was so particular. On the

memorable Christmas morning when, arrayed in green velvet, she arrived

with her aunt and uncle for dinner in Wayland Square, Cousin Eleanor

drew Aunt Mary into her bedroom and shut the door, and handed her a

sealed envelope. Without opening it, but guessing with much accuracy its

contents, Aunt Mary handed it back.

“You are doing too much, Eleanor,” she said.

Mrs. Hanbury was likewise a direct person.

“I will, take it back on one condition, Mary. If you will tell me that

Tom has finished paying Randolph's debts.”

Mrs. Leffingwell was silent.

“I thought not,” said Mrs. Hanbury. “Now Randolph was my own cousin, and

I insist.”

Aunt Mary turned over the envelope, and there followed a few moments'

silence, broken only by the distant clamour of tin horns and other

musical instruments of the season.

“I sometimes think, Mary, that Honora is a little like Randolph,

and-Mrs. Randolph. Of course, I did not know her.”

“Neither did I,” said Aunt Mary.

“Mary,” said Mrs. Hanbury, again, “I realize how you worked to make the

child that velvet coat. Do you think you ought to dress her that way?”

“I don't see why she shouldn't be as well dressed as the children of my

friends, Eleanor.”

Mrs. Hanbury laid her hand impulsively on Aunt Mary's.

“No child I know of dresses half as well,” said Mrs. Hanbury. “The

trouble you take--”

“Is rewarded,” said Aunt Mary.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hanbury agreed. “If my own daughters were half as good

looking, I should be content. And Honora has an air of race. Oh, Mary,

can't you see? I am only thinking of the child's future.”

“Do you expect me to take down all my mirrors, Eleanor? If she has good

looks,” said Aunt Mary, “she has not learned it from my lips.”

It was true: Even Aunt Mary's enemies, and she had some, could not

accuse her of the weakness of flattery. So Mrs. Hanbury smiled, and

dropped the subject.

CHAPTER IV. OF TEMPERAMENT

We have the word of Mr. Cyrus Meeker that Honora did not have to learn

to dance. The art came to her naturally. Of Mr. Cyrus Meeker, whose

mustaches, at the age of five and sixty, are waxed as tight as ever, and

whose little legs to-day are as nimble as of yore. He has a memory like

Mr. Gladstone's, and can give you a social history of the city that is

well worth your time and attention. He will tell you how, for instance,

he was kicked by the august feet of Mr. George Hanbury on the occasion

of his first lesson to that distinguished young gentleman; and how,

although Mr. Meeker's shins were sore, he pleaded nobly for Mr. George,

who was sent home in the carriage by himself,--a punishment, by the way,

which Mr. George desired above all things.

This celebrated incident occurred in the new ballroom at the top of the

new house of young Mrs. Hayden, where the meetings of the dancing class

were held weekly. Today the soot, like the ashes of Vesuvius, spouting

from ten thousand soft-coal craters, has buried that house and the whole

district fathoms deep in social obscurity. And beautiful Mrs. Hayden

what has become of her? And Lucy Hayden, that doll-like darling of the

gods?

All this belongs, however, to another history, which may some day be

written. This one is Honora's, and must be got on with, for it is to be

a chronicle of lightning changes. Happy we if we can follow Honora, and

we must be prepared to make many friends and drop them in the process.

Shortly after Mrs. Hayden had built that palatial house (which had a

high fence around its grounds and a driveway leading to a porte-cochere)

and had given her initial ball, the dancing class began. It was on a

blue afternoon in late November that Aunt Mary and Honora, with Cousin

Eleanor and the two girls, and George sulking in a corner of the

carriage, were driven through the gates behind Bias and the fat horses

of the Hanburys.

Honora has a vivid remembrance of the impression the house made on

her, with its polished floors and spacious rooms filled with a new

and mysterious and altogether inspiring fashion of things. Mrs. Hayden

represented the outposts in the days of Richardson and Davenport--had

Honora but known it. This great house was all so different from anything

she (and many others in the city) had ever seen. And she stood gazing

into the drawing room, with its curtains and decorously drawn shades, in

a rapture which her aunt and cousins were far from guessing.

“Come, Honora,” said her aunt. “What's the matter, dear?”

How could she explain to Aunt Mary that the sight of beautiful things

gave her a sort of pain--when she did not yet know it herself? There was

the massive stairway, for instance, which they ascended, softly lighted

by a great leaded window of stained glass on the first landing; and

the spacious bedrooms with their shining brass beds and lace spreads

(another innovation which Honora resolved to adopt when she married);

and at last, far above all, its deep-set windows looking out above

the trees towards the park a mile to the westward, the ballroom,--the

ballroom, with its mirrors and high chandeliers, and chairs of gilt and

blue set against the walls, all of which made no impression whatever

upon George and Mary and Edith, but gave Honora a thrill. No wonder that

she learned to dance quickly under such an inspiration!

And how pretty Mrs. Hayden looked as she came forward to greet them and

kissed Honora! She had been Virginia Grey, and scarce had had a gown to

her back when she had married the elderly Duncan Hayden, who had built

her this house and presented her with a checkbook,--a check-book which

Virginia believed to be like the widow's cruse of oil-unfailing. Alas,

those days of picnics and balls; of dinners at that recent innovation,

the club; of theatre-parties and excursions to baseball games between

the young men in Mrs. Hayden's train (and all young men were) who played

at Harvard or Yale or Princeton; those days were too care-free to have

endured.

“Aunt Mary,” asked Honora, when they were home again in the lamplight

of the little sitting-room, “why was it that Mr. Meeker was so polite to

Cousin Eleanor, and asked her about my dancing instead of you?”

Aunt Mary smiled.

“Because, Honora,” she said, “because I am a person of no importance in

Mr. Meeker's eyes.”

“If I were a man,” cried Honora, fiercely, “I should never rest until I

had made enough money to make Mr. Meeker wriggle.”

“Honora, come here,” said her aunt, gazing in troubled surprise at the

tense little figure by the mantel. “I don't know what could have put

such things into your head, my child. Money isn't everything. In times

of real trouble it cannot save one.”

“But it can save one from humiliation!” exclaimed Honora, unexpectedly.

Another sign of a peculiar precociousness, at fourteen, with which Aunt

Mary was finding herself unable to cope. “I would rather be killed than

humiliated by Mr. Meeker.”

Whereupon she flew out of the room and upstairs, where old Catherine, in

dismay, found her sobbing a little later.

Poor Aunt Mary! Few people guessed the spirit which was bound up in her,

aching to extend its sympathy and not knowing how, save by an unswerving

and undemonstrative devotion. Her words of comfort were as few as her

silent deeds were many.

But Honora continued to go to the dancing class, where she treated Mr.

Meeker with a hauteur that astonished him, amused Virginia Hayden, and

perplexed Cousin Eleanor. Mr. Meeker's cringing soul responded, and in

a month Honora was the leading spirit of the class, led the marches, and

was pointed out by the little dancing master as all that a lady should

be in deportment and bearing.

This treatment, which succeeded so well in Mr. Meeker's case, Honora had

previously applied to others of his sex. Like most people with a future,

she began young. Of late, for instance, Mr. George Hanbury had shown

a tendency to regard her as his personal property; for George had a

high-handed way with him,--boys being an enigma to his mother. Even in

those days he had a bullet head and a red face and square shoulders, and

was rather undersized for his age--which was Honora's.

Needless to say, George did not approve of the dancing class; and let it

be known, both by words and deeds, that he was there under protest.

Nor did he regard with favour Honora's triumphal progress, but sat in a

corner with several congenial spirits whose feelings ranged from scorn

to despair, commenting in loud whispers upon those of his sex to whom

the terpsichorean art came more naturally. Upon one Algernon Cartwright,

for example, whose striking likeness to the Van Dyck portrait of a young

king had been more than once commented upon by his elders, and whose

velveteen suits enhanced the resemblance. Algernon, by the way, was

the favourite male pupil of Mr. Meeker; and, on occasions, Algernon and

Honora were called upon to give exhibitions for the others, the sight of

which filled George with contemptuous rage. Algernon danced altogether

too much with Honora,--so George informed his cousin.

The simple result of George's protests was to make Honora dance with

Algernon the more, evincing, even at this period of her career, a

commendable determination to resent dictation. George should have lived

in the Middle Ages, when the spirit of modern American womanhood was as

yet unborn. Once he contrived, by main force, to drag her out into the

hall.

“George,” she said, “perhaps, if you'd let me alone perhaps I'd like you

better.”

“Perhaps,” he retorted fiercely, “if you wouldn't make a fool of

yourself with those mother's darlings, I'd like you better.”

“George,” said Honora, “learn to dance.”

“Never!” he cried, but she was gone. While hovering around the door he

heard Mrs. Hayden's voice.

“Unless I am tremendously mistaken, my dear,” that lady was remarking

to Mrs. Dwyer, whose daughter Emily's future millions were powerless to

compel youths of fourteen to dance with her, although she is now happily

married, “unless I am mistaken, Honora will have a career. The child

will be a raving beauty. And she has to perfection the art of managing

men.”

“As her father had the art of managing women,” said Mrs. Dwyer. “Dear

me, how well I remember Randolph! I would have followed him to--to

Cheyenne.”

Mrs. Hayden laughed. “He never would have gone to Cheyenne, I imagine,”

she said.

“He never looked at me, and I have reason to be profoundly thankful for

it,” said Mrs. Dwyer.

Virginia Hayden bit her lip. She remembered a saying of Mrs. Brice,

“Blessed are the ugly, for they shall not be tempted.”

“They say that poor Tom Leffingwell has not yet finished paying his

debts,” continued Mrs. Dwyer, “although his uncle, Eleanor Hanbury's

father, cancelled what Randolph had had from him in his will. It was

twenty-five thousand dollars. James Hanbury, you remember, had him

appointed consul at Nice. Randolph Leffingwell gave the impression of

conferring a favour when he borrowed money. I cannot understand why he

married that penniless and empty-headed beauty.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Hayden, “it was because of his ability to borrow

money that he felt he could afford to.”

The eyes of the two ladies unconsciously followed Honora about the room.

“I never knew a better or a more honest woman than Mary Leffingwell, but

I tremble for her. She is utterly incapable of managing that child. If

Honora is a complicated mechanism now, what will she be at twenty? She

has elements in her which poor Mary never dreamed of. I overheard her

with Emily, and she talks like a grown-up person.”

Mrs. Hayden's dimples deepened.

“Better than some grown-up women,” she said. “She sat in my room while

I dressed the other afternoon. Mrs. Leffingwell had sent her with a

note about that French governess. And, by the way, she speaks French as

though she had lived in Paris.”

Little Mrs. Dwyer raised her hands in protest.

“It doesn't seem natural, somehow. It doesn't seem exactly--moral, my

dear.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hayden. “Mrs. Leffingwell is only giving the child

the advantages which her companions have--Emily has French, hasn't she?”

“But Emily can't speak it--that way,” said Mrs. Dwyer. “I don't blame

Mary Leffingwell. She thinks she is doing her duty, but it has always

seemed to me that Honora was one of those children who would better have

been brought up on bread and butter and jam.”

“Honora would only have eaten the jam,” said Mrs. Hayden. “But I love

her.”

“I, too, am fond of the child, but I tremble for her. I am afraid she

has that terrible thing which is called temperament.”

George Hanbury made a second heroic rush, and dragged Honora out once

more.

“What is this disease you've got?” he demanded.

“Disease?” she cried; “I haven't any disease.”

“Mrs Dwyer says you have temperament, and that it is a terrible thing.”

Honora stopped him in a corner.

“Because people like Mrs. Dwyer haven't got it,” she declared, with a

warmth which George found inexplicable.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“You'll never know, either, George,” she answered; “it's soul.”

“Soul!” he repeated; “I have one, and its immortal,” he added promptly.

In the summer, that season of desolation for Honora, when George Hanbury

and Algernon Cartwright and other young gentlemen were at the seashore

learning to sail boats and to play tennis, Peter Erwin came to his own.

Nearly every evening after dinner, while the light was still lingering

under the shade trees of the street, and Aunt Mary still placidly

sewing in the wicker chair on the lawn, and Uncle Tom making the tour

of flowers with his watering pot, the gate would slam, and Peter's tall

form appear.

It never occurred to Honora that had it not been for Peter those

evenings would have been even less bearable than they were. To sit

indoors with a light and read in a St. Louis midsummer was not to be

thought of. Peter played backgammon with her on the front steps, and

later on--chess. Sometimes they went for a walk as far as Grand Avenue.

And sometimes when Honora grew older--she was permitted to go with him

to Uhrig's Cave. Those were memorable occasions indeed!

What Saint Louisan of the last generation does not remember Uhrig's

Cave? nor look without regret upon the thing which has replaced it,

called a Coliseum? The very name, Uhrig's Cave, sent a shiver of delight

down one's spine, and many were the conjectures one made as to what

might be enclosed in that half a block of impassible brick wall, over

which the great trees stretched their branches. Honora, from comparative

infancy, had her own theory, which so possessed the mind of Edith

Hanbury that she would not look at the wall when they passed in the

carriage. It was a still and sombre place by day; and sometimes, if you

listened, you could hear the whisperings of the forty thieves on the

other side of the wall. But no one had ever dared to cry “Open, Sesame!”

at the great wooden gates.

At night, in the warm season, when well brought up children were at home

or at the seashore, strange things were said to happen at Uhrig's Cave.

Honora was a tall slip of a girl of sixteen before it was given her to

know these mysteries, and the Ali Baba theory a thing of the past. Other

theories had replaced it. Nevertheless she clung tightly to Peter's arm

as they walked down Locust Street and came in sight of the wall. Above

it, and under the big trees, shone a thousand glittering lights: there

was a crowd at the gate, and instead of saying, “Open, Sesame,” Peter

slipped two bright fifty-cent pieces to the red-faced German ticketman,

and in they went.

First and most astounding of disillusions of passing childhood, it was

not a cave at all! And yet the word “disillusion” does not apply. It

was, after all, the most enchanting and exciting of spots, to make one's

eye shine and one's heart beat. Under the trees were hundreds of tables

surrounded by hovering ministering angels in white, and if you were

German, they brought you beer; if American, ice-cream. Beyond the tables

was a stage, with footlights already set and orchestra tuning up, and a

curtain on which was represented a gentleman making decorous love to a

lady beside a fountain. As in a dream, Honora followed Peter to a table,

and he handed her a programme.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “it's going to be 'Pinafore'!”

Honora's eyes shone like stars, and elderly people at the neighbouring

tables turned more than once to smile at her that evening. And Peter

turned more than once and smiled too. But Honora did not consider Peter.

He was merely Providence in one of many disguises, and Providence is

accepted by his beneficiaries as a matter of fact.

The rapture of a young lady of temperament is a difficult thing to

picture. The bird may feel it as he soars, on a bright August morning,

high above amber cliffs jutting out into indigo seas; the novelist may

feel it when the four walls of his room magically disappear and

the profound secrets of the universe are on the point of revealing

themselves. Honora gazed, and listened, and lost herself. She was no

longer in Uhrig's Cave, but in the great world, her soul a-quiver with

harmonies.

“Pinafore,” although a comic opera, held something tragic for Honora,

and opened the flood-gates to dizzy sensations which she did not

understand. How little Peter, who drummed on the table to the tune of:

“Give three cheers and one cheer more

For the hearty captain of the Pinafore,”

imagined what was going on beside him! There were two factors in his

pleasure; he liked the music, and he enjoyed the delight of Honora.

What is Peter? Let us cease looking at him through Honora's eyes and

taking him like daily bread, to be eaten and not thought about. From

one point of view, he is twenty-nine and elderly, with a sense of humour

unsuspected by young persons of temperament. Strive as we will, we have

only been able to see him in his role of Providence, or of the piper.

Has he no existence, no purpose in life outside of that perpetual

gentleman in waiting? If so, Honora has never considered it.

After the finale had been sung and the curtain dropped for the last

time, Honora sighed and walked out of the garden as one in a trance.

Once in a while, as he found a way for them through the crowd, Peter

glanced down at her, and something like a smile tugged at the corners

of a decidedly masculine mouth, and lit up his eyes. Suddenly, at Locust

Street, under the lamp, she stopped and surveyed him. She saw a very

real, very human individual, clad in a dark nondescript suit of clothes

which had been bought ready-made, and plainly without the bestowal of

much thought, on Fifth Street. The fact that they were a comparative

fit was in itself a tribute to the enterprise of the Excelsior Clothing

Company, for Honora's observation that he was too long one way had

been just. He was too tall, his shoulders were too high, his nose too

prominent, his eyes too deep-set; and he wore a straw hat with the brim

turned up.

To Honora his appearance was as familiar as the picture of the Pope

which had always stood on Catherine's bureau. But to-night, by grace of

some added power of vision, she saw him with new and critical eyes. She

was surprised to discover that he was possessed of a quality with

which she had never associated him--youth. Not to put it too

strongly--comparative youth.

“Peter,” she demanded, “why do you dress like that?”

“Like what?” he said.

Honora seized the lapel of his coat.

“Like that,” she repeated. “Do you know, if you wore different clothes,

you might almost be distinguished looking. Don't laugh. I think it's

horrid of you always to laugh when I tell you things for your own good.”

“It was the idea of being almost distinguished looking that--that gave

me a shock,” he assured her repentantly.

“You should dress on a different principle,” she insisted.

Peter appeared dazed.

“I couldn't do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because--because I don't dress on any principle now.”

“Yes, you do,” said Honora, firmly. “You dress on the principle of

the wild beasts and fishes. It's all in our natural history at Miss

Farmer's. The crab is the colour of the seaweed, and the deer of the

thicket. It's a device of nature for the protection of weak things.”

Peter drew himself up proudly.

“I have always understood, Miss Leffingwell, that the king of beasts was

somewhere near the shade of the jungle.”

Honora laughed in spite of this apparent refutation of her theory of his

apparel, and shook her head.

“Do be serious, Peter. You'd make much more of an impression on people

if you wore clothes that had--well, a little more distinction.”

“What's the use of making an impression if you can't follow it up?” he

said.

“You can,” she declared. “I never thought of it until to-night, but you

must have a great deal in you to have risen all the way from an errand

boy in the bank to a lawyer.”

“Look out!” he cautioned her; “I shall become insupportably conceited.”

“A little more conceit wouldn't hurt you,” said Honora, critically.

“You'll forgive me, Peter, if I tell you from time to time what I think.

It's for your own good.”

“I try to realize that,” replied Peter, humbly. “How do you wish me to

dress--like Mr. Rossiter?”

The picture evoked of Peter arrayed like Mr. Harland Rossiter, who had

sent flowers to two generations and was preparing to send more to a

third, was irresistible. Every city, hamlet, and village has its Harland

Rossiter. He need not be explained. But Honora soon became grave again.

“No, but you ought to dress as though you were somebody, and different

from the ordinary man on the street.”

“But I'm not,” objected Peter.

“Oh,” cried Honora, “don't you want to be? I can't understand any man

not wanting to be. If I were a man, I wouldn't stay here a day longer

than I had to.”

Peter was silent as they went in at the gate and opened the door, for on

this festive occasion they were provided with a latchkey. He turned up

the light in the hall to behold a transformation quite as wonderful as

any contained in the “Arabian Nights” or Keightley's “Fairy Mythology.”

This was not the Honora with whom he had left the house scarce three

hours before! The cambric dress, to be sure, was still no longer than

the tops of her ankles and the hair still hung in a heavy braid down her

back. These were positively all that remained of the original Honora,

and the change had occurred in the incredibly brief space required for

the production of the opera “Pinafore.” This Honora was a woman in a

strange and disturbing state of exaltation, whose eyes beheld a vision.

And Peter, although he had been the subject of her conversation, well

knew that he was not included in the vision. He smiled a little as

he looked at her. It is becoming apparent that he is one of those

unfortunate unimaginative beings incapable of great illusions.

“You're not going!” she exclaimed.

He glanced significantly at the hall clock.

“Why, it's long after bedtime, Honora.”

“I don't want to go to bed. I feel like talking,” she declared. “Come,

let's sit on the steps awhile. If you go home, I shan't go to sleep for

hours, Peter.”

“And what would Aunt Mary say to me?” he inquired.

“Oh, she wouldn't care. She wouldn't even know it.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“I'd never be allowed to take you to Uhrig's Cave, or anywhere else,

again,” he replied. “I'll come to-morrow evening, and you can talk to me

then.”

“I shan't feel like it then,” she said in a tone that implied his

opportunity was now or never. But seeing him still obdurate, with

startling suddenness she flung her arms mound his neck--a method which

at times had succeeded marvellously--and pleaded coaxingly: “Only a

quarter of an hour, Peter. I've got so many things to say, and I know I

shall forget them by to-morrow.”

It was a night of wonders. To her astonishment the hitherto pliant

Peter, who only existed in order to do her will, became transformed

into a brusque masculine creature which she did not recognize. With a

movement that was almost rough he released himself and fled, calling

back a “good night” to her out of the darkness. He did not even wait

to assist her in the process of locking up. Honora, profoundly puzzled,

stood for a while in the doorway gazing out into the night. When at

length she turned, she had forgotten him entirely.

It was true that she did not sleep for hours, and on awaking the next

morning another phenomenon awaited her. The “little house under the

hill” was immeasurably shrunken. Poor Aunt Mary, who did not understand

that a performance of “Pinafore” could give birth to the unfulfilled

longings which result in the creation of high things, spoke to Uncle Tom

a week later concerning an astonishing and apparently abnormal access of

industry.

“She's been reading all day long, Tom, or else shut up in her room,

where Catherine tells me she is writing. I'm afraid Eleanor Hanbury is

right when she says I don't understand the child. And yet she is the

same to me as though she were my own.”

It was true that Honora was writing, and that the door was shut, and

that she did not feel the heat. In one of the bookcases she had chanced

upon that immortal biography of Dr. Johnson, and upon the letters of

another prodigy of her own sex, Madame d'Arblay, whose romantic debut

as an authoress was inspiration in itself. Honora actually quivered when

she read of Dr. Johnson's first conversation with Miss Burney. To write

a book of the existence of which even one's own family did not know, to

publish it under a nom de plume, and to awake one day to fetes and fame

would be indeed to live!

Unfortunately Honora's novel no longer exists, or the world might have

discovered a second Evelina. A regard for truth compels the statement

that it was never finished. But what rapture while the fever lasted!

Merely to take up the pen was to pass magically through marble portals

into the great world itself.

The Sir Charles Grandison of this novel was, needless to say, not Peter

Erwin. He was none other than Mr. Randolph Leffingwell, under a very

thin disguise.

CHAPTER V. IN WHICH PROVIDENCE BEEPS FAITH

Two more years have gone by, limping in the summer and flying in the

winter, two more years of conquests. For our heroine appears to be

one of the daughters of Helen, born to make trouble for warriors and

others--and even for innocent bystanders like Peter Erwin. Peter was

debarred from entering those brilliant lists in which apparel played

so great a part. George Hanbury, Guy Rossiter, Algernon Cartwright,

Eliphalet Hopper Dwyer--familiarly known as “Hoppy”--and other young

gentlemen whose names are now but memories, each had his brief day of

triumph. Arrayed like Solomon in wonderful clothes from the mysterious

and luxurious East, they returned at Christmas-tide and Easter from

college to break lances over Honora. Let us say it boldly--she was like

that: she had the world-old knack of sowing discord and despair in the

souls of young men. She was--as those who had known that fascinating

gentleman were not slow to remark--Randolph Leffingwell over again.

During the festival seasons, Uncle Tom averred, they wore out the latch

on the front gate. If their families possessed horses to spare, they

took Honora driving in Forest Park; they escorted her to those anomalous

dances peculiar to their innocent age, which are neither children's

parties nor full-fledged balls; their presents, while of no intrinsic

value--as one young gentleman said in a presentation speech--had an

enormous, if shy, significance.

“What a beautiful ring you are wearing, Honora,” Uncle Tom remarked

slyly one April morning at breakfast; “let me see it.”

Honora blushed, and hid her hand under the table-cloth.

And the ring-suffice it to say that her little finger was exactly

insertable in a ten-cent piece from which everything had been removed

but the milling: removed with infinite loving patience by Mr. Rossiter,

and at the expense of much history and philosophy and other less

important things, in his college bedroom at New Haven. Honora wore it

for a whole week; a triumph indeed for Mr. Rossiter; when it was placed

in a box in Honora's bedroom, which contained other gifts--not all from

him--and many letters, in the writing of which learning had likewise

suffered. The immediate cause of the putting away of this ring was said

to be the renowned Clinton Howe, who was on the Harvard football eleven,

and who visited Mr. George Hanbury that Easter. Fortunate indeed the

tailor who was called upon to practise his art on an Adonis like Mr.

Howe, and it was remarked that he scarcely left Honora's side at the

garden party and dance which Mrs. Dwyer gave in honour of the returning

heroes, on the Monday of Easter week.

This festival, on which we should like to linger, but cannot, took

place at the new Dwyer residence. For six months the Victorian mansion

opposite Uncle Tom's house had been sightless, with blue blinds drawn

down inside the plate glass windows. And the yellow stone itself was

not so yellow as it once had been, but had now the appearance of soiled

manilla wrapping paper, with black streaks here and there where the soot

had run. The new Dwyer house was of grey stone, Georgian and palatial,

with a picture-gallery twice the size of the old one; a magnificent and

fitting pioneer in a new city of palaces.

Westward the star of Empire--away from the smoke. The Dwyer mansion,

with its lawns and gardens and heavily balustraded terrace, faced the

park that stretched away like a private estate to the south and west.

That same park with its huge trees and black forests that was Ultima

Thule in Honora's childhood; in the open places there had been real

farms and hayricks which she used to slide down with Peter while Uncle

Tom looked for wild flowers in the fields. It had been separated from

the city in those days by an endless country road, like a Via Claudia

stretching towards mysterious Germanian forests, and it was deemed a

feat for Peter to ride thither on his big-wheeled bicycle. Forest

Park was the country, and all that the country represented in Honora's

childhood. For Uncle Tom on a summer's day to hire a surrey at

Braintree's Livery Stable and drive thither was like--to what shall that

bliss be compared in these days when we go to Europe with indifference?

And now Lindell Road--the Via Claudia of long, ago--had become Lindell

Boulevard, with granitoid sidewalks. And the dreary fields through

which it had formerly run were bristling with new houses in no sense

Victorian, and which were the first stirrings of a national sense of the

artistic. The old horse-cars with the clanging chains had disappeared,

and you could take an electric to within a block of the imposing grille

that surrounded the Dwyer grounds. Westward the star!

Fading fast was the glory of that bright new district on top of the

second hill from the river where Uncle Tom was a pioneer. Soot had

killed the pear trees, the apricots behind the lattice fence had

withered away; asphalt and soot were slowly sapping the vitality of the

maples on the sidewalk; and sometimes Uncle Tom's roses looked as though

they might advantageously be given a coat of paint, like those in Alice

in Wonderland. Honora should have lived in the Dwyers' mansion-people

who are capable of judging said so. People who saw her at the garden

party said she had the air of belonging in such surroundings much more

than Emily, whom even budding womanhood had not made beautiful. And

Eliphalet Hopper Dwyer, if his actions meant anything, would have

welcomed her to that house, or built her another twice as fine, had she

deigned to give him the least encouragement.

Cinderella! This was what she facetiously called herself one July

morning of that summer she was eighteen.

Cinderella in more senses than one, for never had the city seemed

more dirty or more deserted, or indeed, more stifling. Winter and its

festivities were a dream laid away in moth balls. Surely Cinderella's

life had held no greater contrasts! To this day the odour of matting

brings back to Honora the sense of closed shutters; of a stifling south

wind stirring their slats at noonday; the vision of Aunt Mary, cool and

placid in a cambric sacque, sewing by the window in the upper hall, and

the sound of fruit venders crying in the street, or of ragmen in the

alley--“Rags, bottles, old iron!” What memories of endless, burning,

lonely days come rushing back with those words!

When the sun had sufficiently heated the bricks of the surrounding

houses in order that he might not be forgotten during the night, he

slowly departed. If Honora took her book under the maple tree in the

yard, she was confronted with that hideous wooden sign “To Let” on the

Dwyer's iron fence opposite, and the grass behind it was unkempt and

overgrown with weeds. Aunt Mary took an unceasing and (to Honora's mind)

morbid interest in the future of that house.

“I suppose it will be a boarding-house,” she would say, “it's much too

large for poor people to rent, and only poor people are coming into this

district now.”

“Oh, Aunt Mary!”

“Well, my dear, why should we complain? We are poor, and it is

appropriate that we should live among the poor. Sometimes I think it is

a pity that you should have been thrown all your life with rich people,

my child. I am afraid it has made you discontented. It is no disgrace to

be poor. We ought to be thankful that we have everything we need.”

Honora put down her sewing. For she had learned to sew--Aunt Mary

had insisted upon that, as well as French. She laid her hand upon her

aunt's.

“I am thankful,” she said, and her aunt little guessed the intensity of

the emotion she was seeking to control, or imagined the hidden

fires. “But sometimes--sometimes I try to forget that we are poor.

Perhaps--some day we shall not be.”

It seemed to Honora that Aunt Mary derived a real pleasure from the

contradiction of this hope. She shook her head vigorously.

“We shall always be, my child. Your Uncle Tom is getting old, and he has

always been too honest to make a great deal of money. And besides,” she

added, “he has not that kind of ability.”

Uncle Tom might be getting old, but he seemed to Honora to be of the

same age as in her childhood. Some people never grow old, and Uncle Tom

was one of these. Fifteen years before he had been promoted to be the

cashier of the Prairie Bank, and he was the cashier to-day. He had the

same quiet smile, the same quiet humour, the same calm acceptance of

life. He seemed to bear no grudge even against that ever advancing

enemy, the soot, which made it increasingly difficult for him to raise

his flowers. Those which would still grow he washed tenderly night and

morning with his watering-pot. The greatest wonders are not at the ends

of the earth, but near us. It was to take many years for our heroine to

realize this.

Strong faith alone could have withstood the continued contact with such

a determined fatalism as Aunt Mary's, and yet it is interesting to note

that Honora's belief in her providence never wavered. A prince was to

come who was to bear her away from the ragmen and the boarding-houses

and the soot: and incidentally and in spite of herself, Aunt Mary was

to come too, and Uncle Tom. And sometimes when she sat reading of an

evening under the maple, her book would fall to her lap and the advent

of this personage become so real a thing that she bounded when the gate

slammed--to find that it was only Peter.

It was preposterous, of course, that Peter should be a prince in

disguise. Peter who, despite her efforts to teach him distinction in

dress, insisted upon wearing the same kind of clothes. A mild kind of

providence, Peter, whose modest functions were not unlike those of the

third horse which used to be hitched on to the street car at the foot

of the Seventeenth-Street hill: it was Peter's task to help pull Honora

through the interminable summers. Uhrig's Cave was an old story now:

mysteries were no longer to be expected in St. Louis. There was a great

panorama--or something to that effect--in the wilderness at the end of

one of the new electric lines, where they sometimes went to behold the

White Squadron of the new United States Navy engaged in battle with

mimic forts on a mimic sea, on the very site where the country place

of Madame Clement had been. The mimic sea, surrounded by wooden stands

filled with common people eating peanuts and popcorn, was none other

than Madame Clement's pond, which Honora remembered as a spot of

enchantment. And they went out in the open cars with these same people,

who stared at Honora as though she had got in by mistake, but always

politely gave her a seat. And Peter thanked them. Sometimes he fell into

conversations with them, and it was noticeable that they nearly

always shook hands with him at parting. Honora did not approve of this

familiarity.

“But they may be clients some day,” he argued--a frivolous answer to

which she never deigned to reply.

Just as one used to take for granted that third horse which pulled the

car uphill, so Peter was taken for granted. He might have been on the

highroad to a renown like that of Chief Justice Marshall, and Honora had

been none the wiser.

“Well, Peter,” said Uncle Tom at dinner one evening of that memorable

summer, when Aunt Mary was helping the blackberries, and incidentally

deploring that she did not live in the country, because of the cream one

got there, “I saw Judge Brice in the bank to-day, and he tells me you

covered yourself with glory in that iron foundry suit.”

“The Judge must have his little joke, Mr. Leffingwell,” replied Peter,

but he reddened nevertheless.

Honora thought winning an iron foundry suit a strange way to cover one's

self with glory. It was not, at any rate, her idea of glory. What were

lawyers for, if not to win suits? And Peter was a lawyer.

“In five years,” said Uncle Tom, “the firm will be 'Brice and Erwin'.

You mark my words. And by that time,” he added, with a twinkle in his

eye, “you'll be ready to marry Honora.”

“Tom,” reproved Aunt Mary, gently, “you oughtn't to say such things.”

This time there was no doubt about Peter's blush. He fairly burned.

Honora looked at him and laughed.

“Peter is meant for an old bachelor,” she said.

“If he remains a bachelor,” said Uncle Tom, “he'll be the greatest waste

of good material I know of. And if you succeed in getting him, Honora,

you'll be the luckiest young woman of my acquaintance.”

“Tom,” said Aunt Mary, “it was all very well to talk that way when

Honora was a child. But now--she may not wish to marry Peter. And Peter

may not wish to marry her.”

Even Peter joined in the laughter at this literal and characteristic

statement of the case.

“It's more than likely,” said Honora, wickedly. “He hasn't kissed me for

two years.”

“Why, Peter,” said Uncle Tom, “you act as though it were warm to-night.

It was only seventy when we came in to dinner.”

“Take me out to the park,” commanded Honora.

“Tom,” said Aunt Mary, as she stood on the step and watched them cross

the street, “I wish the child would marry him. Not now, of course,” she

added hastily,--a little frightened by her own admission, “but later.

Sometimes I worry over her future. She needs a strong and sensible man.

I don't understand Honora. I never did. I always told you so. Sometimes

I think she may be capable of doing something foolish like--like

Randolph.”

Uncle Tom patted his wife on the shoulder.

“Don't borrow trouble, Mary,” he said, smiling a little. “The child is

only full of spirits. But she has a good heart. It is only human that

she should want things that we cannot give her.”

“I wish,” said Aunt Mary, “that she were not quite so good-looking.”

Uncle Tom laughed. “You needn't tell me you're not proud of it,” he

declared.

“And I have given her,” she continued, “a taste for dress.”

“I think, my dear,” said her husband, “that there were others who

contributed to that.”

“It was my own vanity. I should have combated the tendency in her,” said

Aunt Mary.

“If you had dressed Honora in calico, you could not have changed her,”

replied Uncle Tom, with conviction.

In the meantime Honora and Peter had mounted the electric car, and were

speeding westward. They had a seat to themselves, the very first one

on the “grip”--that survival of the days of cable cars. Honora's eyes

brightened as she held on to her hat, and the stray wisps of hair about

her neck stirred in the breeze.

“Oh, I wish we would never stop, until we came to the Pacific Ocean!”

she exclaimed.

“Would you be content to stop then?” he asked. He had a trick of looking

downward with a quizzical expression in his dark grey eyes.

“No,” said Honora. “I should want to go on and see everything in the

world worth seeing. Sometimes I feel positively as though I should die

if I had to stay here in St. Louis.”

“You probably would die--eventually,” said Peter.

Honora was justifiably irritated.

“I could shake you, Peter!”

He laughed.

“I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good,” he answered.

“If I were a man,” she proclaimed, “I shouldn't stay here. I'd go to New

York--I'd be somebody--I'd make a national reputation for myself.”

“I believe you would,” said Peter sadly, but with a glance of

admiration.

“That's the worst of being a woman--we have to sit still until something

happens to us.”

“What would you like to happen?” he asked, curiously. And there was a

note in his voice which she, intent upon her thoughts, did not remark.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said; “anything--anything to get out of this rut

and be something in the world. It's dreadful to feel that one has power

and not be able to use it.”

The car stopped at the terminal. Thanks to the early hour of Aunt Mary's

dinner, the western sky was still aglow with the sunset over the forests

as they walked past the closed grille of the Dwyer mansion into the

park. Children rolled on the grass, while mothers and fathers, tired

out from the heat and labour of a city day, sat on the benches. Peter

stooped down and lifted a small boy, painfully thin, who had fallen,

weeping, on the gravel walk. He took his handkerchief and wiped the

scratch on the child's forehead.

“There, there!” he said, smiling, “it's all right now. We must expect a

few tumbles.”

The child looked at him, and suddenly smiled through his tears.

The father appeared, a red-headed Irishman.

“Thank you, Mr. Erwin; I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir, to bother

with him,” he said gratefully. “It's that thin he is with the heat, I

take him out for a bit of country air.”

“Why, Tim, it's you, is it?” said Peter. “He's the janitor of our

building down town,” he explained to Honora, who had remained a silent

witness to this simple scene. She had been, in spite of herself,

impressed by it, and by the mingled respect and affection in the

janitor's manner towards Peter. It was so with every one to whom he

spoke. They walked on in silence for a few moments, into a path leading

to a lake, which had stolen the flaming green-gold of the sky.

“I suppose,” said Honora, slowly, “it would be better for me to wish to

be contented where I am, as you are. But it's no use trying, I can't.”

Peter was not a preacher.

“Oh,” he said, “there are lots of things I want.”

“What?” demanded Honora, interested. For she had never conceived of him

as having any desires whatever.

“I want a house like Mr. Dwyer's,” he declared, pointing at the distant

imposing roof line against the fading eastern sky.

Honora laughed. The idea of Peter wishing such a house was indeed

ridiculous. Then she became grave again.

“There are times when you seem to forget that I have at last grown up,

Peter. You never will talk over serious things with me.”

“What are serious things?” asked Peter.

“Well,” said Honora vaguely, “ambitions, and what one is going to make

of themselves in life. And then you make fun of me by saying you want

Mr. Dwyer's house.” She laughed again. “I can't imagine you in that

house!”

“Why not?” he asked, stopping beside the pond and thrusting his hands

in his pockets. He looked very solemn, but she knew he was smiling

inwardly.

“Why--because I can't,” she said, and hesitated. The question had forced

her to think about Peter. “I can't imagine you living all alone in all

that luxury. It isn't like you.”

“Why I all alone?” asked Peter.

“Don't--Don't be ridiculous,” she said; “you wouldn't build a house

like that, even if you were twice as rich as Mr. Dwyer. You know

you wouldn't. And you're not the marrying kind,” she added, with the

superior knowledge of eighteen.

“I'm waiting for you, Honora,” he announced.

“You know I love you, Peter,”--so she tempered her reply, for Honora's

feelings were tender. What man, even Peter, would not have married her

if he could? Of course he was in earnest, despite his bantering tone,

“but I never could--marry you.”

“Not even if I were to offer you a house like Mr. Dwyer's?” he said.

A remark which betrayed--although not to her--his knowledge of certain

earthly strains in his goddess.

The colours faded from the water, and it blackened.

As they walked on side by side in the twilight, a consciousness of

repressed masculine force, of reserve power, which she had never before

felt about Peter Erwin, invaded her; and she was seized with a strange

uneasiness. Ridiculous was the thought (which she lost no time in

rejecting) that pointed out the true road to happiness in marrying such

a man as he. In the gathering darkness she slipped her hand through his

arm.

“I wish I could marry you, Peter,” she said.

He was fain to take what comfort he could from this expression of

good-will. If he was not the Prince Charming of her dreams, she would

have liked him to be. A little reflection on his part ought to have

shown him the absurdity of the Prince Charming having been there all the

time, and in ready-made clothes. And he, too, may have had dreams. We

are not concerned with them.

............................

If we listen to the still, small voice of realism, intense longing is

always followed by disappointment. Nothing should have happened that

summer, and Providence should not have come disguised as the postman.

It was a sultry day in early September-which is to say that it was

comparatively cool--a blue day, with occasional great drops of rain

spattering on the brick walk. And Honora was reclining on the hall

sofa, reading about Mr. Ibbetson and his duchess, when she perceived the

postman's grey uniform and smiling face on the far side of the screen

door. He greeted her cordially, and gave her a single letter for Aunt

Mary, and she carried it unsuspectingly upstairs.

“It's from Cousin Eleanor,” Honora volunteered.

Aunt Mary laid down her sewing, smoothed the ruffles of her sacque,

adjusted her spectacles, opened the envelope, and began to read.

Presently the letter fell to her lap, and she wiped her glasses and

glanced at Honora, who was deep in her book once more. And in Honora's

brain, as she read, was ringing the refrain of the prisoner:

“Orleans, Beaugency!

Notre Dame de Clery!

Vendome! Vendome!

Quel chagrin, quel ennui

De compter toute la nuit

Les heures, les heures!”.

The verse appealed to Honora strangely; just as it had appealed to

Ibbetson. Was she not, too, a prisoner. And how often, during the summer

days and nights, had she listened to the chimes of the Pilgrim Church

near by?

“One, two, three, four!

One, two, three, four!”

After Uncle Tom had watered his flowers that evening, Aunt Mary followed

him upstairs and locked the door of their room behind her. Silently she

put the letter in his hand. Here is one paragraph of it:

“I have never asked to take the child from you in the summer,

because she has always been in perfect health, and I know how lonely

you would have been without her, my dear Mary. But it seems to me

that a winter at Sutcliffe, with my girls, would do her a world of

good just now. I need not point out to you that Honora is, to say

the least, remarkably good looking, and that she has developed very

rapidly. And she has, in spite of the strict training you have

given her, certain ideas and ambitions which seem to me, I am sorry

to say, more or less prevalent among young American women these

days. You know it is only because I love her that I am so frank.

Miss Turner's influence will, in my opinion, do much to counteract

these tendencies.”

Uncle Tom folded the letter, and handed it back to his wife.

“I feel that we ought not to refuse, Tom. And I am afraid Eleanor is

right.”

“Well, Mary, we've had her for seventeen years. We ought to be willing

to spare her for--how many months?”

“Nine,” said Aunt Mary, promptly. She had counted them. “And Eleanor

says she will be home for two weeks at Christmas. Seventeen years! It

seems only yesterday when we brought her home, Tom. It was just about

this time of day, and she was asleep in your arms, and Bridget opened

the door for us.” Aunt Mary looked out of the window. “And do you

remember how she used to play under the maple there, with her dolls?”

Uncle Tom produced a very large handkerchief, and blew his nose.

“There, there, Mary,” he said, “nine months, and two weeks out at

Christmas. Nine months in eighteen years.”

“I suppose we ought to be very thankful,” said Aunt Mary. “But, Tom, the

time is coming soon--”

“Tut tut,” exclaimed Uncle Tom. He turned, and his eyes beheld a work of

art. Nothing less than a porcelain plate, hung in brackets on the wall,

decorated by Honora at the age of ten with wild roses, and presented

with much ceremony on an anniversary morning. He pretended not to notice

it, but Aunt Mary's eyes were too quick. She seized a photograph on her

bureau, a photograph of Honora in a little white frock with a red sash.

“It was the year that was taken, Tom.”

He nodded. The scene at the breakfast table came back to him, and the

sight of Catherine standing respectfully in the hall, and of Honora, in

the red sash, making the courtesy the old woman had taught her.

Honora recalled afterwards that Uncle Tom joked even more than usual

that evening at dinner. But it was Aunt Mary who asked her, at length,

how she would like to go to boarding-school. Such was the matter-of-fact

manner in which the portentous news was announced.

“To boarding-school, Aunt Mary?”

Her aunt poured out her uncle's after-dinner coffee.

“I've spilled some, my dear. Get another saucer for your uncle.”

Honora went mechanically to the china closet, her heart thumping. She

did not stop to reflect that it was the rarest of occurrences for Aunt

Mary to spill the coffee.

“Your Cousin Eleanor has invited you to go this winter with Edith and

Mary to Sutcliffe.”

Sutcliffe! No need to tell Honora what Sutcliffe was--her cousins had

talked of little else during the past winter; and shown, if the truth be

told, just a little commiseration for Honora. Sutcliffe was not only a

famous girls' school, Sutcliffe was the world--that world which, since

her earliest remembrances, she had been longing to see and know. In a

desperate attempt to realize what had happened to her, she found herself

staring hard at the open china closet, at Aunt Mary's best gold dinner

set resting on the pink lace paper that had been changed only last week.

That dinner set, somehow, was always an augury of festival--when, on

the rare occasions Aunt Mary entertained, the little dining room was

transformed by it and the Leffingwell silver into a glorified and

altogether unrecognizable state, in which any miracle seemed possible.

Honora pushed back her chair.

Her lips were parted.

“Oh, Aunt Mary, is it really true that I am going?” she said.

“Why,” said Uncle Tom, “what zeal for learning!”

“My dear,” said Aunt Mary, who, you may be sure, knew all about that

school before Cousin Eleanor's letter came, “Miss Turner insists upon

hard work, and the discipline is very strict.”

“No young men,” added Uncle Tom.

“That,” declared Aunt Mary, “is certainly an advantage.”

“And no chocolate cake, and bed at ten o'clock,” said Uncle Tom.

Honora, dazed, only half heard them. She laughed at Uncle Tom because

she always had, but tears were shining in her eyes. Young men and

chocolate cake! What were these privations compared to that magic word

Change? Suddenly she rose, and flung her arms about Uncle Tom's neck

and kissed his rough cheek, and then embraced Aunt Mary. They would be

lonely.

“Aunt Mary, I can't bear to leave you--but I do so want to go! And it

won't be for long--will it? Only until next spring.”

“Until next summer, I believe,” replied Aunt Mary, gently; “June is a

summer month-isn't it, Tom?”

“It will be a summer month without question next year,” answered Uncle

Tom, enigmatically.

It has been remarked that that day was sultry, and a fine rain was now

washing Uncle Tom's flowers for him. It was he who had applied that term

“washing” since the era of ultra-soot. Incredible as it may seem, life

proceeded as on any other of a thousand rainy nights. The lamps

were lighted in the sitting-room, Uncle Tom unfolded his gardening

periodical, and Aunt Mary her embroidery. The gate slammed, with its

more subdued, rainy-weather sound.

“It's Peter,” said Honora, flying downstairs. And she caught him,

astonished, as he was folding his umbrella on the step. “Oh, Peter,

if you tried until to-morrow morning, you never could guess what has

happened.”

