A MODERN CHRONICLE

By Winston Churchill

BOOK III

Volume 5. 

CHAPTER I

ASCENDI

Honora did not go back to Quicksands. Neither, in this modern chronicle, shall we. 

The sphere we have left, which we know is sordid, sometimes shines in theretrospect. And there came a time, after the excitement of furnishing thenew house was over, when our heroine, as it were, swung for a time inspace: not for a very long time; that month, perhaps, between autumn andwinter. 

We need not be worried about her, though we may pause for a moment or twoto sympathize with her in her loneliness--or rather in the moods itproduced. She even felt, in those days, slightly akin to the Lady of theVictoria (perfectly respectable), whom all of us fortunate enoughoccasionally to go to New York have seen driving on Fifth Avenue with anexpression of wistful haughtiness, and who changes her costumes fourtimes a day. 

Sympathy! We have seen Honora surrounded by friends--what has become ofthem? Her husband is president of a trust company, and she has one of themost desirable houses in New York. What more could be wished for? To jumpat conclusions in this way is by no means to understand a heroine with anIdeal. She had these things, and--strange as it may seem--suffered. 

Her sunny drawing-room, with its gathered silk curtains, was especiallybeautiful; whatever the Leffingwells or Allisons may have lacked, it wasnot taste. Honora sat in it and wondered: wondered, as she looked backover the road she had threaded somewhat blindly towards the Ideal, whether she might not somewhere have taken the wrong turn. The farthershe travelled, the more she seemed to penetrate into a land ofunrealities. The exquisite objects by which she was surrounded, and whichshe had collected with such care, had no substance: she would not havebeen greatly surprised, at any moment, to see them vanish like a scene ina theatre, leaning an empty, windy stage behind them. They did not belongto her, nor she to them. 

Past generations of another blood, no doubt, had been justified inlooking upon the hazy landscapes in the great tapestries as their own:and children's children had knelt, in times gone by, beside the carvedstone mantel. The big, gilded chairs with the silken seats mightappropriately have graced the table of the Hotel de Rambouillet. Wouldnot the warriors and the wits, the patient ladies of high degree and ofmany children, and even the 'precieuses ridicules' themselves, turn overin their graves if they could so much as imagine the contents of thesingle street in modern New York where Honora lived?

One morning, as she sat in that room, possessed by these whimsical thoughpainful fancies, she picked up a newspaper and glanced through it, absently, until her eye fell by chance upon a name on the editorial page. Something like an electric shock ran through her, and the letters of thename seemed to quiver and become red. Slowly they spelled--Peter Erwin. 

"The argument of Mr. Peter Erwin, of St. Louis, before the Supreme Courtof the United States in the now celebrated Snowden case is universallyacknowledged by lawyers to have been masterly, and reminiscent of thegreat names of the profession in the past. Mr. Erwin is not dramatic. Heappears to carry all before him by the sheer force of intellect, and by akind of Lincolnian ability to expose a fallacy: He is still a young man, self-made, and studied law under Judge Brice of St. Louis, once Presidentof the National Bar Association, whose partner he is". .. . 

Honora cut out the editorial and thrust it in her gown, and threw thenewspaper is the fire. She stood for a time after it had burned, watchingthe twisted remnants fade from flame colour to rose, and finally blacken. Then she went slowly up the stairs and put on her hat and coat and veil. Although a cloudless day, it was windy in the park, and cold, the ruffledwaters an intense blue. She walked fast. 

She lunched with Mrs. Holt, who had but just come to town; and the light, like a speeding guest, was departing from the city when she reached herown door. 

"There is a gentleman in the drawing-room, madam, " said the butler. "Hesaid he was an old friend, and a stranger in New York, and asked if hemight wait. "

She stood still with presentiment. 

"What is his name?" she asked. 

"Mr. Erwin, " said the man. 

Still she hesitated. In the strange state in which she found herself thatday, the supernatural itself had seemed credible. And yet--she was notprepared. 

"I beg pardon, madam, " the butler was saying, "perhaps I shouldn't--?"

"Yes, yes, you should, " she interrupted him, and pushed past him up thestairs. At the drawing-room door she paused--he was unaware of herpresence. And he had not changed! She wondered why she had expected himto change. Even the glow of his newly acquired fame was not discerniblebehind his well-remembered head. He seemed no older--and no younger. Andhe was standing with his hands behind his back gazing in simple, silentappreciation at the big tapestry nearest the windows. 

"Peter, " she said, in a low voice. 

He turned quickly, and then she saw the glow. But it was the old glow, not the new--the light m which her early years had been spent. 

"What a coincidence!" she exclaimed, as he took her hand. 

"Coincidence?"

"It was only this morning that I was reading in the newspaper all sortsof nice things about you. It made me feel like going out and tellingeverybody you were an old friend of mine. " Still holding his fingers, shepushed him away from her at arm's length, and looked at him. "What doesit feel like to be famous, and have editorials about one's self in theNew York newspapers?"

He laughed, and released his hands somewhat abruptly. 

"It seems as strange to me, Honora, as it does to you. "

"How unkind of you, Peter!" she exclaimed. 

She felt his eyes upon her, and their searching, yet kindly and humorousrays seemed to illuminate chambers within her which she would have keptin darkness: which she herself did not wish to examine. 

"I'm so glad to see you, " she said a little breathlessly, flinging hermuff and boa on a chair. "Sit there, where I can look at you, and tell mewhy you didn't let me know you were coming to New York. "

He glanced a little comically at the gilt and silk arm-chair which shedesignated, and then at her; and she smiled and coloured, divining thehumour in his unspoken phrase. 

"For a great man, " she declared, "you are absurd. "

He sat down. In spite of his black clothes and the lounging attitude hehabitually assumed, with his knees crossed--he did not appear incongruousin a seat that would have harmonized with the flowing robes of therenowned French Cardinal himself. Honora wondered why. He impressed herto-day as force--tremendous force in repose, and yet he was the samePeter. Why was it? Had the clipping that even then lay in her bosomeffected this magic change? He had intimated as much, but she denied itfiercely. 

She rang for tea. 

"You haven't told me why you came to New York, " she said. 

"I was telegraphed for, from Washington, by a Mr. Wing, " he explained. 

"A Mr. Wing, " she repeated. "You don't mean by any chance James Wing?"

"The Mr. Wing, " said Peter. 

"The reason I asked, " explained Honora, flushing, was because Howard is--associated with him. Mr. Wing is largely interested in the Orange TrustCompany. "

"Yes, I know, " said Peter. His elbows were resting on the arms of hischair, and he looked at the tips of his fingers, which met. Honorathought it strange that he did not congratulate her, but he appeared tobe reflecting. 

"What did Mr. Wing want?" she inquired in her momentary confusion, andadded hastily, "I beg your pardon, Peter. I suppose I ought not to askthat. "

"He was kind enough to wish me to live in New York he answered, stillstaring at the tips of his fingers. 

"Oh, how nice!" she cried--and wondered at the same time whether, onsecond thoughts, she would think it so. "I suppose he wants you to be thecounsel for one of his trusts. When--when do you come?"

"I'm not coming. "

"Not coming! Why? Isn't it a great compliment?"

He ignored the latter part of her remark; and it seemed to her, when sherecalled the conversation afterwards, that she had heard a certain noteof sadness under the lightness of his reply. 

"To attempt to explain to a New Yorker why any one might prefer to livein any other place would be a difficult task. "

"You are incomprehensible, Peter, " she declared. And yet she felt arelief that surprised her, and a desire to get away from the subject. "Dear old St. Louis! Somehow, in spite of your greatness, it seems to fityou. "

"It's growing, " said Peter--and they laughed together. 

"Why didn't you come to lunch?" she said. 

"Lunch! I didn't know that any one ever went to lunch in New York--inthis part of it, at least--with less than three weeks' notice. And by theway, if I am interfering with any engagement--"

"My book is not so full as all that. Of course you'll come and stay withus, Peter. "

He shook his head regretfully. 

"My train leaves at six, from Forty-Second Street, " he replied. 

"Oh, you are niggardly, " she cried. "To think how little I see of you, Peter. And sometimes I long for you. It's strange, but I still miss youterribly--after five years. It seems longer than that, " she added, as shepoured the boiling water into the tea-pot. But she did not look at him. 

He got up and walked as far as a water-colour on the wall. 

"You have some beautiful things here, Honora, " he said. "I am glad I havehad a glimpse of you surrounded by them to carry back to your aunt anduncle. "

She glanced about the room as he spoke, and then at him. He seemed theonly reality in it, but she did not say so. 

"You'll see them soon, " was what she said. And considered the miracle ofhim staying there where Providence had placed him, and bringing the worldto him. Whereas she, who had gone forth to seek it--"The day afterto-morrow will be Sunday, " he reminded her. 

Nothing had changed there. She closed her eyes and saw the little diningroom in all the dignity of Sunday dinner, the big silver soup tureencatching the sun, the flowered china with the gilt edges, and even aglimpse of lace paper when the closet door opened; Aunt Mary and UncleTom, with Peter between them. And these, strangely, were the onlytangible things and immutable. 

"You'll give them--a good account of me?" she said. "I know that you donot care for New York, " she added with a smile. "But it is possible to behappy here. "

"I am glad you are happy, Honora, and that you have got what you wantedin life. Although I may be unreasonable and provincial and--and Western, "he confessed with a twinkle--for he had the characteristic national traitof shading off his most serious remarks--"I have never gone so far as todeclare that happiness was a question of locality. "

She laughed. 

"Nor fame. " Her mind returned to the loadstar. 

"Oh, fame!" he exclaimed, with a touch of impatience, and he used theword that had possessed her all day. "There is no reality in that. Menare not loved for it. "

She set down her cup quickly. He was looking at the water-colour. 

"Have you been to the Metropolitan Museum lately?" he asked. 

"The Metropolitan Museum?" she repeated in bewilderment. 

"That would be one of the temptations of New York for me, " he said. "Iwas there for half an hour this afternoon before I presented myself atyour door as a suspicious character. There is a picture there, by Coffin, called 'The Rain, ' I believe. I am very fond of it. And looking at it onsuch a winter's day as this brings back the summer. The squall coming, and the sound of it in the trees, and the very smell of the wetmeadow-grass in the wind. Do you know it?"

"No, " replied Honora, and she was suddenly filled with shame at thethought that she had never been in the Museum. "I didn't know you were sofond of pictures. "

"I am beginning to be a rival of Mr. Dwyer, " he declared. "I've boughtfour--although I haven't built my gallery. When you come to St. LouisI'll show them to you--and let us hope it will be soon. "

For some time after she had heard the street door close behind him Honoraremained where she was, staring into the fire, and then she crossed theroom to a reading lamp, and turned it up. 

Some one spoke in the doorway. 

"Mr. Grainger, madam. "

Before she could rouse herself and recover from her astonishment, thegentleman himself appeared, blinking as though the vision of her were toobright to be steadily gazed at. If the city had been searched, it isdoubtful whether a more striking contrast to the man who had just leftcould have been found than Cecil Grainger in the braided, grey cutawaythat clung to the semblance of a waist he still possessed. In him HydePark and Fifth Avenue, so to speak, shook hands across the sea: put himin either, and he would have appeared indigenous. 

"Hope you'll forgive my comin' 'round on such slight acquaintance, Mrs. Spence, " said he. "Couldn't resist the opportunity to pay my respects. Shorter told me where you were. "

"That was very good of Mr. Shorter, " said Honora, whose surprise hadgiven place to a very natural resentment, since she had not the honour ofknowing Mrs. Grainger. 

"Oh, " said Mr. Grainger, "Shorter's a good sort. Said he'd been herehimself to see how you were fixed, and hadn't found you in. Uncommonlywell fixed, I should say, " he added, glancing around the room withundisguised approval. "Why the deuce did she furnish it, since she's goneto Paris to live with Rindge?"

"I suppose you mean Mrs. Rindge, " said Honora. "She didn't furnish it. "

Mr. Grainger winked at her rapidly, like a man suddenly brought face toface with a mystery. 

"Oh!" he replied, as though he had solved it. The solution came a fewmoments later. "It's ripping!" he said. "Farwell couldn't have done itany better. "

Honora laughed, and momentarily forgot her resentment. 

"Will you have tea?" she asked. "Oh, don't sit down there!"

