At Love's Cost

"Do you mean the big white house by Brae Wood?"

"Yes. Judging by the description of it here, it must be a kind of

gim-crack villa like those one sees in Italy, built by men resembling

this--this _parvenu_."

"It is a large place," said Ida; "but I don't think it is gim-crack,

father. It looks very solid though it is white and, yes, Continental.

It is something between a tremendous villa and a palace. Why are you so

angry? I know you don't like to have new houses built in Bryndermere;

but this is some distance from us--we cannot see it from here, or from

any part of the grounds, excepting the piece by the lake."

"It is built on our land," he said, more quietly, but with the flush

still on his face, the angry light in his eyes. "It was bought by

fraud, obtained under false pretences. I sold it to one of the farmers,

thinking he wanted it and would only use it for grazing. I did not know

until the deeds were signed that he was only the jackal for this other

man."

"What other man, father?"

"This Stephen Orme. He's _Sir_ Stephen Orme now. They knighted him.

They knight every successful tradesman and schemer; and this man is a

prince of his tribe; a low-born adventurer, a _parvenu_ of the worst

type."

"I think I have read something about him in the newspapers," said Ida,

thoughtfully.

Mr. Heron emitted a low snarl.

"No doubt; he is one whom the world delights to honour; it bows before

the successful charlatan, and cringes to his ill-gotten wealth. I'm

told that such a man is received, yes, and welcomed by society.

Society! The word is a misnomer. In my time a man of that class was

kept at arm's-length, was relegated to his proper place--the back hall;

but now"--he gazed angrily at the paper--"here is a whole column

describing Sir Stephen Orme's new 'palatial villa,' and giving an

account of his achievements, the success of his great undertakings. And

this man has chosen to build his eyesore on Heron lands, within sight

of the house which--which he would not have been permitted to enter. If

I had known, I would not have sold the land."

"But you wanted the money, father," she said, gently.

He looked at her swiftly, and a change came over his face, a look of

caution, almost of cunning.

"Eh? Yes, yes, of course I wanted it. But he knew I should not have

sold it for building on; that is why he got Bowden, the farmer, to buy

it. It was like him: only such a man can be capable of such an

underhand act. And now I suppose he will be welcomed by his neighbours,

and the Vaynes and the Bannerdales, and made much of. They'll eat his

dinners, and their women will go to his balls and concerts--they whose

fathers would have refused to sit at the same table with him. But there

is one house at which he will not be welcome; one man who will not

acknowledge him, who will not cross the threshold of Sir Stephen Orme's

brand-new palace, or invite him to enter his own. He shall not darken

the doors of Heron Hall."