He stood for a moment, motionless, staring at her, a tall figure,

careless of the rain.

“You are going away,” he said.

“How did you guess it?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Yes--to

boarding-school. To Sutcliffe, on the Hudson, with Edith and Mary.

Aren't you glad? You look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“Do I?” said Peter.

“Don't stand there in the rain,” commanded Honora; “come into the

parlour, and I'll tell you all about it.”

He came in. She took the umbrella from him, and put it in the rack.

“Why don't you congratulate me?” she demanded.

“You'll never come back,” said Peter.

“What a horrid thing to say! Of course I shall come back. I shall come

back next June, and you'll be at the station to meet me.”

“And--what will Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary do--without you?”

“Oh,” said Honora, “I shall miss them dreadfully. And I shall miss you,

Peter.”

“Very much?” he asked, looking down at her with such a queer expression.

And his voice, too, sounded queer. He was trying to smile.

Suddenly Honora realized that he was suffering, and she felt the pangs

of contrition. She could not remember the time when she had been away

from Peter, and it was natural that he should be stricken at the news.

Peter, who was the complement of all who loved and served her, of Aunt

Mary and Uncle Tom and Catherine, and who somehow embodied them all.

Peter, the eternally dependable.

She found it natural that the light should be temporarily removed from

his firmament while she should be at boarding-school, and yet in the

tenderness of her heart she pitied him. She put her hands impulsively

upon his shoulders as he stood looking at her with that queer expression

which he believed to be a smile.

“Peter, you dear old thing, indeed I shall miss you! I don't know what I

shall do without you, and I'll write to you every single week.”

Gently he disengaged her arms. They were standing under that which, for

courtesy's sake, had always been called the chandelier. It was in the

centre of the parlour, and Uncle Tom always covered it with holly and

mistletoe at Christmas.

“Why do you say I'll never come back?” asked Honora. “Of course I shall

come back, and live here all the rest of my life.”

Peter shook his head slowly. He had recovered something of his customary

quizzical manner.

“The East is a strange country,” he said. “The first thing we know

you'll be marrying one of those people we read about, with more millions

than there are cars on the Olive Street line.”

Honora was a little indignant.

“I wish you wouldn't talk so, Peter,” she said. “In the first place, I

shan't see any but girls at Sutcliffe. I could only see you for a few

minutes once a week if you were there. And in the second place, it isn't

exactly--Well--dignified to compare the East and the West the way you

do, and speak about people who are very rich and live there as though

they were different from the people we know here. Comparisons, as

Shakespeare said, are odorous.”

“Honora,” he declared, still shaking his head, “you're a fraud, but I

can't help loving you.”

For a long time that night Honora lay in bed staring into the darkness,

and trying to realize what had happened. She heard the whistling and the

puffing of the trains in the cinder-covered valley to the southward, but

the quality of these sounds had changed. They were music now.

CHAPTER VI. HONORA HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD

It is simply impossible to give any adequate notion of the industry of

the days that followed. No sooner was Uncle Tom out of the house in the

morning than Anne Rory marched into the sitting-room and took command,

and turned it, into a dressmaking establishment. Anne Rory, who deserves

more than a passing mention, one of the institutions of Honora's youth,

who sewed for the first families, and knew much more about them than Mr.

Meeker, the dancing-master. If you enjoyed her confidence,--as Aunt

Mary did,--she would tell you of her own accord who gave their servants

enough to eat, and who didn't. Anne Rory was a sort of inquisition

all by herself, and would have made a valuable chief of police. The

reputations of certain elderly gentlemen of wealth might have remained

to this day intact had it not been for her; she had a heaven-sent knack

of discovering peccadilloes. Anne Rory knew the gentlemen by sight, and

the gentlemen did not know Anne Rory. Uncle Tom she held to be somewhere

in the calendar of the saints.

There is not time, alas, to linger over Anne Rory or the new histories

which she whispered to Aunt Mary when Honora was out of the room. At

last the eventful day of departure arrived. Honora's new trunk--her

first--was packed by Aunt Mary's own hands, the dainty clothes and the

dresses folded in tissue paper, while old Catherine stood sniffing by.

After dinner--sign of a great occasion--a carriage came from Braintree's

Livery Stable, and Uncle Tom held the horses while the driver carried

out the trunk and strapped it on. Catherine, Mary Ann, and Bridget, all

weeping, were kissed good-by, and off they went through the dusk to the

station. Not the old Union Depot, with its wooden sheds, where Honora

had gone so often to see the Hanburys off, that grimy gateway to the

fairer regions of the earth. This new station, of brick and stone and

glass and tiles, would hold an army corps with ease. And when they

alighted at the carriage entrance, a tall figure came forward out of the

shadow. It was Peter, and he had a package under his arm. Peter

checked Honora's trunk, and Peter had got the permission--through Judge

Brice--which enabled them all to pass through the grille and down the

long walk beside which the train was standing.

They entered that hitherto mysterious conveyance, a sleeping-car,

and spoke to old Mrs. Stanley, who was going East to see her married

daughter, and who had gladly agreed to take charge of Honora. Afterwards

they stood on the platform, but in spite of the valiant efforts of Uncle

Tom and Peter, conversation was a mockery.

“Honora,” said Aunt Mary, “don't forget that your trunk key is in the

little pocket on the left side of your bag.”

“No, Aunt Mary.”

“And your little New Testament at the bottom. And your lunch is arranged

in three packages. And don't forget to ask Cousin Eleanor about the

walking shoes, and to give her my note.”

Cries reverberated under the great glass dome, and trains pulled out

with deafening roars. Honora had a strange feeling, as of pressure from

within, that caused her to take deep breaths of the smoky air. She but

half heard what was being said to her: she wished that the train would

go, and at the same time she had a sudden, surprising, and fierce

longing to stay. She had been able to eat scarcely a mouthful of that

festal dinner which Bridget had spent the afternoon in preparing,

comprised wholly of forbidden dishes of her childhood, for which Bridget

and Aunt Mary were justly famed. Such is the irony of life. Visions

of one of Aunt Mary's rare lunch-parties and of a small girl peeping

covetously through a crack in the dining-room door, and of the gold

china set, rose before her. But she could not eat.

“Bread and jam and tea at Miss Turner's,” Uncle Tom had said, and she

had tried to smile at him.

And now they were standing on the platform, and the train might start at

any moment.

“I trust you won't get like the New Yorkers, Honora,” said Aunt Mary.

“Do you remember how stiff they were, Tom?” She was still in the habit

of referring to that memorable trip when they had brought Honora home.

“And they say now that they hold their heads higher than ever.”

“That,” said Uncle Tom, gravely, “is a local disease, and comes from

staring at the tall buildings.”

“Uncle Tom!”

Peter presented the parcel under his arm. It was a box of candy, and

very heavy, on which much thought had been spent.

“They are some of the things you like,” he said, when he had returned

from putting it in the berth.

“How good of you, Peter! I shall never be able to eat all that.”

“I hope there is a doctor on the train,” said Uncle Tom.

“Yassah,” answered the black porter, who had been listening with evident

relish, “right good doctah--Doctah Lov'ring.”

Even Aunt Mary laughed.

“Peter,” asked Honora, “can't you get Judge Brice to send you on to New

York this winter on law business? Then you could come up to Sutcliffe to

see me.”

“I'm afraid of Miss Turner,” declared Peter.

“Oh, she wouldn't mind you,” exclaimed Honora. “I could say you were an

uncle. It would be almost true. And perhaps she would let you take me

down to New York for a matinee.”

“And how about my ready-made clothes?” he said, looking down at her. He

had never forgotten that.

Honora laughed.

“You don't seem a bit sorry that I'm going,” she replied, a little

breathlessly. “You know I'd be glad to see you, if you were in rags.”

“All aboard!” cried the porter, grinning sympathetically.

Honora threw her arms around Aunt Mary and clung to her. How small and

frail she was! Somehow Honora had never realized it in all her life

before.

“Good-by, darling, and remember to put on your thick clothes on the cool

days, and write when you get to New York.”

Then it was Uncle Tom's turn. He gave her his usual vigorous hug and

kiss.

“It won't be long until Christmas,” he whispered, and was gone, helping

Aunt Mary off the train, which had begun to move.

Peter remained a moment.

“Good-by, Honora. I'll write to you often and let you know how they are.

And perhaps--you'll send me a letter once in a while.”

“Oh, Peter, I will,” she cried. “I can't bear to leave you--I didn't

think it would be so hard--”

He held out his hand, but she ignored it. Before he realized what had

happened to him she had drawn his face to hers, kissed it, and was

pushing him off the train. Then she watched from the platform the three

receding figures in the yellow smoky light until the car slipped

out from under the roof into the blackness of the night. Some faint,

premonitory divination of what they represented of immutable love in a

changing, heedless, selfish world came to her; rocks to which one might

cling, successful or failing, happy or unhappy. For unconsciously she

thought of them, all three, as one, a human trinity in which her faith

had never been betrayed. She felt a warm moisture on her cheeks, and

realized that she was crying with the first real sorrow of her life.

She was leaving them--for what? Honora did not know. There had been

nothing imperative in Cousin Eleanor's letter. She need not have gone

if she had not wished. Something within herself, she felt, was impelling

her. And it is curious to relate that, in her mind, going to school had

little or nothing to do with her journey. She had the feeling of faring

forth into the world, and she had known all along that it was destined

she should. What was the cause of this longing to break the fetters and

fly away? fetters of love, they seemed to her now--and were. And the

world which she had seen afar, filled with sunlit palaces, seemed very

dark and dreary to her to-night.

“The lady's asking for you, Miss,” said the porter.

She made a heroic attempt to talk to Mrs. Stanley. But at the sight

of Peter's candy, when she opened it, she was blinded once more. Dear

Peter! That box was eloquent with the care with which he had studied

her slightest desires and caprices. Marrons glaces, and Langtrys, and

certain chocolates which had received the stamp of her approval--and she

could not so much as eat one! The porter made the berths. And there had

been a time when she had asked nothing more of fate than to travel in a

sleeping-car! Far into the night she lay wide awake, dry-eyed, watching

the lamp-lit streets of the little towns they passed, or staring at the

cornfields and pastures in the darkness; thinking of the home she had

left, perhaps forever, and wondering whether they were sleeping there;

picturing them to-morrow at breakfast without her, and Uncle Tom leaving

for the bank, Aunt Mary going through the silent rooms alone, and

dear old Catherine haunting the little chamber where she had slept for

seventeen years--almost her lifetime. A hundred vivid scenes of her

childhood came back, and familiar objects oddly intruded themselves; the

red and green lambrequin on the parlour mantel--a present many years ago

from Cousin Eleanor; the what-not, with its funny curly legs, and the

bare spot near the lock on the door of the cake closet in the dining

room!

Youth, however, has its recuperative powers. The next day the excitement

of the journey held her, the sight of new cities and a new countryside.

But when she tried to eat the lunch Aunt Mary had so carefully put

up, new memories assailed her, and she went with Mrs. Stanley into the

dining car. The September dusk was made lurid by belching steel-furnaces

that reddened the heavens; and later, when she went to bed, sharp air

and towering contours told her of the mountains. Mountains which her

great-grandfather had crossed on horse back, with that very family

silver in his saddle-bags which shone on Aunt Mary's table. And

then--she awoke with the light shining in her face, and barely had time

to dress before the conductor was calling out “Jersey City.”

Once more the morning, and with it new and wonderful sensations that

dispelled her sorrows; the ferry, the olive-green river rolling in the

morning sun, alive with dodging, hurrying craft, each bent upon its

destination with an energy, relentlessness, and selfishness of purpose

that fascinated Honora. Each, with its shrill, protesting whistle,

seemed to say: “My business is the most important. Make way for me.” And

yet, through them all, towering, stately, imperturbable, a great ocean

steamer glided slowly towards the bay, by very might and majesty holding

her way serene and undisturbed, on a nobler errand. Honora thrilled as

she gazed, as though at last her dream were coming true, and she felt

within her the pulse of the world's artery. That irksome sense of

spectatorship seemed to fly, and she was part and parcel now of the

great, moving things, with sure pinions with which to soar. Standing

rapt upon the forward deck of the ferry, she saw herself, not an atom,

but one whose going and coming was a thing of consequence. It seemed

but a simple step to the deck of that steamer when she, too, would be

travelling to the other side of the world, and the journey one of the

small incidents of life.

The ferry bumped into its slip, the windlasses sang loudly as they took

up the chains, the gates folded back, and Honora was forced with the

crowd along the bridge-like passage to the right. Suddenly she saw

Cousin Eleanor and the girls awaiting her.

“Honora,” said Edith, when the greetings were over and they were all

four in the carriage, which was making its way slowly across the dirty

and irregularly paved open space to a narrow street that opened between

two saloons, “Honora, you don't mean to say that Anne Rory made that

street dress? Mother, I believe it's better-looking than the one I got

at Bremer's.”

“It's very simple,”, said Honora.

“And she looks fairly radiant,” cried Edith, seizing her cousin's hand.

“It's quite wonderful, Honora; nobody would ever guess that you were

from the West, and that you had spent the whole summer in St. Louis.”

Cousin Eleanor smiled a little as she contemplated Honora, who sat,

fascinated, gazing out of the window at novel scenes. There was a

colour in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. They had reached Madison

Square. Madison Square, on a bright morning in late September, seen for

the first time by an ambitious young lady who had never been out of

St. Louis! The trimly appointed vehicles, the high-stepping horses, the

glittering shops, the well-dressed women and well-groomed men--all had

an esprit de corps which she found inspiring. On such a morning,

and amidst such a scene, she felt that there was no limit to the

possibilities of life.

Until this year, Cousin Eleanor had been a conservative in the matter of

hotels, when she had yielded to Edith's entreaties to go to one of the

“new ones.” Hotels, indeed, that revolutionized transient existence.

This one, on the Avenue, had a giant in a long blue livery coat who

opened their carriage door, and a hall in yellow and black onyx, and

maids and valets. After breakfast, when Honora sat down to write to Aunt

Mary, she described the suite of rooms in which they lived,--the brass

beds, the electric night lamps, the mahogany French furniture, the

heavy carpets, and even the white-tiled bathroom. There was a marvellous

arrangement in the walls with which Edith was never tired of playing,

a circular plate covered with legends of every conceivable want, from a

newspaper to a needle and thread and a Scotch whiskey highball.

At breakfast, more stimulants--of a mental nature, of course. Solomon in

all his glory had never broken eggs in such a dining room. It had onyx

pillars, too, and gilt furniture, and table after table of the whitest

napery stretched from one end of it to the other. The glass and silver

was all of a special pattern, and an obsequious waiter handed Honora

a menu in a silver frame, with a handle. One side of the menu was in

English, and the other in French. All around them were well-dressed,

well-fed, prosperous-looking people, talking and laughing in subdued

tones as they ate. And Honora had a strange feeling of being one

of them, of being as rich and prosperous as they, of coming into a

long-deferred inheritance.

The mad excitement of that day in New York is a faint memory now, so

much has Honora lived since then. We descendants of rigid Puritans, of

pioneer tobacco-planters and frontiersmen, take naturally to a luxury

such as the world has never seen--as our right. We have abolished kings,

in order that as many of us as possible may abide in palaces. In one day

Honora forgot the seventeen years spent in the “little house under the

hill,” as though these had never been. Cousin Eleanor, with a delightful

sense of wrong-doing, yielded to the temptation to adorn her; and the

saleswomen, who knew Mrs. Hanbury, made indiscreet-remarks. Such a

figure and such a face, and just enough of height! Two new gowns were

ordered, to be tried on at Sutcliffe, and as many hats, and an ulster,

and heaven knows what else. Memory fails.

In the evening they went to a new comic opera, and it is the music of

that which brings back the day most vividly to Honora's mind.

In the morning they took an early train to Sutcliffe Manors, on the

Hudson. It is an historic place. First of all, after leaving the

station, you climb through the little town clinging to the hillside; and

Honora was struck by the quaint houses and shops which had been places

of barter before the Revolution. The age of things appealed to her. It

was a brilliant day at the very end of September, the air sharp, and

here and there a creeper had been struck crimson. Beyond the town, on

the slopes, were other new sights to stimulate the imagination: country

houses--not merely houses in the country, but mansions--enticingly

hidden among great trees in a way to whet Honora's curiosity as she

pictured to herself the blissful quality of the life which their owners

must lead. Long, curving driveways led up to the houses from occasional

lodges; and once, as though to complete the impression, a young man

and two women, superbly mounted, came trotting out of one of these

driveways, talking and laughing gayly. Honora took a good look at the

man. He was not handsome, but had, in fact, a distinguished and haunting

ugliness. The girls were straight-featured and conventional to the last

degree.

Presently they came to the avenue of elms that led up to the long, low

buildings of the school.

Little more will be necessary, in the brief account of Honora's life at

boarding-school, than to add an humble word of praise on the excellence

of Miss Turner's establishment. That lady, needless to say, did not

advertise in the magazines, or issue a prospectus. Parents were more

or less in the situation of the candidates who desired the honour and

privilege of whitewashing Tom Sawyer's fence. If you were a parent,

and were allowed to confide your daughter to Miss Turner, instead of

demanding a prospectus, you gave thanks to heaven, and spoke about it to

your friends.

The life of the young ladies, of course, was regulated on the strictest

principles. Early rising, prayers, breakfast, studies; the daily walk,

rain or shine, under the watchful convoy of Miss Hood, the girls in

columns of twos; tennis on the school court, or skating on the school

pond. Cotton Mather himself could not have disapproved of the Sundays,

nor of the discourse of the elderly Doctor Moale (which you heard if you

were not a Presbyterian), although the reverend gentleman was distinctly

Anglican in appearance and manners. Sometimes Honora felt devout, and

would follow the service with the utmost attention. Her religion came

in waves. On the Sundays when the heathen prevailed she studied the

congregation, grew to distinguish the local country families; and, if

the truth must be told, watched for several Sundays for that ugly

yet handsome young man whom she had seen on horseback. But he never

appeared, and presently she forgot him.

Had there been a prospectus (which is ridiculous!), the great secret of

Miss Turner's school could not very well have been mentioned in it. The

English language, it is to be feared, is not quite flexible enough to

mention this secret with delicacy. Did Honora know it? Who can say?

Self-respecting young ladies do not talk about such things, and Honora

was nothing if not self-respecting.

“SUTCLIFFE MANORS, October 15th.

“DEAREST AUNT MARY: As I wrote you, I continue to miss you and Uncle

Tom dreadfully,--and dear old Peter, too; and Cathy and Bridget and

Mary Ann. And I hate to get up at seven o'clock. And Miss Hood,

who takes us out walking and teaches us composition, is such a

ridiculously strict old maid--you would laugh at her. And the

Sundays are terrible. Miss Turner makes us read the Bible for a

whole hour in the afternoon, and reads to us in the evening. And

Uncle Tom was right when he said we should have nothing but jam and

bread and butter for supper: oh, yes, and cold meat. I am always

ravenously hungry. I count the days until Christmas, when I shall

have some really good things to eat again. And of course I cannot

wait to see you all.

“I do not mean to give you the impression that I am not happy here,

and I never can be thankful enough to dear Cousin Eleanor for

sending me. Some of the girls are most attractive. Among others,

I have become great friends with Ethel Wing, who is tall and blond

and good-looking; and her clothes, though simple, are beautiful.

To hear her imitate Miss Turner or Miss Hood or Dr. Moale is almost

as much fun as going to the theatre. You must have heard of her

father--he is the Mr. Wing who owns all the railroads and other

things, and they have a house in Newport and another in New York,

and a country place and a yacht.

“I like Sarah Wycliffe very much. She was brought up abroad, and we

lead the French class together. Her father has a house in Paris,

which they only use for a month or so in the year: an hotel, as the

French call it. And then there is Maude Capron, from Philadelphia,

whose father is Secretary of War. I have now to go to my class in

English composition, but I will write to you again on Saturday.

“Your loving niece,

“HONORA.”

The Christmas holidays came, and went by like mileposts from the window

of an express train. There was a Glee Club: there were dances,

and private theatricals in Mrs. Dwyer's new house, in which it was

imperative that Honora should take part. There was no such thing as

getting up for breakfast, and once she did not see Uncle Tom for

two whole days. He asked her where she was staying. It was the first

Christmas she remembered spending without Peter. His present appeared,

but perhaps it was fortunate, on the whole, that he was in Texas, trying

a case. It seemed almost no time at all before she was at the station

again, clinging to Aunt Mary: but now the separation was not so hard,

and she had Edith and Mary for company, and George, a dignified and

responsible sophomore at Harvard.

Owing to the sudden withdrawal from school of little Louise Simpson, the

Cincinnati girl who had shared her room during the first term, Honora

had a new room-mate after the holidays, Susan Holt. Susan was not

beautiful, but she was good. Her nose turned up, her hair Honora

described as a negative colour, and she wore it in defiance of all

prevailing modes. If you looked very hard at Susan (which few people

ever did), you saw that she had remarkable blue eyes: they were the eyes

of a saint. She was neither tall nor short, and her complexion was not

all that it might have been. In brief, Susan was one of those girls

who go through a whole term at boarding--school without any particular

notice from the more brilliant Honoras and Ethel Wings.

In some respects, Susan was an ideal room-mate. She read the Bible every

night and morning, and she wrote many letters home. Her ruling passion,

next to religion, was order, and she took it upon herself to arrange

Honora's bureau drawers. It is needless to say that Honora accepted

these ministrations and that she found Susan's admiration an entirely

natural sentiment. Susan was self-effacing, and she enjoyed listening to

Honora's views on all topics.

Susan, like Peter, was taken for granted. She came from somewhere, and

after school was over, she would go somewhere. She lived in New York,

Honora knew, and beyond that was not curious. We never know when we are

entertaining an angel unawares. One evening, early in May, when she went

up to prepare for supper she found Susan sitting in the window reading

a letter, and on the floor beside her was a photograph. Honora picked

it up. It was the picture of a large country house with many chimneys,

taken across a wide green lawn.

“Susan, what's this?”

Susan looked up.

“Oh, it's Silverdale. My brother Joshua took it.”

“Silverdale?” repeated Honora.

“It's our place in the country,” Susan replied. “The family moved up

last week. You see, the trees are just beginning to bud.”

Honora was silent a moment, gazing at the picture.

“It's very beautiful, isn't it? You never told me about it.”

“Didn't I?” said Susan. “I think of it very often. It has always seemed

much more like home to me than our house in New York, and I love it

better than any spot I know.”

Honora gazed at Susan, who had resumed her reading.

“And you are going there when school is over.”

“Oh, yes,” said Susan; “I can hardly wait.” Suddenly she put down her

letter, and looked at Honora.

“And you,” she asked, “where are you going?”

“I don't know. Perhaps--perhaps I shall go to the sea for a while with

my cousins.”

It was foolish, it was wrong. But for the life of her Honora could not

say she was going to spend the long hot summer in St. Louis. The thought

of it had haunted her for weeks: and sometimes, when the other girls

were discussing their plans, she had left them abruptly. And now she was

aware that Susan's blue eyes were fixed upon her, and that they had a

strange and penetrating quality she had never noticed before: a certain

tenderness, an understanding that made Honora redden and turn.

“I wish,” said Susan, slowly, “that you would come and stay awhile with

me. Your home is so far away, and I don't know when I shall see you

again.”

“Oh, Susan,” she murmured, “it's awfully good of you, but I'm afraid--I

couldn't.”

She walked to the window, and stood looking out for a moment at the

budding trees. Her heart was beating faster, and she was strangely

uncomfortable.

“I really don't expect to go to the sea, Susan,” she said. “You see,

my aunt and uncle are all alone in St. Louis, and I ought to go back to

them. If--if my father had lived, it might have been different. He died,

and my mother, when I was little more than a year old.”

Susan was all sympathy. She slipped her hand into Honora's.

“Where did he live?” she asked.

“Abroad,” answered Honora. “He was consul at Nice, and had a villa

there when he died. And people said he had an unusually brilliant

career before him. My aunt and uncle brought me up, and my cousin, Mrs.

Hanbury, Edith's mother, and Mary's, sent me here to school.”

Honora breathed easier after this confession, but it was long before

sleep came to her that night. She wondered what it would be like to

visit at a great country house such as Silverdale, what it would be like

to live in one. It seemed a strange and cruel piece of irony on the part

of the fates that Susan, instead of Honora, should have been chosen

for such a life: Susan, who would have been quite as happy spending her

summers in St. Louis, and taking excursions in the electric cars: Susan,

who had never experienced that dreadful, vacuum-like feeling, who had no

ambitious craving to be satisfied. Mingled with her flushes of affection

for Susan was a certain queer feeling of contempt, of which Honora was

ashamed.

Nevertheless, in the days that followed, a certain metamorphosis

seemed to have taken place in Susan. She was still the same modest,

self-effacing, helpful roommate, but in Honora's eyes she had

changed--Honora could no longer separate her image from the vision

of Silverdale. And, if the naked truth must be told, it was due to

Silverdale that Susan owes the honour of her first mention in those

descriptive letters from Sutcliffe, which Aunt Mary has kept to this

day.

Four days later Susan had a letter from her mother containing an

astonishing discovery. There could be no mistake,--Mrs. Holt had brought

Honora to this country as a baby.

“Why, Susan,” cried Honora, “you must have been the other baby.”

“But you were the beautiful one,” replied Susan, generously. “I have

often heard mother tell about it, and how every one on the ship noticed

you, and how Hortense cried when your aunt and uncle took you away. And

to think we have been rooming together all these months and did not know

that we were really--old friends.

“And Honora, mother says you must come to Silverdale to pay us a

visit when school closes. She wants to see you. I think,” added Susan,

smiling, “I think she feels responsible, for you. She says that you must

give me your aunts address, and that she will write to her.”

“Oh, I'd so like to go, Susan. And I don't think Aunt Mary would

object---for a little while.”

Honora lost no time in writing the letter asking for permission, and

it was not until after she had posted it that she felt a sudden, sharp

regret as she thought of them in their loneliness. But the postponement

of her homecoming would only be for a fortnight at best. And she had

seen so little!

In due time Aunt Mary's letter arrived. There was no mention of

loneliness in it, only of joy that Honora was to have the opportunity to

visit such a place as Silverdale. Aunt Mary, it seems, had seen pictures

of it long ago in a magazine of the book club, in an article concerning

one of Mrs. Holt's charities--a model home for indiscreet young women.

At the end of the year, Aunt Mary added, she had bought the number of

the magazine, because of her natural interest in Mrs. Holt on Honora's

account. Honora cried a little over that letter, but her determination

to go to Silverdale was unshaken.

June came at last, and the end of school. The subject of Miss Turner's

annual talk was worldliness. Miss Turner saw signs, she regretted to

say, of a lowering in the ideals of American women: of a restlessness,

of a desire for what was a false consideration and recognition; for

power. Some of her own pupils, alas! were not free from this fault.

Ethel Wing, who was next to Honora, nudged her and laughed, and passed

her some of Maillard's chocolates, which she had in her pocket. Woman's

place, continued Miss Turner, was the home, and she hoped they would

all make good wives. She had done her best to prepare them to be

such. Independence, they would find, was only relative: no one had it

completely. And she hoped that none of her scholars would ever descend

to that base competition to outdo one's neighbours, so characteristic of

the country to-day.

The friends, and even the enemies, were kissed good-by, with pledges of

eternal friendship. Cousin Eleanor Hanbury came for Edith and Mary, and

hoped Honora would enjoy herself at Silverdale. Dear Cousin Eleanor!

Her heart was large, and her charity unpretentious. She slipped into

Honora's fingers, as she embraced her, a silver-purse with some gold

coins in it, and bade her not to forget to write home very often.

“You know what pleasure it will give them, my dear,” she said, as she

stepped on the train for New York.

“And I am going home soon, Cousin Eleanor,” replied Honora, with a

little touch of homesickness in her voice.

“I know, dear,” said Mrs. Hanbury. But there was a peculiar, almost

wistful expression on her face as she kissed Honora again, as of one who

assents to a fiction in order to humour a child.

As the train pulled out, Ethel Wing waved to her from the midst of a

group of girls on the wide rear platform of the last car. It was Mr.

Wing's private car, and was going to Newport.

“Be good, Honora!” she cried.

Volume 2.

CHAPTER VII. THE OLYMPIAN ORDER

Lying back in the chair of the Pullman and gazing over the wide Hudson

shining in the afternoon sun, Honora's imagination ran riot until the

seeming possibilities of life became infinite. At every click of the

rails she was drawing nearer to that great world of which she had

dreamed, a world of country houses inhabited by an Olympian order. To be

sure, Susan, who sat reading in the chair behind her, was but a humble

representative of that order--but Providence sometimes makes use of such

instruments. The picture of the tall and brilliant Ethel Wing standing

behind the brass rail of the platform of the car was continually

recurring to Honora as emblematic: of Ethel, in a blue tailor-made

gown trimmed with buff braid, and which fitted her slender figure with

military exactness. Her hair, the colour of the yellowest of gold, in

the manner of its finish seemed somehow to give the impression of that

metal; and the militant effect of the costume had been heightened by

a small colonial cocked hat. If the truth be told, Honora had secretly

idealized Miss Wing, and had found her insouciance, frankness, and

tendency to ridicule delightful. Militant--that was indeed Ethel's

note--militant and positive.

“You're not going home with Susan!” she had exclaimed, making a little

face when Honora had told her. “They say that Silverdale is as slow as

a nunnery--and you're on your knees all the time. You ought to have come

to Newport with me.”

It was characteristic of Miss Wing that she seemed to have taken no

account of the fact that she had neglected to issue this alluring

invitation. Life at Silverdale slow! How could it be slow amidst such

beauty and magnificence?

The train was stopping at a new little station on which hung the legend,

in gold letters, “Sutton.” The sun was well on his journey towards the

western hills. Susan had touched her on the shoulder.

“Here we are, Honora,” she said, and added, with an unusual tremor in

her voice, “at last!”

On the far side of the platform a yellow, two-seated wagon was waiting,

and away they drove through the village, with its old houses and its

sleepy streets and its orchards, and its ancient tavern dating from

stage-coach days. Just outside of it, on the tree-dotted slope of a long

hill, was a modern brick building, exceedingly practical in appearance,

surrounded by spacious grounds enclosed in a paling fence. That, Susan

said, was the Sutton Home.

“Your mother's charity?”

A light came into the girl's eyes.

“So you have heard of it? Yes, it is the thing that interests mother

more than anything else in the world.”

“Oh,” said Honora, “I hope she will let me go through it.”

“I'm sure she will want to take you there to-morrow,” answered Susan,

and she smiled.

The road wound upwards, by the valley of a brook, through the hills, now

wooded, now spread with pastures that shone golden green in the evening

light, the herds gathering at the gate-bars. Presently they came to a

gothic-looking stone building, with a mediaeval bridge thrown across

the stream in front of it, and massive gates flung open. As they passed,

Honora had a glimpse of a blue driveway under the arch of the forest.

An elderly woman looked out at them through the open half of a leaded

lattice.

“That's the Chamberlin estate,” Susan volunteered. “Mr. Chamberlin has

built a castle on the top of that hill.”

Honora caught her breath.

“Are many of the places here like that?” she asked. Susan laughed.

“Some people don't think the place is very--appropriate,” she contented

herself with replying.

A little later, as they climbed higher, other houses could be discerned

dotted about the country-side, nearly all of them varied expressions

of the passion for a new architecture which seemed to possess the rich.

Most of them were in conspicuous positions, and surrounded by wide

acres. Each, to Honora, was an inspiration.

“I had no idea there were so many people here,” she said.

“I'm afraid Sutton is becoming fashionable,” answered Susan.

“And don't you want it to?” asked Honora.

“It was very nice before,” said Susan, quietly.

Honora was silent. They turned in between two simple stone pillars that

divided a low wall, overhung from the inside by shrubbery growing under

the forest. Susan seized her friend's hand and pressed it.

“I'm always so glad to get back here,” she whispered. “I hope you'll

like it.”

Honora returned the pressure.

The grey road forked, and forked again. Suddenly the forest came to an

end in a sort of premeditated tangle of wild garden, and across a wide

lawn the great house loomed against the western sky. Its architecture

was of the '60's and '70's, with a wide porte-cochere that sheltered

the high entrance doors. These were both flung open, a butler and two

footmen were standing impassively beside them, and a neat maid within.

Honora climbed the steps as in a dream, followed Susan through a hall

with a black-walnut, fretted staircase, and where she caught a glimpse

of two huge Chinese vases, to a porch on the other side of the house

spread with wicker chairs and tables. Out of a group of people at the

farther end of this porch arose an elderly lady, who came forward and

clasped Susan in her arms.

“And is this Honora? How do you do, my dear? I had the pleasure of

knowing you when you were much younger.”

Honora, too, was gathered to that ample bosom. Released, she beheld a

lady in a mauve satin gown, at the throat of which a cameo brooch

was fastened. Mrs. Holt's face left no room for conjecture as to the

character of its possessor. Her hair, of a silvering blend, parted in

the middle, fitted tightly to her head. She wore earrings. In short, her

appearance was in every way suggestive of momentum, of a force which the

wise would respect.

“Where are you, Joshua?” she said. “This is the baby we brought from

Nice. Come and tell me whether you would recognize her.”

Mr. Holt released his--daughter. He had a mild blue eye, white

mutton-chop whiskers, and very thin hands, and his tweed suit was

decidedly the worse for wear.

“I can't say that I should, Elvira,” he replied; “although it is not

hard to believe that such a beautiful baby should, prove to be such

a--er--good-looking young woman.”

“I've always felt very grateful to you for bringing me back,” said

Honora.

“Tut, tut, child,” said Mrs. Holt; “there was no one else to do it. And

be careful how you pay young women compliments, Joshua. They grow

vain enough. By the way, my dear, what ever became of your maternal

grandfather, old Mr. Allison--wasn't that his name?”

“He died when I was very young,” replied Honora.

“He was too fond of the good things of this life,” said Mrs. Holt.

“My dear Elvira!” her husband protested.

“I can't help it, he was,” retorted that lady. “I am a judge of human

nature, and I was relieved, I can tell you, my dear” (to Honora), “when

I saw your uncle and aunt on the wharf that morning. I knew that I had

confided you to good hands.”

“They have done everything for me, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora.

The good lady patted her approvingly on the shoulder.

“I'm sure of it, my dear,” she said. “And I am glad to see you

appreciate it. And now you must renew your acquaintance with the

family.”

A sister and a brother, Honora had already learned from Susan, had died

since she had crossed the ocean with them. Robert and Joshua, Junior,

remained. Both were heavyset, with rather stern faces, both had

close-cropped, tan-coloured mustaches and wide jaws, with blue eyes

like Susan's. Both were, with women at least, what the French would call

difficult--Robert less so than Joshua. They greeted Honora reservedly

and--she could not help feeling--a little suspiciously. And their

appearance was something of a shock to her; they did not, somehow, “go

with the house,” and they dressed even more carelessly than Peter Erwin.

This was particularly true of Joshua, whose low, turned-down collar

revealed a porous, brick-red, and extremely virile neck, and whose

clothes were creased at the knees and across the back.

As for their wives, Mrs. Joshua was a merry, brown-eyed little lady

already inclining to stoutness, and Honora felt at home with her at

once. Mrs. Robert was tall and thin, with an olive face and dark eyes

which gave the impression of an uncomfortable penetration. She was

dressed simply in a shirtwaist and a dark skirt, but Honora thought her

striking looking.

The grandchildren, playing on and off the porch, seemed legion, and they

were besieging Susan. In reality there were seven of them, of all sizes

and sexes, from the third Joshua with a tennis-bat to the youngest who

was weeping at being sent to bed, and holding on to her Aunt Susan with

desperation. When Honora had greeted them all, and kissed some of them,

she was informed that there were two more upstairs, safely tucked away

in cribs.

“I'm sure you love children, don't you?” said Mrs. Joshua. She spoke

impulsively, and yet with a kind of childlike shyness.

“I adore them,” exclaimed Honora.

A trellised arbour (which some years later would have been called a

pergola) led from the porch up the hill to an old-fashioned summer-house

on the crest. And thither, presently, Susan led Honora for a view of

the distant western hills silhouetted in black against a flaming western

sky, before escorting her to her room. The vastness of the house, the

width of the staircase, and the size of the second-story hall impressed

our heroine.

“I'll send a maid to you later, dear,” Susan said. “If you care to lie

down for half an hour, no one will disturb you. And I hope you will be

comfortable.”

Comfortable! When the door had closed, Honora glanced around her and

sighed, “comfort” seemed such a strangely inadequate word. She was

reminded of the illustrations she had seen of English country houses.

The bed alone would almost have filled her little room at home. On the

farther side, in an alcove, was a huge dressing-table; a fire was laid

in the grate of the marble mantel, the curtains in the bay window were

tightly drawn, and near by was a lounge with a reading-light. A huge

mahogany wardrobe occupied one corner; in another stood a pier glass,

and in another, near the lounge, was a small bookcase filled with

books. Honora looked over them curiously. “Robert Elsmere” and a life

of Christ, “Mr. Isaacs,” a book of sermons by an eminent clergyman,

“Innocents Abroad,” Hare's “Walks in Rome,” “When a Man's Single,” by

Barrie, a book of meditations, and “Organized Charities for Women.”

Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom in proportion, evidently all her

own,--with a huge porcelain tub and a table set with toilet bottles

containing liquids of various colours.

Dreamily, Honora slipped on the new dressing-gown Aunt Mary had made for

her, and took a book out of the bookcase. It was the volume of sermons.

But she could not read: she was forever looking about the room, and

thinking of the family she had met downstairs. Of course, when one lived

in a house like this, one could afford to dress and act as one liked.

She was aroused from her reflections by the soft but penetrating notes

of a Japanese gong, followed by a gentle knock on the door and the

entrance of an elderly maid, who informed her it was time to dress for

dinner.

“If you'll excuse me, Miss,” said that hitherto silent individual when

the operation was completed, “you do look lovely.”

Honora, secretly, was of that opinion too as she surveyed herself in the

long glass. The simple summer silk, of a deep and glowing pink, rivalled

the colour in her cheeks, and contrasted with the dark and shining

masses of her hair; and on her neck glistened a little pendant of her

mother's jewels, which Aunt Mary, with Cousin Eleanor's assistance, had

had set in New York. Honora's figure was that of a woman of five and

twenty: her neck was a slender column, her head well set, and the look

of race, which had been hers since childhood, was at nineteen more

accentuated. All this she saw, and went down the stairs in a kind of

exultation. And when on the threshold of the drawing-room she paused,

the conversation suddenly ceased. Mr. Holt and his sons got up somewhat

precipitately, and Mrs. Holt came forward to meet her.

“I hope you weren't waiting for me,” said Honora, timidly.

“No indeed, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt. Tucking Honora's hand under her

arm, she led the way majestically to the dining-room, a large apartment

with a dimly lighted conservatory at the farther end, presided over by

the decorous butler and his assistants. A huge chandelier with prisms

hung over the flowers at the centre of the table, which sparkled with

glass and silver, while dishes of vermilion and yellow fruits relieved

the whiteness of the cloth. Honora found herself beside Mr. Holt, who

looked more shrivelled than ever in his evening clothes. And she was

about to address him when, with a movement as though to forestall her,

he leaned forward convulsively and began a mumbling grace.

The dinner itself was more like a ceremony than a meal, and as it

proceeded, Honora found it increasingly difficult to rid herself of a

curious feeling of being on probation.

Joshua, who sat on her other side and ate prodigiously, scarcely

addressed a word to her; but she gathered from his remarks to his father

and brother that he was interested in cows. And Mr. Holt was almost

exclusively occupied in slowly masticating the special dishes which the

butler impressively laid before him. He asked her a few questions about

Miss Turner's school, but it was not until she had admired the mass

of peonies in the centre of the table that his eyes brightened, and he

smiled.

“You like flowers?” he asked.

“I love them,” slid Honora.

“I am the gardener here,” he said. “You must see my garden, Miss

Leffingwell. I am in it by half-past six every morning, rain or shine.”

Honora looked up, and surprised Mrs. Robert's eyes fixed on her with

the same strange expression she had noticed on her arrival. And for some

senseless reason, she flushed.

The conversation was chiefly carried on by kindly little Mrs. Joshua and

by Mrs. Holt, who seemed at once to preside and to dominate. She praised

Honora's gown, but left a lingering impression that she thought her

overdressed, without definitely saying so. And she made innumerable--and

often embarrassing--inquiries about Honora's aunt and uncle, and her

life in St. Louis, and her friends there, and how she had happened to go

to Sutcliffe to school. Sometimes Honora blushed, but she answered them

all good-naturedly. And when at length the meal had marched sedately

down to the fruit, Mrs. Holt rose and drew Honora out of the dining

room.

“It is a little hard on you, my dear,” she said, “to give you so

much family on your arrival. But there are some other people coming

to-morrow, when it will be gayer, I hope, for you and Susan.”

“It is so good of you and Susan to want me, Mrs. Holt,” replied Honora,

“I am enjoying it so much. I have never been in a big country house

like this, and I am glad there is no one else here. I have heard my aunt

speak of you so often, and tell how kind you were to take charge of me,

that I have always hoped to know you sometime or other. And it seems

the strangest of coincidences that I should have roomed with Susan at

Sutcliffe.”

“Susan has grown very fond of you,” said Mrs. Holt, graciously. “We are

very glad to have you, my dear, and I must own that I had a curiosity to

see you again. Your aunt struck me as a good and sensible woman, and it

was a positive relief to know that you were to be confided to her care.”

Mrs. Holt, however, shook her head and regarded Honora, and her next

remark might have been taken as a clew to her thoughts. “But we are not

very gay at Silverdale, Honora.”

Honora's quick intuition detected the implication of a frivolity which

even her sensible aunt had not been able to eradicate.

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she cried, “I shall be so happy here, just seeing

things and being among you. And I am so interested in the little bit I

have seen already. I caught a glimpse of your girls' home on my way from

the station. I hope you will take me there.”

Mrs. Holt gave her a quick look, but beheld in Honora's clear eyes only

eagerness and ingenuousness.

The change in the elderly lady's own expression, and incidentally in the

atmosphere which enveloped her, was remarkable.

“Would you really like to go, my dear?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” cried Honora. “You see, I have heard so much of it,

and I should like to write my aunt about it. She is interested in the

work you are doing, and she has kept a magazine with an article in it,

and a picture of the institution.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the lady, now visibly pleased. “It is a very modest

little work, my dear. I had no idea that--out in St. Louis--that the

beams of my little candle had carried so far. Indeed you shall see it,

Honora. We will go down the first thing in the morning.”

Mrs. Robert, who had been sitting on the other side of the room, rose

abruptly and came towards them. There was something very like a smile

on her face,--although it wasn't really a smile--as she bent over and

kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek.

“I am glad to hear you are interested in--charities, Miss Leffingwell,”

she said.

Honora's face grew warm.

“I have not so far had very much to do with them, I am afraid,” she

answered.

“How should she?” demanded Mrs. Holt. “Gwendolen, you're not going up

already?”

“I have some letters to write,” said Mrs. Robert.

“Gwen has helped me immeasurably,” said Mrs. Holt, looking after the

tall figure of her daughter-in-law, “but she has a curious, reserved

character. You have to know her, my dear. She is not at all like Susan,

for instance.”

Honora awoke the next morning to a melody, and lay for some minutes in

a delicious semi-consciousness, wondering where she was. Presently she

discovered that the notes were those of a bird on a tree immediately

outside of her window--a tree of wonderful perfection, the lower

branches of which swept the ground. Other symmetrical trees, of many

varieties, dotted a velvet lawn, which formed a great natural terrace

above the forested valley of Silver Brook. On the grass, dew-drenched

cobwebs gleamed in the early sun, and the breeze that stirred the

curtains was charged with the damp, fresh odours of the morning. Voices

caught her ear, and two figures appeared in the distance. One she

recognized as Mr. Holt, and the other was evidently a gardener. The gilt

clock on the mantel pointed to a quarter of seven.

It is far too late in this history to pretend that Honora was, by

preference, an early riser, and therefore it must have been the

excitement caused by her surroundings that made her bathe and dress

with alacrity that morning. A housemaid was dusting the stairs as she

descended into the empty hall. She crossed the lawn, took a path through

the trees that bordered it, and came suddenly upon an old-fashioned

garden in all the freshness of its early morning colour. In one of the

winding paths she stopped with a little exclamation. Mr. Holt rose from

his knees in front of her, where he had been digging industriously with

a trowel. His greeting, when contrasted with his comparative taciturnity

at dinner the night before, was almost effusive--and a little pathetic.

“My dear young lady,” he exclaimed, “up so early?” He held up

forbiddingly a mould-covered palm. “I can't shake hands with you.”

Honora laughed.

“I couldn't resist the temptation to see your garden,” she said.

A gentle light gleamed in his blue eyes, and he paused before a trellis

of June roses. With his gardening knife he cut three of them, and held

them gallantly against her white gown. Her sensitive colour responded as

she thanked him, and she pinned them deftly at her waist.

“You like gardens?” he said.

“I was brought up with them,” she answered; “I mean,” she corrected

herself swiftly, “in a very modest way. My uncle is passionately fond of

flowers, and he makes our little yard bloom with them all summer. But of

course,” Honora added, “I've never seen anything like this.”

“It has been a life work,” answered Mr. Holt, proudly, “and yet I feel

as though I had not yet begun. Come, I will show you the peonies--they

are at their best--before I go in and make myself respectable for

breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, as they approached the house in amicable and even

lively conversation, they beheld Susan and Mrs. Robert standing on the

steps under the porte-cochere, watching them.

“Why, Honora,” cried Susan, “how energetic you are! I actually had a

shock when I went to your room and found you'd gone. I'll have to write

Miss Turner.”

“Don't,” pleaded Honora; “you see, I had every inducement to get up.”

“She has been well occupied,” put in Mr. Holt. “She has been admiring my

garden.”

“Indeed I have,” said Honora.

“Oh, then, you have won father's heart!” cried Susan. Gwendolen Holt

smiled. Her eyes were fixed upon the roses in Honora's belt.