"Why not?" he asked, jumping. It was the chair that had held Peter, andMr. Grainger examined the seat as though he suspected a bent pin. 

"Because, " said Honora, "because it isn't comfortable. Pull up that otherone. "

Again mystified, he did as he was told. She remembered his reputation forgoing to sleep, and wondered whether she had been wise in her secondchoice. But it soon became apparent that Mr. Grainger, as he gazed at herfrom among the cushions, had no intention of dozing, His eyelids remindedher of the shutters of a camera, and she had the feeling of sitting forthousands of instantaneous photographs for his benefit. She was by turnsannoyed, amused, and distrait: Peter was leaving his hotel; now he wastaking the train. Was he thinking of her? He had said he was glad she washappy! She caught herself up with a start after one of these silences torealize that Mr. Grainger was making unwonted and indeed patheticexertions to entertain her, and it needed no feminine eye to perceivethat he was thoroughly uncomfortable. She had, unconsciously and inthinking of Peter, rather overdone the note of rebuke of his visit. AndHonora was, above all else, an artist. His air was distinctly apologeticas he rose, perhaps a little mortified, like that of a man who has gotinto the wrong house. 

"I very much fear I've intruded, Mrs. Spence, " he stammered, and he waswinking now with bewildering rapidity. "We--we had such a pleasant drivetogether that day to Westchester--I was tempted--"

"We did have a good time, " she agreed. "And it has been a pleasure to seeyou again. "

Thus, in the kindness of her heart, she assisted him to cover hisretreat, for it was a strange and somewhat awful experience to see Mr. Cecil Grainger discountenanced. He glanced again, as he went out, at thechair in which he had been forbidden to sit. 

She went to the piano, played over a few bars of Thais, and dropped herhands listlessly. Cross currents of the strange events of the day flowedthrough her mind: Peter's arrival and its odd heralding, and thediscomfort of Mr. Grainger. 

Howard came in. He did not see her under the shaded lamp, and she satwatching him with a curious feeling of detachment as he unfolded hisnewspaper and sank, with a sigh of content, into the cushioned chairwhich Mr. Grainger had vacated. Was it fancy that her husband's physicalattributes had changed since he had attained his new position of dignity?She could have sworn that he had visibly swollen on the evening when hehad announced to her his promotion, and he seemed to have remainedswollen. Not bloated, of course: he was fatter, and--if possible pinker. But there was a growing suggestion in him of humming-and-hawinggreatness. If there--were leisure in this too-leisurely chronicle forwhat might be called aftermath, the dinner that Honora had given to someof her Quicksands friends might be described. Suffice it to recall, withHonora, that Lily Dallam, with a sure instinct, had put the finger of herwit on this new attribute of Howard's. 

"You'll kill me, Howard!" she had cried. "He even looks at the soup asthough he were examining a security!"

Needless to say, it did not cure him, although it sealed Lily Dallam'sfate--and incidentally that of Quicksands. Honora's thoughts as she satnow at the piano watching him, flew back unexpectedly to the summer atSilverdale when she had met him, and she tried to imagine, the genial andboyish representative of finance that he was then. In the midst of thiseffort he looked up and discovered her. 

"What are you doing over there, Honora?" he asked. 

"Thinking, " she answered. 

"That's a great way to treat a man when he comes home after a day'swork. "

"I beg your pardon, Howard, " she said with unusual meekness. "Who do youthink was here this afternoon?"

"Erwin? I've just come from Mr. Wing's house--he has gout to-day anddidn't go down town. He offered Erwin a hundred thousand a year to cometo New York as corporation counsel. And if you'll believe me--he refusedit. "

"I'll believe you, " she said. 

"Did he say anything about it to you?"

"He simply mentioned that Mr. Wing asked him to come to New York. Hedidn't say why. "

"Well, " Howard remarked, "he's one too many for me. He can't be makingover thirty thousand where he is. "

CHAPTER II

THE PATH OF PHILANTHROPY

Mrs. Cecil Grainger may safely have been called a Personality, and one ofthe proofs of this was that she haunted people who had never seen her. Honora might have looked at her, it is true, on the memorable night ofthe dinner with Mrs. Holt and Trixton Brent; but--for sufficientlyobvious reasons--refrained. It would be an exaggeration to say that Mrs. Grainger became an obsession with our heroine; yet it cannot be deniedthat, since Honora's arrival at Quicksands, this lady had, in increasingdegrees, been the subject of her speculations. The threads of Mrs. Grainger's influence were so ramified, indeed, as to be found in Mrs. Dallam, who declared she was the rudest woman in New York and yet hadcopied her brougham; in Mr. Cuthbert and Trixton Brent; in Mrs. Kame; inMrs. Holt, who proclaimed her a tower of strength in charities; andlastly in Mr. Grainger himself, who, although he did not spend much timein his wife's company, had for her an admiration that amounted to awe. 

Elizabeth Grainger, who was at once modern and tenaciously conservative, might have been likened to some of the Roman matrons of the aristocracyin the last years of the Republic. Her family, the Pendletons, hadtraditions: so, for that matter, had the Graingers. But SenatorPendleton, antique homo virtute et fide, had been a Roman of the oldschool who would have preferred exile after the battle of Philippi; andwho, could he have foreseen modern New York and modern finance, wouldhave been more content to die when he did. He had lived in WashingtonSquare. His daughter inherited his executive ability, many of hisprejudices (as they would now be called), and his habit of regardingfavourable impressions with profound suspicion. She had never known thenecessity of making friends: hers she had inherited, and for some reasonspecially decreed, they were better than those of less fortunate people. 

Mrs. Grainger was very tall. And Sargent, in his portrait of her, hadcaught with admirable art the indefinable, yet partly supercilious andscornful smile with which she looked down upon the world about her. Shepossessed the rare gift of combining conventionality with personaldistinction in her dress. Her hair was almost Titian red in colour, andher face (on the authority of Mr. Reginald Farwell) was at once modernand Italian Renaissance. Not the languid, amorous Renaissance, but thelady of decision who chose, and did not wait to be chosen. Her eyes hadall the colours of the tapaz, and her regard was so baffling as to arouseintense antagonism in those who were not her friends. 

To Honora, groping about for a better and a higher life, the path ofphilanthropy had more than once suggested itself. And on the day ofPeter's visit to New York, when she had lunched with Mrs. Holt, she hadsignified her willingness (now that she had come to live in town) to jointhe Working Girls' Relief Society. Mrs. Holt, needless to say, wasoverjoyed: they were to have a meeting at her house in the near futurewhich Honora must not fail to attend. It was not, however, without afeeling of trepidation natural to a stranger that she made her way tothat meeting when the afternoon arrived. 

No sooner was she seated in Mrs. Holt's drawing-room--filled withcamp-chairs for the occasion--than she found herself listeningbreathlessly to a recital of personal experiences by a young woman whoworked in a bindery on the East side. Honora's heart was soft: hersympathies, as we know, easily aroused. And after the young woman hadtold with great simplicity and earnestness of the struggle to supportherself and lead an honest and self-respecting existence, it seemed toHonora that at last she had opened the book of life at the proper page. 

Afterwards there were questions, and a report by Miss Harber, amiddle-aged lady with glasses who was the secretary. Honora looked aroundher. The membership of the Society, judging by those present, was surelyof a sufficiently heterogeneous character to satisfy even the catholictastes of her hostess. There were elderly ladies, some benevolent andsome formidable, some bedecked and others unadorned; there wereearnest-looking younger women, to whom dress was evidently a secondaryconsideration; and there was a sprinkling of others, perfectly gowned, several of whom were gathered in an opposite corner. Honora's eyes, asthe reading of the report progressed, were drawn by a continual andresistless attraction to this group; or rather to the face of one of thewomen in it, which seemed to stare out at her like the eat in the tree ofan old-fashioned picture puzzle, or the lineaments of George Washingtonamong a mass of boulders on a cliff. Once one has discovered it, one cansee nothing else. In vain Honora dropped her eyes; some strangefascination compelled her to raise them again until they met those of theother woman: Did their glances meet? She could never quite be sure, sodisconcerting were the lights in that regard--lights, seemingly, oflaughter and mockery. 

Some instinct informed Honora that the woman was Mrs. Grainger, andimmediately the scene in the Holland House dining-room came back to her. Never until now had she felt the full horror of its comedy. And then, asthough to fill the cup of humiliation, came the thought of CecilGrainger's call. She longed, in an agony with which sensitive natureswill sympathize, for the reading to be over. 

The last paragraph of the report contained tributes to Mrs. Joshua Holtand Mrs. Cecil Grainger for the work each had done during the year, andamidst enthusiastic hand-clapping the formal part of the meeting came toan end. The servants were entering with tea as Honora made her waytowards the door, where she was stopped by Susan Holt. 

"My dear Honora, " cried Mrs. Holt, who had hurried after her daughter, "you're not going?"

Honora suddenly found herself without an excuse. 

"I really ought to, Mrs. Holt. I've had such a good time-and I've been sointerested. I never realized that such things occurred. And I've got oneof the reports, which I intend to read over again. "

"But my dear, " protested Mrs. Holt, "you must meet some of the members ofthe Society. Bessie!"

Mrs. Grainger, indeed--for Honora had been right in her surmise--wasstanding within ear-shot of this conversation. And Honora, who knew shewas there, could not help feeling that she took a rather redoubtableinterest in it. At Mrs. Holt's words she turned. 

"Bessie, I've found a new recruit--one that I can answer for, Mrs. Spence, whom I spoke to you about. "

Mrs. Grainger bestowed upon Honora her enigmatic smile. 

"Oh, " she declared, "I've heard of Mrs. Spence from other sources, andI've seen her, too. "

Honora grew a fiery red. There was obviously no answer to such a remark, which seemed the quintessence of rudeness. But Mrs. Grainger continued tosmile, and to stare at her with the air of trying to solve a riddle. 

"I'm coming to see you, if I may, " she said. "I've been intending tosince I've been in town, but I'm always so busy that I don't get time todo the things I want to do. "

An announcement that fairly took away Honora's breath. She managed toexpress her appreciation of Mrs. Grainger's intention, and presentlyfound herself walking rapidly up-town through swirling snow, somewhatdazed by the events of the afternoon. And these, by the way, were not yetfinished. As she reached her own door, a voice vaguely familiar calledher name. 

"Honora!"

She turned. The slim, tall figure of a young woman descended from acarriage and crossed the pavement, and in the soft light of the vestibuleshe recognized Ethel Wing. 

"I'm so glad I caught you, " said that young lady when they entered thedrawing-room. And she gazed at her school friend. The colour glowed inHonora's cheeks, but health alone could not account for the sparkle inher eyes. "Why, you look radiant. You are more beautiful than you were atSutcliffe. Is it marriage?"

Honora laughed happily, and they sat down side by side on the loungebehind the tea table. 

"I heard you'd married, " said Ethel, "but I didn't know what had becomeof you until the other day. Jim never tells me anything. It appears thathe's seen something of you. But it wasn't from Jim that I heard about youfirst. You'd never guess who told me you were here. "

"Who?" asked Honora, curiously. 

"Mr. Erwin. "

"Peter Erwin!"

"I'm perfectly shameless, " proclaimed Ethel Wing. "I've lost my heart tohim, and I don't care who knows it. Why in the world didn't you marryhim?"

"But--where did you see him?" Honora demanded as soon as she couldcommand herself sufficiently to speak. Her voice must have sounded odd. Ethel did not appear to notice that. 

"He lunched with us one day when father had gout. Didn't he tell youabout it? He said he was coming to see you that afternoon. "

"Yes--he came. But he didn't mention being at lunch at your house. "

"I'm sure that was like him, " declared her friend. And for the first timein her life Honora experienced a twinge of that world-old ailment--jealousy. How did Ethel know what was like him? "I made father give himup for a little while after lunch, and he talked about you the wholetime. But he was most interesting at the table, " continued Ethel, sublimely unconscious of the lack of compliment in the comparison; "asJim would say, he fairly wiped up the ground with father, and it isn't aneasy thing to do. "

"Wiped up the ground with Mr. Wing!" Honora repeated. 

"Oh, in a delightfully quiet, humorous way. That's what made it soeffective. I couldn't understand all of it; but I grasped enough to enjoyit hugely. Father's so used to bullying people that it's become secondnature with him. I've seen him lay down the law to some of the biggestlawyers in New York, and they took it like little lambs. He caught aTartar in Mr. Erwin. I didn't dare to laugh, but I wanted to. "

"What was the discussion about?" asked Honora. 

