For her, from the time she had opened her blue eyes on him and blinked at him vaguely, he had toiled and schemed until his hair had turned from brown to gray and then had disappeared from his round, strongly set head.  For the love he bore her he had served longer than Jacob served for Rachel, and the time had not appeared long.  The suggestion that the money he had striven for from youth to age should go to some reprobate foreigner, to pay his gambling-debts, nearly threw him into a convulsion.  His ancestors had been driven from home to starve in the wilderness by such creatures.  “Before any d——­d foreign reprobate should have a dollar of his money he would endow a lunatic asylum with it.”  So Mrs. Yorke prudently refrained from pressing this subject any further at this time, and built her hopes on securing the next most advantageous alliance—­a wealthy one.  She preferred Norman Wentworth to any of the other young men, for he was not only rich, but the Wentworths were an old and established house, and Mrs. Wentworth was one of the old aristocrats of the State, whose word was law above that of even the wealthiest of the new leaders.  To secure Norman Wentworth would be “almost as good as a title.”  An intimacy was sedulously cultivated with “dear Mrs. Wentworth,” and Norman, the “dear boy,” was often brought to the house.

Perversely, he and Alice did not take to each other in the way Mrs. Yorke had hoped.  They simply became the best of friends, and Mrs. Yorke had the mortification of seeing a tall and statuesque schoolmate of Alice’s capture Norman, while Alice appeared totally indifferent to him.  What made it harder to bear was that Mrs. Caldwell, Louise Caldwell’s mother, a widow with barely enough to live respectably on, was quietly walking off with the prize which Mrs. Yorke and a number of other mothers were striving to secure, and made no more of it than if it had been her right.  It all came of her family connections.  That was the way with those old families.  They were so selfishly exclusive and so proud.  They held themselves superior to every one else and appeared to despise wealth.  Mrs. Yorke did not believe Mrs. Caldwell really did despise wealth, but she admitted that she made a very good show of doing it.

Mrs. Yorke, foreseeing her failure with Norman Wentworth, was fain to accept in his place Ferdy Wickersham, who, though certainly not Norman’s equal in some respects, was his superior in others.

To be sure, Ferdy was said to be a somewhat reckless young fellow, and Mr. Yorke did not fancy him; but Mrs. Yorke argued, “Boys will be boys, and you know, Mr. Yorke, you have told me you were none too good yourself.”  On this, Dennis Yorke growled that a man was “a fool ever to tell his wife anything of the kind, and that, at least, he never was in that young Wickersham’s class.”

All of which Mrs. Yorke put aside, and sacrificed herself unstintedly to achieve success for her daughter and compel her to forget the little episode of the young Southern schoolmaster, with his tragic air.