“Good morning, Miss Leffingwell,” she said, simply.

Mr. Holt having removed the loam from his hands, the whole family,

excepting Joshua, Junior, and including an indefinite number of

children, and Carroll, the dignified butler, and Martha, the elderly

maid, trooped into the library for prayers. Mr. Holt sat down before

a teak-wood table at the end of the room, on which reposed a great,

morocco-covered Bible. Adjusting his spectacles, he read, in a mild but

impressive voice, a chapter of Matthew, while Mrs. Joshua tried to

quiet her youngest. Honora sat staring at a figure on the carpet,

uncomfortably aware that Mrs. Robert was still studying her. Mr. Holt

closed the Bible reverently, and announced a prayer, whereupon the

family knelt upon the floor and leaned their elbows on the seats of

their chairs. Honora did likewise, wondering at the facility with which

Mr. Holt worded his appeal, and at the number of things he found to pray

for. Her knees had begun to ache before he had finished.

At breakfast such a cheerful spirit prevailed that Honora began almost

to feel at home. Even Robert indulged occasionally in raillery.

“Where in the world is Josh?” asked Mrs. Holt, after they were seated.

“I forgot to tell you, mother,” little Mrs. Joshua chirped up, “that he

got up at an unearthly hour, and went over to Grafton to look at a cow.”

“A cow!” sighed Mrs. Holt. “Oh, dear, I might have known it. You must

understand, Honora, that every member of the Holt family has a hobby.

Joshua's is Jerseys.”

“I'm sure I should adore them if I lived in the country,” Honora

declared.

“If you and Joshua would only take that Sylvester farm, and build

a house, Annie,” said Mr. Holt, munching the dried bread which was

specially prepared for him, “I should be completely happy. Then,” he

added, turning to Honora, “I should have both my sons settled on the

place. Robert and Gwen are sensible in building.”

“It's cheaper to live with you, granddad,” laughed Mrs. Joshua. “Josh

says if we do that, he has more money to buy cows.”

At this moment a footman entered, and presented Mrs. Holt with some mail

on a silver tray.

“The Vicomte de Toqueville is coming this afternoon, Joshua,” she

announced, reading rapidly from a sheet on which was visible a large

crown. “He landed in New York last week, and writes to know if I could

have him.”

“Another of mother's menagerie,” remarked Robert.

“I don't think that's nice of you, Robert,” said his mother. “The

Vicomte was very kind to your father and me in Paris, and invited us to

his chateau in Provence.”

Robert was sceptical.

“Are you sure he had one?” he insisted.

Even Mr. Holt laughed.

“Robert,” said his mother, “I wish Gwen could induce you to travel more.

Perhaps you would learn that all foreigners aren't fortune-hunters.”

“I've had an opportunity to observe the ones who come over here, mother.”

“I won't have a prospective guest discussed,” Mrs. Holt declared, with

finality. “Joshua, you remember my telling you last spring that Martha

Spence's son called on me?” she asked. “He is in business with a man

named Dallam, I believe, and making a great deal of money for a young

man. He is just a year younger than you, Robert.”

“Do you mean that fat, tow-headed boy that used to come up here and eat

melons and ride my pony?” inquired Robert. “Howard Spence?”

Mrs. Holt smiled.

“He isn't fat any longer, Robert. Indeed, he's quite good-looking. Since

his mother died, I had lost trace of him. But I found a photograph of

hers when I was clearing up my desk some months ago, and sent it to him,

and he came to thank me. I forgot to tell you that I invited him for a

fortnight any time he chose, and he has just written to ask if he may

come now. I regret to say that he's on the Stock Exchange--but I was

very fond of his mother. It doesn't seem to me quite a legitimate

business.”

“Why!” exclaimed little Mrs. Joshua, unexpectedly, “I'm given to

understand that the Stock Exchange is quite aristocratic in these days.”

“I'm afraid I am old-fashioned, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, rising. “It

has always seemed to me little better than a gambling place. Honora, if

you still wish to go to the Girls' Home, I have ordered the carriage in

a quarter of an hour.”

CHAPTER VIII. A CHAPTER OF CONQUESTS

Honora's interest in the Institution was so lively, and she asked so

many questions and praised so highly the work with which the indiscreet

young women were occupied that Mrs. Holt patted her hand as they drove

homeward.

“My dear,” she said, “I begin to wish I'd adopted you myself. Perhaps,

later on, we can find a husband for you, and you will marry and settle

down near us here at Silverdale, and then you can help me with the

work.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she replied, “I should so like to help you, I mean. And

it would be wonderful to live in such a place. And as for marriage, it

seems such a long way off that somehow I never think of it.”

“Naturally,” ejaculated Mrs. Holt, with approval, “a young girl of your

age should not. But, my dear, I am afraid you are destined to have many

admirers. If you had not been so well brought up, and were not naturally

so sensible, I should fear for you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt!” exclaimed Honora, deprecatingly, and blushing very

prettily.

“Whatever else I am,” said Mrs. Holt, vigorously, “I am not a flatterer.

I am telling you something for your own good--which you probably know

already.”

Honora was discreetly silent. She thought of the proud and unsusceptible

George Hanbury, whom she had cast down from the tower of his sophomore

dignity with such apparent ease; and of certain gentlemen at home,

young and middle-aged, who had behaved foolishly during the Christmas

holidays.

At lunch both the Roberts and the Joshuas were away.

Afterwards, they romped with the children--she and Susan. They were

shy at first, especially the third Joshua, but Honora captivated him

by playing two sets of tennis in the broiling sun, at the end of which

exercise he regarded her with a new-born admiration in his eyes. He was

thirteen.

“I didn't think you were that kind at all,” he said.

“What kind did you think I was?” asked Honora, passing her arm around

his shoulder as they walked towards the house.

The boy grew scarlet.

“Oh, I didn't think you--you could play tennis,” he stammered.

Honora stopped, and seized his chin and tilted his face upward.

“Now, Joshua,” she said, “look at me and say that over again.”

“Well,” he replied desperately, “I thought you wouldn't want to get all

mussed up and hot.”

“That's better,” said Honora. “You thought I was vain, didn't you?”

“But I don't think so any more,” he avowed passionately. “I think you're

a trump. And we'll play again to-morrow, won't we?”

“We'll play any day you like,” she declared.

It is unfair to suppose that the arrival of a real vicomte and of

a young, good-looking, and successful member of the New York Stock

Exchange were responsible for Honora's appearance, an hour later, in the

embroidered linen gown which Cousin Eleanor had given her that

spring. Tea was already in progress on the porch, and if a hush in the

conversation and the scraping of chairs is any sign of a sensation, this

happened when our heroine appeared in the doorway. And Mrs. Holt, in the

act of lifting the hot-water kettle; put it down again. Whether or not

there was approval in the lady's delft-blue eye, Honora could not

have said. The Vicomte, with the graceful facility of his race, had

differentiated himself from the group and stood before her. As soon

as the words of introduction were pronounced, he made a bow that was a

tribute in itself, exaggerated in its respect.

“It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,” he murmured, but his eyes were more

eloquent.

A description of him in his own language leaped into Honora's mind, so

much did he appear to have walked out of one of the many yellow-backed

novels she had read. He was not tall, but beautifully made, and his coat

was quite absurdly cut in at the waist; his mustache was en-croc, and

its points resembled those of the Spanish bayonets in the conservatory:

he might have been three and thirty, and he was what the novels

described as 'un peu fane' which means that he had seen the world: his

eyes were extraordinarily bright, black, and impenetrable.

A greater contrast to the Vicomte than Mr. Howard Spence would have

been difficult to find. He was Honora's first glimpse of Finance, of the

powers that travelled in private cars and despatched ships across the

ocean. And in our modern mythology, he might have stood for the god

of Prosperity. Prosperity is pink, and so was Mr. Spence, in two

places,--his smooth-shaven cheeks and his shirt. His flesh had a certain

firmness, but he was not stout; he was merely well fed, as Prosperity

should be. His features were comparatively regular, his mustache a

light brown, his eyes hazel. The fact that he came from that mysterious

metropolis, the heart of which is Wall Street, not only excused but

legitimized the pink shirt and the neatly knotted green tie, the

pepper-and-salt check suit that was loose and at the same time

well-fitting, and the jewelled ring on his plump little finger. On the

whole, Mr. Spence was not only prepossessing, but he contrived to give

Honora, as she shook his hand, the impression of being brought a step

nearer to the national source of power. Unlike the Vicomte, he did not

appear to have been instantly and mortally wounded upon her arrival on

the scene, but his greeting was flattering, and he remained by her side

instead of returning to that of Mrs. Robert.

“When did you come up?” he asked.

“Only yesterday,” answered Honora.

“New York,” said Mr. Spence, producing a gold cigarette case on which

his monogram was largely and somewhat elaborately engraved, “New York

is played out this time of year--isn't it? I dropped in at Sherry's last

night for dinner, and there weren't thirty people there.”

Honora had heard of Sherry's as a restaurant where one dined fabulously,

and she tried to imagine the cosmopolitan and blissful existence which

permitted “dropping in at” such a place. Moreover, Mr. Spence was

plainly under the impression that she too “came up” from New York, and

it was impossible not to be a little pleased.

“It must be a relief to get into the country,” she ventured.

Mr. Spence glanced around him expressively, and then looked at her with

a slight smile. The action and the smile--to which she could not refrain

from responding--seemed to establish a tacit understanding between them.

It was natural that he should look upon Silverdale as a slow place, and

there was something delicious in his taking, for granted that she shared

this opinion. She wondered a little wickedly what he would say when he

knew the truth about her, and this was the birth of a resolution that

his interest should not flag.

“Oh, I can stand the country when it is properly inhabited,” he said,

and their eyes met in laughter.

“How many inhabitants do you require?” she asked.

“Well,” he said brazenly, “the right kind of inhabitant is worth a

thousand of the wrong kind. It is a good rule in business, when you come

across a gilt-edged security, to make a specialty of it.”

Honora found the compliment somewhat singular. But she was prepared to

forgive New York a few sins in the matter of commercial slang: New York,

which evidently dressed as it liked, and talked as it liked. But not

knowing any more of a gilt-edged security than that it was something to

Mr. Spence's taste, a retort was out of the question. Then, as though

she were doomed that day to complicity, her eyes chanced to encounter an

appealing glance from the Vicomte, who was searching with the courage

of despair for an English word, which his hostess awaited in stoical

silence. He was trying to give his impressions of Silverdale, in

comparison to country places abroad, while Mrs. Robert regarded

him enigmatically, and Susan sympathetically. Honora had an almost

irresistible desire to laugh.

“Ah, Madame,” he cried, still looking at Honora, “will you have the

kindness to permit me to walk about ever so little?”

“Certainly, Vicomte, and I will go with you. Get my parasol, Susan.

Perhaps you would like to come, too, Howard,” she added to Mr. Spence;

“it has been so long since you were here, and we have made many

changes.”

“And you, Mademoiselle,” said the Vicomte to Honora, “you will come--yes?

You are interested in landscape?”

“I love the country,” said Honora.

“It is a pleasure to have a guest who is so appreciative,” said Mrs.

Holt. “Miss Leffingwell was up at seven this morning, and in the garden

with my husband.”

“At seven!” exclaimed the Vicomte; “you American young ladies are

wonderful. For example--” and he was about to approach her to enlarge

on this congenial theme when Susan arrived with the parasol, which Mrs.

Holt put in his hands.

“We'll begin, I think, with the view from the summer house,” she said.

“And I will show you how our famous American landscape architect, Mr.

Olmstead, has treated the slope.”

There was something humorous, and a little pathetic in the contrasted

figures of the Vicomte and their hostess crossing the lawn in front of

them. Mr. Spence paused a moment to light his cigarette, and he seemed

to derive infinite pleasure from this juxtaposition.

“Got left,--didn't he?” he said.

To this observation there was, obviously, no answer.

“I'm not very strong on foreigners,” he declared. “An American is good

enough for me. And there's something about that fellow which would make

me a little slow in trusting him with a woman I cared for.”

“If you are beginning to worry over Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, “we'd

better walk a little faster.”

Mr. Spence's delight at this sally was so unrestrained as to cause the

couple ahead to turn. The Vicomte's expression was reproachful.

“Where's Susan?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“I think she must have gone in the house,” Honora answered.

“You two seem to be having a very good time.”

“Oh, we're hitting it off fairly well,” said Mr. Spence, no doubt for

the benefit of the Vicomte. And he added in a confidential tone, “Aren't

we?”

“Not on the subject of the Vicomte,” she replied promptly. “I like him.

I like French people.”

“What!” he exclaimed, halting in his steps, “you don't take that man

seriously?”

“I haven't known him long enough to take him seriously,” said Honora.

“There's a blindness about women,” he declared, “that's

incomprehensible. They'll invest in almost any old thing if the

certificates are beautifully engraved. If you were a man, you wouldn't

trust that Frenchman to give you change for five dollars.”

“French people,” proclaimed Honora, “have a light touch of which we

Americans are incapable. We do not know how to relax.”

“A light touch!” cried Mr. Spence, delightedly, “that about describes

the Vicomte.”

“I'm sure you do him an injustice,” said Honora.

“We'll see,” said Mr. Spence. “Mrs. Holt is always picking up queer

people like that. She's noted for it.” He turned to her. “How did you

happen to come here?”

“I came with Susan,” she replied, amusedly, “from boarding-school at

Sutcliffe.”

“From boarding-school!”

She rather enjoyed his surprise.

“You don't mean to say you are Susan's age?”

“How old did you think I was?” she asked.

“Older than Susan,” he said surveying her.

“No, I'm a mere child, I'm nineteen.”

“But I thought--” he began, and paused and lighted another cigarette.

Her eyes lighted mischievously.

“You thought that I had been out several years, and that I'd seen a good

deal of the world, and that I lived in New York, and that it was strange

you didn't know me. But New York is such an enormous place I suppose one

can't know everybody there.”

“And--where do you come from, if I may ask?” he said.

“St. Louis. I was brought to this country before I was two years old,

from France. Mrs. Holt brought me. And I have never been out of St.

Louis since, except to go to Sutcliffe. There you have my history. Mrs.

Holt would probably have told it to you, if I hadn't.”

“And Mrs. Holt brought you to this country?”

Honora explained, not without a certain enjoyment.

“And how do you happen to be here?” she demanded. “Are you a member

of--of the menagerie?”

He had the habit of throwing back his head when he laughed. This, of

course, was a thing to laugh over, and now he deemed it audacity. Five

minutes before he might have given it another name there is no use in

saying that the recital of Honora's biography had not made a difference

with Mr. Howard Pence, and that he was not a little mortified at

his mistake. What he had supposed her to be must remain a matter of

conjecture. He was, however, by no means aware how thoroughly this

unknown and inexperienced young woman had read his thoughts in her

regard. And if the truth be told, he was on the whole relieved that she

was nobody. He was just an ordinary man, provided with no sixth sense or

premonitory small voice to warn him that masculine creatures are often

in real danger at the moment when they feel most secure.

It is certain that his manner changed, and during the rest of the walk

she listened demurely when he talked about Wall Street, with casual

references to the powers that be. It was evident that Mr. Howard Spence

was one who had his fingers on the pulse of affairs. Ambition leaped in

him.

They reached the house in advance of Mrs. Holt and the Vicomte, and

Honora went to her room.

At dinner, save for a little matter of a casual remark when Mr. Holt had

assumed the curved attitude in which he asked grace, Mr. Spence had a

veritable triumph. Self-confidence was a quality which Honora admired.

He was undaunted by Mrs. Holt, and advised Mrs. Robert, if she had

any pin-money, to buy New York Central; and he predicted an era of

prosperity which would be unexampled in the annals of the country. Among

other powers, he quoted the father of Honora's schoolmate, Mr. James

Wing, as authority for this prophecy. He sat next to Susan, who

maintained her usual maidenly silence, but Honora, from time to time,

and as though by accident, caught his eye. Even Mr. Holt, when not

munching his dried bread, was tempted to make some inquiries about the

market.

“So far as I am concerned,” Mrs. Holt announced suddenly, “nothing can

convince me that it is not gambling.”

“My dear Elvira!” protested Mr. Holt.

“I can't help it,” said that lady, stoutly; “I'm old-fashioned, I

suppose. But it seems to me like legalized gambling.”

Mr. Spence took this somewhat severe arraignment of his career in

admirable good nature. And if these be such a thing as an implied wink,

Honora received one as he proceeded to explain what he was pleased to

call the bona-fide nature of the transactions of Dallam and Spence.

A discussion ensued in which, to her surprise, even the ordinarily

taciturn Joshua took a part, and maintained that the buying and selling

of blooded stock was equally gambling. To this his father laughingly

agreed. The Vicomte, who sat on Mrs. Holt's right, and who apparently

was determined not to suffer a total eclipse without a struggle,

gallantly and unexpectedly came to his hostess' rescue, though she

treated him as a doubtful ally. This was because he declared with

engaging frankness that in France the young men of his monde had a

jeunesse: he, who spoke to them, had gambled; everybody gambled in

France, where it was regarded as an innocent amusement. He had friends

on the Bourse, and he could see no difference in principle between

betting on the red at Monte Carlo and the rise and fall of the shares of

la Compagnie des Metaux, for example. After completing his argument,

he glanced triumphantly about the table, until his restless black

eyes encountered Honora's, seemingly seeking a verdict. She smiled

impartially.

The subject of finance lasted through the dinner, and the Vicomte

proclaimed himself amazed with the evidences of wealth which confronted

him on every side in this marvellous country. And once, when he was at a

loss for a word, Honora astonished and enchanted him by supplying it.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “I was sure when I first beheld you

that you spoke my language! And with such an accent!”

“I have studied it all my life, Vicomte,” she said, modestly, “and I had

the honour to be born in your country. I have always wished to see it

again.”

Monsieur de Toqueville ventured the fervent hope that her wish might

soon be gratified, but not before he returned to France. He expressed

himself in French, and in a few moments she found herself deep in a

discussion with him in that tongue. While she talked, her veins seemed

filled with fire; and she was dimly and automatically aware of the

disturbance about her, as though she were creating a magnetic storm that

interfered with all other communication. Mr. Holt's nightly bezique,

which he played with Susan, did not seem to be going as well as usual,

and elsewhere conversation was a palpable pretence. Mr. Spence, who

was attempting to entertain the two daughters-in-law, was clearly

distrait--if his glances meant anything. Robert and Joshua had not

appeared, and Mrs. Holt, at the far end of the room under the lamp,

regarded Honora from time to time over the edge of the evening

newspaper.

In his capacity as a student of American manners, an unsuspected

if scattered knowledge on Honora's part of that portion of French

literature included between Theophile Gautier and Gyp at once dumfounded

and delighted the Vicomte de Toqueville. And he was curious to know

whether, amongst American young ladies, Miss Leffingwell was the

exception or the rule. Those eyes of his, which had paid to his hostess

a tender respect, snapped when they spoke to our heroine, and presently

he boldly abandoned literature to declare that the fates alone had sent

her to Silverdale at the time of his visit.

It was at this interesting juncture that Mrs. Holt rattled her newspaper

a little louder than usual, arose majestically, and addressed Mrs.

Joshua.

“Annie, perhaps you will play for us,” she said, as she crossed the

room, and added to Honora: “I had no idea you spoke French so well, my

dear. What have you and Monsieur de Toqueville been talking about?”

It was the Vicomte who, springing to his feet, replied nimbly:

“Mademoiselle has been teaching me much of the customs of your country.”

“And what,” inquired Mrs. Holt, “have you been teaching Mademoiselle?”

The Vicomte laughed and shrugged his shoulders expressively.

“Ah, Madame, I wish I were qualified to be her teacher. The education of

American young ladies is truly extraordinary.”

“I was about to tell Monsieur de Toqueville,” put in Honora, wickedly,

“that he must see your Institution as soon as possible, and the work

your girls are doing.”

“Madame,” said the Vicomte, after a scarcely perceptible pause, “I await

my opportunity and your kindness.”

“I will take you to-morrow,” said Mrs. Holt.

At this instant a sound closely resembling a sneeze caused them to turn.

Mr. Spence, with his handkerchief to his mouth, had his back turned to

them, and was studiously regarding the bookcases.

After Honora had gone upstairs for the night she opened her door in

response to a knock, to find Mrs. Holt on the threshold.

“My dear,” said that lady, “I feel that I must say a word to you. I

suppose you realize that you are attractive to men.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt.”

“You're no fool, my dear, and it goes without saying that you-do realize

it--in the most innocent way, of course. But you have had no experience

in life. Mind you, I don't say that the Vicomte de Toqueville isn't very

much of a gentleman, but the French ideas about the relations of young

men and young women are quite different and, I regret to say, less

innocent than ours. I have no reason to believe that the Vicomte has

come to this country to--to mend his fortunes. I know nothing about his

property. But my sense of responsibility towards you has led me to tell

him that you have no dot, for you somehow manage to give the impression

of a young woman of fortune. Not purposely, my dear--I did not mean

that.” Mrs. Holt tapped gently Honora's flaming cheek. “I merely felt

it my duty to drop you a word of warning against Monsieur de

Toqueville--because he is a Frenchman.”

“But, Mrs. Holt, I had no idea of--of falling in love with him,”

protested Honora, as soon as she could get her breath. He seemed so

kind--and so interested in everything.

“I dare say,” said Mrs. Holt, dryly. “And I have always been led to

believe that that is the most dangerous sort. I am sure, Honora, after

what I have said, you will give him no encouragement.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” cried Honora again, “I shouldn't think of such a

thing!”

“I am sure of it, Honora, now that you are forewarned. And your

suggestion to take him to the Institution was not a bad one. I meant to

do so anyway, and I think it will be good for him. Good night, my dear.”

After the good lady bad gone, Honora stood for some moments motionless.

Then she turned out the light.

CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH THE VICOMTE CONTINUES HIS STUDIES

Mr. Robert Holt, Honora learned at breakfast, had two bobbies. She had

never heard of what is called Forestry, and had always believed the

wood of her country to be inexhaustible. It had never occurred to her

to think of a wild forest as an example of nature's extravagance, and

so flattering was her attention while Robert explained the primary

principles of caring for trees that he actually offered to show her one

of the tracts on the estate which he was treating. He could not,--he

regretted to say, take her that morning.

His other hobby was golf. He was president of the Sutton Golf Club,

and had arranged to play a match with Mr. Spence. This gentleman, it

appeared, was likewise an enthusiast, and had brought to Silverdale a

leather bag filled with sticks.

“Won't you come, too, Miss Leffingwell?” he said, as he took a second

cup of coffee.

Somewhat to the astonishment of the Holt family, Robert seconded the

invitation.

“I'll bet, Robert,” said Mr. Spence, gallantly, “that Miss Leffingwell

can put it over both of us.”

“Indeed, I can't play at all,” exclaimed Honora in confusion. “And I

shouldn't think of spoiling your match. And besides, I am going to drive

with Susan.”

“We can go another day, Honora,” said Susan.

But Honora would not hear of it.

“Come over with me this afternoon, then,” suggested Mr. Spence, “and

I'll give you a lesson.”

She thanked him gratefully.

“But it won't be much fun for you, I'm afraid,” she added, as they left

the dining room.

“Don't worry about me,” he answered cheerfully. He was dressed in a

checked golf costume, and wore a pink shirt of a new pattern. And he

stood in front of her in the hall, glowing from his night's sleep,

evidently in a high state of amusement.

“What's the matter?” she demanded.

“You did for the Vicomte all right,” he said. “I'd give a good deal to

see him going through the Institution.”

“It wouldn't have hurt you, either,” she retorted, and started up the

stairs. Once she glanced back and saw him looking after her.

At the far end of the second story hall she perceived the Vicomte, who

had not appeared at breakfast, coming out of his room. She paused with

her hand on the walnut post and laughed a little, so ludicrous was his

expression as he approached her.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, que vous etes mechante!” he exclaimed. “But I forgive

you, if you will not go off with that stock-broker. It must be that I

see the Home sometime, and if I go now it is over. I forgive you. It is

in the Bible that we must forgive our neighbour--how many times?”

“Seventy times seven,” said Honora.

“But I make a condition,” said the Vicomte, “that my neighbour shall

be a woman, and young and beautiful. Then I care not how many times.

Mademoiselle, if you would but have your portrait painted as you are,

with your hand on the post, by Sargent or Carolus Duran, there would be

some noise in the Salon.”

“Is that you, Vicomte?” came a voice from the foot of the stairs--Mrs.

Holt's voice.

“I come this instant, Madame,” he replied, looking over the banisters,

and added: “malheureux que je suis! Perhaps, when I return, you will

show me a little of the garden.”

The duty of exhibiting to guests the sights of Silverdale and the

neighbourhood had so often devolved upon Susan, who was methodical, that

she had made out a route, or itinerary, for this purpose. There were

some notes to leave and a sick woman and a child to see, which caused

her to vary it a little that morning; and Honora, who sat in the

sunlight and held the horse, wondered how it would feel to play the lady

bountiful. “I am so glad to have you all to myself for a little while,

Honora,” Susan said to her. “You are so popular that I begin to fear

that I shall have to be unselfish, and share you.”

“Oh, Susan,” she said, “every one has been so kind. And I can't tell you

how much I am enjoying this experience, which I feel I owe to you.”

“I am so happy, dear, that it is giving you pleasure,” said Susan.

“And don't think,” exclaimed Honora, “that you won't see lots of me, for

you will.”

Her heart warmed to Susan, yet she could not but feel a secret pity

for her, as one unable to make the most of her opportunities in the

wonderful neighbourhood in which she lived. As they drove through the

roads and in and out of the well-kept places, everybody they met had a

bow and a smile for her friend--a greeting such as people give to those

for whom they have only good-will. Young men and girls waved their

racquets at her from the tennis-courts; and Honora envied them and

wished that she, too, were a part of the gay life she saw, and were

playing instead of being driven decorously about. She admired the

trim, new houses in which they lived, set upon the slopes of the hills.

Pleasure houses, they seemed to her, built expressly for joys which had

been denied her.

“Do you see much of--of these people, Susan?” she asked.

“Not so much as I'd like,” replied Susan, seriously. “I never seem to

get time. We nearly always have guests at Silverdale, and then there

are so many things one has to attend to. Perhaps you have noticed,” she

added, smiling a little, “that we are very serious and old-fashioned.”

“Oh, no indeed,” protested Honora. “It is such a wonderful experience

for me to be here!”

“Well,” said Susan, “we're having some young people to dinner to-night,

and others next week--that's why I'm leaving these notes. And then we

shall be a little livelier.”

“Really, Susan, you mustn't think that I'm not having a good time. It is

exciting to be in the same house with a real French Vicomte, and I like

Mr. Spence tremendously.”

Her friend was silent.

“Don't you?” demanded Honora.

To her surprise, the usually tolerant Susan did not wholly approve of

Mr. Spence.

“He is a guest, and I ought not to criticise him,” she answered. “But

since you ask me, Honora, I have to be honest. It seems to me that his

ambitions are a little sordid--that he is too intent upon growing rich.”

“But I thought all New Yorkers were that way,” exclaimed Honora, and

added hastily, “except a few, like your family, Susan.”

Susan laughed.

“You should marry a diplomat, my dear,” she said. “After all, perhaps

I am a little harsh. But there is a spirit of selfishness and--and of

vulgarity in modern, fashionable New York which appears to be catching,

like a disease. The worship of financial success seems to be in every

one's blood.”

“It is power,” said Honora.

Susan glanced at her, but Honora did not remark the expression on her

friend's face, so intent was she on the reflections which Susan's words

had aroused. They had reached the far end of the Silverdale domain, and

were driving along the shore of the lake that lay like a sapphire set

amongst the green hills. It was here that the new house of the Robert

Holts was building. Presently they came to Joshua's dairy farm, and

Joshua himself was standing in the doorway of one of his immaculate barn

Honora put her hand on Susan's arm.

“Can't we see the cows?” she asked.

Susan looked surprised.

“I didn't know you were interested in cows, Honora.”

“I am interested in everything,” said Honora: “and I think your brother

is so attractive.”

It was at this moment that Joshua, with his hands in his pockets,

demanded what his sister was doing there.

“Miss Leffingwell wants to look at the cattle, Josh,” called Susan.

“Won't you show them to me, Mr. Holt,” begged Honora. “I'd like so much

to see some really good cattle, and to know a little more about them.”

Joshua appeared incredulous. But, being of the male sex, he did not hide

the fact that he was pleased, “it seems strange to have somebody really

want to see them,” he said. “I tried to get Spence to come back this

way, but the idea didn't seem to appeal to him. Here are some of the

records.”

“Records?” repeated Honora, looking at a mass of typewritten figures on

the wall. “Do you mean to say you keep such an exact account of all the

milk you get?”

Joshua laughed, and explained. She walked by his side over the concrete

paving to the first of the varnished stalls.

“That,” he said, and a certain pride had come into his voice, “is Lady

Guinevere, and those ribbons are the prizes she has taken on both sides

of the water.”

“Isn't she a dear!” exclaimed Honora; “why, she's actually beautiful. I

didn't know cows could be so beautiful.”

“She isn't bad,” admitted Joshua. “Of course the good points in a cow

aren't necessarily features of beauty for instance, these bones here,”

he added, pointing to the hips.

“But they seem to add, somehow, to the thoroughbred appearance,” Honora

declared.

“That's absolutely true,” replied Joshua,--whereupon he began to talk.

And Honora, still asking questions, followed him from stall to stall.

“There are some more in the pasture,” he said, when they had reached the

end of the second building.

“Oh, couldn't I see them?” she asked.

“Surely,” replied Joshua, with more of alacrity than one would have

believed him capable. “I'll tell Susan to drive on, and you and I will

walk home across the fields, if you like.”

“I should love to,” said Honora.

It was not without astonishment that the rest of the Holt family beheld

them returning together as the gongs were sounding for luncheon. Mrs.

Holt, upon perceiving them, began at once to shake her head and laugh.

“My dear, it can't be that you have captivated Joshua!” she exclaimed,

in a tone that implied the carrying of a stronghold hitherto thought

impregnable.

Honora blushed, whether from victory or embarrassment, or both, it is

impossible to say.

“I'm afraid it's just the other way, Mrs. Holt,” she replied; “Mr. Holt

has captivated me.”

“We'll call it mutual, Miss Leffingwell,” declared Joshua, which was for

him the height of gallantry.

“I only hope he hasn't bored you,” said the good-natured Mrs. Joshua.

“Oh, dear, no,” exclaimed Honora. “I don't see how any one could be

bored looking at such magnificent animals as that Hardicanute.”

It was at this moment that her eyes were drawn, by a seemingly

resistless attraction, to Mrs. Robert's face. Her comment upon this

latest conquest, though unexpressed, was disquieting. And in spite of

herself, Honora blushed again.

At luncheon, in the midst of a general conversation, Mr. Spence made a

remark sotto voce which should, in the ordinary course of events, have

remained a secret.

“Susan,” he said, “your friend Miss Leffingwell is a fascinator. She's

got Robert's scalp, too, and he thought it a pretty good joke because I

offered to teach her to play golf this afternoon.”

It appeared that Susan's eyes could flash indignantly. Perhaps she

resented Mr. Spence's calling her by her first name.

“Honora Leffingwell is the most natural and unspoiled person I know,”

she said.

There is, undoubtedly, a keen pleasure and an ample reward in teaching

a pupil as apt and as eager to learn as Honora. And Mr. Spence, if he

attempted at all to account for the swiftness with which the hours of

that long afternoon slipped away, may have attributed their flight to

the discovery in himself of hitherto latent talent for instruction. At

the little Casino, he had bought, from the professional in charge of the

course, a lady's driver; and she practised with exemplary patience

the art of carrying one's hands through and of using the wrists in the

stroke.

“Not quite, Miss Leffingwell,” he would say, “but so.”

Honora would try again.

“That's unusually good for a beginner, but you are inclined to chop it

off a little still. Let it swing all the way round.”

“Oh, dear, how you must hate me!”

“Hate you?” said Mr. Spence, searching in vain for words with which to

obliterate such a false impression. “Anything but that!”

“Isn't it a wonderful, spot?” she exclaimed, gazing off down the swale,

emerald green in the afternoon light between its forest walls. In the

distance, Silver Brook was gleaming amidst the meadows. They sat down

on one of the benches and watched the groups of players pass. Mr. Spence

produced his cigarette case, and presented it to her playfully.

“A little quiet whiff,” he suggested. “There's not much chance over

at the convent,” and she gathered that it was thus he was pleased to

designate Silverdale.

In one instant she was doubtful whether or not to be angry, and in the

next grew ashamed of the provincialism which had caused her to suspect

an insult. She took a cigarette, and he produced a gold match case,

lighted a match, and held it up for her. Honora blew it out.

“You didn't think seriously that I smoked?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Why not?” he asked; “any number of girls do.”

She tore away some of the rice paper and lifted the tobacco to her nose,

and made a little grimace.

“Do you like to see women smoke?” she asked.

Mr. Spence admitted that there was something cosey about the custom,

when it was well done.

“And I imagine,” he added, “that you'd do it well.”

“I'm sure I should make a frightful mess of it,” she protested modestly.

“You do everything well,” he said.

“Even golf?” she inquired mischievously.

“Even golf, for a beginner and--and a woman; you've got the swing in

an astonishingly short time. In fact, you've been something of an

eye-opener to me,” he declared. “If I had been betting, I should have

placed the odds about twenty to one against your coming from the West.”

This Eastern complacency, although it did not lower Mr. Spence in her

estimation, aroused Honora's pride.

“That shows how little New Yorkers know of the West,” she replied,

laughing. “Didn't you suppose there were any gentlewomen there?”

“Gentlewomen,” repeated Mr. Spence, as though puzzled by the word,

“gentlewomen, yes. But you might have been born anywhere.”

Even her sense of loyalty to her native place was not strong enough to

override this compliment.

“I like a girl with some dash and go to her,” he proclaimed, and

there could be no doubt about the one to whom he was attributing these

qualities. “Savoir faire, as the French call it, and all that. I don't

know much about that language, but the way you talk it makes Mrs. Holt's

French and Susan's sound silly. I watched you last night when you were

stringing the Vicomte.”

“Oh, did you?” said Honora, demurely.

“You may have thought I was talking to Mrs. Robert,” he said.

“I wasn't thinking anything about you,” replied Honora, indignantly.

“And besides, I wasn't I stringing' the Vicomte. In the West we don't

use anything like so much slang as you seem to use in New York.”

“Oh, come now!” he exclaimed, laughingly, and apparently not the least

out of countenance, “you made him think he was the only pebble on the

beach. I have no idea what you were talking about.”

“Literature,” she said. “Perhaps that was the reason why you couldn't

understand it.”

“He may be interested in literature,” replied Mr. Spence, “but it

wouldn't be a bad guess to say that he was more interested in stocks and

bonds.”

“He doesn't talk about them, at any rate,” said Honora.

“I'd respect him more if he did,” he announced. “I know those

fellows-they make love to every woman they meet. I saw him eying you at

lunch.”

Honora laughed.

“I imagine the Vicomte could make love charmingly,” she said.

Mr. Spence suddenly became very solemn.

“Merely as a fellow-countryman, Miss Leffingwell--” he began, when she

sprang to her feet, her eyes dancing, and finished the sentence.

“You would advise me to be on my guard against him, because, although I

look twenty-five and experienced, I am only nineteen and inexperienced.

Thank you.”

He paused to light another cigarette before he followed her across the

turf. But she had the incomprehensible feminine satisfaction of knowing,

as they walked homeward, that the usual serenity of his disposition was

slightly ruffled.

A sudden caprice impelled her, in the privacy of her bedroom that

evening, to draw his portrait for Peter Erwin. The complacency of New

York men was most amusing, she wrote, and the amount of slang they used

would have been deemed vulgar in St. Louis. Nevertheless, she liked

people to be sure of themselves, and there was something “insolent”

about New York which appealed to her. Peter, when he read that letter,

seemed to see Mr. Howard Spence in the flesh; or arrayed, rather, in

the kind of cloth alluringly draped in the show-windows of fashionable

tailors. For Honora, all unconsciously, wrote literature. Literature

was invented before phonographs, and will endure after them. Peter could

hear Mr. Spence talk, for a part of that gentleman's conversation--a

characteristic part--was faithfully transcribed. And Peter detected a

strain of admiration running even through the ridicule.

Peter showed that letter to Aunt Mary, whom it troubled, and to Uncle

Tom, who laughed over it. There was also a lifelike portrait of the

Vicomte, followed by the comment that he was charming, but very French;

but the meaning of this last, but quite obvious, attribute remained

obscure. He was possessed of one of the oldest titles and one of the

oldest chateaux in France. (Although she did not say so, Honora had this

on no less authority than that of the Vicomte himself.) Mrs. Holt--with

her Victorian brooch and ear-rings and her watchful delft-blue eyes that

somehow haunted one even when she was out of sight, with her ample bosom

and the really kind heart it contained--was likewise depicted; and Mr.

Holt, with his dried bread, and his garden which Honora wished Uncle Tom

could see, and his prayers that lacked imagination. Joshua and his cows,

Robert and his forest, Susan and her charities, the Institution, jolly

Mrs. Joshua and enigmatical Mrs. Robert--all were there: and even a

picture of the dinner-party that evening, when Honora sat next to a

young Mr. Patterson with glasses and a studious manner, who knew George

Hanbury at Harvard. The other guests were a florid Miss Chamberlin,

whose person loudly proclaimed possessions, and a thin Miss Longman, who

rented one of the Silverdale cottages and sketched.

Honora was seeing life. She sent her love to Peter, and begged him to

write to her.

The next morning a mysterious change seemed to have passed over the

members of the family during the night. It was Sunday. Honora, when

she left her room, heard a swishing on the stairs--Mrs. Joshua, stiffly

arrayed for the day. Even Mrs. Robert swished, but Mrs. Holt, in a

bronze-coloured silk, swished most of all as she entered the library

after a brief errand to the housekeeper's room. Mr. Holt was already

arranging his book-marks in the Bible, while Joshua and Robert, in black

cutaways that seemed to have the benumbing and paralyzing effect of

strait-jackets, wandered aimlessly about the room, as though its walls

were the limit of their movements. The children had a subdued and

touch-me-not air that reminded Honora of her own youth.

It was not until prayers were over and the solemn gathering seated at

the breakfast table that Mr. Spence burst upon it like an aurora. His

flannel suit was of the lightest of grays; he wore white tennis shoes

and a red tie, and it was plain, as he cheerfully bade them good

morning, that he was wholly unaware of the enormity of his costume.

There was a choking, breathless moment before Mrs. Holt broke the

silence.

“Surely, Howard,” she said, “you're not going to church in those

clothes.”

“I hadn't thought of going to church,” replied Mr. Spence, helping

himself to cherries.

“What do you intend to do?” asked his hostess.

“Read the stock reports for the week as soon as the newspapers arrive.”

“There is no such thing as a Sunday newspaper in my house,” said Mrs.

Holt.

“No Sunday newspapers!” he exclaimed. And his eyes, as they encountered

Honora's,--who sought to avoid them,--expressed a genuine dismay.

“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Holt, “that I was right when I spoke of the

pernicious effect of Wall Street upon young men. Your mother did not

approve of Sunday newspapers.”

During the rest of the meal, although he made a valiant attempt to hold

his own, Mr. Spence was, so to speak, outlawed. Robert and Joshua must

have had a secret sympathy for him. One of them mentioned the Vicomte.

“The Vicomte is a foreigner,” declared Mrs. Holt. “I am in no sense

responsible for him.”

The Vicomte was at that moment propped up in bed, complaining to his

valet about the weakness of the coffee. He made the remark (which he

afterwards repeated to Honora) that weak coffee and the Protestant

religion seemed inseparable; but he did not attempt to discover the

whereabouts, in Sutton, of the Church of his fathers. He was not in the

best of humours that morning, and his toilet had advanced no further

when, an hour or so later, he perceived from behind his lace curtains

Mr. Howard Spence, dressed with comparative soberness, handing Honora

into the omnibus. The incident did not serve to improve the cynical mood

in which the Vicomte found himself.

Indeed, the Vicomte, who had a theory concerning Mr. Spence's

church-going, was not far from wrong. As may have been suspected, it

was to Honora that credit was due. It was Honora whom Mr. Spence

sought after breakfast, and to whom he declared that her presence alone

prevented him from leaving that afternoon. It was Honora who told him

that he ought to be ashamed of himself. And it was to Honora, after

church was over and they were walking homeward together along the dusty

road, that Mr. Spence remarked by way of a delicate compliment that “the

morning had not been a total loss, after all!”

The little Presbyterian church stood on a hillside just outside of the

village and was, as far as possible, the possession of the Holt family.

The morning sunshine illuminated the angels in the Holt memorial window,

and the inmates of the Holt Institution occupied all the back pews. Mrs.

Joshua played the organ, and Susan, with several young women and a young

man with a long coat and plastered hair, sang in the choir. The sermon

of the elderly minister had to do with beliefs rather than deeds, and

was the subject of discussion at luncheon.

“It is very like a sermon I found in my room,” said Honora.

“I left that book in your room, my dear, in the hope that you would not

overlook it,” said Mrs. Holt, approvingly. “Joshua, I wish you would

read that sermon aloud to us.”

“Oh, do, Mr. Holt!” begged Honora.

The Vicomte, who had been acting very strangely during the meal, showed

unmistakable signs of a futile anger. He had asked Honora to walk with

him.

“Of course,” added Mrs. Holt, “no one need listen who doesn't wish to.

Since you were good enough to reconsider your decision and attend divine

service, Howard, I suppose I should be satisfied.”

The reading took place in the library. Through the open window Honora

perceived the form of Joshua asleep in the hammock, his Sunday coat all

twisted under him. It worried her to picture his attire when he should

wake up. Once Mrs. Robert looked in, smiled, said nothing, and went out

again. At length, in a wicker chair under a distant tree on the lawn,

Honora beheld the dejected outline of the Vicomte. He was trying

to read, but every once in a while would lay down his book and gaze

protractedly at the house, stroking his mustache. The low song of the

bees around the shrubbery vied with Mr. Holt's slow reading. On the

whole, the situation delighted Honora, who bit her lip to refrain from

smiling at M. de Toqueville. When at last she emerged from the library,

he rose precipitately and came towards her across the lawn, lifting his

hands towards the pitiless puritan skies.

“Enfin!” he exclaimed tragically. “Ah, Mademoiselle, never in my life

have I passed such a day!”

“Are you ill, Vicomte?” she asked.

“Ill! Were it not for you, I would be gone. You alone sustain me--it is

for the pleasure of seeing you that I suffer. What kind of a menage is

this, then, where I am walked around Institutions, where I am forced to

listen to the exposition of doctrines, where the coffee is weak, where

Sunday, which the bon Dieu set aside for a jour de fete resembles to a

day in purgatory?”

“But, Vicomte,” Honora laughed, “you must remember that you are in

America, and that you have come here to study our manners and customs.”

“Ah, no,” he cried, “ah, no, it cannot all be like this! I will not

believe it. Mr. Holt, who sought to entertain me before luncheon,

offered to show me his collection of Chinese carvings! I, who might be

at Trouville or Cabourg! If it were not for you, Mademoiselle, I should

not stay here--not one little minute,” he said, with a slow intensity.

“Behold what I suffer for your sake!”

“For my sake?” echoed Honora.

“For what else?” demanded the Vicomte, gazing upon her with the eyes of

martyrdom. “It is not for my health, alas! Between the coffee and this

dimanche I have the vertigo.”

Honora laughed again at the memory of the dizzy Sunday afternoons of her

childhood, when she had been taken to see Mr. Isham's curios.

“You are cruel,” said the Vicomte; “you laugh at my tortures.”

“On the contrary, I think I understand them,” she replied. “I have often

felt the same way.”

“My instinct was true, then,” he cried triumphantly; “the first time my

eyes fell on you, I said to myself, 'ah! there is one who understands.'

And I am seldom mistaken.”

“Your experience with the opposite sex,” ventured Honora, “must have

made you infallible.”

He shrugged and smiled, as one whose modesty forbade the mention of

conquests.

“You do not belong here either, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You are not

like these people. You have temperament, and a future--believe me. Why

do you waste your time?”

“What do you mean, Vicomte?”

“Ah, it is not necessary to explain what I mean. It is that you do not

choose to understand--you are far too clever. Why is it, then, that you

bore yourself by regarding Institutions and listening to sermons in your

jeunesse? It is all very well for Mademoiselle Susan, but you are not

created for a religieuse. And again, it pleases you to spend hours with

the stockbroker, who is as lacking in esprit as the bull of Joshua. He

is no companion for you.”

“I am afraid,” she said reprovingly, “that you do not understand Mr.

Spence.”

“Par exemple!” cried the Vicomte; “have I not seen hundreds' like

him? Do not they come to Paris and live in the great hotels and demand

cocktails and read the stock reports and send cablegrams all the day

long? and go to the Folies Bergeres, and yawn? Nom de nom, of what does

his conversation consist? Of the price of railroads;--is it not so? I,

who speak to you, have talked to him. Does he know how to make love?”

“That accomplishment is not thought of very highly in America,” Honora

replied.

“It is because you are a new country,” he declared.

“And you are mad over money. Money has taken the place of love.”

“Is money so despised in France?” she asked. “I have heard--that you

married for it!”

“Touch!” cried the Vicomte, laughing. “You see, I am frank with you. We

marry for money, yes, but we do not make a god of it. It is our servant.

You make it, and we enjoy it. Yes, and you, Mademoiselle--you, too, were

made to enjoy. You do not belong here,” he said, with a disdainful sweep

of the arm. “Ah, I have solved you. You have in you the germ of the

Riviera. You were born there.”

Honora wondered if what he said were true. Was she different? She was

having a great deal of pleasure at Silverdale; even the sermon reading,

which would have bored her at home, had interested and amused her. But

was it not from the novelty of these episodes, rather than from

their special characters, that she received the stimulus? She glanced

curiously towards the Vicomte, and met his eye.

