"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."