"I'm not sure that I can give you a very clear idea of it, " said Ethel. "Generally speaking, it was about modern trust methods, and what aself-respecting lawyer would do and what he wouldn't. Father took theground that the laws weren't logical, and that they were different andconflicting, anyway, in different States. He said they impeded thenatural development of business, and that it was justifiable for thegreat legal brains of the country to devise means by which these lawscould be eluded. He didn't quite say that, but he meant it, and hehonestly believes it. The manner in which Mr. Erwin refuted it was arevelation to me. I've been thinking about it since. You see, I'd neverheard that side of the argument. Mr. Erwin said, in the nicest waypossible, but very firmly, that a lawyer who hired himself out to enableone man to take advantage of another prostituted his talents: that thebrains of the legal profession were out of politics in these days, andthat it was almost impossible for the men in the legislatures to framelaws that couldn't be evaded by clever and unscrupulous devices. He citedever so many cases . . . "

Ethel's voice became indistinct, as though some one had shut a door infront of it. Honora was trembling on the brink of a discovery: holdingherself back from it, as one who has climbed a fair mountain recoils fromthe lip of an unsuspected crater at sight of the lazy, sulphurous fumes. All the years of her marriage, ever since she had first heard his name, the stature of James Wing had been insensibly growing, and the vastnessof his empire gradually disclosed. She had lived in that empire: in ithis word had stood for authority, his genius had been worshipped, hisdecrees had been absolute. 

She had met him once, in Howard's office, when he had greeted hergruffly, and the memory of his rugged features and small red eyes, likelive coals, had remained. And she saw now the drama that had taken placebefore Ethel's eyes. The capitalist, overbearing, tyrannical, hearing afew, simple truths in his own house from Peter--her Peter. And sherecalled her husband's account of his talk with James Wing. Peter hadrefused to sell himself. Had Howard? Many times during the days thatfollowed she summoned her courage to ask her husband that question, andkept silence. She did not wish to know. 

"I don't want to seem disloyal to papa, " Ethel was saying. "He is undergreat responsibilities to other people, to stockholders; and he must getthings done. But oh, Honora, I'm so tired of money, money, money and itsstandards, and the things people are willing to do for it. I've seen toomuch. "

Honora looked at her friend, and believed her. One glance at the girl'stired eyes--a weariness somehow enhanced--in effect by the gold sheen ofher hair--confirmed the truth of her words. 

"You've changed, Ethel, since Sutcliffe, " she said. 

"Yes, I've changed, " said Ethel Wing, and the weariness was in her voice, too. "I've had too much, Honora. Life was all glitter, like a Christmastree, when I left Sutcliffe. I had no heart. I'm not at all sure that Ihave one now. I've known all kinds of people--except the right kind. Andif I were to tell you some of the things that have happened to me in fiveyears you wouldn't believe them. Money has been at the bottom of itall, --it ruined my brother, and it has ruined me. And then, the otherday, I beheld a man whose standards simply take no account of money, aman who holds something else higher. I--I had been groping lately, andthen I seemed to see clear for the first time in my life. But I'm afraidit comes too late. "

Honora took her friend's hand in her own and pressed it. 

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this, " said Ethel: "It seems to-dayas though I had always known you, and yet we weren't particularlyintimate at school. I suppose I'm inclined to be oversuspicious. Heavenknows I've had enough to make me so. But I always thought that you were alittle--ambitious. You'll forgive my frankness, Honora. I don't thinkyou're at all so, now. " She glanced at Honora suddenly. "Perhaps you'vechanged, too, " she said. 

Honora nodded. 

"I think I'm changing all the time, " she replied. 

After a moment's silence, Ethel Wing pursued her own train of thought. 

"Curiously enough when he--when Mr. Erwin spoke of you I seemed to get avery different idea of you than the one I had always had. I had to go outof town, but I made up my mind I'd come to see you as soon as I got back, and ask you to tell me something about him. "

"What shall I tell you?" asked Honora. "He is what you think he is, andmore. "

"Tell me something of his early life, " said Ethel Wing. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 

There is a famous river in the western part of our country thatdisappears into a canon, the walls of which are some thousands of feethigh, and the bottom so narrow that the confined waters roar through itat breakneck speed. Sometimes they disappear entirely under the rock, toemerge again below more furiously than ever. From the river-bed can beseen, far, far above, a blue ribbon of sky. Once upon a time, not longago, two heroes in the service of the government of the United States, whose names should be graven in the immortal rock and whose story readwherever the language is spoken, made the journey through this canon andcame out alive. That journey once started, there could be no turningback. Down and down they were buffeted by the rushing waters, over thefalls and through the tunnels, with time to think only of that whichwould save them from immediate death, until they emerged into thesunlight of the plain below. 

All of which by way of parallel. For our own chronicle, hithertoleisurely enough, is coming to its canon--perhaps even now begins to feelthe pressure of the shelving sides. And if our heroine be somewhat rudelytossed from one boulder to another, if we fail wholly to understand heremotions and her acts, we must blame the canon. She had, indeed, littletime to think. 

One evening, three weeks or so after the conversation with Ethel Wingjust related, Honora's husband entered her room as her maid was givingthe finishing touches to her toilet. 

"You're not going to wear that dress!" he exclaimed. 

"Why not?" she asked, without turning from the mirror. 

He lighted a cigarette. 

"I thought you'd put on something handsome--to go to the Graingers'. Andwhere are your jewels? You'll find the women there loaded with 'em. "

"One string of pearls is all I care to wear, " said Honora--a reply withwhich he was fain to be content until they were in the carriage, when sheadded: "Howard, I must ask you as a favour not to talk that way beforethe servants. "

"What way?" he demanded. 

"Oh, " she exclaimed, "if you don't know I suppose it is impossible toexplain. You wouldn't understand. "

"I understand one thing, Honora, that you're too confoundedly clever forme, " he declared. 

Honora did not reply. For at that moment they drew up at a carpetstretched across the pavement. 

Unlike the mansions of vast and imposing facades that were beginningeverywhere to catch the eye on Fifth Avenue, and that followed mostly thecontinental styles of architecture, the house of the Cecil Graingers hada substantial, "middle of-the-eighties" appearance. It stood on a corner, with a high iron fence protecting the area around it. Within, it gave onean idea of space that the exterior strangely belied; and it wasfurnished, not in a French, but in what might be called a comfortablyEnglish, manner. It was filled, Honora saw, with handsome and pricelessthings which did not immediately and aggressively strike the eye, butwhich somehow gave the impression of having always been there. Whatstruck her, as she sat in the little withdrawing room while the maidremoved her overshoes, was the note of permanence. 

Some of those who were present at Mrs. Grainger's that evening rememberher entrance into the drawing-room. Her gown, the colour of a rose-tintedcloud, set off the exceeding whiteness of her neck and arms and vied withthe crimson in her cheeks, and the single glistening string of pearlsabout the slender column of her neck served as a contrast to the shadowymasses of her hair. Mr. Reginald Farwell, who was there, afterwardsdeclared that she seemed to have stepped out of the gentle landscape ofan old painting. She stood, indeed, hesitating for a moment in thedoorway, her eyes softly alight, in the very pose of expectancy that sucha picture suggested. 

Honora herself was almost frightened by a sense of augury, of triumph, asshe went forward to greet her hostess. Conversation, for the moment, hadstopped. Cecil Grainger, with the air of one who had pulled aside thecurtain and revealed this vision of beauty and innocence, crossed theroom to welcome her. And Mrs. Grainger herself was not a littlesurprised; she was not a dramatic person, and it was not often that herdrawing-room was the scene of even a mild sensation. No entrance couldhave been at once so startling and so unexceptionable as Honora's. 

"I was sorry not to find you when I called, " she said. "I was sorry, too, " replied Mrs. Grainger, regarding her with an interest that wasundisguised, and a little embarrassing. "I'm scarcely ever at home, except when I'm with the children. Do you know these people?"

"I'm not sure, " said Honora, "but--I must introduce my husband to you. "

"How d'ye do!" said Mr. Grainger, blinking at her when this ceremony wasaccomplished. "I'm awfully glad to see you, Mrs. Spence, upon my word. "

Honora could not doubt it. But he had little time to express his joy, because of the appearance of his wife at Honora's elbow with a tall manshe had summoned from a corner. 

"Before we go to dinner I must introduce my cousin, Mr. Chiltern--he isto have the pleasure of taking you out, " she said. 

His name was in the class of those vaguely familiar: vaguely familiar, too, was his face. An extraordinary face, Honora thought, glancing at itas she took his arm, although she was struck by something less tangiblethan the unusual features. He might have belonged to any nationalitywithin the limits of the Caucasian race. His short, kinky, black hairsuggested great virility, an effect intensified by a strongly bridgednose, sinewy hands, and bushy eyebrows. But the intangible distinctionwas in the eyes that looked out from under these brows the glimpse shehad of them as he bowed to her gravely, might be likened to the hastyreading of a chance page in a forbidden book. Her attention was arrested, her curiosity aroused. She was on that evening, so to speak, exposed forand sensitive to impressions. She was on the threshold of the Alhambra. 

"Hugh has such a faculty, " complained Mr. Grainger, "of turning up at thewrong moment!"

Dinner was announced. She took Chiltern's arm, and they fell into filebehind a lady in yellow, with a long train, who looked at her ratherhard. It was Mrs. Freddy Maitland. Her glance shifted to Chiltern, and itseemed to Honora that she started a little. 

"Hello, Hugh, " she said indifferently, looking back over her shoulder;"have you turned up again?"

"Still sticking to the same side of your horse, I see. " he replied, ignoring the question. "I told you you'd get lop-sided. "

The deformity, if there were any, did not seem to trouble her. 

"I'm going to Florida Wednesday. We want another man. Think it over. "

"Sorry, but I've got something else to do, " he said. 

"The devil and idle hands, " retorted Mrs. Maitland. 

Honora was sure as she could be that Chiltern was angry, although he gaveno visible sign of this. It was as though the current ran from his arminto hers. 

"Have you been away?" she asked. 

"It seems to me as though I had never been anywhere else, " he answered, and he glanced curiously at the guests ranging about the great, flower-laden table. They sat down. 

She was a little repelled, a little piqued; and a little relieved whenthe man on her other side spoke to her, and she recognized Mr. ReginaldFarwell, the architect. The table capriciously swung that way. She didnot feel prepared to talk to Mr. Chiltern. And before entering upon herexplorations she was in need of a guide. She could have found none morecharming, none more impersonal, none more subtly aware of her wants(which had once been his) than Mr. Farwell. With his hair parted withgeometrical precision from the back of his collar to his forehead, withhis silky mustache and eyes of soft hazel lights, he was all things toall men and women--within reason. He was an achievement that civilizationhad not hitherto produced, a combination of the Beaux Arts and the JockeyClub and American adaptability. He was of those upon whom labour leavesno trace. 

There were preliminaries, mutually satisfactory. To see Mrs. Spence wasnever to forget her, but more delicately intimated. He remembered to havecaught a glimpse of her at the Quicksands Club, and Mrs. Dallam nor herhouse were not mentioned by either. Honora could not have been in NewYork Long. No, it was her first winter, and she felt like a stranger. Would Mr. Farwell tell her who some of these people were? Nothing charmedMr. Farwell so much as simplicity--when it was combined with personalattractions. He did not say so, but contrived to intimate the former. 

"It's always difficult when one first comes to New York, " he declared, "but it soon straightens itself out, and one is surprised at how fewpeople there are, after all. We'll begin on Cecil's right. That's Mrs. George Grenfell. "

"Oh, yes, " said Honora, looking at a tall, thin woman of middle age whowore a tiara, and whose throat was covered with jewels. Honora did notimply that Mrs. Grenfell's name, and most of those that followed, wereextremely familiar to her. 