They had been walking the while, and had crossed the lawn and entered

one of the many paths which it had been Robert's pastime to cut through

the woods. And at length they came out at a rustic summer-house set

over the wooded valley. Honora, with one foot on the ground, sat on the

railing gazing over the tree-tops; the Vicomte was on the bench beside

her. His eyes sparkled and snapped, and suddenly she tingled with a

sense that the situation was not without an element of danger.

“I had a feeling about you, last night at dinner,” he said; “you

reminded me of a line of Marcel Prevost, 'Cette femme ne sera pas aimee

que parmi des drames.'”

“Nonsense,” said Honora; “last night at dinner you were too much

occupied with Miss Chamberlin to think of me.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, you have read me strangely if you think that. I

talked to her with my lips, yes--but it was of you I was thinking. I was

thinking that you were born to play a part in many dramas, that you have

the fatal beauty which is rare in all ages.” The Vicomte bent towards

her, and his voice became caressing. “You cannot realize how beautiful

you are,” he sighed.

Suddenly he seized her hand, and before she could withdraw it she had

the satisfaction of knowing the sensation of having it kissed. It was

a strange sensation indeed. And the fact that she did not tingle with

anger alone made her all the more angry. Trembling, her face burning,

she leaped down from the railing and fled into the path. And there,

seeing that he did not follow, she turned and faced him. He stood

staring at her with eyes that had not ceased to sparkle.

“How cowardly of you!” she cried.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he answered fervently, “I would risk your anger

a thousand times to see you like that once more. I cannot help my

feelings--they were dead indeed if they did not respond to such an

inspiration. Let them plead for my pardon.”

Honora felt herself melting a little. After all, there might have been

some excuse for it, and he made love divinely. When he had caught up

with her, his contriteness was such that she was willing to believe he

had not meant to insult her. And then, he was a Frenchman. As a proof of

his versatility, if not of his good faith, he talked of neutral matters

on the way back to the house, with the charming ease and lightness that

was the gift of his race and class. On the borders of the wood they

encountered the Robert Holts, walking with their children.

“Madame,” said the Vicomte to Gwendolen, “your Silverdale is enchanting.

We have been to that little summer-house which commands the valley.”

“And are you still learning things about our country, Vicomte?” she

asked, with a glance at Honora.

CHAPTER X. IN WHICH HONORA WIDENS HER HORIZON

If it were not a digression, it might be interesting to speculate upon

the reason why, in view of their expressed opinions of Silverdale,

both the Vicomte and Mr. Spence remained during the week that followed.

Robert, who went off in the middle of it with his family to the

seashore, described it to Honora as a normal week. During its progress

there came and went a missionary from China, a pianist, an English lady

who had heard of the Institution, a Southern spinster with literary

gifts, a youthful architect who had not built anything, and a young

lawyer interested in settlement work.

The missionary presented our heroine with a book he had written about

the Yang-tse-kiang; the Southern lady suspected her of literary gifts;

the architect walked with her through the woods to the rustic shelter

where the Vicomte had kissed her hand, and told her that he now

comprehended the feelings of Christopher Wren when he conceived St.

Paul's Cathedral, of Michael Angelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel.

Even the serious young lawyer succumbed, though not without a struggle.

When he had first seen Miss Leffingwell, he confessed, he had thought

her frivolous. He had done her an injustice, and wished to acknowledge

it before he left. And, since she was interested in settlement work, he

hoped, if she were going through New York, that she would let him know.

It would be a real pleasure to show her what he was doing.

Best of all, Honora, by her unselfishness, endeared herself to her

hostess.

“I can't tell you what a real help you are to me, my dear,” said that

lady. “You have a remarkable gift with people for so young a girl, and I

do you the credit of thinking that it all springs from a kind heart.”

In the meantime, unknown to Mrs. Holt, who might in all conscience have

had a knowledge of what may be called social chemistry, a drama was

slowly unfolding itself. By no fault of Honora's, of course. There

may have been some truth in the quotation of the Vicomte as applied to

her--that she was destined to be loved only amidst the play of drama. If

experience is worth anything, Monsieur de Toqueville should have been an

expert in matters of the sex. Could it be possible, Honora asked herself

more than once, that his feelings were deeper than her feminine instinct

and, the knowledge she had gleaned from novels led her to suspect?

It is painful to relate that the irregularity and deceit of the life the

Vicomte was leading amused her, for existence at Silverdale was plainly

not of a kind to make a gentleman of the Vicomte's temperament and

habits ecstatically happy. And Honora was filled with a strange and

unaccountable delight when she overheard him assuring Mrs. Wellfleet,

the English lady of eleemosynary tendencies, that he was engaged in a

study at first hand of Americans.

The time has come to acknowledge frankly that it was Honora he was

studying--Honora as the type of young American womanhood. What he did

not suspect was that young American womanhood was studying him. Thanks

to a national System, she had had an apprenticeship; the heart-blood of

Algernon Cartwright and many others had not been shed in vain. And the

fact that she was playing with real fire, that this was a duel with

the buttons off, lent a piquancy and zest to the pastime which it had

hitherto lacked.

The Vicomte's feelings were by no means hidden processes to Honora, and

it was as though she could lift the lid of the furnace at any time and

behold the growth of the flame which she had lighted. Nay, nature had

endowed her with such a gift that she could read the daily temperature

as by a register hung on the outside, without getting scorched. Nor had

there been any design on her part in thus tormenting his soul. He had

not meant to remain more than four days at Silverdale, that she knew;

he had not meant to come to America and fall in love with a penniless

beauty--that she knew also. The climax would be interesting, if

perchance uncomfortable.

It is wonderful what we can find the time to do, if we only try.

Monsieur de Toqueville lent Honora novels, which she read in bed; but

being in the full bloom of health and of a strong constitution, this

practice did not prevent her from rising at seven to take a walk through

the garden with Mr. Holt--a custom which he had come insensibly to

depend upon. And in the brief conversations which she vouchsafed the

Vicomte, they discussed his novels. In vain he pleaded, in caressing

undertones, that she should ride with him. Honora had never been on a

horse, but she did not tell him so. If she would but drive, or walk-only

a little way--he would promise faithfully not to forget himself. Honora

intimated that the period of his probation had not yet expired. If he

waylaid her on the stairs, he got but little satisfaction.

“You converse by the hour with the missionaries, and take long

promenades with the architects and charity workers, but to me you will

give nothing,” he complained.

“The persons of whom you speak are not dangerous,” answered Honora,

giving him a look.

The look, and being called dangerous, sent up the temperature several

degrees. Frenchmen are not the only branch of the male sex who are

complimented by being called dangerous. The Vicomte was desolated, so he

said.

“I stay here only for you, and the coffee is slowly deranging me,”

he declared in French, for most of their conversations were in that

language. If there were duplicity in this, Honora did not recognize it.

“I stay here only for you, and how you are cruel! I live for you--how,

the good God only knows. I exist--to see you for ten minutes a day.”

“Oh, Vicomte, you exaggerate. If you were to count it up, I am sure you

would find that we talk an hour at least, altogether. And then, although

I am very young and inexperienced, I can imagine how many conquests you

have made by the same arts.”

“I suffer,” he cried; “ah, no, you cannot look at me without perceiving

it--you who are so heartless. And when I see you play at golf with that

Mr. Spence--!”

“Surely,” said Honora, “you can't object to my acquiring a new

accomplishment when I have the opportunity, and Mr. Spence is so kind

and good-natured about it.”

“Do you think I have no eyes?” he exclaimed. “Have I not seen him look

at you like the great animal of Joshua when he wants his supper? He

is without esprit, without soul. There is nothing inside of him but

money-making machinery.”

“The most valuable of all machinery,” she replied, laughingly.

“If I thought you believed that, Mademoiselle, if I thought you were

like so many of your countrywomen in this respect, I should leave

to-morrow,” he declared.

“Don't be too sure, Vicomte,” she cautioned him.

If one possessed a sense of humour and a certain knowledge of mankind,

the spectacle of a young and successful Wall Street broker at Silverdale

that week was apt to be diverting. Mr. Spence held his own. He advised

the architect to make a specialty of country houses, and promised some

day to order one: he disputed boldly with the other young man as to the

practical uses of settlement work, and even measured swords with the

missionary. Needless to say, he was not popular with these gentlemen.

But he was also good-natured and obliging, and he did not object

to repeating for the English lady certain phrases which she called

“picturesque expressions,” and which she wrote down with a gold pencil.

It is evident, from the Vicomte's remarks, that he found time to

continue Honora's lessons in golf--or rather that she found time, in the

midst of her manifold and self-imposed duties, to take them. And in this

diversion she was encouraged by Mrs. Holt herself. On Saturday morning,

the heat being unusual, they ended their game by common consent at the

fourth hole and descended a wood road to Silver Brook, to a spot which

they had visited once before and had found attractive. Honora, after

bathing her face in the pool, perched herself on a boulder. She was very

fresh and radiant.

This fact, if she had not known it, she might have gathered from Mr.

Silence's expression. He had laid down his coat; his sleeves were rolled

up and his arms were tanned, and he stood smoking a cigarette and gazing

at her with approbation. She lowered her eyes.

“Well, we've had a pretty good time, haven't we?” he remarked.

Lightning sometimes fails in its effect, but the look she flashed back

at him from under her blue lashes seldom misses.

“I'm afraid I haven't been a very apt pupil,” she replied modestly.

“You're on the highroad to a cup,” he assured her. “If I could take you

on for another week” He paused, and an expression came into his eyes

which was not new to Honora, nor peculiar to Mr. Silence. “I have to go

back to town on Monday.”

If Honora felt any regret at this announcement, she did not express it.

“I thought you couldn't stand Silverdale much longer,” she replied.

“You know why I stayed,” he said, and paused again--rather awkwardly for

Mr. Spence. But Honora was silent. “I had a letter this morning from my

partner, Sidney Dallam, calling me back.”

“I suppose you are very busy,” said Honora, detaching a copper-green

scale of moss from the boulder.

“The fact is,” he explained, “that we have received an order of

considerable importance, for which I am more or less responsible.

Something of a compliment--since we are, after all, comparatively young

men.”

“Sometimes,” said Honora, “sometimes I wish I were a man. Women are so

hampered and circumscribed, and have to wait for things to happen to

them. A man can do what he wants. He can go into Wall Street and fight

until he controls miles of railroads and thousands and thousands of men.

That would be a career!”

“Yes,” he agreed, smilingly, “it's worth fighting for.”

Her eyes were burning with a strange light as she looked down the vista

of the wood road by which they had come. He flung his cigarette into the

water and took a step nearer her.

“How long have I known you?” he asked.

She started.

“Why, it's only a little more than a week,” she said.

“Does it seem longer than that to you?”

“Yes,” admitted Honora, colouring; “I suppose it's because we've been

staying in the same house.”

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Spence, “that I have known you always.”

Honora sat very still. It passed through her brain, without comment,

that there was a certain haunting familiarity about this remark; some

other voice, in some other place, had spoken it, and in very much the

same tone.

“You're the kind of girl I admire,” he declared. “I've been watching

you--more than you have any idea of. You're adaptable. Put you down any

place, and you take hold. For instance, it's a marvellous thing to me

how you've handled all the curiosities up there this week.”

“Oh, I like people,” said Honora, “they interest me.” And she laughed a

little, nervously. She was aware that Mr. Spence was making love, in his

own manner: the New fork manner, undoubtedly; though what he said was

changed by the new vibrations in his voice. He was making love, too,

with a characteristic lack of apology and with assurance. She stole a

glance at him, and beheld the image of a dominating man of affairs. He

did not, it is true, evoke in her that extreme sensation which has been

called a thrill. She had read somewhere that women were always expecting

thrills, and never got them. Nevertheless, she had not realized how

close a bond of sympathy had grown between them until this sudden

announcement of his going back to New York. In a little while she too

would be leaving for St. Louis. The probability that she would never see

him again seemed graver than she would have believed.

“Will you miss me a little?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly, “and I shall be curious to know how

your--your enterprise succeeds.”

“Honora,” he said, “it is only a week since I first met you, but I know

my own mind. You are the woman I want, and I think I may say without

boasting that I can give you what you desire in life--after a while. I

love you. You are young, and just now I felt that perhaps I should have

waited a year before speaking, but I was afraid of missing altogether

what I know to be the great happiness of my life. Will you marry me?”

She sat silent upon the rock. She heard him speak, it is true; but, try

as she would, the full significance of his words would not come to her.

She had, indeed, no idea that he would propose, no notion that his heart

was involved to such an extent. He was very near her, but he had not

attempted to touch her. His voice, towards the end of his speech, had

trembled with passion--a true note had been struck. And she had struck

it, by no seeming effort! He wished to marry her!

He aroused her again.

“I have frightened you,” he said.

She opened her eyes. What he beheld in them was not fright--it was

nothing he had ever seen before. For the first time in his life,

perhaps, he was awed. And, seeing him helpless, she put out her hands to

him with a gesture that seemed to enhance her gift a thousand-fold. He

had not realized what he was getting.

“I am not frightened,” she said. “Yes, I will marry you.”

He was not sure whether--so brief was the moment!--he had held and

kissed her cheek. His arms were empty now, and he caught a glimpse of

her poised on the road above him amidst the quivering, sunlit leaves,

looking back at him over her shoulder.

He followed her, but she kept nimbly ahead of him until they came out

into the open golf course. He tried to think, but failed. Never in his

orderly life had anything so precipitate happened to him. He caught up

with her, devoured her with his eyes, and beheld in marriage a delirium.

“Honora,” he said thickly, “I can't grasp it.”

She gave him a quick look, and a smile quivered at the corners of her

mouth.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked.

“I am thinking of Mrs. Holt's expression when we tell her,” said Honora.

“But we shan't tell her yet, shall we, Howard? We'll have it for our own

secret a little while.”

The golf course being deserted, he pressed her arm.

“We'll tell her whenever you like, dear,” he replied.

In spite of the fact that they drove Joshua's trotter to lunch--much too

rapidly in the heat of the day, they were late.

“I shall never be able to go in there and not give it away,” he

whispered to her on the stairs.

“You look like the Cheshire cat in the tree,” whispered Honora,

laughing, “only more purple, and not so ghostlike.”

“I know I'm smiling,” replied Howard, “I feel like it, but I can't help

it. It won't come off. I want to blurt out the news to every one in the

dining-room--to that little Frenchman, in particular.”

Honora laughed again. Her imagination easily summoned up the tableau

which such a proceeding would bring forth. The incredulity, the chagrin,

the indignation, even, in some quarters. He conceived the household,

with the exception of the Vicomte, precipitating themselves into his

arms.

Honora, who was cool enough herself (no doubt owing to the superior

training which women receive in matters of deportment), observed that

his entrance was not a triumph of dissimulation. His colour was high,

and his expression, indeed, a little idiotic; and he declared afterwards

that he felt like a sandwich-man, with the news printed in red letters

before and behind. Honora knew that the intense improbability of the

truth would save them, and it did. Mrs. Holt remarked, slyly, that the

game of golf must have hidden attractions, and regretted that she was

too old to learn it.

“We went very slowly on account of the heat,” Howard declared.

“I should say that you had gone very rapidly, from your face,” retorted

Mrs. Holt. In relaxing moods she indulged in banter.

Honora stepped into the breach. She would not trust her newly acquired

fiance to extricate himself.

“We were both very much worried, Mrs. Holt,” she explained, “because we

were late for lunch once before.”

“I suppose I'll have to forgive you, my dear, especially with that

colour. I am modern enough to approve of exercise for young girls, and

I am sure your Aunt Mary will think Silverdale has done you good when I

send you back to her.”

“Oh, I'm sure she will,” said Honora.

In the meantime Mr. Spence was concentrating all of his attention upon

a jellied egg. Honora glanced at the Vicomte. He sat very stiff, and his

manner of twisting his mustache reminded her of an animal sharpening

its claws. It was at this moment that the butler handed her a telegram,

which, with Mrs. Holt's permission, she opened and read twice before the

meaning of it came to her.

“I hope it is no bad news, Honora,” said Mrs. Holt.

“It's from Peter Erwin,” she replied, still a little dazed. “He's in

New York. And he's corning up on the five o'clock train to spend an hour

with me.”

“Oh,” said Susan; “I remember his picture on your bureau at Sutcliffe.

He had such a good face. And you told me about him.”

“He is like my brother,” Honora explained, aware that Howard was looking

at her. “Only he is much older than I. He used to wheel me up and down

when I was a baby. He was, an errand boy in the bank then, and Uncle

Tom took an interest in him, and now he is a lawyer. A very good one, I

believe.”

“I have a great respect for any man who makes his own way in life,” said

Mrs. Holt. “And since he is such an old friend, my dear, you must ask

him to spend the night.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bolt,” Honora answered.

It was, however, with mingled feelings that she thought of Peter's

arrival at this time. Life, indeed, was full of strange coincidences!

There was a little door that led out of the house by the billiard room,

Honora remembered, and contrived, after luncheon, to slip away and reach

it. She felt that she must be alone, and if she went to her room she

was likely to be disturbed by Susan or Mrs. Joshua--or indeed Mrs. Holt

herself. Honora meant to tell Susan the first of all. She crossed the

great lawn quickly, keeping as much as possible the trees and masses of

shrubbery between herself and the house, and reached the forest. With a

really large fund of energy at her disposal, Honora had never been

one to believe in the useless expenditure of it; nor did she feel the

intense desire which a girl of another temperament might have had,

under the same conditions, to keep in motion. So she sat down on a bench

within the borders of the wood.

It was not that she wished to reflect, in the ordinary meaning of the

word, that she had sought seclusion, but rather to give her imagination

free play. The enormity of the change that was to come into her life did

not appall her in the least; but she had, in connection with it, a sense

of unreality which, though not unpleasant, she sought unconsciously to

dissipate. Howard Spence, she reflected with a smile, was surely solid

and substantial enough, and she thought of him the more tenderly for the

possession of these attributes. A castle founded on such a rock was not

a castle in Spain!

It did not occur to Honora that her thoughts might be more of the castle

than of the rock: of the heaven he was to hold on his shoulders than of

the Hercules she had chosen to hold it.

She would write to her Aunt Mary and her Uncle Tom that very

afternoon--one letter to both. Tears came into her eyes when she thought

of them, and of their lonely life' without her. But they would come on

to New York to visit her often, and they would be proud of her. Of one

thing she was sure--she must go home to them at once--on Tuesday. She

would tell Mrs. Holt to-morrow, and Susan to-night. And, while pondering

over the probable expression of that lady's amazement, it suddenly

occurred to her that she must write the letter immediately, because

Peter Erwin was coming.

What would he say? Should she tell him? She was surprised to find that

the idea of doing so was painful to her. But she was aroused from these

reflections by a step on the path, and raised her head to perceive the

Vicomte. His face wore an expression of triumph.

“At last,” he cried, “at last!” And he sat down on the bench beside

her. Her first impulse was to rise, yet for some inexplicable reason she

remained.

“I always suspected in you the qualities of a Monsieur Lecoq,” she

remarked. “You have an instinct for the chase.”

“Mon dieu?” he said. “I have risked a stroke of the sun to find you. Why

should you so continually run away from me?”

“To test your ingenuity, Vicomte.”

“And that other one--the stock-broker--you do not avoid him. Diable, I

am not blind, Mademoiselle. It is plain to me at luncheon that you have

made boil the sluggish blood of that one. As for me--”

“Your boiling-point is lower,” she said, smiling.

“Listen, Mademoiselle,” he pursued, bending towards her. “It is not for

my health that I stay here, as I have told you. It is for the sight of

you, for the sound of the music of that low voice. It is in the hope

that you will be a little kinder, that you will understand me a little

better. And to-day, when I learn that still another is on his way to see

you, I could sit still no longer. I do not fear that Spence,--no. But

this other--what is he like?”

“He is the best type of American,” replied Honora. “I am sure you will

be interested in him, and like him.”

The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not in America that you will find your destiny, Mademoiselle.

You are made to grace a salon, a court, which you will not find in

this country. Such a woman as you is thrown away here. You possess

qualities--you will pardon me--in which your countrywomen are

lacking,--esprit, imagination, elan, the power to bind people to you.

I have read you as you have not read yourself. I have seen how you have

served yourself by this famille Holt, and how at the same time you have

kept their friendship.”

“Vicomte!” she exclaimed.

“Ah, do not get angry,” he begged; “such gifts are rare--they are

sublime. They lead,” he added, raising his arms, “to the heights.”

Honora was silent. She was, indeed, not unmoved by his voice, into

which there was creeping a vibrant note of passion. She was a little

frightened, but likewise puzzled and interested. This was all so

different from what she had expected of him. What did he mean? Was she

indeed like that?

She was aware that he was speaking again, that he was telling her of a

chateau in France which his ancestors had owned since the days of Louis

XII; a grey pile that stood upon a thickly wooded height,--a chateau

with a banquet hall, where kings had dined, with a chapel where kings

had prayed, with a flowering terrace high above a gleaming river. It was

there that his childhood had been passed. And as he spoke, she listened

with mingled feelings, picturing the pageantry of life in such a place.

“I tell you this, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that you may know I am not

what you call an adventurer. Many of these, alas! come to your country.

And I ask you to regard with some leniency customs which must be strange

to Americans. When we marry in France, it is with a dot, and especially

is it necessary amongst the families of our nobility.”

Honora rose, the blood mounting to her temples.

“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “do not misunderstand me. I would die rather

than hurt your feelings. Listen, I pray. It was to tell you frankly that

I came to this country for that purpose,--in order that I might live as

my ancestors have lived, with a hotel in Paris: But the chateau, grace

a dieu, is not mortgaged, nor am I wholly impoverished. I have soixante

quinze mille livres de rente, which is fifteen thousand dollars a year

in your money, and which goes much farther in France. At the proper

time, I will present these matters to your guardians. I have lived, but

I have a heart, and I love you madly. Rather would I dwell with you

in Provence, where I will cultivate the soil of my forefathers, than a

palace on the Champs Elysees with another. We can come to Paris for two

months, at least. For you I can throw my prospects out of the window

with a light heart. Honore--how sweet is your name in my language--I

love you to despair.”

He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, but she drew it gently

away. It seemed to her that he had made the very air quiver with

feeling, and she let herself wonder, for a moment, what life with him

would be. Incredible as it seemed, he had proposed to her, a penniless

girl! Her own voice was not quite steady as she answered him, and her

eyes were filled with compassion.

“Vicomte,” she said, “I did not know that you cared for me--that way. I

thought--I thought you were amusing yourself.”

“Amusing myself!” he exclaimed bitterly. “And you--were you amusing

yourself?”

“I--I tried to avoid you,” she replied, in a low voice.

“I am engaged.”

“Engaged!” He sprang to his feet. “Engaged! Ah, no, I will not believe

it. You were engaged when you came here?”

She was no little alarmed by the violence which he threw into his words.

At the same time, she was indignant. And yet a mischievous sprite within

her led her on to tell him the truth.

“No, I am going to marry Mr. Howard Spence, although I do not wish it

announced.”

For a moment he stood motionless, speechless, staring at her, and then

he seemed to sway a little and to choke.

“No, no,” he cried, “it cannot be! My ears have deceived me. I am not

sane. You are going to marry him--? Ah, you have sold yourself.”

“Monsieur de Toqueville,” she said, “you forget yourself. Mr. Spence is

an honourable man, and I love him.”

The Vicomte appeared to choke again. And then, suddenly, he became

himself, although his voice was by no means natural. His elaborate and

ironic bow she remembered for many years.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and adieu. You will be good enough to

convey my congratulations to Mr. Spence.”

With a kind of military “about face” he turned and left her abruptly,

and she watched him as he hurried across the lawn until he had

disappeared behind the trees near the house. When she sat down on

the bench again, she found that she was trembling a little. Was the

unexpected to occur to her from now on? Was it true, as the Vicomte had

said, that she was destined to be loved amidst the play of drama?

She felt sorry for him because he had loved her enough to fling to the

winds his chances of wealth for her sake--a sufficient measure of the

feelings of one of his nationality and caste. And she permitted, for an

instant, her mind to linger on the supposition that Howard Spence had

never come into her life; might she not, when the Vicomte had made his

unexpected and generous avowal, have accepted him? She thought of the

romances of her childish days, written at fever heat, in which ladies

with titles moved around and gave commands and rebuked lovers who

slipped in through wicket gates. And to think that she might have been a

Vicomtesse and have lived in a castle!

A poor Vicomtesse, it is true.

CHAPTER XI. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Honora sat still upon the bench. After an indefinite period she

saw through the trees a vehicle on the driveway, and in it a single

passenger. And suddenly it occurred to her that the passenger must be

Peter, for Mrs. Holt had announced her intention of sending for him. She

arose and approached the house, not without a sense of agitation.

She halted a moment at a little distance from the porch, where he was

talking with Howard Spence and Joshua, and the fact that he was an

unchanged Peter came to her with a shock of surprise. So much, in less

than a year, had happened to Honora! And the sight of him, and the sound

of his voice, brought back with a rush memories of a forgotten past. How

long it seemed since she had lived in St. Louis!

Yes, he was the same Peter, but her absence from him had served to

sharpen her sense of certain characteristics. He was lounging in his

chair with his long legs crossed, with one hand in his pocket, and

talking to these men as though he had known them always. There was a

quality about him which had never struck her before, and which eluded

exact definition. It had never occurred to her, until now, when she saw

him out of the element with which she had always associated him,

that Peter Erwin had a personality. That personality was a mixture of

simplicity and self-respect and--common sense. And as Honora listened

to his cheerful voice, she perceived that he had the gift of expressing

himself clearly and forcibly and withal modestly; nor did it escape her

that the other two men were listening with a certain deference. In her

sensitive state she tried to evade the contrast thus suddenly presented

to her between Peter and the man she had promised, that very morning, to

marry.

Howard Spence was seated on the table, smoking a cigarette. Never, it

seemed, had he more distinctly typified to her Prosperity. An attribute

which she had admired in him, of strife without the appearance of

strife, lost something of its value. To look at Peter was to wonder

whether there could be such a thing as a well-groomed combatant; and

until to-day she had never thought of Peter as a combatant. The sight of

his lean face summoned, all undesired, the vague vision of an ideal, and

perhaps it was this that caused her voice to falter a little as she came

forward and called his name. He rose precipitately.

“What a surprise, Peter!” she said, as she took his hand. “How do you

happen to be in the East?”

“An errand boy,” he replied. “Somebody had to come, so they chose

me. Incidentally,” he added, smiling down at her, “it is a part of my

education.”

“We thought you were lost,” said Howard Spence, significantly.

“Oh, no,” she answered lightly, evading his look. “I was on the bench

at the edge of the wood.” She turned again to Peter. “How good of you to

come up and see me!”

“I couldn't have resisted that,” he declared, “if it were only for an

hour.”

“I've been trying to persuade him to stay a while with us,” Joshua put

in with unusual graciousness. “My mother will be disappointed not to see

you.”

“There is nothing I should like better, Mr. Holt,” said Peter, simply,

gazing off across the lawn. “Unfortunately I have to leave for the West

to-night.”

“Before you go,” said Honora, “you must see this wonderful place. Come,

we'll begin with the garden.”

She had a desire now to take him away by himself, something she had

wished, an hour ago, to avoid.

“Wouldn't you like a runabout?” suggested Joshua, hospitably.

Honora thanked him.

“I'm sure Mr. Erwin would rather walk,” she replied.

“Come, Peter, you must tell me all the news of home.”

Spence accepted his dismissal with a fairly good grace, and gave no

evidence of jealousy. He put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

“If you're ever in New York, Erwin,” said he, “look me up Dallam and

Spence. We're members of the Exchange, so you won't have any trouble in

finding us. I'd like to talk to you sometime about the West.”

Peter thanked him.

For a little while, as they went down the driveway side by side, he

was meditatively silent. She wondered what he thought of Howard Spence,

until suddenly she remembered that her secret was still her own, that

Peter had as yet no particular reason to single out Mr. Spence for

especial consideration. She could not, however, resist saying, “New

Yorkers are like that.”

“Like what?” he asked.

She coloured.

“Like--Mr. Spence. A little--self-assertive, sure of themselves.” She

strove to keep out of her voice any suspicion of the agitation which

was the result of the events of an extraordinary day, not yet ended.

She knew that it would have been wiser not to have mentioned Howard; but

Peter's silence, somehow, had impelled her to speak. “He has made quite

an unusual success for so young a man.”

Peter looked at her and shook his head.

“New York--success! What is to become of poor old St. Louis?” he

inquired.

“Oh, I'm going back next week,” Honora cried. “I wish I were going with

you.”

“And leave all this,” he said incredulously, “for trolley rides and

Forest Park and--and me?”

He stopped in the garden path and looked upon the picture she made

standing in the sunlight against the blazing borders, her wide hat

casting a shadow on her face. And the smile which she had known so well

since childhood, indulgent, quizzical, with a touch of sadness, was in

his eyes. She was conscious of a slight resentment. Was there, in fact,

no change in her as the result of the events of those momentous ten

months since she had seen him? And rather than a tolerance in which

there was neither antagonism nor envy, she would have preferred from

Peter an open disapproval of luxury, of the standards which he implied

were hers. She felt that she had stepped into another world, but he

refused to be dazzled by it. He insisted upon treating her as the same

Honora.

“How did you leave Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary?” she asked.

They were counting the days, he said, until she should return, but they

did not wish to curtail her visit. They did not expect her next week, he

knew.

Honora coloured again.

“I feel--that I ought to go to them,” she said.

He glanced at her as though her determination to leave Silverdale so

soon surprised him.

“They will be very happy to see you, Honora,” he said. “They have been

very lonesome.”

She softened. Some unaccountable impulse prompted her to ask: “And you?

Have you missed me--a little?”

He did not answer, and she saw that he was profoundly affected. She laid

a hand upon his arm.

“Oh, Peter, I didn't mean that,” she cried. “I know you have. And I have

missed you--terribly. It seems so strange seeing you here,” she went on

hurriedly. “There are so many' things I want to show you. Tell me how it

happened hat you came on to New York.”

“Somebody in the firm had to come,” he said.

“In the firm!” she repeated. She did not grasp the full meaning of this

change in his status, but she remembered that Uncle Tom had predicted it

one day, and that it was an honour. “I never knew any one so secretive

about their own affairs! Why didn't you write me you had been admitted

to the firm? So you are a partner of Judge Brice.”

“Brice, Graves, and Erwin,” said Peter; “it sounds very grand, doesn't

it? I can't get used to it myself.”

“And what made you call yourself an errand boy?” she exclaimed

reproachfully. “When I go back to the house I intend to tell Joshua Holt

and--and Mr. Spence that you are a great lawyer.”

Peter laughed.

“You'd better wait a few years before you say that,” said he.

He took an interest in everything he saw, in Mr. Holt's flowers, in

Joshua's cow barn, which they traversed, and declared, if he were

ever rich enough, he would live in the country. They walked around the

pond,--fringed now with yellow water-lilies on their floating green

pads,--through the woods, and when the shadows were lengthening came out

at the little summer-house over the valley of Silver Brook--the scene of

that first memorable encounter with the Vicomte. At the sight of it the

episode, and much else of recent happening, rushed back into

Honora's mind, and she realized with suddenness that she had, in his

companionship, unconsciously been led far afield and in pleasant places.

Comparisons seemed inevitable.

She watched him with an unwonted tugging at her heart as he stood for a

long time by the edge of the railing, gazing over the tree-tops of the

valley towards the distant hazy hills. Nor did she understand what it

was in him that now, on this day of days when she had definitely cast

the die of life, when she had chosen her path, aroused this strange

emotion. Why had she never felt it before? She had thought his face

homely--now it seemed to shine with a transfiguring light. She recalled,

with a pang, that she had criticised his clothes: to-day they seemed the

expression of the man himself. Incredible is the range of human emotion!

She felt a longing to throw herself into his arms, and to weep there.

He turned at length from the view.

“How wonderful!” he said.

“I didn't know--you cared for nature so much, Peter.”

He looked at her strangely and put out his hand and drew her,

unresisting, to the bench beside him.

“Are you in trouble, Honora?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she cried, “oh, no, I am--very happy.”

“You may have thought it odd that I should have come here without

knowing Mrs. Holt,” he said gravely, “particularly when you were going

home so soon. I do not know myself why I came. I am a matter-of-fact

person, but I acted on an impulse.”

“An impulse!” she faltered, avoiding the troubled, searching look in his

eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “an impulse. I can call it by no other name. I should

have taken a train that leaves New York at noon; but I had a feeling

this morning, which seemed almost like a presentiment, that I might be

of some use to you.”

“This morning?” She felt herself trembling, and she scarcely recognized

Peter with such words on his lips. “I am happy--indeed I am. Only--I am

overwrought--seeing you again--and you made me think of home.”

“It was no doubt very foolish of me,” he declared. “And if my coming has

upset you--”

“Oh, no,” she cried. “Please don't think so. It has given me a sense

of--of security. That you were ready to help me if--if I needed you.”

“You should always have known that,” he replied. He rose and stood

gazing off down the valley once more, and she watched him with her heart

beating, with a sense of an impending crisis which she seemed powerless

to stave off. And presently he turned to her, “Honora, I have loved you

for many years,” he said. “You were too young for me to speak of it. I

did not intend to speak of it when I came here to-day. For many years I

have hoped that some day you might be my wife. My one fear has been that

I might lose you. Perhaps--perhaps it has been a dream. But I am willing

to wait, should you wish to see more of the world. You are young yet,

and I am offering myself for all time. There is no other woman for me,

and never can be.”

He paused and smiled down at her. But she did not speak. She could not.

“I know,” he went on, “that you are ambitious. And with your gifts I

do not blame you. I cannot offer you great wealth, but I say with

confidence that I can offer you something better, something surer. I

can take care of you and protect you, and I will devote my life to your

happiness. Will you marry me?”

Her eyes were sparkling with tears,--tears, he remembered afterwards,

that were like blue diamonds.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “I wish I could! I have always--wished that I

could. I can't.”

“You can't?”

She shook her head.

“I--I have told no one yet--not even Aunt Mary. I am going to marry Mr.

Spence.”

For a long time he was silent, and she did not dare to look at the

suffering in his face.

“Honora,” he said at last, “my most earnest wish in life will be for

your happiness. And whatever may, come to you I hope that you will

remember that I am your friend, to be counted on. And that I shall not

change. Will you remember that?”

“Yes,” she whispered. She looked at him now, and through the veil of

her tears she seemed to see his soul shining in his eyes. The tones of a

distant church bell were borne to them on the valley breeze.

Peter glanced at his watch.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I haven't time to go back to the house--my

train goes at seven. Can I get down to the village through the valley?”

Honora pointed out the road, faintly perceptible through the trees

beneath them.

“And you will apologize for my departure to Mrs. Holt?”

She nodded. He took her hand, pressed it, and was gone. And presently,

in a little clearing far below, he turned and waved his hat at her

bravely.

CHAPTER XII. WHICH CONTAINS A SURPRISE FOR MRS. HOLT

How long she sat gazing with unseeing eyes down the valley Honora did

not know. Distant mutterings of thunder aroused her; the evening sky

had darkened, and angry-looking clouds of purple were gathering over the

hills. She rose and hurried homeward. She had thought to enter by the

billiard-room door, and so gain her own chamber without encountering the

household; but she had reckoned without her hostess. Beyond the billiard

room, in the little entry filled with potted plants, she came face to

face with that lady, who was inciting a footman to further efforts in

his attempt to close a recalcitrant skylight. Honora proved of more

interest, and Mrs. Holt abandoned the skylight.

“Why, my dear,” she said, “where have you been all afternoon?”

“I--I have been walking with Mr. Erwin, Mrs. Holt. I have been showing

him Silverdale.”

“And where is he? It seems to me I invited him to stay all night, and

Joshua tells me he extended the invitation.”

“We were in the little summer-house, and suddenly he discovered that it

was late and he had to catch the seven o'clock train,” faltered Honora,

somewhat disconnectedly. “Otherwise he would have come to you himself

and told you--how much he regretted not staying. He has to go to St.

Louis to-night.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Holt, “this is an afternoon of surprises. The Vicomte

has gone off, too, without even waiting to say good-by.”

“The Vicomte!” exclaimed Honora.

“Didn't you see him, either, before he left?” inquired Mrs. Holt; “I

thought perhaps you might be able to give me some further explanation of

it.”

“I?” exclaimed Honora. She felt ready to sink through the floor, and

Mrs. Holt's delft-blue eyes haunted her afterwards like a nightmare.

“Didn't you see him, my dear? Didn't he tell you anything?”

“He--he didn't say he was going away.”

“Did he seem disturbed about anything?” Mrs. Holt insisted.

“Now I think of it, he did seem a little disturbed.”

“To save my life,” said Mrs. Holt, “I can't understand it. He left a

note for me saying that he had received a telegram, and that he had

to go at once. I was at a meeting of my charity board. It seems a very

strange proceeding for such an agreeable and polite man as the Vicomte,

although he had his drawbacks, as all Continentals have. And at times I

thought he was grave and moody,--didn't you?”

“Oh, yes, he was moody,” Honora agreed eagerly.

“You noticed it, too,” said Mrs. Holt. “But he was a charming man,

and so interested in America and in the work we are doing. But I can't

understand about the telegram. I had Carroll inquire of every servant in

the house, and there is no knowledge of a telegram having come up from

the village this afternoon.”

“Perhaps the Vicomte might have met the messenger in the grounds,”

hazarded Honora.

At this point their attention was distracted by a noise that bore

a striking resemblance to a suppressed laugh. The footman on the

step-ladder began to rattle the skylight vigorously.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Woods?” said Mrs. Holt.

“It must have been some dust off the skylight, Madam, that got into my

throat,” he stammered, the colour of a geranium.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Holt, “there is no dust on the skylight.”

“It may be I swallowed the wrong way, looking up like, as I was, Madam,”

he ventured, rubbing the frame and looking at his finger to prove his

former theory.

“You are very stupid not to be able to close it,” she declared; “in a

few minutes the place will be flooded. Tell Carroll to come and do it.”

Honora suffered herself to be led limply through the library and up

the stairs into Mrs. Holt's own boudoir, where a maid was closing the

windows against the first great drops of the storm, which the wind was

pelting against them. She drew the shades deftly, lighted the gas, and

retired. Honora sank down in one of the upholstered light blue satin

chairs and gazed at the shining brass of the coal grate set in the

marble mantel, above which hung an engraving of Sir Joshua Reynolds'

cherubs. She had an instinct that the climax of the drama was at hand.

Mrs. Holt sat down in the chair opposite.

“My dear,” she began, “I told you the other day what an unexpected and

welcome comfort and help you have been to me. You evidently inherit”

(Mrs. Holt coughed slightly) “the art of entertaining and pleasing, and

I need not warn you, my dear, against the dangers of such a gift. Your

aunt has evidently brought you up with strictness and religious care.

You have been very fortunate.”

“Indeed I have, Mrs. Holt,” echoed Honora, in bewilderment.

“And Susan,” continued Mrs. Holt, “useful and willing as she is, does

not possess your gift of taking people off my hands and entertaining

them.”

Honora could think of no reply to this. Her eyes--to which no one could

be indifferent--were riveted on the face of her hostess, and how was the

good lady to guess that her brain was reeling?

“I was about to say, my dear, that I expect to have a great deal

of--well, of rather difficult company this summer. Next week, for

instance, some prominent women in the Working Girls' Relief Society

are coming, and on July the twenty-third I give a garden party for the

delegates to the Charity Conference in New York. The Japanese Minister

has promised to pay me a visit, and Sir Rupert Grant, who built those

remarkable tuberculosis homes in England, you know, is arriving in

August with his family. Then there are some foreign artists.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” exclaimed Honora; “how many interesting people you

see!”

“Exactly, my dear. And I thought that, in addition to the fact that I

have grown very fond of you, you would be very useful to me here, and

that a summer with me might not be without its advantages. As your aunt

will have you until you are married, which, I may say, without denying

your attractions, is likely to be for some time, I intend to write to

her to-night--with your consent--and ask her to allow you to remain with

me all summer.”

Honora sat transfixed, staring painfully at the big pendant ear-rings.

“It is so kind of you, Mrs. Holt--” she faltered.

“I can realize, my dear, that you would wish to get back to your aunt.

The feeling does you infinite credit. But, on the other hand, besides

the advantages which would accrue to you, it might, to put the matter

delicately, be of a little benefit to your relations, who will have to

think of your future.”

“Indeed, it is good of you, but I must go back, Mrs. Holt.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Holt, with a touch of dignity--for ere now people

had left Silverdale before she wished them to--“of course, if you do not

care to stay, that is quite another thing.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt, don't say that!” cried Honora, her face burning; “I

cannot thank you enough for the pleasure you have given me. If--if

things were different, I would stay with you gladly, although I should

miss my family. But now,--now I feel that I must be with them. I--I am

engaged to be married.”

Honora still remembers the blank expression which appeared on the

countenance of her hostess when she spoke these words. Mrs. Holt's

cheeks twitched, her ear-rings quivered, and her bosom heaved-once.

“Engaged to be married!” she gasped.

“Yes,” replied our heroine, humbly, “I was going to tell

you--to-morrow.”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Holt, after a silence, “it is to the young man

who was here this afternoon, and whom I did not see. It accounts for his

precipitate departure. But I must say, Honora, since frankness is one of

my faults, that I feel it my duty to write to your aunt and disclaim all

responsibility.”

“It is not to Mr. Erwin,” said Honora, meekly; “it is--it is to Mr.

Spence.”

Mrs. Holt seemed to find difficulty in speaking, Her former symptoms,

which Honora had come to recognize as indicative of agitation, returned

with alarming intensity. And when at length her voice made itself heard,

it was scarcely recognizable.

“You are engaged--to--Howard Spence?”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” exclaimed Honora, “it was as great a surprise to

me--believe me--as it is to you.”

But even the knowledge that they shared a common amazement did not

appear, at once, to assuage Mrs. Holt's emotions.

“Do you love him?” she demanded abruptly.

Whereupon Honora burst into tears.

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she sobbed, “how can you ask?”

From this time on the course of events was not precisely logical. Mrs.

Holt, setting in abeyance any ideas she may have had about the affair,

took Honora in her arms, and against that ample bosom was sobbed out the

pent-up excitement and emotion of an extraordinary day.

“There, there, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, stroking the dark hair,

“I should not have asked you that-forgive me.” And the worthy lady,

quivering with sympathy now, remembered the time of her own engagement

to Joshua. And the fact that the circumstances of that event differed

somewhat from those of the present--in regularity, at least, increased

rather than detracted from Mrs. Holt's sudden access of tenderness. The

perplexing questions as to the probable result of such a marriage were

swept away by a flood of feeling. “There, there, my dear, I did not mean

to be harsh. What you told me was such a shock--such a surprise, and

marriage is such a grave and sacred thing.”

“I know it,” sobbed Honora.

“And you are very young.”

“Yes, Mrs. Holt.”

“And it happened in my house.”

“No,” said Honora, “it happened--near the golf course.”

Mrs. Holt smiled, and wiped her eyes.

“I mean, my dear, that I shall always feel responsible for bringing you

together---for your future happiness. That is a great deal. I could have

wished that you both had taken longer to reflect, but I hope with all my

heart that you will be happy.”

Honora lifted up a tear-stained face.

“He said it was because I was going away that--that he spoke,” she said.

“Oh, Mrs. Holt, I knew that you would be kind about it.”

“Of course I am kind about it, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt. “As I told you,

I have grown to have an affection for you. I feel a little as though you

belonged to me. And after this--this event, I expect to see a great deal

of you. Howard Spence's mother was a very dear friend of mine. I was one

of the first who knew her when she came to New York, from Troy, a widow,

to educate her son. She was a very fine and a very courageous woman.”

Mrs. Holt paused a moment. “She hoped that Howard would be a lawyer.”

“A lawyer!” Honora repeated.

“I lost sight of him for several years,” continued Mrs. Holt, “but

before I invited him here I made some inquiries about him from friends

of mine in the financial world. I find that he is successful for so

young a man, and well thought of. I have no doubt he will make a

good husband, my dear, although I could wish he were not on the Stock

Exchange. And I hope you will make him happy.”

Whereupon the good lady kissed Honora, and dismissed her to dress for

dinner.

“I shall write to your aunt at once,” she said.

........................

Requited love, unsettled condition that it is supposed to bring, did

not interfere with Howard Spence's appetite at dinner. His spirits, as

usual, were of the best, and from time to time Honora was aware of his

glance. Then she lowered her eyes. She sat as in a dream; and, try as

she might, her thoughts would not range themselves. She seemed to see

him but dimly, to hear what he said faintly; and it conveyed nothing to

her mind.

This man was to be her husband! Over and over she repeated it to

herself. His name was Howard Spence, and he was on the highroad to

riches and success, and she was to live in New York. Ten days before he

had not existed for her. She could not bring herself to believe that he

existed now. Did she love him? How could she love him, when she did not

realize him? One thing she knew, that she had loved him that morning.

The fetters of her past life were broken, and this she would not

realize. She had opened the door of the cage for what? These were the

fragments of thoughts that drifted through her mind like tattered clouds

across an empty sky after a storm. Peter Erwin appeared to her more than

once, and he was strangely real. But he belonged to the past. Course

succeeded course, and she talked subconsciously to Mr. Holt and

Joshua--such is the result of feminine training.

After dinner she stood on the porch. The rain had ceased, a cool damp

breeze shook the drops from the leaves, and the stars were shining.

Presently, at the sound of a step behind her, she started. He was

standing at her shoulder.

“Honora!” he said.

She did not move.

“Honora, I haven't seen you--alone--since morning. It seems like a

thousand years. Honora?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean it?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you'd marry me.” His voice trembled a little. “I've been

thinking of nothing but you all day. You're not--sorry? You haven't

changed your mind?”

She shook her head.

“At dinner when you wouldn't look at me, and this afternoon--”

“No, I'm not sorry,” she said, cutting him short. “I'm not sorry.”

He put his arm about her with an air that was almost apologetic. And,

seeing that she did not resist, he drew her to him and kissed her.

Suddenly, unaccountably to her, she clung to him.

