A Modern Chronicle — Complete. Winston Churchill

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СКАЧАТЬ you and Joshua would only take that Sylvester farm, and build a house, Annie,” said Mr. Holt, munching the dried bread which was specially prepared for him, “I should be completely happy. Then,” he added, turning to Honora, “I should have both my sons settled on the place. Robert and Gwen are sensible in building.”

      “It's cheaper to live with you, granddad,” laughed Mrs. Joshua. “Josh says if we do that, he has more money to buy cows.”

      At this moment a footman entered, and presented Mrs. Holt with some mail on a silver tray.

      “The Vicomte de Toqueville is coming this afternoon, Joshua,” she announced, reading rapidly from a sheet on which was visible a large crown. “He landed in New York last week, and writes to know if I could have him.”

      “Another of mother's menagerie,” remarked Robert.

      “I don't think that's nice of you, Robert,” said his mother. “The Vicomte was very kind to your father and me in Paris, and invited us to his chateau in Provence.”

      Robert was sceptical.

      “Are you sure he had one?” he insisted.

      Even Mr. Holt laughed.

      “Robert,” said his mother, “I wish Gwen could induce you to travel more. Perhaps you would learn that all foreigners aren't fortune-hunters.”

      “I've had an opportunity to observe the ones who come over here, mother.”

      “I won't have a prospective guest discussed,” Mrs. Holt declared, with finality. “Joshua, you remember my telling you last spring that Martha Spence's son called on me?” she asked. “He is in business with a man named Dallam, I believe, and making a great deal of money for a young man. He is just a year younger than you, Robert.”

      “Do you mean that fat, tow-headed boy that used to come up here and eat melons and ride my pony?” inquired Robert. “Howard Spence?”

      Mrs. Holt smiled.

      “He isn't fat any longer, Robert. Indeed, he's quite good-looking. Since his mother died, I had lost trace of him. But I found a photograph of hers when I was clearing up my desk some months ago, and sent it to him, and he came to thank me. I forgot to tell you that I invited him for a fortnight any time he chose, and he has just written to ask if he may come now. I regret to say that he's on the Stock Exchange—but I was very fond of his mother. It doesn't seem to me quite a legitimate business.”

      “Why!” exclaimed little Mrs. Joshua, unexpectedly, “I'm given to understand that the Stock Exchange is quite aristocratic in these days.”

      “I'm afraid I am old-fashioned, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, rising. “It has always seemed to me little better than a gambling place. Honora, if you still wish to go to the Girls' Home, I have ordered the carriage in a quarter of an hour.”

CHAPTER VIII. A CHAPTER OF CONQUESTS

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      Honora's interest in the Institution was so lively, and she asked so many questions and praised so highly the work with which the indiscreet young women were occupied that Mrs. Holt patted her hand as they drove homeward.

      “My dear,” she said, “I begin to wish I'd adopted you myself. Perhaps, later on, we can find a husband for you, and you will marry and settle down near us here at Silverdale, and then you can help me with the work.”

      “Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she replied, “I should so like to help you, I mean. And it would be wonderful to live in such a place. And as for marriage, it seems such a long way off that somehow I never think of it.”

      “Naturally,” ejaculated Mrs. Holt, with approval, “a young girl of your age should not. But, my dear, I am afraid you are destined to have many admirers. If you had not been so well brought up, and were not naturally so sensible, I should fear for you.”

      “Oh, Mrs. Holt!” exclaimed Honora, deprecatingly, and blushing very prettily.

      “Whatever else I am,” said Mrs. Holt, vigorously, “I am not a flatterer. I am telling you something for your own good—which you probably know already.”

      Honora was discreetly silent. She thought of the proud and unsusceptible George Hanbury, whom she had cast down from the tower of his sophomore dignity with such apparent ease; and of certain gentlemen at home, young and middle-aged, who had behaved foolishly during the Christmas holidays.

      At lunch both the Roberts and the Joshuas were away.

      Afterwards, they romped with the children—she and Susan. They were shy at first, especially the third Joshua, but Honora captivated him by playing two sets of tennis in the broiling sun, at the end of which exercise he regarded her with a new-born admiration in his eyes. He was thirteen.

      “I didn't think you were that kind at all,” he said.

      “What kind did you think I was?” asked Honora, passing her arm around his shoulder as they walked towards the house.

      The boy grew scarlet.

      “Oh, I didn't think you—you could play tennis,” he stammered.

      Honora stopped, and seized his chin and tilted his face upward.

      “Now, Joshua,” she said, “look at me and say that over again.”

      “Well,” he replied desperately, “I thought you wouldn't want to get all mussed up and hot.”

      “That's better,” said Honora. “You thought I was vain, didn't you?”

      “But I don't think so any more,” he avowed passionately. “I think you're a trump. And we'll play again to-morrow, won't we?”

      “We'll play any day you like,” she declared.

      It is unfair to suppose that the arrival of a real vicomte and of a young, good-looking, and successful member of the New York Stock Exchange were responsible for Honora's appearance, an hour later, in the embroidered linen gown which Cousin Eleanor had given her that spring. Tea was already in progress on the porch, and if a hush in the conversation and the scraping of chairs is any sign of a sensation, this happened when our heroine appeared in the doorway. And Mrs. Holt, in the act of lifting the hot-water kettle; put it down again. Whether or not there was approval in the lady's delft-blue eye, Honora could not have said. The Vicomte, with the graceful facility of his race, had differentiated himself from the group and stood before her. As soon as the words of introduction were pronounced, he made a bow that was a tribute in itself, exaggerated in its respect.

      “It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,” he murmured, but his eyes were more eloquent.

      A description of him in his own language leaped into Honora's mind, so much did he appear to have walked out of one of the many yellow-backed novels she had read. He was not tall, but beautifully made, and his coat was quite absurdly cut in at the waist; his mustache was en-croc, and its points resembled those of the Spanish bayonets in the conservatory: he might have СКАЧАТЬ