"In my opinion she's got the best garden in Newport, and she did most ofit herself. Next to her, with the bald head, is Freddy Maitland. Next tohim is Miss Godfrey. She's a little eccentric, but she can afford tobe--the Godfreys for generations have done so much for the city. The manwith the beard, next her, is John Laurens, the philanthropist. Thatpretty woman, who's just as nice as she looks, is Mrs. Victor Strange. She was Agatha Pendleton--Mrs. Grainger's cousin. And the gentleman withthe pink face, whom she is entertaining--"

"Is my husband, " said Honora, smiling. "I know something about him. "

Mr. Farwell laughed. He admired her aplomb, and he did not himself changecountenance. Indeed, the incident seemed rather to heighten theconfidence between them. Honora was looking rather critically at Howard. It was a fact that his face did grow red at this stage of a dinner, andshe wondered what Mrs. Strange found to talk to him about. 

"And the woman on the other side of him?" she asked. "By the way, she hasa red face, too. "

"So she has, " he replied amusedly. "That is Mrs. Littleton Pryor, thegreatest living rebuke to the modern woman. Most of those jewels areinherited, but she has accustomed herself by long practice to carry them, as well as other burdens. She has eight children, and she's on everycharity list. Her ancestors were the very roots of Manhattan. She lookslike a Holbein--doesn't she?"

"And the extraordinary looking man on my right?" Honora asked. "I've gotto talk to him presently. "

"Chiltern!" he said. "Is it possible you haven't heard something aboutHugh Chiltern?"

"Is it such lamentable ignorance?" she asked. 

"That depends upon one's point of view, " he replied. "He's always been asort of a--well, Viking, " said Farwell. 

Honora was struck by the appropriateness of the word. 

"Viking--yes, he looks it exactly. I couldn't think. Tell me somethingabout him. "

"Well, " he laughed, lowering his voice a little, here goes for a littlerough and ready editing. One thing about Chiltern that's to be admired isthat he's never cared a rap what people think. Of course, in a way, henever had to. His family own a section of the state, where they've hadwoollen mills for a hundred years, more or less. I believe Hugh Chilternhas sold 'em, or they've gone into a trust, or something, but the estateis still there, at Grenoble--one of the most beautiful places I've everseen. The General--this man's father--was a violent, dictatorial man. There is a story about his taking a battery at Gettysburg which is almostincredible. But he went back to Grenoble after the war, and became thetypical public-spirited citizen; built up the mills which his own pioneergrandfather had founded, and all that. He married an aunt of Mrs. Grainger's, --one of those delicate, gentle women who never dare to calltheir soul their own. "

"And then?" prompted Honora, with interest. 

"It's only fair to Hugh, " Farwell continued, "to take his early yearsinto account. The General never understood him, and his mother diedbefore he went off to school. Men who were at Harvard with him say he hasa brilliant mind, but he spent most of his time across the Charles Riverbreaking things. It was, probably, the energy the General got rid of atGettysburg. What Hugh really needed was a war, and he had too much money. He has a curious literary streak, I'm told, and wrote a rather remarkablearticle--I've forgotten just where it appeared. He raced a yacht for awhile in a dare-devil, fiendish way, as one might expect; and used to gooff on cruises and not be heard of for months. At last he got engaged toSally Harrington--Mrs. Freddy Maitland. "

Honora glanced across the table. 

"Exactly, " said Mr. Farwell. "That was seven or eight years ago. Nobodyever knew the reason why she broke it--though it may have been prettyclosely guessed. He went away, and nobody's laid eyes on him until heturned up to-night. "

Honora's innocence was not too great to enable her to read between thelines of this biography which Reginald Farwell had related with suchpraiseworthy delicacy. It was a biography, she well knew, that, like ascore of others, had been guarded as jealously as possible within thecircle on the borders of which she now found herself. Mrs. Grainger withher charities, Mrs. Littleton Pryor with her good works, Miss Godfreywith her virtue--all swallowed it as gracefully as possible. Noblesseoblige. Honora had read French and English memoirs, and knew that historyrepeats itself. And a biography that is printed in black letter andilluminated in gold is attractive in spite of its contents. The contents, indeed, our heroine had not found uninteresting, and she turned now tothe subject with a flutter of anticipation. 

He looked at her intently, almost boldly, she thought, and before shedropped her eyes she had made a discovery. The thing stamped upon hisface and burning in his eyes was not world-weariness, disappointment, despair. She could not tell what it was, yet; that it was none of these, she knew. It was not unrelated to experience, but transcended it. Therewas an element of purpose in it, of determination, almost--she would havebelieved--of hope. That Mrs. Maitland nor any other woman was a part ofit she became equally sure. Nothing could have been more commonplace thanthe conversation which began, and yet it held for her, between the linesas in the biography, the thrill of interest. She was a woman, andembarked on a voyage of discovery. 

"Do you live in New York?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Honora, "since this autumn. "

"I've been away a good many years, " he said, in explanation of hisquestion. "I haven't quite got my bearings. I can't tell you how queerlythis sort of thing affects me. "

"You mean civilization?" she hazarded. 

"Yes. And yet I've come back to it. "

Of course she did not ask him why. Their talk was like the starting of aheavy train--a series of jerks; and yet both were aware of anirresistible forward traction. She had not recovered from her surprise infinding herself already so far in his confidence. 

"And the time will come, I suppose, when you'll long to get away again. "

"No, " he said, "I've come back to stay. It's taken me a long while tolearn it, but there's only one place for a man, and that's his owncountry. "

Her eyes lighted. 

"There's always so much for a man to do. "

"What would you do?" he asked curiously. 

She considered this. 

"If you had asked me that question two years ago--even a year ago--Ishould have given you a different answer. It's taken me some time tolearn it, too, you see, and I'm not a man. I once thought I should haveliked to have been a king amongst money changers, and own railroad andsteamship lines, and dominate men by sheer power. "

He was clearly interested. 

"And now?" he prompted her. 

She laughed a little, to relieve the tension. 

"Well--I've found out that there are some men that kind of power can'tcontrol--the best kind. And I've found out that that isn't the best kindof power. It seems to be a brutal, barbarous cunning power now that I'veseen it at close range. There's another kind that springs from a manhimself, that speaks through his works and acts, that influences firstthose around him, and then his community, convincing people of their ownfolly, and that finally spreads in ever widening circles to those whom hecannot see, and never will see. "

She paused, breathing deeply, a little frightened at her own eloquence. Something told her that she was not only addressing her own soul--she wasspeaking to his. 

"I'm afraid you'll think I'm preaching, " she apologized. 

"No, " he said impatiently, "no. "

"To answer your question, then, if I were a man of independent means, Ithink I should go into politics. And I should put on my first campaignbanner the words, 'No Compromise. '"

It was a little strange that, until now--to-night-she had not definitelyformulated these ambitions. The idea of the banner with its inscriptionhad come as an inspiration. He did not answer, but sat regarding her, drumming on the cloth with his strong, brown fingers. 

"I have learned this much in New York, " she said, carried on by herimpetus, "that men and women are like plants. To be useful, and to growproperly, they must be firmly rooted in their own soil. This city seemsto me like a luxurious, overgrown hothouse. Of course, " she addedhastily, "there are many people who belong here, and whose best work isdone here. I was thinking about those whom it attracts. And I have seenso many who are only watered and fed and warmed, and who become--distorted. "

"It's extraordinary, " replied Chiltern, slowly, "that you should say thisto me. It is what I have come to believe, but I couldn't have said ithalf so well. "

Mrs. Grainger gave the signal to rise. Honora took Chiltern's arm, and heled her back to the drawing-room. She was standing alone by the fire whenMrs. Maitland approached her. 

"Haven't I seen you before?" she asked. 

CHAPTER III

VINELAND

It was a pleasant Newport to which Honora went early in June, a fair cityshining in the midst of summer seas, a place to light the fires ofimagination. It wore at once an air of age, and of a new and sparklingunreality. Honora found in the very atmosphere a certain magic which shedid not try to define, but to the enjoyment of which she abandonedherself; and in those first days after her arrival she took a sheerdelight in driving about the island. Narrow Thames Street, crowded withgay carriages, with its aspect of the eighteenth and it shops of thetwentieth century; the whiffs of the sea; Bellevue Avenue, with itsglorious serried ranks of trees, its erring perfumes from bright gardens, its massed flowering shrubs beckoning the eye, its lawns of a trulyenchanted green. Through tree and hedge, as she drove, came ever changingglimpses of gleaming palace fronts; glimpses that made her turn and lookagain; that stimulated but did not satisfy, and left a pleasant longingfor something on the seeming verge of fulfilment. 

The very stillness and solitude that seemed to envelop these palacessuggested the enchanter's wand. To-morrow, perhaps, the perfect lawnswhere the robins hopped amidst the shrubbery would become again therock-bound, windswept New England pasture above the sea, and screaminggulls circle where now the swallows hovered about the steep blue roof ofa French chateau. Hundreds of years hence, would these great pleasurehouses still be standing behind their screens and walls and hedges? orwould, indeed, the shattered, vine-covered marble of a balustrade alonemark the crumbling terraces whence once the fabled owners scanned thesparkling waters of the ocean? Who could say?

The onward rush of our story between its canon walls compels usreluctantly to skip the narrative of the winter conquests of the lady whois our heroine. Popularity had not spoiled her, and the best proof ofthis lay in the comments of a world that is nothing if not critical. Nobeauty could have received with more modesty the triumph which hadgreeted her at Mrs. Grenfell's tableaux, in April, when she had appearedas Circe, in an architectural frame especially designed by Mr. Farwellhimself. There had been a moment of hushed astonishment, followed by anacclaim that sent the curtain up twice again. 

We must try to imagine, too, the logical continuation of that triumph inthe Baiae of our modern republic and empire, Newport. Open, Sesame!seems, as ever, to be the countersign of her life. Even the palace gatesswung wide to her: most of them with the more readiness because she hadalready passed through other gates--Mrs. Grainger's, for instance. Baiae, apparently, is a topsy-turvy world in which, if one alights upside down, it is difficult to become righted. To alight upside down, is to alight ina palace. The Graingers did not live in one, but in a garden that existedbefore the palaces were, and one that the palace owners could not copy: agarden that three generations of Graingers, somewhat assisted by aremarkable climate, had made with loving care. The box was priceless, thespreading trees in the miniature park no less so, and time, theunbribeable, alone could now have produced the wide, carefully cherishedVictorian mansion. Likewise not purchasable by California gold was agrandfather whose name had been written large in the pages of Americanhistory. His library was now lined with English sporting prints; butthese, too, were old and mellow and rare. 

To reach Honora's cottage, you turned away from the pomp and glitter andnoise of Bellevue Avenue into the inviting tunnel of a leafy lane thatpresently stopped of itself. As though to provide against the contingencyof a stray excursionist, a purple-plumed guard of old lilac trees massedthemselves before the house, and seemed to look down with contempt on thenew brick wall across the lane. 'Odi profanum vulgus'. It was on accountof the new brick wall, in fact, that Honora, through the intervention ofMrs. Grainger and Mrs. Shorter, had been able to obtain this mostdesirable of retreats, which belonged to a great-aunt of Miss Godfrey, Mrs. Forsythe. 

Mr. Chamberlin, none other than he of whom we caught a glimpse some yearsago in a castle near Silverdale, owned the wall and the grounds and thepalace it enclosed. This gentleman was of those who arrive in Newportupside down; and was even now, with the somewhat doubtful assistance ofhis wife, making lavish and pathetic attempts to right himself. Newporthad never forgiven him for the razing of a mansion and the felling oftrees which had been landmarks, and for the driving out of Mrs. Forsythe. The mere sight of the modern wall had been too much for this lady--thelilacs and the leaves in the lane mercifully hid the palace--and afterfive and thirty peaceful summers she had moved out, and let the cottage. It was furnished with delightful old-fashioned things that seemed toexpress, at every turn, the aristocratic and uncompromising personalityof the owner who had lived so long in their midst. 

Mr. Chamberlin, who has nothing whatever to do with this chronicle exceptto have been the indirect means of Honora's installation, used to comethrough the wall once a week or so to sit for half an hour on her porchas long as he ever sat anywhere. He had reddish side-whiskers, and hereminded her of a buzzing toy locomotive wound up tight and suddenlytaken from the floor. She caught glimpses of him sometimes in themornings buzzing around his gardeners, his painters, his carpenters, andhis grooms. He would buzz the rest of his life, but nothing short of arevolution could take his possessions away. 

The Graingers and the Grenfells and the Stranges might move mountains, but not Mr. Chamberlin's house. Whatever heart-burnings he may have hadbecause certain people refused to come to his balls, he was in Newport toremain. He would sit under the battlements until the crack of doom; orrather--and more appropriate in Mr. Chamberlin's case--walk around themand around, blowing trumpets until they capitulated. 