“You love me!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she whispered, “but I am tired. I--I am going upstairs, Howard. I

am tired.”

He kissed her again.

“I can't believe it!” he said. “I'll make you a queen. And we'll be

married in the autumn, Honora.” He nodded boyishly towards the open

windows of the library. “Shall I tell them?” he asked. “I feel like

shouting it. I can't hold on much longer. I wonder what the old lady

will say!”

Honora disengaged herself from his arms and fled to the screen door. As

she opened it, she turned and smiled back at him.

“Mrs. Holt knows already,” she said.

And catching her skirt, she flew quickly up the stairs.

BOOK II. Volume 3.

CHAPTER I. SO LONG AS YE BOTH SHALL LIVE!

It was late November. And as Honora sat at the window of the

drawing-room of the sleeping car, life seemed as fantastic and unreal as

the moss-hung Southern forest into which she stared. She was happy, as

a child is happy who is taken on an excursion into the unknown. The

monotony of existence was at last broken, and riven the circumscribing

walls. Limitless possibilities lay ahead.

The emancipation had not been without its pangs of sorrow, and there

were moments of retrospection--as now. She saw herself on Uncle Tom's

arm, walking up the aisle of the old church. How many Sundays of her

life had she sat watching a shaft of sunlight strike across the stone

pillars of its gothic arches! She saw, in the chancel, tall and grave

and pale, Peter Erwin standing beside the man with the flushed face who

was to be her husband. She heard again the familiar voice of Dr. Ewing

reciting the words of that wonderful introduction. At other weddings she

had been moved. Why was her own so unrealizable?

“Honora, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live

together after God's ordinance in the holy state of Matrimony? Wilt

thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness

and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him,

so long as ye both shall live?”

She had promised. And they were walking out of the church, facing the

great rose window with its blended colours, and the vaults above were

ringing now with the volume of an immortal march.

After that an illogical series of events and pictures passed before

her. She was in a corner of the carriage, her veil raised, gazing at

her husband, who had kissed her passionately. He was there beside her,

looking extremely well in his top hat and frock-coat, with a white

flower in his buttonhole. He was the representative of the future she

had deliberately chosen. And yet, by virtue of the strange ceremony

through which they had passed, he seemed to have changed. In her attempt

to seize upon a reality she looked out of the window. They were just

passing the Hanbury mansion in Wayland Square, and her eyes fell upon

the playroom windows under the wide cornice; and she wondered whether

the doll's house were still in its place, its mute inhabitants waiting

to be called by the names she had given them, and quickened into life

once more.

Next she recalled the arrival at the little house that had been her

home, summer and winter, for so many years of her life. A red and white

awning, stretching up the length of the walk which once had run beside

the tall pear trees, gave it an unrecognizable, gala air. Long had

it stood there, patient, unpretentious, content that the great things

should pass it by! And now, modest still, it had been singled out from

amongst its neighbours and honoured. Was it honoured? It seemed to

Honora, so fanciful this day, that its unwonted air of festival was

unnatural. Why should the hour of departure from such a harbour of peace

be celebrated?

She was standing beside her husband in the little parlour, while

carriage doors slammed in the dusk outside; while one by one--a pageant

of the past which she was leaving forever the friends of her childhood

came and went. Laughter and tears and kisses! And then, in no time at

all, she found herself changing for the journey in the “little house

under the hill.” There, locked up in the little desk Cousin Eleanor had

given her long ago, was the unfinished manuscript of that novel written

at fever heat during those summer days in which she had sought to escape

from a humdrum existence. And now--she had escaped. Aunt Mary, helpful

under the most trying circumstances, was putting her articles in a

bag, the initials on which she did not recognize--H. L. S.--Honora

Leffingwell Spence; while old Catherine, tearful and inefficient, knelt

before her, fumbling at her shoes. Honora, bending over, took the face

of the faithful old servant and kissed it.

“Don't feel badly, Catherine,” she said; “I'll be coming back often to

see you, and you will be coming to see me.”

“Will ye, darlint? The blessing of God be on you for those words--and

you to be such a fine lady! It always was a fine lady ye were, with such

a family and such a bringin' up. And now ye've married a rich man, as is

right and proper. If it's rich as Croesus he was, he'd be none too good

for you.”

“Catherine,” said Aunt Mary, reprovingly, “what ideas you put into the

child's head!”

“Sure, Miss Mary,” cried Catherine, “it's always the great lady she was,

and she a wee bit of a thing. And wasn't it yerself, Miss Mary, that

dressed her like a princess?”

Then came the good-bys--the real ones. Uncle Tom, always the friend of

young people, was surrounded by a group of bridesmaids in the hall.

She clung to him. And Peter, who had the carriage ready. What would her

wedding have been without Peter? As they drove towards the station, his

was the image that remained persistently in her mind, bareheaded on the

sidewalk in the light of the carriage lamps. The image of struggle.

She had married Prosperity. A whimsical question, that shocked her,

irresistibly presented itself: was it not Prosperity that she had

promised to love, honour, and obey?

It must not be thought that Honora was by any means discontented with

her Prosperity. He was new--that was all. Howard looked new. But she

remembered that he had always looked new; such was one of his greatest

charms. In the long summer days since she had bade him good-by on her

way through New York from Silverdale, Honora had constructed him: he was

perpetual yet sophisticated Youth; he was Finance and Fashion; he was

Power in correctly cut clothes. And when he had arrived in St. Louis to

play his part in the wedding festivities, she had found her swan a swan

indeed--he was all that she had dreamed of him. And she had tingled with

pride as she introduced him to her friends, or gazed at him across the

flower-laden table as he sat beside Edith Hanbury at the bridesmaids'

dinner in Wayland Square.

The wedding ceremony had somehow upset her opinion of him, but Honora

regarded this change as temporary. Julius Caesar or George Washington

himself must have been somewhat ridiculous as bridegrooms: and she had

the sense to perceive that her own agitations as a bride were partly

responsible. No matter how much a young girl may have trifled with that

electric force in the male sex known as the grand passion, she shrinks

from surrendering herself to its dominion. Honora shrank. He made love

to her on the way to the station, and she was terrified. He actually

forgot to smoke cigarettes. What he said was to the effect that he

possessed at last the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the world,

and she resented the implication of possession.

Nevertheless, in the glaring lights of the station, her courage and her

pride in him revived, and he became again a normal and a marked man.

Although the sex may resent it, few women are really indifferent to

clothes, and Howard's well-fitting check suit had the magic touch of the

metropolis. His manner matched his garments. Obsequious porters grasped

his pig-skin bag, and seized Honora's; the man at the gate inclined his

head as he examined their tickets, and the Pullman conductor himself

showed them their stateroom, and plainly regarded them as important

people far from home. Howard had the cosmopolitan air. He gave the man

a dollar, and remarked that the New Orleans train was not exactly the

Chicago and New York Limited.

“Not by a long shot,” agreed the conductor, as he went out, softly

closing the door behind him.

Whereupon the cosmopolitan air dropped from Mr. Howard Spence, not

gracefully, and he became once more that superfluous and awkward and

utterly banal individual, the husband.

“Let's go out and walk on the platform until the train starts,”

suggested Honora, desperately. “Oh, Howard, the shades are up! I'm sure

I saw some one looking in!”

He laughed. But there was a light in his eyes that frightened her, and

she deemed his laughter out of place. Was he, after all, an utterly

different man than what she had thought him? Still laughing, he held to

her wrist with one hand, and with the other pulled down the shades.

“This is good enough for me,” he said. “At last--at last,” he whispered,

“all the red tape is over, and I've got you to myself! Do you love me

just a little, Honora?”

“Of course I do,” she faltered, still struggling, her face burning as

from a fire.

“Then what's the matter?” he demanded.

“I don't know--I want air. Howard, please let me go. It's-it's so hot

inhere. You must let me go.”

Her release, she felt afterwards, was due less to a physical than a

mental effort. She seemed suddenly to have cowed him, and his resistance

became enfeebled. She broke from him, and opened the door, and reached

the cement platform and the cold air. When he joined her, there was

something jokingly apologetic about his manner, and he was smoking a

cigarette; and she could not help thinking that she would have respected

him more if he had held her.

“Women beat me,” he said. “They're the most erratic stock in the

market.”

It is worthy of remark how soon the human, and especially the feminine

brain adjusts itself to new conditions. In a day or two life became real

again, or rather romantic.

For the American husband in his proper place is an auxiliary who makes

all things possible. His ability to “get things done,” before it

ceases to be a novelty, is a quality to be admired. Honora admired. An

intimacy--if the word be not too strong--sprang up between them. They

wandered through the quaint streets of New Orleans, that most foreign of

American cities, searching out the tumbledown French houses; and Honora

was never tired of imagining the romances and tragedies which must have

taken place in them. The new scenes excited her,--the quaint cafes with

their delicious, peppery Creole cooking,--and she would sit talking

for a quarter of an hour at a time with Alphonse, who outdid himself to

please the palate of a lady with such allure. He called her “Madame”;

but well he knew, this student of human kind, that the title had not

been of long duration.

Madame came from New York, without doubt? such was one of his questions,

as he stood before them in answer to Howard's summons, rubbing his

hands. And Honora, with a little thrill, acknowledged the accuracy

of his guess. There was no dish of Alphonse's they did not taste. And

Howard smilingly paid the bills. He was ecstatically proud of his wife,

and although he did justice to the cooking, he cared but little for

the mysterious courtyards, the Spanish buildings, and the novels of Mr.

George W. Cable, which Honora devoured when she was too tired to walk

about. He followed her obediently to the battle field of New Orleans,

and admired as obediently the sunset, when the sky was all silver-green

through the magnolias, and the spreading live oaks hung with Spanish

moss, and a silver bar lay upon the Father of Waters. Honora, with

beating heart and flushed cheeks, felt these things: Howard felt them

through her and watched--not the sunset--but the flame it lighted in her

eyes.

He left her but twice a day, and then only for brief periods. He even

felt a joy when she ventured to complain.

“I believe you care more for those horrid stocks than for me,” she said.

“I--I am just a novelty.”

His answer, since they were alone in their sitting-room, was obvious.

“Howard,” she cried, “how mean of you! Now I'll have to do my hair all

over again. I've got such a lot of it--you've no idea how difficult it

is.”

“You bet I have!” he declared meaningly, and Honora blushed.

His pleasure of possession was increased when people turned to look at

her on the street or in the dining room--to think that this remarkable

creature was in reality his wife! Nor did the feeling grow less intense

with time, being quite the same when they arrived at a fashionable

resort in the Virginia mountains, on their way to New York. For such

were the exactions of his calling that he could spare but two weeks for

his honeymoon.

Honora's interest in her new surroundings was as great, and the sight of

those towering ridges against the soft blue of the autumn skies inspired

her. It was Indian summer here, the tang of wood smoke was in the air;

in the valleys--as they drove--the haze was shot with the dust of gold,

and through the gaps they looked across vast, unexplored valleys to

other distant, blue-stained ridges that rose between them and the

sunset. Honora took an infinite delight in the ramshackle cabins beside

the red-clay roads, in the historic atmosphere of the ancient houses

and porticoes of the Warm Springs, where the fathers of the Republic had

come to take the waters. And one day, when a north wind had scattered

the smoke and swept the sky, Howard followed her up the paths to the

ridge's crest, where she stood like a Victory, her garments blowing,

gazing off over the mighty billows to the westward. Howard had never

seen a Victory, but his vision of domesticity was untroubled.

Although it was late in the season, the old-fashioned, rambling hotel

was well filled, and people interested Honora as well as scenery--a

proof of her human qualities. She chided Howard because he, too, was not

more socially inclined.

“How can you expect me to be--now?” he demanded.

She told him he was a goose, although secretly admitting the justice of

his defence. He knew four or five men in the hotel, with whom he talked

stocks while waiting for Honora to complete her toilets; and he gathered

from two of these, who were married, that patience was a necessary

qualification in a husband. One evening they introduced their wives.

Later, Howard revealed their identity--or rather that of the husbands.

“Bowker is one of the big men in the Faith Insurance Company, and Tyler

is president of the Gotham Trust.” He paused to light a cigarette, and

smiled at her significantly. “If you can dolly the ladies along once in

a while, Honora, it won't do any harm,” he added. “You have a way with

you, you know,--when you want to.”

Honora grew scarlet.

“Howard!” she exclaimed.

He looked somewhat shamefaced.

“Well,” he said, “I was only joking. Don't take it seriously. But it

doesn't do any harm to be polite.”

“I am always polite,” she answered a little coldly.

Honeymoons, after all, are matters of conjecture, and what proportion of

them contain disenchantments will never be known. Honora lay awake for a

long time that night, and the poignant and ever recurring remembrance

of her husband's remark sent the blood to her face like a flame.

Would Peter, or George Hanbury, or any of the intimate friends of her

childhood have said such a thing?

A new and wistful feeling of loneliness was upon her. For some days,

with a certain sense of isolation and a tinge of envy which she

would not acknowledge, she had been watching a group of well-dressed,

clean-looking people galloping off on horseback or filling the

six-seated buckboards. They were from New York--that she had discovered;

and they did not mix with the others in the hotel. She had thought it

strange that Howard did not know them, but for a reason which she did

not analyze she hesitated to ask him who they were. They had rather

a rude manner of staring--especially the men--and the air of deriving

infinite amusement from that which went on about them. One of them, a

young man with a lisp who was addressed by the singular name of “Toots,”

she had overheard demanding as she passed: who the deuce was the tall

girl with the dark hair and the colour? Wherever she went, she was aware

of them. It was foolish, she knew, but their presence seemed--in the

magnitude which trifles are wont to assume in the night-watches--of late

to have poisoned her pleasure.

Enlightenment as to the identity of these disturbing persons came, the

next day, from an unexpected source. Indeed, from Mrs. Tyler. She loved

brides, she said, and Honora seemed to her such a sweet bride. It was

Mrs. Tyler's ambition to become thin (which was hitching her wagon to

a star with a vengeance), and she invited our heroine to share her

constitutional on the porch. Honora found the proceeding in the nature

of an ordeal, for Mrs. Tyler's legs were short, her frizzled hair very

blond, and the fact that it was natural made it seem, somehow, all the

more damning.

They had scarcely begun to walk before Honora, with a sense of dismay

of which she was ashamed, beheld some of the people who had occupied her

thoughts come out of the door and form a laughing group at the end

of the porch. She could not rid herself of the feeling that they were

laughing at her. She tried in vain to drive them from her mind, to

listen to Mrs. Tyler's account of how she, too, came as a bride to

New York from some place with a classical name, and to the advice that

accompanied the narration. The most conspicuous young woman in the

group, in riding clothes, was seated on the railing, with the toe of

one boot on the ground. Her profile was clear-cut and her chestnut hair

tightly knotted behind under her hat. Every time they turned, this young

woman stared at Honora amusedly.

“Nasty thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Tyler, suddenly and unexpectedly in the

midst of a description of the delights of life in the metropolis.

“Who?” asked Honora.

“That young Mrs. Freddy Maitland, sitting on the rail. She's the rudest

woman in New York.”

A perversity of spirit which she could not control prompted Honora to

reply:

“Why, I think she is so good-looking, Mrs. Tyler. And she seems to have

so much individuality and independence.”

“There!” cried Mrs. Tyler, triumphantly. “Once--not so very long ago--I

was just as inexperienced as you, my dear. She belongs to that horribly

fast set with which no self-respecting woman would be seen. It's an

outrage that they should come to a hotel like this and act as though it

belonged to them. She knows me quite as well as I know her, but when I

am face to face she acts as though I was air.”

Honora could not help thinking that this, at least, required some

imagination on Mrs. Maitland's part. Mrs. Tyler had stopped for breath.

“I have been introduced to her twice,” she continued, “but of course I

wouldn't speak to her. The little man with the lisp, next to her, who is

always acting in that silly way, they call Toots Cuthbert. He gets his

name in the newspapers by leading cotillons in New York and Newport. And

the tall, slim, blond one, with the green hat and the feather in it, is

Jimmy Wing. He's the son of James Wing, the financier.”

“I went to school at Sutcliffe with his sister,” said Honora.

It seemed to Honora that Mrs. Tyler's manner underwent a change.

“My dear,” she exclaimed, “did you go to Sutcliffe? What a wonderful

school it is! I fully intend to send my daughter Louise there.”

An almost irresistible desire came over Honora to run away. She excused

herself instead, and hurried back towards her room. On the way she met

Howard in the corridor, and he held a telegram in his hand.

“I've got some bad news, Honora,” he said. “That is, bad from the point

of view of our honeymoon. Sid Dallam is swamped with business, and wants

me in New York. I'm afraid we've got to cut it short.”

To his astonishment she smiled.

“Oh, I'm so glad, Howard,” she cried. “I--I don't like this place nearly

so well as New Orleans. There are--so many people here.”

He looked relieved, and patted her on the arm.

“We'll go to-night, old girl,” he said.

CHAPTER II. “STAFFORD PARK”

There is a terrifying aspect of all great cities. Rome, with its

leviathan aqueducts, its seething tenements clinging to the hills, its

cruel, shining Palatine, must have overborne the provincial traveller

coming up from Ostia. And Honora, as she stood on the deck of the

ferry-boat, approaching New York for the second time in her life, could

not overcome a sense of oppression. It was on a sharp December morning,

and the steam of the hurrying craft was dazzling white in the early sun.

Above and beyond the city rose, overpowering, a very different city,

somehow, than that her imagination had first drawn. Each of that

multitude of vast towers seemed a fortress now, manned by Celt and Hun

and, Israelite and Saxon, captained by Titans. And the strife between

them was on a scale never known in the world before, a strife with

modern arms and modern methods and modern brains, in which there was no

mercy.

Hidden somewhere amidst those bristling miles of masonry to the

northward of the towers was her future home. Her mind dwelt upon it now,

for the first time, and tried to construct it. Once she had spoken to

Howard of it, but he had smiled and avoided discussion. What would it be

like to have a house of one's own in New York? A house on Fifth Avenue,

as her girl friends had said when they laughingly congratulated her and

begged her to remember that they came occasionally to New York. Those

of us who, like Honora, believe in Providence, do not trouble ourselves

with mere matters of dollars and cents. This morning, however, the huge

material towers which she gazed upon seemed stronger than Providence,

and she thought of her husband. Was his fibre sufficiently tough to

become eventually the captain of one of those fortresses, to compete

with the Maitlands and the Wings, and others she knew by name, calmly

and efficiently intrenched there?

The boat was approaching the slip, and he came out to her from the

cabin, where he had been industriously reading the stock reports, his

newspapers thrust into his overcoat pocket.

“There's no place like New York, after all,” he declared, and added,

“when the market's up. We'll go to a hotel for breakfast.”

For some reason she found it difficult to ask the question on her lips.

“I suppose,” she said hesitatingly, “I suppose we couldn't go--home,

Howard. You--you have never told me where we are to live.”

As before, the reference to their home seemed to cause him amusement. He

became very mysterious.

“Couldn't you pass away a few hours shopping this morning, my dear?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Honora.

“While I gather in a few dollars,” he continued. “I'll meet you at

lunch, and then we'll go-home.”

As the sun mounted higher, her spirits rose with it. New York, or that

strip of it which is known to the more fortunate of human beings, is

a place to raise one's spirits on a sparkling day in early winter. And

Honora, as she drove in a hansom from shop to shop, felt a new sense of

elation and independence. She was at one, now, with the prosperity that

surrounded her: her purse no longer limited, her whims existing only to

be gratified. Her reflections on this recently attained state alternated

with alluring conjectures on the place of abode of which Howard had made

such a mystery. Where was it? And why had he insisted, before showing it

to her, upon waiting until afternoon?

Newly arrayed in the most becoming of grey furs, she met him at that

hitherto fabled restaurant which in future days--she reflected--was

to become so familiar--Delmonico's. Howard was awaiting her in the

vestibule; and it was not without a little quiver of timidity and

excitement and a consequent rise of colour that she followed the waiter

to a table by the window. She felt as though the assembled fashionable

world was staring at her, but presently gathered courage enough to gaze

at the costumes of the women and the faces of the men. Howard, with a

sang froid of which she felt a little proud, ordered a meal for which he

eventually paid a fraction over eight dollars. What would Aunt Mary have

said to such extravagance? He produced a large bunch of violets.

“With Sid Dallam's love,” he said, as she pinned them on her gown.

“I tried to get Lily--Mrs. Sid--for lunch, but you never can put your

finger on her. She'll amuse you, Honora.”

“Oh, Howard, it's so much pleasanter lunching alone to-day. I'm glad you

didn't. And then afterwards--?”

He refused, however, to be drawn. When they emerged she did not hear the

directions he gave the cabman, and it was not until they turned into

a narrow side street, which became dingier and dingier as they bumped

their way eastward, that she experienced a sudden sinking sensation.

“Howard!” she cried. “Where are you going? You must tell me.”

“One of the prettiest suburbs in New Jersey--Rivington,” he said. “Wait

till you see the house.”

“Suburbs! Rivington! New Jersey!” The words swam before Honora's eyes,

like the great signs she had seen printed in black letters on the tall

buildings from the ferry that morning. She had a sickening sensation,

and the odour of his cigarette in the cab became unbearable. By an

ironic trick of her memory, she recalled that she had told the clerks in

the shops where she had made her purchases that she would send them her

address later. How different that address from what she had imagined it!

“It's in the country!” she exclaimed.

To lunch at Delmonico's for eight dollars and live in Rivington

Howard appeared disturbed. More than that, he appeared astonished,

solicitous.

“Why, what's the matter, Honora?” he asked. “I thought you'd like it.

It's a brand new house, and I got Lily Dallam to furnish it. She's a

wonder on that sort of thing, and I told her to go ahead--within reason.

I talked it over with your aunt and uncle, and they agreed with me you'd

much rather live out there for a few years than in a flat.”

“In a flat!” repeated Honora, with a shudder.

“Certainly,” he said, flicking his ashes out of the window. “Who do

you think I am, at my age? Frederick T. Maitland, or the owner of the

Brougham Building?”

“But--Howard,” she protested, “why didn't you talk it over with me?”

“Because I wanted to surprise you,” he replied. “I spent a month and

a half looking for that house. And you never seemed to care. It didn't

occur to me that you would care--for the first few years,” he added, and

there was in his voice a note of reproach that did not escape her. “You

never seemed inclined to discuss business with me, Honora. I didn't

think you were interested. Dallam and I are making money. We expect

some day to be on Easy Street--so to speak--or Fifth Avenue. Some day,

I hope, you can show some of these people the road. But just now what

capital we have has to go into the business.”

Strangely enough, in spite of the intensity of her disappointment, she

felt nearer to her husband in that instant than at any time since their

marriage. Honora, who could not bear to hurt any one's feelings, seized

his hand repentantly. Tears started in her eyes.

“Oh, Howard, I must seem to you very ungrateful,” she cried. “It was

such a--such a surprise. I have never lived in the country, and I'm sure

it will be delightful--and much more healthful than the city. Won't you

forgive me?”

If he had known as much about the fluctuations of the feminine

temperament as of those of stocks, the ease with which Honora executed

this complete change of front might have disturbed him. Howard, as will

be seen, possessed that quality which is loosely called good nature.

In marriage, he had been told (and was ready to believe), the wind blew

where it listed; and he was a wise husband who did not spend his time in

inquiry as to its sources. He kissed her before he helped her out of the

carriage. Again they crossed the North River, and he led her through the

wooden ferry house on the New Jersey side to where the Rivington train

was standing beside a platform shed.

There was no parlour car. Men and women--mostly women--with bundles

were already appropriating the seats and racks, and Honora found herself

wondering how many of these individuals were her future neighbours. That

there might have been an hysterical element in the lively anticipation

she exhibited during the journey did not occur to Howard Spence.

After many stops,--in forty-two minutes, to be exact, the brakeman

shouted out the name of the place which was to be her home, and of which

she had been ignorant that morning. They alighted at an old red railroad

station, were seized upon by a hackman in a coonskin coat, and thrust

into a carriage that threatened to fall to pieces on the frozen macadam

road. They passed through a village in which Honora had a glimpse of

the drug store and grocery and the Grand Army Hall; then came detached

houses of all ages in one and two-acre plots some above the road, for

the country was rolling; a very attractive church of cream-coloured

stone, and finally the carriage turned sharply to the left under an

archway on which were the words “Stafford Park,” and stopped at a very

new curbstone in a very new gutter on the right.

“Here we are!” cried Howard, as he fished in his trousers pockets for

money to pay the hackman.

Honora looked around her. Stafford Park consisted of a wide centre-way

of red gravel, not yet packed, with an island in its middle planted with

shrubbery and young trees, the bare branches of which formed a black

tracery against the orange-red of the western sky. On both sides of this

centre-way were concrete walks, with cross-walks from the curbs to

the houses. There were six of these--three on each side--standing on

a raised terrace and about two hundred feet apart. Beyond them, to

the northward, Stafford Park was still a wilderness of second-growth

hardwood, interspersed with a few cedars.

Honora's house, the first on the right, was exactly like the other five.

If we look at it through her eyes, we shall find this similarity

its main drawback. If we are a little older, however, and more

sophisticated, we shall suspect the owner of Stafford Park and his

architect of a design to make it appear imposing. It was (indefinite

and much-abused term) Colonial; painted white; and double, with dormer

windows of diagonal wood-surrounded panes in the roof. There was a

large pillared porch on its least private side--namely, the front. A

white-capped maid stood in the open doorway and smiled at Honora as she

entered.

Honora walked through the rooms. There was nothing intricate about the

house; it was as simple as two times four, and really too large for her

and Howard. Her presents were installed, the pictures and photograph

frames and chairs, even Mr. Isham's dining-room table and Cousin

Eleanor's piano. The sight of these, and of the engraving which Aunt

Mary had sent on, and which all her childhood had hung over her bed in

the little room at home, brought the tears once more to her eyes. But

she forced them back bravely.

These reflections were interrupted by the appearance of the little maid

announcing that tea was ready, and bringing her two letters. One was

from Susan Holt, and the other, written in a large, slanting, and

angular handwriting, was signed Lily Dallam. It was dated from New York.

“My dear Honora,” it ran, “I feel that I must call you so, for Sid and

Howard, in addition to being partners, are such friends. I hesitated so

long about furnishing your house, my dear, but Howard insisted, and said

he wished to surprise you. I am sending you this line to welcome you,

and to tell you that I have arranged with the furniture people to take

any or all things back that you do not like, and exchange them. After

all, they will be out of date in a few years, and Howard and Sid will

have made so much money by that time, I hope, that I shall be able to

leave my apartment, which is dear, and you will be coming to town.”

Honora laid down the sheet, and began to tidy her hair before the glass

of the highly polished bureau in her room. A line in Susan's letter

occurred to her: “Mother hopes to see you soon. She asked me to tell you

to buy good things which will last you all your life, and says that it

pays.”

The tea-table was steaming in the parlour in front of the wood fire in

the blue tiled fireplace. The oak floor reflected its gleam, and that of

the electric lights; the shades were drawn; a slight odour of steam heat

pervaded the place. Howard, smoking a cigarette, was reclining on a

sofa that evidently was not made for such a purpose, reading the evening

newspapers.

“Well, Honora,” he said, as she took her seat behind the tea-table, “you

haven't told me how you like it. Pretty cosey, eh? And enough spare room

to have people out over Sundays.”

“Oh, Howard, I do like it,” she cried, in a desperate attempt--which

momentarily came near succeeding to convince herself that she could

have desired nothing more. “It's so sweet and clean and new--and all our

own.”

She succeeded, at any rate, in convincing Howard. In certain matters, he

was easily convinced.

“I thought you'd be pleased when you saw it, my dear,” he said.

CHAPTER III. THE GREAT UNATTACHED

It was the poet Cowper who sang of domestic happiness as the only bliss

that has survived the Fall. One of the burning and unsolved questions of

to-day is,--will it survive the twentieth century? Will it survive

rapid transit and bridge and Woman's Rights, the modern novel and modern

drama, automobiles, flying machines, and intelligence offices; hotel,

apartment, and suburban life, or four homes, or none at all? Is it a

weed that will grow anywhere, in a crevice between two stones in the

city? Or is it a plant that requires tender care and the water of

self-sacrifice? Above all, is it desirable?

Our heroine, as may have been suspected, has an adaptable temperament.

Her natural position is upright, but like the reed, she can bend

gracefully, and yields only to spring back again blithely. Since this

chronicle regards her, we must try to look at existence through her

eyes, and those of some of her generation and her sex: we must give

the four years of her life in Rivington the approximate value which

she herself would have put upon it--which is a chapter. We must regard

Rivington as a kind of purgatory, not solely a place of departed

spirits, but of those which have not yet arrived; as one of the many

temporary abodes of the Great Unattached.

No philosophical writer has as yet made the attempt to define the

change--as profound as that of the tadpole to the frog--between the

lover and the husband. An author of ideals would not dare to proclaim

that this change is inevitable: some husbands--and some wives are

fortunate enough to escape it, but it is not unlikely to happen in

our modern civilization. Just when it occurred in Howard Spence it

is difficult to say, but we have got to consider him henceforth as

a husband; one who regards his home as a shipyard rather than the

sanctuary of a goddess; as a launching place, the ways of which are

carefully greased, that he may slide off to business every morning with

as little friction as possible, and return at night to rest undisturbed

in a comfortable berth, to ponder over the combat of the morrow.

It would be inspiring to summon the vision of Honora, in rustling

garments, poised as the figurehead of this craft, beckoning him on to

battle and victory. Alas! the launching happened at that grimmest and

most unromantic of hours-ten minutes of eight in the morning. There

was a period, indeterminate, when she poured out his coffee with wifely

zeal; a second period when she appeared at the foot of the stairs to

kiss him as he was going out of the door; a third when, clad in an

attractive dressing-gown, she waved him good-by from the window; and

lastly, a fourth, which was only marked by an occasional protest on his

part, when the coffee was weak.

“I'd gladly come down, Howard, if it seemed to make the least difference

to you,” said Honora. “But all you do is to sit with your newspaper

propped up and read the stock reports, and growl when I ask you a polite

question. You've no idea how long it makes the days out here, to get up

early.”

“It seems to me you put in a good many days in town,” he retorted.

“Surely you don't expect me to spend all my time in Rivington!” she

cried reproachfully; “I'd die. And then I am always having to get new

cooks for you, because they can't make Hollandaise sauce like hotel

chefs. Men have no idea how hard it is to keep house in the country,--I

just wish you had to go to those horrid intelligence offices. You

wouldn't stay in Rivington ten days. And all the good cooks drink.”

Howard, indeed, with the aid of the village policeman, had had to expel

from his kitchen one imperious female who swore like a dock hand,

and who wounded Honora to the quick by remarking, as she departed in

durance, that she had always lived with ladies and gentlemen and people

who were somebody. The incident had tended further to detract from the

romance of the country.

It is a mistake to suppose that the honeymoon disappears below the

horizon with the rapidity of a tropical sun. And there is generally an

afterglow. In spite of cooks and other minor clouds, in spite of visions

of metropolitan triumphs (not shattered, but put away in camphor), life

was touched with a certain novelty. There was a new runabout and a horse

which Honora could drive herself, and she went to the station to meet

her husband. On mild Saturday and Sunday afternoons they made long

excursions, into the country--until the golf season began, when the

lessons begun at Silverdale were renewed. But after a while certain male

competitors appeared, and the lessons were discontinued. Sunday, after

his pile of newspapers had religiously been disposed of, became a field

day. Indeed, it is impossible, without a twinge of pity, to behold

Howard taking root in Rivington, for we know that sooner or later he

will be dug up and transplanted. The soil was congenial. He played poker

on the train with the Rivington husbands, and otherwise got along with

them famously. And it was to him an enigma--when occasionally he allowed

his thoughts to dwell upon such trivial matters--why Honora was not

equally congenial with the wives.

There were, no doubt, interesting people in Rivington about whom many

stories could be written: people with loves and fears and anxieties and

joys, with illnesses and recoveries, with babies, but few grandchildren.

There were weddings at the little church, and burials; there were

dances at the golf club; there were Christmas trees, where most of the

presents--like Honora's--came from afar, from family centres formed in a

social period gone by; there were promotions for the heads of families,

and consequent rejoicings over increases of income; there were movings;

there were--inevitable in the ever grinding action of that remorseless

law, the survival of the fittest--commercial calamities, and the

heartrending search for new employment.

Rivington called upon Honora in vehicles of all descriptions, in

proportion to the improvidence or prosperity of the owners. And Honora

returned the calls, and joined the Sewing Circle, and the Woman's

Luncheon Club, which met for the purpose of literary discussion. In the

evenings there were little dinners of six or eight, where the men talked

business and the women house rent and groceries and gossip and the

cheapest places in New York City to buy articles of the latest fashion.

Some of them had actually built or were building houses that cost as

much as thirty thousand dollars, with the inexplicable intention of

remaining in Rivington the rest of their lives!

Honora was kind to these ladies. As we know, she was kind to everybody.

She almost allowed two or three of them to hope that they might become

her intimates, and made excursions to New York with them, and lunched in

fashionable restaurants. Their range of discussion included babies and

Robert Browning, the modern novel and the best matinee. It would be

interesting to know why she treated them, on the whole, like travellers

met by chance in a railroad station, from whom she was presently forever

to depart. The time and manner of this departure were matters to be

determined in the future.

It would be interesting to know, likewise, just at what period the

intention of moving away from Rivington became fixed in Honora's mind.

Honora circumscribed, Honora limited, Honora admitting defeat, and

this chronicle would be finished. The gods exist somewhere, though many

incarnations may, be necessary to achieve their companionship. And no

prison walls loom so high as to appall our heroine's soul. To exchange

one prison for another is in itself something of a feat, and an

argument that the thing may be done again. Neither do the wise ones

beat themselves uselessly against brick or stone. Howard--poor man!--is

fatuous enough to regard a great problem as being settled once and for

all by a marriage certificate and a benediction; and labours under

the delusion that henceforth he may come and go as he pleases, eat his

breakfast in silence, sleep after dinner, and spend his Sundays at the

Rivington Golf Club. It is as well to leave him, at present, in blissful

ignorance of his future.

Our sympathies, however, must be with Honora, who has paid the price

for heaven, and who discovers that by marriage she has merely joined the

ranks of the Great Unattached. Hitherto it had been inconceivable to her

that any one sufficiently prosperous could live in a city, or near it

and dependent on it, without being socially a part of it. Most momentous

of disillusions! With the exception of the Sidney Dallams and one or two

young brokers who occasionally came out over Sunday, her husband had no

friends in New York. Rivington and the Holt family (incongruous mixture)

formed the sum total of her acquaintance.

On Monday mornings in particular, if perchance she went to town, the

huge signs which she read across the swamps, of breakfast foods

and other necessaries, seemed, for some reason, best to express her

isolation. Well-dressed, laughing people descended from omnibuses at

the prettier stations, people who seemed all-sufficient to themselves;

people she was sure she should like if only she knew them. Once the

sight of her school friend, Ethel Wing, chatting with a tall young

man, brought up a flood of recollections; again, in a millinery

establishment, she came face to face with the attractive Mrs. Maitland

whom she had seen at Hot Springs. Sometimes she would walk on Fifth

Avenue, watching, with mingled sensations, the procession there. The

colour, the movement, the sensation of living in a world where every

one was fabulously wealthy, was at once a stimulation and a despair.

Brougham after brougham passed, victoria after victoria, in which

beautifully gowned women chatted gayly or sat back, impassive, amidst

the cushions. Some of them, indeed, looked bored, but this did not

mar the general effect of pleasure and prosperity. Even the

people--well-dressed, too--in the hansom cabs were usually animated

and smiling. On the sidewalk athletic, clear-skinned girls passed her,

sometimes with a man, sometimes in groups of two and three, going in and

out of the expensive-looking shops with the large, plate-glass windows.

All of these women, apparently, had something definite to do, somewhere

to go, some one to meet the very next, minute. They protested to

milliners and dressmakers if they were kept waiting, and even seemed

impatient of time lost if one by chance bumped into them. But Honora had

no imperative appointments. Lily Dallam was almost sure to be out, or

going out immediately, and seemed to have more engagements than any one

in New York.

“I'm so sorry, my dear,” she would say, and add reproachfully: “why

didn't you telephone me you were coming? If you had only let me know we

might have lunched together or gone to the matinee. Now I have promised

Clara Trowbridge to go to a lunch party at her house.”

Mrs. Dallam had a most convincing way of saying such things, and in

spite of one's self put one in the wrong for not having telephoned.

But if indeed Honora telephoned--as she did once or twice in her

innocence--Lily was quite as distressed.

“My dear, why didn't you let me know last night? Trixy Brent has given

Lula Chandos his box at the Horse Show, and Lula would never, never

forgive me if I backed out.”

Although she lived in an apartment--in a most attractive one, to be

sure--there could be no doubt about it that Lily Dallam was fashionable.

She had a way with her, and her costumes were marvellous. She could have

made her fortune either as a dressmaker or a house decorator, and

she bought everything from “little” men and women whom she discovered

herself. It was a curious fact that all of these small tradespeople

eventually became fashionable, too. Lily was kind to Honora, and gave

her their addresses before they grew to be great and insolent and

careless whether one patronized them or not.

While we are confessing the trials and weaknesses of our heroine, we

shall have to admit that she read, occasionally, the society columns

of the newspapers. And in this manner she grew to have a certain

familiarity with the doings of those favourites of fortune who had more

delightful engagements than hours in which to fulfil them. So intimate

was Lily Dallam with many of these Olympians that she spoke of them by

their first names, or generally by their nicknames. Some two years after

Honora's marriage the Dallams had taken a house in that much discussed

colony of Quicksands, where sport and pleasure reigned supreme: and more

than once the gown which Mrs. Sidney Dallam had worn to a polo match had

been faithfully described in the public prints, or the dinners which she

had given at the Quicksands Club. One of these dinners, Honora learned,

had been given in honour of Mr. Trixton Brent.

“You ought to know Trixy, Honora,” Mrs. Dallam declared; “he'd be crazy

about you.”

Time passed, however, and Mrs. Dallam made no attempt to bring about

this most desirable meeting. When Honora and Howard went to town to dine

with the Dallams, it was always at a restaurant, a 'partie carree'. Lily

Dallam thought it dull to dine at home, and they went to the theatre

afterwards--invariably a musical comedy. Although Honora did not care

particularly for musical comedies, she always experienced a certain

feverish stimulation which kept her wide awake on the midnight train to

Rivington. Howard had a most exasperating habit of dozing in the corner

of the seat.

“You are always sleepy when I have anything interesting to talk to you

about,” said Honora, “or reading stock reports. I scarcely see anything

at all of you.”

Howard roused himself.

“Where are we now?” he asked.

“Oh,” cried Honora, “we haven't passed Hydeville. Howard, who is Trixton

Brent?”

“What about him?” demanded her husband.

“Nothing--except that he is one of Lily's friends, and she said she

knew--I should like him. I wish you would be more interested in people.

Who is he?”

“One of the best-known operators in the market,” Howard answered, and

his air implied that a lack of knowledge of Mr. Brent was ignorance

indeed; “a daring gambler. He cornered cotton once, and raked in over a

million. He's a sport, too.”

“How old is he?”

“About forty-three.”

“Is he married?” inquired Honora.

“He's divorced,” said Howard. And she had to be content with so much

of the gentleman's biography, for her husband relapsed into somnolence

again. A few days later she saw a picture of Mr. Brent, in polo costume,

in one of the magazines. She thought him good-looking, and wondered what

kind of a wife he had had.

Honora, when she went to town for the day, generally could be sure of

finding some one, at least, of the Holt family at home at luncheon time.

They lived still in the same house on Madison Avenue to which Aunt

Mary and Uncle Tom had been invited to breakfast on the day of Honora's

arrival in her own country. It had a wide, brownstone front, with a

basement, and a high flight of steps leading up to the door. Within,

solemnity reigned, and this effect was largely produced by the

prodigiously high ceilings and the black walnut doors and woodwork.

On the second floor, the library where the family assembled was more

cheerful. The books themselves, although in black-walnut cases, and the

sun pouring in, assisted in making this effect.

Here, indeed, were stability and peace. Here Honora remade the

acquaintance of the young settlement worker, and of the missionary, now

on the Presbyterian Board of Missions. Here she charmed other friends

and allies of the Holt family; and once met, somewhat to her surprise,

two young married women who differed radically from the other guests

of the house. Honora admired their gowns if not their manners; for they

ignored her, and talked to Mrs. Holt about plans for raising money for

the Working Girl's Relief Society.

“You should join us, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt; “I am sure you would be

interested in our work.”

“I'd be so glad to, Mrs. Holt,” replied Honora, “if only I didn't live

in the country.”

She came away as usual, feeling of having run into a cul de sac. Mrs.

Holt's house was a refuge, not an outlet; and thither Honora directed

her steps when a distaste for lunching alone or with some of her

Rivington friends in the hateful, selfish gayety of a fashionable

restaurant overcame her; or when her moods had run through a cycle, and

an atmosphere of religion and domesticity became congenial.

“Howard,” she asked unexpectedly one evening, as he sat smoking beside

the blue tiled mantel, “have you got on your winter flannels?”

“I'll bet a hundred dollars to ten cents,” he cried, “that you've been

lunching with Mrs. Holt.”

“I think you're horrid,” said Honora.

Something must be said for her. Domestic virtue, in the face of such

mocking heresy, is exceptionally difficult of attainment.

Mrs. Holt had not been satisfied with Honora's and Susan's accounts of

the house in Stafford Park. She felt called upon to inspect it. And

for this purpose, in the spring following Honora's marriage, she made

a pilgrimage to Rivington and spent the day. Honora met her at the

station, and the drive homeward was occupied in answering innumerable

questions on the characters, conditions, and modes of life of Honora's

neighbours.

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, when they were seated before the fire

after lunch, “I want you to feel that you can come to me for everything.

I must congratulate you and Howard on being sensible enough to start

your married life simply, in the country. I shall never forget the

little house in which Mr. Holt and I began, and how blissfully happy I

was.” The good lady reached out and took Honora's hand in her own. “Not

that your deep feeling for your husband will ever change. But men are

more difficult to manage as they grow older, my dear, and the best

of them require a little managing for their own good. And increased

establishments bring added cares and responsibilities. Now that I am

here, I have formed a very fair notion of what it ought to cost you to

live in such a place. And I shall be glad to go over your housekeeping

books with you, and tell you if you are being cheated as I dare say you

are.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” Honora faltered, “I--I haven't kept any books. Howard

just pays the bills.”

“You mean to say he hasn't given you any allowance!” cried Mrs. Holt,

aghast. “You don't know what it costs to run this house?”

“No,” said Honora, humbly. “I never thought of it. I have no idea what

Howard's income may be.”

“I'll write to Howard myself--to-night,” declared Mrs. Holt.

“Please don't, Mrs. Holt. I'll--I'll speak to him,” said Honora.

“Very well, then,” the good lady agreed, “and I will send you one of

my own books, with my own system, as soon as I get home. It is not your

fault, my dear, it is Howard's. It is little short of criminal of him.

I suppose this is one of the pernicious results of being on the Stock

Exchange. New York is nothing like what it was when I was a girl--the

extravagance by everybody is actually appalling. The whole city is

bent upon lavishness and pleasure. And I am afraid it is very often the

wives, Honora, who take the lead in prodigality. It all tends, my dear,

to loosen the marriage tie--especially this frightful habit of dining in

hotels and restaurants.”

Before she left Mrs. Holt insisted on going over the house from top

to bottom, from laundry to linen closet. Suffice it to say that the

inspection was not without a certain criticism, which must be passed

over.

“It is a little large, just for you and Howard, my dear,” was her final

comment. “But you are wise in providing for the future.”

“For the future?” Honora repeated.

Mrs. Holt playfully pinched her cheek.

“When the children arrive, my dear, as I hope they will--soon,” she

said, smiling at Honora's colour. “Sometimes it all comes back to me--my

own joy when Joshua was a baby. I was very foolish about him, no doubt.

Annie and Gwendolen tell me so. I wouldn't even let the nurse sit up

with him when he was getting his teeth. Mercy!” she exclaimed, glancing

at the enamelled watch on her gown,--for long practice had enabled her

to tell the time upside down,--“we'll be late for the train, my dear.”

After returning from the station, Honora sat for a long time at her

window, looking out on the park. The afternoon sunlight had the silvery

tinge that comes to it in March; the red gravel of the centre driveway

was very wet, and the grass of the lawns of the houses opposite already

a vivid green; in the back-yards the white clothes snapped from the

lines; and a group of children, followed by nurses with perambulators,

tripped along the strip of sidewalk.

Why could not she feel the joys and desires of which Mrs. Holt had

spoken? It never had occurred to her until to-day that they were lacking

in her. Children! A home! Why was it that she did not want children? Why

should such a natural longing be absent in her? Her mind went back to

the days of her childhood dolls, and she smiled to think of their large

families. She had always associated marriage with children--until she

got married. And now she remembered that her childhood ideals of the

matrimonial state had been very much, like Mrs. Holt's own experience of

it: Why then had that ideal gradually faded until, when marriage came

to her, it was faint and shadowy indeed? Why were not her spirit and her

hopes enclosed by the walls in which she sat?

The housekeeping book came from Mrs. Holt the next morning, but Honora

did not mention it to her husband. Circumstances were her excuse: he

had had a hard day on the Exchange, and at such times he showed a marked

disinclination for the discussion of household matters. It was not until

the autumn, in fact, that the subject of finance was mentioned between

them, and after a period during which Howard had been unusually

uncommunicative and morose. Just as electrical disturbances are said

to be in some way connected with sun spots, so Honora learned that a

certain glumness and tendency to discuss expenses on the part of her

husband were synchronous with a depression in the market.

“I wish you'd learn to go a little slow, Honora,” he said one evening.

“The bills are pretty stiff this month. You don't seem to have any idea

of the value of money.”

“Oh, Howard,” she exclaimed, after a moment's pause for breath, “how can

you say such a thing, when I save you so much?”

“Save me so much!” he echoed.

