representative at the court of St. James,
neither had the slightest doubt that Randolph Leffingwell would tread
it.
It is needless to dwell upon the chagrin of Honora's maternal
grandfather, Howard Allison Esquire, over this turn of affairs, this
unexpected bouleversement, as he spoke of it in private to his friends
in his Parisian club. For many years he had watched the personal
attractions of his daughter grow, and a brougham and certain other
delights not to be mentioned had gradually become, in his mind,
synonymous with old age. The brougham would have on its panels the
Allison crest, and his distinguished (and titled) son-in-law would drop
in occasionally at the little apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann.
Alas, for visions, for legitimate hopes shattered forever! On the day
that Randolph Leffingwell led Miss Allison down the aisle of the English
church the vision of the brougham and the other delights faded. Howard
Allison went back to his club.
Three years later, while on an excursion with Sir Nicholas Baker and a
merry party on the Italian aide, the horses behind which Mr. and Mrs.
Leffingwell were driving with their host ran away, and in the flight
managed to precipitate the vehicle, and themselves, down the side of one
of the numerous deep valleys of the streams seeking the Mediterranean.
Thus, by a singular caprice of destiny Honors was deprived of both her
parents at a period which--some chose to believe--was the height of
their combined glories. Randolph Leffingwell lived long enough to be
taken back to Nice, and to consign his infant daughter and sundry other
unsolved problems to his brother Tom.
Brother Tom--or Uncle Tom, as we must call him with Honora--cheerfully
accepted the charge. For his legacies in life had been chiefly
blessings in disguise. He was paying teller of the Prairie Bank, and the
thermometer registered something above 90 deg. Fahrenheit on the July
morning when he stood behind his wicket reading a letter from Howard
Allison, Esquire, relative to his niece. Mr. Leffingwell was at this
period of his life forty-eight, but the habit he had acquired of
assuming responsibilities and burdens seemed to have had the effect of
making his age indefinite. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, his
mustache and hair already turning; his eyebrows were a trifle bushy, and
his eyes reminded men of one eternal and highly prized quality--honesty.
They were blue grey. Ordinarily they shed a light w
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