A Modern Chronicle | Page 6

not bear the sound of the trains that drifted across the night, and
the sight of the trunks piled in the Hanburys' hall, in Wayland Square,
always filled her with a sickening longing. Would the day ever come
when she, too, would depart for the bright places of the earth?
Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she was filled with a fierce
belief in a destiny to sit in the high seats, to receive homage and
dispense bounties, to discourse with great intellects, to know London
and Paris and the marts and centres of the world as her father had. To
escape-- only to escape from the prison walls of a humdrum existence,
and to soar!
Let us, if we can, reconstruct an August day when all (or nearly all) of
Honora's small friends were gone eastward to the mountains or the
seaside. In "the little house under the hill," the surface of which was a
hot slate roof, Honora would awake about seven o'clock to find old
Catherine bending over her in a dun-coloured calico dress, with the
light fiercely beating against the closed shutters that braved it so
unflinchingly throughout the day.
"The birds are before ye, Miss Honora, honey, and your uncle waterin'
his roses this half-hour."
Uncle Tom was indeed an early riser. As Honora dressed (Catherine
assisting as at a ceremony), she could see him, in his seersucker coat,
bending tenderly over his beds; he lived enveloped in a peace which

has since struck wonder to Honora's soul. She lingered in her dressing,
even in those days, falling into reveries from which Catherine gently
and deferentially aroused her; and Uncle Tom would be carving the
beefsteak and Aunt Mary pouring the coffee when she finally arrived in
the dining room to nibble at one of Bridget's unforgettable rolls or hot
biscuits. Uncle Tom had his joke, and at quarter-past eight precisely he
would kiss Aunt Mary and walk to the corner to wait for the ambling
horse-car that was to take him to the bank. Sometimes Honora went to
the corner with him, and he waved her good-by from the platform as he
felt in his pocket for the nickel that was to pay his fare.
When Honora returned, Aunt Mary had donned her apron, and was
industriously aiding Mary Ann to wash the dishes and maintain the
customary high polish on her husband's share of the Leffingwell silver
which, standing on the side table, shot hither and thither rays of green
light that filtered through the shutters into the darkened room. The child
partook of Aunt Mary's pride in that silver, made for a Kentucky
great-grandfather Leffingwell by a famous Philadelphia silversmith
three- quarters of a century before. Honora sighed.
"What's the matter, Honora?" asked Aunt Mary, without pausing in her
vigorous rubbing.
"The Leffingwells used to be great once upon a time, didn't they, Aunt
Mary?"
"Your Uncle Tom," answered Aunt Mary, quietly, "is the greatest man
I know, child."
"And my father must have been a great man, too," cried Honora, "to
have been a consul and drive coaches."
Aunt Mary was silent. She was not a person who spoke easily on
difficult subjects.
"Why don't you ever talk to me about my father, Aunt Mary? Uncle
Tom does."

"I didn't know your father, Honora."
"But you have seen him?"
"Yes," said Aunt Mary, dipping her cloth into the whiting; "I saw him
at my wedding. But he was very, young."
"What was he like?" Honora demanded. "He was very handsome,
wasn't he?"
'Yes, child."
"And he had ambition, didn't he, Aunt Mary?"
Aunt Mary paused. Her eyes were troubled as she looked at Honora,
whose head was thrown back.
"What kind of ambition do you mean, Honora?"
"Oh," cried Honora, "to be great and rich and powerful, and to be
somebody."
"Who has been putting such things in your head, my dear?"
"No one, Aunt Mary. Only, if I were a man, I shouldn't rest until I
became great."
Alas, that Aunt Mary, with all her will, should have such limited
powers of expression! She resumed her scrubbing of the silver before
she spoke.
"To do one's duty, to accept cheerfully and like a Christian the
responsibilities and burdens of life, is the highest form of greatness, my
child. Your Uncle Tom has had many things to trouble him; he has
always worked for others, and not for himself. And he is respected and
loved by all who know him."
"Yes, I know, Aunt Mary. But--"

"But what, Honora?"
"Then why isn't he rich, as my father was?"
"Your father wasn't rich, my dear," said Aunt Mary, sadly.
"Why, Aunt Mary!" Honora exclaimed, "he lived in a beautiful house,
and owned horses. Isn't that being rich?"
Poor Aunt Mary!
"Honora," she answered, "there