“Yes. If I had gone to Ridley for this suit, he would have charged me

two hundred dollars. I took such pains--all on your account--to find

a little man Lily Dallam told me about, who actually made it for one

hundred and twenty-five.”

It was typical of the unreason of his sex that he failed to be impressed

by this argument.

“If you go on saving that way,” said he, “we'll be in the hands of a

receiver by Christmas. I can't see any difference between buying one

suit from Ridley--whoever he may be--and three from Lily Dallam's

'little man,' except that you spend more than three times as much

money.”

“Oh, I didn't get three!--I never thought you could be so unjust,

Howard. Surely you don't want me to dress like these Rivington women, do

you?”

“I can't see anything wrong with their clothes,” he maintained.

“And to think that I was doing it all to please you!” she cried

reproachfully.

“To please me!”

“Who else? We-we don't know anybody in New York. And I wanted you to be

proud of me. I've tried so hard and--and sometimes you don't even look

at my gowns, and say whether you like them and they are all for you.”

This argument, at least, did not fail of results, combined as it was

with a hint of tears in Honora's voice. Its effect upon Howard was

peculiar--he was at once irritated, disarmed, and softened. He put

down his cigarette--and Honora was on his knee! He could not deny her

attractions.

“How could you be so cruel, Howard?” she asked.

“You know you wouldn't like me to be a slattern. It was my own idea to

save money--I had a long talk about economy one day with Mrs. Holt. And

you act as though you had such a lot of it when we're in town for dinner

with these Rivington people. You always have champagne. If--if you're

poor, you ought to have told me so, and I shouldn't have ordered another

dinner gown.”

“You've ordered another dinner gown!”

“Only a little one,” said Honora, “the simplest kind. But if you're

poor--”

She had made a discovery--to reflect upon his business success was to

touch a sensitive nerve.

“I'm not poor,” he declared. “But the bottom's dropped out of the

market, and even old Wing is economizing. We'll have to put on the

brakes for awhile, Honora.”

It was shortly after this that Honora departed on the first of her three

visits to St. Louis.

CHAPTER IV. THE NEW DOCTRINE

This history concerns a free and untrammelled--and, let us add,

feminine--spirit. No lady is in the least interesting if restricted and

contented with her restrictions,--a fact which the ladies of our nation

are fast finding out. What would become of the Goddess of Liberty? And

let us mark well, while we are making these observations, that Liberty

is a goddess, not a god, although it has taken us in America over a

century to realize a significance in the choice of her sex. And--another

discovery!--she is not a haus frau. She is never domiciled, never

fettered. Even the French, clever as they are, have not conceived her:

equality and fraternity are neither kith nor kin of hers, and she laughs

at them as myths--for she is a laughing lady. She alone of the three

is real, and she alone is worshipped for attributes which she does not

possess. She is a coquette, and she is never satisfied. If she were, she

would not be Liberty: if she were, she would not be worshipped of men,

but despised. If they understood her, they would not care for her. And

finally, she comes not to bring peace, but a sword.

At quarter to seven one blustery evening of the April following their

fourth anniversary Honora returned from New York to find her husband

seated under the tall lamp in the room he somewhat facetiously called

his “den,” scanning the financial page of his newspaper. He was in his

dressing gown, his slippered feet extended towards the hearth, smoking a

cigarette. And on the stand beside him was a cocktail glass--empty.

“Howard,” she cried, brushing his ashes from the table, “how can you

be so untidy when you are so good-looking dressed up? I really believe

you're getting fat. And there,” she added, critically touching a place

on the top of his head, “is a bald spot!”

“Anything else?” he murmured, with his eyes still on the sheet.

“Lots,” answered Honora, pulling down the newspaper from before his

face. “For one thing, I'm not going to allow you to be a bear any more.

I don't mean a Stock Exchange bear, but a domestic bear--which is much

worse. You've got to notice me once in a while. If you don't, I'll get

another husband. That's what women do in these days, you know, when

the one they have doesn't take the trouble to make himself sufficiently

agreeable. I'm sure I could get another one quite easily,” she declared.

He looked up at her as she stood facing him in the lamplight before the

fire, and was forced to admit to himself that the boast was not wholly

idle. A smile was on her lips, her eyes gleamed with health; her

furs--of silver fox--were thrown back, the crimson roses pinned on her

mauve afternoon gown matched the glow in her cheeks, while her hair

mingled with the dusky shadows. Howard Spence experienced one of those

startling, illuminating moments which come on occasions to the busy and

self-absorbed husbands of his nation. Psychologists have a name for such

a phenomenon. Ten minutes before, so far as his thoughts were concerned,

she had not existed, and suddenly she had become a possession which

he had not, in truth, sufficiently prized. Absurd though it was, the

possibility which she had suggested aroused in him a slight uneasiness.

“You are a deuced good-looking woman, I'll say that for you, Honora,” he

admitted.

“Thanks,” she answered, mockingly, and put her hands behind her back.

“If I had only known you were going to settle down in Rivington and get

fat and bald and wear dressing gowns and be a bear, I never should have

married you--never, never, never! Oh, how young and simple and foolish

I was! And the magnificent way you talked about New York, and intimated

that you were going to conquer the world. I believed you. Wasn't I a

little idiot not--to know that you'd make for a place like this and dig

a hole and stay in it, and let the world go hang?”

He laughed, though it was a poor attempt. And she read in his eyes,

which had not left her face, that he was more or less disturbed.

“I treat you pretty well, don't I, Honora?” he asked. There was an

amorous, apologetic note in his voice that amused her, and reminded her

of the honeymoon. “I give you all the money you want or rather--you take

it,--and I don't kick up a row, except when the market goes to pieces--”

“When you act as though we'd have to live in Harlem--which couldn't be

much worse,” she interrupted. “And you stay in town all day and have no

end of fun making money,--for you like to make money, and expect me to

amuse myself the best part of my life with a lot of women who don't know

enough to keep thin.”

He laughed again, but still uneasily. Honora was still smiling.

“What's got into you?” he demanded. “I know you don't like Rivington,

but you never broke loose this way before.”

“If you stay here,” said Honora, with a new firmness, “it will be alone.

I can't see what you want with a wife, anyway. I've been thinking you

over lately. I don't do anything for you, except to keep getting you

cooks--and anybody could do that. You don't seem to need me in any

possible way. All I do is to loiter around the house and read and play

the piano, or go to New York and buy clothes for nobody to look at

except strangers in restaurants. I'm worth more than that. I think I'll

get married again.”

“Great Lord, what are you talking about?” he exclaimed when he got his

breath.

“I think I'll take a man next time,” she continued calmly, “who has

something to him, some ambition. The kind of man I thought I was getting

when I took you only I shouldn't be fooled again. Women remarry a good

deal in these days, and I'm beginning to see the reason why. And the

women who have done it appear to be perfectly happy--much happier than

they were at first. I saw one of them at Lily Dallam's this afternoon.

She was radiant. I can't see any particular reason why a woman should

be tied all her life to her husband's apron strings--or whatever he

wears--and waste the talents she has. It's wicked, when she might be the

making of some man who is worth something, and who lives somewhere.”

Her husband got up.

“Jehosaphat!” he cried, “I never heard such talk in my life.”

The idea that her love for him might have ebbed a little, or that she

would for a moment consider leaving him, he rejected as preposterous, of

course: the reputation which the majority of her sex had made throughout

the ages for constancy to the marriage tie was not to be so lightly

dissipated. Nevertheless, there was in her words a new undertone of

determination he had never before heard--or, at least, noticed.

There was one argument, or panacea, which had generally worked like a

charm, although some time had elapsed since last he had resorted to it.

He tried to seize and kiss her, but she eluded him. At last he caught

her, out of breath, in the corner of the room.

“Howard--you'll knock over the lamp--you'll ruin my gown--and then

you'll have to buy me another. I DID mean it,” she insisted, holding

back her head; “you'll have to choose between Rivington and me.

It's--it's an ultimatum. There were at least three awfully attractive

men at Lily Dallam's tea--I won't tell you who they were--who would be

glad to marry me in a minute.”

He drew her down on the arm of his chair.

“Now that Lily has a house in town,” he said weakly, “I suppose you

think you've got to have one.”

“Oh, Howard, it is such a dear house. I had no idea that so much could

be done with so narrow a front. It's all French, with mirrors and big

white panels and satin chairs and sofas, and a carved gilt piano that

she got for nothing from a dealer she knows; and church candlesticks.

The mirrors give it the effect of being larger than it really is. I've

only two criticisms to make: it's too far from Fifth Avenue, and one can

scarcely turn around in it without knocking something down--a photograph

frame or a flower vase or one of her spindle-legged chairs. It was

only a hideous, old-fashioned stone front when she bought it. I suppose

nobody but Reggie Farwell could have made anything out of it.”

“Who's Reggie Farwell?” inquired her husband.

“Howard, do you really mean to say you've never heard of Reggie Farwell?

Lily was so lucky to get him--she says he wouldn't have done the house

if he hadn't been such a friend of hers. And he was coming to the tea

this afternoon--only something happened at the last minute, and he

couldn't. She was so disappointed. He built the Maitlands' house, and

did over the Cecil Graingers'. And he's going to do our house--some

day.”

“Why not right away?” asked Howard.

“Because I've made up my mind to be very, very reasonable,” she replied.

“We're going to Quicksands for a while, first.”

“To Quicksands!” he repeated. But in spite of himself he experienced a

feeling of relief that she had not demanded a town mansion on the spot.

Honora sprang to her feet.

“Get up, Howard,” she cried, “remember that we're going out for

dinner-and you'll never be ready.”

“Hold on,” he protested, “I don't know about this Quicksands

proposition. Let's talk it over a little more--”

“We'll talk it over another time,” she replied. “But--remember my

ultimatum. And I am only taking you there for your own good.”

“For my own good!”

“Yes. To get you out of a rut. To keep you from becoming commonplace and

obscure and--and everything you promised not to be when you married

me,” she retorted from the doorway, her eyes still alight with that

disturbing and tantalizing fire. “It is my last desperate effort as a

wife to save you from baldness, obesity, and nonentity.” Wherewith she

disappeared into her room and closed the door.

We read of earthquakes in the tropics and at the ends of the earth with

commiseration, it is true, yet with the fond belief that the ground on

which we have built is so firm that our own 'lares' and 'penates' are in

no danger of being shaken down. And in the same spirit we learn of other

people's domestic cataclysms. Howard Spence had had only a slight shock,

but it frightened him and destroyed his sense of immunity. And during

the week that followed he lacked the moral courage either to discuss

the subject of Quicksands thoroughly or to let it alone: to put down his

foot like a Turk or accede like a Crichton.

Either course might have saved him. One trouble with the unfortunate

man was that he realized but dimly the gravity of the crisis. He had

laboured under the delusion that matrimonial conditions were still what

they had been in the Eighteenth Century--although it is doubtful whether

he had ever thought of that century. Characteristically, he considered

the troublesome affair chiefly from its business side. His ambition, if

we may use so large a word for the sentiment that had filled his breast,

had been coincident with his prenuptial passion for Honora. And she

had contrived, after four years, in some mysterious way to stir up that

ambition once more; to make him uncomfortable; to compel him to ask

himself whether he were not sliding downhill; to wonder whether living

at Quicksands might not bring him in touch with important interests

which had as yet eluded him. And, above all,--if the idea be put a

little more crudely and definitely than it occurred in his thoughts,

he awoke to the realization that his wife was an asset he had hitherto

utterly neglected. Inconceivable though it were (a middle-of-the-night

reflection), if he insisted on trying to keep such a woman bottled up in

Rivington she might some day pack up and leave him. One never could tell

what a woman would do in these days. Les sacrees femmes.

We are indebted to Honora for this view of her husband's mental

processes. She watched them, as it were, through a glass in the side of

his head, and incidentally derived infinite amusement therefrom. With

instinctive wisdom she refrained from tinkering.

An invitation to dine with the Dallams', in their own house, arrived a

day or two after the tea which Honora had attended there. Although Lily

had always been cordial, Honora thought this note couched in terms of

unusual warmth. She was implored to come early, because Lily had so much

to talk to her about which couldn't be written on account of a splitting

headache. In moderate obedience to this summons Honora arrived, on the

evening in question, before the ornamental ironwork of Mrs. Dallam's

front door at a few minutes after seven o'clock. Honora paused in the

spring twilight to contemplate the house, which stood out incongruously

from its sombre, brownstone brothers and sisters with noisy basement

kitchens. The Third Avenue Elevated, “so handy for Sid,” roared across

the gap scarcely a block away; and just as the door was opened the

tightest of little blue broughams, pulled by a huge chestnut horse and

driven by the tiniest of grooms in top boots, drew up at the curb. And

out of it burst a resplendent lady--Mrs. Dallam.

“Oh, it's you, Honora,” she cried. “Am I late? I'm so sorry. But I just

couldn't help it. It's all Clara Trowbridge's fault. She insisted on

my staying to meet that Renee Labride who dances so divinely in Lady

Emmeline. She's sweet. I've seen her eight times.” Here she took

Honora's arm, and faced her towards the street. “What do you think of my

turnout? Isn't he a darling?”

“Is he--full grown?” asked Honora.

Lilly Dallam burst out laughing.

“Bless you, I don't mean Patrick,--although I had a terrible time

finding him. I mean the horse. Trixy Brent gave him to me before he went

abroad.”

“Gave him to you!” Honora exclaimed.

“Oh, he's always doing kind things like that, and he hadn't any use for

him. My dear, I hope you don't think for an instant Trixy's in love with

me! He's crazy about Lula Chandos. I tried so hard to get her to come to

dinner to-night, and the Trowbridges' and the Barclays'. You've no idea

how difficult it is in New York to get any one under two weeks. And so

we've got just ourselves.”

Honora was on the point of declaring, politely, that she was very glad,

when Lily Dallam asked her how she liked the brougham.

“It's the image of Mrs. Cecil Grainger's, my dear, and I got it for a

song. As long as Trixy gave me the horse, I told Sid the least he could

do was to give me the brougham and the harness. Is Master Sid asleep?”

she inquired of the maid who had been patiently waiting at the door. “I

meant to have got home in time to kiss him.”

She led Honora up the narrow but thickly carpeted stairs to a miniature

boudoir, where Madame Adelaide, in a gilt rococo frame, looked

superciliously down from the walls.

“Why haven't you been in to see me since my tea, Honora? You were such a

success, and after you left they were all crazy to know something about

you, and why they hadn't heard of you. My dear, how much did little

Harris charge you for that dress? If I had your face and neck and figure

I'd die before I'd live in Rivington. You're positively wasted, Honora.

And if you stay there, no one will look at you, though you were as

beautiful as Mrs. Langtry.”

“You're rather good-looking yourself, Lily,” said Honora.

“I'm ten years older than you, my dear, and I have to be so careful. Sid

says I'm killing myself, but I've found a little massage woman who is

wonderful. How do you like this dress?”

“All your things are exquisite.”

“Do you think so?” cried Mrs. Dallam, delightedly.

Honora, indeed, had not perjured herself. Only the hypercritical, when

Mrs. Dallam was dressed, had the impression of a performed miracle. She

was the most finished of finished products. Her complexion was high

and (be it added) natural, her hair wonderfully 'onduled', and she had

withal the sweetest and kindest of smiles and the most engaging laughter

in the world. It was impossible not to love her.

“Howard,” she cried, when a little later they were seated at the table,

“how mean of you to have kept Honora in a dead and alive place like

Rivington all these years! I think she's an angel to have stood it. Men

are beyond me. Do you know what an attractive wife you've got? I've just

been telling her that there wasn't a woman at my tea who compared with

her, and the men were crazy about her.”

“That's the reason I live down there,” proclaimed Howard, as he finished

his first glass of champagne.

“Honora,” demanded Mrs. Dallam, ignoring his bravado, “why don't you

take a house at Quicksands? You'd love it, and you'd look simply divine

in a bathing suit. Why don't you come down?”

“Ask Howard,” replied Honora, demurely.

“Well, Lily, I'll own up I have been considering it a little,” that

gentleman admitted with gravity. “But I haven't decided anything. There

are certain drawbacks--”

“Drawbacks!” exclaimed Mrs. Dallam. “Drawbacks at Quicksands! I'd like

to know what they are. Don't be silly, Howard. You get more for your

money there than any place I know.” Suddenly the light of an inspiration

came into her eyes, and she turned to her husband. “Sid, the Alfred Fern

house is for rent, isn't it?”

“I think it must be, Lily,” replied Mr. Dallam.

“Sometimes I believe I'm losing my mind,” declared Mrs. Dallam. “What an

imbecile I was not to think of it! It's a dear, Honora, not five minutes

from the Club, with the sweetest furniture, and they just finished it

last fall. It would be positively wicked not to take it, Howard. They

couldn't have failed more opportunely. I'm sorry for Alfred, but I

always thought Louise Fern a little snob. Sid, you must see Alfred down

town the first thing in the morning and ask him what's the least he'll

rent it for. Tell him I wish to know.”

“But--my dear Lily--began Mr. Dallam apologetically.

“There!” complained his wife, “you're always raising objections to my

most charming and sensible plans. You act as though you wanted Honora

and Howard to stay in Rivington.”

“My dear Lily!” he protested again. And words failing him, he sought by

a gesture to disclaim such a sinister motive for inaction.

“What harm can it do?” she asked plaintively. “Howard doesn't have to

rent the house, although it would be a sin if he didn't. Find out the

rent in the morning, Sid, and we'll all four go down on Sunday and look

at it, and lunch at the Quicksands Club. I'm sure I can get out of

my engagement at Laura Dean's--this is so important. What do you say,

Honora?”

“I think it would be delightful,” said Honora.

CHAPTER V. QUICKSANDS

To convey any adequate idea of the community familiarly known as

Quicksands a cinematograph were necessary. With a pen we can only

approximate the appearance of the shifting grains at any one time. Some

households there were, indeed, which maintained a precarious though

seemingly miraculous footing on the surface, or near it, going under for

mere brief periods, only to rise again and flaunt men-servants in the

face of Providence.

There were real tragedies, too, although a casual visitor would never

have guessed it. For tragedies sink, and that is the end of them. The

cinematograph, to be sure, would reveal one from time to time, coming

like a shadow across an endless feast, and gone again in a flash. Such

was what might appropriately be called the episode of the Alfred Ferns.

After three years of married life they had come, they had rented; the

market had gone up, they had bought and built--upon the sands. The

ancient farmhouse which had stood on the site had been torn down as

unsuited to a higher civilization, although the great elms which had

sheltered it had been left standing, in grave contrast to the twisted

cedars and stunted oaks so much in evidence round about.

The Ferns--or rather little Mrs. Fern--had had taste, and the new house

reflected it. As an indication of the quality of imagination possessed

by the owners, the place was called “The Brackens.” There was a long

porch on the side of the ocean, but a view of the water was shut off

from it by a hedge which, during the successive ownerships of the

adjoining property, had attained a height of twelve feet. There was a

little toy greenhouse connecting with the porch (an “economy” indulged

in when the market had begun to go the wrong way for Mr. Fern). Exile,

although unpleasant, was sometimes found necessary at Quicksands, and

even effective.

Above all things, however, if one is describing Quicksands, one must not

be depressing. That is the unforgiveable sin there. Hence we must touch

upon these tragedies lightly.

If, after walking through the entrance in the hedge that separated

the Brackens from the main road, you turned to the left and followed

a driveway newly laid out between young poplars, you came to a mass of

cedars. Behind these was hidden the stable. There were four stalls, all

replete with brass trimmings, and a box, and the carriage-house was made

large enough for the break which Mr. Fern had been getting ready to buy

when he had been forced, so unexpectedly, to change his mind.

If the world had been searched, perhaps, no greater contrast to

Rivington could have been found than this delightful colony of

quicksands, full of life and motion and colour, where everybody was

beautifully dressed and enjoying themselves. For a whole week after

her instalment Honora was in a continual state of excitement and

anticipation, and the sound of wheels and voices on the highroad beyond

the hedge sent her peeping to her curtains a dozen times a day. The

waking hours, instead of burdens, were so many fleeting joys. In

the morning she awoke to breathe a new, perplexing, and delicious

perfume--the salt sea breeze stirring her curtains: later, she was on

the gay, yellow-ochre beach with Lily Dallam, making new acquaintances;

and presently stepping, with a quiver of fear akin to delight, into the

restless, limitless blue water that stretched southward under a milky

haze: luncheon somewhere, more new acquaintances, and then, perhaps, in

Lily's light wood victoria to meet the train of trains. For at half-past

five the little station, forlorn all day long in the midst of the

twisted cedars that grew out of the heated sand, assumed an air of

gayety and animation. Vehicles of all sorts drew up in the open space

before it, wagonettes, phaetons, victorias, high wheeled hackney carts,

and low Hempstead carts: women in white summer gowns and veils compared

notes, or shouted invitations to dinner from carriage to carriage. The

engine rolled in with a great cloud of dust, the horses danced, the

husbands and the overnight guests, grimy and brandishing evening

newspapers, poured out of the special car where they had sat in

arm-chairs and talked stocks all the way from Long Island City. Some

were driven home, it is true; some to the beach, and others to

the Quicksands Club, where they continued their discussions over

whiskey-and-sodas until it was time to have a cocktail and dress for

dinner.

Then came the memorable evening when Lily Dallam gave a dinner in honour

of Honora, her real introduction to Quicksands. It was characteristic of

Lily that her touch made the desert bloom. Three years before Quicksands

had gasped to hear that the Sidney Dallams had bought the Faraday

house--or rather what remained of it.

“We got it for nothing,” Lily explained triumphantly on the occasion of

Honora's first admiring view. “Nobody would look at it, my dear.”

It must have been this first price, undoubtedly, that appealed to Sidney

Dallam, model for all husbands: to Sidney, who had had as much of an

idea of buying in Quicksands as of acquiring a Scotch shooting box. The

“Faraday place” had belonged to the middle ages, as time is reckoned in

Quicksands, and had lain deserted for years, chiefly on account of its

lugubrious and funereal aspect. It was on a corner. Two “for rent” signs

had fallen successively from the overgrown hedge: some fifty feet back

from the road, hidden by undergrowth and in the tenebrous shades of huge

larches and cedars, stood a hideous, two-storied house with a mansard

roof, once painted dark red.

The magical transformation of all this into a sunny, smiling, white

villa with red-striped awnings and well-kept lawns and just enough shade

had done no little towards giving to Lily Dallam that ascendency which

she had acquired with such startling rapidity in the community. When

Honora and Howard drove up to the door in the deepening twilight, every

window was a yellow, blazing square, and above the sound of voices

rose a waltz from “Lady Emmeline” played with vigour on the piano. Lily

Dallam greeted Honora in the little room which (for some unexplained

reason) was known as the library, pressed into service at dinner parties

as the ladies' dressing room.

“My dear, how sweet you look in that coral! I've been so lucky

to-night,” she added in Honora's ear; “I've actually got Trixy Brent for

you.”

Our heroine was conscious of a pleasurable palpitation as she

walked with her hostess across the little entry to the door of the

drawing-room, where her eyes encountered an inviting and vivacious

scene. Some ten or a dozen guests, laughing and talking gayly, filled

the spaces between the furniture; an upright piano was embedded in a

corner, and the lady who had just executed the waltz had swung around

on the stool, and was smiling up at a man who stood beside her with his

hand in his pocket. She was a decided brunette, neither tall nor short,

with a suggestion of plumpness.

“That's Lula Chandos,” explained Lily Dallam in her usual staccato,

following Honora's gaze, “at the piano, in ashes of roses. She's stopped

mourning for her husband. Trixy told her to-night she'd discarded the

sackcloth and kept the ashes. He's awfully clever. I don't wonder that

she's crazy about him, do you? He's standing beside her.”

Honora took a good look at the famous Trixy, who resembled a

certain type of military Englishman. He had close-cropped hair and a

close-cropped mustache; and his grey eyes, as they rested amusedly on

Mrs. Chandos, seemed to have in them the light of mockery.

“Trixy!” cried his hostess, threading her way with considerable skill

across the room and dragging Honora after her, “Trixy, I want to

introduce you to Mrs. Spence. Now aren't you glad you came!”

It was partly, no doubt, by such informal introductions that Lily Dallam

had made her reputation as the mistress of a house where one and all

had such a good time. Honora, of course, blushed to her temples, and

everybody laughed--even Mrs. Chandos.

“Glad,” said Mr. Brent, with his eyes on Honora, “does not quite express

it. You usually have a supply of superlatives, Lily, which you might

have drawn on.”

“Isn't he irrepressible?” demanded Lily Dallam, delightedly, “he's

always teasing.”

It was running through Honora's mind, while Lily Dallam's characteristic

introductions of the other guests were in progress, that “irrepressible”

was an inaccurate word to apply to Mr. Brent's manner. Honora could not

define his attitude, but she vaguely resented it. All of Lily's guests

had the air of being at home, and at that moment a young gentleman named

Charley Goodwin, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds,

was loudly demanding cocktails. They were presently brought by a rather

harassed-looking man-servant.

“I can't get over how well you look in that gown, Lula,” declared Mrs.

Dallam, as they went out to dinner. “Trixy, what does she remind you

of?”

“Cleopatra,” cried Warry Trowbridge, with an attempt to be gallant.

“Eternal vigilance,” said Mr. Brent, and they sat down amidst the

laughter, Lily Dallam declaring that he was horrid, and Mrs. Chandos

giving him a look of tender reproach. But he turned abruptly to Honora,

who was on his other side.

“Where did you drop down from, Mrs. Spence?” he inquired.

“Why do you take it for granted that I have dropped?” she asked sweetly.

He looked at her queerly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Because you are sitting next to Lucifer,” he said. “It's kind of me to

warn you, isn't it?”

“It wasn't necessary,” replied Honora. “And besides, as a dinner

companion, I imagine Lucifer couldn't be improved on.”

He laughed again.

“As a dinner companion!” he repeated. “So you would limit Lucifer to

dinners? That's rather a severe punishment, since we're neighbours.”

“How delightful to have Lucifer as one's neighbour,” said Honora,

avoiding his eyes. “Of course I've been brought up to believe that he

was always next door, so to speak, but I've never--had any proof of it

until now.”

“Proof!” echoed Mr. Brent. “Has my reputation gone before me?”

“I smell the brimstone,” said Honora.

He derived, apparently, infinite amusement from this remark likewise.

“If I had known I was to have the honour of sitting here, I should have

used another perfume,” he replied. “I have several.”

It was Honora's turn to laugh.

“They are probably for--commercial transactions, not for ladies,”

she retorted. “We are notoriously fond of brimstone, if it is not too

strong. A suspicion of it.”

Her colour was high, and she was surprised at her own vivacity. It

seemed strange that she should be holding her own in this manner with

the renowned Trixton Brent. No wonder, after four years of Rivington,

that she tingled with an unwonted excitement.

At this point Mr. Brent's eye fell upon Howard, who was explaining

something to Mrs. Trowbridge at the far end of the table.

“What's your husband like?” he demanded abruptly.

Honora was a little taken aback, but recovered sufficiently to retort:

“You'd hardly expect me to give you an unprejudiced judgment.”

“That's true,” he agreed significantly.

“He's everything,” added Honora, “that is to be expected in a husband.”

“Which isn't much, in these days,” declared Mr. Brent.

“On the contrary,” said Honora.

“What I should like to know is why you came to Quicksands,” said Mr.

Brent.

“For a little excitement,” she replied. “So far, I have not been

disappointed. But why do you ask that question?” she demanded, with a

slight uneasiness. “Why did you come here?”

“Oh,” he said, “you must remember that I'm--Lucifer, a citizen of the

world, at home anywhere, a sort of 'freebooter. I'm not here all the

time--but that's no reflection on Quicksands. May I make a bet with you,

Mrs. Spence?”

“What about?”

“That you won't stay in Quicksands more than six months,” he answered.

“Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

He shook his head.

“My experience with your sex,” he declared enigmatically, “has not been

a slight one.”

“Trixy!” interrupted Mrs. Chandos at this juncture, from his other

side, “Warry Trowbridge won't tell me whether to sell my Consolidated

Potteries stock.”

“Because he doesn't know,” said Mr. Brent, laconically, and readdressed

himself to Honora, who had, however, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Chandos'

face.

“Don't you think it's time for you to talk to Mrs. Chandos?” she asked.

“What for?”

“Well, for one reason, it is customary, out of consideration for the

hostess, to assist in turning the table.”

“Lily doesn't care,” he said.

“How about Mrs. Chandos? I have an idea that she does care.”

He made a gesture of indifference.

“And how about me?” Honora continued. “Perhaps--I'd like to talk to Mr.

Dallam.”

“Have you ever tried it?” he demanded.

Over her shoulder she flashed back at him a glance which he did not

return. She had never, to tell the truth, given her husband's partner

much consideration. He had existed in her mind solely as an obliging

shopkeeper with whom Lily had unlimited credit, and who handed her over

the counter such things as she desired. And to-night, in contrast

to Trixton Brent, Sidney Dallam suggested the counter more than ever

before. He was about five and forty, small, neatly made, with little

hands and feet; fast growing bald, and what hair remained to him was a

jet black. His suavity of manner and anxious desire to give one just the

topic that pleased had always irritated Honora.

Good shopkeepers are not supposed to have any tastes, predilections, or

desires of their own, and it was therefore with no little surprise

that, after many haphazard attempts, Honora discovered Mr. Dallam to

be possessed by one all-absorbing weakness. She had fallen in love,

she remarked, with little Sid on the beach, and Sidney Dallam suddenly

became transfigured. Was she fond of children? Honora coloured a little,

and said “yes.” He confided to her, with an astonishing degree of

feeling, that it had been the regret of his life he had not had more

children. Nobody, he implied, who came to his house had ever exhibited

the proper interest in Sid.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning towards her confidentially, “I slip

upstairs for a little peep at him after dinner.”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “if you're going to-night mayn't I go with you? I'd

love to see him in bed.”

“Of course I'll take you,” said Sidney Dallam, and he looked at her so

gratefully that she coloured again.

“Honora,” said Lily Dallam, when the women were back in the

drawing-room, “what did you do to Sid? You had him beaming--and he hates

dinner parties.”

“We were talking about children,” replied Honora, innocently.

“Children!”

“Yes,” said Honora, “and your husband has promised to take me up to the

nursery.”

“And did you talk to Trixy about children, too?” cried Lily, laughing,

with a mischievous glance at Mrs. Chandos.

“Is he interested in them?” asked Honora.

“You dear!” cried Lily, “you'll be the death of me. Lula, Honora wants

to know whether Trixy is interested in children.”

Mrs. Chandos, in the act of lighting a cigarette, smiled sweetly.

“Apparently he is,” she said.

“It's time he were, if he's ever going to be,” said Honora, just as

sweetly.

Everybody laughed but Mrs. Chandos, who began to betray an intense

interest in some old lace in the corner of the room.

“I bought it for nothing, my dear,” said Mrs. Dallam, but she pinched

Honora's arm delightedly. “How wicked of you!” she whispered, “but it

serves her right.”

In the midst of the discussion of clothes and house rents and other

people's possessions, interspersed with anecdotes of a kind that was new

to Honora, Sidney Dallam appeared at the door and beckoned to her.

“How silly of you, Sid!” exclaimed his wife; “of course she doesn't want

to go.”

“Indeed I do,” protested Honora, rising with alacrity and following

her host up the stairs. At the end of a hallway a nurse, who had been

reading beside a lamp, got up smilingly and led the way on tiptoe into

the nursery, turning on a shaded electric light. Honora bent over the

crib. The child lay, as children will, with his little yellow head

resting on his arm. But in a moment, as she stood gazing at him, he

turned and opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she stooped and kissed

him.

“Where's Daddy?” he demanded.

“We've waked him!” said Honora, remorsefully.

“Daddy,” said the child, “tell me a story.”

The nurse looked at Dallam reproachfully, as her duty demanded, and yet

she smiled. The noise of laughter reached them from below.

“I didn't have any to-night,” the child pleaded.

“I got home late,” Dallam explained to Honora, and, looking at the

nurse, pleaded in his turn; “just one.”

“Just a tiny one,” said the child.

“It's against all rules, Mr. Dallam,” said the nurse, “but--he's been

very lonesome to-day.”

Dallam sat down on one side of him, Honora on the other.

“Will you go to sleep right away if I do, Sid?” he asked.

The child shut his eyes very tight.

“Like that,” he promised.

It was not the Sidney Dallam of the counting-room who told that story,

and Honora listened with strange sensations which she did not attempt to

define.

“I used to be fond of that one when I was a youngster,” he explained

apologetically to her as they went out, and little Sid had settled

himself obediently on the pillow once more. “It was when I dreamed,” he

added, “of less prosaic occupations than the stock market.”

Sidney Dallam had dreamed!

Although Lily Dallam had declared that to leave her house before

midnight was to insult her, it was half-past eleven when Honora and her

husband reached home. He halted smilingly in her doorway as she took off

her wrap and laid it over a chair.

“Well, Honora,” he asked, “how do you like--the whirl of fashion?”

She turned to him with one of those rapid and bewildering movements that

sometimes characterized her, and put her arms on his shoulders.

“What a dear old stay-at-home you were, Howard,” she said. “I wonder

what would have happened to you if I hadn't rescued you in the nick of

time! Own up that you like--a little variety in life.”

Being a man, he qualified his approval.

“I didn't have a bad time,” he admitted. “I had a talk with Brent after

dinner, and I think I've got him interested in a little scheme. It's

a strange thing that Sid Dallam was never able to do any business with

him. If I can put this through, coming to Quicksands will have been

worth while.” He paused a moment, and added: “Brent seems to have taken

quite a shine to you, Honora.”

She dropped her arms, and going over to her dressing table, unclasped a

pin on the front of her gown.

“I imagine,” she answered, in an indifferent tone, “that he acts so with

every new woman he meets.”

Howard remained for a while in the doorway, seemingly about to speak.

Then he turned on his heel, and she heard him go into his own room.

Far into the night she lay awake, the various incidents of the evening,

like magic lantern views, thrown with bewildering rapidity on the screen

of her mind. At last she was launched into life, and the days of

her isolation gone by forever. She was in the centre of things. And

yet--well, nothing could be perfect. Perhaps she demanded too much. Once

or twice, in the intimate and somewhat uproarious badinage that had been

tossed back and forth in the drawing-room after dinner, her delicacy had

been offended: an air of revelry had prevailed, enhanced by the arrival

of whiskey-and-soda on a tray. And at the time she had been caught up by

an excitement in the grip of which she still found herself. She had been

aware, as she tried to talk to Warren Trowbridge, of Trixton Brent's

glance, and of a certain hostility from Mrs. Chandos that caused her now

to grow warm with a kind of shame when she thought of it. But she could

not deny that this man had for her a fascination. There was in him an

insolent sense of power, of scarcely veiled contempt for the company

in which he found himself. And she asked herself, in this mood of

introspection, whether a little of his contempt for Lily Dallam's guests

had not been communicated from him to her.

When she had risen to leave, he had followed her into the entry. She

recalled him vividly as he had stood before her then, a cigar in one

hand and a lighted match in the other, his eyes fixed upon her with a

singularly disquieting look that was tinged, however, with amusement.

“I'm coming to see you,” he announced.

“Do be careful,” she had cried, “you'll burn yourself!”

“That,” he answered, tossing away the match, “is to be expected.”

She laughed nervously.

“Good night,” he added, “and remember my bet.”

What could he have meant when he had declared that she would not remain

in Quicksands?

CHAPTER VI. GAD AND MENI.

There was an orthodox place of worship at Quicksands, a temple not

merely opened up for an hour or so on Sunday mornings to be shut tight

during the remainder of the week although it was thronged with devotees

on the Sabbath. This temple, of course, was the Quicksands Club. Howard

Spence was quite orthodox; and, like some of our Puritan forefathers,

did not even come home to the midday meal on the first day of the week.

But a certain instinct of protest and of nonconformity which may have

been remarked in our heroine sent her to St. Andrews-by-the-Sea--by no

means so well attended as the house of Gad and Meni. She walked home in

a pleasantly contemplative state of mind through a field of daisies, and

had just arrived at the hedge in front of the Brackens when the sound

of hoofs behind her caused her to turn. Mr. Trixton Brent, very firmly

astride of a restive, flea-bitten polo pony, surveyed her amusedly.

“Where have you been?” said he.

“To church,” replied Honora, demurely.

“Such virtue is unheard of in Quicksands.”

“It isn't virtue,” said Honora.

“I had my doubts about that, too,” he declared.

“What is it, then?” she asked laughingly, wondering why he had such a

faculty of stirring her excitement and interest.

“Dissatisfaction,” was his prompt reply.

“I don't see why you say that,” she protested.

“I'm prepared to make my wager definite,” said he. “The odds are a

thoroughbred horse against a personally knitted worsted waistcoat that

you won't stay in Quicksands six months.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense,” said Honora, “and besides, I can't

knit.”

There was a short silence during which he didn't relax his disconcerting

stare.

“Won't you come in?” she asked. “I'm sorry Howard isn't home.”

“I'm not,” he said promptly. “Can't you come over to my box for lunch?

I've asked Lula Chandos and Warry Trowbridge.”

It was not without appropriateness that Trixton Brent called his house

the “Box.” It was square, with no pretensions to architecture whatever,

with a porch running all the way around it. And it was literally filled

with the relics of the man's physical prowess cups for games of all

descriptions, heads and skins from the Bitter Roots to Bengal, and

masks and brushes from England. To Honora there was an irresistible

and mysterious fascination in all these trophies, each suggesting a

finished--and some perhaps a cruel--performance of the man himself. The

cups were polished until they beat back the light like mirrors, and the

glossy bear and tiger skins gave no hint of dying agonies.

Mr. Brent's method with women, Honora observed, more resembled the noble

sport of Isaac Walton than that of Nimrod, but she could not deny that

this element of cruelty was one of his fascinations. It was very evident

to a feminine observer, for instance, that Mrs. Chandos was engaged in

a breathless and altogether desperate struggle with the slow but

inevitable and appalling Nemesis of a body and character that would not

harmonize. If her figure grew stout, what was to become of her charm as

an 'enfant gate'? Her host not only perceived, but apparently derived

great enjoyment out of the drama of this contest. From self-indulgence

to self-denial--even though inspired by terror--is a far cry. And

Trixton Brent had evidently prepared his menu with a satanic purpose.

“What! No entree, Lula? I had that sauce especially for you.”

“Oh, Trixy, did you really? How sweet of you!” And her liquid eyes

regarded, with an almost equal affection, first the master and then the

dish. “I'll take a little,” she said weakly; “it's so bad for my gout.”

“What,” asked Trixton Brent, flashing an amused glance at Honora, “are

the symptoms of gout, Lula? I hear a great deal about that trouble these

days, but it seems to affect every one differently.”

Mrs. Chandos grew very red, but Warry Trowbridge saved her.

“It's a swelling,” he said innocently.

Brent threw back his head and laughed.

“You haven't got it anyway, Warry,” he cried.

Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier,

maintained that he had.

“It's a pity you don't ride, Lula. I understand that that's one of the

best preventives--for gout. I bought a horse last week that would just

suit you--an ideal woman's horse. He's taken a couple of blue ribbons

this summer.”

“I hope you will show him to us, Mr. Brent,” exclaimed Honora, in a

spirit of kindness.

“Do you ride?” he demanded.

“I'm devoted to it,” she declared.

It was true. For many weeks that spring, on Monday, Wednesday, and

Friday mornings, she had gone up from Rivington to Harvey's Riding

Academy, near Central Park. Thus she had acquired the elements of

the equestrian art, and incidentally aroused the enthusiasm of a

riding-master.

After Mrs. Chandos had smoked three of the cigarettes which her host

specially imported from Egypt, she declared, with no superabundance

of enthusiasm, that she was ready to go and see what Trixy had in the

“stables.” In spite of that lady's somewhat obvious impatience, Honora

insisted upon admiring everything from the monogram of coloured sands

so deftly woven on the white in the coach house, to the hunters and

polo ponies in their rows of boxes. At last Vercingetorix, the latest

acquisition of which Brent had spoken, was uncovered and trotted around

the ring.

“I'm sorry, Trixy, but I've really got to leave,” said Mrs. Chandos.

“And I'm in such a predicament! I promised Fanny Darlington I'd go over

there, and it's eight miles, and both my horses are lame.”

Brent turned to his coachman.

“Put a pair in the victoria right away and drive Mrs. Chandos to Mrs.

Darlington's,” he said.

She looked at him, and her lip quivered.

“You always were the soul of generosity, Trixy, but why the victoria?”

“My dear Lula,” he replied, “if there's any other carriage you

prefer--?”

Honora did not hear the answer, which at any rate was scarcely audible.

She moved away, and her eyes continued to follow Vercingetorix as he

trotted about the tan-bark after a groom. And presently she was aware

that Trixton Brent was standing beside her.

“What do you think of him?” he asked.

“He's adorable,” declared Honora. “Would you like to try him?”

“Oh--might I? Sometime?”

“Why not to-day--now?” he said. “I'll send him over to your house and

have your saddle put on him.”

Before Honora could protest Mrs. Chandos came forward.

“It's awfully sweet of you, Trixy, to offer to send me to Fanny's, but

Warry says he will drive me over. Good-by, my dear,” she added, holding

out her hand to Honora.

“I hope you enjoy your ride.”

Mr. Trowbridge's phaeton was brought up, Brent helped Mrs. Chandos in,

and stood for a moment gazing after her. Amusement was still in his eyes

as he turned to Honora.

“Poor Lula!” he said. “Most women could have done it better than

that--couldn't they?”

“I think you were horrid to her,” exclaimed Honora, indignantly. “It

wouldn't have hurt you to drive her to Mrs. Darlington's.”

It did not occur to her that her rebuke implied a familiarity at which

they had swiftly but imperceptibly arrived.

“Oh, yes, it would hurt me,” said he. “I'd rather spend a day in jail

than drive with Lula in that frame of mind. Tender reproaches, and all

that sort of thing, you know although I can't believe you ever indulge

in them. Don't,” he added.

In spite of the fact that she was up in arms for her sex, Honora smiled.

“Do you know,” she said slowly, “I'm beginning to think you are a

brute.”

“That's encouraging,” he replied.

“And fickle.”

“Still more encouraging. Most men are fickle. We're predatory animals.”

“It's just as well that I am warned,” said Honora. She raised her

parasol and picked up her skirts and shot him a look. Although he did

not resemble in feature the great if unscrupulous Emperor of the French,

he reminded her now of a picture she had once seen of Napoleon and

a lady; the lady obviously in a little flutter under the Emperor's

scrutiny. The picture had suggested a probable future for the lady.

“How long will it take you to dress?” he asked.

“To dress for what?”

“To ride with me.”

“I'm not going to ride with you,” she said, and experienced a tingle of

satisfaction from his surprise.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“In the first place, because I don't want to; and in the second, because

I'm expecting Lily Dallam.”

“Lily never keeps an engagement,” he said.

“That's no reason why I shouldn't,” Honora answered.

“I'm beginning to think you're deuced clever,” said he.

“How unfortunate for me!” she exclaimed.

He laughed, although it was plain that he was obviously put out. Honora

was still smiling.

“Deuced clever,” he repeated.

“An experienced moth,” suggested Honora; “perhaps one that has been

singed a little, once or twice. Good-by--I've enjoyed myself immensely.”

She glanced back at him as she walked down the path to the roadway. He

was still standing where she had left him, his feet slightly apart, his

hands in the pockets of his riding breeches, looking after her.

Her announcement of an engagement with Mrs. Dallam had been, to put it

politely, fiction. She spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters

home, pausing at periods to look out of the window. Occasionally it

appeared that her reflections were amusing. At seven o'clock Howard

arrived, flushed and tired after his day of rest.

“By the way, Honora, I saw Trixy Brent at the Club, and he said you

wouldn't go riding with him.”

“Do you call him Trixy to his face?” she asked.

“What? No--but everyone calls him Trixy. What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Only--the habit every one has in Quicksands of

speaking of people they don't know well by their nicknames seems rather

bad taste.”

“I thought you liked Quicksands,” he retorted. “You weren't happy until

you got down here.”

“It's infinitely better than Rivington,” she said.

“I suppose,” he remarked, with a little irritation unusual in him, “that

you'll be wanting to go to Newport next.”

“Perhaps,” said Honora, and resumed her letter. He fidgeted about the

room for a while, ordered a cocktail, and lighted a cigarette.

“Look here,” he began presently, “I wish you'd be decent to Brent. He's

a pretty good fellow, and he's in with James Wing and that crowd of big

financiers, and he seems to have taken a shine to me probably because

he's heard of that copper deal I put through this spring.”

Honora thrust back her writing pad, turned in her chair, and faced him.

“How 'decent' do you wish me to be?” she inquired.

“How decent?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He regarded her uneasily, took the cocktail which the maid offered him,

drank it, and laid down the glass.

He had had before, in the presence of his wife, this vague feeling of

having passed boundaries invisible to him. In her eyes was a curious

smile that lacked mirth, in her voice a dispassionate note that added to

his bewilderment.

“What do you mean, Honora?”

“I know it's too much to expect of a man to be as solicitous about his

wife as he is about his business,” she replied. “Otherwise he would

hesitate before he threw her into the arms of Mr. Trixton Brent. I warn

you that he is very attractive to women.”

“Hang it,” said Howard, “I can't see what you're driving at. I'm not

throwing you into his arms. I'm merely asking you to be friendly with

him. It means a good deal to me--to both of us. And besides, you can

take care of yourself. You're not the sort of woman to play the fool.”

“One never can tell,” said Honora, “what may happen. Suppose I fell in

love with him?”

“Don't talk nonsense,” he said.

“I'm not so sure,” she answered, meditatively, “that it is nonsense. It

would be quite easy to fall in love with him. Easier than you imagine.

curiously. Would you care?” she added.

“Care!” he cried; “of course I'd care. What kind of rot are you

talking?”

“Why would you care?”

“Why? What a darned idiotic question--”

“It's not really so idiotic as you think it is,” she said. “Suppose I

allowed Mr. Brent to make love to me, as he's very willing to do, would

you be sufficiently interested to compete.”

“To what?”