Honora magically found herself within them, and without a siege. Beholdher at last in the setting for which we always felt she was destined. Whyis it, in this world, that realization is so difficult a thing? Now thatshe is there, how shall we proceed to give the joys of her Elysium theirfull value? Not, certainly, by repeating the word pleasure over and overagain: not by describing the palaces at which she lunched and danced anddined, or the bright waters in which she bathed, or the yachts in whichshe sailed. During the week, indeed, she moved untrammelled in a worldwith which she found herself in perfect harmony: it was new, it wasdazzling, it was unexplored. During the week it possessed still anotherand more valuable attribute--it was real. And she, Honora LeffingwellSpence, was part and parcel of its permanence. The life relationships ofthe people by whom she was surrounded became her own. She had little timefor thought--during the week. 

We are dealing, now, in emotions as delicate as cloud shadows, and thesedrew on as Saturday approached. On Saturdays and Sundays the quality andtexture of life seemed to undergo a change. Who does not recall theMonday mornings of the school days of youth, and the indefinite feelingbetwixt sleep and waking that to-day would not be as yesterday or the daybefore? On Saturday mornings, when she went downstairs, she was wont tofind the porch littered with newspapers and her husband lounging in awicker chair behind the disapproving lilacs. Although they had longceased to bloom, their colour was purple--his was pink. 

Honora did not at first analyze or define these emotions, and wasconscious only of a stirring within her, and a change. Reality becameunreality. The house in which she lived, and for which she felt a passionof ownership, was for two days a rented house. Other women in Newport hadweek-end guests in the guise of husbands, and some of them went so far asto bewail the fact. Some had got rid of them. Honora kissed hersdutifully, and picked up the newspapers, drove him to the beach, and tookhim out to dinner, where he talked oracularly of finance. On Sunday nighthe departed, without visible regrets, for New York. 

One Monday morning a storm was raging over Newport. Seized by a suddenwhim, she rang her bell, breakfasted at an unusual hour, and nine o'clockfound her, with her skirts flying, on the road above the cliffs thatleads to the Fort. The wind had increased to a gale, and as she stood onthe rocks the harbour below her was full of tossing white yachtsstraining at their anchors. Serene in the midst of all this hubbub lay agreat grey battleship. 

Presently, however, her thoughts were distracted by the sight ofsomething moving rapidly across her line of vision. A sloop yacht, with aridiculously shortened sail, was coming in from the Narrows, scuddingbefore the wind like a frightened bird. She watched its approach in asort of fascination, for of late she had been upon the water enough torealize that the feat of which she was witness was not without itsdifficulties. As the sloop drew nearer she made out a bare-headed figurebent tensely at the wheel, and four others clinging to the yellow deck. In a flash the boat had rounded to, the mainsail fell, and a veil ofspray hid the actors of her drama. When it cleared the yacht was tugginglike a wild thing at its anchor. 

That night was Mrs. Grenfell's ball, and many times in later years hasthe scene come back to Honora. It was not a large ball, by no means onthe scale of Mr. Chamberlin's, for instance. The great room reminded oneof the gallery of a royal French chateau, with its dished ceiling, in theoval of which the colours of a pastoral fresco glowed in the ruby lightsof the heavy chandeliers; its grey panelling, hidden here and there bytapestries, and its series of deep, arched windows that gave glimpses ofa lantern-hung terrace. Out there, beyond a marble balustrade, the lightsof fishing schooners tossed on a blue-black ocean. The same ocean onwhich she had looked that morning, and which she heard now, in theintervals of talk and laughter, crashing against the cliffs, --althoughthe wind had gone down. Like a woman stirred to the depths of her being, its bosom was heaving still at the memory of the passion of the morning. 

This night after the storm was capriciously mild, the velvet gown ofheaven sewn with stars. The music had ceased, and supper was being servedat little tables on the terrace. The conversation was desultory. 

"Who is that with Reggie Farwell?" Ethel Wing asked. 

"It's the Farrenden girl, " replied Mr. Cuthbert, whose business it was toknow everybody. "Chicago wheat. She looks like Ceres, doesn't she? Quitebecoming to Reggie's dark beauty. She was sixteen, they tell me, when theold gentleman emerged from the pit, and they packed her off to a conventby the next steamer. Reggie may have the blissful experience of living inone of his own houses if he marries her. "

The fourth at the table was Ned Carrington, who had been first secretaryat an Embassy, and he had many stories to tell of ambassadors who spokecommercial American and asked royalties after their wives. Some one hadsaid about him that he was the only edition of the Almanach de Gotha thatincluded the United States. He somewhat resembled a golden seal emergingfrom a cold bath, and from time to time screwed an eyeglass into his eyeand made a careful survey of Mrs. Grenfell's guests. 

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that Hugh Chiltern?"

Honora started, and followed the direction of Mr. Carrington's glance. Atsight of him, a vivid memory of the man's personality possessed her. 

"Yes, " Cuthbert was saying, "that's Chiltern sure enough. He came in onDicky Farnham's yacht this morning from New York. "

"This morning!" said Ethel Wing. "Surely not! No yacht could have come inthis morning. "

"Nobody but Chiltern would have brought one in, you mean, " he correctedher. "He sailed her. They say Dicky was half dead with fright, and wantedto put in anywhere. Chiltern sent him below and kept right on. He has adevil in him, I believe. By the way, that's Dicky Farnham's ex-wife he'stalking to--Adele. She keeps her good looks, doesn't she? What's happenedto Rindge?"

"Left him on the other side, I hear, " said Carrington. "Perhaps she'lltake Chiltern next. She looked as though she were ready to. And they sayit's easier every time. "

"C'est le second mari qui coute, " paraphrased Cuthbert, tossing his cigarover the balustrade. The strains of a waltz floated out of the windows, the groups at the tables broke up, and the cotillon began. 

As Honora danced, Chiltern remained in the back of her mind, or rather anindefinite impression was there which in flashes she connected with him. She wondered, at times, what had become of him, and once or twice shecaught herself scanning the bewildering, shifting sheen of gowns andjewels for his face. At last she saw him by the windows, holding a favourin his hand, coming in her direction. She looked away, towards the reduniforms of the Hungarian band on the raised platform at the end of theroom. He was standing beside her. 

"Do you remember me, Mrs. Spence?" he asked. 

She glanced up at him and smiled. He was not a person one would be likelyto forget, but she did not say so. 

"I met you at Mrs. Granger's, " was what she said. 

He handed her the favour. She placed it amongst the collection at theback of her chair and rose, and they danced. Was it dancing? The musicthrobbed; nay, the musicians seemed suddenly to have been carried out ofthemselves, and played as they had not played before. Her veins werefilled with pulsing fire as she was swung, guided, carried out of herselfby the extraordinary virility of the man who held her. She had tastedmastery. 

"Thank you, " she faltered, as they came around the second time to herseat. 

He released her. 

"I stayed to dance with you, " he said. "I had to await my opportunity. "

"It was kind of you to remember me, " she replied, as she went off withMr. Carrington. 

A moment later she saw him bidding good night to his hostess. His face, she thought, had not lost that strange look of determination that sherecalled. And yet--how account for his recklessness?

"Rum chap, Chiltern, " remarked Carrington. "He might be almost anything, if he only knew it. "

In the morning, when she awoke, her eye fell on the cotillon favoursscattered over the lounge. One amongst them stood out--a silver-mountedpin-cushion. Honora arose, picked it up contemplatively, stared at itawhile, and smiled. Then she turned to her window, breathing in theperfumes, gazing out through the horse-chestnut leaves at the green, shadow-dappled lawn below. 

On her breakfast tray, amidst some invitations, was a letter from her. Uncle. This she opened first. 

 "Dear Honora, " he wrote, "amongst your father's papers, which have been in my possession since his death, was a certificate for three hundred shares in a land company. He bought them for very little, and I had always thought them worthless. It turns out that these holdings are in a part of the state of Texas that is now being developed; on the advice of Mr. Isham and others I have accepted an offer of thirty dollars a share, and I enclose a draft on New York for nine thousand dollars. I need not dwell upon the pleasure it is for me to send you this legacy from your father. And I shall only add the counsel of an old uncle, to invest this money by your husband's advice in some safe securities. " . . . 

Honora put down the letter, and sat staring at the cheque in her hand. Nine thousand dollars--and her own! Her first impulse was to send it backto her uncle. But that would be, she knew, to hurt his feelings--he hadtaken such a pride in handing her this inheritance. She read the letteragain, and resolved that she would not ask Howard to invest the money. This, at least, should be her very own, and she made up her mind to takeit to a bank in Thames Street that morning. 

While she was still under the influence of the excitement aroused by theunexpected legacy, Mrs. Shorter came in, a lady with whom Honora'sintimacy had been of steady growth. The tie between them might perhapshave been described as intellectual, for Elsie Shorter professed only tolike people who were "worth while. " She lent Honora French plays, discussed them with her, and likewise a wider range of literature, including certain brightly bound books on evolution and sociology. 

In the eighteenth century, Mrs. Shorter would have had a title and asalon in the Faubourg: in the twentieth, she was the wife of a mostfashionable and successful real estate agent in New York, and was awareof no incongruity. Bourgeoise was the last thing that could be said ofher; she was as ready as a George Sand to discuss the whole range ofhuman emotions; which she did many times a week with certain gentlemen ofintellectual bent who had the habit of calling on her. She had never, tothe knowledge of her acquaintances, been shocked. But while she believedthat a great love carried, mysteriously concealed in its flame, its ownpardon, she had through some fifteen years of married life remainedfaithful to Jerry Shorter: who was not, to say the least, a Lochinvar ora Roland. Although she had had nervous prostration and was thirty-four, she was undeniably pretty. She was of the suggestive, and not thestrong-minded type, and the secret of her strength with the other sex wasthat she was in the habit of submitting her opinions for their approval. 

"My dear, " she said to Honora, "you may thank heaven that you are stillyoung enough to look beautiful in negligee. How far have you got? Haveyou guessed of which woman Vivarce was the lover? And isn't it the mostexciting play you've ever read? Ned Carrington saw it in Paris, anddeclares it frightened him into being good for a whole week!"

"Oh, Elsie, " exclaimed Honora, apologetically, "I haven't read a word ofit. "

Mrs. Shorter glanced at the pile of favours. 

"How was the dance?" she asked. "I was too tired to go. Hugh Chilternoffered to take me. "

"I saw Mr. Chiltern there. I met him last winter at the Graingers'. "

"He's staying with us, " said Mrs. Shorter; "you know he's a sort ofcousin of Jerry's, and devoted to him. He turned up yesterday morning onDicky Farnham's yacht, in the midst of all that storm. It appears thatDicky met him in New York, and Hugh said he was coming up here, and Dickyoffered to sail him up. When the storm broke they were just outside, andall on board lost their heads, and Hugh took charge and sailed in. Dickytold me that himself. "

"Then it wasn't--recklessness, " said Honora, involuntarily. But Mrs. Shorter did not appear to be surprised by the remark. 

"That's what everybody thinks, of course, " she answered. "They say thathe had a chance to run in somewhere, and browbeat Dicky into keeping onfor Newport at the risk of their lives. They do Hugh an injustice. Hemight have done that some years ago, but he's changed. "

Curiosity got the better of Honora. 

"Changed?" she repeated. 

"Of course you didn't know him in the old days, Honora, " said Mrs. Shorter. "You wouldn't recognize him now. I've seen a good deal of men, but he is the most interesting and astounding transformation I've everknown. "

"How?" asked Honora. She was sitting before the glass, with her handraised to her hair. 

Mrs. Shorter appeared puzzled. 

"That's what interests me, " she said. "My dear, don't you think lifetremendously interesting? I do. I wish I could write a novel. Betweenourselves, I've tried. I had Mr. Dewing send it to a publisher, who saidit was clever, but had no plot. If I only could get a plot!"

Honora laughed. 

"How would I The Transformation of Mr. Chiltern' do, Elsie?"

"If I only knew what's happened to him, and how he's going to end!"sighed Mrs. Shorter. 

