"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.

A MODERN CHRONICLE

By Winston Churchill

BOOK I.

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 bow 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."