“To compete.”

“But--but we're married.”

She laid her hand upon her knee and glanced down at it.

“It never occurred to me until lately,” she said, “how absurd is the

belief men still hold in these days that a wedding-ring absolves them

forever from any effort on their part to retain their wives' affections.

They regard the ring very much as a ball and chain, or a hobble to

prevent the women from running away, that they may catch them whenever

they may desire--which isn't often. Am I not right?”

He snapped his cigarette case.

“Darn it, Honora, you're getting too deep for me!” he exclaimed. “You

never liked those, Browning women down at Rivington, but if this isn't

browning I'm hanged if I know what it is. An attack of nerves, perhaps.

They tell me that women go all to pieces nowadays over nothing at all.”

“That's just it,” she agreed, “nothing at all!”

“I thought as much,” he replied, eager to seize this opportunity of

ending a conversation that had neither head nor tail, and yet was

marvellously uncomfortable. “There! be a good girl, and forget it.”

He stooped down suddenly to her face to kiss her, but she turned her

face in time to receive the caress on the cheek.

“The panacea!” she said.

He laughed a little, boyishly, as he stood looking down at her.

“Sometimes I can't make you out,” he said. “You've changed a good deal

since I married you.”

She was silent. But the thought occurred to her that a complete

absorption in commercialism was not developing.

“If you can manage it, Honora,” he added with an attempt at lightness,

“I wish you'd have a little dinner soon, and ask Brent. Will you?”

“Nothing,” she replied, “would give me greater pleasure.”

He patted her on the shoulder and left the room whistling. But she sat

where she was until the maid came in to pull the curtains and turn on

the lights, reminding her that guests were expected.

.....................

Although the circle of Mr. Brent's friends could not be said to include

any university or college presidents, it was, however, both catholic

and wide. He was hail fellow, indeed, with jockeys and financiers, great

ladies and municipal statesmen of good Irish stock. He was a lion who

roamed at large over a great variety of hunting grounds, some of

which it would be snobbish to mention; for many reasons he preferred

Quicksands: a man-eater, a woman-eater, and extraordinarily popular,

nevertheless. Many ladies, so it was reported, had tried to tame him:

some of them he had cheerfully gobbled up, and others after the briefest

of inspections, disdainfully thrust aside with his paw.

This instinct for lion taming, which the most spirited of women possess,

is, by the way, almost inexplicable to the great majority of the male

sex. Honora had it, as must have been guessed. But however our faith in

her may be justified by the ridiculous ease of her previous conquests,

we cannot regard without trepidation her entrance into the arena with

this particular and widely renowned king of beasts. Innocence pitted

against sophistry and wile and might.

Two of the preliminary contests we have already witnessed. Others, more

or less similar, followed during a period of two months or more. Nothing

inducing the excessive wagging of tongues,--Honora saw to that, although

Mrs. Chandos kindly took the trouble to warn our heroine,--a scene for

which there is unfortunately no space in this chronicle; an entirely

amicable, almost honeyed scene, in Honora's boudoir. Nor can a complete

picture of life at Quicksands be undertaken. Multiply Mrs. Dallam's

dinner-party by one hundred, Howard Silence's Sundays at the Club

by twenty, and one has a very fair idea of it. It was not precisely

intellectual. “Happy,” says Montesquieu, “the people whose annals are

blank in history's book.” Let us leave it at that.

Late one afternoon in August Honora was riding homeward along the ocean

road. The fragrant marshes that bordered it were a vivid green under the

slanting rays of the sun, and she was gazing across them at the breakers

crashing on the beach beyond. Trixton Brent was beside her.

“I wish you wouldn't stare at me so,” she said, turning to him suddenly;

“it is embarrassing.”

“How did you know I was looking at you?” he asked.

“I felt it.”

He drew his horse a little nearer.

“Sometimes you're positively uncanny,” she added.

He laughed.

“I rather like that castles-in-Spain expression you wore,” he declared.

“Castles in Spain?”

“Or in some other place where the real estate is more valuable.

Certainly not in Quicksands.”

“You are uncanny,” proclaimed Honora, with conviction.

“I told you you wouldn't like Quicksands,” said he.

“I've never said I didn't like it,” she replied. “I can't see why you

assume that I don't.”

“You're ambitious,” he said. “Not that I think it a fault, when it's

more or less warranted. Your thrown away here, and you know it.”

She made him a bow from the saddle.

“I have not been without a reward, at least,” she answered, and looked

at him.

“I have,” said he.

Honora smiled.

“I'm going to be your good angel, and help you get out of it,” he

continued.

“Get out of what?”

“Quicksands.”

“Do you think I'm in danger of sinking?” she asked. “And is it

impossible for me to get out alone, if I wished to?”

“It will be easier with my help,” he answered. “You're clever enough to

realize that--Honora.”

She was silent awhile.

“You say the most extraordinary things,” she remarked presently.

“Sometimes I think they are almost--”

“Indelicate,” he supplied.

She coloured.

“Yes, indelicate.”

“You can't forgive me for sweeping away your rose-coloured cloud of

romance,” he declared, laughing. “There are spades in the pack, however

much you may wish to ignore 'em. You know very well you don't like these

Quicksands people. They grate on your finer sensibilities, and all that

sort of thing. Come, now, isn't it so?”

She coloured again, and put her horse to the trot.

“Onwards and upwards,” he cried. “Veni, vidi, vici, ascendi.”

“It seems to me,” she laughed, “that so much education is thrown away on

the stock market.”

“Whether you will be any happier higher up,” he went on, “God knows.

Sometimes I think you ought to go back to the Arcadia you came from. Did

you pick out Spence for an embryo lord of high finance?”

“My excuse is,” replied Honora, “that I was very young, and I hadn't met

you.”

Whether the lion has judged our heroine with astuteness, or done her a

little less than justice, must be left to the reader. Apparently he is

accepting her gentle lashings with a meek enjoyment. He assisted her to

alight at her own door, sent the horses home, and offered to come in and

give her a lesson in a delightful game that was to do its share in the

disintegration of the old and tiresome order of things--bridge. The

lion, it will be seen, was self-sacrificing even to the extent of

double dummy. He had picked up the game with characteristic aptitude

abroad--Quicksands had yet to learn it.

Howard Spence entered in the midst of the lesson.

“Hello, Brent,” said he, genially, “you may be interested to know I got

that little matter through without a hitch to-day.”

“I continue to marvel at you,” said the lion, and made it no trumps.

Since this is a veracious history, and since we have wandered so far

from home and amidst such strange, if brilliant scenes, it must be

confessed that Honora, three days earlier, had entered a certain shop in

New York and inquired for a book on bridge. Yes, said the clerk, he had

such a treatise, it had arrived from England a week before. She kept it

looked up in her drawer, and studied it in the mornings with a pack of

cards before her.

Given the proper amount of spur, anything in reason can be mastered.

Volume 4.

CHAPTER VII. OF CERTAIN DELICATE MATTERS

In the religious cult of Gad and Meni, practised with such enthusiasm

at Quicksands, the Saints' days were polo days, and the chief of

all festivals the occasion of the match with the Banbury Hunt

Club--Quicksands's greatest rival. Rival for more reasons than one,

reasons too delicate to tell. Long, long ago there appeared in Punch

a cartoon of Lord Beaconsfield executing that most difficult of

performances, an egg dance. We shall be fortunate indeed if we get to

the end of this chapter without breaking an egg!

Our pen fails us in a description of that festival of festivals, the

Banbury one, which took place early in September. We should have to go

back to Babylon and the days of King Nebuchadnezzar. (Who turns out

to have been only a regent, by the way, and his name is now said to be

spelled rezzar). How give an idea of the libations poured out to Gad and

the shekels laid aside for Meni in the Quicksands Temple?

Honora privately thought that building ugly, and it reminded her of a

collection of huge yellow fungi sprawling over the ground. A few of the

inevitable tortured cedars were around it. Between two of the larger

buildings was wedged a room dedicated to the worship of Bacchus, to-day

like a narrow river-gorge at flood time jammed with tree-trunks--some

of them, let us say, water-logged--and all grinding together with an

intolerable noise like a battle. If you happened to be passing the

windows, certain more or less intelligible sounds might separate

themselves from the bedlam.

“Four to five on Quicksands!”

“That stock isn't worth a d--n!”

“She's gone to South Dakota.”

Honora, however, is an heretic, as we know. Without going definitely

into her reasons, these festivals had gradually become distasteful to

her. Perhaps it would be fairer to look at them through the eyes of Lily

Dallam, who was in her element on such days, and regarded them as the

most innocent and enjoyable of occasions, and perhaps they were.

The view from the veranda, at least, appealed to our heroine's artistic

sense. The marshes in the middle distance, the shimmering sea beyond,

and the polo field laid down like a vast green carpet in the foreground;

while the players, in white breeches and bright shirts, on the agile

little horses that darted hither and thither across the turf lent an

added touch of colour and movement to the scene. Amongst them, Trixton

Brent most frequently caught the eye and held it. Once Honora perceived

him flying the length of the field, madly pursued, his mallet poised

lightly, his shirt bulging in the wind, his close-cropped head bereft

of a cap, regardless of the havoc and confusion behind him. He played,

indeed, with the cocksureness and individuality one might have expected;

and Honora, forgetting at moments the disturbing elements by which she

was surrounded, followed him with fascination. Occasionally his name

rippled from one end of the crowded veranda to the other, and she

experienced a curious and uncomfortable sensation when she heard it in

the mouths of these strangers.

From time to time she found herself watching them furtively, comparing

them unconsciously with her Quicksands friends. Some of them she had

remarked before, at contests of a minor importance, and they seemed to

her to possess a certain distinction that was indefinable. They had

come to-day from many mysterious (and therefore delightful) places which

Honora knew only by name, and some had driven the twenty-five odd miles

from the bunting community of Banbury in coaches and even those new and

marvellous importations--French automobiles. When the game had ended,

and Lily Dallam was cajoling the club steward to set her tea-table at

once, a group of these visitors halted on the lawn, talking and laughing

gayly. Two of the younger men Honora recognized with a start, but for a

moment she could not place them--until suddenly she remembered that she

had seen them on her wedding trip at Hot Springs. The one who lisped was

Mr. Cuthbert, familiarly known as “Toots”: the other, taller and slimmer

and paler, was Jimmy Wing. A third, the regularity of whose features

made one wonder at the perfection which nature could attain when she

chose, who had a certain Gallic appearance (and who, if the truth be

told, might have reminded an impartial eye of a slightly animated wax

clothing model), turned, stared, hesitated, and bowed to Lily Dallam.

“That's Reggie Farwel, who did my house in town,” she whispered to

Honora. “He's never been near me since it was finished. He's utterly

ruined.”

Honora was silent. She tried not to look at the group, in which there

were two women of very attractive appearance, and another man.

“Those people are so superior,” Mrs. Dallam continued.

“I'm not surprised at Elsie Shorter. Ever since she married Jerry she's

stuck to the Graingers closer than a sister. That's Cecil Grainger,

my dear, the man who looks as though he were going to fall asleep any

moment. But to think of Abby Kame acting that way! Isn't it ridiculous,

Clara?” she cried, appealing to Mrs. Trowbridge. “They say that Cecil

Grainger never leaves her side. I knew her when she first married John

Kame, the dearest, simplest man that ever was. He was twenty years older

than Abby, and made his money in leather. She took the first steamer

after his funeral and an apartment in a Roman palace for the winter. As

soon as she decently could she made for England. The English will put up

with anybody who has a few million dollars, and I don't deny that Abby's

good-looking, and clever in her way. But it's absurd for her to come

over here and act as though we didn't exist. She needn't be afraid that

I'll speak to her. They say she became intimate with Bessie Grainger

through charities. One of your friend Mrs. Holt's charities, by the way,

Honora. Where are you going?”

For Honora had risen.

“I think I'll go home, Lily,” she said; “I'm rather tired.”

“Home!” exclaimed Mrs. Dallam. “What can you be thinking of, my dear?

Nobody ever goes home after the Banbury match. The fun has just begun,

and we're all to stay here for dinner and dance afterwards. And Trixy

Brent promised me faithfully he'd' come here for tea, as soon as he

dressed.”

“I really can't stay, Lily. I--I don't feel up to it,” said Honora,

desperately.

“And you can't know how I counted on you! You look perfectly fresh, my

dear.”

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone.

In spite of the cries of protest that followed her and drew--she

thought--an unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she

threaded her way among groups of people who stared after her. Her colour

was high, her heart beating painfully; a vague sense of rebellion and

shame within her for which she did not try to account. Rather than run

the gantlet of the crowded veranda she stepped out on the lawn, and

there encountered Trixton Brent. He had, in an incredibly brief time,

changed from his polo clothes to flannels and a straw hat. He looked at

her and whistled, and barred her passage.

“Hello!” he cried. “Hoity-toity! Where are we going in such a hurry?”

“Home,” answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his

deception, “the game's over, isn't it? I'm glad you won.”

Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she

avoided his eyes.

“But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?--no reference to

your complexion. Has there been a row?”

“Oh, no--I was just--tired. Please let me go.”

“Being your good angel--or physician, as you choose--I have a

prescription for that kind of weariness,” he said smilingly.

“I--anticipated such an attack. That's why I got into my clothes in such

record time.”

“I don't know what you mean,” faltered Honora. “You are always imagining

all sorts of things about me that aren't true.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Brent, “I have promised faithfully to do

a favor for certain friends of mine who have been clamouring to be

presented to you.”

“I can't--to-day--Mr. Brent,” she cried. “I really don't feel

like-meeting people. I told Lily Dallam I was going home.”

The group, however, which had been the object of that lady's remarks was

already moving towards them--with the exception of Mrs. Shorter and Mr.

Farwell, who had left it. They greeted Mr. Brent with great cordiality.

“Mrs. Kame,” he said, “let me introduce Mrs. Spence. And Mrs. Spence,

Mr. Grainger, Mr. Wing, and Mr. Cuthbert. Mrs. Spence was just going

home.”

“Home!” echoed Mrs. Kame, “I thought Quicksands people never went home

after a victory.”

“I've scarcely been here long enough,” replied Honora, “to have acquired

all of the Quicksands habits.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Kame, and looked at Honora again. “Wasn't that Mrs.

Dallam you were with? I used to know her, years ago, but she doesn't

speak to me any more.”

“Perhaps she thinks you've forgotten her,” said Honora.

“It would be impossible to forget Mrs. Dallam,” declared Mrs. Kame.

“So I should have thought,” said Honora.

Trixton Brent laughed, and Mrs. Kame, too, after a moment's hesitation.

She laid her hand familiarly on Mr. Brent's arm.

“I haven't seen you all summer, Trixy,” she said. “I hear you've been

here at Quicksands, stewing in that little packing-case of yours. Aren't

you coming into our steeplechase at Banbury.

“I believe you went to school with my sister,” said young Mr. Wing.

“Oh, yes,” answered Honora, somewhat surprised. “I caught a glimpse of

her once, in New York. I hope you will remember me to her.”

“And I've seen you before,” proclaimed Mr. Cuthbert, “but I can't for

the life of me think where.”

Honora did not enlighten him.

“I shan't forget, at any rate, Mrs. Spence,” said Cecil Grainger, who

had not taken his eyes from her, except to blink.

Mrs. Kame saved her the embarrassment of replying.

“Can't we go somewhere and play bridge,” Trixy demanded.

“I'd be delighted to offer you the hospitality of my packing-case,

as you call it,” said Brent, “but the dining-room ceiling fell down

Wednesday, and I'm having the others bolstered up as a mere matter of

precaution.”

“I suppose we couldn't get a fourth, anyway. Neither Jimmy nor Toots

plays. It's so stupid of them not to learn.”

“Mrs. Spence might, help us out,” suggested Brent.

“Do you play?” exclaimed Mrs. Kame, in a voice of mixed incredulity and

hope.

“Play!” cried Mr. Brent, “she can teach Jerry Shorter or the Duchess of

Taunton.”

“The Duchess cheats,” announced Cecil Grainger. “I caught her at it at

Cannes--”

“Indeed, I don't play very well,” Honora interrupted him, “and

besides--”

“Suppose we go over to Mrs. Spence's house,” Trixton Brent suggested.

“I'm sure she'd like to have us wouldn't you, Mrs. Spence?”

“What a brilliant idea, Trixy!” exclaimed Mrs. Kame.

“I should be delighted,” said Honora, somewhat weakly. An impulse made

her glance toward the veranda, and for a fraction of a second she caught

the eye of Lily Dallam, who turned again to Mrs. Chandos.

“I say,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “I don't play--but I hope I may come along.”

“And me too,” chimed in Mr. Wing.

Honora, not free from a certain uneasiness of conscience, led the way

to the Brackens, flanked by Mr. Grainger and Mr. Cuthbert. Her frame of

mind was not an ideal one for a hostess; she was put out with Trixton

Brent, and she could not help wondering whether these people would have

made themselves so free with another house. When tea was over, however,

and the bridge had begun, her spirits rose; or rather, a new and strange

excitement took possession of her that was not wholly due to the novel

and revolutionary experience of playing, for money--and winning. Her

star being in the ascendant, as we may perceive. She had drawn Mrs.

Kame for a partner, and the satisfaction and graciousness of that lady

visibly grew as the score mounted: even the skill of Trixton Brent could

not triumph over the hands which the two ladies held.

In the intervals the talk wandered into regions unfamiliar to Honora,

and she had a sense that her own horizon was being enlarged. A new

vista, at least, had been cut: possibilities became probabilities. Even

when Mrs. Kame chose to ridicule Quicksands Honora was silent, so keenly

did she feel the justice of her guest's remarks; and the implication was

that Honora did not belong there. When train time arrived and they were

about to climb into Trixton Brent's omnibus--for which he had obligingly

telephoned--Mrs. Kame took Honora's band in both her own. Some good

thing, after all, could come out of this community--such was the

triumphant discovery the lady's manner implied.

“My dear, don't you ever come to Banbury?” she asked. “I'd be so glad to

see you. I must get Trixy to drive you over some day for lunch. We've

had such a good time, and Cecil didn't fall asleep once. Quite a record.

You saved our lives, really.”

“Are you going to be in town this winter?” Mr. Grainger inquired.

“I,--I suppose so--replied Honora, for the moment taken aback, although

I haven't decided just where.”

“I shall look forward to seeing you,” he said.

This hope was expressed even more fervently by Mr. Cuthbert and Mr.

Wing, and the whole party waved her a cordial good-by as the carriage

turned the circle. Trixton Brent, with his hands in his pockets, stood

facing her under the electric light on the porch.

“Well?” he said.

“Well,” repeated Honora.

“Nice people,” said Mr. Brent.

Honora bridled.

“You invited them here,” she said. “I must say I think it, was

rather--presumptuous. And you've got me into no end of trouble with Lily

Dallam.”

He laughed as he held open the screen door for her.

“I wonder whether a good angel was ever so abused,” he said.

“A good angel,” she repeated, smiling at him in spite of herself.

“Or knight-errant,” he continued, “whichever you choose. You want to get

out of Quicksands--I'm trying to make it easy for you. Before you leave

you have to arrange some place to go. Before we are off with the old

we'd better be on with the new.”

“Oh, please don't say such things,” she cried, “they're so--so sordid.”

She looked searchingly into his face. “Do I really seem to you like

that?”

Her lip was quivering, and she was still under the influence of the

excitement which the visit of these people had brought about.

“No,” said Brent--coming very close to her, “no, you don't. That's the

extraordinary part of it. The trouble with you, Honora, is that you want

something badly very badly--and you haven't yet found out what it is.

“And you won't find out,” he added, “until you have tried everything.

Therefore am I a good Samaritan, or something like it.”

She looked at him with startled eyes, breathing deeply.

“I wonder if that is so!” she said, in a low voice.

“Not until you have had and broken every toy in the shop,” he declared.

“Out of the mouths of men of the world occasionally issues wisdom. I'm

going to help you get the toys. Don't you think I'm kind?”

“And isn't this philanthropic mood a little new to you?” she asked.

“I thought I had exhausted all novelties,” he answered. “Perhaps that's

the reason why I enjoy it.”

She turned and walked slowly into the drawing-room, halted, and stood

staring at the heap of gold and yellow bills that Mr. Grainger had

deposited in front of the place where she had sat. Her sensation was

akin to sickness. She reached out with a kind of shuddering fascination

and touched the gold.

“I think,” she said, speaking rather to herself than to Brent, “I'll

give it to charity.”

“If it is possible to combine a meritorious act with good policy, I

should suggest giving it to Mrs. Grainger for the relief of oppressed

working girls,” he said.

Honora started.

“I wonder why Howard doesn't come she exclaimed, looking at the clock.

“Probably because he is holding nothing but full hands and flushes,”

hazarded Mr. Brent. “Might I propose myself for dinner?”

“When so many people are clamouring for you?” she asked.

“Even so,” he said.

“I think I'll telephone to the Club,” said Honora, and left the room.

It was some time before her husband responded to the call; and then he

explained that if Honora didn't object, he was going to a man's dinner

in a private room. The statement was not unusual.

“But, Howard,” she said, “I--I wanted you particularly to-night.”

“I thought you were going to dine with Lily Dallam. She told me you

were. Are you alone?”

“Mr. Brent is here. He brought over some Banbury people to play bridge.

They've gone.”

“Oh, Brent will amuse you,” he replied. “I didn't know you were going to

be home, and I've promised these men. I'll come back early.”

She hung up the receiver thoughtfully, paused a moment, and went back to

the drawing-room. Brent looked up.

“Well,” he said, “was I right?”

“You seem always to be right,” Honora, sighed.

After dinner they sat in the screened part of the porch which Mrs. Fern

had arranged very cleverly as an outside room. Brent had put a rug over

Honora's knees, for the ocean breath that stirred the leaves was cold.

Across the darkness fragments of dance music drifted fitfully from the

Club, and died away; and at intervals, when the embers of his cigar

flared up, she caught sight of her companion's face.

She found him difficult to understand. There are certain rules of thumb

in every art, no doubt,--even in that most perilous one of lion-taming.

But here was a baffling, individual lion. She liked him best, she told

herself, when he purred platonically, but she could by no means be sure

that his subjection was complete. Sometimes he had scratched her in his

play. And however natural it is to desire a lion for one's friend, to be

eaten is both uncomfortable and inglorious.

“That's a remarkable husband of yours,” he said at length.

“I shouldn't have said that you were a particularly good judge of

husbands,” she retorted, after a moment of surprise.

He acknowledged with a laugh the justice of this observation.

“I stand corrected. He is by no means a remarkable husband. Permit me to

say he is a remarkable man.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Honora, considerably disturbed.

“Because he induced you to marry him, for one thing,” said Brent. “Of

course he got you before you knew what you were worth, but we must give

him credit for discovery and foresight.”

“Perhaps,” Honora could not resist replying, “perhaps he didn't know

what he was getting.”

“That's probably true,” Brent assented, “or he'd be sitting here now,

where I am, instead of playing poker. Although there is something in

matrimony that takes the bloom off the peach.”

“I think that's a horrid, cynical remark,” said Honora.

“Well,” he said, “we speak according to our experiences--that is, if

we're not inclined to be hypocritical. Most women are.”

Honora was silent. He had thrown away his cigar, and she could no longer

see his face. She wondered whither he was leading.

“How would you like to see your husband president of a trust company?”

he said suddenly.

“Howard--president of a trust company!” she exclaimed.

“Why not?” he demanded. And added enigmatically, “Smaller men have

been.”

“I wish you wouldn't joke about Howard,” she said.

“How does the idea strike you?” he persisted. “Ambition

satisfied--temporarily; Quicksands a mile-stone on a back road; another

toy to break; husband a big man in the community, so far as the eye can

see; visiting list on Fifth Avenue, and all that sort of thing.”

“I once told you you could be brutal,” she said.

“You haven't told me what you thought of the idea.”

“I wish you'd be sensible once in a while,” she exclaimed.

“Howard Spence, President of the Orange Trust Company!” he recited. “I

suppose no man is a hero to his wife. Does it sound so incredible?”

It did. But Honora did not say so.

“What have I to do with it?” she asked, in pardonable doubt as to his

seriousness.

“Everything,” answered Brent. “Women of your type usually have. They

make and mar without rhyme or reason--set business by the ears, alter

the gold reserve, disturb the balance of trade, and nobody ever suspects

it. Old James Wing and I have got a trust company organized, and the

building up, and the man Wing wanted for president backed out.”

Honora sat up.

“Why--why did he 'back out'?” she demanded.

“He preferred to stay where he was, I suppose,” replied Brent, in

another tone. “The point is that the place is empty. I'll give it to

YOU.”

“To me?”

“Certainly,” said Brent, “I don't pretend to care anything about

your husband. He'll do as well as the next man. His duties are pretty

well--defined.”

Again she was silent. But after a moment dropped back in her chair and

laughed uneasily.

“You're preposterous,” she said; “I can't think why I let you talk to me

in this way.”

CHAPTER VIII. OF MENTAL PROCESSES--FEMININE AND INSOLUBLE

Honora may be pardoned for finally ascribing to Mr. Brent's somewhat

sardonic sense of humour his remarks concerning her husband's elevation

to a conspicuous position in the world of finance. Taken in any other

sense than a joke, they were both insulting and degrading, and made her

face burn when she thought of them. After he had gone--or rather after

she had dismissed him--she took a book upstairs to wait for Howard, but

she could not read. At times she wished she had rebuked Trixton Brent

more forcibly, although he was not an easy person to rebuke; and again

she reflected that, had she taken the matter too seriously, she would

have laid herself open to his ridicule. The lion was often unwittingly

rough, and perhaps that was part of his fascination.

If Howard had come home before midnight it is possible that she might

have tried to sound him as to his relations with Trixton Brent. That

gentleman, she remembered, had the reputation of being a peculiarly

hardheaded business man, and it was of course absurd that he should

offer her husband a position merely to please her. And her imagination

failed her when she tried to think of Howard as the president of a trust

company. She was unable to picture him in a great executive office:

This train of thought led her to the unaccustomed task of analyzing his

character. For the first time since her marriage comparisons crept

into her mind, and she awoke to the fact that he was not a masterful

man--even among men. For all his self-confidence-self-assurance,

perhaps, would be the better word--he was in reality a follower, not

a leader; a gleaner. He did not lack ideas. She tried to arrest the

process in her brain when she got as far as asking herself whether it

might not be that he lacked ideals. Since in business matters he never

had taken her into his confidence, and since she would not at any rate

have understood such things, she had no proof of such a failing. But one

or two vague remarks of Trixton Brent's which she recalled, and Howard's

own request that she should be friendly with Brent, reenforced her

instinct on this point.

When she heard her husband's footstep on the porch, she put out her

light, but still lay thinking in the darkness. Her revelations had

arrived at the uncomfortable stage where they began to frighten her,

and with an effort she forced herself to turn to the other side of the

account. The hour was conducive to exaggerations. Perfection in husbands

was evidently a state not to be considered by any woman in her right

senses. He was more or less amenable, and he was prosperous, although

definite news of that prosperity never came from him--Quicksands

always knew of it first. An instance of this second-hand acquisition of

knowledge occurred the very next morning, when Lily Dallam, with much

dignity, walked into Honora's little sitting-room. There was no apparent

reason why dignity should not have been becoming to Lily Dallam, for she

was by no means an unimpressive-looking woman; but the assumption by her

of that quality always made her a little tragic or (if one chanced to be

in the humour--Honora was not) a little ridiculous.

“I suppose I have no pride,” she said, as she halted within a few feet

of the doorway.

“Why, Lily!” exclaimed Honora, pushing back the chair from her desk, and

rising.

But Mrs. Dallam did not move.

“I suppose I have no pride,” she repeated in a dead voice, “but I just

couldn't help coming over and giving you a chance.”

“Giving me a chance?” said Honora.

“To explain--after the way you treated me at the polo game. If I hadn't

seen it with my own eyes, I shouldn't have believed it. I don't think I

should have trusted my own eyes,” Mrs. Dallam went so far as to affirm,

“if Lula Chandos and Clara Trowbridge and others hadn't been there and

seen it too; I shouldn't have believed it.”

Honora was finding penitence a little difficult. But her heart was kind.

“Do sit down, Lily,” she begged. “If I've offended you in any way, I'm

exceedingly sorry--I am, really. You ought to know me well enough to

understand that I wouldn't do anything to hurt your feelings.”

“And when I counted on you so, for my tea and dinner at the club!”

continued Mrs. Dallam. “There were other women dying to come. And you

said you had a headache, and were tired.”

“I was,” began Honora, fruitlessly.

“And you were so popular in Quicksands--everybody was crazy about you.

You were so sweet and so unspoiled. I might have known that it couldn't

last. And now, because Abby Kame and Cecil Grainger and--”

“Lily, please don't say such things!” Honora implored, revolted.

“Of course you won't be satisfied now with anything less than Banbury

or Newport. But you can't say I didn't warn you, Honora, that they are

a horrid, selfish, fast lot,” Lily Dallam declared, and brushed her eyes

with her handkerchief. “I did love you.”

“If you'll only be reasonable a moment, Lily,--” said Honora.

“Reasonable! I saw you with my own eyes. Five minutes after you left

me they all started for your house, and Lula Chandos said it was the

quickest cure of a headache she had ever seen.”

“Lily,” Honora began again, with exemplary patience, “when people invite

themselves to one's house, it's a little difficult to refuse them

hospitality, isn't it?”

“Invite themselves?”

“Yes,” replied Honora. “If I weren't--fond of you, too, I shouldn't

make this explanation. I was tired. I never felt less like entertaining

strangers. They wanted to play bridge, there wasn't a quiet spot in

the Club where they could go. They knew I was on my way home, and they

suggested my house. That is how it happened.”

Mrs. Dallam was silent a moment.

“May I have one of Howard's cigarettes?” she asked, and added, after

this modest wish had been supplied, “that's just like them. They're

willing to make use of anybody.”

“I meant,” said Honora, “to have gone to your house this morning and to

have explained how it happened.”

Another brief silence, broken by Lily Dallam.

“Did you notice the skirt of that suit Abby Kame had on?”, she asked.

“I'm sure she paid a fabulous price for it in Paris, and it's exactly

like one I ordered on Tuesday.”

The details of the rest of this conversation may be omitted. That Honora

was forgiven, and Mrs. Dallam's spirits restored may be inferred from

her final remark.

“My dear, what do you think of Sid and Howard making twenty thousand

dollars apiece in Sassafras Copper? Isn't it too lovely! I'm having a

little architect make me plans for a conservatory. You know I've always

been dying for one--I don't see how I've lived all these years without

it.”

Honora, after her friend had gone, sat down in one of the wicker chairs

on the porch. She had a very vague idea as to how much twenty thousand

dollars was, but she reflected that while they had lived in Rivington

Howard must have made many similar sums, of which she was unaware.

Gradually she began to realize, however, that her resentment of the

lack of confidence of her husband was by no means the only cause of the

feeling that took possession of and overwhelmed her. Something like it

she had experienced before: to-day her thoughts seemed to run through

her in pulsations, like waves of heat, and she wondered that she could

have controlled herself while listening to Lily Dallam.

Mrs. Dallam's reproaches presented themselves to Honora in new aspects.

She began to feel now, with an intensity that frightened her, distaste

and rebellion. It was intolerable that she should be called to account

for the people she chose to have in her house, that any sort of pressure

should be brought to bear on her to confine her friends to Quicksands.

Treason, heresy, disloyalty to the cult of that community--in reality

these, and not a breach of engagement, were the things of which she

had been accused. She saw now. She would not be tied to Quicksands--she

would not, she would not, she would not! She owed it no allegiance. Her

very soul rebelled at the thought, and cried out that she was made for

something better, something higher than the life she had been leading.

She would permit no one forcibly to restrict her horizon.

Just where and how this higher and better life was to be found

Honora did not know; but the belief of her childhood--that it existed

somewhere--was still intact. Her powers of analysis, we see, are only

just budding, and she did not and could not define the ideal existence

which she so unflaggingly sought. Of two of its attributes only she was

sure--that it was to be free from restraint and from odious comparisons.

Honora's development, it may be remarked, proceeds by the action of

irritants, and of late her protest against Quicksands and what it

represented had driven her to other books besides the treatise on

bridge. The library she had collected at Rivington she had brought with

her, and was adding to it from time to time. Its volumes are neither

sufficiently extensive or profound to enumerate.

Those who are more or less skilled in psychology may attempt to

establish a sequence between the events and reflections just related

and the fact that, one morning a fortnight later, Honora found herself

driving northward on Fifth Avenue in a hansom cab. She was in a

pleasurable state of adventurous excitement, comparable to that Columbus

must have felt when the shores of the Old World had disappeared below

the horizon. During the fortnight we have skipped Honora had been to

town several times, and had driven and walked through certain streets:

inspiration, courage, and decision had all arrived at once this morning,

when at the ferry she had given the cabman this particular address on

Fifth Avenue.

The cab, with the jerking and thumping peculiar to hansoms, made a

circle and drew up at the curb. But even then a moment of irresolution

intervened, and she sat staring through the little side window at the

sign, T. Gerald Shorter, Real Estate, in neat gold letters over the

basement floor of the building.

“Here y'are, Miss,” said the cabman through the hole in the roof.

Honora descended, and was almost at the flight of steps leading down to

the office door when a familiar figure appeared coming out of it. It was

that of Mr. Toots Cuthbert, arrayed in a faultless morning suit, his tie

delicately suggestive of falling leaves; and there dangled over his arm

the slenderest of walking sticks.

“Mrs. Spence!” he lisped, with every appearance of joy.

“Mr. Cuthbert!” she cried.

“Going in to see Jerry?” he inquired after he had put on his hat,

nodding up at the sign.

“I--that is, yes, I had thought of it,” she answered.

“Town house?” said Mr. Cuthbert, with a knowing smile.

“I did have an idea of looking at houses,” she confessed, somewhat taken

aback.

“I'm your man,” announced Mr. Cuthbert.

“You!” exclaimed Honora, with an air of considering the lilies of the

field. But he did not seem to take offence.

“That's my business,” he proclaimed,--“when in town. Jerry gives me a

commission. Come in and see him, while I get a list and some keys. By

the way, you wouldn't object to telling him you were a friend of mine,

would you?”

“Not at all,” said Honora, laughing.

Mr. Shorter was a jovial gentleman in loose-fitting clothes, and he was

exceedingly glad to meet Mr. Cuthbert's friend.

“What kind of a house do you want, Mrs. Spence?” he asked. “Cuthbert

tells me this morning that the Whitworth house has come into the market.

You couldn't have a better location than that, on the Avenue between the

Cathedral and the Park.”

“Oh,” said Honora with a gasp, “that's much too expensive, I'm sure.

And there are only two of us.” She hesitated, a little alarmed at the

rapidity with which affairs were proceeding, and added: “I ought to tell

you that I've not really decided to take a house. I wished to--to see

what there was to be had, and then I should have to consult my husband.”

She gazed very seriously into Mr. Shorter's brown eyes, which became

very wide and serious, too. But all the time it seemed to her that other

parts of him were laughing.

“Husbands,” he declared, “are kill-joys. What have they got to do with a

house--except to sleep in it? Now I haven't the pleasure of knowing you

as well as I hope to one of these days, Mrs. Spence--”

“Oh, I say!” interrupted Mr. Cuthbert.

“But I venture to predict, on a slight acquaintance,” continued Mr.

Shorter, undisturbed, “that you will pick out the house you want, and

that your husband will move into it.”

Honora could not help laughing. And Mr. Shorter leaned back in his

revolving chair and laughed, too, in so alarming a manner as to lead

her to fear he would fall over backwards. But Mr. Cuthbert, who did not

appear to perceive the humour in this conversation, extracted some keys

and several pasteboard slips from a rack in the corner. Suddenly Mr.

Shorter jerked himself upright again, and became very solemn.

“Where's my hat?” he demanded.

“What do you want with your hat?” Mr. Cuthbert inquired.

“Why, I'm going with you, of course,” Mr. Shorter replied. “I've decided

to take a personal interest in this matter. You may regard my presence,

Cuthbert, as justified by an artistic passion for my profession. I

should never forgive myself if Mrs. Spence didn't get just the right

house.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “I'll manage that all right. I thought you were

going to see the representative of a syndicate at eleven.”

Mr. Shorter, with a sigh, acknowledged this necessity, and escorted

Honora gallantly through the office and across the sidewalk to the

waiting hansom. Cuthbert got in beside her.

“Jerry's a joker,” he observed as they drove off, “you mustn't mind

him.”

“I think he's delightful,” said Honora.

“One wouldn't believe that a man of his size and appearance could be so

fond of women,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “He's the greatest old lady-killer

that ever breathed. For two cents he would have come with us this

morning, and let a five thousand dollar commission go. Do you know Mrs.

Shorter?”

“No,” replied Honora. “She looks most attractive. I caught a glimpse of

her at the polo that day with you.”

“I've been at her house in Newport ever since. Came down yesterday

to try to earn some money,” he continued, cheerfully making himself

agreeable. “Deuced clever woman, much too clever for me and Jerry too.

Always in a tete-a-tete with an antiquarian or a pathologist, or a

psychologist, and tells novelists what to put into their next books and

jurists how to decide cases. Full of modern and liberal ideas--believes

in free love and all that sort of thing, and gives Jerry the dickens for

practising it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Honora.

Mr. Cuthbert, however, did not appear to realize that he had shocked

her.

“By the way,” he asked, “have you seen Cecil Grainger since the

Quicksands game?”

“No,” she replied. “Has Mr. Grainger been at Quicksands since?”

“Nobody knows where he's been,” answered Mr. Cuthbert. “It's a mystery.

He hasn't been home--at Newport, I mean-for a fortnight. He's never

stayed away so long without letting any one know where he is. Naturally

they thought he was at Mrs. Kame's in Banbury, but she hasn't laid eyes

on him. It's a mystery. My own theory is that he went to sleep in a

parlour car and was sent to the yards, and hasn't waked up.”

“And isn't Mrs. Grainger worried?” asked Honora.

“Oh, you never can tell anything about her,” he said. “Do you know her?

She's a sphinx. All the Pendletons are Stoics. And besides, she's been

so busy with this Charities Conference that she hasn't had time to think

of Cecil. Who's that?”

“That” was a lady from Rivington, one of Honora's former neighbours, to

whom she had bowed. Life, indeed, is full of contrasts. Mr. Cuthbert,

too, was continually bowing and waving to acquaintances on the Avenue.

Thus pleasantly conversing, they arrived at the first house on the list,

and afterwards went through a succession of them. Once inside, Honora

would look helplessly about her in the darkness while her escort would

raise the shades, admitting a gloomy light on bare interiors or shrouded

furniture.

And the rents: Four, five, six, and seven and eight thousand dollars

a year. Pride prevented her from discussing these prices with Mr.

Cuthbert; and in truth, when lunch time came, she had seen nothing which

realized her somewhat vague but persistent ideals.

“I'm so much obliged to you,” she said, “and I hope you'll forgive me

for wasting your time.”

Mr. Cuthbert smiled broadly, and Honora smiled too.

Indeed, there was something ludicrous in the remark. He assumed an

attitude of reflection.

“I imagine you wouldn't care to go over beyond Lexington Avenue, would

you? I didn't think to ask you.”

“No,” she replied, blushing a little, “I shouldn't care to go over as

far as that.”

He pondered a while longer, when suddenly his face lighted up.

“I've got it!” he cried, “the very thing--why didn't. I think of it?

Dicky Farnham's house, or rather his wife's house. I'll get it straight

after a while,--she isn't his wife any more, you know; she married

Eustace Rindge last month. That's the reason it's for rent. Dicky says

he'll never get married again--you bet! They planned it together, laid

the corner-stone and all that sort of thing, and before it was finished

she had a divorce and had gone abroad with Rindge. I saw her before she

sailed, and she begged me to rent it. But it isn't furnished.”

“I might look at it,” said Honora, dubiously.

“I'm sure it will just suit you,” he declared with enthusiasm. “It's a

real find. We'll drive around by the office and get the keys.”

The house was between Fifth Avenue and Madison, on a cross street

not far below Fifty-Ninth, and Honora had scarcely entered the little

oak-panelled hall before she had forgotten that Mr. Cuthbert was a real

estate agent--a most difficult thing to remember.

Upstairs, the drawing-room was flooded with sunlight that poured in

through a window with stone mullions and leaded panes extending the

entire width of the house. Against the wall stood a huge stone mantel of

the Tudor period, and the ceiling was of wood. Behind the little hall a

cosey library lighted by a well, and behind that an ample dining-room.

And Honora remembered to have seen, in a shop on Fourth Avenue, just the

sideboard for such a setting.

On the third floor, as Mr. Cuthbert pointed out, there was a bedroom and

boudoir for Mrs. Spence, and a bedroom and dressing-room for Mr. Spence.

Into the domestic arrangement of the house, however important, we need

not penetrate. The rent was eight thousand dollars, which Mr. Cuthbert

thought extremely reasonable.

“Eight thousand dollars!” As she stood with her back turned, looking out

on the street, some trick of memory brought into her mind the fact that

she had once heard her uncle declare that he had bought his house and

lot for that exact sum. And as cashier of Mr. Isham's bank, he did not

earn so much in a year.

She had found the house, indeed, but the other and mightier half of the

task remained, of getting Howard into it. In the consideration of this

most difficult of problems Honora, who in her exaltation had beheld

herself installed in every room, grew suddenly serious. She was startled

out of her reflections by a remark of almost uncanny penetration on the

part of Mr. Cuthbert.

“Oh, he'll come round all right, when he sees the house,” that young

gentleman declared.

Honora turned quickly, and, after a moment of astonishment, laughed in

spite of herself. It was impossible not to laugh with Mr. Cuthbert, so

irresistible and debonair was he, so confiding and sympathetic, that

he became; before one knew it, an accomplice. Had he not poured out

to Honora, with a charming gayety and frankness, many of his financial

troubles?

“I'm afraid he'll think it frightfully expensive,” she answered,

becoming thoughtful once more. And it did not occur to her that neither

of them had mentioned the individual to whom they referred.

“Wait until he's feeling tiptop,” Mr. Cuthbert advised, “and then bring

him up here in a hurry. I say, I hope you do take the house,” he added,

with a boyish seriousness after she had refused his appeal to lunch with

him, “and that you will let me come and see you once in a while.”

She lunched alone, in a quiet corner of the dining-room of one of the

large hotels, gazing at intervals absently out of the window. And by the

middle of the afternoon she found herself, quite unexpectedly, in

the antique furniture shop, gazing at the sideboard and a set of

leather-seated Jacobean chairs, and bribing the dealer with a smile to

hold them for a few days until she could decide whether she wished them.

In a similar mood of abstraction she boarded the ferry, but it was not

until the boat had started on its journey that she became aware of a

trim, familiar figure in front of her, silhouetted against the ruffed

blue waters of the river--Trixton Brent's. And presently, as though the

concentration of her thoughts upon his back had summoned him, he turned.

“Where have you been all this time?” she asked. “I haven't seen you for

an age.”

“To Seattle.”

“To Seattle!” she exclaimed. “What were you doing there?”

“Trying to forget you,” he replied promptly, “and incidentally

attempting to obtain control of some properties. Both efforts, I may

add, were unsuccessful.”

“I'm sorry,” said Honora.

“And what mischief,” he demanded, “have you been up to?”

“You'll never guess!” she exclaimed.

“Preparing for the exodus,” he hazarded.

“You surely don't expect me to stay in Quicksands all winter?” she

replied, a little guiltily.

“Quicksands,” he declared, “has passed into history.”

“You always insist upon putting a wrong interpretation upon what I do,”

she complained.

He laughed.

“What interpretation do you put on it?” he asked.

“A most natural and praiseworthy one,” she answered. “Education,

improvement, growth--these things are as necessary for a woman as for

a man. Of course I don't expect you to believe that--your idea of women

not being a very exalted one.”

He did not reply, for at that instant the bell rang, the passengers

pressed forward about them, and they were soon in the midst of the

confusion of a landing. It was not until they were seated in adjoining

chairs of the parlour-car that the conversation was renewed.

“When do you move to town?” he inquired.

However simple Mr. Brent's methods of reasoning may appear to others,

his apparent clairvoyance never failed to startle Honora.

“Somebody has told you that I've been looking at houses!” she exclaimed.

“Have you found one?”

She hesitated.

“Yes--I have found one. It belongs to some people named Farnham--they're

divorced.”

“Dicky Farnham's ex-wife,” he supplied. “I know where it

is--unexceptionable neighbourhood and all that sort of thing.”

“And it's just finished,” continued Honora, her enthusiasm gaining on

her as she spoke of the object which had possessed her mind for four

hours. “It's the most enchanting house, and so sunny for New York. If I

had built it myself it could not have suited me better. Only--”

“Only--” repeated Trixton Brent, smiling.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I really oughtn't to talk about it. I--I

haven't said anything to Howard yet, and he may not like it. I ran

across it by the merest accident.”

“What will you give me,” he said, “if I can induce Howard to like it?”

“My eternal friendship,” she laughed.

“That's not enough,” said Trixton Brent.

CHAPTER IX. INTRODUCING A REVOLUTIONIZING VEHICLE

“Howard,” said Honora that evening, “I've been going through houses

to-day.”

“Houses!” he exclaimed, looking up from his newspaper.

“And I've been most fortunate,” she continued. “I found one that Mrs.

Farnham built--she is now Mrs. Rindge. It is just finished, and so

attractive. If I'd looked until doomsday I couldn't have done any

better.”

“But great Scott!” he ejaculated, “what put the notion of a town house

into your head?”

“Isn't it high time to be thinking of the winter?” she asked. “It's

nearly the end of September.”

He was inarticulate for a few moments, in an evident desperate attempt

to rally his forces to meet such an unforeseen attack.

“Who said anything about going to town?” he inquired.

“Now, Howard, don't be foolish,” she replied. “Surely you didn't expect

to stay in Quicksands all winter?”

“Foolish!” he repeated, and added inconsequently, “why not?”

“Because,” said Honora, calmly, “I have a life to lead as well as you.”

“But you weren't satisfied until you got to Quicksands, and now you want

to leave it.”