"You were saying, " said Honora, for her friend seemed to have relapsedinto a contemplation of this problem, "you were saying that he hadchanged. "

"He goes away for seven years, and he suddenly turns up filled withambition and a purpose in life, something he had never dreamed of. He'sbeen at Grenoble, where the Chiltern estate is, making improvements andpreparing to settle down there. And he's actually getting ready to writea life of his father, the General--that's the most surprising thing! Theynever met but to strike fire while the General was alive. It appears thatJerry and Cecil Grainger and one or two other people have some of the oldgentleman's letters, and that's the reason why Hugh's come to Newport. And the strangest thing about it, my dear, " added Mrs. Shorter, inconsequently, "is that I don't think it's a love affair. "

Honora laughed again. It was the first time she had ever heard Mrs. Shorter attribute unusual human phenomena to any other source. "He wroteJerry that he was coming back to live on the estate, --from England. Andhe wasn't there a week. I can't think where he's seen any women--thatis, " Mrs. Shorter corrected herself hastily, "of his own class. He's beenin the jungle--India, Africa, Cores. That was after Sally Harringtonbroke the engagement. And I'm positive he's not still in love with Sally. She lunched with me yesterday, and I watched him. Oh, I should have knownit. But Sally hasn't got over it. It wasn't a grand passion with Hugh. Idon't believe he's ever had such a thing. Not that he isn't capable ofit--on the contrary, he's one of the few men I can think of who is. "

At this point in the conversation Honora thought that her curiosity hadgone far enough. 

CHAPTER IV

THE VIKING

She was returning on foot from the bank in Thames Street, where she haddeposited her legacy, when she met him who had been the subject of herconversation with Mrs. Shorter. And the encounter seemed--and was--themost natural thing in the world. She did not stop to ask herself why itwas so fitting that the Viking should be a part of Vineland: why hiscoming should have given it the one and final needful touch. For thatdesignation of Reginald Farwell's had come back to her. Despite the factthat Hugh Chiltern had with such apparent resolution set his face towardsliterature and the tillage of the land, it was as the Viking still thather imagination pictured him. By these tokens we may perceive that thisfaculty of our heroine's has been at work, and her canvas alreadysketched in. 

Whether by design or accident he was at the leafy entrance of her laneshe was not to know. She spied him standing there; and in her leisurelyapproach a strange conceit of reincarnation possessed her, and she smiledat the contrast thus summoned up. Despite the jingling harnesses ofBellevue Avenue and the background of Mr. Chamberlin's palace wall;despite the straw hat and white trousers and blue double-breasted sergecoat in which he was conventionally arrayed, he was the sea fighterstill--of all the ages. M. Vipsanius Agrippa, who had won an empire forAugustus, had just such a head. 

Their greeting, too, was conventional enough, and he turned and walkedwith her up the lane, and halted before the lilacs. "You have Mrs. Forsythe's house, " he said. "How well I remember it! My mother used tobring me here years ago. "

"Won't you come in?" asked Honora, gently. 

He seemed to have forgotten her as they mounted in silence to the porch, and she watched him with curious feelings as he gazed about him, andpeered through the windows into the drawing-room. 

"It's just as it was, " he said. "Even the furniture. I'm glad you haven'tmoved it. They used to sit over there in the corner, and have tea on theebony table. And it was always dark-just as it is now. I can see them. They wore dresses with wide skirts and flounces, and queer low collarsand bonnets. And they talked in subdued voices--unlike so many women inthese days. "

She was a little surprised, and moved, by the genuine feeling with whichhe spoke. 

"I was most fortunate to get the house, " she answered. "And I have grownto love it. Sometimes it seems as though I had always lived here. "

"Then you don't envy that, " he said, flinging his hand towards an openingin the shrubbery which revealed a glimpse of one of the pilasters of thepalace across the way. The instinct of tradition which had been the causeof Mrs. Forsythe's departure was in him, too. He, likewise, seemed tobelong to the little house as he took one of the wicker chairs. 

"Not, " said Honora, "when I can have this. "

She was dressed in white, her background of lilac leaves. Seated on therailing, with the tip of one toe resting on the porch, she smiled down athim from under the shadows of her wide hat. 

"I didn't think you would, " he declared. "This place seems to suit you, as I imagined you. I have thought of you often since we first met lastwinter. "

"Yes, " she replied hastily, "I am very happy here. Mrs. Shorter tells meyou are staying with then. "

"When I saw you again last night, " he continued, ignoring her attempt todivert the stream from his channel, I had a vivid impression as of havingjust left you. Have you ever felt that way about people?"

"Yes, " she admitted, and poked the toe of her boot with her parasol. 

"And then I find you in this house, which has so many associations forme. Harmoniously here, " he added, "if you know what I mean. Not anewcomer, but some one who must always have been logically expected. "

She glanced at him quickly, with parted lips. It was she who had donemost of the talking at Mrs. Grainger's dinner; and the imaginativequality of mind he was now revealing was unlooked for. She was surprisednot to find it out of character. It is a little difficult to know whatshe expected of him, since she did not know herself the methods, perhaps;of the Viking in Longfellow's poem. She was aware, at least, that she hadattracted him, and she was beginning to realize it was not a thing thatcould be done lightly. This gave her a little flutter of fear. 

"Are you going to be long in Newport?" she asked. 

"I am leaving on Friday, " he replied. "It seems strange to be here againafter so many years. I find I've got out of touch with it. And I haven'ta boat, although Farnham's been kind enough to offer me his. "

"I can't imagine you, somehow, without a boat, " she said, and addedhastily: "Mrs. Shorter was speaking of you this morning, and said thatyou were always on the water when you were here. Newport must have beenquite different then. "

He accepted the topic, and during the remainder of his visit shesucceeded in keeping the conversation in the middle ground, although shehad a sense of the ultimate futility of the effort; a sense of pressurebeing exerted, no matter what she said. She presently discovered, however, that the taste for literature attributed to him which had seemedso incongruous--existed. He spoke with a new fire when she led him thatway, albeit she suspected that some of the fuel was derived from therevelation that she shared his liking for books. As the extent of hisreading became gradually disclosed, however, her feeling of inadequacygrew, and she resolved in the future to make better use of her oddmoments. On her table, in two green volumes, was the life of aMassachusetts statesman that Mrs. Shorter had lent her. She picked it upafter Chiltern had gone. He had praised it. 

He left behind him a blurred portrait on her mind, as that of two mensuperimposed. And only that morning he had had such a distinct impressionof one. It was from a consideration of this strange phenomenon, with herbook lying open in her lap, that her maid aroused her to go to Mrs. Pryor's. This was Tuesday. 

Some of the modern inventions we deem most marvellous have been fittedfor ages to man and woman. Woman, particularly, possesses for instance akind of submarine bell; and, if she listens, she can at times hear ittinkling faintly. And the following morning, Wednesday, Honora heard herswhen she received an invitation to lunch at Mrs. Shorter's. After astruggle, she refused, but Mrs. Shorter called her up over the telephone, and she yielded. 

"I've got Alfred Dewing for myself, " said Elsie Shorter, as she greetedHonora in the hall. "He writes those very clever things--you've readthem. And Hugh for you, " she added significantly. 

The Shorter cottage, though commodious, was simplicity itself. From thevine-covered pergola where they lunched they beheld the distant sea likea lavender haze across the flats. And Honora wondered whether there werenot an element of truth in what Mr. Dewing said of their hostess--thatshe thought nothing immoral except novels with happy endings. Chilterndid not talk much: he looked at Honora. 

"Hugh has got so serious, " said Elsie Shorter, "that sometimes I'mactually afraid of him. You ought to have done something to be as seriousas that, Hugh. "

"Done something!"

"Written the 'Origin of Species, ' or founded a new political party, orexecuted a coup d'etat. Half the time I'm under the delusion that I'mentertaining a celebrity under my roof, and I wake up and it's onlyHugh. "

"It's because he looks as though he might do any of those things, "suggested Mr. Deming. "Perhaps he may. "

"Oh, " said Elsie Shorter, "the men who do them are usually little wobblyspecimens. "

Honora was silent, watching Chiltern. At times the completeness of herunderstanding of him gave her an uncanny sensation; and again she failedto comprehend him at all. She felt his anger go to a white heat, but theothers seemed blissfully unaware of the fact. The arrival of coffee madea diversion. 

"You and Hugh may have the pergola, Honora. I'll take Mr. Deming into thegarden. "

"I really ought to go in a few minutes, Elsie, " said Honora. 

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Shorter. "If it's bridge at thePlayfairs', I'll telephone and get you out of it. "

"No--"

"Then I don't see where you can be going, " declared Mrs. Shorter, anddeparted with her cavalier. 

"Why are you so anxious to get away?" asked Chiltern, abruptly. 

Honora coloured. 

"Oh--did I seem so? Elsie has such a mania for pairing peopleoff-sometimes it's quite embarrassing. "

"She was a little rash in assuming that you'd rather talk to me, " hesaid, smiling. 

"You were not consulted, either. "

"I was consulted before lunch, " he replied. 

"You mean--?"

"I mean that I wanted you, " he said. She had known it, of course. Thesubmarine bell had told her. And he could have found no woman in Newportwho would have brought more enthusiasm to his aid than Elsie Shorter. 

"And you usually--get what you want, " she retorted with a spark ofrebellion. 

"Yes, " he admitted. "Only hitherto I haven't wanted very desirablethings. "

She laughed, but her curiosity got the better of her. 

"Hitherto, " she said, "you have just taken what you desired. "

From the smouldering fires in his eyes darted an arrowpoint of flame. 

"What kind of a man are you?" she asked, throwing the impersonal to thewinds. "Somebody called you a Viking once. "

"Who?" he demanded. 

"It doesn't matter. I'm beginning to think the name singularlyappropriate. It wouldn't be the first time one landed in Newport, according to legend, " she added. 

"I haven't read the poem since childhood, " said Chiltern, looking at herfixedly, "but he became--domesticated, if I remember rightly. "

"Yes, " she admitted, "the impossible happened to him, as it usually doesin books. And then, circumstances helped. There were no other women. "

"When the lady died, " said Chiltern, "he fell upon his spear. "

"The final argument for my theory, " declared Honora. 

"On the contrary, " he maintained, smiling, "it proves there is always onewoman for every man--if he cars find her. If this man had lived in moderntimes, he would probably have changed from a Captain Kidd into a usefulcitizen of the kind you once said you admired. "

"Is a woman necessary, " she asked, "for the transformation?"

He looked at her so intently that she blushed to the hair clustering ather temples. She had not meant that her badinage should go so deep. 

"It was not a woman, " he said slowly, "that brought me back to America. "

"Oh, " she exclaimed, suffused, "I hope you won't think that curiosity"--and got no farther. 

He was silent a moment, and when she ventured to glance up at him one ofthose enigmatical changes had taken place. He was looking at her gravely, though intently, and the Viking had disappeared. 

"I wanted you to know, " he answered. "You must have heard more or lessabout me. People talk. Naturally these things haven't been repeated tome, but I dare say many of them are true. I haven't been a saint, and Idon't pretend to be now. I've never taken the trouble to deceive any one. And I've never cared, I'm sorry to say, what was said. But I'd like youto believe that when I agreed with with the sentiments you expressed thefirst time I saw you, I was sincere. And I am still sincere. "

"Indeed, I do believe it!" cried Honora. 

His face lighted. 

"You seemed different from the other women I had known--of my generation, at least, " he went on steadily. "None of them could have spoken as youdid. I had just landed that morning, and I should have gone direct toGrenoble, but there was some necessary business to be attended to in NewYork. I didn't want to go to Bessie's dinner, but she insisted. She wasshort of a man. I went. I sat next to you, and you interpreted my mind. It seemed too extraordinary not to have had a significance. "

Honora did not reply. She felt instinctively that he was a man who wasnot wont ordinarily to talk about his affairs. Beneath his speech was anundercurrent--or undertow, perhaps--carrying her swiftly, easily, helpless into the deep waters of intimacy. For the moment she let herselfgo without a struggle. Her silence was of a breathless quality which hemust have felt. 

