"I should not much like to be shut up with Aunt Su and Miss Clayton," returned his sister, laughing. "It would be what you call 'rather warm quarters.' I like the girl myself. I am sure there is no harm in her—not half so much as there is in many very demure girls—but I fancy I see Aunt Su's face at her way of going on. I shouldn't mind her meeting Miss Planter, now," she added, glancing with a smile at him as the lamp-light flashed upon his face. "Miss Planter would not offend her taste."
He did not reply, and the rest of the drive home was performed in silence.
CHAPTER XI
The ball of hospitality which had been set rolling by kindly hands a month since was snatched from one to another during that last week of our travellers' stay in New York, and seemed to acquire a more vigorous impetus as the day of their departure drew near. That this constant round of social engagements was fatiguing to Grace, that she longed for a little repose and leisure for reflection, is true; but, under the circumstances, perhaps it was as well that this luxury was withheld. She had come abroad, as her brother's companion, with the definite resolve to put the past behind her. For months one subject—one cruel, gnawing trouble—had absorbed all her thoughts. It should do so no longer. She would never suffer a hint of reproach, or a word of accusation against Ivor Lawrence to fall from the lips of either her aunt or brother without defending him hotly. But, unless forced to do so, she never uttered his name. Both Mrs. Frampton and Mordaunt recognized the effort to dismiss him from her heart. They thought they were helping her to do so; but they learned the inefficacy of abuse. Happily, there was a natural rebound in her healthy temperament against sitting down with folded hands, and doing nothing in this world. Visiting the poor was not in her line; she had tried "slumming" in London, and had found it a failure—it was the only thing which paralyzed her with shyness. The pursuit of science and art were equally foreign to her nature. The work which seemed fitting and natural for her just now was to be Mordaunt's help-mate and companion, until such time as he should select one for life. He was not made to be alone. And this work which her hand had found, she would do, as she had done everything, with all her might.
Therefore it was that she had thrown herself frankly and without stint into the stream of society in New York, resolved to take what interest and amusement she could find, without letting any one—least of all her brother—see the dark shadow that obtruded itself, from time to time, across the brilliant scene. And she had her reward. There is not so much cordiality in the world that a warm-hearted girl can remain indifferent to such a welcome as had been accorded to Grace, even where there was not much in common between her and her new acquaintances. Some she really liked greatly; some had only amused her; towards all she felt unaffectedly grateful for the many thoughtful attentions she had received. The Hurlstones had been persistently kind, and now proposed to receive Mrs. Frampton, their old acquaintance, on her landing; but, as regarded them, Grace could not but feel it was just as well that her brother and she were leaving New York. If the girl took Mordaunt's spasmodic flirtation seriously, the sooner he was removed from her the better. Grace was sceptical as to his ever being very hard hit; at all events, Beatrice Hurlstone was not the one to deal the decisive blow.
As to her other acquaintances, the Caldwells and Mrs. Siebel were those from whom she parted with most regret. The first Grace hoped soon to see again; the latter was to be in Europe next summer, when she and Miss Ballinger would meet. Jem Gunning had gone to recover his equilibrium from defeat at St. Augustine. Grace was glad to be spared any farewells from the young millionnaire. Mr. Sims was so peripatetic that he might turn up anywhere—at Boston, or Chicago, or San Francisco. "As long as I am this side the grave you are never safe from me," as he himself put it. Mrs. Van Winkle proposed to give a thé funèbre on the Ballingers' departure. She had lately given one on the death of a third cousin, who had left her an amethyst necklace. "A thing I couldn't wear, you know, and so I sold it, and spent the produce in cypress wreaths and immortelles, tied with black ribbon, with which I decorated the room and the tea-table in the poor thing's honor; and though we didn't have 'funeral baked meats,' we ate 'soupirs,' and every one said it was charming, so original." But Grace declined the proffered honor, as she was obliged to do many other entertainments that last week.
Some twelve miles from Boston, but served by a branch railway which decants the traveller at a station hard by the gate of the grounds, stands a pleasant gray stone house of moderate size, built by the late Mr. Richardson. That talented architect, who struck out a new line in domestic building, and created, it may be said, the school of American architecture which is now so flourishing throughout the land, never designed a more picturesque home than this of Brackly. The low Byzantine arch, beneath which the front-door steps ascend, and then turn sharp to the right hand; the heavy mullioned bay-window and corner turret with its sharp pinnacle and wide range of outlook, over the cliffs and down to the sea; the steep-pitched red roof and stone balcony thrust out from a recessed window under another arch; the heavy oak door with its old Venetian knocker of wrought iron—every feature is agreeable and harmonizes. And the face of this delightful dwelling, on the summit of a green slope, surrounded by fine beeches, is as the face of a friend from the Old World to the traveller who has just left behind him the hideous uniformity of city streets. The trees were still bare; through the rich brown earth of the flower-beds not even a crocus had as yet thrust its golden head; but the sea beyond the sand-hills was very blue, and the logwood down by the lake made a spot of crimson color against the gray-green bank.
Grace lingered for an instant on the door-step.
"How lovely!" she cried.
"There ought to be ducks there. By Jove! I see some," said Mordaunt.