“I didn't bargain to stay here in the winter,” she declared. “You know

very well that if you were unfortunate it would be different. But you're

quite prosperous.”

“How do you know?” he demanded unguardedly.

“Quicksands tells me,” she said. “It is--a little humiliating not to

have more of your confidence, and to hear such things from outsiders.”

“You never seemed interested in business matters,” he answered uneasily.

“I should be,” said Honora, “if you would only take the trouble to tell

me about them.” She stood up. “Howard, can't you see that it is making

us--grow apart? If you won't tell me about yourself and what you're

doing, you drive me to other interests. I am your wife, and I ought to

know--I want to know. The reason I don't understand is because you've

never taken the trouble to teach me. I wish to lead my own life, it is

true--to develop. I don't want to be like these other women down here.

I--I was made for something better. I'm sure of it. But I wish my

life to be joined to yours, too--and it doesn't seem to be. And

sometimes--I'm afraid I can't explain it to you--sometimes I feel lonely

and frightened, as though I might do something desperate. And I don't

know what's going to become of me.”

He laid down his newspaper and stared at her helplessly, with the air of

a man who suddenly finds himself at sea in a small boat without oars.

“Oh, you can't understand!” she cried. “I might have known you never

could.”

He was, indeed, thoroughly perplexed and uncomfortable: unhappy might

not be too strong a word. He got up awkwardly and put his hand on her

arm. She did not respond. He drew her, limp and unresisting, down on the

lounge beside him.

“For heaven's sake, what is the matter, Honora?” he faltered. “I--I

thought we were happy. You were getting on all right, and seemed to be

having a good time down here. You never said anything about--this.”

She turned her head and looked at him--a long, searching look with

widened eyes.

“No,” she said slowly, “you don't understand. I suppose it isn't your

fault.”

“I'll try,” he said, “I don't like to see you--upset like this. I'll do

anything I can to make you happy.”

“Not things, not--not toys,” Trixton Brent's expression involuntarily

coming to her lips. “Oh, can't you see I'm not that kind of a woman?

I don't want to be bought. I want you, whatever you are, if you are. I

want to be saved. Take care of me--see a little more of me--be a little

interested in what I think. God gave me a mind, and--other men have

discovered it. You don't know, you can't know, what temptations you

subject me to. It isn't right, Howard. And oh, it is humiliating not to

be able to interest one's husband.”

“But you do interest me,” he protested.

She shook her head.

“Not so much as your business,” she said; “not nearly so much.”

“Perhaps I have been too absorbed,” he confessed. “One thing has

followed another. I didn't suspect that you felt this way. Come, I'll

try to brace up.” He pressed her to him. “Don't feel badly. You're

overwrought. You've exaggerated the situation, Honora. We'll go in on

the eight o'clock train together and look at the house--although I'm

afraid it's a little steep,” he added cautiously.

“I don't care anything about the house,” said Honora. “I don't want it.”

“There!” he said soothingly, “you'll feel differently in the morning.

We'll go and look at it, anyway.”

Her quick ear, however, detected an undertone which, if not precisely

resentment, was akin to the vexation that an elderly gentleman might be

justified in feeling who has taken the same walk for twenty years,

and is one day struck by a falling brick. Howard had not thought of

consulting her in regard to remaining all winter in Quicksands. And,

although he might not realize it himself, if he should consent to go to

New York one reason for his acquiescence would be that the country in

winter offered a more or less favourable atmosphere for the recurrence

of similar unpleasant and unaccountable domestic convulsions. Business

demands peace at any price. And the ultimatum at Rivington, though

delivered in so different a manner, recurred to him.

The morning sunlight, as is well known, is a dispeller of moods, a

disintegrator of the night's fantasies. It awoke Honora at what for her

was a comparatively early hour, and as she dressed rapidly she heard her

husband whistling in his room. It is idle to speculate on the phenomenon

taking place within her, and it may merely be remarked in passing that

she possessed a quality which, in a man, leads to a career and fame.

Unimagined numbers of America's women possess that quality--a fact that

is becoming more and more apparent every day.

“Why, Honora!” Howard exclaimed, as she appeared at the breakfast table.

“What's happened to you?”

“Have you forgotten already,” she asked, smilingly, as she poured out

her coffee, “that we are going to town together?”

He readjusted his newspaper against the carafe.

“How much do you think Mrs. Farnham--or Mrs. Rindge--is worth?” he

asked.

“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied.

“Old Marshall left her five million dollars.”

“What has that to do with it?” inquired Honora.

“She isn't going to rent, especially in that part of town, for nothing.”

“Wouldn't it be wiser, Howard, to wait and see the house. You know you

proposed it yourself, and it won't take very much of your time.”

He returned to a perusal of the financial column, but his eye from

time to time wandered from the sheet to his wife, who was reading her

letters.

“Howard,” she said, “I feel dreadfully about Mrs. Holt. We haven't been

at Silverdale all summer. Here's a note from her saying she'll be in

town to-morrow for the Charities Conference, asking me to come to see

her at her hotel. I think I'll go to Silverdale a little later.”

“Why don't you?” he said. “It would do you good.”

“And you?” she asked.

“My only day of the week is Sunday, Honora. You know that. And I

wouldn't spend another day at Silverdale if they gave me a deed to the

property,” he declared.

On the train, when Howard had returned from the smoking car and they

were about to disembark at Long Island City, they encountered Mr.

Trixton Brent.

“Whither away?” he cried in apparent astonishment. “Up at dawn, and the

eight o'clock train!”

“We were going to look at a house,” explained Honora, “and Howard has no

other time.”

“I'll go, too,” declared Mr. Brent, promptly. “You mightn't think me a

judge of houses, but I am. I've lived in so many bad ones that I know a

good one when I see it now.”

“Honora has got a wild notion into her head that I'm going to take

the Farnham house,” said Howard, smiling. There, on the deck of the

ferryboat, in the flooding sunlight, the idea seemed to give him

amusement. With the morning light Pharaoh must have hardened his heart.

“Well, perhaps you are,” said Mr. Brent, conveying to Honora his delight

in the situation by a scarcely perceptible wink. “I shouldn't like to

take the other end of the bet. Why shouldn't you? You're fat and healthy

and making money faster than you can gather it in.”

Howard coughed, and laughed a little, uncomfortably. Trixton Brent was

not a man to offend.

“Honora has got that delusion, too,” he replied. He steeled himself in

his usual manner for the ordeal to come by smoking a cigarette, for

the arrival of such a powerful ally on his wife's side lent a different

aspect to the situation.

Honora, during this colloquy, was silent. She was a little

uncomfortable, and pretended not to see Mr. Brent's wink.

“Incredible as it may seem, I expected to have my automobile ready this

morning,” he observed; “we might have gone in that. It landed three

days ago, but so far it has failed to do anything but fire off revolver

shots.”

“Oh, I do wish you had it,” said Honora, relieved by the change of

subject. “To drive in one must be such a wonderful sensation.”

“I'll let you know when it stops shooting up the garage and consents to

move out,” he said. “I'll take you down to Quicksands in it.”

The prospective arrival of Mr. Brent's French motor car, which

was looked for daily, had indeed been one of the chief topics of

conversation at Quicksands that summer. He could appear at no lunch

or dinner party without being subjected to a shower of questions as to

where it was, and as many as half a dozen different women among whom was

Mrs. Chandos--declared that he had promised to bring them out from New

York on the occasion of its triumphal entry into the colony. Honora,

needless to say, had betrayed no curiosity.

Neither Mr. Shorter nor Mr. Cuthbert had appeared at the real estate

office when, at a little after nine o'clock; Honora asked for the keys.

And an office boy, perched on the box seat of the carriage, drove with

them to the house and opened the wrought-iron gate that guarded the

entrance, and the massive front door. Honora had a sense of unreality

as they entered, and told herself it was obviously ridiculous that she

should aspire to such a dwelling. Yesterday, under the spell of that

somewhat adventurous excursion with Mr. Cuthbert, she had pictured

herself as installed. He had contrived somehow to give her a sense of

intimacy with the people who lived thereabout--his own friends.

Perhaps it was her husband who was the disillusionizing note as he stood

on the polished floor of the sunflooded drawing-room. Although bare of

furniture, it was eloquent to Honora of a kind of taste not to be

found at Quicksands: it carried her back, by undiscernible channels of

thought, to the impression which, in her childhood, the Hanbury mansion

had always made. Howard, in her present whimsical fancy, even seemed

a little grotesque in such a setting. His inevitable pink shirt and

obviously prosperous clothes made discord there, and she knew in this

moment that he was appraising the house from a commercial standpoint.

His comment confirmed her guess.

“If I were starting out to blow myself, or you, Honora,” he said, poking

with his stick a marmouset of the carved stone mantel, “I'd get a little

more for my money while I was about it.”

Honora did not reply. She looked out of the window instead.

“See here, old man,” said Trixton Brent, “I'm not a real estate dealer

or an architect, but if I were in your place I'd take that carriage and

hustle over to Jerry Shorter's as fast as I could and sign the lease.”

Howard looked at him in some surprise, as one who had learned

that Trixton Brent's opinions were usually worth listening to.

Characteristically, he did not like to display his ignorance.

“I know what you mean, Brent,” he replied, “and there may be something

to the argument. It gives an idea of conservativeness and prosperity.”

“You've made a bull's-eye,” said Trixton Brent, succinctly.

“But--but I'm not ready to begin on this scale,” objected Howard.

“Why,” cried Brent, with evident zest--for he was a man who

enjoyed sport in all its forms, even to baiting the husbands of his

friends,--“when I first set eyes on you, old fellow, I thought you knew

a thing or two, and you've made a few turns since that confirmed the

opinion. But I'm beginning to perceive that you have limitations. I

could sit down here now, if there were any place to sit, and calculate

how much living in this house would be worth to me in Wall Street.”

Honora, who had been listening uneasily, knew that a shrewder or more

disturbing argument could not have been used on her husband; and it came

from Trixton Brent--to Howard at least--ex cathedra. She was filled with

a sense of shame, which was due not solely to the fact that she was a

little conscience-stricken because of her innocent complicity, nor that

her husband did not resent an obvious attempt of a high-handed man

to browbeat him; but also to the feeling that the character of the

discussion had in some strange way degraded the house itself. Why was it

that everything she touched seemed to become contaminated?

“There's no use staying any longer,” she said. “Howard doesn't like it.”

“I didn't say so,” he interrupted. “There's something about the place

that grows on you. If I felt I could afford it--”

“At any rate,” declared Honora, trying to control her voice, “I've

decided, now I've seen it a second time, that I don't want it. I only

wished him to look at it,” she added, scornfully aware that she was

taking up the cudgels in his behalf. But she could not bring herself,

in Brent's presence, to declare that the argument of the rent seemed

decisive.

Her exasperation was somewhat increased by the expression on Trixton

Brent's face, which plainly declared that he deemed her last remarks to

be the quintessence of tactics; and he obstinately refused, as they went

down the stairs to the street, to regard the matter as closed.

“I'll take him down town in the Elevated,” he said, as he put her into

the carriage. “The first round's a draw.”

She directed the driver to the ferry again, and went back to Quicksands.

Several times during the day she was on the point of telephoning Brent

not to try to persuade Howard to rent the house, and once she even got

so far as to take down the receiver. But when she reflected, it seemed

an impossible thing to do. At four o'clock she herself was called to

the telephone by Mr. Cray, a confidential clerk in Howard's office, who

informed her that her husband had been obliged to leave town suddenly on

business, and would not be home that night.

“Didn't he say where he was going?” asked Honora.

“He didn't even tell me, Mrs. Spence,” Cray replied, “and Mr. Dallam

doesn't know.”

“Oh, dear,” said Honora, “I hope he realizes that people are coming for

dinner to-morrow evening.”

“I'm positive, from what he said, that he'll be back some time

to-morrow,” Cray reassured her.

She refused an invitation to dine out, and retired shortly after her

own dinner with a novel so distracting that she gradually regained an

equable frame of mind. The uneasiness, the vague fear of the future,

wore away, and she slept peacefully. In the morning, however; she found

on her breakfast tray a note from Trixton Brent.

Her first feeling after reading it was one of relief that he had not

mentioned the house. He had written from a New York club, asking her to

lunch with him at Delmonico's that day and drive home in the motor. No

answer was required: if she did not appear at one o'clock, he would know

she couldn't come.

Honora took the eleven o'clock train, which gave her an hour after she

arrived in New York to do as she pleased. Her first idea, as she stood

for a moment amidst the clamour of the traffic in front of the ferry

house, was to call on Mrs. Holt at that lady's hotel; and then she

remembered that the Charities Conference began at eleven, and decided

to pay a visit to Madame Dumond, who made a specialty of importing

novelties in dress. Her costume for the prospective excursion in the

automobile had cost Honora some thought that morning. As the day was

cool, she had brought along an ulster that was irreproachable. But how

about the hat and veil?

Madame Dumond was enchanted. She had them both,--she had landed with

them only last week. She tried them on Honora, and stood back with

her hands clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide. What

a satisfaction to sell things to Mrs. Spence! Some ladies she could

mention would look like frights in them, but Madame Spence had 'de la

race'. She could wear anything that was chic. The hat and veil, said

Madame, with a simper, were sixty dollars.

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Honora.

“Ah, madame, what would you?” Novelties were novelties, the United

States Custom authorities robbers.

Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the

restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her

veins. The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of

animation. She glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side.

Her veil was grey, and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a

religieuse, an aspect heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and

something akin to a religious thrill ran through her.

The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was

waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met

in the vestibule of Delmonico's was Lula Chandos. She was, as usual,

elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so

anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, “have

you seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?”

A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.

“She was in town this morning,” continued Mrs. Chandos, “and I was sure

she was coming here to lunch. Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his

new car. Did you see it?”

Honora's pity turned into a definite contempt.

“I saw an automobile as I came in,” she said, but the brevity of her

reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.

“There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe,” she exclaimed.

There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the

hall, and making no attempt to approach them.

“I think I'll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat,” said Honora,

outwardly calm but inwardly desperate. Fortunately, Lula made no attempt

to follow her.

“You're a dream in that veil, my dear,” Mrs. Chandos called after her.

“Don't forget that we're all dining with you to-night in Quicksands.”

Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and

jumping out of the window. She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her

hair without any apparent reason, and was leisurely putting on her hat

again, and wondering what she would do next, when Mrs. Kame appeared.

“Trixy asked me to get you,” she explained. “Mr. Grainger and I are

going to lunch with you.”

“How nice!” said Honora, with such a distinct emphasis of relief that

Mrs. Kame looked at her queerly.

“What a fool Trixy was, with all his experience, to get mixed up with

that Chandos woman,” that lady remarked as they passed through the

hallway. “She's like molasses--one can never get her off. Lucky thing

he found Cecil and me here. There's your persistent friend, Trixy,”

she added, when they were seated. “Really, this is pathetic, when an

invitation to lunch and a drive in your car would have made her so

happy.”

Honora looked around and beheld, indeed, Mrs. Chandos and two other

Quicksands women, Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Barclay, at a table in the

corner of the room.

“Where's Bessie to-day, Cecil--or do you know?” demanded Mrs. Kame,

after an amused glance at Brent, who had not deigned to answer her. “I

promised to go to Newport with her at the end of the week, but I haven't

been able to find her.”

“Cecil doesn't know,” said Trixton Brent. “The police have been looking

for him for a fortnight. Where the deuce have you been, Cecil?”

“To the Adirondacks,” replied Mr Grainger, gravely.

This explanation, which seemed entirely plausible to Honora, appeared to

afford great amusement to Brent, and even to Mrs. Kame.

“When did you come to life?” demanded Brent.

“Yesterday,” said Mr. Grainger, quite as solemnly as before.

Mrs. Kame glanced curiously at Honora, and laughed again.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Trixy,” she said.

“Why?” he asked innocently. “There's nothing wrong in going to the

Adirondacks--is there, Cecil?”

“No,” said Mr. Grainger, blinking rapidly.

“The Adirondacks,” declared Mrs. Kame, “have now become classic.”

“By the way,” observed Mr. Grainger, “I believe Bessie's in town to-day

at a charity pow-wow, reading a paper. I've half a mind to go over and

listen to it. The white dove of peace--and all that kind of thing.”

“You'd go to sleep and spoil it all,” said Brent.

“But you can't, Cecil!” cried Mrs. Kame. “Don't you remember we're going

to Westchester to the Faunces' to spend the night and play bridge? And

we promised to arrive early.”

“That's so, by George,” said Mr. Grainger, and he drank the rest of his

whiskey-and-soda.

“I'll tell you what I'll do, if Mrs. Spence is willing,” suggested

Brent. “If you start right after lunch, I'll take you out. We'll have

plenty of time,” he added to Honora, “to get back to Quicksands for

dinner.”

“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously. “I have people for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, lots of time,” declared Mrs. Kame. “Trixy's car is some unheard-of

horse-power. It's only twenty-five miles to the Faunces', and you'll be

back at the ferry by half-past four.”

“Easily,” said Trixton Brent.

CHAPTER X. ON THE ART OF LION TAMING

After lunch, while Mrs. Kame was telephoning to her maid and Mr.

Grainger to Mrs. Faunce, Honora found herself alone with Trixton Brent

in the automobile at a moment when the Quicksands party were taking a

cab. Mrs. Chandos parsed long enough to wave her hand.

“Bon voyage!” she cried. “What an ideal party! and the chauffeur doesn't

understand English. If you don't turn up this evening, Honora, I'll

entertain your guests.”

“We must get back,” said Honora, involuntarily to Brent. “It would be

too dreadful if we didn't!”

“Are you afraid I'll run off with you?” he asked.

“I believe you're perfectly capable of it,” she replied. “If I were

wise, I'd take the train.”

“Why don't you?” he demanded.

She smiled.

“I don't know. It's because of your deteriorating influence, I suppose.

And yet I trust you, in spite of my instincts and--my eyes. I'm

seriously put out with you.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you later, if you're at a loss,” she said, as Mrs. Kame and

Mr. Grainger appeared.

Eight years have elapsed since that day and this writing--an aeon in

this rapidly moving Republic of ours. The roads, although far from

perfect yet, were not then what they have since become. But the weather

was dry and the voyage to Westchester accomplished successfully. It was

half-past three when they drove up the avenue and deposited Mrs. Kame

and Cecil Grainger at the long front of the Faunce house: and Brent,

who had been driving, relinquished the wheel to the chauffeur and joined

Honora in the tonneau. The day was perfect, the woods still heavy with

summer foliage, and the only signs of autumn were the hay mounds and the

yellowing cornstalks stacked amidst the stubble of the fields.

Brent sat silently watching her, for she had raised her veil in saying

good-by to Mrs. Kame, and--as the chauffeur was proceeding slowly--had

not lowered it. Suddenly she turned and looked him full in the face.

“What kind of woman do you think I am?” she demanded.

“That's rather a big order, isn't it?” he said.

“I'm perfectly serious,” continued Honora, slowly.

“I'd really like to know.”

“Before I begin on the somewhat lengthy list of your qualities,” he

replied, smiling, “may I ask why you'd like to know?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I'd like to know because I think you've

misjudged me. I was really more angry than you have any idea of at the

manner in which you talked to Howard. And did you seriously suppose that

I was in earnest when we spoke about your assistance in persuading him

to take the house?”

He laughed.

“You are either the cleverest woman in the world,” he declared, “or else

you oughtn't to be out without a guardian. And no judge in possession of

his five senses would appoint your husband.”

Indignant as she was, she could not resist smiling. There was something

in the way Brent made such remarks that fascinated her.

“I shouldn't call you precisely eligible, either,” she retorted.

He laughed again. But his eyes made her vaguely uneasy.

“Are these harsh words the reward for my charity? he asked.

“I'm by no means sure it's charity,” she said. “That's what is troubling

me. And you have no right to say such things about my husband.”

“How was I to know you were sensitive on the subject? he replied.

“I wonder what it would be like to be so utterly cynical as you,” she

said.

“Do you mean to say you don't want the house?”

“I don't want it under those conditions,” she answered with spirit. “I

didn't expect to be taken literally. And you've always insisted,” she

added, “in ascribing to me motives that--that never occurred to me.

You make the mistake of thinking that because you have no ideals, other

people haven't. I hope Howard hasn't said he'd take the house. He's gone

off somewhere, and I haven't been able to see him.”

Trixton Brent looked at her queerly.

“After that last manoeuvre of yours,” he said, “it was all I could do

to prevent him from rushing over to Jerry Shorter's--and signing the

lease.”

She did not reply.

“What do these sudden, virtuous resolutions mean?” he asked.

“Resignation? Quicksands for life? Abandonment of the whole campaign?”

“There isn't any I campaign,” she said--and her voice caught in

something like a sob. “I'm not that sordid kind of a person. And if I

don't like Quicksands, it's because the whole atmosphere seems to be

charged with--with just such a spirit.”

Her hand was lying on the seat. He covered it with his own so quickly

that she left it there for a moment, as though paralyzed, while she

listened to the first serious words he had ever addressed to her.

“Honora, I admire you more than any woman I have ever known,” he said.

Her breath came quickly, and she drew her hand away.

“I suppose I ought to feel complimented,” she replied.

At this crucial instant what had been a gliding flight of the automobile

became, suddenly, a more or less uneven and jerky progress, accompanied

by violent explosions. At the first of these Honora, in alarm, leaped

to her feet. And the machine, after what seemed an heroic attempt to

continue, came to a dead stop. They were on the outskirts of a village;

children coming home from school surrounded them in a ring. Brent jumped

out, the chauffeur opened the hood, and they peered together into what

was, to Honora, an inexplicable tangle of machinery. There followed a

colloquy, in technical French, between the master and the man.

“What's the matter?” asked Honora, anxiously.

“Nothing much,” said Brent, “spark-plugs. We'll fix it up in a few

minutes.” He looked with some annoyance at the gathering crowd. “Stand

back a little, can't you?” he cried, “and give us room.”

After some minutes spent in wiping greasy pieces of steel which the

chauffeur extracted, and subsequent ceaseless grinding on the crank,

the engine started again, not without a series of protesting cracks like

pistol shots. The chauffeur and Brent leaped in, the bystanders parted

with derisive cheers, and away they went through the village, only to

announce by another series of explosions a second disaster at the other

end of the street. A crowd collected there, too.

“Oh, dear!” said Honora, “don't you think we ought to take the train,

Mr. Brent? If I were to miss a dinner at my own house, it would be too

terrible!”

“There's nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “Nothing broken. It's

only the igniting system that needs adjustment.”

Although this was so much Greek to Honora, she was reassured. Trixton

Brent inspired confidence. There was another argument with the

chauffeur, a little more animated than the first; more greasy plugs

taken out and wiped, and a sharper exchange of compliments with

the crowd; more grinding, until the chauffeur's face was steeped in

perspiration, and more pistol shots. They were off again, but lamely,

spurting a little at times, and again slowing down to the pace of an

ox-cart. Their progress became a series of illustrations of the fable of

the hare and the tortoise. They passed horses, and the horses shied

into the ditch: then the same horses passed them, usually at the periods

chosen by the demon under the hood to fire its pistol shots, and into

the ditch went the horses once more, their owners expressing their

thoughts in language at once vivid and unrestrained.

It is one of the blessed compensations of life that in times of

prosperity we do not remember our miseries. In these enlightened days,

when everybody owns an automobile and calmly travels from Chicago

to Boston if he chooses, we have forgotten the dark ages when these

machines were possessed by devils: when it took sometimes as much as

three hours to go twenty miles, and often longer than that. How many of

us have had the same experience as Honora!

She was always going to take the train, and didn't. Whenever her

mind was irrevocably made up, the automobile whirled away on all four

cylinders for a half a mile or so, until they were out of reach of the

railroad. There were trolley cars, to be sure, but those took forever to

get anywhere. Four o'clock struck, five and six, when at last the fiend

who had conspired with fate, having accomplished his evident purpose of

compelling Honora to miss her dinner, finally abandoned them as suddenly

and mysteriously as he had come, and the automobile was a lamb once

more. It was half-past six, and the sun had set, before they saw the

lights twinkling all yellow on the heights of Fort George. At that hour

the last train they could have taken to reach the dinner-party in time

was leaving the New York side of the ferry.

“What will they think?” cried Honora. “They saw us leave Delmonico's at

two o'clock, and they didn't know we were going to Westchester.”

It needed no very vivid imagination to summon up the probable remarks of

Mrs. Chandos on the affair. It was all very well to say the motor broke

down; but unfortunately Trixton Brent's reputation was not much better

than that of his car.

Trixton Brent, as might have been expected, was inclined to treat the

matter as a joke.

“There's nothing very formal about a Quicksands dinner-party,” he

said. “We'll have a cosey little dinner in town, and call 'em up on the

telephone.”

She herself was surprised at the spirit of recklessness stealing over

her, for there was, after all, a certain appealing glamour in the

adventure. She was thrilled by the swift, gliding motion of the

automobile, the weird and unfamiliar character of these upper reaches of

a great city in the twilight, where new houses stood alone or in rows

on wide levelled tracts; and old houses, once in the country, were seen

high above the roadway behind crumbling fences, surrounded by gloomy old

trees with rotting branches. She stole a glance at the man close beside

her; a delightful fear of him made her shiver, and she shrank closer

into the corner of the seat.

“Honora!”

All at once he had seized her hand again, and held it in spite of her

efforts to release it.

“Honora,” he said, “I love you as I have never loved in my life. As I

never shall love again.”

“Oh--you mustn't say that!” she cried.

“Why not?” he demanded. “Why not, if I feel it?”

“Because,” faltered Honora, “because I can't listen to you.”

Brent made a motion of disdain with his free hand.

“I don't pretend that it's right,” he said. “I'm not a hypocrite,

anyway, thank God! It's undoubtedly wrong, according to all moral codes.

I've never paid any attention to them. You're married. I'm happy to say

I'm divorced. You've got a husband. I won't be guilty of the bad taste

of discussing him. He's a good fellow enough, but he never thinks about

you from the time the Exchange opens in the morning until he gets home

at night and wants his dinner. You don't love him--it would be a miracle

if a woman with any spirit did. He hasn't any more of an idea of what he

possesses by legal right than the man I discovered driving in a cart

one of the best hunters I ever had in my stables. To say that he doesn't

appreciate you is a ludicrous understatement. Any woman would have done

for him.”

“Please don't!” she implored him. “Please don't!”

But for the moment she knew that she was powerless, carried along like a

chip on the crest of his passion.

“I don't pretend to say how it is, or why it is,” he went on, paying no

heed to her protests. “I suppose there's one woman for every man in the

world--though I didn't use to think so. I always had another idea of

woman before I met you. I've thought I was in love with 'em, but now I

understand it was only--something else. I say, I don't know what it is

in you that makes me feel differently. I can't analyze it, and I don't

want to. You're not perfect, by a good deal, and God knows I'm not.

You're ambitious, but if you weren't, you'd be humdrum--yet there's

no pitiful artifice in you as in other women that any idiot can see

through. And it would have paralyzed forever any ordinary woman to have

married Howard Spence.”

A new method of wooing, surely, and evidently peculiar to Trixton Brent.

Honora, in the prey of emotions which he had aroused in spite of her,

needless to say did not, at that moment, perceive the humour in it. His

words gave her food for thought for many months afterwards.

The lion was indeed aroused at last, and whip or goad or wile of no

avail. There came a time when she no longer knew what he was saying:

when speech, though eloquent and forceful, seemed a useless medium.

Her appeals were lost, and she found herself fighting in his arms, when

suddenly they turned into one of the crowded arteries of Harlem. She

made a supreme effort of will, and he released her.

“Oh!” she cried, trembling.

But he looked at her, unrepentant, with the light of triumph in his

eyes.

“I'll never forgive you!” she exclaimed, breathless.

“I gloried in it,” he replied. “I shall remember it as long as I live,

and I'll do it again.”

She did not answer him. She dropped her veil, and for a long space was

silent while they rapidly threaded the traffic, and at length turned

into upper Fifth Avenue, skirting the Park. She did not so much as

glance at him. But he seemed content to watch her veiled profile in the

dusk.

Her breath, in the first tumult of her thought, came and went deeply.

But gradually as the street lights burned brighter and familiar

sights began to appear, she grew more controlled and became capable

of reflection. She remembered that there was a train for Quicksands at

seven-fifteen, which Howard had taken once or twice. But she felt that

the interval was too short. In that brief period she could not calm

herself sufficiently to face her guests. Indeed, the notion of appearing

alone, or with Brent, at that dinner-party, appalled her. And suddenly

an idea presented itself.

Brent leaned over, and began to direct the chauffeur to a well-known

hotel. She interrupted him.

“No,” she said, “I'd rather go to the Holland House.”

“Very well,” he said amicably, not a little surprised at this

unlooked-for acquiescence, and then told his man to keep straight on

down the Avenue.

She began mechanically to rearrange her hat and veil; and after that,

sitting upright, to watch the cross streets with feverish anticipation,

her hands in her lap.

“Honora?” he said.

She did not answer.

“Raise the veil, just for a moment, and look at me.”

She shook her head. But for some reason, best known to herself, she

smiled a little. Perhaps it was because her indignation, which would

have frightened many men into repentance, left this one undismayed. At

any rate, he caught the gleam of the smile through the film of her veil,

and laughed.

“We'll have a little table in the corner of the room,” he declared, “and

you shall order the dinner. Here we are,” he cried to the chauffeur.

“Pull up to the right.”

They alighted, crossed the sidewalk, the doors were flung open to

receive them, and they entered the hotel.

Through the entrance to the restaurant Honora caught sight of the red

glow of candles upon the white tables, and heard the hum of voices. In

the hall, people were talking and laughing in groups, and it came as

a distinct surprise to her that their arrival seemed to occasion no

remark. At the moment of getting out of the automobile, her courage had

almost failed her.

Trixton Brent hailed one of the hotel servants.

“Show Mrs. Spence to the ladies' parlour,” said he. And added to

Honora, “I'll get a table, and have the dinner card brought up in a few

moments.”

Honora stopped the boy at the elevator door.

“Go to the office,” she said, “and find out if Mrs. Joshua Holt is in,

and the number of her room. And take me to the telephone booths. I'll

wait there.”

She asked the telephone operator to call up Mr. Spence's house at

Quicksands--and waited.

“I'm sorry, madam,” he said, after a little while, which seemed

like half an hour to Honora, “but they've had a fire in the Kingston

exchange, and the Quicksands line is out of order.”

Honora's heart sank; but the bell-boy had reappeared. Yes, Mrs. Holt was

in.

“Take me to her room,” she said, and followed him into the elevator.

In response to his knock the door was opened by Mrs. Holt herself. She

wore a dove-coloured gown, and in her hand was a copy of the report

of the Board of Missions. For a moment she peered at Honora over the

glasses lightly poised on the uncertain rim of her nose.

“Why--my dear!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Honora!”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “I'm so glad you're here. I was so afraid you'd be

out.”

In the embrace that followed both the glasses and the mission report

fell to the floor. Honora picked them up.

“Sit down, my dear, and tell me how you happen to be here,” said Mrs.

Holt. “I suppose Howard is downstairs.”

“No, he isn't,” said Honora, rather breathlessly; “that's the reason

I came here. That's one reason, I mean. I was coming to see you this

morning, but I simply didn't have time for a call after I got to town.”

Mrs. Holt settled herself in the middle of the sofa, the only piece

of furniture in the room in harmony with her ample proportions. Her

attitude and posture were both judicial, and justice itself spoke in her

delft-blue eyes.

“Tell me all about it,” she said, thus revealing her suspicions that

there was something to tell.

“I was just going to,” said Honora, hastily, thinking of Trixton Brent

waiting in the ladies' parlour. “I took lunch at Delmomico's with Mr.

Grainger, and Mr. Brent, and Mrs. Kame--”

“Cecil Grainger?” demanded Mrs. Holt.

Honora trembled.

“Yes,” she said.

“I knew his father and mother intimately,” said Mrs. Holt, unexpectedly.

“And his wife is a friend of mine. She's one of the most executive women

we have in the 'Working Girls' Association,' and she read a paper today

that was masterful. You know her, of course.”

“No,” said Honora, “I haven't met her yet.”

“Then how did you happen to be lunching with her husband?

“I wasn't lunching with him, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora; “Mr. Brent was

giving the lunch.”

“Who's Mr. Brent?” demanded Mrs. Holt. “One of those Quicksands people?”

“He's not exactly a Quicksands person. I scarcely know how to describe

him. He's very rich, and goes abroad a great deal, and plays polo.

That's the reason he has a little place at Quicksands. He's been awfully

kind both to Howard and me,” she added with inspiration.

“And Mrs. Kame?” said Mrs. Holt.

“She's a widow, and has a place at Banbury.

“I never heard of her,” said Mrs. Holt, and Honora thanked her stars.

“And Howard approves of these mixed lunches, my dear? When I was young,

husbands and wives usually went to parties together.”

A panicky thought came to Honora, that Mrs. Holt might suddenly inquire

as to the whereabouts of Mr. Brent's wife.

“Oh, Howard doesn't mind,” she said hastily. “I suppose times have

changed, Mrs. Holt. And after lunch we all went out in Mr. Brent's

automobile to the Faunces' in Westchester--”

“The Paul Jones Faunces?” Mrs. Holt interrupted.

“What a nice woman that young Mrs. Faunce is! She was Kitty Esterbrook,

you know. Both of them very old families.”

“It was only,” continued Honora, in desperation, “it was only to leave

Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Kame there to spend the night. They all said we

had plenty of time to go and get back to Quicksands by six o'clock. But

coming back the automobile broke down--”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Holt, “it serves any one right for trusting to

them. I think they are an invention of the devil.”

“And we've only just got back to New York this minute.”

“Who?” inquired Mrs. Holt.

“Mr. Brent and I,” said Honora, with downcast eyes.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the elder lady.

“I couldn't think of anything else to do but come straight here to you,”

said Honora, gazing at her friend. “And oh, I'm so glad to find you.

There's not another train to Quicksands till after nine.”

“You did quite right, my dear, under the circumstances. I don't say you

haven't been foolish, but it's Howard's fault quite as much as yours. He

has no business to let you do such things.”

“And what makes it worse,” said Honora, “is that the wires are down to

Quicksands, and I can't telephone Howard, and we have people to

dinner, and they don't know I went to Westchester, and there's no use

telegraphing: it wouldn't be delivered till midnight or morning.”

“There, there, my dear, don't worry. I know how anxious you feel on your

husband's account--”

“Oh--Mrs. Holt, I was going to ask you a great, great favour. Wouldn't

you go down to Quicksands with me and spend the night--and pay us a

little visit? You know we would so love to have you!”

“Of course I'll go down with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt. “I'm

surprised that you should think for an instant that I wouldn't. It's my

obvious duty. Martha!” she called, “Martha!”

The door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Holt's elderly maid appeared.

The same maid, by the way, who had closed the shutters that memorable

stormy night at Silverdale. She had, it seemed, a trick of appearing at

crises.

“Martha, telephone to Mrs. Edgerly--you know her number-and say that I

am very sorry, but an unexpected duty calls me out of town to-night, and

ask her to communicate with the Reverend Mr. Field. As for staying with

you, Honora,” she continued, “I have to be back at Silverdale to-morrow

night. Perhaps you and Howard will come back with me. My frank opinion

is, that a rest from the gayety of Quicksands will do you good.”

“I will come, with pleasure,” said Honora. “But as for Howard--I'm

afraid he's too busy.”

“And how about dinner?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“I forgot to say,” said Honora, “that Mr. Brent's downstairs. He brought

me here, of course. Have you any objection to his dining with us?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Holt, “I think I should like to see him.”

After Mrs. Holt had given instructions to her maid to pack, and Honora

had brushed some of the dust of the roads from her costume, they

descended to the ladies' parlour. At the far end of it a waiter holding

a card was standing respectfully, and Trixton Brent was pacing up and

down between the windows. When he caught sight of them he stopped in his

tracks, and stared, and stood as if rooted to the carpet. Honora came

forward.

“Oh, Mr. Brent!” she cried, “my old friend, Mrs. Holt, is here, and

she's going to take dinner with us and come down to Quicksands for the

night. May I introduce Mr. Brent.”

“Wasn't it fortunate, Mr. Brent, that Mrs. Spence happened to find me?”

said Mrs. Holt, as she took his hand. “I know it is a relief to you.”

It was not often, indeed, that Trixton Brent was taken off his guard;

but some allowance must be made for him, since he was facing a situation

unparalleled in his previous experience. Virtue had not often been so

triumphant, and never so dramatic as to produce at the critical instant

so emblematic a defender as this matronly lady in dove colour. For

a moment, he stared at her, speechless, and then he gathered himself

together.

“A relief?” he asked.

“It would seem so to me,” said Mrs. Holt. “Not that I do not think you

are perfectly capable of taking care of her, as an intimate friend of

her husband. I was merely thinking of the proprieties. And as I am a

guest in this hotel, I expect you both to do me the honour to dine with

me before we start for Quicksands.”

After all, Trixton Brent had a sense of humour, although it must not

be expected that he should grasp at once all the elements of a joke on

himself so colossal.

“I, for one,” he said, with a slight bow which gave to his words a touch

somewhat elaborate, “will be delighted.” And he shot at Honora a glance

compounded of many feelings, which she returned smilingly.

“Is that the waiter?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“That is a waiter,” said Trixton Brent, glancing at the motionless

figure. “Shall I call him?”

“If you please,” said Mrs. Holt. “Honora, you must tell me what you

like.”

“Anything, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora.

“If we are to leave a little after nine,” said that lady, balancing her

glasses on her nose and glancing at the card, “we have not, I'm afraid,

time for many courses.”

The head waiter greeted them at the door of the dining-room. He, too,

was a man of wisdom and experience. He knew Mrs. Holt, and he knew

Trixton Brent. If gravity had not been a life-long habit with him, one

might have suspected him of a desire to laugh. As it was, he seemed

palpably embarrassed,--for Mr. Brent had evidently been conversing with

him.

“Two, sir?” he asked.

“Three,” said Mrs. Holt, with dignity.

The head waiter planted them conspicuously in the centre of the room;

one of the strangest parties, from the point of view of a connoisseur of

New York, that ever sat down together. Mrs. Holt with her curls, and her

glasses laid flat on the bosom of her dove-coloured dress; Honora in a

costume dedicated to the very latest of the sports, and Trixton Brent in

English tweeds. The dining-room was full. But here and there amongst the

diners, Honora observed, were elderly people who smiled discreetly as

they glanced in their direction--friends, perhaps, of Mrs. Holt. And

suddenly, in one corner, she perceived a table of six where the mirth

was less restrained.

Fortunately for Mr. Brent, he had had a cocktail, or perhaps two, in

Honora's absence. Sufficient time had elapsed since their administration

for their proper soothing and exhilarating effects. At the sound of

the laughter in the corner he turned his head, a signal for renewed

merriment from that quarter. Whereupon he turned back again and faced

his hostess once more with a heroism that compelled Honora's admiration.

As a sportsman, he had no intention of shirking the bitterness of

defeat.

“Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Shorter,” he remarked, “appear to be enjoying

themselves.”

Honora felt her face grow hot as the merriment at the corner table rose

to a height it had not heretofore attained. And she did not dare to look

again.

Mrs. Holt was blissfully oblivious to her surroundings. She was, as

usual, extremely composed, and improved the interval, while drinking

her soup, with a more or less undisguised observation of Mr. Brent;

evidently regarding him somewhat in the manner that a suspicious

householder would look upon a strange gentleman whom he accidentally

found in his front hall. Explanations were necessary. That Mr. Brent's

appearance, on the whole, was in his favour did not serve to mitigate

her suspicions. Good-looking men were apt to be unscrupulous.

“Are you interested in working girls, Mr. Brent?” she inquired

presently.

Honora, in spite of her discomfort, had an insane desire to giggle. She

did not dare to raise her eyes.

“I can't say that I've had much experience with them, Mrs. Holt,” he

replied, with a gravity little short of sublime.

“Naturally you wouldn't have had,” said Mrs. Holt. “What I meant was,

are you interested in the problems they have to face?”

“Extremely,” said he, so unexpectedly that Honora choked. “I can't say

that I've given as many hours as I should have liked to a study of the

subject, but I don't know of any class that has a harder time. As a

rule, they're underpaid and overworked, and when night comes they are

either tired to death or bored to death, and the good-looking ones are

subject to temptations which some of them find impossible to resist,

in a natural desire for some excitement to vary the routine of their

lives.”

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Holt, “that you are fairly conversant with

the subject. I don't think I ever heard the problem stated so succinctly

and so well. Perhaps,” she added, “it might interest you to attend one

of our meetings next month. Indeed, you might be willing to say a few

words.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Holt. I'm a rather busy

man, and nothing of a public speaker, and it is rarely I get off in the

daytime.”

“How about automobiling?” asked Mrs. Holt, with a smile.

“Well,” said Trixton Brent, laughing in spite of himself, “I like the

working girls, I have to have a little excitement occasionally. And I

find it easier to get off in the summer than in the winter.”

“Men cover a multitude of sins under the plea of business,” said Mrs.

Holt, shaking her head. “I can't say I think much of your method of

distraction. Why any one desires to get into an automobile, I don't

see.”

“Have you ever been in one?” he asked. “Mine is here, and I was about to

invite you to go down to the ferry in it. I'll promise to go slow.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Holt, “I don't object to going that distance, if you

keep your promise. I'll admit that I've always had a curiosity.”

“And in return,” said Brent, gallantly, “allow me to send you a cheque

for your working girls.”

“You're very good,” said Mrs. Holt.

“Oh,” he protested, “I'm not in the habit of giving much to charities,

I'm sorry to say. I'd like to know how it feels.”

“Then I hope the sensation will induce you to try it again,” said Mrs.

Holt.

“Nobody, Mrs. Holt,” cried Honora, “could be kinder to his friends than

Mr. Brent!”

“We were speaking of disinterested kindness, my dear,” was Mrs. Holt's

reply.

“You're quite right, Mrs. Holt,” said Trixton Brent, beginning, as the

dinner progressed, to take in the lady opposite a delight that surprised

him. “I'm willing to confess that I've led an extremely selfish

existence.”

“The confession isn't necessary,” she replied. “It's written all over

you. You're the type of successful man who gets what he wants. I don't

mean to say that you are incapable of kindly instincts.” And her eye

twinkled a little.

“I'm very grateful for that concession, at any rate,” he declared.

“There might be some hope for you if you fell into the hands of a good

woman,” said Mrs. Holt. “I take it you are a bachelor. Mark my words,

the longer you remain one, the more steeped in selfishness you are

likely to become in this modern and complex and sense-satisfying life

which so many people lead.”

Honora trembled for what he might say to this, remembering his bitter

references of that afternoon to his own matrimonial experience. Visions

of a scene arose before her in the event that Mrs. Holt should discover

his status. But evidently Trixton Brent had no intention of discussing

his marriage.

“Judging by some of my married friends and acquaintances,” he said, “I

have no desire to try matrimony as a remedy for unselfishness.”

“Then,” replied Mrs. Holt, “all I can say is, I should make new friends

amongst another kind of people, if I were you. You are quite right, and

if I were seeking examples of happy marriages, I should not begin my

search among the so-called fashionable set of the present day. They are

so supremely selfish that if the least difference in taste develops, or

if another man or woman chances along whom they momentarily fancy more

than their own husbands or wives, they get a divorce. Their idea of

marriage is not a mutual sacrifice which brings happiness through trials

borne together and through the making of character. No, they have a

notion that man and wife may continue to lead their individual lives.

That isn't marriage. I've lived with Joshua Holt thirty-five years last

April, and I haven't pleased myself in all that time.”

“All men,” said Trixton Brent, “are not so fortunate as Mr. Holt.”

Honora began to have the sensations of a witness to a debate between

Mephistopheles and the powers of heaven. Her head swam. But Mrs. Holt,

who had unlooked-for flashes of humour, laughed, and shook her curls at

Brent.

“I should like to lecture you some time,” she said; “I think it would do

you good.”

He shook his head.

“I'm beyond redemption. Don't you think so, Honora?” he asked, with an

unexpected return of his audacity.

“I'm afraid I'm not worthy to judge you,” she replied, and coloured.

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Holt; “women are superior to men, and

it's our duty to keep them in order. And if we're really going to risk

our lives in your automobile, Mr. Brent, you'd better make sure it's

there,” she added, glancing at her watch.

Having dined together in an apparent and inexplicable amity, their exit

was of even more interest to the table in the corner than their entrance

had been. Mrs. Holt's elderly maid was waiting in the hall, Mrs. Holt's

little trunk was strapped on the rear of the car; and the lady herself,

with something of the feelings of a missionary embarking for the wilds

of Africa, was assisted up the little step and through the narrow

entrance of the tonneau by the combined efforts of Honora and Brent.

An expression of resolution, emblematic of a determination to die, if

necessary, in the performance of duty, was on her face as the machinery

started; and her breath was not quite normal when, in an incredibly

brief period, they descended at the ferry.

The journey to Quicksands was accomplished in a good fellowship which

Honora, an hour before, would not have dreamed of. Even Mrs. Holt was

not wholly proof against the charms of Trixton Brent when he chose to

exert himself; and for some reason he did so choose. As they stood in

the starlight on the platform of the deserted little station while

he went across to Whelen's livery stable to get a carriage, Mrs. Holt

remarked to Honora:

“Mr. Brent is a fascinating man, my dear.”

“I am so glad that you appreciate him,” exclaimed Honora.

“And a most dangerous one,” continued Mrs. Holt. “He has probably, in

his day, disturbed the peace of mind of a great many young women. Not

that I haven't the highest confidence in you, Honora, but honesty forces

me to confess that you are young and pleasure-loving, and a little

heedless. And the atmosphere in which you live is not likely to correct

those tendencies. If you will take my advice, you will not see too much

of Mr. Trixton Brent when your husband is not present.”

Indeed, as to the probable effect of this incident on the relations

between Mr. Brent and herself Honora was wholly in the dark. Although,

from her point of view, what she had done had been amply justified by

the plea of self-defence, it could not be expected that he would accept