"And I am going to tell you why I came home, " he said. "I have spoken ofit to nobody, but I wish you to know that it had nothing to do with anyordinary complication these people may invent. Nor was there anythingsupernatural about it: what happened to me, I suppose, is as old a storyas civilization itself. I'd been knocking about the world for a good manyyears, and I'd had time to think. One day I found myself in the interiorof China with a few coolies and a man who I suspect was a ticket-of-leaveEnglishman. I can see the place now the yellow fog, the sand piled upagainst the wall like yellow snow. Desolation was a mild name for it. Ithink I began with a consideration of the Englishman who was asleep inthe shadow of a tower. There was something inconceivably hopeless in hisface in that ochre light. Then the place where I was born and brought upcame to me with a startling completeness, and I began to go over my ownlife, step by step. To make a long story short, I perceived that what myfather had tried to teach me, in his own way, had some reason in it. Hewas a good deal of a man. I made up my mind I'd come home and start inwhere I belonged. But I didn't do so right away--I finished the tripfirst, and lent the Englishman a thousand pounds to buy into a firm inShanghai. I suppose, " he added, "that is what is called suggestion. In mycase it was merely the cumulative result of many reflections in wasteplaces. "

"And since then?"

"Since then I have been at Grenoble, making repairs and trying to learnsomething about agriculture. I've never been as happy in my life. "

"And you're going back on Friday, " she said. 

He glanced at her quickly. He had detected the note in her speech: thoughlightly uttered, it was unmistakably a command. She tried to soften itseffect in her next sentence. 

"I can't express how much I appreciate your telling me this, " she said. "I'll confess to you I wished to think that something of that kind hadhappened. I wished to believe that--that you had made this determinationalone. When I met you that night there was something about you I couldn'taccount for. I haven't been able to account for it until now. "

She paused, confused, fearful that she had gone too far. A moment latershe was sure of it. A look came into his eyes that frightened her. 

"You've thought of me?" he said. 

"You must know, " she replied, "that you have an unusual personality--astriking one. I can go so far as to say that I remembered you when youreappeared at Mrs. Grenfell's--" she hesitated. 

He rose, and walked to the far end of the tiled pavement of the pergola, and stood for a moment looking out over the sea. Then he turned to her. 

"I either like a person or I don't, " he said. "And I tell you frankly Ihave never met a woman whom I cared for as I do you. I hope you're notgoing to insist upon a probationary period of months before you decidewhether you can reciprocate. "

Here indeed was a speech in his other character, and she seemed to see, in a flash, his whole life in it. There was a touch of boyishness thatappealed, a touch of insistent masterfulness that alarmed. She recalledthat Mrs. Shorter had said of him that he had never had to besiege afortress--the white flag had always appeared too quickly. Of course therewas the mystery of Mrs. Maitland--still to be cleared up. It was plain, at least, that resistance merely made him unmanageable. She smiled. 

"It seems to me, " she said, "that in two days we have becomeastonishingly intimate. "

"Why shouldn't we?" he demanded. 

But she was not to be led into casuistry. 

"I've been reading the biography you recommended, " she said. 

He continued to look at her a moment, and laughed as he sat down besideher. Later he walked home with her. A dinner and bridge followed, and itwas after midnight when she returned. As her maid unfastened her gown sheperceived that her pincushion had been replaced by the one she hadreceived at the ball. 

"Did you put that there, Mathilde?" she asked. 

Mathilde had. She had seen it on madame's bureau, and thought madamewished it there. She would replace the old one at once. 

"No, " said Honora, "you may leave it, now. "

"Bien, madame, " said the maid, and glanced at her mistress, who appearedto have fallen into a revery. 

It had seemed strange to her to hear people talking about him at thedinner that night, and once or twice her soul had sprung to arms tochampion him, only to remember that her knowledge was special. She aloneof all of them understood, and she found herself exulting in thesuperiority. The amazed comment when the heir to the Chiltern fortune hadreturned to the soil of his ancestors had been revived on his arrival inNewport. Ned Carrington, amid much laughter, had quoted the lines aboutPrince Hal:

 "To mock the expectations of the world, To frustrate prophecies. "

Honora disliked Mr. Carrington. 

Perhaps the events of Thursday, would better be left in the confusion inwhich they remained in Honora's mind. She was awakened by penetrating, persistent, and mournful notes which for some time she could notidentify, although they sounded oddly familiar; and it was not until shefelt the dampness of the coverlet and looked at the white square of heropen windows that she realized there was a fog. And it had not liftedwhen Chiltern came in the afternoon. They discussed literature--but thebook had fallen to the floor. 'Absit omen'! If printing had then beeninvented, undoubtedly there would have been a book instead of an apple inthe third chapter of Genesis. He confided to her his plan of collectinghis father's letters and of writing the General's life. Honora, too, would enjoy writing a book. Perhaps the thought of the pleasure ofcollaboration occurred to them both at once; it was Chiltern who wishedthat he might have her help in the difficult places; she had, he felt, the literary instinct. It was not the Viking who was talking now. Andthen, at last, he had risen reluctantly to leave. The afternoon hadflown. She held out her hand with a frank smile. 

"Good-by, " she said. "Good-by, and good luck. "

"But I may not go, " he replied. 

She stood dismayed. 

"I thought you told me you were going on Friday--to-morrow. "

"I merely set that as a probable date. I have changed my mind. There isno immediate necessity. Do you wish me to go?" he demanded. 

She had turned away, and was straightening the books on the table. 

"Why should I?" she said. 

"You wouldn't object to my remaining a few days more?" He had reached thedoorway. 

"What have I to do with your staying?" she asked. 

"Everything, " he answered--and was gone. 

She stood still. The feeling that possessed her now was rebellion, andakin to hate. 

Her conduct, therefore, becomes all the more incomprehensible when wefind her accepting, the next afternoon, his invitation to sail on Mr. Farnham's yacht, the 'Folly'. It is true that the gods will not exonerateMrs. Shorter. That lady, who had been bribed with Alfred Dewing, used herpersuasive powers; she might be likened to a skilful artisan who blewwonderful rainbow fabrics out of glass without breaking it; she blew thetender passion into a thousand shapes, and admired every one. Hercriminal culpability consisted in forgetting the fact that it could notbe trusted with children. 

Nature seems to delight in contrasts. As though to atone for the fog shesent a dazzling day out of the northwest, and the summer world wasstained in new colours. The yachts were whiter, the water bluer, thegrass greener; the stern grey rocks themselves flushed with purple. Thewharves were gay, and dark clustering foliage hid an enchanted city asthe Folly glided between dancing buoys. Honora, with a frightened glanceupward at the great sail, caught her breath. And she felt rather than sawthe man beside her guiding her seaward. 

A discreet expanse of striped yellow deck separated them from the wickerchairs where Mrs. Shorter and Mr. Dewing were already established. Sheglanced at the profile of the Viking, and allowed her mind to dwell foran instant upon the sensations of that other woman who had been snatchedup and carried across the ocean. Which was the quality in him thatattracted her? his lawlessness, or his intellect and ambition? Never, sheknew, had he appealed to her more than at this moment, when he stood, astern figure at the wheel, and vouchsafed her nothing but commonplaces. This, surely, was his element. 

Presently, however, the yacht slid out from the infolding land into anopen sea that stretched before them to a silver-lined horizon. And heturned to her with a disconcerting directness, as though taking forgranted a subtle understanding between them. 

"How well you sail, " she said, hurriedly. 

"I ought to be able to do that, at least, " he declared. 

"I saw you when you came in the other day, although I didn't know who itwas until afterwards. I was standing on the rocks near the Fort, and myheart was in my mouth. "

He answered that the Dolly was a good sea boat. 

"So you decided to forgive me, " he said. 

"For what?"

"For staying in Newport. "

Before accepting the invitation she had formulated a policy, cheerfullyconfident in her ability to carry it out. For his decision not to leaveNewport had had an opposite effect upon her than that she hadanticipated; it had oddly relieved the pressure. It had given her achance to rally her forces; to smile, indeed, at an onslaught that had sodisturbed her; to examine the matter in a more rational light. It hadbeen a cause for self-congratulation that she had scarcely thought of himthe night before. And to-day, in her blue veil and blue serge gown, shehad boarded the 'Folly' with her wits about her. She forgot that it washe who, so to speak, had the choice of ground and weapons. 

"I have forgiven you. Why shouldn't I, when you have so royally atoned. "

But he obstinately refused to fence. There was nothing apologetic in thisman, no indirectness in his method of attack. Parry adroitly as shemight, he beat down her guard. As the afternoon wore on there weresilences, when Honora, by staring over the waters, tried to collect herthoughts. But the sea was his ally, and she turned her face appealinglytoward the receding land. Fascination and fear struggled within her asshe had listened to his onslaughts, and she was conscious of being movedby what he was, not by what he said. Vainly she glanced at the tworepresentatives of an ironically satisfied convention, only to realizethat they were absorbed in a milder but no less entrancing aspect of thesame topic, and would not thank her for an interruption. 

"Do you wish me to go away?" he asked at last abruptly, almost rudely. 

"Surely, " she said, "your work, your future isn't in Newport. "

"You haven't answered my question. "

"It's because I have no right to answer it, " she replied. "Although wehave known each other so short a time, I am your friend. You must realizethat. I am not conventional. I have lived long enough to understand thatthe people one likes best are not necessarily those one has knownlongest. You interest me--I admit it frankly--I speak to you sincerely. Iam even concerned that you shall find happiness, and I feel that you havethe power to make something of yourself. What more can I say? It seems tome a little strange, " she added, "that under the circumstances I shouldsay so much. I can give no higher proof of my friendship. "

He did not reply, but gave a sharp order to the crew. The sheet wasshortened, and the Folly obediently headed westward against the swell, flinging rainbows from her bows as she ran. Mrs. Shorter and Dewingreturned at this moment from the cabin, where they had been on a tour ofinspection. 

"Where are you taking us, Hugh?" said Mrs. Shorter. "Nowhere inparticular, " he replied. 

"Please don't forget that I am having people to dinner to-night. That'sall I ask. What have you done to him, Honora, to put him in such ahumour?"

Honora laughed. 

"I hadn't noticed anything peculiar about him, " she answered. 

"This boat reminds me of Adele, " said Mrs. Shorter. "She loved it. I cansee how she could get a divorce from Dicky--but the 'Folly'! She told meyesterday that the sight of it made her homesick, and Eustace Rindgewon't leave Paris. "

It suddenly occurred to Honora, as she glanced around the yacht, thatMrs. Rindge rather haunted her. 

"So that is your answer, " said Chiltern, when they were alone again. 

"What other can I give you?"

"Is it because you are married?" he demanded. 

She grew crimson. 

"Isn't that an unnecessary question?"

"No, " he declared. "It concerns me vitally to understand you. You weregood enough to wish that I should find happiness. I have found thepossibility of it--in you. "

"Oh, " she cried, "don't say such things!"

"Have you found happiness?" he asked. 

She turned her face from him towards their shining wake. But he had seenthat her eyes were filled with sudden tears. 

"Forgive me, " he pleaded; "I did not mean to be brutal. I said thatbecause I felt as I have never in my life felt before. As I did not knowI could feel. I can't account for it, but I ask you to believe me. "

"I can account for it, " she answered presently, with a strangegentleness. "It is because you met me at a critical time. Such-coincidences often occur in life. I happened to be a woman; and, Iconfess it, a woman who was interested. I could not have been interestedif you had been less real, less sincere. But I saw that you were goingthrough a crisis; that you might, with your powers, build up your lifeinto a splendid and useful thing. And, womanlike, my instinct was to helpyou. I should not have allowed you to go on, but--but it all happened soquickly that I was bewildered. I--I do not understand it myself. "

He listened hungrily, and yet at times with evident impatience. 

"No, " he said, "I cannot believe that it was an accident. It was you--"

She stopped him with an imploring gesture. 

"Please, " she said, "please let us go in. "

Without an instant's hesitation he brought the sloop about and headed herfor the light-ship on Brenton's reef, and they sailed in silence. Awhileshe watched the sapphire waters break to dazzling whiteness under thewesterning sun. Then, in an ecstasy she did not seek to question, sheclosed her eyes to feel more keenly the swift motion of their flight. Whynot? The sea, the winds of heaven, had aided others since the dawn ofhistory. Legend was eternally true. On these very shores happiness hadawaited those who had dared to face primeval things. 

She looked again, this time towards an unpeopled shore. No sentinelguarded the uncharted reefs, and the very skies were smiling, after thestorm, at the scudding fates. 

It was not until they were landlocked once more, and the Folly wasreluctantly beating back through the Narrows, that he spoke again. 

"So you wish me to go away?"

"I cannot see any use in your staying, " she replied, "after what you havesaid. I--cannot see, " she added in a low voice, "that for you to remainwould be to promote the happiness of--either of us. You should have goneto-day. "

"You care!" he exclaimed. 

"It is because I do not wish to care that I tell you to go--"

"And you refuse happiness?"

"It could be happiness for neither of us, " said Honora. "The situationwould be impossible. You are not a man who would be satisfied withmoderation. You would insist upon having all. And you do not know whatyou are asking. "

"I know that I want you, " he said, "and that my life is won or lost withor without you. "

You have no right to say such a thing. "

"We have each of us but one life to live. "

"And one life to ruin, " she answered. "See, you are running on therocks!"

He swung the boat around. 

"Others have rebuilt upon ruins, " he declared. 

She smiled at him. 

"But you are taking my ruins for granted, " she said. "You would make themfirst. "

He relapsed into silence again. The Folly needed watching. Once he turnedand spoke her name, and she did not rebuke him. 

"Women have a clearer vision of the future than men, " she beganpresently, "and I know you better than you know yourself. What--what youdesire would not mend your life, but break it utterly. I am speakingplainly. As I have told you, you interest me; so far that is the extentof my feelings. I do not know whether they would go any farther, but onyour account as well as my own I will not take the risk. We have come toan impasse. I am sorry. I wish we might have been friends, but what youhave said makes it impossible. There is only one thing to do, and that isfor you to go away. "

He eased off his sheet, rounded the fort, and set a course for themoorings. The sun hung red above the silhouetted roofs of Conanicut, anda quaint tower in the shape of a minaret stood forth to cap the illusionsof a day. 

The wind was falling, the harbour quieting for the night, and across thewaters, to the tones of a trumpet, the red bars of the battleship's flagfluttered to the deck. The Folly, making a wide circle, shot into thebreeze, and ended by gliding gently up to the buoy. 

CHAPTER V

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

It was Saturday morning, but Honora had forgotten the fact. Not until shewas on the bottom step did the odour of cigarettes reach her and turn herfaint; and she clutched suddenly at the banisters. Thus she stood for awhile, motionless, and then went quietly into the drawing-room. TheFrench windows looking out on the porch were, as usual, open. 

It was an odd sensation thus to be regarding one's husband objectively. For the first time he appeared to her definitely as a stranger; as much astranger as the man who came once a week to wind Mrs. Forsythe's clocks. Nay, more. There was a sense of intrusion in this visit, of invasion of alife with which he had nothing to do. She examined him ruthlessly, verymuch as one might examine a burglar taken unawares. There was theinevitable shirt with the wide pink stripes, of the abolishment or evenof the effective toning down of which she had long since despaired. Onthe contrary, like his complexion, they evinced a continual tendencytowards a more aggressive colour. There was also the jewelled ring, nowconspicuously held aloft on a fat little finger. The stripes appearedthat morning as the banner of a hated suzerain, the ring as the emblem ofhis overlordship. He did not belong in that house; everything in it criedout for his removal; and yet it was, in the eyes of the law at least, his. By grace of that fact she was here, enjoying it. At that instant, asthough in evidence of this, he laid down a burning cigarette on amahogany stand he had had brought out to him. Honora seized an ash tray, hurried to the porch, and picked up the cigarette in the tips of herfingers. 

"Howard, I wish you would be more careful of Mrs. Forsythe's furniture, "she exclaimed. 

"Hello, Honora, " he said, without looking up. "I see by the Newport paperthat old Maitland is back from Europe. Things are skyrocketing in WallStreet. " He glanced at the ash tray, which she had pushed towards him. "What's the difference about the table? If the old lady makes a row, I'llpay for it. "

"Some things are priceless, " she replied; "you do not seem to realizethat. "

"Not this rubbish, " said Howard. "Judging by the fuss she made over theinventory, you'd think it might be worth something. "

"She has trusted us with it, " said Honora. Her voice shook. 

He stared at her. 

"I never saw you look like that, " he declared. 

"It's because you never look at me closely, " she answered. 

He laughed, and resumed his reading. She stood awhile by the railing. Across the way, beyond the wall, she heard Mr. Chamberlin's shrill voiceberating a gardener. 

"Howard, " she asked presently, "why do you come to Newport at all?"

"Why do I come to Newport?" he repeated. "I don't understand you. "

"Why do you come up here every week?"

"Well, " he said, "it isn't a bad trip on the boat, and I get a changefrom New York; and see men I shouldn't probably see otherwise. " He pausedand looked at her again, doubtfully. "Why do you ask such a question?"

"I wished to be sure, " said Honora. 

"Sure of what?"

"That the-arrangement suited you perfectly. You do not feel--the lack ofanything, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't care to stay in Newport all the time?"

"Not if I know myself, " he replied. "I leave that part of it to you. "

"What part of it?" she demanded. 

"You ought to know. You do it pretty well, " he laughed. "By the way, Honora, I've got to have a conference with Mr. Wing to-day, and I may notbe home to lunch. "

"We're dining there to-night, " she told him, in a listless voice. 

Upon Ethel Wing had descended the dominating characteristics of the elderJames, who, whatever the power he might wield in Wall Street, was littlemore than a visitor in Newport. It was Ethel's house, from the hour shehad swept the Reel and Carter plans (which her father had brought home)from the table and sent for Mr. Farwell. The forehanded Reginald arrivedwith a sketch, and the result, as every one knows, is one of the chiefmonuments to his reputation. So exquisitely proportioned is its simple, two-storied marble front as seen through the trees left standing on theold estate, that tourists, having beheld the Chamberlin and othermansions, are apt to think this niggardly for a palace. Two infoldingwings, stretching towards the water, enclose a court, and through theslender white pillars of the peristyle one beholds in fancy the summerseas of Greece. 

Looking out on the court, and sustaining this classic illusion, is amarble-paved dining room, with hangings of Pompeiian red, and frescoes ofnymphs and satyrs and piping shepherds, framed between fluted pilasters, dimly discernible in the soft lights. 

In the midst of these surroundings, at the head of his table, sat thegreat financier whose story but faintly concerns this chronicle; the manwho, every day that he had spent down town in New York in the past thirtyyears, had eaten the same meal in the same little restaurant under thestreet. This he told Honora, on his left, as though it were not history. He preferred apple pie to the greatest of artistic triumphs of hisdaughter's chef, and had it; a glorified apple pie, with frills andfurbelows, and whipped cream which he angrily swept to one side withcontempt. 

"That isn't apple pie, " he said. "I'd like to take that Frenchman to thelittle New England hilltown where I went to school and show him whatapple pie is. "

Such were the autobiographical snatches--by no means so crude as theysound that reached her intelligence from time to time. Mr. Wing was toosubtle to be crude; and he had married a Playfair, a family noted forgood living. Honora did not know that he was fond of talking of thatapple pie and the New England school at public banquets; nor did Mr. Wingsuspect that the young woman whom he was apparently addressing, and whoseemed to be hanging on his words, was not present. 

It was not until she had put her napkin on the table that she awoke witha start and gazed into his face and saw written there still anotherhistory than the one he had been telling her. The face was hidden, indeed, by the red beard. What she read was in the little eyes that swepther with a look of possession: possession in a large sense, let it beemphasized, that an exact justice be done Mr. James Wing, --she was one ofthe many chattels over which his ownership extended; bought and paid forwith her husband. A hot resentment ran through her at the thought. 

Mr. Cuthbert, who was many kinds of a barometer, sought her out later inthe courtyard. 

"Your husband's feeling tiptop, isn't he?" said he. 

"He's been locked up with old Wing all day. Something's in the wind, andI'd give a good deal to know what it is. "

"I'm afraid I can't inform you, " replied Honora. 

Mr. Cuthbert apologized. 

"Oh, I didn't mean to ask you far a tip, " he declared, quite confused. "Ididn't suppose you knew. The old man is getting ready to make anotherkilling, that's all. You don't mind my telling you you look stunningtonight, do you?"

Honora smiled. 

"No, I don't mind, " she said. 

Mr. Cuthbert appeared to be ransacking the corners of his brain forwords. 

"I was watching you to-night at the table while Mr. Wing was talking toyou. I don't believe you heard a thing he said. "

"Such astuteness, " she answered, smiling at him, "astounds me. "

He laughed nervously. 

"You're different than you've ever been since I've known you, " he wenton, undismayed. "I hope you won't think I'm making love to you. Not thatI shouldn't like to, but I've got sense enough to see it's no use. "

Her reply was unexpected. 

"What makes you think that?" she asked curiously. 

"Oh, I'm not a fool, " said Mr. Cuthbert. "But if I were a poet, or thatfellow Dewing, I might be able to tell you what your eyes were liketo-night. "

"I'm glad you're not, " said Honora. 

As they were going in, she turned for a lingering look at the sea. Astrong young moon rode serenely in the sky and struck a path of lightacross the restless waters. Along this shimmering way the eyes of hercompanion followed hers. 

"I can tell you what that colour is, at least. Do you remember the blue, transparent substance that used to be on favours at children's parties?"he asked. "There were caps inside of them, and crackers. "

"I believe you are a poet, after all, " she said. 

A shadow fell across the flags. Honora did not move. 

"Hello, Chiltern, " said Cuthbert. "I thought you were playing bridge. .. "

"You haven't looked at me once to-night, " he said, when Cuthbert had gonein. 

She was silent. 

"Are you angry?"

"Yes, a little, " she answered. "Do you blame me?"

The vibration of his voice in the moonlit court awoke an answering chordin her; and a note of supplication from him touched her strangely. Logicin his presence was a little difficult--there can be no doubt of that. 

"I must go in, " she said unsteadily, "my carriage is waiting. "

But he stood in front of her. 

"I should have thought you would have gone, " she said. 

"I wanted to see you again. "

"And now?"

"I can't leave while you feel this way, " he pleaded. "I can't abandonwhat I have of you--what you will let me take. If I told you I would bereasonable--"

"I don't believe in miracles, " she said, recovering a little; "at leastin modern ones. The question is, could you become reasonable?"

"As a last resort, " he replied, with a flash of humour and a touch ofhope. "If you would--commute my sentence. "

She passed him, and picking up her skirts, paused in the window. 

"I will give you one more chance, " she said. 

This was the conversation that, by repeating itself, filled the intervalof her drive home. So oblivious was she to Howard's presence, that hecalled her twice from her corner of the carriage after the vehicle hadstopped; and he halted her by seizing her arm as she was about to go upthe stairs. She followed him mechanically into the drawing-room. 

He closed the door behind them, and the other door into the darkeneddining room. He even took a precautionary glance out of the window of theporch. And these movements, which ordinarily might have aroused hercuriosity, if not her alarm, she watched with a profound indifference. Hetook a stand before the Japanese screen in front of the fireplace, thrusthis hands in his pockets, cleared his throat, and surveyed her from herwhite shoulders to the gold-embroidered tips of her slippers. 

"I'm leaving for the West in the morning, Honora. If you've made anyarrangements for me on Sunday, you'll have to cancel them. I may be gonetwo weeks, I may be gone a month. I don't know. "

"Yes, " she said. 

"I'm going to tell you something those fellows in the smoking roomto-night did their best to screw out of me. If you say anything about it, all's up between me and Wing. The fact that he picked me out to engineerthe thing, and that he's going to let me in if I push it through, is apretty good sign that he thinks something of my business ability, eh?"

"You'd better not tell me, Howard, " she said. 

"You're too clever to let it out, " he assured her; and added with achuckle: "If it goes through, order what you like. Rent a house onBellevue Avenue--any thing in reason. "

"What is it?" she asked, with a sudden premonition that the thing had avital significance for her. 

"It's the greatest scheme extant, " he answered with elation. "I won't gointo details--you wouldn't understand'em. Mr. Wing and some others havetried the thing before, nearer home, and it worked like a charm. Streetrailways. We buy up the little lines for nothing, and get an interest inthe big ones, and sell the little lines for fifty times what they costus, and guarantee big dividends for the big lines. "

"It sounds to me, " said Honora, slowly, "as though some one would getcheated. "

"Some one get cheated!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Every one gets cheated, as you call it, if they haven't enough sense to know what theirproperty's worth, and how to use it to the best advantage. It's a case, "he announced, "of the survival of the fittest. Which reminds me that ifI'm going to be fit to-morrow I'd better go to bed. Mr. Wing's to take meto New York on his yacht, and you've got to have your wits about you whenyou talk to the old man. "